Like Badgers Gone To Ground.
By mlynnjohnson. Friday, 20. June 2008, 21:01:56
"Inchy's daughter?"
She looked at him. "Is there a problem with that?"
He sat up on the bed, careful of his injuries, mindful of the low dirt ceiling. "Well, no--I'm grateful, in fact--"
"Because the 'cauls were going to eat you."
He steadied himself on the edge of the bed, but there was no way he could stand in that small space. Where was he? An animal's burrow? But there was a window in the wall, a fireplace, furniture of a bashed and knocked-about variety, a floor of swept stones in muted river colors, gray-blue, soft green, pale mauve, set in a pleasing abstract pattern. His bewilderment increased. "Why would you help me?"
She lifted her shoulders. In the gray light of the rainy window she was wan, her eyes large and amphibian. In the fiery light of the hearth, she seemed frightening and feral. "You think I'm with them because I live in the swamp?" A sneer crossed her face. "I do what I like. I'm no hedge goblin."
"I didn't mean that--"
Her eyes flashed, and she threw the coat at him. "I sat up all night fixing that for you--binding your wounds. Would one of Inchy's creatures do the same?"
His hand involuntarily lifted to the plaster at his cheek. "I certainly don't want to seem ungrateful," he said. "I just didn't expect anyone like you--"
"Like me," Dauphine laughed. "When have you ever known anyone like me?"
Peter Fell looked at the coat on his knees and said nothing. He saw that she had mended the tears with a sprawling decorative stitch. Chains of vines and leaves in silver and green tangled around the side and front of his regulation black leather, and she'd replaced two of the solemn pewter buttons with rhinestones. "It's lovely," he lied. They'd laugh him right out of town. And yet they were the ones who'd sent him on to his death--oh, not his patron, Lord Drown, certainly he'd had nothing to do with it--Peter thought, anyway--it was that cabinet minister's secretary, Forteau's doing. "The Ministry has decided to drain the swampland south of the city," he'd said, hand-drawn map held out to Peter as he approached him in the long hall lined with mirrors. A thousand imperious gentlemen in dark velvet converged at once upon Peter, all lifting fluttering papers, all trailing lace cuffs. "And they'll need someone to locate the rabble beforehand, so the soldiers know where to find them."
"Why?" Peter had said, uncertain, unwilling to take the map from Forteau's smooth white hand. Drown had warned him--
"Why? Why do you think? To clear them out, liquidate them, turn them into fertilizer. They're cutthroats, subhumans--"
"No, why me? I don't work for the Ministry--"
"No, you work for Lord Drown, the supposed head of intelligence," Forteau retorted with a tailored smile. Everything about him was clipped and manicured, his dark hair oiled smooth, his suit brushed and correct. Expensive scent wafted around his gestures. He released the map in Fell's grasp and began to turn away, distasteful errand complete, but Peter caught at his sleeve. "Excuse me, was there something else?" Forteau's plucked eyebrow lifted.
"But Lord Drown--"
"--Has nothing to say in the matter, has he? You work for Drown, who in theory works for the Ministry, so from whom do you ultimately receive your orders?"
"I'd like to hear what--"
"There isn't time," Forteau sniffed. "The squads are even now being organized. Would you like to be responsible for any good man's death because the swamp wasn't scouted properly? Of course not."
"Of course--but Lord Drown said he'd like to be informed of any--"
Forteau was already walking away, impressively followed by a phalanx of fashionable reflections. He and his reflections lifted their hands in a bored, dismissive farewell. "I'll tell Drown where you've gone," he promised, his voice fading down the distance of the mirrored hall.
"No you didn't," Peter whispered with cold realization, staring now at the rainy window in Dauphine's burrow.
"What?" The swamp girl squinted at him. "I didn't do what?"
He shook his head. "Not you. Someone else--someone who sent me here." He shuddered. "Sent me here to die."
A kettle began to sing on the hearth. "You must have some pretty important enemies," Dauphine said with a laugh, and lifted an iron pot hook. Peter frowned.
"Not really," he said. "I don't. But my boss--"
He jumped off the bed and smacked his head on a low-growing tree root, and fell back on the bed with his head in his hands. "Dammit," he seethed. "I've got to get out of here. They're going to kill Lord Drown."
"Not just yet, you're not," Dauphine murmured. She stood to one side at the window, scrawny body tilted forward at the hips, peering out at the gray world. "We've got company."
