Saturday's Storyteller: "She hesitated outside the door before finally deciding to simply walk in."
by Belinda Roddie
She hesitated outside the door before finally deciding to simply walk in. The winter air scuttled in with her on frosted legs, wrapping the room in an igloo cocoon, as Arvey drew her coat closer around her frame. Mistress Kor's hopes for her to become huskier and more toned muscularly had been fulfilled somewhat; the girl still needed meat on some parts of her anatomy, but she was becoming fuller with each travel, rather than thinner, against the elements and the beasts.
The shoreline house that the group now settled in was owned by the Crusader, who in his retirement was more a Fisherman with a capital F (more the Fisher, in Arvey's mental notes). He was more than happy to let the bloodied Quinoni, the haggard Barkelee, and the ever undisturbed Kor into his residence to stay for a week of rest. The amount of poise and composure that the professor had collected through assumedly years of experience was not something to cluck one's tongue at. Arvey always admired it. She admired it far too intensely, of course, than the average pupil should.
Now Mistress Kor had called her into her room. Coincidence and convenience both played a part in the situation. Arvey had to cater to it. So there she was.
She had never smelled whiskey so strongly. The odor had been palpable during the rendezvous with the Mischiefs, who had emerged as if from the clouds of stardust whisked around the padlocks of moonlit night. Mistress Kor had the spices of the alcohol on her breath. Stark, nearly edible fumes of fermentation. It had smelled good. Whiskey never seemed too harsh or rancid even for Arvey's nose and stomach. And now it was like the drawing fingers to a banquet table, or a pie perched on a window sill above a daffodil garden. The kind Mamee had grown.
Not having the slightest tinge of concern or hypothesis about the conversation that was to take place, Arvey took her seat upon viewing the exposed back of her mentor. Mistress Kor was in her evening waistcoat - rich maroon velvet against backlit currents of amber crisscrossing the walls. A very simplistic sunset background in the chill of winter night, compared to the ornamentation of the mansion in which their adventure had started.
The sound of whiskey splashing and simmering in a chalice stirred Arvey's brain somewhat, signifying Mistress Kor's departure from the Fisher's liquor cabinet. The professor sat down on the sad-looking divan across from her student, the silver in her eyes appearing to be somewhat tarnished.
"You are well?" she asked.
A rudimentary, yet stilted, question. Arvey shrugged. "Mischiefs didn't cause me too many problems. I'm grateful that, in the end, it worked out."
"You understand that these checkpoints laid out do offer some level of outside world contact, correct?"
"Yes, from Zeneda and Sivalia and other regions. I remember Qui receiving a parcel from her uncle at the tavern we stayed at."
Mistress Kor's forehead creased, and not in a comforting way. She took a long drink from her glass before setting it down. Her breath was sour in the air again; Arvey could smell it. Her hand was tracing the left side of her coat, as if seeking out something buried beneath it.
"Our host received this letter from the Zenedan City Hall," she explained, "addressed to you. I've held onto it since we got here."
Arvey frowned. "But it's been two days since - "
"I know," Kor interrupted, hanging her head. "And it was improper, and disrespectful, of me to withhold it. But I was concerned about your physical and mental health, given the weight and intensity of recent events."
She did not have to remind Arvey. While the Mischiefs had become diplomatic in the end, discovering the same end goal of excavation and historical enlightenment, they were brutal at first. Arvey could still remember the way even Quinoni shied away from a Mischief's snarling teeth, Barkelee clinging to the woman's bulky arm while brandishing his knife. It had, predictably, provided some bad dreams, but Arvey considered them inconsequential. She was used to her subconscious thoughts tormenting her. Nights of hot cocoa from her mamee and elder brother was proof of that, and she had forced herself to cope within the academy.
Now Mistress Kor held out the thin, faintly wrinkled letter outward, dangling precariously between her middle and index fingers, waiting for Arvey to take it. It was almost as if she were pinching something grotesque or perturbing - like a bit of bad food held by tongs at an arm's length. Or perhaps more like a venomous spider, dancing on her cuticles, nearly tempted to bite her, letting the toxins spread.
To the sound of crinkling paper, Arvey opened the envelope. The structure of the form letter told more than anything else could. She let the message fall into her lap, bounce, and hiss to the floor.
"No."
Mistress Kor's face was calm stone. Her eyes, however, were caged storms.
"Do you want me to read it?"
