Memoirs

by Spank the Gables, the best duo since Simon and Garfunkel

This story was written with one purpose: to give Zagato, and other characters in Cephiro, some fleshing out. Some backstory. Enjoy.

Crouched behind the thick underbrush, Zagato concentrated with all his eleven-year-old might on remaining as silent and invisible as possible. His breath came long and slow, the mingled scents of wet earth and natural decay heady in his mouth and nose. They stung at the back of his throat, pinned there by the even sharper smell of crushed holly. Entire handfuls of spikey, barbed leaves rubbed into his skin with such force as to tint it wintergreen, smeared across his hands and face and arms to mask the little-boy scent of him. Beads of sweat dampened the hair at the nape of his neck and temples as he strained his eyes through the small peephole afforded to him by the dense, intertwined branches of the brush. His limbs trembled with the effort of such prolonged stillness. There were cramps in his calves and thighs, and his shoulders ached from tension. And there were bugs. Lots of bugs. They buzzed around his ears and crawled up the sleeves of his shirt. Little red bumps peppered his skin like the blemishes he wouldn't have to endure for a few years yet. They itched something awful. The act of not scratching them almost drove him to frustrated tears. But to move would mean noise, and the smallest sound worked against him.

Birds wheeled above the canopy of trees, their distant cries filtered into faint whistles by the cool blue shadows below. The sounds registered in Zagato's ears, but he couldn't be bothered to glance up. No doubt they were pretty creatures, all flashing wings and glinting crests, but his quarry surpassed them by far. Now if only it would take the bait he'd set out early that morning; fruit snuck from the kitchen, peeled and scattered across the devil's snare of ground-vines. He'd been waiting in this same position since first light, hunched into a crouch, a net of thin wire clenched in his now grubby hands.

How much longer? The urge to stretch, to scratch the itchy bumps until they burst, was overwhelming. He suppressed the urge to sigh, satisfying himself with a fearsome scowl. Facial expressions didn't make any noise, after all. It was time for a compromise. How about waiting until the sunspots dappling the ivy had moved another foot or so, and then calling it a day? Zagato ran this suggestion past the little panel of judges in his head and awaited a decision. They came back unanimous, save for that one guy who could always be counted on to nay-say everything.

The minutes ticked by, the light crept along slowly as Cephiro wheeled in orbit. Zagato had begun to peel his now cramping fingers from their deathgrip on the net when a soft glow materialized in the thicket across the vine-choked patch of ground. He froze, unable to stop the hissing of air suddenly sucked past his clenched teeth. Wide-eyed, he clamped a dirt smudged hand over his mouth and watched as the glow bobbed and weaved through the tangles of growth.

As it grew closer he was able to make out a form inside the glow. A bipedal, birdlike shape. Perhaps a foot tall, it picked its way across the vines on long, thin hindlegs. Its two forearms ended in tiny, three fingered hands. Its head was that of a raptor, razor beak and large, intelligent eyes. The aura around it came from the animal's plumage, which sparked and shone with all the colors fire could produce. The feathers were what made the avian so remarkable, that set it apart in a world of strange and curious creatures. A tall, frilled crest rose along the skull and down the neck, the ends of the thin hairs topped with small globes of light. The head itself was coated in a downy fuzz of gold, deepening into mahogany edging around the eyes and beak. The thick feathers of the neck and chest were bronze, a warm tone that slowly melded into cherry red along the flanks and hind legs. But Zagato had eyes only for the tailfeathers. Like flame given form, intense yellow and orange, even fireheart blue and flickers of green and purple. They pulsed with light and warmth. Long, whippy hairs, like diamond filaments, bristled among the feathers. Sparks flew when they brushed up against each other, miniature fireworks that popped like bursting soap bubbles.

The bird bent over and plucked a piece of peeled fruit from between the vines. It passed it from hand to hand, head tilted quizzically to the side. After a moment of consideration, it scissored a neat chunk off the side of the overripe glob.

Zagato held his breath and sank closer to the ground. He had to be careful, and above all, quiet. For such an eyecatching animal to survive, it had to have exceptional hearing and eyesight. And they had one other natural defense mechanism that-

"ZAGATO!"

Both boy and bird whirled around at the noise. Zagato's stomach sank to ankle-level.

"No, Lantis, don-!" He hissed, just before his brother tackled him like a sack full of bricks.

