Sky, bright.
And beneath the glaring white
heavens, scattered flocks of grazing sheep frothed the endless pasture,
resembling white caps above a rolling emerald ocean.
The boy's hand husked the
grass from their sheathes. He had been at the activity a while, pulling
up then tossing the blades in front of him. Those that the intermittent
breeze hadn't borne astray lay neatly stacked in front of his legs. His
badly-scuffed boots, nearly outgrown, were tucked under his knees.
His brother made a stealthy
run up from behind.
"Ow!" exclaimed Liam. He
vigorously rubbed the back of his head after being playfully walloped,
miserable upon realizing he'd deposited grass in his own hair.
His brother somersaulted
forward, rolled up and came back around swiftly. As a natural acrobat,
a sprightly follow-though kept his favorite ecru sweater stain-free while
his laughter seemed to spurt through each hand-knitted cable.
"Here, Liam," said he, walking
on knees and approaching with open arms. He roughly tousled the smaller
boy's mane of loopy brown curls, the gesture full of apology and good-will.
Liam batted the overly attentive
hands away. "Stop it!" he whined.
Which, of course, only intensified
the helpfulness. Eventually they began rolling over one another and the
tufted lawn -- not old enough to sound like young men, too excited to sound
like anything other than young boys, eventually coming to a halt with Liam
betwixt his brother and earth.
"What say you?" his brother
taunted, sitting high in a dominant straddle and wriggling his fingers
under Liam's chin.
Liam, panting heavily, crossed
his brows. His face contorted wildly in an effort to keep from laughing.
"Sto-o-pit!" he moaned.
And, immediately, the older
boy did as he was told. Dismounting, he took a seat on the lawn and pulled
his long legs into his chest. "Storm," he said matter-of-factly, his observant
brown eyes fixed on the horizon.
Liam studied his brother
intently -- only nine and he had already looked so much like their father
that Liam often had to blink twice. Tall with wide shoulders and superbly
coordinated, his brother was several times more agile than other boys his
age. Sudden growth, in the course of one night's rest, had thinned the
childhood from his face and revealed the promise of a boy's adult features,
easily a match to the standards their father had set for handsomeness.
The air whipped around him most curiously, rippling waves in his thick
curls then leaving them be. The freckles gifted him by a long-ago summer
stippled his cheeks. Dark eyes were veiled behind equally dark lashes for
the briefest of moments before drifting kindly towards Liam.
Liam scratched his exact-same
shaped nose and attempted to mimic the smile-not-a-smile, a wry twist of
the lips that the older boy only wore while deep in thought. Grasping both
knees, he rolled himself up, scooted close, leaned over and rested his
head.
"The storm is coming for
me, Athairín," Liam hushed fearfully. He wrapped both arms
around his brother's. Turning his face, Liam buried his nose into the sleeve
and inhaled the lanolin scent that had been roused by the meadow's moisture.
How he loved that scent! The aroma of sunny afternoons spent roughhousing,
rainy ones spent warming by the fire. Indulging in the moment, Liam squeezed
his brother's arm. Clinging tighter than the sweater ever could, he pretended
that nothing had changed.
And that nothing ever would.
The giggle wasn't mean spirited;
for all intents and purposes, it could have been inspired by a tickle.
"The storm is not coming for *you*, Liam," Middle Donn teased, but not
so cruelly to infer Wee Donn was mistaken.
"God is coming to smite me."
Liam's forehead pivoted against texture. "Deum aliquem secur!."
The clenched arm slipped
up and out to curve around Liam's shoulders. With its mate completing the
circle, he enveloped the quivering child tightly, stroked his cheek on
top of the younger boy's head. "I know you were already smarter than me,
Liam, but I've never understood the way you look at the simplest things."
He focused on the distance in an effort to fathom whatever message the
on-shoring clouds were withholding from him only to, moments later, surrender
to incomprehension.
"What if the storm is *only*
for rain?"
