Flashback A Light Exists in Spring

[Philomena]

A professor of Minnie Lefting's had once, in a class on Zeltiva literature, noted what a shame it was that the city was so stuck in worshipping the ghosts of the past, for it meant that the most beautiful gardens of the city were behind the high fence of Wright Manor, where none could enjoy them. Minnie had said nothing - in those days, she never did, unless asked. But she had, after class, run straight down to the gates of Wright Manor - the gardens there, were one of her secret places, one of the havens of her soul in the city.

In part, it was perhaps intimacy. She knew the gardens well, knew each place where, in a moment of timid, shivering excitement, her tiny fully extended arm could brush at the leaves of a topiary through the fence, or just barely stroke the bark of a linden or birch, or in one spot, feel the cold stone of a marble statue. She knew, too, that they were not unliving. She had spent long hours, in her camp chair, watching, as the two gardeners - an older woman and a young man - turned in manure, plucked and planted, trimmed the trees and dead-headed the roses. She had seen them lean on their shovels, seen them stop and pull their wellies off to eat lunch.

It was more than simple familiarity though. Those silent spectral gardeners, and the rich panoply of tended plants, they made the gardens a living thing to her. The house, it was frozen it was not quite the mausoleum that most people saw it as, for even there, she had seen in the evening, the flickering shadows of a house-servant passing before the high glass windows. But it was an enigma, it was the secret, private heart of the place. The garden, though, breathed. Its walks, dotted in the rain with Wellie-prints, well-swept and evenly flagged, spoke the story of wishing feet on them, called for their mistress in a way that made Minnie feel, sometimes, that the mistress was present. It was not supernatural to her - she did not want to believe that the great Captain Wright should have been so burdened by regret as to be caught in the terrible half-life of the ghost after death. It was more that the sheer mystery of the place made it, in her mind, less a place of forms, and more a place of dreams, a phantasmic place where the line between the real and the imagined was, perhaps, thinner. It was a garden of stories in this way.

It was the very first breaths of spring, now. The streets outside of Wright Manor were littered with the detritus of the city's New Year celebrations still. It was cold, but it was the cold that slaps refreshingly at the face, now, the cold of coming rain, instead of the dry-snow-cold that exhausts one in the heart of winter. Minnie had her coat pulled tight around her, and two pairs of socks inside her shoes. She was looking at the sea-tulips - there was one spot just through a circular path within the gates, in the center of a birch grove, its tall fingers of white reaching up nude and graceful in the winter light, and in the center, a bed of sea-tulips flew their arrogant, brave blossoms against the snow, great bells of red and yellow, that swung determinedly against the sea-breeze, offering just enough courage to the lily-flowers, which had now just began fingering their narrow leaves up from the ground amongst the tulips. A rabbit sat in the sea-tulips, gnawing on the half frozen top of a turnip, snitched from the soup-pile of a poorer house, or the trash pile of a richer one.

Minnie watched these, but her eyes flew up and down the street as well. She was not here simply for watching, not today. Today she was waiting. For today, she hoped, Gypa would arrive.

Gypa was three, now - he would be four by the summer when he left. His coming and going were different now. That first year, when he was an infant and Mina still recovering from blight, unsure even if she were going to be blind from the fevers of her eyes, being fit by a glassblower, for spectacles, she had seen the coming winter as a death-bell, for it was when Gypa's papa would come. The whole season, devoid of her normal distractions of study as her sight recovered, was a maddening, terrifying time, that culminated in his birthday, where she had delivered him to the parting wains, and then gone home and shrieked and sobbed in terror - so much could happen! The second spring-coming was worse. From midwinter on, she spent hours walking the Wain-market, straining her eyes up the road, for the flag of the merchant, seeing nothing. But, her fears, she learned, were unfounded. The first was relieved when, just two days after the first Tulip blossom fell, the wain rumbled through the town with the old merchant smiling atop the seat. The second fear, that Gypa would forget her, had a momentary panic associated with it, for as the merchant pulled the child down and set him on his unsteady feet, Minnie's frightened, desperate little face, drove the child to clutch at his papa's leg, and frown. But Minnie, through her tears had started to sing, weakly and shakily, their little shared lullaby.

