"Riddle's Story"

[butterflydreaming]

Original fiction short story, ties in to Turning the Key (unwritten WIP).
Rating: PG
Genre: urban fantasy

Riddle’s Story

                My Big had not gotten out of bed, for long enough that my bowl had gone dry, and I was left with the staling water in the basin for my thirst.  Though I still  had plenty to eat in my dish, where Kelly had scraped the last of her sausage and the drippings from the pan, I needed a fresh drink.  I jumped up to the sill and slipped past the wooden shutters the window she had left open for me.  There was no reason to stay; Kelly, I knew, was never getting up again.  She lay in her bed, silent now, one arm hanging over the bed’s edge, over a cascade of soiled sheets.  I looked back at her carefully, just to be sure that she had gone on completely, and that no shade lingered.  It was my duty, but also my thanks to her.  She had never considered me hers -- to her I was just a stray cat that she would sometimes feed -- yet the memory of her care was a pleasant one.  She had been a good Big.  It was a far drop to the ground below, and I hesitated; once I made the leap, I would never be able make it back up again.  Once I made the leap, I would be on my own, entering my second life as a stray.  Decision made, I tensed my muscles, cast my center of gravity out in front of me, and sprung into the air.

                The heavy folliage of the ivy cushioned my landing, and of course I landed on my feet, but nevertheless I took off running as soon as my weight started to catch up to me.  Night was falling, and a chilling wind was picking up as I ran between the human dwellings, running for the pure pleasure of running.  I caught a field mouse unaware and made short work of him, then carried him around for a while, since I was still in search of my evening cocktail.  Pickings were slim; it had not rained for weeks, and birds had despoiled the birdbaths that weren’t festering with mosquito larvae.  I lapped at puddle by a flower bed, but it tasted bitterly of geraniums, so I moved on.

                I smelled the sweet water misting in the air first, and then picked up the sound; it was coming from beyond a high wall of coarse gray blocks.  The wall had an occasional decoritive brick with lace-like holes, but the openings only served to taunt me.  They were hardly large enough for my russet-tipped paw, let alone the rest of me.  “Neh!” I complained in frustration.  I made a pathetic, futile leap to surmount the wall.  The moist air smelled delicious, seasoned with a hint of greenery and blooming flowers.  “Neh! ” I complained louder.  I raced around the wall until I came to the street side.  There I found a slim opening under an open ironwork gate, and slithered my way under it.  I lost some loose fur, but despite a winter of a warm bed and rich scraps, I was just thin enough.

                Unfortunately, I was still not in the garden; I stood on a stone pathway that ran between ornamental cactuses and aloes.  At the end of the path was a wide, flat deck and the front door to the house.  Beyond the deck the block wall continued where the house left off, only on this side, the wall was pocked with niches that held small candles in glass votives.  I strode to the front door and stared at it, willing it to open.  The Big that lived here must have been more receptive than most, because he opened the door in short time, though he did seem surprized to see me sitting there.

                “Oh, hello,” were his first words to me as he set a tin bucket down onto the deck table.  He removed, from a pocket in his trousers, a matchbox that rattled as he tossed it onto the tabletop, and then drew half-a-dozen stubby candles from the bucket.  “Is there something that I can do for you?”

                He had left the front door open.  I wasted no time attempting to explain, and dashed into his house.  As I had suspected, there were a pair of glass-paned doors open on the far side of the dwelling, and through that portal lay the object of my quest.  Misting sprays from a stone fountain showered lush ferns with artificial dew, and a thick growth of star jasmine dripped fat drops of sweet water.  I lapped where I could, ignoring the annoyance of being rained on; it was a minor inconvenience for such a sweet reward.

                I let my guard down in my bliss, and so I didn’t notice the Big approach until he set the dish down in a dryer spot of the patio.  “This is distilled,” he said conversationally, “you might like it better.  The tap has a lot of hard water in it.”  He crossed to a farther area of the bricked area and sat on a planter wall.  “The water in this area is mineral-heavy; if you drink it too much you can end up with kidney stones.  Well, people can,” he ammended.  “As I found out the uncomfortable way,” he laughed.