The impact sent them both crashing through the brush. Zagato found himself flat on his back, his left arm pinned beneath his body, both ankles ensnared in the ground-vines. He opened his eyes, and as the haze and the stars cleared he realized that the air had a charged, static feeling that had not been there a moment before. Nevermind the wind knocked from his lungs, nevermind the scratches and bruises that were sure to result, all he could think of was that one dangerous defense mechanism.

Lantis raised his head from his brother's chest and blinked dizzily. "An aquilla bird?! Are you stupi-"

"Get DOWN!" Zagato's ankle made a hideous popping noise as he twisted around, putting his back between his brother and the sudden explosion.

All the long filaments on the bird's tail stood on end and clashed together. The result was a BANG and a shower of sparks that sizzled against the damp leaves. Zagato winced as one or two landed on exposed skin. Lantis eeped and put his arms over his head.

The flutter of wings signaled the bird's escape. Zagato shoved his brother away and sat up to rub his ankle.

"Ow!" Lantis kicked at him as he scrambled to his feet. "What was that for?!"

"For ruining everything!" Zagato snapped, scooping up a slice of fruit to throw at him. "Why'd you have to shout like that?! I told you I was going out to catch an aquilla! I need its tailfeathers for Mother's birthday present! "

Lantis took the splat to the face and fell over on his backside with a thump. He blinked in stunned surprise before launching himself at his brother in a flurry of flailing fists. Zagato sighed and gave him another backward shove. Lantis shot him a reproachful glare but stayed down, eyeing the glob of squishy fruit in Zagato's hand.

"Mama sent me to find you," He sulked, "It's dinnertime, and Papa's gonna work after we eat. He said we could watch if we wanted."

There was a moment of silence as the two boys stared each other down. Lantis, scratched and bruised and spattered with globs of fruit. Zagato, equally banged up, skin tinted green, the edges of his clothing and the end of his ponytail smoldering from the shower of sparks.

"Oh," Zagato said at last.

"Tho' if you ask me...it's going to take a lot more than aquilla feathers to save you now," said Lantis.

Sneaking back home wasn't an issue, cleaning up and stashing the enchanted anti-monster-magic netting back in the shed was. They ditched their scorched and sticky clothing in a bush behind the house and crept around to the washroom window. Zagato gave Lantis a boost, then jumped up to grab the sill. He planted his feet against the domed wall and heaved himself through the window with a grunt. Lantis was already at the basin, scrubbing furiously at an orange splotch on his stomach.

"Here," He said, tossing his brother a bar of soap. "Better hurry,"

Zagato examined his leafstained hands in despair; it'd take a wire bristled brush to scrape that stuff off. He lathered up anyway, encouraged by the resulting green foam.

"What are you two doing in here?!"

He gripped the soap a little too tightly in alarm. It rocketed out of his hands, thwacked Lantis squarely between the eyes, and spun across the tiled floor to come to rest before his mother's slippered foot. She frowned, brown eyes narrowing at her errant children. Her arms were folded across her chest, her sleeves tied back so as to keep them out of the way during housework. A vivid blue kerchief covered her head, serving to keep her hair out of her face as she worked; the rest was bound back into a braid, which fell over her right shoulder.

Lantis, now flat on his back, opened his mouth and pointed at Zagato. Their mother raised her hands and shook her head.

"Nevermind. Forget I asked. Just get dressed, get to the table, and don't forget to retrieve your clothes from- Zagato, why do you smell of burnt hair?!"

"It's...a secret?"

She took a deep breath. Her eyes closed and a serene expression fell over her face. The boys gulped. Their mother was not a loud person, the sheer force of her disapproval rang louder than any shouts.

"Dinner's on the table," She said, raising an arm to point imperiously down the short hallway. "Go eat. Your father's at the shop. He's expecting you shortly."

"Yesmother," They blurted as one. They scrambled to their feet and clattered down the hall, fleeing the maternal wrath.

"Boy," Lantis sighed as he and Zagato walked the short distance from their house to their father's workshop, "I really thought we were in for it that time..."

"Mm," Zagato nodded in agreement as he prodded a chunk of food loose from his molars. No matter how angry Mother might have been, she sure hadn't stinted on dinner. The two of them practically waddled down the dusty, unpaved street. Short, spherical houses lined the road, their yards bursting with flowers and vegetable gardens. Women worked among the greenery, tending to their household's produce while keeping a watchful eye on their small children playing nearby.

Houses gave way to businesses; larger buildings with wide windows front windows and colorful signs. Grocer, Tailor, Baker, a small café, and at the end of the row their father's shop; the Artisan's.

