Charlie, are you pondering what I'm pondering?
DALTON: …I think so, Dakki, but can the Gummi Worms really live in peace with the Marshmallow Chicks?
(grins) Been trying to teach him that all week…
However! Even more important (and completely un-"Pinky and the Brain"-related) news is to be had…Dalton?
DALTON: We broke100 reviews!
(cheers) WE BEAT 'EM!
(pause)
DALTON: Um…beat who?
(cheerfully) Oh, who knows. The point is, we're this much closer to world domination…and tomorrow night, Charlie, we'll come up with another plan—one that won't be foiled by our inability to access David Moscow's underwear.
DALTON: Narf.
(grins)…Narf indeed.
And now, on with the fic!
.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.
Chinese Lantern
.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,
Chapter Seven—
Songs to Aging Children
.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.
"Say after me—
It's no better to be safe than sorry…"
—A-Ha, "Take On Me"
.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.
They rode, they rode, they rode. Underground there were few ways to measure distance, much less time—what felt like months could be an hour, and what felt like an hour could be months—but as they hurtled ever forward, for a night and a day, they knew it had been too long since they had seen the sun.
The train was beautiful, abandoned, faster than anything—it ran with the quiet speed of steel on steel, and never stopped. From what Ershey had told her about it, Maddox had imagined that it would be like a subway car, all sparseness and fluorescence, but nothing could have been further from the truth. The Nouri Nightly Express, as it had been known in better days, was a long-abandoned luxury train, untouched for centuries, as elegant and doomed as the Titanic.
The dining car was where they made their home. Spot unearthed an old book of matches, and lit a few candles, casting light on the snowy table linens and crystal champagne flutes, the lush red carpets and hardwood panels. Like the gentleman's clubs back home, where all the rich fellas went on Saturday nights, for brandy and cigars, and dinner with their friends…
"Any food?" he called to Maddox, who was in the other room, ransacking the kitchen cupboards.
"Nothing much. Gin, celery tonic, seltzer water, oil of cloves, soda crackers…"
"Soda crackers might be good," he said hopefully.
"Yeah…trust me. No." She poked her head out into the corridor and glanced at Spot, sitting at one of the dining table and looking as if he was about to pass out from hunger. "Look in the parcel Coin packed for us," she suggested.
Coin! Spot thought. May God and all the holy high penguins of heaven bless her for all eternity. Picking the parcel up from the floor, he undid the knots and took a look at their supplies. Along with a loaf of bread, two halfpenny bars of chocolate, some cheese, water, and barley sugar, there was a small sack of gold coins, a few books, straight pens and paper, and finally, two toothbrushes, in a pleasant shade of Molly Rinwald Pink.
"She thought of everything," Maddox murmured, as she took a seat across the table from Spot, toying with the rim of a wineglass.
"No toothpaste," he pointed out.
"Well, nobody's perfect…"
They had a stately dinner, eating their bread and cheese and chocolate on place settings designed for nine- or ten-course meals, complete with six different cut-crystal glasses, china plates, and thirteen different pieces of silverware, all the way down to a tiny, mother-of-pearl-handled oyster fork. Sitting there as they shared a meal, passing back and forth a bottle of red ale that they had managed to unearth, they could still hear the echoes of people from another era in the dark city—businessmen conferring with each other over Turkish coffee; society matrons in elbow-gloves and tiered hats holding their silverware like surgeon's tools as they dispatched of their Sunday-night dinners, from cream soup to red wine, living less as people than as symbols of the opulence that surrounded them. It was as if, now, those spirits were still unable to rest.
Perhaps indigestion was at fault.
Still, the place gave Maddox the willies, and although Spot wasn't about to admit it, he felt the same way. So after dinner they found their way into one of the lounges, a small, rosy parlor not unlike Ershey's apartments back at the Dall Mansions, complete with a fireplace, heavy mahogany furniture, and curtained windows on either side (this last, especially, heartened Maddox—it meant that, soon, they would be seeing light).
