Saturday's Storyteller: "The fire reached out and grabbed Erin, dragging her into the hearth."
by Belinda Roddie
The fire reached out and grabbed Erin, dragging her into the hearth. It grabbed her with long, curly fingers - not curling, but curly, like the springs of hair bouncing along the nape of the teenage girl's neck. She could not pry away from the flame's grip, for fear that touching the orange hand would burn her very badly, and in resigning herself to her fate, she plugged her nose and mouth with her hand and refused to breath in the ash that swirled about her.
She emerged in the fireplace of Madam Stalwart's cottage unscathed as usual, the smoke rising from her pretty spring dress and her soot-filled locks, shaking puffs of gray away from her arms and legs as the fire slithered away from her feet. It had done its job of taking Erin to the woman's home, a violent hot Hermes with claws instead of winged anklets. Now the mantel above, serving as the upper lip for the mouth of the hearth, gleamed with candlelit teeth as Erin wrenched herself from its narrow jaw.
"I'm getting a bit too large for this kind of traveling," she told herself as she shook her head left to right, dust flying everywhere in streamers. "Either that, or Madam Stalwart has to make her chimney bigger."
She turned the corner and arrived in the small kitchen where the lady did her work, hovering over the stove as usual with a pot of something. Sitting in a high chair beside the table was a little boy of seven or eight, the propeller on his red and black beanie buzzing from the wind blowing from the open window. Madam Stalwart was dressed in greens and blues today, her pug nose wrinkling from the steam that continuously billowed from her new creation.
"Erin, darling!" she crooned at the sight of the girl. "It seems you got my invitation."
"Begging your pardon, Madam," asked Erin, "but is it really an invitation when I don't have the choice to say no? Surely there's a better word..."
"Summoned! Yes. But I don't like the ring of it."
Madam Stalwart dipped a crooked ladle into the pot and cautiously eyed the muddy concoction dripping from its metal mouth. The boy audibly whimpered from his chair, and Erin first thought it regarded the stew. But as she looked at him, he seemed to be in incredible pain.
"Not nearly ready yet, dear," she heard the woman say. "This is a new recipe of mine. Cream soup, with just the right amount of fungus. I always love some fungus. Don't you?"
"As long as it's the edible kind," Erin replied, and she winced as the boy whimpered again. "If I may ask, is the child all right?"
"Hmmm?" said Madam Stalwart. "Oh, he's fine, dear. That's Winthrop. My nephew. He always comes by when I'm making something with fungus."
"Does he eat it?"
"Hardly!" Madam Stalwart tilted back her head and guffawed, shaking the ribs in Erin's chest with the sound. "He helps make it."
The whimpering had turned into a rough groaning, and Erin could not help but think that Winthrop's little red shoes seemed too tight for him. His feet noticeably twitched and swiveled, as if it were attempting to shake something off of them. But Madam Stalwart interrupted Erin's thought with the slippery sound of a large kitchen knife, something that the girl wasn't particularly fond of.
"I don't like..."
"Sharp objects near your face. I am perfectly cautious, my dear."
Madam Stalwart wagged a finger - that same delightful smile on her face - when Winthrop began to cry. In an instant, the woman was by his side, beckoning Erin to come with her. She used a finger to instruct her to look at the boy's feet.
"Peel off his shoe," she ordered. "Well, go on, then!"
Erin obliged, lifting the rubber sole from Winthrop's heel, and gaped at the sight of the bulbous protrusions that sprung into place along the flats of his feet and toes. They bloomed and quivered in the faint sunlight, a distinct smell emitting from the fruiting spores. To any earthly doctor, it would be a strange medical anomaly. But to Madam Stalwart, it was simply a part of the cooking process.
"Those are..."
"Mushrooms!" Madam Stalwart squealed with glee. "Fresh this afternoon. Winthrop grows them every week, and they're marvelous. Now, hold his ankles while I get to cutting."
"That's awful!"
"Well, you can't blame me for taking advantage of his ailment," the woman protested. "Poor boy can't help it. And he does love to help."
Erin was about to argue that, but she noticed now, to her shock, that Winthrop was beaming. All the agony that had been clear in his face was disappearing like creases in an unfurrowing brow, the wrinkles of pain all but gone. She gently grabbed his legs as Madam Stalwart sliced off each and every brown mushroom, taking care to remove the stalk without hurting the poor boy.
"Absolutely splendid," she cooed as she did her fancy knifework, the shreds of mushroom flying like small discs into the pot. "Now, will you stay for dinner?"
It was a typical phenomenon in the Stalwart household, and Erin was beginning to wonder why she would ever say no. As she thought of the flames beckoning her back to the hearth, she took her seat at the table, warding away all thoughts of her poor mother wondering where in the land had her daughter gone now. Hopefully, she wouldn't smell the garlic.