With his thoughts in a tangle,
Liam couldn't answer, unable to express how there were just certain things
he *knew* -- that he *felt* deep within. He threw his arms about the tranquil
torso and, hiding his face, strained to hear the muffled beat of his brother's
heart in the darkness...
"LIAM!"
The sweater's turtleneck
scraped his chin as it was yanked down. A clump of earth collided with
the leather uppers of the man's boots before exploding over his trousers'
hem. Wary, the adult crouched to meet the child at eye-level.
"Storm," Liam whimpered.
With his unsteady hand, with
dirt caked under his fingernails, Liam pointed at the charcoal wall that
had consumed the entire Western horizon. The churning Atlantic had seemed
to break free of its Creator's mandate, defying the separation of globe
and firmament. Having already swallowed the late-afternoon sun, the swell's
vulturous appetite soared inland.
The man's open palm neared
his face and Liam recoiled (it could have been possible the boy mistook
anguish for anger, being too young -- too inexperienced -- to know the
difference); his bottom lip misaligned with the upper.
The man became a blur.
"Tears? *You're* the big
boy now!" was harsh, perhaps spoken more roughly than intended. The man
used the heel of his retracted hand to knead an eyebrow before setting
it against his knee to push up to his feet.
"My God, it's not as if you
haven't seen enough rain in your seven years. STAND UP!" The grip was tight
around the thin upper arm, painful at the narrow neck as the man steered
Liam towards the waiting surrey.
"Your mother --" a couple
of swipes across his son's backside, over his shoulders, the back of his
head -- "will have a conniption that you took this sweater. I cannot even
see your hands, Liam!" Two palms brusquely wedged under the boy's armpits
lifted him up and over the low rock wall, depositing him onto the hard
upholstered bench.
Unconcerned, the harnessed
roan-colored mare continued nibbling on a sprig of grass at the roadside.
"Well?"
Liam turned but didn't raise
his eyes. Instead, he stared at the fingers that gripped the edge of the
seat while the man ambled in from the other side. Three little fingers
crept from out of the ecru sleeve, but the longer ones moved away too quickly.
The child's own hand went
back into hiding.
"I declare!" The bridle jangled
for punctuation. "It's as if you have me scold you on purpose! And I don't
know how many times I've asked you not to venture this far from the house.
What if I hadn't taken this road? As it is, Liam -- LIAM! Are you listening
to me, boy? As it is, a prayer heavenward may be all that guarantees we're
home before downpour.
"LIAM!"
Liam, feeling the man's brown
eyes bore into the top of his head, was suddenly unable to remember if
he'd worn a cap and he looked out from under the canopy to back where he'd
been.
The other boy returned the
forlorn regard, but only briefly, before the approaching squall gusted
him asunder...
...
"...been here before, I'll
be happy to show you around, but I don't know how much time we're going
to have with the late dusks and early dawns."
As cool air whistled in through
the car door's worn weather stripping, Angel shivered alert. At nearly
80 miles per hour, the Lumina sailed up the road, barely dipping through
each Interstate pothole. An attempt to decipher the interior's strange
odor proved baffling until the vampire's restless foot skittered across
a Cheerio-strewn vinyl floor mat.
"Well, whatever we can do,
Tibo; although our first priority will, of course, be the reason why The
Powers That Be summoned Angel to Seattle in the first place," Wesley responded
coolly from the back seat before animatedly outbursting, "oooooooh! Is
that *the* Space Needle over there?"
Cordelia smacked Wesley's
pointing finger from in front of her face. "Yes, Wesley. *The* Space Needle.
Guy! you don't really want to go there, do you? It's just tall and all
you see is like the water and the city and some junk. If you've been on
one observational platform, you've experienced them all."
'Downtown', Angel read off
the illuminated highway sign that passed overhead. He looked left for the
landmark in question, only to be sidetracked by Tibo's appearance. The
male's forehead was so sloped that his hawkish nose looked to begin at
his hairline, a hairline from which thin straight hair had been hacked
into a scraggly style. A severe underbite may have devoured the non-existent
top lip; ears sprouted from just above the joint of his lantern jaw. Angel
wasn't sure if the bandana and several strands of pebbles wrapping Tibo's
neck were helping to conceal or accentuate its length.