It must have been well past midnight by that time, or sometime in the small hours of the morning. But for some reason, Maddox wasn't tired. So while Spot curled up on one of the divans, and fell into a restless sleep, with periodic sleep mumblings ("WET TOAST!"), Maddox sat down in a chair by the window, leaned her head against the glass, cracked open one of the books Coin had packed, and began to bone up on her Möbian history.
.,.,.,.,.,.,
"I just want to apologize to Josh's mom…and Mike's mom…and my mom. I am so sorry—because it was my fault. I was the one who brought them here. I was the one that said 'keep going south.' I was the one who said that we were not lost. It was my fault, because it was my project. I am so scared. I don't know what's out there. We are—"
"…Maddie?"
"AAYIERGH!"
Spot approached her tentatively, not wanting to take any chances after seeing she was capable of jumping three feet in the air. "You okay?"
"You shouldn't sneak up on people like that!" cried Maddox, who had been busy practicing her tearful Blair Witch Project confessionand had just gotten herself sobbing by thinking about how Jell-O didn't make pineapple flavored gelatin, and probably never would.
Spot, who had just woken up, and was wondering if Maddox still had that canteen of water that Coin had packed for them (and why she was crying about some guy named Josh), sighed and sat down in the chair beside her, deciding that it was probably best not to ask any questions.
"Spot?" she asked quietly, pushing her dark hair out of her eyes.
"Hmm?"
"What are your feelings on Jell-O?"
"What?"
"You know, the wobbly stuff?"
He paused a moment to contemplate this. "…That what you're callin' tits, where you come from?"
"Um." She looked down. "No…it's sweet, and it comes in different flavors. Gelatin."
"Oh! That." He smiled. "Yeah, I used ta like it when I was a kid…always annoyed me how ya couldn't get pineapple, though."
Smiling faintly, Maddox bit her lip and turned once again towards the window, only to startle Spot out of his wits once again, this time by reaching out and blindly grabbing his shoulder with an urgency that suggested death, money, or a vast amount of alcohol. "Look," she whispered. "Daylight."
And she was right. At last, at last—they had come out from underground and into the world once again. They were deep, deep in a valley, an overcast sky above them and rain coming down as steady and slow as heartache. They could see old ruins of estates and humble lean-to farmhouses in the distance, rickety chimneys releasing a curled calligraphy of smoke and cinders, coloring the sky a darker shade of gray. For that seemed to be the only color—the sky, the frozen river where bundled workmen cut blocks of ice, even the trees stretching high above them and the rugged, dark cliff-faces even higher—nothing bright, nothing sharp or cool or vivid. Not even the false beauty of the Dall mansions. Even looking out the window made Spot hunger for color—and he hoped, more than anything, that they could just barrel past all of this, to someplace further on, someplace where they could at least see the sun.
And just then, as if he had wished for it, the train stopped dead in its tracks.
"Beautiful."
"Well," Maddox said, sounding just a little too cheerful as she stood up and began to straighten out, "personally, I've been wanting to stretch my legs."
Of course, Spot just glared at her. And, of course, she took that as a 'yes'.
.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.
Edda Solasc was having an altogether normal day. He got up in the dark, dressed, built the fire while the house was still asleep, went out to the barnyard and brought in the morning's milk and eggs, broken his fast with jam and stale bread left over from last week's baking day with his wife, children, cousin and mother-in-law crowded around the table, and headed out for work, just as he did almost every morning. He wasn't sure what time it was—no one really kept time, in the town of Grisette—but the sun had begun to move more or less towards the horizon, rather than away from it, and the persistent rain that had been following him all morning had begun to fall a little heavier when he first heard the sound of someone tramping through the undergrowth, and voices raised.
