Miracle

For Magpie 192

(Resurrection Reunion 2)

Note: This got away from me. sorrry.)

From the Journal of Ellowenni Chandler of  Rustlen Alley

A Memory of the 5^th of SummerMoon, in the year 230.

I remember that day, after the Riots and ended, when we were left to pick up the pieces of window and the bodies.

She was dead, that little girl. A street rat, yes, but she was a sweet one. She helped with the washing when my own girl was busy elsewhere. I don’t know that I ever learned her given name, just what she was called. Sparrow. It suited her, she was a bright little thing, her hair streaked browns and honey colors, her eyes dark. And always she was singing some little song.

But she was killed, in the riot. Riots seem like the answer to a bad thing, but I pray to the Goddess and Her brothers that my neighbors will see sense the next time there’s trouble. What will rioting do? It didn’t bring back those the City Headman murdered. It didn’t stop his vile magic. All it did was get that little songbird killed, and broke some windows.

We all came to stand at the grave yard, we mothers of Rustlen Alley. We knew the little ones, them as were Sparrow’s sisters and brothers, we knew her. Keeping them all would have cost more than we had, but a pie goes out the window when there’s extra, and pennies get left in the washing they do. We lived together, a family of sorts, even with walls between us. Mother Lily, the baker, gave out pennyloafs to them this morning, and we all came together, at the edge of the forest where the folk with no money are buried.

It was a boy who spoke the prayers and kissed her forehead, a blood-brother of hers, from his speech. Thias, the one as what nearly got killed, who exposed the Headman. I guessed he blamed himself, for the riot and all. Maybe he should have, and maybe he shouldn’t, that’s for the Goddess’s judgment, not mine. But my heart ached for him, and for little Sparrow. My little girl, Lea, she sobbed into my skirts. She’d not seen death before, but she wanted to come. So I brung her. Lea went up, and said a few words of her heart, a memory of sharing a meat pasty one wintereve. Then others, street children, Mother Lily, Sarri’s man, all to bear witness of Sparrow’s heart and life.

And then- Goddess and Brothers, I’d never seen the like. I dare guess I won’t see it again until I pass from this world. There were whispers from the crowd, and a girl, pretty as the moonrise came out of that wood like she’s walking on air. White as milk, with hair all dark but for one strip that gleamed silver like the Moon, she knelt down and put her hand- tiny and frail- on little Sparrow’s pocked cheek, and hummed a little song, Sparrow’s tune. But she’d put words to it, words none of us heard at all. I know because I asked, after, Mother Lily, and Sarri’s man, and any of the street lads, and they all shook their heads.

Because whatever it was, it was magic, pure as moonlight. That strange girl with eyes like silver looked at us all, and kissed Sparrow on the forehead, just as her brother did. My grandchildren will call me a liar, but I know what I saw, and what Lea saw. What we all were Witness to. I swear it by the Goddess, what I write is Truth. That little girl was dead. And then, she wasn’t. She opened her eyes and out of her mouth came that tune, and then Thias and the girl were singing it, the three of them and we all started humming it because what else was there to do but stand and gape?

 She was dead, I helped bathe her body and set her broken arm and then she was in her brother’s arms and not a one of us could keep from sobbing. It was a Miracle, I’ve no doubt, like all them histories I’ve told my Lea, all; them stories they tell at Temple. That little girl breathed in and out and in again, and the silver girl slipped back into the woods. No one saw her leave.

 I’ve asked after her, but no one ever seemed to know what became of her. Mother Lily always said she was Lanree reborn, come out of the Silver Tree to do the will of the Goddess. But somehow, that story never did sit right in my heart.

No. She wasn’t an age old hero, she was her own self. What that self might be, I can only guess. Because after the fuss had calmed, I left my Lea hugging Sparrow tight, and looked at the spot where she’d stood. I remember clear as day what I saw, and it wasn’t bits of Silver Tree or Moonsilver. It was a trail, like a deer track I used to follow when I was a child myself, gathering berries. No footprints, only hoofprints... and caught on the brambles, a single hair, gleaming silver as the moon.

always waiting

For Magpie 189

I'm always waiting.
For-
the right time.
The right time to pick up a pen
and write a story that will bring smiles to faces and tears
to eyes
but that time never really seems to come
so I stare at a blank sheet of paper and write nothing
because I can't get it just right.
And-
rather than write anyway, I wait.

