“Whatcha doin’, kid?” Austin leaned in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest.
The Wordsmith was curled up on one of the uncomfortable office chairs, hands cupped around some small black device. He looked up and blinked at her blearily, and for one moment his eyes were ink-black, and he looked dazed, as if he’d just absorbed some long, dry tome - like the federal tax code.
Kory was a lazy prat, that he’d had The Wordsmith absorb that.
“I’m watching cartoons,” The Wordsmith said. He held up the device - an iPhone. “Old-fashioned cell animation. Do you know how they did it? They would make the drawings first, and then transfer the drawings onto cellulose, hence ‘cel’ animation --”
He sounded like he was reciting from a book. Austin could see ink swirling across his collarbones - he was shirtless, poor creature, and the heater in the bunker was broken. For one moment, Austin considered triggering him, asking for a touch of poetry - in the wake of Valentine’s Day, after all - but she didn’t want to get on Garrow’s bad side.
Austin smirked. “Did Garrow give you that toy?”
“He said it was a birthday present,” The Wordsmith said.
“Wasn’t your birthday two days ago?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve been watching cartoons on that thing since then?”
“I’ve slept a little, ate a little. Called up some maps for Garrow. Why?”
Austin knew how little The Wordsmith ate and slept; he must have been glued to that thing for hours. “Didn’t your mother tell you that too much TV will rot your brain?”
“I don’t have a mother - and if I did, she never told me anything,” The Wordsmith said easily. Anyone else would have shown a moment of remorse, of loss at not having a mother, but The Wordsmith was weird and unemotional like that.
“Too much TV is bad for you,” Austin said.
The Wordsmith smoothed a hand over his forearm where a line from a novel flickered. “Maybe. Too many books can be bad for you too. Besides, with cartoons - I can enjoy the story and forget it when it’s done. It’s not - stuck in me. Forever.”
“I never thought of that,” Austin said, after a long moment.
The Wordsmith shrugged. “I can remember everything I’ve ever read, but not everything I’ve ever seen.”
Austin hummed thoughtfully. “What cartoons did Garrow give you?”
“Disney,” The Wordsmith said. “They’re curious permutations of traditional tales --”
Austin cut him off. “Have you ever seen anything by Hayao Miyazaki?”
(416 words)
Showing posts with label Wordsmith. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wordsmith. Show all posts
Monday, February 15, 2010
Saturday, February 21, 2009
If You Give Me a Chance
Garrow was almost out of knives, and they were backed into a corner. There was a way out - there had to be a way out.
Austin was out of ammo. The string of words that spilled from her lips would have made the Principalities have heart attacks - if they had hearts.
“What the hell do we do now?” she yelled.
“Find an emergency exit!” Garrow said. He reached for the sheaths at his calves, spun the knives, waiting for on the fools to pop up and take a hit.
“The only emergency exit is in the arms of the Grim Reaper!” Austin said.
“There was a legend,” The Wordsmith began.
Garrow glanced over his shoulder.
The Wordsmith unbuttoned his cardigan with swift hands. “I heard it once, from the Elders, and then searched for it when they left me alone in the vault later that day. There’s a tunnel that leads from here to the Vault and then below the lake.”
Garrow’s eyes narrowed. “What the --? No. Keep your shirt on, kid.”
The Wordsmith cast the cardigan aside, unknotted the tie, started in on the buttons of his shirt. “I can find it if you give me a chance. Austin, come trigger me.”
She blinked, darted a nervous glance at Garrow. “What?”
The Wordsmith’s gesture was impatient. “Come on! He’s only got two knives left.”
Austin hesitated once more, then slid up beside him, pressed a hand to his chest. Whispered in his ear. Garrow bit down on his lip to keep from crying out when he saw the kid’s eyes go blank, then dead, and then the words came, spilling and tripping over each other as if trying to rip themselves out of skin.
And then they were clear, three sentences, exact directions.
The Wordsmith said, “Go.”
And collapsed.
(300 words)
Austin was out of ammo. The string of words that spilled from her lips would have made the Principalities have heart attacks - if they had hearts.
“What the hell do we do now?” she yelled.
“Find an emergency exit!” Garrow said. He reached for the sheaths at his calves, spun the knives, waiting for on the fools to pop up and take a hit.
“The only emergency exit is in the arms of the Grim Reaper!” Austin said.
“There was a legend,” The Wordsmith began.
Garrow glanced over his shoulder.