When he cut a cautionary
glance away from the nearly-empty Interstate, the driver startled Angel.
In 3-dimensional form, Tibo looked perfectly normal.
"Warrior Angel," Tibo spoke
reverently. "You're... aware. Your communion with Them was pleasant, I
hope?"
Cordy strained her seat belt
reaching for his shoulder. "You back from orbit, Angel?"
"It is such an honor. That
I should be in the presence of both The Warrior and his Prism," the driver
continued. "I am dutifully yours and whatever you require --"
Angel flinched from under
Cordelia's hand and against the passenger's side door. "How long ago did
we land?" he inquired curtly.
Wesley's fingertips brushed
Angel's arms as the bespectacled man used the back of the seat in front
of him to hoist forward. "Nearly 45 minutes ago, Angel," he explained,
the headrest half-muffling his answer.
Angel tensed. He glared at
the dashboard clock while it blinked another minute past 4AM. Instinctively,
he looked Eastward. Although the sky was still relatively dark, pre-dawn's
emergence due to their sudden far Northern locale was wreaking havoc with
his internal timing. "Sunrise?"
"Still another hour away,
Fa'am. We're nearly at our destination." Tibo took an offramp and eased
down into the waiting stop signal. "We'll be there in about ten minutes."
-0-
The texture of her collar
made his nose itch, which only increased his attempt to soothe the irritation,
which only meant that he had to root more deeply at the crease of her neck
for some relief.
Which only caused Kathy to
squeal louder. "Faster, Liam. Higher!" she exclaimed as her legs lanced
outward.
She mussed his hair while
he nuzzled her jaw, teethed her throat. Dizzy, he could never comprehend
how Kathy managed to walk a perfectly straight line no matter how lengthy
their gyratory cavorts.
Not that he'd been able to
walk a straight line in over a decade, anyway.
He hugged her tighter and
tried keeping himself balanced. Her free weight nearly torqued them both
into the courtyard's landscaping shrubbery.
"Master Liam! Master Liam!"
He opened one eye beyond
Kathy's swinging curls, every 360 degrees able to make out the figure of
their approaching servant, Anna.
"Please," she hissed, pawing
at the siblings in an effort to slow their boisterous spiral. "Your Mother.
Sir, please!"
But, Anna's petition came
too late. Her message had made little sense until a disgruntled woman emerged
from the house. Wrath infused the demeanor dispatching rebuke before she
dismantled her son's grip. The woman shoved at the child with one hand,
wrung the servant's arm with the other and rushed the two into the house
before ferociously slamming the door.
Swaying to the well, Liam
reached for his balance. As he took a seat on the stone ledge, he noticed
how much grayer the sky was compared to previous day. With the mid-fall
sun practicing its winter hibernation, dense fog had seized reign and was
governing the region malevolently. The only break in the oppressive overcast
was the insurgence of ivory streaks, those from a flock of migratory birds
-- graceful swans returning to Claddagh for their winter roost.
While listening to every
word of the reprimand through the heavy plank door (he was sure that the
nagging even penetrated the dwelling's stone walls), Liam leaned over and
peered into the black depths of the well. Vertigo and his queasiness caught
up with him but he managed to retch aside instead of contaminating the
water; although his decency didn't matter -- in the end, there wasn't anything
for him to bring up.
Still, his body went through
the involuntary reaction.
He thought for a moment to
fall into the waiting abyss, having heard it call his name but, after tossing
his head toward the house, his morbid thoughts were dashed by Kathy --
waggling her fingers at him from behind the window before she was yanked
from his sight.
-0-
"You'll be fine, Angel,"
in a calming British voice was the last thing Angel remembered hearing
on the highway. A few pings from under the hood of the car, now parked
in a residential driveway, signaled that it had been stationary for at
least a minute.
The wide front door of the
Queen Anne Victorian house opened before Tibo had a chance to finish shimmying
his key in the deadbolt.
"You've finally arrived!"