This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.
The fire reached out and grabbed Erin, dragging her into the hearth. It grabbed her with long, curly fingers - not curling, but curly, like the springs of hair bouncing along the nape of the teenage girl's neck. She could not pry away from the flame's grip, for fear that touching the orange hand would burn her very badly, and in resigning herself to her fate, she plugged her nose and mouth with her hand and refused to breath in the ash that swirled about her.
She emerged in the fireplace of Madam Stalwart's cottage unscathed as usual, the smoke rising from her pretty spring dress and her soot-filled locks, shaking puffs of gray away from her arms and legs as the fire slithered away from her feet. It had done its job of taking Erin to the woman's home, a violent hot Hermes with claws instead of winged anklets. Now the mantel above, serving as the upper lip for the mouth of the hearth, gleamed with candlelit teeth as Erin wrenched herself from its narrow jaw.
"I'm getting a bit too large for this kind of traveling," she told herself as she shook her head left to right, dust flying everywhere in streamers. "Either that, or Madam Stalwart has to make her chimney bigger."
She turned the corner and arrived in the small kitchen where the lady did her work, hovering over the stove as usual with a pot of something. Sitting in a high chair beside the table was a little boy of seven or eight, the propeller on his red and black beanie buzzing from the wind blowing from the open window. Madam Stalwart was dressed in greens and blues today, her pug nose wrinkling from the steam that continuously billowed from her new creation.
"Erin, darling!" she crooned at the sight of the girl. "It seems you got my invitation."
"Begging your pardon, Madam," asked Erin, "but is it really an invitation when I don't have the choice to say no? Surely there's a better word..."
"Summoned! Yes. But I don't like the ring of it."
Madam Stalwart dipped a crooked ladle into the pot and cautiously eyed the muddy concoction dripping from its metal mouth. The boy audibly whimpered from his chair, and Erin first thought it regarded the stew. But as she looked at him, he seemed to be in incredible pain.
"Not nearly ready yet, dear," she heard the woman say. "This is a new recipe of mine. Cream soup, with just the right amount of fungus. I always love some fungus. Don't you?"
"As long as it's the edible kind," Erin replied, and she winced as the boy whimpered again. "If I may ask, is the child all right?"
"Hmmm?" said Madam Stalwart. "Oh, he's fine, dear. That's Winthrop. My nephew. He always comes by when I'm making something with fungus."
"Does he eat it?"
"Hardly!" Madam Stalwart tilted back her head and guffawed, shaking the ribs in Erin's chest with the sound. "He helps make it."
The whimpering had turned into a rough groaning, and Erin could not help but think that Winthrop's little red shoes seemed too tight for him. His feet noticeably twitched and swiveled, as if it were attempting to shake something off of them. But Madam Stalwart interrupted Erin's thought with the slippery sound of a large kitchen knife, something that the girl wasn't particularly fond of.
"I don't like..."
"Sharp objects near your face. I am perfectly cautious, my dear."
Madam Stalwart wagged a finger - that same delightful smile on her face - when Winthrop began to cry. In an instant, the woman was by his side, beckoning Erin to come with her. She used a finger to instruct her to look at the boy's feet.
"Peel off his shoe," she ordered. "Well, go on, then!"
Erin obliged, lifting the rubber sole from Winthrop's heel, and gaped at the sight of the bulbous protrusions that sprung into place along the flats of his feet and toes. They bloomed and quivered in the faint sunlight, a distinct smell emitting from the fruiting spores. To any earthly doctor, it would be a strange medical anomaly. But to Madam Stalwart, it was simply a part of the cooking process.
"Those are..."
"Mushrooms!" Madam Stalwart squealed with glee. "Fresh this afternoon. Winthrop grows them every week, and they're marvelous. Now, hold his ankles while I get to cutting."
"That's awful!"
"Well, you can't blame me for taking advantage of his ailment," the woman protested. "Poor boy can't help it. And he does love to help."
Erin was about to argue that, but she noticed now, to her shock, that Winthrop was beaming. All the agony that had been clear in his face was disappearing like creases in an unfurrowing brow, the wrinkles of pain all but gone. She gently grabbed his legs as Madam Stalwart sliced off each and every brown mushroom, taking care to remove the stalk without hurting the poor boy.
"Absolutely splendid," she cooed as she did her fancy knifework, the shreds of mushroom flying like small discs into the pot. "Now, will you stay for dinner?"
It was a typical phenomenon in the Stalwart household, and Erin was beginning to wonder why she would ever say no. As she thought of the flames beckoning her back to the hearth, she took her seat at the table, warding away all thoughts of her poor mother wondering where in the land had her daughter gone now. Hopefully, she wouldn't smell the garlic.
This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.
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