My toe hurts, I just stubbed it and it's bleeding, but I'm going to type this chapter anyway, it's been too damn long. Ok, so it hasn't been that long, but I'm needy and my reviews have dried up and I just read way too many really bad stories in this section and I like to think mine is a little less pitiful than some of them. I'm going to try to answer any pressing reviewer's issue by memory because I'm too lazy to look up what you guys said…
Almaseti: The 'Usage' story was really long, I know. I actually did consider posting it by itself, but I didn't want to post it as a chapter (I get so frustrated when I think a story is updated and it turns out that it's just something stupid having nothing to do with the story) and I didn't want to post it as it's own story because it was really dumb and inevitably some idiot was going to take it seriously and I didn't have time to mock them mercilessly. Sorry to break up the story like that for you though. I solemnly swear not to write any more stories with unbearable spelling, atrocious grammar and a painfully overdone plot (it was way too hard anyway).
Azure-chan: Yes, that's right; I'm a hypocritical bitch. Ha! Ha! Ha! * insert maniacal laugh here * err…well..yeah…thanks.
Misty: I am so enormously happy that you like this! I have another on the way that I hope will not disappoint. I'm glad that I may have inspired you (I just reread some of your stories. I had almost forgotten how amazing you were!). Though I don't remember if that comment was in the review that disappeared or the one everyone else could see. As I have already made apparent I would be more than willing to trade brains with you (though you would be getting a rather raw deal methinks).
P.S. Notice the utter lack of commas in this reply (though judging from the other responses and this chapter I can claim very little progress. Sorry! I'll keep trying).
-Niamh
Mesiree splashed dripping, chapped hands into the cloudy water groping beneath the pearly murk for a handful of fabric to pull to the top. She found it and dragged it up, rubbing the cloth against itself and the board clamped on the side of her cauldron. When she finished she dropped it down a chute to her left and reached her hand once again down into the water. She plunged it down up to her elbow and then to her shoulder until her wrinkled fingers scrapped the metal bottom.
She pulled her hand out, dripping with soapy murky-white water. Leaning on the edge of her black cauldron she breathed deeply, trying to pull enough oxygen into her lungs from the hot, humid air. Mesiree washed linens tucked away in a corner of the washrooms. To her right were two girls that washed the clothing, to her left one that helped with the linens and two that washed what was left, towels, washrags and other things that were neither clothing nor linen. There were always people bustling around, but they rarely spoke to her and she never spoke to them. Mesiree never spoke at all.
One of the menders had said once, as Mesiree emerged from her cauldron, splashed with the cloudy water, her hair soaked so as to make the color indistinguishable, her face and bare arms flecked with stray threads and drowned nits form the sheets she'd been washing, the mender had said the Mesiree was hardly human. They called her sprite or elf, something escaped from Fairy, something that had lost its way.
"She looks like misery itself" they had said when they found her out beneath the clotheslines, no one thought to call her anything else, so she was Mesiree. Mesiree was all bones and angles, pale as a sheet with a face as unimpressive as soapsuds. She never wept, she rarely smiled, she never spoke. As she grew older she still seemed to retain a remarkable blankness in her features. It seemed that there was nothing to snag the eye or for the mind to remember, as if her face induced forgetfulness.
Suddenly, the small ping of a bell sounded above her. Immediately Mesiree's head jerked up. She answered to the bell as she answered to her name, quickly, faithfully. A soft buzzer sounded and the chute above her opened dropping a sack full of dirty linens. Mesiree knew the routine. The sack would drop into the cauldron, if she didn't catch it it would splash the water over the sides, so she recited the steps in her head 'Drop. Stop. Now down gently." The buzzer sounded again and once more she recited the steps silently. 'Drop. Stop. Now gently down.' As the words echoed in her mind she felt as if there were something more to them, as if an untouched power lay behind them. Perhaps if she'd been able to say them she would have been able to unlock their secret, but she could not so she was left to wonder. Straight away she began scrubbing the linens. These were from sector three where the nits had taken hold; they floated by the dozen up to the surface. She flicked them out onto the flagstones where the sweeper, bent and twisted with tufts of snow white hair with a crooked, knarled broom that might very well have grown to be a part of him clutched in his crooked knarled hands. He glanced up and smiled softly at Mesiree as he swept by, brushing the dead nits into the drain, but Mesiree had already turned back to her washing.