The Wordsmith unbuttoned his cardigan with swift hands. “I heard it once, from the Elders, and then searched for it when they left me alone in the vault later that day. There’s a tunnel that leads from here to the Vault and then below the lake.”
Garrow’s eyes narrowed. “What the --? No. Keep your shirt on, kid.”
The Wordsmith cast the cardigan aside, unknotted the tie, started in on the buttons of his shirt. “I can find it if you give me a chance. Austin, come trigger me.”
She blinked, darted a nervous glance at Garrow. “What?”
The Wordsmith’s gesture was impatient. “Come on! He’s only got two knives left.”
Austin hesitated once more, then slid up beside him, pressed a hand to his chest. Whispered in his ear. Garrow bit down on his lip to keep from crying out when he saw the kid’s eyes go blank, then dead, and then the words came, spilling and tripping over each other as if trying to rip themselves out of skin.
And then they were clear, three sentences, exact directions.
The Wordsmith said, “Go.”
And collapsed.
(300 words)
Friday, February 20, 2009
All Apologies
Garrow curled his hands into fists. The English language had been turned on its head when boys that like that made the Virtue Choir.
“What happened out there, Smith? There were seventeen arrests, and all anyone remembers is the kid in the ugly sweater scooting out the back door,” Kory said.
The Wordsmith ducked his head, swiped a lock of hair out of his face. “I -- it was my idea,” he began. “I just wanted to - to hear some music. And Garrow said he knew a cool place, and then I was talking to this girl and her, ah, boyfriend became angry, so I threw a punch --”
Kory arched one eyebrow. Garrow wanted to facepalm. Words swirled across The Wordsmith’s torso, writhing up and down his arms and scrolling across the lines of his ribs. They all said the same thing in a hundred, a thousand different languages lost and dead and spoken all around the world: lies.
Kid couldn’t lie to save his life - but at least he’d tried to save a friend.
“It was Garrow, wasn’t it?” Kory asked. “He started the fight.”
The Wordsmith lifted his head, jaw set stubbornly even though his hands were shaking. “No. It was me. I hit the man first.”
Kory rolled his eyes and turned. His gaze fell on Garrow and he beckoned once, sharply. “Get over here. The Authorities want to talk to you.”
Garrow followed Kory toward the elevator that would take him deeper into the bunkers, down to where the Authorities lurked. As he passed The Wordsmith, he reached out and patted the kid on the shoulder.
“Better luck next time.”
The Wordsmith mouthed, “I’m sorry.” A litany of apologetic poetry across his skin swirled into being.
“I’ll be fine,” Garrow said. He was a much better liar.
(300 words)
“What happened out there, Smith? There were seventeen arrests, and all anyone remembers is the kid in the ugly sweater scooting out the back door,” Kory said.
The Wordsmith ducked his head, swiped a lock of hair out of his face. “I -- it was my idea,” he began. “I just wanted to - to hear some music. And Garrow said he knew a cool place, and then I was talking to this girl and her, ah, boyfriend became angry, so I threw a punch --”
Kory arched one eyebrow. Garrow wanted to facepalm. Words swirled across The Wordsmith’s torso, writhing up and down his arms and scrolling across the lines of his ribs. They all said the same thing in a hundred, a thousand different languages lost and dead and spoken all around the world: lies.
Kid couldn’t lie to save his life - but at least he’d tried to save a friend.
“It was Garrow, wasn’t it?” Kory asked. “He started the fight.”
The Wordsmith lifted his head, jaw set stubbornly even though his hands were shaking. “No. It was me. I hit the man first.”
Kory rolled his eyes and turned. His gaze fell on Garrow and he beckoned once, sharply. “Get over here. The Authorities want to talk to you.”
Garrow followed Kory toward the elevator that would take him deeper into the bunkers, down to where the Authorities lurked. As he passed The Wordsmith, he reached out and patted the kid on the shoulder.
“Better luck next time.”
The Wordsmith mouthed, “I’m sorry.” A litany of apologetic poetry across his skin swirled into being.
“I’ll be fine,” Garrow said. He was a much better liar.
(300 words)
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Seventeen Years' Time
At seventeen years old, The Wordsmith was tall, taller than Haschen remembered, but then he’d never really looked, had he? He had no choice but to look now, lying on the ground beside the open Vault, while fires ravaged the halls of Rosenkreuz and the children from the Vault revealed their true loyalties.
The Telekinetic had The Wordsmith in a vice-like grip and was shaking him sharply.
The Wordsmith ducked his head but didn’t try to pull free - he’d learned better than to fight back. The Biokinetic was at his back, ready to knock out the Wordsmith for transport on the mark, either from The Telekinetic or The Oracle.