Arvey felt her hands clasp and unclasp. She could not say yes or no. Her head moved up and down, her chin jutting forward, even if she had desired to swish her head from side to side. In truth, Mistress Kor didn't have to have it read to her. Zeneda had a way, in its attempt to be more supportive of and communicative with its residents, of making bad news sterile and stoic. Arvey had endured it, of course, at a young age the first time - the untimely death of her papee, when she was in her first year of boarding school, provided a similar piece of emblematic paper.
She kept her steaming eyes averted as Mistress Kor picked up the letter. She read it quickly but intently. It made things very clear: Sivalian Dorama Libble O'Nithian, widow of the late Zenedan Adlai Honres O'Nithian, had died in her sleep at the age of sixty-two. Cause of death, at this point, was unknown, but no foul play had been presumed and an autopsy would determine the catalyst for her allegedly peaceful demise. Last relations were her daughter and son, Arvey and Adlai O'Nithian II, the last of which had alerted the City Hall of the death. Family notified. Friends notified. City notified. And in a stamped barrage of regurgitated words, the mayors and bureaucrats upchucked their sympathies.
"There's an additional note," Mistress Kor explained, though her voice was garbled in Arvey's ears as she fought back the stereotypical flood of hot water. "From your brother. I'd imagine you'd desire to read that."
"W-we were never close."
She didn't want to read the note. Her teacher did not cluck her tongue. She did not smirk that token smirk. There was no glint in her visage. She simply nodded, pushed the paper aside, and shuffled herself to sit beside Arvey. The velvet of her sleeve provided a natural warmth to the cold settling on the girl's arched, shivering frame.
"Adlai always seemed to love Mamee more than he loved me," Arvey managed to sputter, still battling the army of tears. "Like my papee. He was a lot like Papee, really. Mamee liked that about him. Well-meaning, but dumb as a brick. My brother could smoke and drink like my mamee, and they bonded over their nights of debauchery. But he was never was capable of getting into schools like I did. I think there was jealousy in that, so he tried to get closer to Mamee than I ever could."
"Understandable."
"I still loved my mamee, though," Arvey choked. "Wholeheartedly. Even when she or Adlai didn't believe it. And now..."
"Now what?"
The bridge of her nose was very hot as Arvey pressed her face into her prayer-clenched hands. "She goes with such impeccable timing. Knowing that I wasn't going to be there."
She had not meant for her words to sound accusatory. She had not intended to paint her mother as wishing to die when her daughter was more independent or had simply vanished into the futuristic ether. None of that mattered, however, when Arvey felt as if her heart was falling out of her eyes in the shadows of salt. She slipped into Mistress Kor's embrace, sobbing into the crook of her arm, and clung to her madly. Her teacher did not waver as the stronghold. She always remained the fortified one.
Arvey longed for a kiss then. Laced with whiskey. It never came.
***
Barkelee and Quinoni were outside on the crest, overlooking the sea that dropped bubbles of foam at their feet. Arvey could detect them by the purple smoke drifting from the tip of Quinoni's cigar. When she approached, her friend lifted the stogie from her lips in a half-hearted greeting, while Barkelee appeared to wave more enthusiastically. Quinoni always seemed more exhausted when sucking on tobacco, the stick of which she once again jammed against her teeth.
"Miss Kor tucked in for the night?" Barkelee asked as Arvey shuffled onto a jagged rock.
"Not yet. You know she doesn't exactly sleep."
"Gotta give her credit," Barkelee sighed. "She acts like she's got Sivalian blood even when she doesn't have the heritage. Ain't that right, Qui?"
"Piss off," Quinoni grumbled between puffs of cloudy ash. The boy laughed.
"She's still mad about the whole Mischiefs ordeal," he explained. "It'll pass. I saw you wince, by the way, when I said Sivalian. You okay, Arv?"
The image of her bronze-haired, marble-faced, gin-reeking mamee wouldn't leave her mind for some time. Even the cigar hinging on Quinoni's lower jaw pained her. Quinoni seemed to notice.
"I think I'm going to take a night hike," she told Barkelee and Arvey as she drew her gray coat against her burly frame. "See if the Crusader's wandering and collecting jellyfish."
"Fisher now."
"Whatever, Crusader sounds better. Maybe we'll discuss astronomy. Good night, ladies."
"She's got the rougher side of the mistress," murmured Barkelee to Arvey as Quinoni disappeared behind a protruding flank of arkstone. "You, on the other side, seem to always soothe Miss Kor."
Arvey could only nod in agreement. The wetness of her crying spell still clogged her throat somewhat.
"You love Miss Kor, don't you?"
She bit her tongue, hard. Now was not the time or place to discuss it. Then again, Barkelee never earned credit for tact.