"NINE GREEN BOTTLES! HANGIN' ON THE WALL! NINE GREEN BOTTLES! HANGIN' ON THE WALL! AN' IF ONE GREEN BOTTLE SHOULD ACCIDENTLY FALL—sin' it with me, Maddie!—THERE'LL BE EIGHT GREEN BOTTLES, HANGIN' ON THE WALL!" Whoever it was paused for breath. "EIGHT GREEN BOTTLES, HANGIN' ON—"
"You're a happy drunk, aren't you Spot?" a second, slightly calmer voice said.
"I," the second voice said, "am not drunk."
"I dunno, Spotty, you seem to have put a pretty good dent in that flask of whiskey Coin packed for us."
"Spotty? Did you just cawl me Spotty?"
The second voice laughed. "Come on, ease off. I wouldn't be picking a fight with someone who's taller than I am—"
"Oh, not by much—"
…Stiiiiiiillllll taaaaaaaalllllleeeeeerrrrr…"
"EIGHT GREEN BOTTLES! HANGIN' ON THE WALL! EIGHT GREEN—"
Suddenly, the voice dropped off as the two travelers crashed through into the open, and came face to face with Edda, and he found himself looking at the most bizarre pair he had seen sine the blue-skin gypsies passed through a few months back. The first was a young man, short and slight of stature, obviously drunk, with a bird's-nest of sandy hair and a pair of faded red suspenders hanging loose about his waist. The second was a girl, and did, in fact, seem to be taller that her traveling companion, by a good two or three inches at least—she had a certain determined look, with bony shoulders and loose dark hair and the deep gray eyes of a Selkie, and would have been almost pretty if it weren't for the fact that she looked uncannily like a badger.
The girl executed a strange sort of curtsey and smiled at Edda, taking in his grimy, thick hands and rough gray garments. "Hello, good sir!" she called. "We are travelers from a strange and distant land, from the great walled city of Nour, by way of New York City—"
"BROOKLYYYYYYYYYYYNN!"
"—Shut up, Spot—and we ask for help and hospitality from you and your town. Praytell, where have we arrived, as we navigate this strange and beautiful land with forests of a thousand days and nights—what has brought us to your doorstep, kind gentleman? We have walked for many miles, caught by burrs and brambles, with little food or water and soaked by the harsh rains of your country. Will you be kind enough to offer us dry lodging and an explanation as to our circumstance, and extend to us the kindness that we would only be so happy to extend to you, if you descended on our mythic home of the Island of Manhattan?"
These were more words than Edda generally heard in a month, and for a time he simply stood there, leaning against his pitchfork and taking it all in, until Maddox began to wonder whether he was mute. Finally, though, and very slowly, he began to speak.
"Well," he said. "Well. We don't get too many visitors, but there's always room at our table and a warm bed to be had. Come home with me; the wife will take care of you, for certain."
Maddox, smiling, was about to begin another speech, but Spot clamped a hand over her mouth just in time. "Dat would be wonderful," he said. Edda made a gesture that meant something like, "come along then"—and so they followed, the rain their only conversation.
.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.
Tuesday was baking day the Solasc house. Wednesday was laundry day, and Friday was when they cleaned, but Tuesday was baking day, and that was Lute's least favorite day of all.
The town of Grisette didn't get an awful lot of light in the winter—the sun only rose fully at about eleven, and it was completely dark again by four—and usually Lute didn't want to waste that time in the kitchen. The whole house on Tuesdays was stuffy and closed-up, with Lavendria, her older cousin, and the woman of the house, in charge of making sausage rolls and supervising her seven children as they rolled dough and measured milk and eggs--even Saturday, the youngest at two, was put to work, crushing nuts for cake with a wooden block.