                I leveled a look at him – to think that I’d been accused of being a “talker”!  What was he rambling on about?  I was tired of being rained on, though, so I did give the water in the bowl a try.  It lacked flavor, but was otherwise refreshing.  I wuffled a thank you, not forgetting my good breeding.

                “You’re very welcome,” he said, tipping his head to the side.  “If you care for halibut, I would be honored if you joined me for dinner, also.”

                That comment earned him a second hard look from me.  I could almost believe that he was listening.  “I like tuna,” I tested him.  It should have sounded like “meow”.

                “I only have tinned,” he said, “sorry.”  He scratched his head through his short, curly hair.  “Anyway, I’ve heard that tuna is addictive.  You don’t want to start carrying that monkey on your back, do you?”

                Now, I’m a cat.  I don’t do “nonplussed”; I don’t do “speechless”.  But for a few moments there, I was downright stoic.  In my five lives, I’d interacted with a lot of human-people, many of them attentive and pretty good at getting my hints, but I had never found one who knew how to listen.  This one was listening.  “Halibut will be fine,” I said cautiously.  There was always the chance that it had been a fluke.

                The Big smiled broadly.  He had a crooked, boyish smile, sincere and without any kind of malice hidden.  “Wonderful!” he said.  “I was just about to put it on the grill.  Unless you prefer yours raw?  And of course, I’ll leave off the lemon.”  He extended his hand out in front of him, fingers relaxed, low enough to the ground for me to reach.  “I’m Layne Meyer, by the way.  Is there a name I can call you?”

                I walked toward him and gave the customary sniff.  He smelled the way he looked: sincere.  He gave me a tentative stroke along my spine, and a scratch on my neck that felt fabulous.  I didn’t answer him though; like humans always do, I knew that he would pick a name for me himself.  That’s the legend of humans, you see; they are the Namers.  It would be his duty to name me, as much as it was mine to watch the Gates of the Dead.

                As we shared dinner, it was clear to me that Meyer had expected to dine in solitude.  He split his portion of halibut steak generously with me, and ate greens and drank enough chilled tea to make up the difference.  We ate on the deck, lit with candlelight, and while I had my after-dinner washing, he stretched himself out on the ground and looked at the stars.  The desert sky was clear and black; the jewels in the sky dusted it from horizon to horizon.

                “The Laws were written there,” said my young host, pointing heavenward, “in the stars, until Coyote scattered them.  I can almost read what is left of them,” he said seriously.  “In all the world, the clues are hidden.  Most people are blind to the pieces of Mystery that are everywhere.  But once a man discovers how to see… it’s as if another color has suddenly appeared in the rainbow, and that color is not a rare hue.”  He spoke quietly, but also with an intense passion.  “This is what I study; this is my life’s work.  I want to know,” he continued, “the Mysteries of this world.”  He turned his head to look across the deck boards at me.  “I practice Magic,” he said.  “Sorcery, not the illusions of slight-of-hand.  I am leaving this place soon… and I would like a companion.  Would you accompany me, Sir Cat?”

                “I am no one’s familiar,” I gruffed to him.

                Meyer smiled at my comment, a wide and toothy smile.  He rolled up to sit cross-legged.  “I need a friend who can give me good advice,” he said.

                His vocation came as no surprize to me; a man who can listen shows himself to already be more than ordinary.  He did not have the stink of Dark practices on him, or else I would never have entered within arm’s reach, let alone into his home.  Do you know the adage about my kind?  It goes like this: “For three, he plays; for three, he strays; and for three, he stays.”  I was a stray, now.  It would not be a bad thing to stray in company.  “Name me,” I said formally.

                “Riddle,” he said, without a moment’s thought.