"Lullay, my sweet, Lully..."

And the child had gone wide eyed, and sent off the wild giggle that only thee infant can produce, then stammered out, "Mama! Mama!" and toddled over to her. That too had been difficult. And the rest of the season was spent repeating, patiently, each time, "No, no, not mama. Auntie Mins. Auntie Mins. Not Mama. Auntie Mins." She had been driven to distraction by it at the time, but in retrospect, understood it as a blessing, for as she Gypa slowly learned the name, she learned it too, in a way, learned to hear 'Auntie' without thinking of her sister. Learned to hear 'mama' without thinking of the mother that should have had that name. And she watched Gypa learn her little ways, learn the contours of her crying, the varieties and intentions of it. Watched him learn the subtle care children learn to give surreptitiously to their caretakers. When he had parted, she had wept, but it had not been terror, anymore. Only sorrow.

And the next year, it had been easier. And now, it was almost sweet, this waiting, it was like waiting for Kena-Wright day - one knew it would come, one had no doubts that it would arrive. But one had the delectable pain of wanting it to already be here. She rearranged her flat more than a dozen times. She hung his hammock, and tested the hooks in the ceiling to make sure they were sound. She went to look for books, for little toys. She bought little treats to pull out at strategic times. Mostly, she fussed - she nested.

And then, he was there.

She heard them first - this was not uncommon between her near-sighted eyes and her short stature. The deep, barrel-voice of the merchant spoke softly to a different voice, strange but intimately familiar, a child's voice. //When did he learn to speak so clearly?// She climbed awkwardly up on her chair, and stood on her tiptoes to try to see around the heads of passers-by, to try to catch sight. And then she did. He stood holding his papa's hand, wearing a strange, short little jacket cut in a swooping curve at the bottom, and ridiculous pair of trousers //Trousers!// she thought, //On a baby less than five! The poor thing!//. He had grown more defined about the legs, had lost some of the baby's pudginess in his cheeks. And when he saw her, he cried out in a clear, sweet little voice, "Auntie Mins!"

Then he started to run forward, tearing away from Papa's hand, clomping forward in great, heavy leather boots //Boots on a baby? Tut! They'll ruin his feet!//. The boots and the rough pavement, and his own rush were too much - his feet caught on each other, and he started to tumble toward the ground. Minnie leapt down off the chair, with a squeak, tumbling forward to try to catch him - she was a deal too clumsy and a foot too short. Her foot, as she went down from the chair, caught on the tail of her skirt, ripping the cloth loudly, and tangling the foot in a loop of half-detatched linen.

Gypa, for his part, fell on his hands, but he hardly noticed, springing right back to his feet. Then he laughed, "Auntie Mins, you're funny!"

Minnie tried to disentangle herself, but the skirt strip had wound its way up her leg. She sat flat on the pavement, and started to fight with the linen, and with her petticoat, which had slipped considerably from her hips. She smiled, "Am I funny? Did you like that, My Gypa?"

Gypa crouched down on his hams, and laughed louder now, "I can see Auntie Mins's stocking-tops!"

Minnie disentangled herself, and laughed, "And what wicked fellow has been teaching my sweet little Gypa to look at a girl's stocking-tops?" She hitched the petticoat in a gesture a fine lady would have blushed at, and tucked up the strip of linen, finding her feet again.

"We was in Nyka, Auntie Mins, and Nyka? They don't wear no stockings at all!"

Minnie giggled at the boy and snatched him up in her arms, "Don't they? Well! Its a good thing we have you back in a civilized place, where girls wear stockings, and little children do NOT wear TROUSERS!" With that she swung the boys little body over her arm so his head swung down by her waist, and she began to spank him playfully over and over.

Gypa squealed with delight and mock fear, "Help! Help me!"