I'm always waiting
For-
The right time.
The right time to finally start
keeping a journal of all the good things that happen
each day.
Like Doctor Williams told me to.
but I am always so tired, or can't think of what to say
Or I lose the journal in the black hole under the bed.
And rather than start again, I wait

I'm always waiting
For-
the right time
to come out and say it.
as roommates or relatives talk badly about
those
with mental illness, or liberal leanings
because I'm itching to shout in their faces
That I am a Bipolar, asexual, liberal Mormon
so shut up already, talking as if I'm worth less than you
but rather than say anything, I wait.

and the clocks and calendars
 tick away, rip away
and I'm still stuck.
so many things
unsaid
undone
unwritten

The right time never quite comes
count to three then strike.
1
2
3
no, count to five. twelve. one hundred
delay delay delay
but no more
no more waiting even though the time isn't right.
the right time has come and gone while I was busy
waiting

Mental Illness Protip

Mental Illness Protip

When I say I have bipolar

by all means, ask which kind.

Thank you for actually thinking and not

just dismissing me.

but protip:

When I answer “Type two"

do not say “Ok, that’s ok then."

because I’ll think-

what does that mean?

Ok because I’m not crazy?

Not full brown manic?

just type two?

Or ok because

it’s ‘easier’ to live with

as if the stigma’s not the same

the shame’s not the same

the inability to control 

my heart

is not the same?

It’s ok because I’m not suffering

not compared to

others?

It’s ok because

"it’s not so bad"

not so bad that I rapid cycle

don’t know what dawn brings

not so bad.

It’s ok.

Protip: If that’s what you have to say

about the thing

that rules me

chains me down

sends me through

deep water

dark fire

that leaves me out of breath

shake-sobbing

that throws me from cliffs

into a phoenix flight

I’d rather

you not say anything at all.

Phoenix Flight

Phoenix Flight

The phoenix flight is

a dance with no end

ash to flame

flame to ash

so goes my heart.

I am trapped within 

a cyclone of feathers

made of match heads

then drowning on ashes

clogging my throat

I cannot help the dance

the flight.

But the ashes don’t last.

Just as from the minute

I take wing I know

I will fall,

when I am a broken bird

my fire doused

dying

I know

I will burst into flame

and into the sky.

Flame nor ash will last

but my phoenix song

my phoenix flight

it will.

I am darker than a moonless night

grey-black and falling

and then reborn

brighter than the sun.

My Reality

“Bipolar doesn't exist. 

Your therapist made it up for money

 Get a hold on your life and 

stop looking for excuses.”

It’s people like you

who make my life so hard to hold on to.

Do you understand the devastation

 in my heart

when I learned I’d never be in control?

That even with pills

I’d never own my emotions

grip them in hand

stay sane?

Just because you can’t see 

the chemical imbalance in my brain

 by looking at me

you discount my suffering

the light, the dark

the wanting to die

wanting to fly

pretend it’s not real.

It is not me being a moody teenager.

It is not me being weak.

It is not me not owning up

to my faults and flaws.

It is not an excuse,

it is reality,

my reality,

one I pray never touches your life.

This is the stigma I live with,

will always have hounding me.

It is as real as blood

as the chemicals I have off kilter in my body

as the knife

as the pen-

it is real.

Shut your mouth about things you know nothing about,

cannot understand

refuse to understand

and leave me and those

that suffer the same

my brothers and sisters

united by stigma and pain

and bipolarity-

leave us to gather what shards of sanity 

we have.

Dark Fire and Depression

Depression

Numbness spreads

and leaves me like a void of space.

Black behind my eyes

down my legs.

The world is icy wool

Static-y and cold

and I’m a thin veil of skin

disconnected from the darkness

outside of me.

Disconnected from the blackness

inside of me.

Floating through a half life

in half light-

murk.

It is beyond tears

and sorrow.

I am fallen past that line

empty and numb.

I am space,

cold and void

and the stars,

so tiny in comparison,

are the only feeling I have left to me

pain.