The bell above the door jingled merrily as Zagato pushed the door open. The inside of the shop was spacious and mostly bare. The curving whitewashed walls gave the illusion of being inside a giant eggshell. The boys pulled off their shoes and left them by the door; the wooden floor shone with wax, no nicks or scratches or other signs of traffic visible. They liked to keep it that way. A lamp hung at the apex of the curved ceiling, providing illumination. Stacks of raw materials, cords of wood, bars of metal, bolts of cloth, were stacked in neat piles around the room. A counter stood against the back wall, a lockbox stowed safely away behind it. Finished products sat on shelves above the counter, waiting to be picked up and paid for.

As the village artisan, their father took commissions on tools, farm implements, jewelry and ornamentation, even pots and pans. He was every craftsman rolled into one, and cheaper than most. He worked mostly on the barter system, goods in exchange for services. Usually customers brought their own materials to be molded into items, but he kept generic stuffs around for those who could not provide them. Prices were altered accordingly, of course.

Lantis took a hopskip start and sent skidding across the floor in his socks, whooping with glee. "Papa, we're here!" He called out. Zagato rolled his eyes and climbed up to perch on a pile of wood.

A door opened beside the counter, so well fit into the wall as to be virtually invisible until opened. Their father stepped out from the storage room behind the shop, his mouth curved into a wide grin. Thick, shaggy brown bangs almost completely obscured his blue eyes. Smile lines crinkled at the corner of eyes and mouth, seaming tanned skin. He wore a simple green tunic belted over pants that had once been white. Once. Before Zagato had even been born. Over a decade of work had stained them a sort of non-color, a gray/brown shade. He scrubbed his hands off on his thighs and tossed a dusty cloth onto the counter.

"So, Zagato, how went the hunt?" He asked as he caught up his wildly sliding youngest son. Lantis laughed and flailed as he was deposited squarely on wide shoulders.

Zagato's eyes damn near bugged out of his head. "How did you know?!" He squeaked, already running a mental calculation of just how long he'd be doing chores to make up for this one.

"You asked me how to go about creating an inescapable net," his father chuckled, "It doesn't take a mind reader, son."

"...you're not angry?" Zagato drummed his heels against the woodpile, wincing.

"You know better than to do anything too dangerous," came the reply, "Or at least I expect you do. If not, well, privileges can be revoked and lessons learned. And that's that." He leaned over, easing Lantis back to the floor. "Go sit with your brother."

"Yessir!" Lantis scurried across the floor and swarmed up the stack. Zagato scootched over to make room, all his attention now bent on the center of the shop.

"What are you making today, father?" He asked, leaning forward over his knees.

"Fiat needs a new tongue and yoke for his wagon," their father responded, somewhat distracted as he assessed the materials available to work with. "He dropped off the metals to be alloyed earlier this morning."

"Those ones over there?" Lantis pointed to a pile of ingots arranged neatly beneath a piece of draft paper tacked to the wall; the designs for the wagon parts. In order for an artisan to shape a reliable tool, he had to know his creation inside and out. The function, the form, the larger whole the pieces would be fitted to. These notes were scribbled down beside the designs and committed to memory.

"That would be them, yes," Father nodded and crooked a wrist towards the pile. A faint shimmer of will curled about the small metal bricks, lifting them into the air. They floated over towards the artisan, whose eyes had already gone faraway. A solemn hush fell over the boys as they watched him work.

A great deal of ceremony went with creation, yes, but for simple tools such as these, he could dispense of the showy parts. The ingots gathered in a rough circle with their father at the center. They bobbed gently in the air, buoys on unseen currents of air. Father frowned in thoughtful concentration, a small crease appearing between his eyebrows. The metal's solid form wavered into molten blobs, like liquid in zero gravity. They began to move slowly, drifting counterclockwise around the artisan. Speed gathered gradually until they ran together, spinning in a ring at shoulder-height. A wind whipped through the shop, stirring papers and blowing the boys' hair into their eyes.

Zagato scraped inky strands from his face, squinting to see past the blast. The ring of base metals glowed cherry red from within, as though a giant hand were shaping and tempering it upon an unseen forge. One could almost hear the distant ring of hammer and anvil as the artisan raised an arm into the air and the alloy surged up to follow the motion. It gathered in a rough ball overhead, quivering and rippling with contained energies.