The old merchant laughed now, and his eyes sparkled. HE looked at Minnie, and laughed, "You sound like your mother, Gypa."

Minnie froze, and all the color drained from her face. Her hand stopped and she stared at the man, her mind frozen for a moment, her eyes suddenly very hot.

Gypa fought back to sit on Minnie's arm, and took her two braids in his chubby little hands, pulling them rhythmically, one side, then the other, "Look, Auntie Mins, this is how they milk the cows! Squish, squish, squish..."

The merchant frowned, and looked at the ground, "I'm... I'm sorry. That just popped out..."

Minnie's whole face went pale, and a little water collected in her eyes. When she spoke, her voice shook wildly, "No... no, its... I'm sorry, I'm fine. You caught me off guard, that's all."

Gypa stopped pulling, and frowned, his brow wrinkling up in something between fear and shame, "Did I hurt Auntie Mins?"

Minnie took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a minute, managing a smile again, and kissed the boy loud on the cheek, "No, no! Do you think such a little monster could hurt a great mean beast like me? You could hang on my braids like a bell rope, my darling, if you wanted! But! Now, lets get you and papa in from the cold, hrm? Maybe we can all have a little spot of tea."

[Philomena]

"Why are ducks called ducks, Auntie Mins?"

Minnie was in the middle of a truly impressive multitask. Her eyes were scanning a wax tablet at her feet, trying to divine some meaning from the notes she had scrawled the night before on White Fever, in the exhausted hour or so after Gypa went down for the night. Her hands were meanwhile flying back and forth between tearing up the greasy, cold kelp fritters of last night's dinner, and tugging at Gypa's skirts, pulling him back from the edge of the quay where they sat. A different parent might not have worried so much. IT was not as if they were on the great, deep Wain Quay, where the ships unloaded onto the heavy drays. This was the only the Log Quay. It stretched out from behind the Archives, its purpose largely ceremonial, for when a ship arrived home, it was here that the captain and his recorder would land, to formally hand over the billing and logs of the ship, and report the success (or failure) of the voyage to the Guild.Thus it was dredged just deep enough for a wherry-boat, and besides was tucked back into the stiller parts of the harbor. Besides this, there were at least 20 sailors within a shout's distance, any of whom would likely have been glad for the opportunity to shuck to the skin and fish a little boy out of the harbor - a sailor on land, after all, being ever thirsty for both the sea and a good adventure. But Minnie couldn't bear the thought of Gypa learning his lessons in such a straightforward manner. The vision of him screaming and struggling against the harbor-silt water were too much even in her imagination. So, she found herself reaching out to grab at his skirts and pull him back from the edge.

"Hrm, my darling?"

"Ducks. How come they're ducks?"

"Well, because their mothers were ducks."

"No, I mean how come they're CALLED ducks?"

"Oh... well... if I remember, in Middle Common, they were 'huacs' - an onomatopoeic word borrowed from the horse-tongue, almost certainly, after the call of the duck. Our own word was revived from the Old Common, where it was born of a root verb meaning 'to dive under the water'."

He frowned, crouching down on his hams, trying to throw some of the fritter crumbs out past the panoply of ducks gathered just in front of him, clamoring for more food. He leaned forward to do it, and Minnie grabbed his skirts, tugging him back firmly. He said, "That's kinda a boring story, Auntie Mins."

She looked up, confused, "But, its true."

He rolled his eyes with all the drama of a nearly-four year old, "Just cause a story is right, doesn't mean its the best story, Auntie Mins."

She rolled this around for a moment, and her eyes drifted from the tablet, "Alright. Alright. Well... you know your mama was the storyteller, I only write other people's stories down. But I can try..."

He nodded sagely, watching with the eyes of an interested God as one of the drakes began pecking at one of the other drakes with his beak, flapping wildly and crying out.

"Alright... hrm... alright. So... once there was a little boy who lived near the sea. And he was very little, and still very foolish, nothing like my little Gypa. And he was so little that he only know the name for one animal - the dog. When he saw a cat, he called it a little dog. When he saw a squirrel, he called it a bushy-tail dog. And the ducks, of course, they were little swimming dogs. Well, one day, he was out feeding the ducks torn kelp fritters, he leaned so far that he toppled right into the harbor."

