Whatever independent experiments Rohlan may or may not have done over the next few years to re-create the mystery of the Tart Incident have been lost to the mists of time. Suffice to say, he was never successful, although to his credit he never again stole from his mother.
***
It was his mother he was thinking of one fine autumn morning when the peddler passed through. Rohlan loved the peddler (whose name was Jarrod), and not just because he always had wonderful toys with him. No, Rohlan loved Jarrod for himself; bright-eyed, quick-witted, and highly observant, always with a tale to tell a young lad. Jarrod had weathered skin the color of walnut-stain, and although Rohlan’s mother thought he had sad eyes, his smile was wide and infectious. He did not have a fixed schedule, but would appear at random and stay for as short as a day or as long as a fortnight; he was always welcomed at the farmhouse. He had even, over the years, taught Rohlan to recognize his letters, although reading did not come easily to the boy.
Jarrod was whistling a disjointed tune as he appeared over a rise in the road, and when Rohlan realized who it was he ran to meet him. They walked along companionably as Rohlan related his current woe: he was beginning to suspect that his parents were not, in fact, his parents.
Now, this is a common thought amongst thirteen-year-old children everywhere, in all times- but for Rohlan it was based on more than just wishful thinking. He was starting to come into his adult height, and it was becoming painfully evident that he would soon tower above both parents (who were, it must be admitted, on the short side). His skin never held a beautiful golden tan like theirs did- it remained stubbornly pale- almost translucent- no matter how long he labored in the fields. Finally, it had recently occurred to him that both of his parents had sleepy looking eyes the color of birch beer: but his eyes slanted up, and were the disconcertingly bright green of new grass. When he had asked his mother which side of the family he’d received his awkward features from, she’d looked upset and changed the subject. All in all, signs indicated Something Suspicious.
Jarrod listened patiently to all of this, and in the end asked Rohlan if he was sure he wanted to know the truth- after all, the explanation might be something painful, like a long-dead relation or a violent rape. Rohlan was taken aback: such thoughts had never occurred to him. It gave him something to mull over, and he decided to keep quiet for the time being. Jarrod only smiled his mysterious smile.
It is quite possible that Rohlan might have decided that he really didn’t need to know the truth- that his parents were his parents regardless of blood ties- had it not been for something that occurred two evenings later.
Jarrod and Rohlan, for the amusement of his parents, were acting out an elaborate sword fight from one of their favorite stories. Jarrod, although wizened in appearance, was surprisingly spry, and was giving the boy a bit of a run-around, in spite of the fact that, as the villain, he really ought to have been losing. At one point, after poking Rohlan in the posterior with his stick-sword, Jarrod mocked the other’s choice in weapons, calling it the crookedest twig he’d even seen. Rohlan (in proper Virtuous Hero form) replied with vehemence that it was not a twig; it was the finest sword ever to emerge from the dwarfish smithies of old.
No one quite saw how it happened, but when Rohlan swung his stick down to crash against Jarrod’s it did not crash: it sliced straight through, and only a timely stumble on the part of Jarrod saved his arm from a similar fate. The laughter abruptly stopped, and Rohlan dropped his sword (for that is what he now held) in horror.
Jarrod, from his position in the dirt, looked over to Rohlan’s father and remarked that perhaps the time had come to tell the truth, after all.
2.07.2010
2.06.2010
Ties That Bind
As you may or may not know, I have recently become a Fitness Professional. I teach two classes- one called H2O Bootcamp, which I became certified to do back in December, and one called BodyFlow, which I am still actually in the process of being certified to instruct. Part of the certification process is to submit a video of myself teaching a class- a video which will be assessed and either passed or failed by people higher up the Les Mills foodchain than myself. It I pass, then I'm certified for life, and can teach people anywhere in the country- techincally anywhere in the world- to do BodyFlow. If I fail... well, I'm not going to fail, so it doesn't matter. I do my first taping on the twentieth.
One of the most interesting things about this little Life Development of mine is that it rather unexpectedly has given my brother and I a little more Common Ground. You see, he, too, is an instructor(almost-fully-certified). Of course, he is working towards being a SERE instructor, which is just a tiddly bit more of a big deal than being a BodyFlow instructor, but still. He, too, is being watched like a hawk at the moment, to make certain he is saying all the proper "key words" and showing more-than-perfect form in everthing. So we get to talk about what a pain in the ass that is.