Their father caught it in his raised hands, his eyes now closed as he bent his will upon the blob. Blunt, calloused fingers molded the metal, coaxing it out of its sphere. The metal snaked and curved as though it were alive, the red hot light within dimming as it cooled.

The boys watched in fascination as he shaped the metal into its desired form. Now already carved bits of wood, toggles and finishings, flew from their allotted pile towards the nearly completed wagon tongue. Tools cascaded out from a drawer behind the counter, going to work at chasings and detailing. Just because this particular object would be tacked to the underside of a wagon, rarely seen, was no reason not to make it pleasing to the eye as well as functional. That was their father's philosophy.

Finished at last, the tongue was lowered onto the shelf with the other commissions. And then the process began again, utilizing less metal and more wood and leather for the purpose of creating a yoke. By the time he had finished with it, the artisan was dripping with sweat, his hair plastered against his forehead. The shimmers of air carried the yoke over and set it gently down beside its companion.

Lantis broke into applause while Zagato climbed down off the woodpile and ran to fetch his father a drink. There was a pump just outside, between their shop and the tailor's.

Someone was already holding the door open for him.

Zagato stopped and blinked at the strange, short man. He was clearly not from their village, nor any of the neighboring ones. He wore heavy, ornate robes not at all suited to hard work or summer heat. The collar of the robes enveloped his neck and shoulders, cinched at the chest by a large gem of some sort. Zagato's eyes moved on up to the man's face, and he made a mental reassessment of age; no way was this guy any older than some of the other children he played with. The face was youthful, topped by wild lavender hair. An intricate headband, also studded with unusual stones, made a valiant effort to keep the tussled hair at bay. A horn sprouted from the center of the band, curving back like those of some beasts Zagato had seen.

"Go on," Zagato blinked; the person's voice was clearly that of an adult. Not as deep as his father's perhaps, but close. Certainly not a child's voice. He adjusted his guess back to 'grownup'.

The stranger smiled and gestured out the door with the enormous staff he carried in his left hand. Zagato took another moment to stare at that, fascinated. It was almost twice as tall as its bearer, a slender shaft of metal topped in a bizarre, abstract lump of the same metal. At second glance, the head of the staff resembled the skull of some snarling animal...and then he blinked and it was nothing but a curiously shaped endpiece. It looked awfully heavy though. He doubted he could lift it. Perhaps it was a weapon of some sort?

"Thank you," He responded, not so preoccupied as to forget the manners his mother had drilled into him. He slipped out the door and hopped off the stoop. No one else was using the pump at the moment, so he dragged the wooden bucket they kept beside the shop's door over to it. He had to stand on his tiptoes to reach the pump's handle. It took some priming before he got so much as a trickle, but he was used to it; they needed to drill the well a bit deeper in this area. The underwater vein had probably carved itself even further down into the bedrock.

As the water gushed into the bucket, Zagato wondered about the stranger. He'd never seen anyone in such fancy clothes before. He must be an important person. Or at least a rich one. But what business would someone like that have at his father's shop? It didn't make any sense that he could see. He wasn't sure he liked this.

Bucket now full, he began the process of dragging it back to the shop; it was a little heavy for him, yet. He needed to work on carrying heavy things, so he could help out around the store.

Zagato managed to get the bucket up the stairs and shoulder open the door without spilling too much. The bell jingled softly as the door shut behind him. He set the bucket down against the inside wall and looked up, expecting his father to be there to take it from him.

Instead, he found the two adults in deep discussion. The short man seemed very calm and collected, while his father looked troubled. Lantis, the only one to notice Zagato's arrival, slipped over to him and said quietly,

"They're talking about you,"

Zagato blinked. What had he done?

The grownups noticed his presence just then. Suddenly all eyes were on him. Zagato resisted the urge to squirm under the focus of the stranger's gaze. He held the bucket up to his father instead.

"Here Father," he said, "I thought you might want to wash off."

"Thank you, Zagato," The artisan's strong hands lifted the bucket away as though it weighed nothing. He held it to his chest in the crook of his arm and splashed the water over his face with his free hand. The ends of his bangs dripped, sprinkling the shoulders and front of his shirt. There was a moment of awkward silence.

"Zagato," His father said at last, gesturing towards the stranger. "This is Guru Clef."

Both boys eeped. Children they might have been, but even they had heard of the Guru.

"He has an offer for you," Father's voice sounded a little strained, as though he had suddenly gone all lightheaded. "He would like...to make you his pupil."

To be continued.