The Chilly Night

Every college student fears four periods out of the year: the week of midterms, and the week of finals (times two for both semesters).  I, unfortunately, am no different from my fellows.  If you are bemoaning my disappearance for the past few weeks, you should stop.  You should instead celebrate my continued existence.  I very nearly died when my brain melted during my Biology and Linguistics exams.  Or, seeing as my exams are staggered so that I am bombarded with an unending barrage of assessments, perhaps you should wait a bit.  I am not out of the danger of a coma yet.  
And that is my excuse.  So, in reparation, I offer you a Throwback-Wednesday piece.  Thus, without any additional procrastination, I present The Chilly Night, which I wrote at the age of twelve.  


The night was cold and chilly,

With no roof above my head;

I lay down and slept

Upon a pine needle bed;

I lay down and slept,

Wishing I was dead,

And facing the darkness with unending dread

The chill and dark kept coming on;

Moonlight shone not upon the lawn;

I had naught to eat,

Not bread nor cheese!

I lay down and slept,

Surely to freeze

Up in the sky I perceived the moon,

Then a piercing scream came out of the gloom!

On and on the long scream came,

Always different,

Always the same

I jumped up from my laying place

And made off at a fast pace;

Yes, curiosity killed the cat,

But I could not just sit there on my needle mat!

The scream still echoing in my head,

I headed toward impending dread.

Chills ran up and down my spine.

I’d never had adventures of this kind!

Up a hill I made my climb.

Then all fear left me,

I felt fine!

The moon observed a sight reserved

For those who knew the boy unnerved.

He’d dashed out into the road

To save his old best friend,

The Toad,

When along came a big, red truck,

And turned the Toad to gooey muck!

YUCK!!!

Ronninflea: Chapter IV

An Eternal Guardians Continued Story by Mire, Guilbeau, Angelle, & Boudreaux

                      IV.

"Flea!  Flea, wake up!" A hissing whisper pierced the darkness of the room and the weighted blanket of sleep.  Flea jumped, but not from being awoken.  He had not slept very well last night; he had not the past two nights, either.  Since he learned of his departure from his family and friends--well, family, at least--Flea had been a nervous wreck.  He would often hide in small spaces and sneak off into the woods for long periods of time.  However, no matter how far he went or how long he stayed, it did not help.  His leaving was unavoidable. And so, therefore, was his fear.  He could not run away, could not escape, and could not rectify matters...and now the day was here.  He jumped in one last ditch effort to escape reality.

"Flea!" the whisper came again.

"Coming, Father," Ronninflea responded.  He rolled out of bed and peaked out the window.  The sun had not even risen yet.  Getting dressed in the new clothes that his mother had sewn especially for the occasion, Ronninflea took a deep breath and walked out into the hall.  Not only was Lasikor standing there with his arms folded and his face as flat as ever, but nearly every member of Flea's family stood behind him--excepting the littlest, still snug in bed.  

Cavillon had set out a luxurious breakfast platter, a real feast for the poor family, yet Ronninflea could do nothing but watch the others eat it.  He stared at Oreollivan, who stared back at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears; she was trying to be brave for her brother.  Mikelvic hid his emotions as well, though he did so better than Oreollivan.  Flea had always been more of a pest than a companion.  Still, he was going to miss him.  Though Mikelvic would never admit it, wished he could take back all the bad things he had said to and about his younger brother.

Flea ate slowly, partly because it was a struggle to eat at all, and partly because he wanted to drag out these last few moments with his family.  Oreollivan, Madarat, and Milloranan picked up on the plot and did their best to assist.  However, Lasikor's impatience eventually won out.

"There is no use in pretending you're going to eat it," Lasikor said, bringing the stressed breakfast to an abrupt end.  "Leave it for the little ones; let's go."

Everyone rose from the table, presenting Ronninflea with a string of emotional faces.  The family was never one for tearful goodbyes, but this was an exception.  The youngest siblings hugged Ronninflea's legs and kissed him farewell, some crying so that they could not speak.  Milloranan, especially, was in a pathetic state.  Next to Oreollivan, she had been closest to Flea in both age and affection.  Oreollivan gave him a long, crushing hug.  With her face hidden from him, she lost control of her tears; they slid silently down her face like a stream, and she held her breath to smother her sobs.  Flea wished it was she going with him instead of Lasikor.  

********

Ronninflea watched with new eyes the little sea-side town he had lived in all his life.  It would probably be the last time he ever saw it, and he wanted to remember every detail.  He took a long look at On the Rocks, Madame Rock's voice spilling out of the open front door, easily rising above the shouts and laughter that also issued from the bar.  If only he could turn back time...

Lasikor pushed Flea forward, past the bar, past the net mender's hut, where Old Skilp was, as usual, busy at her delicate work.  She waved to them as they passed by.  The colorful cloths on display in front of the general store swayed in the salty wind.  The smell of fresh bread and old fish filled the air.  People were everywhere, doing numerous different types of people-things.  He closed his eyes tight, to make sure the picture was firm in his mind and would stay clear there always; he tried so hard to remember that he forgot to be afraid, and he and Lasikor made it all the way to the docks without any incident.  