Dark Fire

Even as my body shuts down

so long without sleep,

my thoughts are racing,

clinging to each other,

fingers twitching

ink and paint spattered.

I can’t keep my eyes open,

embraced by overheated sheets,

but I must.

Creativity flares in my mind

burning bright as eyesight dims.

I’m falling through dark fire,

a half sleep punctuated

by jolts awake and pacing

wash my face,

write a poem,

fret away minutes, minutes,

until I pass out again.

The flame guttering in my head

then rising stronger than ever-

Mania.

I write for silver Ink stars

I write.

I write to bleed off the poison

of mania and sorrow

that creeps into my thoughts

and soul.

I write to cast off the shame

of who I am.

Bipolar

full of light and shadow.

I write to show what holds my heart

today

because tomorrow it will change

twist and sway

and I want to have a record

to look back at

hold on to.

I write to find myself

and lose myself again

in a new world

an older world

of ink blotches and stained fingers

where things are different.

I write to put myself in the shoes

of another girl

with other problems and-

hopes

I write to understand

that what I know of worlds

is limited

but through silver ink and straining-

limitless.

I write to tell myself a story

that my spirit knows

but my mind does not.

To put into words the yearnings, pleadings, 

all the thoughts I have

running pure wild

though empty space.

I write to sing myself a song

that soothes me into slumber

or else wakes me from fever’s hold

and sends my heart racing- 

to, away, even I can’t tell.

I write to take my breath away

and pull it back into my body

catch my thoughts tumbling 

from tongue and teeth.

I write for the solitude

of pencil scratching on paper

ink bleeding across my forearm

keys click, click, clicking.

I write for the conversation between 

two halves of the same mind.

I write-

I write and write and write-

to hold myself in my hands

like a globe of suspended

starlight.

Eclipse

Halo of white fire
around a darkness
the heart of stones
rim of light around the moon
and caught in an ocean
of cloud and sky
blue tinged space
and the gold blushed
face of the world

Drip Dance

For Magpie 170

Ink, black and vivid
drips into the glass
one liquid into another
and then- dance
tendrils of not smoke
but pigment
wisps of ink
snakelike
silklike
swirl and sway
blossom like blood on cloth
like light on water
the ink expands
trails, dancing,
 sinking and floating all at once-
the droplet twists
turns
extending slowly
lazily
a pattern of shadow on light
suspended but not still
never still
drip
drop
dance

Two Halves

Two Halves:

Bi
And I saw a darkness
beyond my own open eyes
black and looming
cold
too dim.
And with it silence,
emptiness like open space
draining me.
Crushing me.
Too much darkness
too much dimness.
I cannot move
so I sit and wait
and die alone
let it take from me
my sanity.

Polar
And I saw a light
within my own closed eyes
white and gleaming
warm
too bright.
And with it music,
thoughts like rapid water
drowning me.
Flooding me.
Too much light
too much bright.
I cannot stop
so I dive and run
and fly alone
let it take me from
my sanity.

Golden

For Magpie 169

Gold,
the wind plucks at petals
sways the grass
and dandelion seeds
green and gold and light as air.
The world is summer sunlight
but fading,
like alpine glow
sunset
not tinged red or fire
just gold.

The house gleams
so tall above the golden green grasses
just a house to some,
but to me,
a sun bright haven
soft and warm as a mother's heart
reaching so far above my hopes
a butter gold
a sparking gold
a lantern's flicker waver gold
but steadier
as sweet as honey-gold
for it is golden- oh how bright!
It is my home

Manic

Write this a few weeks ago. Forgot to post it.

I am full of

everything

tonight.

I want to

go for a run around campus

make turkey gravy and truffles

listen to the same song over and over and over

and sing along

but it’s two am

and I have class at 8.

I cannot leave my bed 

without waking roommates

cannot leave the apartment

without trouble.

So I sit and write

everything

a short story about a dragon and a mage

a poem

then another

another,

words spilling out of me like air

from swimmer’s lungs.

I want to swim

take a cold shower

sit in a bubble bath.

I am trembling with longing to do, do, do

something.

Fingers twitch.

I cannot turn on the light,

and the screen is too dim 

to knit by

but I want to create something

tangible,

tangle my fingers in yarn,

or prick them with embroidery needles.