Gypa nodded, "But that still doesn't answer the question."

"Of course, of course. We'll get to that part. It was a very cold day, then, because it was still early spring, and so when they fished him out he took such a nasty cold, that when ever he tried to make a G sound, it would sneeze right out of his nose. So he spent the whole time he was sick complaining about 'those wicked swimming dogs", but of course, his face was so stuffed with his cold, it came out 'Those webbed swibbing ducks.' And of course, a pretty little boy is such an adorable thing, that everyone started calling them ducks, and that was what they were named after that. How was that?"

Gypa frowned but nodded, "That was ok."

She nodded, "Good." Then she tugged his skirts back again, and turned her face down to the tablet.

There was a few moments of silence, but for the scrabbling ducks. Then, Gypa spoke again.

"Auntie Mins, how come I call you Auntie Mins?"

She looked up, and frowned, "Hrm?"

"How come I call you Auntie Mins?"

"Why, because I taught you to."

"Yeah, but how come you taught me to?"

"Well, because I'm your auntie."

"But you're not REALLY my auntie. If you were my auntie, you'd be papa's sister."

"No, I am your mama's sister."

"Not really though. Papa says so. He says you weren't really mama's sister."

HEr face wrinkled at this, and she softly shut the tablet. Then she patted her lap and said, "Come, Gypa, come sit and I will tell you."

Gypa crawled into her lap, and laid his head back on her breast.

"You see, my darling... sometimes... sometimes people love each other so terribly much that there isn't a proper name for it. And then what can they do? They do not want to choose a little name for it. So, they must make their own names up. I loved your mama, just like that," her voice shook just slightly, "And she loved me. So, we had to make our own name for it up. So we called it sisters."

Gypa frowned, and turning his head buried it shyly in Minnie's blouse.

She frowned and spoke soft, "You do not like this story, either, my dear one?"

He blushed pulling back slightly and staring at her belly, "No, no. It is a nice story. But it is about Mama would call you. I want to call you something thats about you and me, not about you and mama."

She was silent a moment, then smiled at him, "Well, I love my Gypa, too. I love him so terribly much. So, maybe my Gypa and I, we shall have to come up with our own names too. Hmm?"

[Philomena]

"Now, Gypa, what is the rules for Professor Watchtower's house?"

The high street to Watchtower House was well-kept, but it was also very steep, curling in the hilly corners of the New City. Gypa was tired, and irritable, "Don't touch and don't be noisy."

"That's right. Ms Watchtower is very important, and she doesn't have children around the house, and we don't want to make trouble for her do we?"

"She sounds really boring."

"Something, my dear one, you learnt to find interesting when you are older. Please don't be so grouchy?" her voice had a thin, almost frightened, wheedling tone to it.

He looked at her, the irritation boiling into the passing fury of the young child, "I don't want to go see your stupid perfessor!"

Minnie stopped abruptly, right in the middle of the street, the stuffed pockets of her faded duck-cloth apron jingling slightly with the supplies they held. Gypa looked at her with that defiant face that children show when they know they are wrong, and are waiting to be chided for it.

Minnie, though, melted, her lip shaking childishly, her eyes frightened and wide behind their spectacles, "Oh... oh my Gypa..." her voice shook, "My Gypa... please no, please don't be wicked..."

This sudden tack of the wind caught Gypa by surprise, his defiance melting into a deep horror, "Oh... oh Auntie Mins, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." As he spoke his face shook, and he ran forward to throw his arms around her neck, and bury his face in her chest. He sobbed loudly. This, of course, set off the shaking lips of Minnie, who wrapped her own arms around Gypa, and went to her knees, sobbing back. The sudden shock of movement sent an ink pot tumbling from one of the apron pockets. It hit the ground, and a little crack formed, oozing black-blue ink across the cobbles.