The ship upon which Ronninflea was to sail to Vinturion was called The Water Lily.  It was painted an extravagant blue and—to Flea—looked very inviting.  Its owner, however, did not.  Joss was tall, broad in the shoulders and even more so in girth.  He did not look the part of an active captain of a well-employed passenger vessel.  Ronninflea could not quite reconcile this discrepancy in appearances and, after a moment, ceased trying.  Joss stopped to stand merely two feet from him, and looked him over from head to toe, a pleased expression on his scrunched face.  Then he came closer, until Flea could smell the smoke on his breath, and stared into Flea's eyes, studying his face.  Apparently, he found something there dissatisfying.  Turning to Lasikor, he said indignantly.

"This is yer lad?"

Lasikor merely inclined his head.

"'E doesn't look like 'e's worked a day in 'is life."

"I am sure he will prove fit for your purposes, and if you find him unsatisfactory, you may do with him as you will, as previously stated."

Flea turned to look at his father with wide, frightened eyes.  Surely he had misunderstood the exchange.  He shivered and backed away a pace as Joss looked him over once again, one colorless blue eye squinted shut, one open.  

"A'right," he said finally.  "'E can't do any damage ere, anyway, and 'e may throw a profit in Raling."

Lasikor would not look at his son.

"Dad?" Flea said confusedly.

Lasikor began to walk away.

"Dad." --pleadingly.

"Dad!" Panicking now.

Lasikor disappeared behind a wagonload of barrels, and had turned a corner out of sight by the time it rolled past.  Joss grabbed Ronninflea by the tail of his tattered shirt before Flea could make an honest run.  

"C'mere, boy, you got work to do.  Ay, lad!" A slender, young elven youth who had been stacking crates feet away during the entire exchange stepped forward.

"Yessir?"

"Take this slug down ta the kitchens and give 'im to Skatt.  Won't be gud for much else 'n cook work," he added, muttering.  

The cabin boy grasped Ronninflea firmly, yet gently, by the arm and pulled him to the ship.

Ronninflea: Chapter III

An Eternal Guardians Continued Story by Mire, Guilbeau, Angelle, & Boudreaux


                        III.

"You can't do this!"

It was dark, inside and outside.  Only the faintest starlight penetrated a small hole in the roof of the cave, spotlighting the four elves gathered in the dingy cavern.  They were gathered in a circle, the hard boulders which normally served as stools forgotten.  The tension in the air was palpable; all stood as if poised to run.

"Keep your voice down, Oreollivan."

Oreollivan glared at her father, tears gathering in her eyes.  "You can't send him away!"

"Orrie, it would be a better life for him.  There are learned persons of medicine there who could help him.  It would be a quiet, undisturbed life.  It is just what he has always needed." Cavillon's clear blue eyes were also filled with tears, but her voice was as firm as her husband's.  She was truly convinced that the present circumstances were impossible to maintain, and that this option was not only the most viable option, but the best one for her second son.

"It's an asylum!" The indignant protest was a screech as fear drenched Oreollivan.  She would have never thought that their mother would support this. Father, perhaps, but not Mother.  How could they even be considering this?  "He's your son!  You cannot just send him away!"

"It is--" Mikelvic began, but their father cut him off.

"What would you suggest we do?" Lasikor's burning violet eyes penetrated his daughter's anger and fear.  He was a hard man; poverty, suffering, and the deaths of several of his children had made him so.  His hair, once as black as the cloak of a vampire, was now as grey as steel.  Fittingly, both similes also described his personality.  Oreollivan felt her father's resolve; it was infectious, but not in the way he would have liked.  Her emotion drained, leaving only her will, cold and hard as her father's eyes.  

"I do not know," her voice was rock, emotionless, steady, firm.  Mikelvic's eyes narrowed.  She was lying.  She knew exactly what she thought should happen.  What was she planning?  He scrutinized her unrevealing features as the silence swelled.

"When...when does he leave?" Oreollivan finally spoke.

"In three days.  A ship leaves for Vinturion then."

A new jolt rippled through Oreollivan.  Vinturion!  The roughest, furthest, most impoverished of the sister-islands.  It was racked with civil war, inhabited by some of the odder races on Yendys, far worse than Tabar.  What sort of asylum could exist there?  What sort of place, really, did her father intend to send her little brother?  Her parents were the ones who were insane, not Ronninflea.

"Could...could I go with him?"

"You?  Enter the asylum?" Three disbelieving elves gaped at her.

"No," Oreollivan sighed.  "Could I bring him there?  Just to drop him off.  Just to say goodbye."  Despite her plan and her resolve, a lump grew in her throat.  She swallowed, aching and finding it difficult to breathe, refusing to look at her family.  

"No." Lasikor turned away.  "That task is mine."

Mikelvic went in the opposite direction of his father, his feet leading him to the door and out into the moonless night.  Oreollivan was left alone with her mother.

"It...It is for the best.  It is.  There's no other way." Cavillion sounded as though she were trying to convince herself; her voice broke on the last syllable and she turned swiftly, following her husband further into the cave.  Oreollivan stood by herself beneath the hole in the roof, her chin high, her arms crossed.  She stared at nothing as she beheld visions of the future she would create.  