No light.

I write, sweating from a racing heart

but no reason why

except the mania

that has overtaken me despite the meds

and holds me tight, won’t let go.

I am full of everything

bursting at the skin

straining at my seams.

long exposure , two poems

Night sky and Lake:

As above,
so below
two washes of color
indigo tinged with 
sunset's golden gleam
one rippled
as though a stone were tossed
into the heart of still water
but the lake is the still
serene as my heart
it is the sky
rippled infinity
streaked with stars
ring around ring 
of endless light
that reaches to the edge of my sight
and continues on.

Firefall:

Firefall
streaks of light like arrows
raining down
on dim rocks
and gleaming eyes
they last forever in mind's eye
remaining burned into retinas
a flash of silver-gold
on a dome of diamond dusted velvet

Skipping Stones

Skipping Stones 

She skipped stones

across the sun-stared river

and each stone was a prayer

for the stream and the sun

and the sand,

warm under bare feet.

She sent out stones like

letters in a bottle

to some unseen being

in whom she puts all her trust

and love.

She grew, and clouds came

sticks and jagged rocks clogged the stream.

Her tears made ripples on the surface

Murky water.

She returns, or perhaps

never left

but all the same she picks up a stone

feeling its weight

the cold against her palm

and tosses it 

half heartedly 

into the water

Splash. Another and another

until her stones are shouts, begging

answer, please, I can’t-

I’m no small child skipping stars

I need more than a dead stream

and sinking stones

I need, I need- You. Please.

This stones sinks

quiet as her whispered prayer

slips out to the sea, slips into the sky.

Her fingers, red and white

blotchy with cold

scrabble in the sand

find another stone, the last

and desperately she sinks to her knees

flicks her wrist. Skip

ripple

skip

And then the stone

Returned

warm, sitting in her palm

blazing with a word.

Stigma

Note: these are real quotes from people when I tell them I'm Bipolar.

I still like you anyway.

I never would have known.

Really, but you don’t seem-

These are things that ring in my ears

comforts you offer unthinkingly

as if who I am

what I’m telling you like I tell anyone

is something to be ashamed of-

I still like you anyway

and unspoken,

I like you even though you’re broken,

bipolar

a freak just like the play yard bullies said.

because I’m supposed to hide and deny the light-dark inside me

that rules me day and night

which will it be, hope or despair?

I never would have known

or cared to know,

not really.

All those tears and fits of running, begging to be alone

not normal

no, you did and still

try to fix with words  

what cannot be fixed by anything

but miracles of modern medicine

really? but you don’t seem-

Seem like what, the thing that media says I am

violent, flick a switch to peace

and then in a heartbeat, craving the blade

then sunshine?

you think you know so much, from the word you use

to describe erratic weather

that is not who I am

I am bipolar

hypomanic

a constant struggle that lasts with winners for days 

and then an upset

I’m the flag stolen by the other team

a no kill battle between mania and sorrow

and I don’t know who I want to win

because in the light I crave shadow

get away from blinding bright

and in the night I need

a star,

just one,

light my way

but no

denied that by biology

and by society deny the whole of it

pretend that it’s not pills that keep me 

from imploding and exploding

in a shower of dark fire

I still like you anyway

is what you said when I told you the whys of my life

I never would have known

because you seem so normal

so sane,

not like the killers on late night television

or in bad novels

the change your mood with a remote control 

characters

they aren’t reality.

I am.

see me as I am, the dark light inside me

both the condition and the soul.

really, but you seem

No.

I seem like me

the hyper happy drowning in despair girl I’ve always been

now you know there’s just a name to it

not just too much sugar

or a bad day

I am Bipolar

Hypomanic

keep your pity in your own heart

I don’t need it.

This is not something I am ashamed 

to call a part of me

not something to hide 

I don’t need you to keep me from

 the stigma you see my diagnosis as.

Why should putting a name to my condition

change your heart about me

or my heart

about itself?

Trek

Trek

Nearer My God, to Thee, nearer to Thee!

E’en though it be a cross that raiseth me.

Not a cross but a mountain

Melissa Corey Peak.

This is what I climb

What brings me nearer.

Nearer to Thee

Still all my song shall be, 

nearer my God to Thee!