After a moment, through the haze of bleeding out, Haschen could hear their words.
“We can’t just leave them to die,” The Wordsmith said. Ink swirled on his skin, formed muzzy words in lovely classical calligraphy, distress and fear and compassion; years in the Vault had given the boy nothing but time to perfect his hand.
The Telekinetic said, “The Knights of Grau are coming. We can let them claim us as prizes - or we can go to them willingly.”
“But - Elder Haschen and the others --”
“Tortured you,” The Biokinetic spat. She tossed her head angrily. “I’m surprised you’ve survived as long as you have, soft as your are.”
“I’m not soft,” The Wordsmith insisted. “Haschen --”
“Will be finished off by the Gregori in seven minutes and thirty-two seconds,” The Oracle said.
The Wordsmith bowed his head. “And Lena, the girl who visited me?”
“The Talentless wench?” Another toss of the head from The Biokinetic. “Dead. Elders had her culled because she talked to you. Let’s go.”
“Seventeen years,” The Oracle said. “Isn’t it time?”
Numbers scrolled across The Wordsmith’s shoulder blades, and he bowed his head. “It is.”
(300 words)
The Telekinetic had The Wordsmith in a vice-like grip and was shaking him sharply.
The Wordsmith ducked his head but didn’t try to pull free - he’d learned better than to fight back. The Biokinetic was at his back, ready to knock out the Wordsmith for transport on the mark, either from The Telekinetic or The Oracle.
After a moment, through the haze of bleeding out, Haschen could hear their words.
“We can’t just leave them to die,” The Wordsmith said. Ink swirled on his skin, formed muzzy words in lovely classical calligraphy, distress and fear and compassion; years in the Vault had given the boy nothing but time to perfect his hand.
The Telekinetic said, “The Knights of Grau are coming. We can let them claim us as prizes - or we can go to them willingly.”
“But - Elder Haschen and the others --”
“Tortured you,” The Biokinetic spat. She tossed her head angrily. “I’m surprised you’ve survived as long as you have, soft as your are.”
“I’m not soft,” The Wordsmith insisted. “Haschen --”
“Will be finished off by the Gregori in seven minutes and thirty-two seconds,” The Oracle said.
The Wordsmith bowed his head. “And Lena, the girl who visited me?”
“The Talentless wench?” Another toss of the head from The Biokinetic. “Dead. Elders had her culled because she talked to you. Let’s go.”
“Seventeen years,” The Oracle said. “Isn’t it time?”
Numbers scrolled across The Wordsmith’s shoulder blades, and he bowed his head. “It is.”
(300 words)
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
The Boy
She was Talentless and lucky she hadn’t been culled by the Talented who terrorized the halls of the school, but she wasn’t sure this newest assignment was much better. Still, she was alive, so she took a deep breath and stepped into the vault. Elder Haschen stood at the lock, and would wait while she cleaned. She’d been given one instruction - not to touch the boy.
The boy was a slender teenager, pale, shivering on a cot in the corner. He straightened up when she stepped into the room and flashed her a nervous smile, a twitch of wide lips, eyebrows arcing gracefully. He had large, long-fingered hands folded neatly in his lap. She could count his ribs and trace the line of his collarbone.
“Hello,” he said cautiously.
Elder Haschen hadn’t said anything about not talking to him. “Hello.” All of the students at the school, talented or not, spoke English as well as German. He sounded American, like a television show.
“What’s your name?”
“Lena,” she said.
“Nice to meet you, Lena. Did you need something?”
“I’m here to clean. Your room.” ‘Room’ was a loose term for a vault lined with ancient moldering books, occult relics, and antique weapons.
“Oh.” He looked nervous. “Am I not keeping it clean enough?”
“The Elders didn’t say,” Lena said.
“Oh. All right.” He wilted for a moment, then straightened up. “Would you like to hear a poem?”
Lena nodded warily. “That would be nice. What kind of poem?”
“Any kind you like.”
She darted a glance at the shelves, but didn’t see a single volume of poetry. Was he going to make it up?
“Poe,” she said. “I like Poe.”
He smiled and began to recite,
“It was many and many years ago
In a kingdom by the sea...”
(300 words)
The boy was a slender teenager, pale, shivering on a cot in the corner. He straightened up when she stepped into the room and flashed her a nervous smile, a twitch of wide lips, eyebrows arcing gracefully. He had large, long-fingered hands folded neatly in his lap. She could count his ribs and trace the line of his collarbone.