Peter pushed himself off the bed, taking exaggerated care of the tree root, and made his way clumsily to the window, but Dauphine jerked him back as if she didn't want him to be seen. It was enough, however, for him to catch a glimpse of the front walk outside her door--white quartz stones lining the walk, geraniums in tin cans, and the bloated gray bulk of Inchy and her mob sprawled about the shrubbery. The witch was armed with a yard-long gnarled knob of ironwood topped with a yellowed human skull, minus the mandible, the bare cranium sheathed in some white metal. With this she began pounding on the little oval door, which Dauphine thoughtfully reached over and locked.
"Skinny little frog spawn!" Inchy screamed. "Blood-blasted cankerous abortion, how dare you deny my dear pets their due? Come out here at once, or I'll come in." Her mouth split in a wide grin, showing broken gray teeth, a glistening gray tongue. "And if I come in, I won't be pleasant." Her mob jeered and gibbered at her back, and she shifted on the front walk to let a day-blind whitecaul past. It slithered forward on a leash to slap its wings against the door and snuffle wetly at the keyhole. When it caught Peter's scent, it began to whine.
"Hmph," Dauphine said. She took Peter's arm and and shoved him back, back toward the bed, where the earthen ceiling merged with the wall.
"What--?"
"Shut up," Dauphine said. She blew out her breath and flipped the silver hair out of her eyes, then fixed him with a bleak look. "My mum and me, we don't get along much," she said. "So even if she was mad at you before, she'd carve your liver out just to spite me. While we both watched," she added, with what seemed an almost appreciative smile.
"But there's no way out here," Peter cried. "We're like badgers, gone to ground--"
The window smashed and something smelly spun across the floor, smoking as it went. "Oh just shut up," Dauphine shouted, both to Peter and the roaring mob outside. She shoved him hard toward the wall and he tried to grab at the roots and rocks as he stumbled, expecting to get a face full of damp earth--and then he was falling, tumbling, blind and terrified, into darkness.
(c)M. L. Johnson, 2008
She looked at him. "Is there a problem with that?"
He sat up on the bed, careful of his injuries, mindful of the low dirt ceiling. "Well, no--I'm grateful, in fact--"
"Because the 'cauls were going to eat you."
He steadied himself on the edge of the bed, but there was no way he could stand in that small space. Where was he? An animal's burrow? But there was a window in the wall, a fireplace, furniture of a bashed and knocked-about variety, a floor of swept stones in muted river colors, gray-blue, soft green, pale mauve, set in a pleasing abstract pattern. His bewilderment increased. "Why would you help me?"
She lifted her shoulders. In the gray light of the rainy window she was wan, her eyes large and amphibian. In the fiery light of the hearth, she seemed frightening and feral. "You think I'm with them because I live in the swamp?" A sneer crossed her face. "I do what I like. I'm no hedge goblin."
"I didn't mean that--"
Her eyes flashed, and she threw the coat at him. "I sat up all night fixing that for you--binding your wounds. Would one of Inchy's creatures do the same?"
His hand involuntarily lifted to the plaster at his cheek. "I certainly don't want to seem ungrateful," he said. "I just didn't expect anyone like you--"
"Like me," Dauphine laughed. "When have you ever known anyone like me?"
Peter Fell looked at the coat on his knees and said nothing. He saw that she had mended the tears with a sprawling decorative stitch. Chains of vines and leaves in silver and green tangled around the side and front of his regulation black leather, and she'd replaced two of the solemn pewter buttons with rhinestones. "It's lovely," he lied. They'd laugh him right out of town. And yet they were the ones who'd sent him on to his death--oh, not his patron, Lord Drown, certainly he'd had nothing to do with it--Peter thought, anyway--it was that cabinet minister's secretary, Forteau's doing. "The Ministry has decided to drain the swampland south of the city," he'd said, hand-drawn map held out to Peter as he approached him in the long hall lined with mirrors. A thousand imperious gentlemen in dark velvet converged at once upon Peter, all lifting fluttering papers, all trailing lace cuffs. "And they'll need someone to locate the rabble beforehand, so the soldiers know where to find them."
"Why?" Peter had said, uncertain, unwilling to take the map from Forteau's smooth white hand. Drown had warned him--
"Why? Why do you think? To clear them out, liquidate them, turn them into fertilizer. They're cutthroats, subhumans--"
"No, why me? I don't work for the Ministry--"
"No, you work for Lord Drown, the supposed head of intelligence," Forteau retorted with a tailored smile. Everything about him was clipped and manicured, his dark hair oiled smooth, his suit brushed and correct. Expensive scent wafted around his gestures. He released the map in Fell's grasp and began to turn away, distasteful errand complete, but Peter caught at his sleeve. "Excuse me, was there something else?" Forteau's plucked eyebrow lifted.