Up we walked, pulling all our worldly

possessions 

for the weekend, anyway

behind us in creaking wood

rutted wheels

Though like the wanderer;

the sun gone down.

Only not, the sun beats at us

not black and blue but pink

sticking white gold shirts to our backs

caked with trail dust.

Darkness be over me,

 my rest a stone.

I am stone, only

stone wouldn’t hurt so much

aching fingers as I pull

pull

pull

Yet in my dreams I’d be 

Nearer my God, to thee.

No waking dreams, no distractions.

Beside me, a girl lets go of the cart

moaning about hurting hands.

Throat dry, I try to tell a story

but the words run out of my head

like water from my empty bottle.

There let the way appear

steps unto Heaven.

Steeper than before, dust so thick

my feet have no purchase

we slide back two steps for every three.

All that Thou sendest me, 

in mercy given.

Peppermint candy from one hand-made pouch

sets my mouth on fire

I need the sweet, something to rinse

the dust from my mouth.

Angels to beckon me

nearer my God, to Thee.

We are separated, Pa leaves

And the brothers.

So sisters lean forward on the bar

on the backboard

with all their loosing strength

Women’s pull.

I am weaker than I have ever been

Weaker than flu or fever ever left me

Or if on joyful wing

Cleaving the sky;

I am so stooped that hemline

and bonnet strings both reach 

the dust.

I am breathing it, part of me

but still the sky seems to near.

If I could reach one hand  away

from my burden

I could feel its silk.

Sun, moon, and stars forgot

upwards I fly.

Around me, we ache

each leg and arm straining

so weak

but never in my life have I felt

Stronger.

I am made of thin bones and strands of muscle

small and low

but my feet keep skidding forward

through dust and stone.

Still all my song shall be

nearer my God, to Thee.

It is not a song, really

but a cough, choking words

with some faint tune

We are not a choir of angels

but dust covered girls

weak and strong

breathing out and in-

Nearer my God, To thee-

nearer, to Thee!

Blood

For Last Poet Standing
Week seven: Book Swap: Warm Bodies

Warm Body

Blood

like red silk streamed

stained my hands

and tears

warm

sting the cut on my face

but not his

he doesn’t wince

never again

despite the angry wound

left shoulder

a mess of muscle

ripped through

by lead

in the fire fight

that left the undead still

and our people breathing

but his breath was ragged

as harsh as whispers in the night

or broken glass

and our people said to me

them as what were our friends

come

because the hole in him 

Shoulder

left him wounded

a liability

and I said,

hands streaked with warmth,

no

so they left

because the hole in me

heart

left me wounded

a liability

and the two of us

were lost and alone

without aid

without meds

without faith

or hope of sunrise

and for a short while

we cry-laughed

we always thought our end would come

by two ways

from the eaters

them as what thrive on human flesh

or by our own weakness, 

longing desire to find the paradise beyond

because whatever hell might be waiting

was worth the risk

to leave this one

we never thought it’d be numbers

but his body was hot under my hand

though we had no shelter but cardboard wreckage

and grew hotter still

102, 104,

and he said, go,

as I cleaned him

blood soaking through my shirt hem

all I had left to give

and I would have given more if I could

would have given everything

but in this world of temporary trust

and running

always running

I had nothing else to give

but prayers to heaven unheard

107

go

was the last thing he said to anyone

except my name

whispered through fever’s hold

again

and each one made wider my wound

and I held him

him as what owned my heart

still warm

his blood stopped

and had no more tears to give

nothing but numbness

and a realization of the truth

that he was gone

and I’d soon follow

because my gun was empty 

walkers a mile away proof of that

still as the death that held them twice now

and I

streaked with brown and red

stayed

couldn’t leave his still warm body

the fever’s trick

My body is icy, and wants nothing more than

death

I’d welcome it, away from my cold, his warmth

Somehow, though

I will fight on

as long as my name, his voice, echoes on my heart

As long as I can, but no longer

Find a place for him

find a place for me

safety, if such a thing

still has definition

but someday I’ll

join the paradise he’s inherited

where it’s rain that streaks my clothes

not grime 

not blood

where the only things that soar

are birds and song

not temperatures

not bullets

Where bodies are warm

with life and living

not illness

not waking death

but now, I’m lost and alone

without aid

without meds

without faith

or hope of sunrise

the sun does rise

and me with it.

but not him

his body cooling on pavement.