“Hello,” he said cautiously.
Elder Haschen hadn’t said anything about not talking to him. “Hello.” All of the students at the school, talented or not, spoke English as well as German. He sounded American, like a television show.
“What’s your name?”
“Lena,” she said.
“Nice to meet you, Lena. Did you need something?”
“I’m here to clean. Your room.” ‘Room’ was a loose term for a vault lined with ancient moldering books, occult relics, and antique weapons.
“Oh.” He looked nervous. “Am I not keeping it clean enough?”
“The Elders didn’t say,” Lena said.
“Oh. All right.” He wilted for a moment, then straightened up. “Would you like to hear a poem?”
Lena nodded warily. “That would be nice. What kind of poem?”
“Any kind you like.”
She darted a glance at the shelves, but didn’t see a single volume of poetry. Was he going to make it up?
“Poe,” she said. “I like Poe.”
He smiled and began to recite,
“It was many and many years ago
In a kingdom by the sea...”
(300 words)
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Value of Silence
Where most children fidgeted while adults stared, the little Wordsmith sat perfectly still, hands folded in his lap, and stared down at his bare feet. The breeches he wore - uniform cast-offs from an older Rosenkreuz student - came a couple of inches above his ankle and pinched too tightly at his already-thin waist, but he made no complaint.
“How old are you?” Haschen asked. Every moment of the boy’s life was documented in boxes and boxes of files, but he liked to hear the boy speak. So rarely did the boy speak for himself - his skin spoke for him - and so his voice, a nervous tenor, was a pleasant sound.
“Seven, sir.” The Wordsmith met his gaze briefly.
“What’s your name?”
At this, The Wordsmith looked puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
“What is your name?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“What do people call you?”
“I am The Wordsmith,” he said.
Haschen smiled. “Perfect.” He rose up, gestured to a stack of books some minion had set in the corner. “Absorb those in time for our next meeting.” And he left.
He paused outside the door to listen to the soft gasps of a boy trying to suppress the pain of absorption. The last Wordsmith had been a girl, and she’d screamed so prettily, but Elder Deinen had been right - the boy had learned the value of silence.
(227 words)
“How old are you?” Haschen asked. Every moment of the boy’s life was documented in boxes and boxes of files, but he liked to hear the boy speak. So rarely did the boy speak for himself - his skin spoke for him - and so his voice, a nervous tenor, was a pleasant sound.
“Seven, sir.” The Wordsmith met his gaze briefly.
“What’s your name?”
At this, The Wordsmith looked puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
“What is your name?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“What do people call you?”
“I am The Wordsmith,” he said.
Haschen smiled. “Perfect.” He rose up, gestured to a stack of books some minion had set in the corner. “Absorb those in time for our next meeting.” And he left.
He paused outside the door to listen to the soft gasps of a boy trying to suppress the pain of absorption. The last Wordsmith had been a girl, and she’d screamed so prettily, but Elder Deinen had been right - the boy had learned the value of silence.
(227 words)
Better Than Reading
“What does it say?” Haschen asked.
The rest of the Elders looked dubious; the toddler sitting on the patchwork blanket in the middle of the Vault gazed up at them with wide, solemn eyes.
“What does it say?” Haschen repeated.
“ ‘He who bears the cross and the rose will rule the world,’” the boy said.
The Elders smiled, pleased to hear the ritual words spill from a child’s lips in such a sweet child’s voice.
“But can he read?” one of the Elders asked.
“Better,” Haschen said. “He’s learned early.” He leaned down and stroked a hand over the boy’s spine, whispered in his hear.
The little boy screamed and arched away from Haschen’s touch, every muscle tighter than piano wire, but it was too late, the work had begun. The Elders stared as ink, lettered in a toddler’s unsteady hand, spread across the tiny torso, and formed ritual words, an image of a cross bound with roses and thorns.
“How old is he?” another Elder asked.
Haschen said, “Two.”
(170 words)
The rest of the Elders looked dubious; the toddler sitting on the patchwork blanket in the middle of the Vault gazed up at them with wide, solemn eyes.
“What does it say?” Haschen repeated.
“ ‘He who bears the cross and the rose will rule the world,’” the boy said.
The Elders smiled, pleased to hear the ritual words spill from a child’s lips in such a sweet child’s voice.
“But can he read?” one of the Elders asked.
“Better,” Haschen said. “He’s learned early.” He leaned down and stroked a hand over the boy’s spine, whispered in his hear.