"But Lord Drown--"
"--Has nothing to say in the matter, has he? You work for Drown, who in theory works for the Ministry, so from whom do you ultimately receive your orders?"
"I'd like to hear what--"
"There isn't time," Forteau sniffed. "The squads are even now being organized. Would you like to be responsible for any good man's death because the swamp wasn't scouted properly? Of course not."
"Of course--but Lord Drown said he'd like to be informed of any--"
Forteau was already walking away, impressively followed by a phalanx of fashionable reflections. He and his reflections lifted their hands in a bored, dismissive farewell. "I'll tell Drown where you've gone," he promised, his voice fading down the distance of the mirrored hall.
"No you didn't," Peter whispered with cold realization, staring now at the rainy window in Dauphine's burrow.
"What?" The swamp girl squinted at him. "I didn't do what?"
He shook his head. "Not you. Someone else--someone who sent me here." He shuddered. "Sent me here to die."
A kettle began to sing on the hearth. "You must have some pretty important enemies," Dauphine said with a laugh, and lifted an iron pot hook. Peter frowned.
"Not really," he said. "I don't. But my boss--"
He jumped off the bed and smacked his head on a low-growing tree root, and fell back on the bed with his head in his hands. "Dammit," he seethed. "I've got to get out of here. They're going to kill Lord Drown."
"Not just yet, you're not," Dauphine murmured. She stood to one side at the window, scrawny body tilted forward at the hips, peering out at the gray world. "We've got company."
Peter pushed himself off the bed, taking exaggerated care of the tree root, and made his way clumsily to the window, but Dauphine jerked him back as if she didn't want him to be seen. It was enough, however, for him to catch a glimpse of the front walk outside her door--white quartz stones lining the walk, geraniums in tin cans, and the bloated gray bulk of Inchy and her mob sprawled about the shrubbery. The witch was armed with a yard-long gnarled knob of ironwood topped with a yellowed human skull, minus the mandible, the bare cranium sheathed in some white metal. With this she began pounding on the little oval door, which Dauphine thoughtfully reached over and locked.
"Skinny little frog spawn!" Inchy screamed. "Blood-blasted cankerous abortion, how dare you deny my dear pets their due? Come out here at once, or I'll come in." Her mouth split in a wide grin, showing broken gray teeth, a glistening gray tongue. "And if I come in, I won't be pleasant." Her mob jeered and gibbered at her back, and she shifted on the front walk to let a day-blind whitecaul past. It slithered forward on a leash to slap its wings against the door and snuffle wetly at the keyhole. When it caught Peter's scent, it began to whine.
"Hmph," Dauphine said. She took Peter's arm and and shoved him back, back toward the bed, where the earthen ceiling merged with the wall.
"What--?"
"Shut up," Dauphine said. She blew out her breath and flipped the silver hair out of her eyes, then fixed him with a bleak look. "My mum and me, we don't get along much," she said. "So even if she was mad at you before, she'd carve your liver out just to spite me. While we both watched," she added, with what seemed an almost appreciative smile.
"But there's no way out here," Peter cried. "We're like badgers, gone to ground--"
The window smashed and something smelly spun across the floor, smoking as it went. "Oh just shut up," Dauphine shouted, both to Peter and the roaring mob outside. She shoved him hard toward the wall and he tried to grab at the roots and rocks as he stumbled, expecting to get a face full of damp earth--and then he was falling, tumbling, blind and terrified, into darkness.
(c)M. L. Johnson, 2008
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But don't stop whatever you do.
By Mickeyjoe_irl, # 28. June 2008, 00:16:34
By mlynnjohnson, # 28. June 2008, 00:26:50
By Mickeyjoe_irl, # 28. June 2008, 00:33:44
By Mickeyjoe_irl, # 14. August 2008, 22:55:36
I'll get on it soon, I swear!
By mlynnjohnson, # 18. August 2008, 02:24:54
I really like the way Dauphine stiched the coat. Very... lovely
The reminiscence part is very good to promise further story development, not just blind jumps from one situation into the next. And the feel here is pretty good too.
Just one thing here:
"...Dauphine shouted, both to Peter and the roaring mob outside..."
The roaring mob - I never got the idea that it was noisy. Mentioning this earlier would be very neat, I think. Yes I am aware that you mention that "Her mob jeered and gibbered at her back..." but it doesn't sound loud at all.
Dunno. Maybe it doesn't need fixing at all. You be the judge of that.
And about getting the next chapter - don't wory. The only important thing is that you DO get to it, not when. Well... if you ask me anyway.
Hmmm. You got me inspired. I might just do the same thing on my blog.
By DarkSunsGlare, # 18. August 2008, 18:45:20