Then Minnie felt a hand on her shoulder, a mailed hand, and heard a voice, "Little girl, are you two lost? Can I help you find someone?"

She turned up, with a blush, and a laugh that mixed with alchemical explosiveness with her tears. A large fellow, a private guard hired to patrol the wealthy street held her shoulder, "Oh... oh, we're... we're fine, sir."

The man, of course, surprised to see her face - her face already looked older than it was - took the dislike born out of surprise and humiliation, and growled gruffly, "Alright, then. You'd best be moving along, then. You're blocking the thoroughfare."

Minnie and Gypa stood, and Minnie pulled the ink pot gingerly into her fingers. She took Gypa's hand in the other, and said softly, hopefully, "I promise it won't be too bad. I brought you a new book to look at, a picture-plate one."

Gypa looked up excited, "Is it the plant book? With the monkey-tree in it?"

Minnie smiled solemnly, "No. Even better. This one is a book of animals! But you must promise me to be very careful with it, yes? You are my little Qalayan, and I will trust you with it."

He stared at her with a wide eyed surprise, and nodded slowly, "Yes, Auntie Mins. We are always good to books."

It was impossible to live with Auntie Mins and not develop a certain reverence for books - unless one were to turn the other way and grow to despise them. Gypa had learned this reverence in spades. Auntie had bought him a little pair of white cotton gloves, just like her own, and he knew to wear them whenever he touched a page. He knew how to massage saddle soap into the old leather bindings to keep them supple. He knew the way of curling a page as you turned it, to be gentle on the bind-stitchery. Reading a book in the Lefting garret was not a past-time - it was a religious privilege. Auntie Mins had told him , had even sung it in his lullaby, sometimes, that every book a temple holds, and every reader is a supplicant unto it. The words were big and grand and heavy on a child's heart, and he held them with great pride. He had become so cautious, that even Mara, Auntie Min's friend at the library, would let him in to sit with Auntie on the second floor, if he kept his gloves on, and did not touch.

HE even had his own book, now. Auntie had given it to him, it was blank, and the binding was stitched with a warped thread, that bent its soft spine at a slight curve - he knew this is why it was his first, because he must learn on something imperfect, something faulted, for a true book, with a sound spine, was too much a treasure for learning with. Just the night before, he had opened it and written in it for the first time. Qalaya's Hour at the Lefting household had always been quiet and awe-filled, but in the past, he had only been able to turn slowly through the written books, and watch Auntie sratch long lines of minuscule letters across her pages, silent and still himself, listening to the faint scratching of quill on parchment, to the gently tink-tink of Auntie's thumbnail against the glass of the ink pot when she dipped for more ink. But Auntie had been teaching him his alphabet now, and he knew many of the letters, and knew his own name. So, when Auntie was still and concentrated over her book, Gypa had slipped to her shelf and taken the oldest, most worn quill, and a pot of scribbler's ink - he knew not to take the finer stuff - and had sat in the corner, quietly scrawling, over and over:

EGypTUs ABCDDEFHIJKLmnO EGypTUs ABCDEFGHIJkLmno EGypTus...

He had pored over it until his tiny back hurt, dripping a spot of ink on the cloth of his skirts, chewing on his lip with concentration, writing over, and over and over. Then when the bell tolled and auntie sprinkled the blotting powder and set her book to dry, he had stood very quietly, and brought his book to her, and set it on her desk, with complete silence, looking at her imploringly. She had looked at him in surprise, a sharp intake of breath, then taken him in her arms and hugged him very, very tightly, starting to cry. Gypa had been with Auntie long enough to know she had many kinds of crying in her. Sometimes they were hard, jaggy, miserable cries. Sometimes they were little frightened cries. But this one was a happy cry, he recognized it, the way the tears didn't so much fall as just smear around her eyes, and the way the corners of her lips curled just slightly while the middles trembled.

"You see, Auntie, I will be a writer, just like you when I am big!"