Ronninflea: Chapter II

An Eternal Guardians Continued Story by Mire, Guilbeau, Angelle & Boudreaux


                              II.

"Flea!" the shrill voice of his youngest brother pierced the air as the lad walked through the entrance to the cave.  A small body came rushing from the dark interior of the cave, crashing into his legs with astonishing force.  

"Flea!" several squeaks followed, and soon a small mob had surrounded the elder boy, pinning his feet to the floor.  Ronninflea smiled and petted Madarot and Milloranan on the head.  "Where's mother, Millie?" he inquired of his sister, twisting her golden locks about his brown and calloused fingers.  She was the fourth child, second to Flea, but still too young to work.  She stared at him with pale, knowing eyes, searching his face.  Ronninflea knew that she was aware something was off.  Yet she did not press him.  She merely pointed past the sitting room and to the right.  Mother was in the kitchen.  Ronninflea nodded, swallowed quickly, and steeled himself to face his mother.  Little kids fell from him like molting feathers as he traversed the dark hole in the ground they had for years called home.

"Flea, is that you?" a voice came to him.  Flea swallowed, cold with dread.  His mother was neither harsh nor cruel nor aggressive, but Flea did not want to have to explain things to her.  He knew she would not understand any more than Mikelvic did, and he also did not want to face his own failure.

"Yes, Mother, I am here."

Cavillon came out of the kitchen.  She was a tall woman, broad in the shoulders and small in the waist.  Her hair was a pale yellow streaked with grey, though by elven standards she was young yet.  Hardship and loss had carved trenches in the skin about her mouth and eyes.  She looked at Ronninflea with a green gaze that was so very tired.

"What happened?" she inquired, her voice flat, dead.  She knew the story already.  It was the most recent in a never ending series of re-runs.  The smaller children noticed their mother's expression, her tone, the way she leaned against the wall with her arms folded, and they fled, leaving their older brother to stutter out his story with no audience but Mother and Millie.  

The story was soon told, and Ronninflea stood, fidgeting; he scratched one leg with his other foot, twisted his hands behind his back, and awaited his sentence.  However, his mother did not say a word.  She merely turned and went back to straightening up the remainders of the noonday meal.  Ronninflea blinked, only half surprised (his mother had not made any effort to chastise him in a long time) and finally left the room himself.  He left the house, in fact, and went down to the stream.

Ronninflea was well aware that he was not normal.  Oreollivan and Mikelvic were able to work without ever getting into any sort of trouble.  And while sometimes Ronninflea found himself frozen in place covered in a cold sweat and unable to breathe for no literally no reason at all, his younger siblings were quite lively and curious beings.  Oh, yes, Ronninflea knew that there was something wrong with him; no one else had the problems that he did.  The question was...what exactly WAS wrong with him?

To that, Ronninflea had no answer.  He could not remember a time when he had never been afraid of the dark or the creepy cats that lurked within it.  He had always feared nurses and knives and sudden noises.  Oreollivan had, a multitude of times, told him--gone to great lengths to SHOW him--that there was nothing to fear, that these things would not harm him.  Yet that did not help.  Mikelvic's less-than-encouraging shouting and shaking didn't, either.

Ronninflea swirled his toes in the warm, shallow water.  He wished that he could just "get over it" as Mik said.  He wished he could say he had tried.  But he couldn't.  When the fear gripped him, all he knew was that he couldn't breathe.  Nothing mattered except getting away from the danger.  He replayed the scene at the bar in his head as he watched the ripples.  A few salty tears rolled down his nose to join the freshwater at his feet.  The hardest part was not accepting that he was odd...useless…yes, even crippled.  He had known that for far too long to still be struggling with it.  No, the worst part was the look in his mother's eyes every time she saw him, the way Oreollivan had begun to give up defending him.  In a family where everyone had to be productive, Ronninflea was not only NOT helpful, but a pain.  He had brought nothing but suffering to those he loved.  They deserved better.

Ronninflea: Chapter I

An Eternal Guardians Continued Story by Mire, Guilbeau, Angelle, & Boudreaux                    


               I.

If there was one thing Ronninflea wished not to be, it was an elf.  Though he could name a few good reasons for despising this heritage--the poor socio-economic status being one good one--what Ronninflea rued most about elves was their height.  Very, very tall, they dwarfed the other races, though they completely lacked the muscle to back up any rights they would have been able to glean in this might-makes-right world.  And Ronninflea, unfortunately, was a textbook example of this fault of the elves, being among the tallest anyone in the region had seen, and lacking what anyone, anywhere, would call a healthy figure.  In fact, the only pleasant thing that Ronninflea could say about being elven was his excellent hearing.  It allowed him to know when danger was about long before he would have known otherwise.  However, even this advantage was rather lost, for his six foot seven inch frame made hiding from danger a very difficult task.  And hiding--preferably in small places--was imperative to Ronninflea's survival.  How else was he to avoid...
  
"Flea!"

Ronninflea cringed as his elder brother's voice cut through the dense atmosphere, irritation pulsing through the short, one-syllable nickname.  

