Sunday Sketch

The girl ran into the forest, fleeing the pain chasing behind her.  Her skirt fluttered behind her, the hem ripping into ragged strips.  Her long light brown hair narrowly missed being caught on the grasping branches that seemed to lean down to catch and hold her.  She stumbled every few feet, blindly running away from the sound of the drums.  Bum-bum-bum-pa-bum. Bum-pa-bumbum.  The rolling sound filled the forest, enveloping her in it's ominous, commanding rhythm.  

She flew blindly until she ran into a gate.  It had no lock, but no matter how hard she tugged, she couldn't open it.  Fear choked her, rising up in her throat.  The drums were getting closer.  She knew the Seekers would be out in front of them with their cudgels, searching for her.  She shook herself, trying to regain enough control to read the gate.  "Knock and it will be opened," was scrolled across the top.  She frowned. It couldn't be that simple.  She'd been banging on the gate, trying to get it open and it hadn't.  

The drums got closer.

She bit back a scream and knocked on the gate, pounding on it so hard her knuckles bruised instantly.  "Please," she whispered, collapsing against the bars, willing someone to hear her.  The gate quietly swung open.  She stumbled forward, not trusting herself to stand.  Her hand clung to the gate, and then to the first tree beyond it.  The gate quietly swung back shut as soon as she was inside. 

The girl stumbled from tree to shrub until she was out of sight of the gate. Too tired and scared to continue, she collapsed into a heap under a tree.  Slowly her eyes flickered closed, unaware the drums, the rhythmic, possessive, chilling drums had stopped.

Keeper found her there, hours later.  He was humming as he stepped sprightly through the friendly woods he had been entrusted with, the forest he protected.  Keeper had been on his way to check on the gate.  He had heard the drums and knew they were on the hunt.  He wouldn't let the Seekers into this place, and that meant checking on the gate.  

He stopped when he saw a willow bent over a small pale figure, it's branches caressing her gently.  Keeper gently picked up the child, cradling her to his chest and walking through the kindly trees that bent back their branches to let the guardian through with his precious bundle.  

Keeper walked through the dusk to his home, hearth, and wife.  Grace was waiting for him there, a bed ready for the child.  She had known she would need it as soon as the girl had entered their side of the gate.  

"She's beautiful, this one," Grace said quietly.

"She had Seekers after her," Keeper replied, laying her on the bed.  "I found her asleep."

Grace took in the torn dress and the dried blood on the girl's legs from unkind branches.  Her kind eyes caught sight of the bruises on the child's hands, and the scars that ran up and down her arms.  Neither Keeper or his wife was surprised when they saw the burns barely healed on the child's back, or the scars beneath them.  Grace simply dressed her wounds and made sure the soup on the stove would stay warm and ready.

"She will heal," the King stepped up behind the couple, where they stood studying the small child. They hadn't even noticed when he came in.  Grace nodded, tears in her eyes. "She will be one of your strongest, Grace."

"She ran too long and far," Grace said softly. 

"The gate isn't always easy to find," the King kissed the girl's brow.  "She didn't know what she was seeking."

The three adults settled around the table with mugs of coffee. "The work is only just beginning with her, m'lord," Keeper said.

"She's closer than you'd expect," the King shook his head.  "I will come take her to play tomorrow, Grace."

"Of course, sir," Grace nodded.  "She will need your laughter. It's always been the best cure."

The little girl stirred, and they all glanced at her.  Her eyes flickered open and she pushed herself up with a start, disoriented and confused.  "Where am I?" she asked, her voice hoarse. 

"Safe, and far away from the Seekers," the King picked her up and brought her over to the table.  She didn't even flinch when he bumped her cuts and burns.  Grace turned away to hide her tears at the pain the girl hid.  "What's your name?"

"Trix," she said quietly, her eyes glued to the bowl in Grace's hand.  It was clear she longed for it, but that she didn't dare ask for it, especially while in someone's lap.  Grace set the bowl down in front of her, but Trix made no move towards it.

"Are you hungry, lass?" Keeper asked her.

"No," Trix shook her head.  They could all see she was lying.

"It's alright," the King drew the bowl towards her. "You can eat now.  You are safe, darling."

Trix looked up at the man for a moment, aware that he was different.  She caught the kindness in his eyes and his face.  She saw the white hair at his temples that faded into the rest of the dark curly mop, and she also caught the golden highlights sparkling throughout it.  She saw the gold flecks in his warm eyes and the comforting earnest smile, and knew what they had said was true.  She was safe.