But we also get to talk about how much we love teaching. Tonight we were talking about the particular thrill we get when someone finally gets what we have been trying to teach them- that magic moment when showing actually does become teaching, and they learn. We are both very enthusiastic about what we teach, and to see another person become infected with that enthusiasm, to take it and reflect it back to us, twofold... well. That's just good stuff, that is. So much the better that we are teaching them things that will make a positive impact on their quality of life (or, in his case, actually save it).
The other very amusing point my brother made is that we are both teaching people who are, at the very least, physically uncomfortable- and often flat-out miserable (his moreso than mine, of course, although I doubt mine would find that fact to be much solace when I'm demanding that they drop their hips, damn it!). So we're dealing with a bunch of people who probably resent us as much as they respect us... But who have signed up to do what we say, anyway!
(I wonder if sadism is a genetic thing?)
One of the most interesting things about this little Life Development of mine is that it rather unexpectedly has given my brother and I a little more Common Ground. You see, he, too, is an instructor(almost-fully-certified). Of course, he is working towards being a SERE instructor, which is just a tiddly bit more of a big deal than being a BodyFlow instructor, but still. He, too, is being watched like a hawk at the moment, to make certain he is saying all the proper "key words" and showing more-than-perfect form in everthing. So we get to talk about what a pain in the ass that is.
But we also get to talk about how much we love teaching. Tonight we were talking about the particular thrill we get when someone finally gets what we have been trying to teach them- that magic moment when showing actually does become teaching, and they learn. We are both very enthusiastic about what we teach, and to see another person become infected with that enthusiasm, to take it and reflect it back to us, twofold... well. That's just good stuff, that is. So much the better that we are teaching them things that will make a positive impact on their quality of life (or, in his case, actually save it).
The other very amusing point my brother made is that we are both teaching people who are, at the very least, physically uncomfortable- and often flat-out miserable (his moreso than mine, of course, although I doubt mine would find that fact to be much solace when I'm demanding that they drop their hips, damn it!). So we're dealing with a bunch of people who probably resent us as much as they respect us... But who have signed up to do what we say, anyway!
(I wonder if sadism is a genetic thing?)
2.05.2010
Mind Full of You
I wrote a small snippet on Brothers today, but I don't know that I feel it's enough to throw up here. I know that technically it should be quality over quantity, but there is part of me that feels like I really need to offer up more than two paragraphs at a time... When I post story-snippets, I try to make them at least a (word) page long.
Anyway I'll probably write more on it tomorrow, and post it then. In the meantime, I need to find something else to write about, and my mind is pretty much drawing a blank.
Well, now, that's not strictly true. Mostly my brain is doing a happy little humming sort of noise that roughly translates to "My husband is home and the Warmth has come back to my existence!" It makes it very difficult to think of anything else.
Twice this week I've encountered older men (in their sixties and seventies) who have bragged to me about the longevity and goodness of their relationships with their wives. It warms my heart every time. How wonderful to have that! Not just the long marriage, but a husband who is still so excited about being married to you that he will brag about it to young women he's just met! I hope to always be that enthusiastic about my relationship with Nathan.
And now it's off to bed, as we've got some Driving to do in the morning.
Anyway I'll probably write more on it tomorrow, and post it then. In the meantime, I need to find something else to write about, and my mind is pretty much drawing a blank.
Well, now, that's not strictly true. Mostly my brain is doing a happy little humming sort of noise that roughly translates to "My husband is home and the Warmth has come back to my existence!" It makes it very difficult to think of anything else.
Twice this week I've encountered older men (in their sixties and seventies) who have bragged to me about the longevity and goodness of their relationships with their wives. It warms my heart every time. How wonderful to have that! Not just the long marriage, but a husband who is still so excited about being married to you that he will brag about it to young women he's just met! I hope to always be that enthusiastic about my relationship with Nathan.
And now it's off to bed, as we've got some Driving to do in the morning.
2.04.2010
Brothers, Pt VII
(Author's note: I wrote most of this in my car, waiting to clock in at my second job. Please forgive any glaring errors that may have resulted...)