The little boy screamed and arched away from Haschen’s touch, every muscle tighter than piano wire, but it was too late, the work had begun. The Elders stared as ink, lettered in a toddler’s unsteady hand, spread across the tiny torso, and formed ritual words, an image of a cross bound with roses and thorns.
“How old is he?” another Elder asked.
Haschen said, “Two.”
(170 words)
Left on the Steps
“You found him?”
“On the front steps.” Haschen glanced at the video feed where a girl lay dead at the gates, the torn hem of her ragged dress fluttering in the wind. The bundle in his arms was wrapped in a thin patchwork blanket and was strangely silent.
“Let me see him.”
Haschen parted the folds of the blanket, shifted the bundle awkwardly. A pair of big brown eyes peered myopically out at the world. A chubby little fist waved free. The baby had wisps of dull brown hair and a wide, toothless smile. A happy baby, unaware of his circumstances.
“And no one seeks him?”
“Mastermind scanned the bearer,” Haschen said. “The infant is illegitimate and the bearer had a falling out with her family - no one even knows he’s alive.”
“Perfect. And The Biokinetic says...?”
Haschen stared down at the baby. “He’s an ink-bearer.”
“Have one of the Matrons fix a bassinet in the Vault. Ensure he’s fed and changed at appropriate times.”
“And if he cries? Shall we assign him a nurse?”
“He’ll learn not to cry.”
(181 words)
“On the front steps.” Haschen glanced at the video feed where a girl lay dead at the gates, the torn hem of her ragged dress fluttering in the wind. The bundle in his arms was wrapped in a thin patchwork blanket and was strangely silent.
“Let me see him.”
Haschen parted the folds of the blanket, shifted the bundle awkwardly. A pair of big brown eyes peered myopically out at the world. A chubby little fist waved free. The baby had wisps of dull brown hair and a wide, toothless smile. A happy baby, unaware of his circumstances.
“And no one seeks him?”
“Mastermind scanned the bearer,” Haschen said. “The infant is illegitimate and the bearer had a falling out with her family - no one even knows he’s alive.”
“Perfect. And The Biokinetic says...?”
Haschen stared down at the baby. “He’s an ink-bearer.”
“Have one of the Matrons fix a bassinet in the Vault. Ensure he’s fed and changed at appropriate times.”
“And if he cries? Shall we assign him a nurse?”
“He’ll learn not to cry.”
(181 words)
Monday, February 16, 2009
At Risk
She leaned in and purred, “If you have nothing else to offer me, offer me your smile.”
The Wordsmith was pressed flat up against a bookcase, arms up to fend her off.
Garrow grabbed her by the collar and hauled her backwards. “Away from the boy, little lady. No touching The Wordsmith.”
“I don’t want to smile for you,” the kid added, which caused the woman to leer.
The woman squirmed in Garrow’s grip like an angry kitten. “I wasn’t gonna hurt him!”
Garrow reached into his pack and fished around for one of the grandpa shirts the Thrones had given him. He tossed it at the kid, who caught it with shaking hands and buttoned it up wrong. His coordination always went out the window when he was scared.
“You would’ve hurt him without knowing it,” Garrow said. “What are you doing in the Gregori bunker anyway, Messenger? Get lost.” He shoved her away. She sniffed at him, turned her nose up, and sashayed out of the bunker.
As soon as she was gone, Garrow turned back to The Wordsmith, who was focused on fixing his shirt. “You all right, kid?”
He nodded. “Yeah, she - she didn’t know how to trigger me.”
“She might’ve by accident. Look, when Austin’s not in the bunker, wear more clothes, all right? I know she’s got seniority on me, but we can’t afford to --” Garrow broke off, rephrased -- “you shouldn’t have to be at risk like that all the time. Now come on - it’s time for your chopstick lessons.”
“Why? Just because a billion people in one isolated nation can feed themselves that way --”
“Because I want some real orange chicken and sushi and we won’t get it in a bunker, and hell if I’m gonna let you embarrass me at my favorite restaurant. Move, kid!”
The Wordsmith ducked his head and nodded, but Garrow could see he was smiling.
The Wordsmith was pressed flat up against a bookcase, arms up to fend her off.
Garrow grabbed her by the collar and hauled her backwards. “Away from the boy, little lady. No touching The Wordsmith.”
“I don’t want to smile for you,” the kid added, which caused the woman to leer.
The woman squirmed in Garrow’s grip like an angry kitten. “I wasn’t gonna hurt him!”