Mesiree nearly dove into the water as she struggled to drag the fabric up from the bottom. Pull. Scrub. Pull. Scrub. Pull. Scrub. Toss. Pull. Scrub. Pull. Scrub. Toss. Everything had a rhythm; everything had a pattern to follow. When she had pulled, scrubbed, and tossed the last sheet she leaned wearily against her cauldron, closing her eyes and breathing deeply.
"Mesiree!"
She was shaken from her reverie as she responded immediately to her name. Mesiree followed the thread of the call through the washroom, stepping around the dryers and ironers, ducking under tables and skipping over puddles of water. The washroom was filled with sounds, the hum of the mender's chatter, the roar of the ironer's fire, the slosh of the washer's water, the patter of the ironer's feet constantly running over the flagstones, the heavy thump of wet linens dropping into the chute and somewhere within was Mesiree's name, snaking out and settling in her ears, pulling her toward the wash mistress.
"Mesiree!" the woman cried again and Mesiree appeared in front of her, shapeless dress dripping, expressionless face gazing up. "Here dear." The large rosy woman said in a throaty robust voice, pushing a basket of wet linens into her hands. "We're running low on dryers, I need you to go hang these in the yard. Work harder he says!" she snorted softly. "Oh well" the wash mistress sighed, "One can't expect the prince to understand the washroom." Impatiently she shoed Mesiree out the door.
Mesiree struggled with the awkward basket. It was big enough for her to curl up in and filled with damp linens. Finally she set the basket down and dragged it across the lawn. She did not look past the clotheslines, she focused only on the damp bedding in the basket. This, like everything, had a rhythm. Bend. Stand. Clip. Bend. Stand. Clip. Steps repeating themselves endlessly as Mesiree made her way down the line, dragging the basket after her. Bend. Stand. Clip. She had acquired a remarkable concentration on the task at hand.
As she finished she spared one glance around the yard. There was a soft carpet of brown-green grass crunching under her feet, across the yard was a stand of fruit trees hung heavy with ripe red fruits she had never tasted. Up in the sky white wisps of clouds hung, oddly reminding her of mist and filling her with a longing she could not understand. Bending to pick up the now empty basket, Mesiree slowly shook her head and went inside, pushing away the painful heaviness in her chest.
"Good girl." The wash mistress said as Mesiree brought back the empty basket and stared up at the tall woman blankly. "Your such a strange child" the woman murmured. "You look so simple, but sometimes…" her voice trailed off as she traced a finger down Mesiree's cheek. "Oh well," she sighed "it's just as well that you're so plain, you'll never be expected to do anything more."
The wash mistress turned her back abruptly to scold an ironer who had scorched a man's shirt and Mesiree turned to weave her way back to her cauldron. There was more bustle while she headed back. The washing from sector four had just come in and with it stories enough to keep nearly every tongue in the washroom busy.
Mesiree wound her way around the ironer's oven, crawling under their warm tables as a group of dyers hustled by.
"Sector four," one of the ironers muttered as Mesiree skittered around their feet and ducked under dangling arms of shirts and hems of dresses that draped off the tables.
"Just like the others." this was one of the menders as Mesiree sidestepped their baskets full of thread and fabric scraps.
"Two whole blocks just wiped out." A dryer whispered as he skittered by and Mesiree tucked herself in a corner to avoid being run over.
"Like they weren't even expecting it." This was a washer, murmuring softly to the girl next to her as Mesiree returned to her cauldron.
Quickly she began to pull and scrub once more. The buzzer had sounded while she'd been gone and dropped two sacks of laundry into her cauldron. No one had been there to stop them and put them gently down so Mesiree's bare feet stood in a shallow puddle of quickly cooling water. These sacks had been from sector four, she could tell by the large number stamped on the outside. Someone in the level above had made a mistake. This sack was filled with clothing: shirts skirts, socks. But Mesiree washed whatever fell into her cauldron, she opened the sack and began scrubbing. Unlike the others in the washroom, however, Mesiree didn't gasp or tremble. These shirts, those socks, they'd all been pulled off dead bodies but that didn't mean anything to Mesiree. She had never seen a dead body or sector four, those things were for other people's lives, Mesiree only had the washing. Her life was filled with laundry, past present and future were all filled with buzzers and bells, the sound of her name and an endless sack of dirty laundry stretching as far back as she could remember and as far forward as she cared to look. These things left no room for bodies or sector four or even venturing past the clotheslines.
Mesiree finished the load from sector four just as the dryers were scampering out to bring in the last load from the lines.