I’ll go, still streaked

with his heart blood

like red silk

stained my hands

and tears

warm

stinging the cut on my face

I’ll go into the dawn

and find him again

when this is all over.

Htebazileizzardabethica: superhero of fauna

For last poet Standing
week 6: create a superhero

Htebazileizzardabethica: Superhero of fauna

She liked to talk to Tobe

and that would have been fine

‘cept that Tobe was a squirrel

She was the oddest superhero, really

and barely that.

Everyone knew it,

all the greats

Captain Awesome and Fly-by-night

Moonsinger who could move the tides

and Clyde

who could read minds

they all knew and 

giggled behind gauntleted hands

because she called herself

the superhero of fauna

healed broken bird’s wings

and found homes for puppies

and fought off the bullies who’d cornered

not a girl, but a kitten

but she ran when the villains came to play

and let the greats take care of it

and afterwards they’d chant

Tebazil, can’t do nil

you call yourself a hero

who do you save?

And so she’d cry to Tobe

and he’d chatter, in his way, reminding her

of the robin who’d flown into a window

and lay dying in her palms

how she’d saved him

when the greats would have looked away

or the time that a badger had been swept down stream

and she’d saved him too.

that soothed  her

Htebazileizzardabethica

whose name didn’t roll of the tongue

like Flybynight or Awesome

or Clyde

who could also lift cars overhead.

Oh, she wished she was one of the greats, or at least

that they’d see her as such

they stopped crimes

but didn’t she use her powers with

the great responsibility the movies had taught her?

didn’t she help, all that she could?

Tebazil, can’t do nil

you call yourself a hero

who do you save?

But they’d come to her now, saying,

call your birdies

the city’s in peril

we have to act now,

every hero, even you

come, animal girl, come

so she’d pulled on her hoodie

it wasn’t a cape

but animals didn’t care what you looked like

not when they looked at you

with bead bright eyes and said

softer than any human whisper,

thanks

She followed Clyde

who could also teleport

into the dark city

run rampant with explosions as

villain after villain swarmed

taking revenge on heroes and their home.

Htebazileizzardabethica

 looked with eagle eyes and saw

darkness

closing in like a raptor on prey

and Tobe

on his telephone pole chattered

in his way

"Too dangerous, they come

and they will rip this city to the ground

too many of them. Run"

People cried out for the greats, pleading, thanking, then-

It’s a bird, it’s a pla- no, it’s a bird

one of her birds,

but what’s she doing here

the superhero of fauna

not of people

she thinks she can help?

she was back to back to back to back to back

with Awesome and the Moon

Fly-by-night

and Clyde

who was running out of breath

and she ran

Tebazil, can’t do nil

you call yourself a hero

but you run away

Up the stairs and into the first building still standing

museum

And the wave of dark pressed on

and the greats cursed and called for backup

from Gotham

Metropolis

anywhere

please.

Leading the charge, Darkness itself cheered

in the form of one defeated every day after school

"And now we win! And now we win!"

And the birdies took to the sky lamenting

blood and tears fell from the faces of the greats

as they readied themselves to fight

but it was a lost war.

Htebazileizzardabethica

was having none of that

CHARGE! she yelled

as she rode out of the museum

on a mammoth.

Truth

For Last Poet Standing
Week five: Picture from The Mysteries of Harris Burdick

Truth is a funny thing.

They say , truth is what is real

And real is what is fact

And fact isn’t fantasy.

Music is real.

Harps are real, and rivers

that flow, spoiled by rocks

but not ruined;

for a rock does not stop the river

but shapes it

causes tilts in the river’s music

as it spills into itself

like a finger plucks a harp string

and it resounds,

filling the air,

filling me

with some kind of wonder.

It’s true.

Just as true as the trees

as true as the sky is blue

as true as the loyal one beside me

who never leaves.

what I saw is true.

But they say, truth is what is real

And real is what is fact

And fact isn’t fantasy.