Garrow reached into his pack and fished around for one of the grandpa shirts the Thrones had given him. He tossed it at the kid, who caught it with shaking hands and buttoned it up wrong. His coordination always went out the window when he was scared.
“You would’ve hurt him without knowing it,” Garrow said. “What are you doing in the Gregori bunker anyway, Messenger? Get lost.” He shoved her away. She sniffed at him, turned her nose up, and sashayed out of the bunker.
As soon as she was gone, Garrow turned back to The Wordsmith, who was focused on fixing his shirt. “You all right, kid?”
He nodded. “Yeah, she - she didn’t know how to trigger me.”
“She might’ve by accident. Look, when Austin’s not in the bunker, wear more clothes, all right? I know she’s got seniority on me, but we can’t afford to --” Garrow broke off, rephrased -- “you shouldn’t have to be at risk like that all the time. Now come on - it’s time for your chopstick lessons.”
“Why? Just because a billion people in one isolated nation can feed themselves that way --”
“Because I want some real orange chicken and sushi and we won’t get it in a bunker, and hell if I’m gonna let you embarrass me at my favorite restaurant. Move, kid!”
The Wordsmith ducked his head and nodded, but Garrow could see he was smiling.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Revenge, Anger, Cruelty
Garrow knelt over The Wordsmith. He reached out, hands shaking, and checked for a pulse. The kid was alive, only barely. His lip was split and one eye was swollen shut, and ink was bleeding out from under his fingernails. He must have absorbed over a hundred books in the last day.
“Kid, talk to me,” Garrow said.
The Wordsmith moaned softly.
“Damn them.” Garrow gathered the kid into his arms, wrapped the kid in his coat, and scooped up his body.
The Wordsmith curled against Garrow’s chest and whimpered. “Hurts.”
“I know, kid,” Garrow said. “We’ll get you back to the Virtues - they’ll fix you right up.”
The Wordsmith tossed his head. “No - need to get to the vault.”
“You’re not going back there.” Garrow headed for the nearest Metro station. “Those books in the vault --”
“Are all in my blood. Destroy it.” The Wordsmith gazed at Garrow with his one good eye.
“Kid --”
“Please. So no one else has to read them.”
Garrow stopped. “Kid...”
“Garrow - please,” The Wordsmith said. His tone was pleading.
“Kid --”
“My name is Matthew.”
Garrow went still. “What?”
“Rosenkreuz. They tried to take away my name, but I remembered it. It was the first thing I absorbed, but they broke me of it - for a while. I found it in one of the books they had me absorb in the vault.” He smiled faintly.
“Matthew,” Garrow said. He reached out, brushed an unruly lock of hair out of the boy’s eyes. “Did you know that’s my name too?”
He nodded. “That made it easier to remember when the time came.” He opened his mouth to speak again, but his breath hitched, and his entire body tensed, curling in on itself.
Garrow’s eyes went wide. “Kid? Kid! Matthew? Talk to me, baby boy, let me hear your voice. Tell me one of those sonnets you always have --”
The smile slid off of Matthew’s face, and his body went limp.
Garrow went still. Then he knelt, slowly, and laid Matthew’s body on the ground. He sat beside the body for a while, stroking the boy’s hair, and then he stood up. He drew his scimitar and his shotgun, and he turned in the direction of the vault.
“Damn them,” he said again. “I’ll damn them.” He began to walk away.
On the ground, Matthew stirred, and one last time, words wrote themselves across his skin.
When Anger and Revenge marry, their daughter is called Cruelty.
“Kid, talk to me,” Garrow said.
The Wordsmith moaned softly.
“Damn them.” Garrow gathered the kid into his arms, wrapped the kid in his coat, and scooped up his body.
The Wordsmith curled against Garrow’s chest and whimpered. “Hurts.”
“I know, kid,” Garrow said. “We’ll get you back to the Virtues - they’ll fix you right up.”
The Wordsmith tossed his head. “No - need to get to the vault.”
“You’re not going back there.” Garrow headed for the nearest Metro station. “Those books in the vault --”
“Are all in my blood. Destroy it.” The Wordsmith gazed at Garrow with his one good eye.
“Kid --”
“Please. So no one else has to read them.”
Garrow stopped. “Kid...”
“Garrow - please,” The Wordsmith said. His tone was pleading.
“Kid --”
“My name is Matthew.”
Garrow went still. “What?”
“Rosenkreuz. They tried to take away my name, but I remembered it. It was the first thing I absorbed, but they broke me of it - for a while. I found it in one of the books they had me absorb in the vault.” He smiled faintly.