She had smiled and kissed, him saying nothing, but had taken her pen, with its carefully cut tip, and dipped it in the fine, thin drafters ink of her own pot, and had, in her tiny, precise hand, so small, one had to bend close to read it, written the words: "Egyptus' First Prayer, in his own hand", with the date just beside it. Then, she had held his tiny hands, and guided them, to show him how to sprinkle the blotting powder, and how to rock the wooden blotter, back and forth, back and forth. Then she had set it to dry with her own book, and they had spent the rest of the evening looking through stories together.

When they came to the door of Watchtower House, the butler looked askance at the ink pot staining Minnie's palm, but said nothing, leading the two back to the breakfast room. He opened the door, and Hannah smiled at them both.

"Well then, who is this young scholar? I can see he must be a scholar, from the ink on his fingertips. Though not so much ink, perhaps, as his Auntie."

Minnie had smiled, and blushed, and spoken soft, "Darling, why don't you introduce yourself?"

Gypa had looked back at Minnie, shyly, and said, "I am Egyptus, Doctor Watchtower, it is a pleaser to meet you." Then, he dipped with the natural grace of a child, into an imitation of the curtsies he had seen his Auntie give.

Hannah smiled, suppressing a chuckle, and stood. She was tall, very tall, and when she curtsied in return, it was not the perfunctory, unsure movement of Auntie Mins. It was a flowing, natural movement, of extension and compression, like watching a rosebud unfurl into a bloom, "Young master, I assure you. The pleasure is entirely mine. Doctor Hannah Edgetower, at your eternal service."

"Wow..." said Gypa. Minnie smiled with a mild amusement.

Hannah nodded, sitting down, "You must be hungry, Master Egyptus? You would care for some breakfast?"

HE shook his head, a little shy, now, "Oh no, Doctor, no. I had breakfast already."

"That's true, I'm sure, that's true. It was from your Auntie, no?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"Yes, yes, your Auntie she is a very good woman isn't she? I'll bet she gave you a nice healthy breakfast?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'll bet... from Auntie Lefting... I'll bet you had some kelp fritters?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And, maybe... a kipper?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And I bet you even ate the head?"

"Auntie says good boys always eat the heads."

"Indeed, indeed they do. And from your dress, and the little stain on it tell me, maybe Auntie gave you a bit of seaberry-bittersweet at the end."

"Yes, ma'am. IT is good for your tummy."

"Yes, that is a good breakfast indeed. But then, you have not had your naughty breakfast yet, have you?"

Minnie sighed.

Gypa frowned, "Naughty breakfast?"

"You do not know what naughty-breakfast is? Oh dear! Oh dear, oh dear... well, this all my fault."

"What is your fault, ma'am?"

"Well, you see, normally, it is one's mummy who teaches one to be good, no? To eat one's good breakfast, to read and write, to be quiet and respectful, non? Yes, yes, but that is what Auntie Minnie is teaching our little Gypa isn't it? But then who is to teach Gypa the other things? To be noisy, and silly? To eat crullers and drink coffee? Who will teach Gypa wicked, bawdy songs to embarrass his Auntie? Who will teach Gypa how to ride down a bannister? In short, my dear one, who will teach Gypa the proper way of being a naughty boy? That, my child, is what a grandmother is supposed to do. And since you do not have one here, that is what your Great Aunt Hannah has been neglecting her duties toward. Oh, dear, I am very very sorry for that." she shook her head in mock silence and picked up the little silver bell that set on the table, ringing it delicately.

The butler came in, with quiet, calm aplomb, "Yes, milady?"

"The child needs a breakfast."

"Yes, milady? And what shall I bring the young gentleman?"

"Lets see... that date cake from last night? There is some left, the nice moist one? And some cream on it?"

"Yes, milady."

"Very good. And, let us see... a bit of coffee..."

Minnie spoke up, "Oh no, Dr. Watchtower... I don't think..."

"Hush hush, this is Great-aunt work, dear, you needn't be concerned with it! You're quite lucky I didn't have them slip a shot of toddy in it! Lets see now... and a few rashers of bacon, and some fresh eggs. And... do we have a meringue?"