"I'm sorry. It's just...it's fine. It seems healthy. I think she needs you, Arv. Like you need her."
"I have a favor to ask you."
"Sure," said Barkelee, blinking.
"Well, two favors."
"That's fine, too."
Arvey turned to look at him, her eyes moist in the chill. "First of all, I know Arv is sticking like sap, but do you mind at least trying to call me Arvey? I just...I prefer it. It was my grandmother's name."
"Fair enough," conceded Barkelee. "After all, you don't insist on calling me Barkman like Qui does."
"Second of all," Arvey said, "I just need silence from you with the whole thing with...with Miss Kor. Okay? I'm trying my hardest - my damn hardest - to let it lie. Because it's uncouth, and it's unprofessional, and I'm pretty sure nothing will culminate. It didn't tonight, and it won't tomorrow. So please, I ask you so very politely - keep your mouth shut about my stupid romantic whims and stick to the itinerary."
Arvey took a moment to breathe after that speech. She was unused to moments like that, and they had started coming plenty more times in a brief span of months than they had ever occurred in her earlier life. She let her thighs drag against the rock she had decided to make her throne upon, trying to reorient her posture, and in the next second, a split laugh segmented the stars somewhat above her head.
"Geez, Arvey," chuckled Barkelee, finally getting her name down correctly, as he wiped his brow pseudo-dramatically with his fist. "I didn't think you had the vinegar in you to douse me in that much sass. You are so Sivalian."
"You are so agonizingly nationalist."
"And you're an individual I've grown to like and trust, so I think I'm okay with being my good, hearty self," Barkelee retorted.
Arvey rolled her eyes. But the boy insisted.
"Look, kiddo, I'm here for you. I'm here for Quinoni and Miss Kor, too, obviously, but I can be five percent more here for you. At least. Maybe ten. And don't worry - your secret, however blatant it could be to anyone else, won't be heard out of me."
Arvey couldn't help it. Despite his typically sharp words, Barkelee was serving as that foundation to comfort her further, and in a more contrasting way than Mistress Kor could ever provide. She stood up from the rock and looped an arm across her compatriot's shoulders, giving him the old-fashioned platonic gesture of affection. He reciprocated, his ancestry coursing from his shoulder as he held her in the same one-arm lock, as they awaited Quinoni's return and dreamed for the night to, for once, sleep.
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.
She hesitated outside the door before finally deciding to simply walk in. The winter air scuttled in with her on frosted legs, wrapping the room in an igloo cocoon, as Arvey drew her coat closer around her frame. Mistress Kor's hopes for her to become huskier and more toned muscularly had been fulfilled somewhat; the girl still needed meat on some parts of her anatomy, but she was becoming fuller with each travel, rather than thinner, against the elements and the beasts.
The shoreline house that the group now settled in was owned by the Crusader, who in his retirement was more a Fisherman with a capital F (more the Fisher, in Arvey's mental notes). He was more than happy to let the bloodied Quinoni, the haggard Barkelee, and the ever undisturbed Kor into his residence to stay for a week of rest. The amount of poise and composure that the professor had collected through assumedly years of experience was not something to cluck one's tongue at. Arvey always admired it. She admired it far too intensely, of course, than the average pupil should.
Now Mistress Kor had called her into her room. Coincidence and convenience both played a part in the situation. Arvey had to cater to it. So there she was.
She had never smelled whiskey so strongly. The odor had been palpable during the rendezvous with the Mischiefs, who had emerged as if from the clouds of stardust whisked around the padlocks of moonlit night. Mistress Kor had the spices of the alcohol on her breath. Stark, nearly edible fumes of fermentation. It had smelled good. Whiskey never seemed too harsh or rancid even for Arvey's nose and stomach. And now it was like the drawing fingers to a banquet table, or a pie perched on a window sill above a daffodil garden. The kind Mamee had grown.
Not having the slightest tinge of concern or hypothesis about the conversation that was to take place, Arvey took her seat upon viewing the exposed back of her mentor. Mistress Kor was in her evening waistcoat - rich maroon velvet against backlit currents of amber crisscrossing the walls. A very simplistic sunset background in the chill of winter night, compared to the ornamentation of the mansion in which their adventure had started.
The sound of whiskey splashing and simmering in a chalice stirred Arvey's brain somewhat, signifying Mistress Kor's departure from the Fisher's liquor cabinet. The professor sat down on the sad-looking divan across from her student, the silver in her eyes appearing to be somewhat tarnished.
"You are well?" she asked.