Pegs, who had once spent most of his time observing others from afar, now made it a point to be seen. Specifically he made it a point to be seen by heroes, or at the very least by the people he knew would be in contact with them. As the years passed, he refined his system. First he would scout out a likely-looking location, usually on a well-traveled road. He would spend about a week making dramatic appearances, to get the locals stirred up and talking, and then he would disappear for a day or two, to give any nearby heroes a chance to show up. And then? Then he would go hero-baiting.
It never got old. Each hero was different, and the best part was that as Pegs began to gain notoriety, more and more of the actually impressive heroes began to show up looking for him. These were men who had great cunning, or strength, or magical artifacts- all of which made the game that much more challenging for Pegs- and that much more satisfying when he ultimately shamed them.
He had been at it for about a decade or so before it began to make trouble for him.
***
Pegs was sunning himself on a cliff overlooking what his foster mothers referred to as ‘the tantrum spring’ when he got that peculiar prickling feeling between his withers that meant a god was in the immediate vicinity. Out of habit he moved himself into the dense foliage of a nearby tree, and turned his gaze downward to see what was afoot.
In the branches below him, an unusually large gray owl alighted. Pegs narrowed his eyes. It was full daylight out. That combined with the prickles told him exactly what- or rather who- that owl was. He bared his teeth at it, but held perfectly still.
The owl, oblivious to his presence, hopped down from the branch and melted into a proud-featured woman wearing a shining breast-plate. Only she wasn’t a woman.
She was the war-goddess.
The little glade was suddenly over-flowing with Pegs’ foster mothers. It never ceased to amaze him, how many they were- each one lovely- and somehow both alike in that loveliness and yet completely different- like a swirl of vari-colored snow-flakes. Nemie, who seemed always to be their default spokes-person, bowed graciously to the goddess.
“My Lady,” she said. “What brings you to our mountain-side?”
Cold gray eyes flashed, and the goddess gestured to the tantrum spring.
“This. Years ago I heard tell it was caused by the hoof of a horse. A winged horse. Isn’t that interesting? Have you ever heard of such a unique creature? I had not, nor did I again. Not until recently, that is. Because, you see, it appears that just such a creature has been bedeviling some of those who call me patron. Now, what are the chances that two such winged beasts are running- pardon me- flying about the countryside?”
Nemie did not reply, nor did her face give any indication that she knew exactly what the chances were, having mothered said winged beast for most of his life.
“And I thought to myself,” the goddess continued in icy tones, apparently not really caring what the chances were. “I thought, one of these monsters or two, I cannot have it or them making mockery of those heroes sworn to me. And then I thought to myself, I am in need of a creative solution- and who better to provide one than the demigoddesses of inspiration, who are surely used to dealing with- unique- creations.”
“My Lady,” Nemie demurred. “Creative and clever we may be, but we could never hope to be so wise as yourself.”
“Be that as it may,” Each word was precisely pronounced, and Pegs could feel the atmosphere literally thickening with the deity’s ire. “Be that as it may, if you and your sisters do not find a solution to my- unique irritation- then I will find one.” With that she swirled her skirts and was an owl once more, launching herself into the ether on silent wings.
Pegs blew disrespectfully at her retreating tail feathers.
The next thing he knew, his ear was being pinched- rather painfully- between the deceptively dainty thumb and forefinger of his foster mother Klio. He let out a hiss in protest.
“None of that, you naughty stallion!” She smacked him smartly on the nose, causing his eyes to water. “Just what, pray tell, does our recent guest mean by bedeviling her heroes?”
Pegs gave an equine shrug, and she twisted his ear a little harder. “Why don’t we take this down to the ground, and we’ll see if we can’t jog your memory,” This last bit was emphasized with increasing pressure on his abused ear, and he immediately leapt down. In his haste he forgot to check his landing, and a little spring rose up about his fetlocks, but none of his foster mothers seemed to care. They glared at him as one.
“Pegs,” said Nemie, “Have you been harassing heroes?”
He nodded sulkily.
“All heroes, or just hers?” This from Thalia, with a wicked glint in her eye.
He stretched out his wings and gathered as many of the muses to him as he could.
“Well at least she can’t complain that it was specifically against her,” she muttered, hiding a smile.