The door opened fully and
the lady of the house stepped aside. Greeting the arrivals while Tibo brushed
past her with a few pieces of luggage, she emphasized, "*all* of you. Please,
come in."
With Wesley waiting for Angel
to bring up the rear, Cordelia crossed the threshold first. Her soft-sided
case was plunked onto the hardwood entry way the second she got inside.
"I'm a desert!" she proclaimed to Tibo, expecting him to understand what
the letter 'C' hand-signed at her lips meant.
"Cordelia!" Wesley chided,
producing his hand to the lady of the manor. "Wesley Wyndam-Pryce and my
associates, Cordelia Chase and Angel," he introduced, flourishing a hand
at each.
"Etrix March," their hostess
replied. "But the kids call me Trixie. And you've met my nephew, Tibo,
already."
"*You're* the Warrior we're
here to help?" Angel asked, his skepticism apparent in the tone of his
voice.
"Me?" Trixie chuckled, scraping
at the sudden flush of her tanned oval face with the back of her fingers.
"Oh, not me. I'm an almost-old woman. No I'm just the Foster Mom, here."
She eyed an unspoken comment
at Tibo before casting her gaze at the person bounding down the staircase.
"*She's* the Warrior, here."
Following a sudden internal
pull, Cordelia turned her head to watch Angel, with a grave expression
on his face, shrink into the early morning shadows of the adjoining library.
"Angel?" she petitioned, only able to manage one tentative step in his
direction before turning back around, losing all interest in his reaction
the instant Wesley introduced her to the Warrior, Gale.
-0-
The attic room was simply
furnished, aiding the illusion of spaciousness. It was as tall as the peaked
roof centered above the staircase, before narrowing into each of three
sloping sides.
"It's not large, but there's
a private restroom over here," Tibo pointed out, holding a door open for
Angel's inspection.
But the vampire ignored the
tour.
Tibo surveyed the arrangements.
After nodding to himself in silent approval, he dropped a knee to the hardwood
floor. With his head lowered, he respectfully assured, "I think you will
be comfortable here, Fa'am."
"It'll do," Angel stated,
facing a window. A pinch of the Venetian blinds' cord -- the slightest
of movements -- caused them to clatter down; an infinitesimal tug shuttered
dawn from the room. As if on cue, his body succumbed to weariness. He sagged
against the wainscoted wall for support and turned around slowly.
"Get. Up," he ordered.
Uncertain, Tibo rose but
remained deeply bowing from his waist. "I did not mean to offend -- " he
began, his apology cropped by the hand that forced him upright. The touch,
firm, was barely a touch at all. Tibo floundered to make sense of the dichotomy.
Already at the opposite end
of the room, Angel closed the remaining blinds.
"Apologies. All would have
been prepared for you, Fa'am," Tibo submitted, "but we had no idea
*who* the arriving Warrior was so we didn't prepare properly, it's obvious."
He paused to study Angel, fascinated by the being's silent gait while beneath
his own stance Tibo heard a nearly century-old joist squeak.
His eyes widened; his chin
fell; hands were steepled against his nose. "And we haven't prepared for
your nourishment, either," was equal parts insight and contrition.
With his head cocked to one
side, Angel's eyes discharged animosity. "I can feed myself," he seethed.
"Now, go."
Tibo's head bobbed as if
no longer attached to his spine with each backstep he took down the stairs.
The door at the bottom closed after a prolonged click.
Stimulated by the full sun
warming the gabled roof, a musty smell began permeating the room, one that
even the wardrobe's cedar lining couldn't mask. The attic had been recently
converted to living quarters, Angel surmised, whiffing the fresh coat of
varnish that had been applied to the floor. Converted, but never lived
in.
*Still* not being lived in.
He shucked off his coat and
draped it across the foot of the bed before crumpling onto the brand new
mattress. His hands clasped his wrists; his arms corralled his shins. Angel
nestled his forehead against his knees and watched-without-watching while
a mouse timidly ventured from her hiding place...
...