Trix leaned back against the King's chest and took a bite of the soup.

Friday Sketch

(Just a little sketch for fun. Not sure if I'll do anything more with it, we'll see)

     "Are you sure you want to go in there?"

    I glanced at Jamie and squared my shoulders, offering him a short nod.  His brown hair fell into his eyes.  I'd need to trim that later, if I came back.  No. Not if.  When.  When I came back, I would trim his hair.  And maybe make him shave.  Yes.  Jamie could use a shave.  

    "Theia.  Let me rephrase this.  There's a dragon in there.  The last five people haven't come out alive.  I'm not sure what a five-foot tall warrior-storyteller can do," he rolled his eyes.

    "Oh right," I checked my satchel to make sure my writing materials were safely stowed.  With a satisfied smile I nodded, before mentally running through all the extra knives I had.  Then I slipped my sword out of my sheath. "Look.  I'm going in.  All I want is to talk."

    "What are the weapons for, then?" he asked.

    "Well..." I hesitated.  "Insurance." I sheathed my sword, and hefted my shield on my arm. "I'm off."

    "Good luck then," he nodded and took a step backwards as I started up the hill. 

    I looked back once just as I entered the cave, to see him waiting at the foot of the hill. I saluted him, and then turned to the gaping black hole, bravely entering into the dark.

    I walked with only a torch to guide me for fifteen minutes.  The first thing that struck me was that the cave was immaculate.  Little to no cobwebs.  Few dripping pools of water.  No bones or bodies, which I had been warned about in the village.  Half of me wondered what else they'd said that wasn't true.  The other part was already describing this place.  The cave was oddly clean, an illusion of the monstrosity it hid...

    I was so distracted by mentally drafting this, I almost missed the change between the tunnel and the cavern in front of me.  I blinked in surprise.  The cavern was brightly lit, and oddly full of people.  Not that there were many people.  Only about six. But that was still six more than I had been expecting, and after what had felt like hours wandering in an empty cave, it seemed like a crowd.

    One woman was at an easel in one corner, studying a painting as if wondering how to fix it.  I knew the look, I'd studied my writing that way on many an occasion.  A young lad sat at a spinning wheel, spinning hay into gold.  I blinked in surprise.  No, that couldn't be right.  But indeed, it was.  A girl in a bright red dress was humming to herself as she danced across the floor, light on her feet.  Her partner was a strong older gentlemen, easily lifting her up over his head.  One other man was in what could only be a kitchen, and that is a loose word for it, making some kind of food.  

    What truly caught your attention, however, was the young man visiting each person, adjusting a posture here, pointing out the problem there.  He tasted whatever was being cooked, laughing with it's maker.  He praised the boy at the wheel, mentioning something about golden cloaks being the most durable against the elements.  I watched in confusion, hovering in the doorway, suddenly unsure of myself.  I longed to be inside that room, something about it felt right.  And yet...and yet there was a nagging worry I didn't quite belong.

    The young man spotted me standing there, with my sword strapped to one half of my belt, and my writing accouterments to the other.  He smiled and crossed the room to me, not disturbing anyone else.

    "Are you lost?" his voice was rough, like the roar of a fire.

    "N-no," I shook my head.  "Or at least, I don't think so.  I came to see the dragon."

    "Ah," he nodded, glancing at my sword again.  His gaze traveled from the top of my head to soles of my feet, taking in every inch of me.  I got the sense that he knew exactly where all my hidden weapons were.  "Well.  Can I interest you in a mug of cider?"

    I warily nodded, following him to an empty table.  I watched him as he waited on me, holding my chair like a gentlemen, his movements bespoke of practiced grace. I was puzzled, and absently pulled out my journal to begin scribbling it out, getting my thoughts onto paper.  I am surrounded by geniuses and artists and magicians, with one man able to help them all.  One man orchestrating it all, pushing them in their fields so they grow and yet still their friend.  One mesmerizing being to help them succeed.

    "So which is mightier, then? The pen or the sword?" the young man set down a mug in front of me.  "As I can see you use both."

    "The pen will always be my first choice," I said slowly. "But in some cases, the sword is my only recourse."

    "Wise woman," he nodded, taking a sip of his cider.  "So. The dragon."

    "Yes," I nodded, taking a tiny sip of my own.  It was delicious, but it burned on it's way down my throat.  I almost set it aside, but held on, so as not to be rude.

    "Why do you wish to see the dragon?"

    "The dragon, it is said, has the ability to amplify the gifts and abilities of anyone who bears one of his scales," I said slowly. 