And what I saw, that day in the green gold woods

is fantasy

can’t be fact

can’t be real

can’t be true-

they say.

the music was on its own

no hand pulled at the harpsstrings

pulled at my heartstrings

making something so beautiful all I could do

was stand

and wait for silence

that didn’t come for how long I don’t know

the sun gleamed gold through the trees

gleamed gold on the harp

that sat on the stone,

sleek with moss and sang,

The harp

is the bridge between heaven and earth

and in that moment I knew

that that is true

as true as anything ever was

The music- the harp that sang of its own accord

not hindered or helped by human hand

was like nothing I’d ever heard

in halls

or homes

or hearts

it was a glistening

of lost and open sky

a cool hand

a warm breeze

a rose, laced with frost

but not withered

so alive

and the trees swayed with it

the river sang with it

I stayed with it

watching

waiting

full of what is real

what is fact

what is fantasy

It’s true, the music, the magic

it’s really true.

Rescue

For Magpie 156

Kallin’s face was white in the pre-dawn, and dark circles under his eyes told Arriani that he hadn’t gotten more than an hour or two’s sleep in the last two days.

“You need to rest,” the teenager told him, as sternly as she could. Kallin was her leader, and she took orders from him, not the other way ‘round.

The big man shook his head. 

“No. I’m fine, Mageling. Is the spell still working?”

“I’m the healer, Master Warrior. You’re no good to her if you’re dead on your feet.”

“Arri, I’m-”

“No, you’re not.” Sir Kilona laid a large hand on her friends shoulder. “Kallie, anyone can see, healer or no, that you need rest. Please. Just for an hour, there’s a place where we can shelter close by, I know this land.”

It was truly a sign of how weary and preoccupied Kallin the warrior was that he didn’t snap at the Lady Knight for her use of the nickname.

“But Zara-”

“We’ll find her. Arriani’s got the tracking spell going, she’s stopped moving, which means that they’ve stopped, probably for the night. It’s nearly dawn. The horses are exhausted, even with Arri’s magic. We have to rest, just for-”

“But she could be hurt!” And Kallin’s shoulders began to shake.

Arriani had never seen him cry.

The horses slowed to a walk, then stopped, and no one urged them on.

Arriani shook her head, tugging on cord, from which hung a small crystal with a lock of hair in it. “This would have told me if she was, like I told you five minutes ago. “

hoofbeats

Rasime, a dark shadow on darkness, pulled up, returning from scouting. 

“Youngling, how far off did you say they were?”

Arriani called on her magic, touching the crystal at her throat. Her eyes snapped open.

“Close. A few miles. I can’t say more than that. I’m strong, but they must have a mage with them.”

Rasime grinned. “Then we’ve found them. There’s a run down mansion three miles up. I saw light in one window.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Kallin asked, urging his mare forward. His betrothed, his Zara- for two days they’d chased her kidnappers, and finally- finally-

It was an old white, two story building, with pillars just like the Vernaluna bank. Trees, black in the misty light, stood around it, leafless, and the wall was crumbling. Arriani touched her Sight pendant. 

“Wait. There are wards.” She began to prod with her magic at the yellow light that surrounded the grounds. Kilona swore.

“I know this place. It belongs to Lord Tristan- of fief Lairclen. Goddess. Oh, Goddess.”

“What?” Kallin looked at the blond woman.

“This isn’t on Lairclen ground, but near to it, that’s where they’ll be headed. I think- Curse it. Curse them. Oh, Tristan.” She shook her head. “If I ever see that man again, it will not be pretty.”

“Lona, what is it?” Kallin had to fight to keep his voice down.

“They meant to take me. Lord Tristan, according to Da, last time we spoke, wants to marry me. Moon alone knows why, I’m no catch.” Rasime made a small noise at that. “I’m sure this is what it’s about. Zara was wearing my cloak when they took her.”

Arriani spoke up. “The wards are down. What say we teach this Lordling’s men a thing or two about messing with our band?”

She took a small bottle from her saddlebag, and handed it to Kallin, then removed more for the others. “It’s a restorative. I’ve been saving it.” she took a small drink, grimacing at the strong taste of lavender, sage, and bay. The others followed suit, then Kallin raised his sword.

“Charge!”

For more of Arriani and Kallin's band, check out Celebration