A rudimentary, yet stilted, question. Arvey shrugged. "Mischiefs didn't cause me too many problems. I'm grateful that, in the end, it worked out."
"You understand that these checkpoints laid out do offer some level of outside world contact, correct?"
"Yes, from Zeneda and Sivalia and other regions. I remember Qui receiving a parcel from her uncle at the tavern we stayed at."
Mistress Kor's forehead creased, and not in a comforting way. She took a long drink from her glass before setting it down. Her breath was sour in the air again; Arvey could smell it. Her hand was tracing the left side of her coat, as if seeking out something buried beneath it.
"Our host received this letter from the Zenedan City Hall," she explained, "addressed to you. I've held onto it since we got here."
Arvey frowned. "But it's been two days since - "
"I know," Kor interrupted, hanging her head. "And it was improper, and disrespectful, of me to withhold it. But I was concerned about your physical and mental health, given the weight and intensity of recent events."
She did not have to remind Arvey. While the Mischiefs had become diplomatic in the end, discovering the same end goal of excavation and historical enlightenment, they were brutal at first. Arvey could still remember the way even Quinoni shied away from a Mischief's snarling teeth, Barkelee clinging to the woman's bulky arm while brandishing his knife. It had, predictably, provided some bad dreams, but Arvey considered them inconsequential. She was used to her subconscious thoughts tormenting her. Nights of hot cocoa from her mamee and elder brother was proof of that, and she had forced herself to cope within the academy.
Now Mistress Kor held out the thin, faintly wrinkled letter outward, dangling precariously between her middle and index fingers, waiting for Arvey to take it. It was almost as if she were pinching something grotesque or perturbing - like a bit of bad food held by tongs at an arm's length. Or perhaps more like a venomous spider, dancing on her cuticles, nearly tempted to bite her, letting the toxins spread.
To the sound of crinkling paper, Arvey opened the envelope. The structure of the form letter told more than anything else could. She let the message fall into her lap, bounce, and hiss to the floor.
"No."
Mistress Kor's face was calm stone. Her eyes, however, were caged storms.
"Do you want me to read it?"
Arvey felt her hands clasp and unclasp. She could not say yes or no. Her head moved up and down, her chin jutting forward, even if she had desired to swish her head from side to side. In truth, Mistress Kor didn't have to have it read to her. Zeneda had a way, in its attempt to be more supportive of and communicative with its residents, of making bad news sterile and stoic. Arvey had endured it, of course, at a young age the first time - the untimely death of her papee, when she was in her first year of boarding school, provided a similar piece of emblematic paper.
She kept her steaming eyes averted as Mistress Kor picked up the letter. She read it quickly but intently. It made things very clear: Sivalian Dorama Libble O'Nithian, widow of the late Zenedan Adlai Honres O'Nithian, had died in her sleep at the age of sixty-two. Cause of death, at this point, was unknown, but no foul play had been presumed and an autopsy would determine the catalyst for her allegedly peaceful demise. Last relations were her daughter and son, Arvey and Adlai O'Nithian II, the last of which had alerted the City Hall of the death. Family notified. Friends notified. City notified. And in a stamped barrage of regurgitated words, the mayors and bureaucrats upchucked their sympathies.
"There's an additional note," Mistress Kor explained, though her voice was garbled in Arvey's ears as she fought back the stereotypical flood of hot water. "From your brother. I'd imagine you'd desire to read that."
"W-we were never close."
She didn't want to read the note. Her teacher did not cluck her tongue. She did not smirk that token smirk. There was no glint in her visage. She simply nodded, pushed the paper aside, and shuffled herself to sit beside Arvey. The velvet of her sleeve provided a natural warmth to the cold settling on the girl's arched, shivering frame.
"Adlai always seemed to love Mamee more than he loved me," Arvey managed to sputter, still battling the army of tears. "Like my papee. He was a lot like Papee, really. Mamee liked that about him. Well-meaning, but dumb as a brick. My brother could smoke and drink like my mamee, and they bonded over their nights of debauchery. But he was never was capable of getting into schools like I did. I think there was jealousy in that, so he tried to get closer to Mamee than I ever could."
"Understandable."
"I still loved my mamee, though," Arvey choked. "Wholeheartedly. Even when she or Adlai didn't believe it. And now..."
"Now what?"
The bridge of her nose was very hot as Arvey pressed her face into her prayer-clenched hands. "She goes with such impeccable timing. Knowing that I wasn't going to be there."