And Lute, the square peg of the household, was at work kneading bread, situated in front of the only window in the kitchen so she could at least have a view of outside. Actually, she was less kneading the bread than beating the very life out of it: pausing to push back a strand of brown hair that had slipped loose from the kerchief bound about her forehead, she pounded the dough down—whump—and with strong hands brought it towards her once again, away from her, towards her, on and on, forever and ever…
Seeing the homicidal tendencies in her young cousin, Lavendria stepped forward and laid a cool, floury hand on her shoulder. "Lute," she said quietly. "We are wanting to bring the bread to life, not kill it. Do you need any help?"
"No, Lavvy. I'm fine."
"Is something bothering you?"
"…Nothing important."
"All right. Back to work, then." Lavendria patted her in an absent sort of way, and went back to stoking the fire.
Lute sighed, and wiped at her forehead, leaving behind a streak of flour. Then, she went back to kneading the dough, never taking her eyes off the window.
She had been doing this, every Tuesday, since she was old enough to stand, and she would probably be doing it every Tuesday for the rest of her life. Everyone knew that the wife brought the tradition into the family; Lute had been living with Lavendria and her husband Edda Solasc, a large, quiet, kind, slow man who reminded Lute a little of a heifer, since her parents had died when she was three, leaving her orphaned.
And soon she would get married too, probably to a farmer, and bake bread on Tuesdays, and have seven children just like Lavendria, who had avoided complications even further by naming them Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. This left only one name scheme that Lute could think of, which was naming each child after a month of the year. She thought she would rather die than give birth to twelve children. Actually, it would probably kill her anyway.
"Why so down?" Lavendria asked, as Lute shoved the dough into a bowl to rise, acting with a vengeance that suggested she had been sleeping with it on the pillow next to her for the last six months, only to find out today that it had been unfaithful to her with a jar of peach preserves.
"I'm just a little frustrated," she said, never one for extended communication.
Lavendria cast a dubious eye on the dough. "It always saddens me," she said, "to see the winter sun disappear and cast darkness on the world. Is that what's bothering you?"
"It's the darkness cast on my heart," Lute sighed melodramatically, and then smacked herself on the forehead. "I can't believe I just said that…"
"It's going to be all right," Lavendria said, vaguely.
"I just need to get out of this place," Lute muttered.
"Well!" Lavendria said. "In that case, why don't you go to market this Saturday? You know Edda's been fixing to buy a pig—you could do it! It would be an adventure!" Lute just stared at her. "You never know who you could meet, buying a pig," Lavendria added, unconvincingly.
Lute was, she decided, going to have to get out of Grisette, before she started carrying a fan around and trying to stab herself with every available implement. It was simply the only way to save her dignity.
It was dark outside and the farmhouse was filled with the smell of baking bread before her escape presented itself. Just as Lavendria was setting the table for dinner, and propping up her mother, The Ancient Onia, who had not moved independently in eight years (and might actually have been dead), Edda came in through the front door, tugging off his thick workman's boots and shaking the rainwater from his hair.
"Lavvy," he called, "we've got visitors."
"No!" Lavendria said.
"Yes indeed."
From her post over by the sink, Lute attempted to take a surreptitious peek at the visitors. They were a boy and a girl, both around her age—the boy was soaked to the bone and looked uncannily like a wet cat, and the girl, tall, shivering, was wearing…wait. A pink dress?
"What are we having for dinner?" Edda asked.
"Millet."
The boy rubbed his stomach, looking at the girl. "Mmm, millet."
"Shut up, Spot."
Edda's voice boomed across the tiny kitchen. "Well! Today is a special occasion, my Lavvy. Fetch those rabbits I hunted last fall."
"Oh, but Edda, those we were saving for a rainy day…"
"It is raining," the boy observed.
Edda put a hand on his shoulder. "This is Spot, and Maddox. Ambassadors from Nour. Isn't that something?"
Straightening up, Lavendria didn't look terribly impressed. "Well," she said. "Spot, Maddox, whoever you are, take a seat. I suppose...we'll be eating rabbit."
.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.