“Matthew,” Garrow said. He reached out, brushed an unruly lock of hair out of the boy’s eyes. “Did you know that’s my name too?”
He nodded. “That made it easier to remember when the time came.” He opened his mouth to speak again, but his breath hitched, and his entire body tensed, curling in on itself.
Garrow’s eyes went wide. “Kid? Kid! Matthew? Talk to me, baby boy, let me hear your voice. Tell me one of those sonnets you always have --”
The smile slid off of Matthew’s face, and his body went limp.
Garrow went still. Then he knelt, slowly, and laid Matthew’s body on the ground. He sat beside the body for a while, stroking the boy’s hair, and then he stood up. He drew his scimitar and his shotgun, and he turned in the direction of the vault.
“Damn them,” he said again. “I’ll damn them.” He began to walk away.
On the ground, Matthew stirred, and one last time, words wrote themselves across his skin.
When Anger and Revenge marry, their daughter is called Cruelty.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
The Hunt
“If you keep staring your eyes will fall out of your head,” Garrow said.
The Wordsmith blinked, as if he didn’t even realize he’d been staring. “I’m sorry,” he said.
The way the boy apologized was practically a reflex. Still, Garrow wasn’t going to complain. It had taken some serious sweet-talking to get the Authority to let the Wordsmith out of the Quire for the evening, and Garrow was going to enjoy every moment of it. He couldn’t tell if The Wordsmith was enjoying himself yet; his eyes were at least more alive, but he was as timid as ever, huddled in on himself and wary of anyone touching him, talking to him. Given what happened when people talked to him and touched him, Garrow couldn’t blame the kid.
Out in public The Wordsmith couldn’t go shirtless. Some more nagging with one of the older ladies in the Thrones had turned up some boxes of clothes that had to be a good sixty or seventy years old - button-down shirts, sweater-vests, ugly ties, baggy slacks - but anything fit The Wordsmith’s lanky frame, and so there they were, at Fahreed’s, Garrow dressed as sharp as he could be given the weapons he was required to carry at all times, The Wordsmith dressed like someone’s de-aged grandfather.
He was still staring at the bellydancers.
“Staring isn’t going to get you anywhere with one of them,” Garrow said.
“Where would I want to go with one of them?” The Wordsmith asked.
Garrow was seriously starting to believe that the kid had been left in the Rosenkreuz vault, brought out only to be used, before he was thrown back in again. Whatever he’d learned about the real world was secondhand, from all the books he’d absorbed.
“Look, if you want to make it with the ladies, you need a new mindset. It’s like a hunt - you’re the hunter, they’re the prey,” Garrow began.
“That metaphor was exhausted in several hundred sonnets,” The Wordsmith said.
“The hunt is what it’s all about - you’re a man,” Garrow said as blithely as possible.
The Quire Authority wasn’t even sure The Wordsmith was really a person. The Wordsmith must have caught his tone, because he cast Garrow a look. Then he turned his attention back to the dancers.
“They’ll get creeped out if you keep staring like that, and none of them will talk to you,” Garrow said. “The hunt is more subtle than that.”
“I know it is,” The Wordsmith said. “You don’t think those women aren’t hunting you right back?”
Garrow turned his attention to the stage where three women were shimmying distractingly. “Yeah right.”
The Wordsmith shrugged. “The hunt is like a dance for men; for the women the dance is the hunt.”
(461 words)
The Wordsmith blinked, as if he didn’t even realize he’d been staring. “I’m sorry,” he said.
The way the boy apologized was practically a reflex. Still, Garrow wasn’t going to complain. It had taken some serious sweet-talking to get the Authority to let the Wordsmith out of the Quire for the evening, and Garrow was going to enjoy every moment of it. He couldn’t tell if The Wordsmith was enjoying himself yet; his eyes were at least more alive, but he was as timid as ever, huddled in on himself and wary of anyone touching him, talking to him. Given what happened when people talked to him and touched him, Garrow couldn’t blame the kid.
Out in public The Wordsmith couldn’t go shirtless. Some more nagging with one of the older ladies in the Thrones had turned up some boxes of clothes that had to be a good sixty or seventy years old - button-down shirts, sweater-vests, ugly ties, baggy slacks - but anything fit The Wordsmith’s lanky frame, and so there they were, at Fahreed’s, Garrow dressed as sharp as he could be given the weapons he was required to carry at all times, The Wordsmith dressed like someone’s de-aged grandfather.
He was still staring at the bellydancers.
“Staring isn’t going to get you anywhere with one of them,” Garrow said.