"Mesiree!"
Mesiree jerked herself out of her cauldron, trailing murky water behind her as she threaded her way through the hot, clammy washrooms once more.
"Bring in the wash." The wash mistress said briskly, pushing an empty basket into her hands.
Mesiree headed back out to the lawn, the crisp, under watered grass crunching under her feet. Carefully she unpinned the dry washing from the line, putting the clips into the large front pocket of her skirt and folding the shirts, socks and dresses back into the basket. As she folded them, Mesiree studied the small symbols stitched into the inside of the clothing with different colored thread. There was a blue circle, a red square, a yellow flower. Everyone in the city had a different symbol sewn into their clothing. The symbols were there so that everyone got the right clothing back when it returned from the wash. After the last load of washing came in from the lines the menders would be busy ripping the little symbols out and replacing them with new ones. There were so many symbols now that wouldn't be needed, so many that could be reassigned, but Mesiree didn't think about that. Mesiree thought only of the bright threads. Her own symbol was a small blue droplet, like the water that dripped off her hands when she pulled them from her cauldron.
Mesiree struggled with the over-full basket back through the door and placed it on one of the ironer's tables. Quickly she skittered back to her cauldron, ducking under tables and into corners to avoid being trampled. The buzzer would not sound again today, the sun was setting and the wash was over.
Mesiree reached her cauldron and heaved her shoulder against it, pushing it over and spilling the cloudy water into the nearby drain. When she had righted the cauldron, Mesiree grabbed the bucket that sat next to it and carried it over to the faucet. Making several trips to the facet and back, dragging the bucket across the flagstones, she filled the cauldron halfway, leaving room for the warm, soapy water that would pour from another chute above her head in the morning. When she had finished Mesiree set the bucket down and sat in exhaustion, resting her back against the cauldron.
Slowly the washroom began to empty. Those who had homes and families returned to them, those who did not found their own corner to curl up in. Soon the steam that hung heavy in the washroom from the ironers hot water and the full, soapy cauldrons calmed and seemed to thicken, disturbed only by the gentle touch of breath from people already sleeping in the corners. Mesiree, however, remained fully awake. She watched as, somewhere, deep in the depths of the mist that hung in the air, something strange began to stir. Images grew and shifted in the opaque mist. Mesiree watched the dreams form in the mist every night. Perhaps because Mesiree didn't dream herself she felt drawn to these visions. They were her lifeblood. They were her mystery. Mesiree settled herself down, rested her arms on her knees and calmly watched the mist.
Images flitted quickly, silently within the mist. Asking no questions. Making no demands. Gently lulling Mesiree to sleep. Within the mist another, different mist swirled and swelled in a place she could not recognize. There was a tall woman with hair like the leaf stitched into one of the mender's skirts, and a girl with hair like nothing Mesiree had ever seen. Sometimes she could see their faces, but today she could not. The little girl stood facing a small window in the mist. She was watching a boy scream, water was falling all around him and even dripped from his eyes in shapes like the little blue drop stitched into Mesiree's dress. The picture shifted and shivered and a castle rose out of the mist. As the image magnified it seemed to Mesiree that the cloudy-white building was formed from the mist. Suddenly she saw inside the castle and things seemed more solid, there were more colors too. Bright blues and red-golds, vibrant yellow and striking greens. The image shivered again and showed a man with hair she could not understand. Mesiree searched her mind for a color, eventually finding one that fit: lavender. The man had a strange look on his face. 'Sad' she thought, 'strained'.
Suddenly it seemed like the wind picked him up and flung him off the ledge he was standing on. She saw a girl then, standing a little ways away. She opened her mouth as if to cry out and water dripped from her eyes. She flung her arms out and stared with determination even as the water flowed down her cheeks. Mesiree was nearly asleep now and the picture shifted one last time. Just before she fell asleep a face stared out at her with a kind smile and ruby eyes.
~
Well there you go. The plot didn't exactly thicken; it's more like a lot more crap has been added so as to make people forget what kind of soup was being made. I hope you liked it. If you did: review and tell me why. If you didn't: review and tell me why. If you were indifferent: review and…well you get the picture. Anyway, school started this week, so I don't know when another chapter will come out (but as I said before, I'm needy, so it'll probably be soon). I also have another story in the works that I might have to post soon. It is a lot more difficult than this one, I have a huge mass of things to weave in, but I'm having so much fun with it! Now I have to go get a band-aid for my toe.
-Niamh