    "And you wish for a scale? You wish to challenge the beast, and slay it for it's magic?" Fire rose in the young man's eyes. Fury hid there, but I could see resignation and a tiredness in his posture that hadn't been there before.

    "No," I shook his head. "Well. I would love a scale if he were to give me one, but I wouldn't slay him for it."

    "The sword?"

    "Is for those situations when I can not avoid other recourse," I shook my head. "It is not wise for a woman to go around unarmed."

    "So the world is still unforgiving then," the young man sighed. "Than what do you wish from the dragon?"

    "I wanted to know why none of the five had returned," I waved my hand around me. "Although I see why, now.  And I wanted his story.  I wanted to know why he came here, and if the rumors were true.  I wanted to ask for his wisdom, and I wanted to write it all down so it wouldn't be lost."

    "You, miss, are very uneasy," the young man told me.

    "And you, sir, are very tired," I shot back. "Or perhaps, I should call you Lord Dragon?"

    The fire in his eyes burned, and a puff of smoke squeezed between his lips.  He seemed unaware.  "How did you know?" his voice had become the sound of a forest fire, raging and crackling and snapping.

    "Your eyes betray everything," I took another sip of my cider. "You have skill with everything, and they all blossom under your tutelage.  And, well. You have scales hiding just under your hairline."

    "Well spotted," the dragon nodded, for so he was. "Shall you prepare yourself for my story, then?"

    I smiled, and pulled out the fresh notebook I had prepared for this occasion. Oh, how Jamie would live to eat his words later. My plan had worked, without the slightest hint of danger at all. 

Tumbling Thoughts

I've got an awful lot of thoughts tumbling through my head today, so let's see if I can sort them out real quick before I go clean the living room.  We have people over, and the Spanglers will never be able to claim that we're neat people.  Anyway.

Words.  Words mean stuff.  I mean, obviously.  Duh.  But think about that for a second.  Every single word you've said or written, be it a one-word answer or a carefully thought out (or not thought out) research paper, means something.  We may not always be able to clearly define what the word means, but it does mean something.  Words hold power.  So do names.  I think that's part of the reason so many myths out there revolve around the concept of someone's "true name." (If you don't know what I'm talking about, no problem.  If you're curious, go look up Egyptian myths on the topic)  My point is, though, words can easily lift someone up to the highest pinnacle, and shove someone down into the deepest darkest part of the ocean.  It all depends on how they're wielded.  Words can be sharper than a double-edged sword, true, but only if used properly.  

I think that's why books are so important and have lasted for so long.  People want to know the emotions and thoughts and feelings they have wrestled with their whole lives or just for the season aren't unique to them.  They want to be sure that there is such a thing as hope, they want reassurance that in the end, something better lasts, holds out, wins.  I also think that Satan is aware of this and that the Master of Lies himself is ready to take those outcomes and that desire and twist it so that it blows up in our faces.  But the good news is that he's already lost.  How do you think the idea that the light and good always win has survived so long?

Related to this, though, is the concept of lightness and darkness.  Have you ever sat in a room in the utter dark?  The power has gone out at night, and there's no light at all.  Or maybe you're in a closet, or your room, and there is literally no light.  Anywhere.  None.  Just pitch black, empty, inky space all around you.  There's no depth to it, and you can almost feel it clinging to you as you stand or sit there.  There's no light source for your eyes to find, though they search desperately for it.  They can't adjust to begin seeing the furniture around you, there's simply nothing there.  But then you reach for the matches in front of you, and as soon as you light them, the light blossoms.  It combats the darkness all around you, and in that environment, one tiny flame can literally light up an entire room.  It's incredible.  

I'm going to bring up the flip side, though, and I hesitate to say that it's also true, because it's not, although it feels like it is sometimes.  Have you ever seen weak light? Like the last fading rays of sunshine before the sun is officially down.  Shadows are encroaching, and the light around you doesn't seem to have power anymore.  Physically, this is obvious. But that candle I told you about earlier? It's not terribly helpful at this moment when the light isn't quire bright enough yet, but it's still not dark enough.  We need a bigger and brighter light. 

I've been speaking slightly metaphorically this whole time, and obviously there's more to the story than my metaphor.  It breaks down pretty quickly.  But it was still an interesting thing to me to think about the connections between light and positive words, and dark and negative ones.  There's so much to talk about and think about that I wish I could keep writing, but unfortunately I'm out of time and if I keep talking I'll lose someone.  

Have a good evening!

~Aletheia