22
Hawthorne
I rise from the stiff pillow out of thick oily reveries and swing my feet onto the wooden floor. My boots remain firmly on my feet in case of splinters and my coat on my back against the chill of the open window beside my bed. I couldn’t figure out how to get it closed when we arrived here. I don’t think that’s an option. I’m convinced Iridea found the worst inn in town for us to stay in for the night. She’s probably managed to give me the worst bed in our tiny room too, somehow. She has a knack at finding ways to make me miserable.
The relentless scritch-scratch of a rusted quill nib dashes over the beer stained papers Iridea got off the innkeeper. Its whine is just perceptible over the shouting and singing downstairs, rattling the floorboards beneath my feet. If anything, I wish I could be down there, partying with the other guests under the hiccuping guffaw of the innkeeper. The Star Elf doesn’t seem to share the same sentiment and looks more like she wishes she could melt away. Her eyes are skewed shut, her pillow bent over her head, and her knees hugged tightly to her chest. The screech of a chair downstairs flares her nostrils and she flips in the bed angrily, as if the other side of the bed could drown out the sounds and the smells better. Through the slightly ajar window, a breath of wind curls the smell of horse dung into the room. Iridea pinches her nose but her focus is fixed on the letter she writes.
I tiptoe over the gaps in the floorboard that give glimpses of warm light from below and sit quickly in the lonely, moldy seat near the desk Iridea inhabits. The seat complains with a burst of dust but she takes no notice. I wait until she folds the parchment and seals the letter closed with wax from a candle and the inn’s stamp. On the back, she scribbles the name and address to let the messenger boy know who to deliver it to. But I can’t read it.
She lets out a long withheld sigh and stretches her arms out in front of her. Her huge monarch wings fan out and expand, like they are stretching too. All over her body, her muscles relax, the skin loosening from their tight hold. That is, until she catches me out of the corner of her eye. Her wings return to her body like a protective shell and her arms fall rigidly to her side. Without urgency, she swivels in the uneven chair to face me. Instead of words, she opts for a raised eyebrow. My temple burns and I look away. I ruined her moment of peace, one she doesn’t seem to have often. Even if she’s an awful person to me, that may be because she’s under a huge amount of pressure. Although, I suppose we all are.
“Can I help you?” she asks with no desire to help. My forehead burns brighter; my ears must be salmon pink right now. She remains motionless while I stammer, trying to put my disarrayed thoughts into words.
“Um, sorry, I- uh.” I stop abruptly to allow myself a moment of silence to clear my head, she waits. “I know you don’t like me all that much-” Her eyebrow lurches higher- “but I need to ask a favour of you.” I let the words sink in and pray she won’t turn me down. She is silent, her lips pursed. She glances at The Star Elf, then, back at me.
“Continue,” she demands. Relief pours over me like a fresh wave. She may still reject my favour, but at least I’ve gotten this far. I shift in my seat, energy pumps through my once frozen body.
“I’d really appreciate it if you could write a letter for me. A short one, nothing much. Just to let my family know I’m safe.” I keep it simple, nice. Any normal person would gladly consider giving a hand. But she isn’t a normal person. She’s…Iridea, and for the first time, she looks confused.
“You can write it yourself.” She looks me up and down, “I’m not hoarding the writing supplies.” Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was. I clasp my hands and lean forward. No one else can do this for me. Stellina doesn’t know Myaner well enough and I don’t know anyone else here. I suppose I could ask someone at the bar, that sounds like a better option, on second thought. It's too late though, and she hasn’t said no.
“My handwriting is messy-” try illegible- “my mom could never read it.” I always thought I could but I think I just made meaning out of scribbles on a page. Nothing ever stuck long enough to make sense, not for Xeadafrian and certainly not for Myan. I could always make rough impersonations when letters were right in front of me, but when it came to spelling and words, nothing ever matched up. There was always so much going on and not enough time to figure it all out. People like Iridea don’t get that. They see literacy as a sign of intelligence. Anyone who isn’t able to obtain that is automatically considered lesser.