                So that is how we began to travel – nay, to stray – together, the Cat and the Magician.  Stray we did – northward, eastward, and wherever fancy took us.  We traveled in the company of bachelor men and of families looking for work, who had escaped the misfortunes of desicated farms.  Work was scarce, but Meyer did not need to dig tunnels or build roads to keep us fed.  His skills kept us comfortable, though we spent most of our time in the unpeopled country meadows and wildlands.  Meyer was good company for me.  I needed little more than my own self, but his presence by my side was pleasant.  On the occasions when I hunted for both of us, bringing squirrel or rabbit or quail back to camp, he dressed my portion first, and I will admit that I grew spoiled from eating fresh meat that was cleaned of fur or feathers.  Yet I began to feel that my company was not enough for the young Magician.  He was already past the age where he should have chosen a mate, but in the presence of women he was as shy as an adolescent.  I decided to find him a wife.

It was out on one of my hunts that I caught one for him… literally.

                We were living in a land of trees, on the western coast of the country, and the forest here was as thick with doorways to Faerie as the prarie had been with gopher holes.  Meyer had taken a liking to the territory, saying that the lace of natural magic present would benefit his education.   Solitude was as plentiful as the rainfall in this region, and we made camp in an area unpopulated for miles.  After a few weeks, the camp grew less temporary with a small, one-roomed cabin.  Meyer used his magic in its construction as a young man does -- liberally and somewhat recklessly – so while he was charging the air with spellcasting, I went in search of some fresh meat.

                I noticed the ring of mushrooms first because my companion was fond of those particular fungi, tall and pointed with honeycomb-like caps.  I was making note of their location when I saw her.  Her presence was hardly more than a mote of light, twinkling as she danced the circle.  I couldn’t resist; I pounced, and caught the faerie under my strong paws.

                She was quiescent first, pretending to be no more than a spot of sunlight on the forest floor, but I kept my patience and waited.  After a long passage of time, she began to fight me suddenly, kicking and biting and casting her magic against me.  The elf-shot was as uncomfortable as a nosefull of nettles, but she was not strong enough to do me any real harm.  Finally, panting, she begged for her release.

                You are sworn, I reminded her, if I let you go.

                “What boon do you demand of me?” she asked petulantly.  “Lord Cat, I doubt that I have anything of worth to you.”

                Still, you must make the promise, I told her.  I had already made up my mind.  She was comely, and could take the form of a woman of human size, which would solve Meyer’s lack of female companionship.  First, I told her, your name.

                She was unhappier still with my demand.  “Liliel,” she answered, hating to give it over.  This was not her True Name, but it still held enough power to bind her.

                Liliel, I told the faerie maid,  for three wanings of the moon, you will be wife to my companion, the magician Layne Meyer.  After that time, you will have the choice to stay or leave, but if you leave, you must never see him again.  That is my geis.  Accept, and I will free you from the cage of my claws.

                She had no other honorable choice but to accept.  For three months after, she lived with us, though Meyer refused to mate with her while she was promise-bound.  Yet, as I suspected, Liliel stayed beyond the third moon’s wane.  We traveled to a city, then, and Meyer made her his wife by the laws of men, and later, by the laws of nature as well.

                Liliel was incentive for Meyer to end his wandering travels.  He built a house, an extraordinary house, and there I entered my sixth life, which proved to be short.  I had not marked time’s passing as I strayed, returning periodically to visit the magician and his faerie wife, until I saw the shadow on Layne Meyer, and realized that he had grown very old.  My seventh life began with his death.

                Thrice I had played; thrice I had strayed;  now, with Liliel weeping as much as any mortal woman, had come my time to stay.  I watched my friend’s spirit pass through the Gates, and barred the faerie from following his passage, something no immortal may do.  She hated me for it, but she would not listen to anything that I had to say.

                It was a cold house for many years.  And then, I met Genny.  She was a Pure Heart, though she had no magic of her own.  It took her a long time to learn to listen, but when she did, I told her my story.

                                                                                                                                                                                     

. . .

Comments

[primal-shout.livejournal.com]

this is completely amazing! ::hugs it::