"No, milady. Perhaps, there is a box of brandy macaroons, I believe, tinned in the pantry, if milady wishes a sweet for the child?"

Gypa frowned, "Whatsa mack-a-rone? IS that noodles?"

Hannah shook her head with a frown, "Oh heavens, the child must be educated. Yes, yes, bring him four. And two for me. And some milk for dipping them in."

"As milady wishes."

The butler, still completely blank-faced, slipped out.

"Now then, my young ingenue. You must have some toys..."

"Oh no! Auntie brought me a book..."

"A good one? With pictures?"

Minnie drew the book out proudly, "Yes, our Gypa will be looking at animals today, won't he?"

Hannah snatched it up, and plopped it and flipped through it - Gypa's jaw dropped. She snapped the pages wickedly, when she turned them, and EVEN licked her finger to pick them up with! Then, sin of sins, she smiled approvingly, and plopped it right on the breakfast table.

"Oh, no, Great-aunt! You can't do that! Books can't be on the table! And we hafta wear our gloves!"

Hannah raised an eyebrow, "No books on the table? And why not?"

"Why, 'cause its very wicked!"

"Oh, but my child, you forget! I am here to teach you to be wicked!"

"No, no!" Gypa drew up in childish indignation, "You are here to teach me to be funny wicked. Wicked with a book, that's not funny at all."

Hannah smiled, deeply amused, "Oh? And why not?"

"Why... because... because if you ruin a book... well... it will come back for you!"

"No! You don't say? I have never heard this before!"

"Its true! If you ruin a book, then... while.. while you are old, and sleeping in your bed, it will come, and... and its pages will turn into little fish-knives, and it will bite your arms off! All the books you ever ruin, they'll come all at once, and you'll cry and cry, and beg Qalaya to forgive you!"

Minnie raised an eyebrow, turning toward the boy. Hannah it was who spoke, nodding solemnly, "And who told you these secrets, my boy?"

"Nobody," he blushed proudly, "I made them up my own self."

Hannah's solemn face melted into a grin, then, and the grin bloomed a deep belly laugh, "Oh, yes. You see, I thought you were a scholar, but you are a storyteller. You shall ended the teaching of your Great Aunt Hannah, indeed!"

HE frowned, "I don't need no teaching, my story is just fine."

Minnie gasped, "Gypa!"

Hannah raised a hand and laughed, "No, no, the child is right. Gypa, my boy, your story is fine. Only your story was so fine, that I want it to be exceptional. Do you know what exceptional means?"

He frowned, suspiciously, but nodded, "I know lotsa big words, Auntie reads them to me. It means, like, really good."

Hannah nodded, "And you are already so close! But there are things you CAN learn, my boy. Like, let us see... you told your story, and you stood very still, and your hands were behind your back, non?"

He blushed, "Well, that's cause, I had to make it up, and my brain was busy thinking the whole time."

"That's true, that's true. But imagine! Imagine you had told it like this!" And she rose, tall and erect, then fell into a crouch, low, and menacing over the table, "And in the end, you will be a little old man, asleep in your bed, and having lovely dreams, yes?" her eyes drooped, as she said it as if falling asleep, and her hands went to her cheek, folded like a pillow, "Yes, lying on your soft blankets, feeling you have done good, dreaming the dreams of the just, forgetting the wicked things you have done to your books. And then..." she jerked very suddenly up into a crouch again, and clapped her hands loudly just in front of Gypa's face. The boy squealed with fear and delight, "SNAP! The first one will come, its tiny razor teeth locking in the muscle of your arm!"

Gypa turned to his Auntie Mins, "Auntie, Great Aunt is very clever!"

Minnie laughed, gently, and melted back into her chair. The morning, clearly, was not to be a productive one.