A gentle caress rearranged
his matted tresses. Liam smiled without opening his eyes, unwilling to
let his pleasant dream be sullied by reality.
"When was the last time he
ate?" didn't sound like her voice. The tone was too mature, condescending,
callous; too familiar, his heart wrenched. "And when was the last time
this sty was cleaned? You may not have respect for yourself, but I'll not
have my brother reside in such squalor!"
Liam cringed. His eyelids
unfurled. "I thought I was dreaming," he muttered into the back of his
hand. Unfocused, he groped for perception.
Pinned by Kathy's stern regard,
the redhead fumbled to tie the bodice of her dressing gown over an uncorseted
bosom. Her hastily drawstrung skirt threatened to droop off her round hips.
"Liam?" she implored, blinking back tears.
"Now, now, Kathy," a familiar
masculine voice placated. His inveterate chuckle rumbled nervously.
Kathy's attention softened
considerably once redirected from the cowering young woman and lavished
upon her brother. An affectionate inclination of her head lowered her lips
to his brow. "Not dreaming, Liam," she whispered.
Predictably, using what little
strength he could muster, he captured her, squeezing the breath from her
lungs. "Kathy!" he repeated into the curls splashing over his face, kissing
the velvet adorning her shoulders.
"Just talk to him, Liam.
I know he'll let you come home," she panted against his cheek. "Please,
please."
Liam bolted off the soiled
cot. "Noooooooo," he protested, stretching to keep hold of her as she flew
from his arms.
The chaperone set Kathy upright,
adjusted her cape, and prodded her hair into proper order. "Come, Kathleen,
or you'll be smelling like sin and set your father to wondering when the
bakery relocated to the bog." Once satisfied with Kathy's appearance, he
addressed Liam, "she's right, you know. No apologies, even, if you'd just
go back."
As the blowzy female returned
with a wedge of bread, Kathy pulled back her arm. She shook her head disapprovingly,
berating, "you've got nothing fresher?" while being tugged out the door.
She squirmed and she reeled,
stubbornly ignoring entreaties of "Kathleen! Let's go!" Half-carried
away, mostly dragged across the paving stones, the soles of Kathy's shoes
echoed her screeching.
Shirtless, unshod, and with
his trousers barely fastened, Liam tore after his sister. "Please, Shay,
a minute more! Kathy!" Catching up to the pair before they reached the
sunny plaza, Liam fell onto his knees. Embracing Kathy's slender waist,
he sobbed, "I miss you so much" into her tender heart.
The stubby fingers that separated
the siblings, traced the cleft in Liam's chin before drawing away (that
they were discreetly wiped behind his lapel did not go unnoticed). "I was
barely able to arrange *this*, Liam," was tinged with uncharacteristic
sorrow.
"Don't ask again."
There were comments made,
comments that were hardly original. Liam didn't listen to those passing
by, having memorized all their taunts. Instead, he waited at the mouth
of the alley in the hopes that Kathy would find a way to return. But she'd
become a speck halfway past the pub he'd spent the night in and completely
disappeared into the morning crowd before everything went fuzzy...
...
Her hands on his cheeks were
warm and he fell into them -- just for a moment. "Are you OK?" she asked.
Her voice, overly-solicitous, was almost unrecognizable.
After he nodded, Cordelia
dropped her hands and exchanged Angel's face for a pillow. "I probably
woke you up, huh?" With her mouth tucked at one corner, she managed a one-sided
smile. "Serious, boy! You got the *nice* room, Angel. They rearranged some
of the kids but I still have to share with Wesley."
Languidly, Angel's eyes met
hers. "And where *is* Wesley?"
"Training Gale." She raised
one hand, absorbed with making Angel's collar fold perfectly along its
stand. "You ever think about using starch? Although, on black you'd probably
end up with flecky things that would make you look seborheatic."
Angel didn't notice her shudder,
didn't hear Cordelia's cringing, "ew!" by being far too absorbed in his
own contemplations. About ogres -- of their appearances and advances.
Of their variants.
And genders.
-0-
evancomo@netscape.net