"Coming!" Ronninflea cried, emerging from his corner, swerving as a waitress carrying an over-piled tray of glasses passed within an inch of his nose.  "Sorry," he said without stopping, rushing to meet his brother on the other side of the room, behind the bar.  Mikelvic looked angrier than Moose's old, fat cat when someone pulled its tail, aggravated at having to drag his younger brother from the corner, again, when said brother should have already been doing what Mikelvic was about to tell him to do.

"Have you dusted the barrels yet?" Mikelvic asked, rhetorically.  He knew the job assigned to Ronninflea nearly an hour ago had not yet been started.  Ronninflea tried to cower, but that proved ineffective since even in this state his brother was still shorter than he.  

"But, the cat..." Ronninflea faltered, knowing that his brother would never understand how truly terrifying it was to have an evil cat stare you down.

"The cat!  You are insane!  I have more than half a mind to lock you in the broom cupboard with that cat..." Mikelvic began in a whisper that slowly began to rise to a shout.  

"Alright, okay.  I'm going," Ronninflea said quickly, just trying to avoid the scene that Mik presented the bar's customers nearly every day.  His words were quicker than he was, however, and Mikelvic felt the need to push him toward the cellar door.  Ronninflea stumbled toward it, anxiety slowing his steps.  He hated dusting the barrels of mead, but Madame Rock kept a tight ship, insisting that it must be done.  Oreollivan often did it for him, but right now she was nowhere in sight, and hadn't been all afternoon.  Ronninflea steeled himself and opened the cellar door.  He took a deep breath.  There were lights down there; it wasn't like he was going into complete darkness.  He could do it. After a minute more of this sort of pep-talk, he made it to the base of the stairs.  Unfortunately, right there waiting for him, was the demonic cat.

It was truly a repulsive animal, by anyone's standards.  It was mottled black and orange, not in patches, but in sprinkles--as though it had gotten in the way of two fighting painters and the droplets had permanently discolored its fur.  Its eyes were green, large and lantern-like; they glowed in the dim cellar.  Ronninflea had tried, once, to refrain from judging the cat's character by its looks, but its personality was so glaringly evident in its shorn tail and deformed ear (remnants both of an epic battle with some powerful adversary) that it was simply no use.  The cat was a monster, surely.  And as if that weren't bad enough, it had the most eerie way of constantly watching Ronninflea and following him around as though it was just waiting for Flea to grow big enough to pop into a stew.

The young elf stood there for a moment, staring back into the green eyes, trying to convince himself that he could so this.  That is, until the cat winked at him. Ronninflea bolted back up the stairs, taking them two at a time.  Thanks to his incredible sense of timing, he arrived at the top just as Oreollivan passed with a large tray filled with ice-water (a rare commodity much demanded by those who partook a bit too liberally in the mead).  Ronninflea flew headlong into his older sister and the tray crashed to the ground.  Water pooled and broken glass and ice skittered across the polished wooden floor.  

Ronninflea's eyes widened in terror as he realized what this meant: in a word, Madame Rock's wrath.  Oreollivan looked torn between feeling sorry for her brother, annoyed that her clothes were now soaked in cold water, and frightened.  She hurriedly retreated through the side door to the ice house, making a quick twirling motion as if to say, "Flea, clean this up!"  Angry voices began to filter through the smoky air to Ronninflea's ears.

"Where is it?" one deep voice called.

"We're dying of thirst here!"

"Sorry!  Sorry!" Ronninflea yelled back, hastily picking up the cups and trays.  It was inevitable that the shouting draw Madame Rock, and he was not surprised--though his stomach sunk to his toes--when the toes of a shiny pair of black leather shoes appeared under his nose.  

"What is going on here?" she bellowed in her ever-overly-loud voice.  One of the customers, who had nothing at stake in the accident but who was close enough to have witnessed the entire event, saw fit to answer the bar owner's question.

"That tall, gangly fellow over dere done run up dem steps and knocked over all our whiskey!" he cried with a surprising amount of energy for someone who could barely manage to sit up on his own.  

Madame Rock gave Ronninflea a stare menacing enough to scare the demon cat.  Ronninflea stammered a few phrases in his defense, but Madame Rock wasn't listening.  "Ronninflea," she said in thunderous tones, "go home."

The dismissal had something final about it; Madame Rock's words held more implications than they seemed to, and everyone within ear-shot knew it.  The customers who weren't completely senseless began to laugh, and Ronninflea rushed out the door, with the memory of his brother's angry face and his sister's shocked expression branded upon his mind.  


**********


Oreollivan looked toward Madame Rock with a pleading expression upon her sweet face.  The bar woman gazed at her with a certain amount of pity, but shook her head slowly.  Oreollivan's heart sank.  Was this really Ronninflea's last chance?  Had it just been blown?  If so, it was a long time coming.  But, still, it just couldn't be!  She had to be more understanding than that!  Oreollivan continued to stare at Madame Rock, who gazed back at her young elven friend, looking very perplexed.  Not a word was exchanged, but Madame Rock finally made a shooing motion with her hands: Oreollivan could go talk to Ronninflea.  The elf handed the newly refilled glasses to another service girl and went out the door after her little brother, Mikelvic hard on her heels.

