Faithful Pebble
Part Ninety-Four
Suddenly, Pebble put down the screwdriver and scuffled across the splintered porch. Only when she heard the wanderer put down his tools and follow a moment later did she descend its crooked stairs. She crossed the meadow and headed to the ring of flowers. They bordered the tiny little home like a necklace. The fabled hut with its all but forgotten history, they ringed it like a choker a lady's neck. At its edge she knelt, Pebble. She pushed aside the weeds and the grass, the stems and the leaves, the crude twine netting and the empty earth unveiling another hidden trap.
The wanderer narrowed his eyes. He crossed the field spying the black stemmed arrows peaking up at him, glittering up at him from amongst the quarry's velvet darkness. They were thicker than the ones he'd last seen, taller, sharper and purposely aimed to kill.
"You said the forest was full of these," the wanderer remembered, repeated aloud while Pebble's fingers reached for a violet. The violet hung delicately above the pit's sheering teeth. Its stem broke gracefully, soundlessly as it ascended from its throne of emerald grass guided solely by black and washed and still, dirty claws. It would take more than one washing to make them new again he supposed, the wanderer. He hoped, the wanderer. He sighed, he pondered, he accepted.
"The hunter pits? Oh yes," Pebble whispered. "They're everywhere, but they're not all the same. Like the violets. They too are not all the same." She twirled the little creation between her fingers, between her nails long and sharp and visibly lethal in the evening light. "In all your travels," Pebble stated. "I guarantee you've never seen a flower like this and I guarantee you'll never see another. Even after you leave this place, these you'll never see again. Here, take a look."
After a moment, Pebble's hand casually reached out and the wanderer? He leaned forward. Carefully, he extended two fingers and retrieved the fragile blossom.
Scales, he thought. Her fingers felt like scales. The wanderer held his breath, cautiously doing what he was told, delighted when, for a moment, his fingers subtly grazed hers. They were rough and calloused. They felt like scales as black as they were, as filthy. Jagged and smooth, her skin reminded him of lizards, or snakes, or…
His gaze narrowed. He paused, the wanderer. His vision flickered away from his companion and then settled unto the tiny blossom he now slowly twirled. An eyebrow raised. The other soon followed as his thoughts unconsciously shattered, scattered and then rebounded. Scales, he thought. The petals, violet as a king's robe, were outlined in black. They were textured, as if a delicate hand chiseled in each leaf the tender webbing of a spider's nest or the intricate designs of a butterfly's wing. In fact, he paused, he concluded, they looked just like the little insects, just as fragile, just as light, just as soft. Four of these petals were wrapped delicately around a black thread stem and four stout stamen gracefully sprouted from amidst its fragile center. They were the color of molten gold. He took a closer look, the wanderer. He brought the creation nearer to his gaze.
The stamen confused him. They seemed off. Their movement curious for slowly in the sun's dying light they appeared to be dancing, moving against the breeze in a manner that they ought not. Bewildered, the wanderer cupped the flower in his hand. Blocking the wind, he was surprised to find that their dance hadn't stopped but slowly continued on. They twirled almost, twitched almost, intertwined almost as if—
And then he dropped it—
Suddenly, the flower fell as realization cloaked his mind, as amazement and slight disgust tickled his understanding. "Alive," the wanderer whispered. He looked with horror at his companion. "The flower—"
"Is not a flower," Pebble finished for him. "Well… not completely." Her shoulder lifted. It was a gruff movement, an unpracticed, ungraceful, indelicate thing. Her collarbone lifted and fell sluggishly shifting her cloak in the process. Her words tumbled away just as casually. "They now grow like flowers, breed like them almost, but only in certain conditions. That is the slow way to make them grow," she said.
"What do you mean? Where do they come from?" The wanderer leaned back while Pebble tilted her head.
"Where else could they come from?" She chided him, "Where did everything in this cursed forest come from if it is not grass or trees or sky or dirt or anything else belonging to a forest? From that confounding fable, Snow White and her little men or in this instance, the apple she dropped and left and then eventually grew."
Pebble stood up retrieving the blossom from where it fell. The wanderer followed suit. He watched wearily as she once more presented the dancing blossom to his observance. "These are what blooms from that resulting tree. My father used to jest saying the butterflies were once an ingredient in that witch's famous brew, that it was proof that the poison was still active. As I grew older and he started to teach me the tricks of his trade, I learned the truth. Look. Even you can clearly see they are alive. These creatures aren't dead. They're a sleep." She twirled the frozen creatures between her fingers.
- Calla