She had not meant for her words to sound accusatory. She had not intended to paint her mother as wishing to die when her daughter was more independent or had simply vanished into the futuristic ether. None of that mattered, however, when Arvey felt as if her heart was falling out of her eyes in the shadows of salt. She slipped into Mistress Kor's embrace, sobbing into the crook of her arm, and clung to her madly. Her teacher did not waver as the stronghold. She always remained the fortified one.
Arvey longed for a kiss then. Laced with whiskey. It never came.
***
Barkelee and Quinoni were outside on the crest, overlooking the sea that dropped bubbles of foam at their feet. Arvey could detect them by the purple smoke drifting from the tip of Quinoni's cigar. When she approached, her friend lifted the stogie from her lips in a half-hearted greeting, while Barkelee appeared to wave more enthusiastically. Quinoni always seemed more exhausted when sucking on tobacco, the stick of which she once again jammed against her teeth.
"Miss Kor tucked in for the night?" Barkelee asked as Arvey shuffled onto a jagged rock.
"Not yet. You know she doesn't exactly sleep."
"Gotta give her credit," Barkelee sighed. "She acts like she's got Sivalian blood even when she doesn't have the heritage. Ain't that right, Qui?"
"Piss off," Quinoni grumbled between puffs of cloudy ash. The boy laughed.
"She's still mad about the whole Mischiefs ordeal," he explained. "It'll pass. I saw you wince, by the way, when I said Sivalian. You okay, Arv?"
The image of her bronze-haired, marble-faced, gin-reeking mamee wouldn't leave her mind for some time. Even the cigar hinging on Quinoni's lower jaw pained her. Quinoni seemed to notice.
"I think I'm going to take a night hike," she told Barkelee and Arvey as she drew her gray coat against her burly frame. "See if the Crusader's wandering and collecting jellyfish."
"Fisher now."
"Whatever, Crusader sounds better. Maybe we'll discuss astronomy. Good night, ladies."
"She's got the rougher side of the mistress," murmured Barkelee to Arvey as Quinoni disappeared behind a protruding flank of arkstone. "You, on the other side, seem to always soothe Miss Kor."
Arvey could only nod in agreement. The wetness of her crying spell still clogged her throat somewhat.
"You love Miss Kor, don't you?"
She bit her tongue, hard. Now was not the time or place to discuss it. Then again, Barkelee never earned credit for tact.
"I'm sorry. It's just...it's fine. It seems healthy. I think she needs you, Arv. Like you need her."
"I have a favor to ask you."
"Sure," said Barkelee, blinking.
"Well, two favors."
"That's fine, too."
Arvey turned to look at him, her eyes moist in the chill. "First of all, I know Arv is sticking like sap, but do you mind at least trying to call me Arvey? I just...I prefer it. It was my grandmother's name."
"Fair enough," conceded Barkelee. "After all, you don't insist on calling me Barkman like Qui does."
"Second of all," Arvey said, "I just need silence from you with the whole thing with...with Miss Kor. Okay? I'm trying my hardest - my damn hardest - to let it lie. Because it's uncouth, and it's unprofessional, and I'm pretty sure nothing will culminate. It didn't tonight, and it won't tomorrow. So please, I ask you so very politely - keep your mouth shut about my stupid romantic whims and stick to the itinerary."
Arvey took a moment to breathe after that speech. She was unused to moments like that, and they had started coming plenty more times in a brief span of months than they had ever occurred in her earlier life. She let her thighs drag against the rock she had decided to make her throne upon, trying to reorient her posture, and in the next second, a split laugh segmented the stars somewhat above her head.
"Geez, Arvey," chuckled Barkelee, finally getting her name down correctly, as he wiped his brow pseudo-dramatically with his fist. "I didn't think you had the vinegar in you to douse me in that much sass. You are so Sivalian."
"You are so agonizingly nationalist."
"And you're an individual I've grown to like and trust, so I think I'm okay with being my good, hearty self," Barkelee retorted.
Arvey rolled her eyes. But the boy insisted.
"Look, kiddo, I'm here for you. I'm here for Quinoni and Miss Kor, too, obviously, but I can be five percent more here for you. At least. Maybe ten. And don't worry - your secret, however blatant it could be to anyone else, won't be heard out of me."
Arvey couldn't help it. Despite his typically sharp words, Barkelee was serving as that foundation to comfort her further, and in a more contrasting way than Mistress Kor could ever provide. She stood up from the rock and looped an arm across her compatriot's shoulders, giving him the old-fashioned platonic gesture of affection. He reciprocated, his ancestry coursing from his shoulder as he held her in the same one-arm lock, as they awaited Quinoni's return and dreamed for the night to, for once, sleep.
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.
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