Oreollivan rushed into the busy, dusty street and glanced up and down its length.  Had it been herself in Ronninflea's situation, she would have gone to a secluded spot and hidden away from everyone until she was able to calm down.  She was not Ronninflea, however; he would have gone straight home, seeking solace in the unshakable affection of their baby brothers and sisters.  Knowing this, she shot off down the main road leading out of town toward their house, and didn't stop until she saw Ronninflea's figure far ahead, about to disappear beyond a bend.

"Flea!" she cried, her voice clear despite being out of breath.

Ronninflea stopped and turned.  From this distance he seemed small, and the innocent, hurt expression upon his face and the way he hunched his shoulders forward in misery exacerbated the impression.  She slowed, and quickly realized that it was a mistake.  Mikelvic raced past her toward their little brother, already yelling at him.  His angry incoherent shouts could probably be heard for miles, but by the time she neared, Mikelvic was in such a rage that his face was nearly purple.  His words--too many to be either contained or released--bubbled up inside of him to the point that even his features seemed to swell with them.  Ronninflea looked anxiously to Oreollivan as she came up behind Mikelvic, his green eyes asking her violet ones for help.  She sighed and placed a slender hand on Mikelvic's shoulder.

"Brother, I think I hear Madame Rock calling for you to return to the bar."

The excuse was absurd; even with their excellent hearing, there was no way Madame Rock could be calling them at that distance.  Mikelvic glared, but Oreollivan gazed calmly back, making a small gesture toward Ronninflea as if to say, "Let me handle this."  After a moment, he allowed her to win the stare down, and stalked off muttering under his breath.  His sister always "handled" Flea, for all the good it did.

Oreollivan watched him go.  She couldn't really blame him for being angry.  He wasn't a naturally patient person, and Ronninflea did not help to cultivate such a virtue.  Oreollivan was trying not to become angry herself.  She had worked so hard, so many times, to find a job that worked for Ronninflea.  When she finally realized that he was incapable of fulfilling any responsibility without assistance, she made certain to find employment where they could work together and she could keep an eye on him.  Oh, they had been rejected from so many places!  From craft makers' shops to house cleaning services, everyone, everywhere, had eventually seen fit to throw Ronninflea out.  The bar had been the last option, the only place which opened its doors to them, partly because it did not require much skill on the part of its employees, and partly because Madame Rock was the most compassionate--if brutally honest and unyielding--human Oreollivan had ever met in her eighty years of life.  She had kept Ronninflea and paid him, despite the hours he wasted sitting in the corner or running outside to avoid everything that made a sound.  And now Ronninflea had ruined that, too.  Oreollivan thought of all the work she did and time she spent over the long years caring for her baby brother; yet nothing had helped him.  His abnormal phobias had only worsened and he was able to function less and less in society.  He had caused her--the whole family, really, for everything depending on everyone bringing home as much income as they could--so much trouble.  It was enough to make the best of people curse and swear, and Mikelvic was far from the best of people.  No, she couldn't blame him for being angry, not really.  

Ronninflea relaxed as Mikelvic walked away.

"Flea, what happened?" Oreollivan asked wearily.

Ronninflea did his best to explain what happened, and why.  As always, it only left Oreollivan more confused.  It made no sense to her reasonable, sensible self, and though he put a lot of effort into explaining just what frightened him, Ronninflea never was able to do it sufficiently.  If he was, maybe then she'd be able to understand him, and fix him...

"Flea, things can't go on like this," Oreollivan said when he finished.

"I'm trying, Oreo.  I'm really trying."

She sighed.  Flea was standing there, shoulders folded forward, his head down, his eyes--usually a sparkling green, now dull and lackluster--refusing to meet hers as he stared off to the side and away into the trees.  The breeze ruffled his unkempt, coal-black hair.  His feet were bare, his shirt short in the sleeves, and torn; the knees of his pants were worn through.  He was the picture of all things pathetic.  She sighed again.  As difficult as their life already was, it just didn't seem fair that Flea had to be this way.  

"I'll try to fix things with Madame Rock, and talk her into letting you back.  You go home now, and help mother with the little ones.  I'll handle things."

Yep, that was her.  Oreo.  The one who handled everything.

Flea looked at her and smiled hopefully, sure of her magical ability to fix every situation he got them into.  He had a wonderful smile... Oreo couldn't remember the last time she had smiled.  She watched Flea turn and walk off, fast-paced despite his not trying to be.  Sighing a third time, she turned and went in the opposite direction, back to the bar, back to work, back to the never-ending "handling." 

She caught up with Mikelvic on the edge of town, a short, brisk jog from the bar.  Noise could be heard from all directions, a colorful ocean of angry tones, laughter, children screeching, sing-song languages, and guttural tongues.  A haze lay over the town from coal-burning homes and businesses, a heavy, dreary darkened cloud which had ensconced itself in the sky.  

Tabar was little more than an island.  Once the rim of an ancient volcano, the ocean had risen up the side of the monstrous mountain until Tabar was nothing more than one in a triad of miserable, half-sunken specks of dirt.  Like its sister-islands, Vinturion and Noigler, is was a smelting pot.  Upon it could be found all the major races of Yendys, thrown together by various circumstances, living precariously under a lax government--when there was any government at all.  It was a difficult life for just about everyone, but especially for Oreollivan's family, and especially for Oreollivan.  