Lute didn't sleep at all that night. As she lay on her cot in the hall, she could hear Spot and Maddox talking for most of the night, wrapped up in work sheepskins before the kitchen fire, embers glowing faintly in the dark. All through dinner, the talk had been of their journey—how they were setting out for Gliss, with a message in hand that could save all of Möbia. They were pretty non-specific about how they had ended up in Nour in the first place (despite all their efforts to conceal it, they obviously weren't natives), but if anyone else had notices, they hadn't voiced the opinion. Edda was fascinated with their journey, telling them everything he knew and giving them food, clothes, and after dinner showing them to the steeds he would let them take on their trek up the length of the Serrel River. Lavendria, however reticent, had been interested too, and all the children as well, it went without saying. Even The Ancient Onia had been excited enough to make a gurgling sort of noise.
And as Lute lay awake that night, she devoted herself to considering her fate. If ever an opportunity to get away from this town had presented itself to her, than this was it. And if she wanted to escape this life—her cousin's life, her mother's life, and her life someday not so far away—then she had to seize the opportunity while she still could.
At precisely three fifty-four that morning, Lute made her decision: she was going to go with them. Whether they liked it or not.
.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,..,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,
To hear Spot Conlon talk about it, you would think that getting up early took some kind of special skill. He explained it all to Maddox the night before—how, seeing as he was a newsie (and the leader of the Brooklyn newsies no less), a very elite profession if ever there was one, he was trained in the art of getting up early, did it almost every day. And since they would be leaving long, long before dawn the next day, to get a good start on their trip, he would handle well, but Maddox, not being used to it, well, Maddox might…
He had completely prepared her for how much she might be shamed the next morning; it was almost funny how he seemed to have a lot more trouble getting up than she did.
"Not really a morning person?" she yawned, as they headed out the front door.
"I blame you for dis," he muttered. "If it weren't for you, I wouldn't've met up with Ersh, I would have to deal with this whole Priscilla thing…"
"…You would have been torn to pieces," Maddox said, very slowly, because she wasn't much of a morning person either, "by a bunch of raging courtesans…"
"Well, better that than be here with these STUPID, SHAGGY MOUNTAIN PONIES—"
"Actually, they're small horses."
Spot and Maddox whirled around, startled, to see Lute standing illuminated in the doorway, lost in a herringbone greatcoat, a bag clutched at her side.
"Who invited her to the party?" Spot muttered.
"There's a party?" Maddox asked, groggily. "Where?"
"I want to come with you."
"Where's the party?"
"Shut up, Maddie."
"Okay."
"Look…" Spot scratched his head. "Um…Lurt, is it?"
"Lute."
"Right. Lute…I don' think this is the best idea. This trip we're goin' on, it's pretty dangerous. We might not survive. An' time is of the essence here, so…no offense, but we really can't afford ta have you followin' us around…"
Lute drew herself up to her full, rather unimpressive, height, pride filling in for whatever she lacked in cartilage and bone. "I know this place like the back of my hand," she said. "I can get by on no food and barely any sleep, I know all the plants and animals, and every path and danger and tree-stump from here to the Serrel. I can help you. I can guide you. Please, let me come."
"Oh," Maddox said, pleasantly, "does Lute want to come to the party?"
"Yes," Lute said, before Spot could even open his mouth. "Yes, Maddox, I would."
"Okay, come on then. But I get the really pretty pony."
"It's a deal."
And while Spot berated a still barely-awake Maddox, Lute dashed inside one last time, picked up a scrap of paper, and scrawled out a message of goodbye to everything that she had known before:
Dear Lavvy—
I've gone to buy a pig.
Your adoring cousin,
LUTE.
P.S. You might want to find someone else to make bread on Tuesdays. I might not be back in time for the next baking-day.
[TBC…]
.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.
A/N: I baked a few loaves of bread today, so the whole baking thing was pretty much drawn from life. Man, that dough needed to be pummeled…
Never trust a whole wheat. It's always up to something behind your back.