“Your handwriting is gorgeous, I could see that much. If you can do this one thing for me, I’ll do something for you.” If flattery and favours don’t work, I don’t know what will. Her gaze pierces into me, as if attempting to peel back the layer of lies around me to see what rests beneath. I rub my thumb against the knuckles of my right hand. My face begins to heat again as she scrutinises me silently. The cogs turn and click into place. She leans back and rolls her eyes.
“Sure, whatever.” Thank the spirits. I sink into the cushion, the seat and I breathe a sigh of relief. Iridea beckons me closer so I carefully drag the chair across the floor to be at her side. She flattens a sheet of paper and lifts the pen, tapping its nib delicately against the ink pot.
“What am I writing?” Her hand hovers above the empty page, her mind focused studiously on the task at hand. I didn’t think I’d get this far; how do I explain my situation without worrying my mother? I can’t just say ‘I was chased by Xeoserps, y’know, the creatures that took our home from us, and now I’m with The Star Elf and we’re going to defeat Hyxver’? She’d panic and think my friends in Penketh drugged me up. All I can muster before language slips from my grasp is,
“Hi Mum.” A moment passes. Iridea quickly scrawls the two words onto the page. I swallow, my mind falls into static. When the pause grows in length, she looks up at me expectantly.
“And…” she prompts. A surge of nervous adrenalin bumbles out the first thing that leaps into my head,
“I’m safe, don’t worry. The boys are taking me on a trip - it was kind of last minute, sorry I didn’t tell you - we’re just going around Myan, I’ll be back eventually. I’ll let you know how it goes! We’re at The Castle of the Four right now, there are some amazing statues when you enter the city, have you seen them? I’ll send you more-”
“I thought you said this would be quick,” Iridea interrupts my ramble with a frustrated remark. Her hand dances across the page, ink flows from the pen like an orchestrated river. “And I don’t really want to do this again,” she huffs. I flush with embarrassment. I’ve lost any ounce of respect she had for me.
She shakes her head and takes a deep breath, setting aside the pen. She holds up the paper; the message it contains is a scribbled mess, even I can tell that. To my dismay, she crumples it and places it on the other side of the desk. But instead of abandoning the project altogether, she lays out a new sheet and says,
“How about this.” I stare in awe as she picks up the pen once more and glides it across the page. Swirling lines trail after her lead and are coded into a language a select few can decipher. Each mark emits a pleasurable scratch into the space around her, a diligent symphony. She is a painter at her canvas, colouring the world around her, giving it meaning. My hand finds the hidden pocket in my coat that stores another painter’s art and my heart throbs.
With one final flick, she closes off the composition and lays her instrument to the side. This is a different side to Iridea, a layer she’s allowed me to witness briefly. But I feel like, if I tried, I could see this part of her more often. This part that feels less like a bully and more like a friend.
“How is this?” she asks with a flourish of the sheet. I keep my face neutral and pretend to observe the contents. It sure looks pretty. I pray that she hasn’t said anything I wouldn’t, but I’ll have to trust her. After a suitable amount of time has passed I let my smile break free,
“That’s perfect! Thanks so much.” For a second, her eyes widen and her eyebrows tense, as if taken aback by my display of gratitude. Then, her mouth falls into a flat line and she busies herself with sealing the letter.
“I expect something in return,” she says firmly, “what’s your address?” I give it to her quickly, worried that at any moment her mood might tip into aggravation. In no time, she copies down my address and adds the letter to her tiny stack. She shimmies out of her seat and brings the candle she used to the rickety table between her’s and The Star Elf’s bed.
“We should go to sleep,” she announces to which The Star Elf grunts, her eyes still tightly shut. I think she’s been trying to do just that for the past hour. I nod and tiptoe over the floorboards to my bed. As soon as my hand meets the itchy, lint-speckled sheets, Iridea blows out the candle and plunges us into darkness. It doesn’t take long for the moons’ lights to find their way through the open window and cast tranquil light in a square on the floor. Despite the ruckus below, they make everything feel peaceful. Quiet. I admire their glisten as their light gets smaller and smaller between the slits of my eyelids.
Comments