"What happened?" she asked Mikelvic when she was close enough.  

"Ah, he was supposed to be dusting.  When I went down an hour later to bring up some bottles, I realized he hadn't done it yet, and I went to look for him."

"Where was he?"

"In the corner, again!  'The cat!' was all he would say.  I made him go down there, anyway, and the next thing I know he's charging back up like the devil had bit his behind and..." Mikelvic fluttered his hand in the air.  Oreo knew the rest.  

"Why didn't you go down before him and just get the cat out?"

Mik blinked at her as though her words were foreign to his vocabulary.  

"It was a mangy, mongrel of a cat!  If he doesn't learn to conquer even the smallest of his fears..." his voice trailed off as Oreollivan stared at him accusingly.  Her violet eyes were hard, her jaw locked.  It was clear that she thought the entire affair was his fault, since he could have prevented it.  Mikelvic thought about that for a second, and then brushed it aside.  He wasn't Oreo, and he wasn't going to take responsibility for something that wasn't his problem.  

"You coddle him too much, Oreo, and you know it," Mikelvik said, steeling himself against a confrontation he did not feel like having.  "He is never going to change if no one gives him the chance, and you are taking away every chance he has to get over his fears.  You are sheltering him, and making it worse."

"Because leaving him on his own worked so well just now, didn't it?" Oreollivan raised her voice.

"It's been a long time in coming and you know it.  And even if it never came, well...things are going...it wasn't like he...it's not like he's going to be here much longer anyway."

All the color drained from Oreollivan's face, but Mikelvic didn't see it.  He had looked away, refusing to meet his sister's eyes, when he dropped his hint.

"What do you mean?" Oreollivan finally managed to say, faintly.

"Oh, come on.  Don't play simple.  Mother and father are at their wits' end with him.  They've been considering sending him away and you know it."

The Adventures of Brianskin II: Amateur Antique Dealers

Brrrinnng!

The door swung open with such force that it slammed into the wall.  Everyone inside the Prickly Thistle Inn’s small common room started and turned to stare at the newcomer.  He was a slight lad of no older than fourteen with straight brown hair, strikingly green eyes, and a ruddy complexion.  His clothes were sleazy and mix-matched: the uniform of a runaway.  The strange boy fit right in at the disreputable inn.   

          Spending a single glance on the people gathered around the few tables scattered about the room, the young boy shuffled forward, lugging along a battered old leather trunk.  He walked up to the front desk, his movements jerky and dramatic. 

          “A room here.  Can I get one?”  He inquired.

          “What’s yur name, boy?” the innkeeper, old Mr. Frizzle, asked. 

          “Brianskin,” the lad replied promptly and with a large smile, as though he was proud to have remembered that slight detail.  Mr. Frizzle studied the boy intently with beady brown eyes, a slight smile upon his thin lips as he considered this potential customer.  Brianskin shuffled uncomfortably under Frizzle’s rude, unsettling stare.  The innkeeper grinned, the gaps in his yellow teeth shockingly apparent.  

          “And what can I be doin’ fer yu, Skinny?” Frizzle asked.

          “One room and dinner.  How much would that be?” Brianskin questioned, continuing the conversation of inquiries and ignoring Frizzle’s insult. 

          “Er, only ‘bout fif’ten zinks.” Frizzle drawled.  Brianskin abruptly slammed his leather case onto the counter and opened it.  Frizzle attempted to peer over the lifted lid, but he was too short to obtain a satisfactory glimpse of the lad’s belongings without making it glaringly apparent that he was trying to do so.  The innkeeper settled back on his heels with an unhappy sigh as he glared at Brianskin.

          Brianskin pawed through his clothes and knickknacks, spilling half of the trunk’s contents in the process.  He mumbled and muttered to himself constantly as he searched.  The customers at the table nearest the counter glanced at Brianskin in annoyance.  The only well-dressed people in the inn, an observer wondered why on Yendys such well-to-do persons would choose the Prickly Thistle Inn for a rest stop.        The man leaned over and whispered into the ear of an old—very old—woman sitting next to him.  The grandmotherly person’s attention brought to Brianskin, she merely stared at him curiously with large glazed eyes.  Then she leaned over and loudly whispered in the direction of her son and daughter-in-law, “He looks familiar.  I know him from somewhere, I know I do.”

          “Yes, mother,” the son said absentmindedly, the unruly-looking lad forgotten as he conversed with his wife of other matters.  The old woman continued to stare.   

          Eventually, Brianskin snapped the lid of his case shut quickly, slid it off the counter nearly as fast, and retreated to a corner, his face drawn in thought.  Frizzle snorted, knowing that look all too well; the boy didn’t have the money.  Oh, well.  That wasn’t Frizzle’s problem.  No money, no service.

          “Fifteen zink.  Fifteen zink!  Where am I going to get that?  Three.  I only have three!” Brianskin whispered inaudibly.  He idly reached into his pocket and pulled out a bright yellow yo-yo.  He began to roll it up and down its string as he pondered his dilemma.  He started in surprise as the old lady at the table by the counter jumped up from her seat with more energy than any woman her age had a right to possess.