Narf! Onto--
Shout-outs!
Lute: Well, us vampires have to update sometime…
DALTON: You're not a vampire.
Well, us vampire bats have to update sometime…
DALTON: You're not a vampire bat.
WELL, US SLACKERS HAVE TO UPDATE SOMETIME.
DALTON: (pause) …Okay.
Soaker: You know, I can kind of see Davey in sheer lip gloss, and glitter? Oh, and aquamarine eye shadow, of course. Gotta bring out those baby blues. XD
Strawberri Shake: Well, you know what they say…when the going get tough, the tough get really, really drunk. Or at least that's what my dad always told me…
Moonlights Sundance: YAY! Cookie! (munches) (pause) Charlie…where am I?
DALTON: (shakes his head) Cookie amnesia ruins another innocent life…
Coin: NEVER BEEN TO OREGON? Okay, that's it Coinerella, I'm flyin' you in. And in order to get the plane, I'll have an affair with Christian Bale, who will GIVE me a plane through his love for me. And in order to have an affair with Christian Bale, I'll figure out a plan with you, after I fly you in, with…
DRAT!
Teepot: I find that a poster of Christian Bale, sans shirt, strategically placed in the workspace, can do wonders for fic-writing productivity.
DALTON: …is that why you have all those scented candles and an invitation to your future wedding, stapled to the wall?
…Um…yes.
(sighs) Football head…
Klover: Dude, I remember when I was eight, I refused to see The Hunchback of Notre Dame because I heard it butchered the ending…see? Even then I had principles…
DALTON: And yet, now, you're happy to accept that turn-of-the-century newsboys were pelvic thrusting all over the place?
…What are you saying, Charlie? That they weren't?
Ccatt: I figure each ellipse I get it a vote of confidence…therefore, you're my number one supporter. XD
Sapphy: Let's just form a new religion—Les is the God of Wisdom, and Ellen Greene is the Goddess of…Niftiness…or something. And, of course, the only commandment is "be excellent to each other."
DALTON: …I don't get it.
You never do…
Shooter: Hmm…can you see yourself as fairy godmother, or evil stepsister? XD
m-e lee12: Ahh, my beloved internet-cheerleader. (grins)
DALTON: Is that…possible?
Do you WANT me to buy you pom-poms?
DALTON: Eek.
Uninvisible: Indiana Jones, as an adopted dad? That would be…FAR too cool for words. I love those movies way more than anyone should, and still be healthy…I think I've seen "Raiders of the Lost Ark" alone fifteen times. And plus, whenever you need him, you can shout, "INDYYYYYY!"
Think he'd adopt the both of us? (crosses fingers)
Splashey: In order to repent for your grievous sin, you must remove the pagan idols printed on green paper in your parents' rooms, and send them to Charlie Dalton, P.O Box 48.
Buttons: Well, I'll save you then. Now…vine, or should I just burn down the place?
Ershey: My darling Ersheykins, NEVER underestimate the power of the noodle. If confederate soldiers had had them on their side during the Civil war, well…I think you can guess who would have won. XD
Sparks: DALTON: REVIEWING ON THE JOB! REVIEWING ON—
(clamps a hand over his mouth)
DALTON: Mmph.
Yeah, yeah, talk to the hand…
DALTON: …I am.
(grins)
Lela: (gasp) You read ALL of it? Like, at once? …And it didn't kill you?
DALTON: You know, Dak…
WHAT? Some of us are slow readers, okay?
NadaZimri: Don't forget the free newsie in every closet…right next to the wedding dress. XD
.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.,.
Next Up: Chapter Eight, In Which Our Boys Encounter Yet More Trouble With Authority Figures, More Alliances Are Made, And An In-Depth Look Is Taken At Newsie Underwear, Even Though I Am Sure All Of You Are Upstanding Citizens Who Would Never Be Interested In A Thing Like That.