[Philomena]

Gypa woke on his birthday when the dawn was still just a luminescent dream below the sleeping horizon. The world was very, very still. He sighed to himself, shifting in the little hammock he slept in, slung above the desk like a womb. It was his last day. Later, he would have a party for his birthday, and then, Papa would take him that evening, to sleep in his wain with him and his half-siblings. His heart twisted back and forth - had he had no perception of things, he would have bubbled with excitement. On the one hand, there was his birthday itself. Great-Aunt Hannah had sent a box, and said it was book just for him, one he could read AND look at pictures in, in the long days in the back of the wain. Papa would have a good present. They would eat cakes. And then, there was, more than this, a sense of adventure. Summer felt like an adventure, like the promise of the road, and for all that he loved the walks by the manor, the Qalaya Hours, the trips to the library and the dusty archives with their strange ghostly ship-models and anchor-glasses, he was ready to go, to see new things.

But he was not imperceptive, and he knew in his heart, how it hurt Auntie Mins, to see him go, how happy she was that he was excited, but at the same time, how sad. He wondered how long he should wait before waking her.

He rolled sideways in his bed to look out over the edge, and was surprised. There by the window, in the little rush chair, sat Auntie. She did not wear her glasses, so he knew she would have no idea if he was asleep or awake, but she stared right at his bed. Her face had the gentle, kindly sadness that comes in the hollow cleanliness after a good, long cry. The cry had poured things out for her, it was a good-sad cry, he knew the sort, and now? Now she would be happy for him, today, and she would kiss him and only cry a little when he left.

"Hello, Auntie."

Auntie didn't move in her chair, but for the broadening of her smile, "Hello, my sweetest one."

"Its my birthday, today."

"Yes, my sweet. It is your birthday. Are you ready for my present, beloved?"

"You can't give it to me until the party."

She smiled. The salt-dryness of her throat gave her an alto richness as she spoke, "Yes, my sweet. I have two presents, that is my present you can hold you will open then. This is just a word present, one just for you and I."

He smiled, and said, "It is a name? For me to call you?"

"Yes, my sweet, if you still want one."

He almost got out of his bead. But the stillness, even the ache of the physical distance, with its echo of a coming, greater distance of time and space, these felt right, then, in his little child-heart, and he stayed very still, "I do want one, Auntie."

She smiled, "Well, you must remember, I am not the storyteller, that's your job. But, long long ago, there was a very wonderful shipwright, and she laid a keel, and planks, and stood a mast, and built a beautiful, beautiful ship."

"Is the ship builder mama?"

"Yes, my love, and you are the ship. But the shipwright, she was hurt, and she had to stay on land. So the ships went to sea without her."

"Then you are the captain, Auntie?"

"No, no. You, my sweet one, you shall be your own captain. I cannot do this for you. But, when your ship is tired, and your journeys are long, I will be your harbor."

He nodded, quietly, "Mama, she will be my wright-mother. And I will call you my Harbor-mother. IS that alright?"

She smiled, and a few more parched corners of tears found her cheeks, "Yes, my dearest, that will be wonderful. And then, when you are out at sea, my love, you will know that the harbor never moves. IT is always here, waiting for its ship to come home."

[Arcane]

Rewards and Treasure! Experience Points +3 Observation +5 Child Rearing +3 Teaching +3 Storytelling +2 Persuasion +1 Research Lores Egyptus' First Prayer, in his own hand Taking Care of Young Egyptus Egyptus' Childhood Egyptus "Gypa", Precursor of Wrenmae Sek Celebrating Egyptus' Birthday Together Egyptus the Harbor-Son Comments I'm afraid that I can only give XP/Lore to PCs participating in this thread. In any case, wonderful storytelling here. I'm glad that we get to see the 'childhood innocence' of the megavillain that is now Wrenmae; this lends even more character to what some people may perceive as a one-sided typical villain. Your touch here lends further credence to this and succeeds in adding that human factor. The ending is wonderful as always. Mlle Phil you have the gift of invoking human emotions and tugging on our heartstrings in your stories, just wanted you to know this. PS: You might want to add a timestamp to this too. PSS: "Child Rearing" is also the same skill as "Child Husbandry" or "Animal Husbandry (Children)", depending on ST.