          “I know you!” she cried loudly, and everyone in the inn’s common stopped whatever it was that they were doing and looked in her direction.  The old woman was undisturbed by this fact, and went on unperturbed.

          “You’re Brian!  Brian Skinnely, the son of Duke Skinnely!” the elderly lady shouted; nearly stone deaf as she was, she was in no position to gauge the volume of her own voice, and Brianskin, who was, unfortunately, standing only a few feet from her, winced. 

          “Mother, please be seated,” her son tugged on her arm in a vain attempt to make her calm down.

          “I know who you are!” the woman continued to cry, “You’re…. a yo-yo!”

          More than a few of the inn’s customers snickered.  The son put more effort into restraining his mother’s outburst.  Brianskin, however, saw nothing unduly outrageous in the accusation. 

          “I’m sorry,” Brianskin said calmly and politely, “You must be confusing me with someone else.  I’m not a yo-yo.  I’m a human.”

          “No!  No!” the elderly woman said impatiently.  “Is that a yo-yo?”  She gestured to the bright toy in Brianskin’s hand.  Brianskin glanced at his precious treasure, which he had forgotten all about at the beginning of the absurd conversation.

          “Yes,” he replied hesitantly, not liking something in the woman’s eager expression.  “A yo-yo.  Yes, it is.”

          “And it’s of Brambolini make, is it not?” the woman stated her inflectionless query.  Brianskin, not particularly knowing what a Brambolini was, and not really certain how to reply, merely shook his head in a gesture which the woman took to mean “yes”.

           “Do you know how much that yo-yo is worth?!” the woman shouted hysterically.  Brainskin shook his head in the negative, clearly confused.  He knew the yo-yo was special.  But how was this woman aware of its magical powers?

          “IT’S AN ANTIQUE!  Why, it must be worth at least thirty zink” the woman said, pulling the number straight from her over-active, befuddled imagination.  She yanked on her son’s arm and whispered harshly, “Buy that Brambolini from the lad, my boy.  It’s an investment!”

          The agitated son merely sighed dramatically and, pulling his wallet from his pocket, offered Brainskin thirty shiny golden zink.  “Is this enough for the yo-yo?”

          Brianskin looked from his precious treasure, to the man, to the elderly woman, and back at his precious treasure.  He thought of the room which he didn’t have the money for, and of the storm raging outside of the inn’s walls.  He considered the old lady’s big mouth and the secret he had to keep.  His green eyes filling with tears, Brianskin hastily made his decision and roughly shoved the bright yellow yo-yo into the strange man’s hand.  He practically threw some of the coins, which he guessed to be about fifteen of the thirty, at Mr. Frizzle and raced upstairs, not even asking which room was his.

          Mr. Frizzle smiled gleefully at the twenty golden coins in his hand as he and everyone else in the common room watched the teenager flee upstairs.

          “It’s an antique!  Do you know how much this is worth?” the old woman continued to say loudly, though not quite as loudly as before. 

          “Thirty zink,” the son growled in aggravation.

          “Why!  It’s worth at least three times that amount!” the woman went on, ignoring her son’s anger.

          Everyone in the inn was listening to the old woman now.  The gamblers and the homeless began to eye the woman’s nice, expensive, and fashionable clothes.  They stared at the yo-yo she held aloft.

          “She just might know what she’s talkin’ ‘bout, that one.” one disreputable customer hissed, pointing his grimy finger at the rich family, “She’d be a knowin’ what nice things’ll be costin’.”

          A hesitant expectancy settled upon the common room, Brianskin’s yo-yo the center of attention as all the inn’s customers considered its value.  After a while, one man made up his mind.  Rising from his chair, he offered to invest his spending money (seventy-five zink) in the yo-yo.  The son watched the man with a bemused expression as he made his offer.  The old woman stared at her prospective buyer suspiciously before agreeing to the sale. 

*****

The man’s purchase of the yo-yo immediately set off an avalanche of offers, and the yo-yo changed hands many times that night, its worth rising with every sale.  The last buyer— a middle-aged, over-weight man with red-tinted eyes, who went by the name of Carlisle— purchased it for nearly two-hundred and fifty zink.  He pocketed the yo-yo, refusing to sell it to anyone in the inn, and, whistling, made his way home, making plans for the morrow.  It was an excellent night for him, full of high hopes. 

          Brianskin, however, had a harder time of it.  He mourned the loss of his beloved— not to mention magical— yo-yo.  It had been his greatest treasure.  That night, after he had finally managed to cry himself to sleep, he was subject to disturbing dreams of his yo-yo getting farther and farther away from him until it was a mere yellow speck in the distance.

*****

“And how might I be of service to you today, Mister Carlisle?”

Carlisle placed the polished yellow yo-yo upon the worn counter of the town antique store. 

          “I have it on the best authority that this is an original, genuine Brambolini yo-yo,” Carlisle announced proudly, tapping the counter by the colorful toy. 

          The antique dealer leaned forward and examined the magnificent yo-yo as Carlisle continued to show off its wonderful résumé.

          “Look at that smooth surface.  Just look at that beautiful paint, of the best quality.  Do you know that this wood is pure Catalpa?” Carlisle asked, continuing in this manner for several minutes.