“Where would I want to go with one of them?” The Wordsmith asked.
Garrow was seriously starting to believe that the kid had been left in the Rosenkreuz vault, brought out only to be used, before he was thrown back in again. Whatever he’d learned about the real world was secondhand, from all the books he’d absorbed.
“Look, if you want to make it with the ladies, you need a new mindset. It’s like a hunt - you’re the hunter, they’re the prey,” Garrow began.
“That metaphor was exhausted in several hundred sonnets,” The Wordsmith said.
“The hunt is what it’s all about - you’re a man,” Garrow said as blithely as possible.
The Quire Authority wasn’t even sure The Wordsmith was really a person. The Wordsmith must have caught his tone, because he cast Garrow a look. Then he turned his attention back to the dancers.
“They’ll get creeped out if you keep staring like that, and none of them will talk to you,” Garrow said. “The hunt is more subtle than that.”
“I know it is,” The Wordsmith said. “You don’t think those women aren’t hunting you right back?”
Garrow turned his attention to the stage where three women were shimmying distractingly. “Yeah right.”
The Wordsmith shrugged. “The hunt is like a dance for men; for the women the dance is the hunt.”
(461 words)
Monday, February 9, 2009
Sorrows from the Heart
“The sight of books removes sorrows from the heart,” Austin said wisely.
Garrow shot a glance at The Wordsmith, who lingered in the doorway, small and hesitant. For some reason the choir bunkers were always cold, and it had been someone’s bright idea - probably Austin’s - to make the poor Wordsmith go shirtless. All the time. Mite looked like he was freezing.
And terrified.
“He doesn’t look so great,” Garrow said.
Austin glanced over her shoulder at The Wordsmith, but she shrugged and continued prowling along the shelves of lovely leather-bound volumes.
“It’s an African proverb,” The Wordsmith began. He took a deep breath, then eased over the threshold of the library. “Did you know that the oldest book - in the codex form that we consider books, as opposed to scrolls - is two-thousand five-hundred years old and was written in Etruscan on twenty-four-carat gold plates?”
Austin rolled her eyes. “Not again with the trivia, Smith.” She peered closer at a title on a spine, then plucked the book off a shelf. She turned to The Wordsmith and beckoned. He approached tentatively; Garrow didn’t blame him. Austin used The Wordsmith whenever and however she pleased, and Garrow was tired of seeing the boy’s eyes go from animal-blank to dead.
Even now, though, The Wordsmith was eager to please, so he hovered at Austin’s side like a dog at heel.
Austin thrust a book at him. “Here, absorb this.”
The Wordsmith blinked. “Right now?”
“Later. There are still some other books you need to absorb, but I have to find them first.” Austin craned her neck to peer at Garrow, who had gone still.
He’d never seen The Wordsmith absorb a book, but by all accounts it was an agonizing procedure.
Austin rolled her eyes at him and said, “Help me find the Necronomicon.”
(307 words)
Garrow shot a glance at The Wordsmith, who lingered in the doorway, small and hesitant. For some reason the choir bunkers were always cold, and it had been someone’s bright idea - probably Austin’s - to make the poor Wordsmith go shirtless. All the time. Mite looked like he was freezing.
And terrified.
“He doesn’t look so great,” Garrow said.
Austin glanced over her shoulder at The Wordsmith, but she shrugged and continued prowling along the shelves of lovely leather-bound volumes.
“It’s an African proverb,” The Wordsmith began. He took a deep breath, then eased over the threshold of the library. “Did you know that the oldest book - in the codex form that we consider books, as opposed to scrolls - is two-thousand five-hundred years old and was written in Etruscan on twenty-four-carat gold plates?”
Austin rolled her eyes. “Not again with the trivia, Smith.” She peered closer at a title on a spine, then plucked the book off a shelf. She turned to The Wordsmith and beckoned. He approached tentatively; Garrow didn’t blame him. Austin used The Wordsmith whenever and however she pleased, and Garrow was tired of seeing the boy’s eyes go from animal-blank to dead.
Even now, though, The Wordsmith was eager to please, so he hovered at Austin’s side like a dog at heel.
Austin thrust a book at him. “Here, absorb this.”
The Wordsmith blinked. “Right now?”
“Later. There are still some other books you need to absorb, but I have to find them first.” Austin craned her neck to peer at Garrow, who had gone still.
He’d never seen The Wordsmith absorb a book, but by all accounts it was an agonizing procedure.
Austin rolled her eyes at him and said, “Help me find the Necronomicon.”
(307 words)
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