          The antique dealer, who had bent over to examine the yo-yo at eye level, stood up.  He wore a look of pure disgust upon his face.

          “First of all,” he said, holding up a single finger, “There is no such thing as a Brambolini yo-yo.  A Brambolini is a type of harp.

          “Secondly, this…. thing….. is not an antique; it is so smooth because it is quite new.

          “Thirdly, this is not a coat of fine paint; it’s a nice crust of mustard.

          “Fourthly, it is not made of Catalpa wood.  It’s from a pop-corn tree!”

          Carlisle stared blankly at the antique dealer.  “So how much is it worth?” he asked.

          “It isn’t worth my dog’s dinner!!” the antique dealer cried.

*****

There was a roar followed by a loud crash.  A large display window shattered.

          “OUCH!!” Brianskin yelped as something small and round whizzed through the giant pane and hit him in the head.  The force of the blow sent the boy sprawling.  Shaking his abused head to clear it, Brianskin sat and began looking around for what had hit him.  There, lying in the mud beside him, was his yo-yo.  Brianskin was speechless.  After a few minutes of complete silence, he jumped up and grabbed his yo-yo, yelling wildly, “Oh! Oh! OH! I knew you would come back!  I knew it!”

          After reuniting with his beloved—not to mention magical—yo-yo, Brianskin gathered his trunk and began to make his way down the main street of Ninya, whistling happily as he made his way.  It was a beautiful day, if a bit cloudy, he had his yo-yo, the open road was before him, his secret was still safe… Ah, yes!  It was a wonderful day.  Brianskin ignored the stares and chatter of the townsfolk as he left.

“Momma!  Momma!  How did that boy teach that squirrel to follow him like that?!”

THE END

…OR IS IT JUST THE BEGINNING?

The Adventures of Brianskin I: The Runaway

The dingy room was dimly lit; a lone beam came from a small lamp set on the low table.  Shadows danced across the wooden walls, making everything uncertain in the half-light.  The room possessed the musty, dirty aura that only a teenaged boy could give it.  A series of taps, raps, and crashes issued from the closet, where the figure of a young boy could be seen.  The boy was about fourteen in age with round hazel eyes.  His short dark brown hair hung straight on his forehead, wet with perspiration.  The lad was stooped over a crate, muttering incoherently to himself.  Suddenly, a loud crash was followed by the words,

            “Oh, what’s this?  Oh yes!  I will need this!”  The boy abruptly stood up and dashed to his bed, carrying an indistinguishable piece of cloth.  He quickly stuffed it into a small leather case which lay open upon his coverlet.  The boy looked around the room.  His wild gestures were slightly jerky and dramatic, of the kind that made one wonder if he had full control over his movements.  Like a child who is not all there—if you take my meaning—it seemed as though he would never stop his incessant muttering or motion.

            He began to count his fingers, ticking off the items he had already packed.

            “Shirt—got it.  Pants—got ‘em.  Underwear—well, I never use it.  But what the heck, I’ll pack it anyway.”

            After this astonishing revelation, the boy returned to his closet, where he once again began his absurd search for traveling items.  His mumbling had not ceased; rather, it was definitely more audible at this point.

            “Where is it?  Where is it?!  I know it’s around here somewhere.”  The boy began to throw clothes, pillows, and all manner of objects over his shoulder in his hunt for the missing and unknown valuable item.  

            “Ah-ha!” he finally cried, his hand deep within a small sack of flour lying on the floor, “Here it is! Boy!  I definitely could not leave home without this!  This will most assuredly come in handy… most important.  Couldn’t have forgotten it!”  He pulled his hand out of the powdery baking ingredient and held up a small round object for inspection.  It was a bright yellow yo-yo, freshly painted and shining beneath its coat of dust.  He smiled at it fondly before shoving it roughly in his pocket.

            The brown-haired boy went back to his trunk.  His animated expressions and movements ceased for only a second.  He glanced almost sadly around the wrecked room, with its various toys, clothes, and other junk scattered all over the floor.  He let out a sigh, and with that sigh passed his melancholy appearance.  He jumped slightly for no reason whatsoever, if just to put a spring in his step.  Hurriedly grabbing his trunk, he closed it and clasped it, and headed toward the door.

            Once outside, the boy stopped on the steps.  He peered up and down the dusty road and looked up at the stars.  The house behind him lay dark and silent; it was asleep just as its other inhabitants were.  The boy mumbled to himself again.

            “Well…well….well,” he said, putting a different inflection on each one of the words, “This is it.  It’s all over.  I am free.  No more work.  No more nagging.  No more school.  No more picking.  No more weird looks (it’s like people think I am crazy).  That’s it.  It’s all over.  Good-bye home!  Good-bye family!  Good-bye annoying little sister!  Farewell!  Adieu!  Say good-bye to Brianskin, for you shall never see him again!”

            A spectator, at first glance, would have said that the boy was happy.  But the cicada and the squirrel sitting on the roof were close observers.  As the boy traipsed down the road, the two animals heard him whisper to himself,

            “Oh…but he will miss you.”

            And that was it.  The house never did see Brianskin again, though we can’t say so much for the cicada and the squirrel.  As his silhouette disappeared into the night, the two animals raced off to report to their superiors.

THE END

…or is it?