“That doesn’t make the slightest difference and you know it!” snapped Klio, who had finally released his ear. He twitched it in relief. “It’s no less of an offense to her divine ego!”
“There’s a larger problem,” said Mellie, most somber of his foster-mothers, in a low tone. “If she heard about the spring, she might hear about other things. Like who he really is.” Her sisters turned pale.
“If she figures out his parentage, it won’t matter what he does or does not do to annoy her- she will punish him for his blood. She would consider his very existence an insult!”
“Pegs, listen to me!” Nemie said, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “You must stop harassing the heroes! I can imagine your motivations, but you have to stop. You have to fade from her mind! Because if she puts too much thought into your existence, and realizes who you are, none of us can keep you safe!”
Pegs bared his teeth. He didn’t need to be “kept safe”!
“Pegs, please, you’ve got to promise! Please!” Dozens of luminous eyes pleaded with him. At first he stared defiantly back at them, but then he saw how genuinely frightened they seemed, and he relented. He sighed, nodded his head, and let his wings droop.
“Oh thank you, Pegs!” They chorused, rushing forward to kiss him.
But he did not keep his promise.
Pegs, who had once spent most of his time observing others from afar, now made it a point to be seen. Specifically he made it a point to be seen by heroes, or at the very least by the people he knew would be in contact with them. As the years passed, he refined his system. First he would scout out a likely-looking location, usually on a well-traveled road. He would spend about a week making dramatic appearances, to get the locals stirred up and talking, and then he would disappear for a day or two, to give any nearby heroes a chance to show up. And then? Then he would go hero-baiting.
It never got old. Each hero was different, and the best part was that as Pegs began to gain notoriety, more and more of the actually impressive heroes began to show up looking for him. These were men who had great cunning, or strength, or magical artifacts- all of which made the game that much more challenging for Pegs- and that much more satisfying when he ultimately shamed them.
He had been at it for about a decade or so before it began to make trouble for him.
***
Pegs was sunning himself on a cliff overlooking what his foster mothers referred to as ‘the tantrum spring’ when he got that peculiar prickling feeling between his withers that meant a god was in the immediate vicinity. Out of habit he moved himself into the dense foliage of a nearby tree, and turned his gaze downward to see what was afoot.
In the branches below him, an unusually large gray owl alighted. Pegs narrowed his eyes. It was full daylight out. That combined with the prickles told him exactly what- or rather who- that owl was. He bared his teeth at it, but held perfectly still.
The owl, oblivious to his presence, hopped down from the branch and melted into a proud-featured woman wearing a shining breast-plate. Only she wasn’t a woman.
She was the war-goddess.
The little glade was suddenly over-flowing with Pegs’ foster mothers. It never ceased to amaze him, how many they were- each one lovely- and somehow both alike in that loveliness and yet completely different- like a swirl of vari-colored snow-flakes. Nemie, who seemed always to be their default spokes-person, bowed graciously to the goddess.
“My Lady,” she said. “What brings you to our mountain-side?”
Cold gray eyes flashed, and the goddess gestured to the tantrum spring.
“This. Years ago I heard tell it was caused by the hoof of a horse. A winged horse. Isn’t that interesting? Have you ever heard of such a unique creature? I had not, nor did I again. Not until recently, that is. Because, you see, it appears that just such a creature has been bedeviling some of those who call me patron. Now, what are the chances that two such winged beasts are running- pardon me- flying about the countryside?”
Nemie did not reply, nor did her face give any indication that she knew exactly what the chances were, having mothered said winged beast for most of his life.
“And I thought to myself,” the goddess continued in icy tones, apparently not really caring what the chances were. “I thought, one of these monsters or two, I cannot have it or them making mockery of those heroes sworn to me. And then I thought to myself, I am in need of a creative solution- and who better to provide one than the demigoddesses of inspiration, who are surely used to dealing with- unique- creations.”
“My Lady,” Nemie demurred. “Creative and clever we may be, but we could never hope to be so wise as yourself.”
“Be that as it may,” Each word was precisely pronounced, and Pegs could feel the atmosphere literally thickening with the deity’s ire. “Be that as it may, if you and your sisters do not find a solution to my- unique irritation- then I will find one.” With that she swirled her skirts and was an owl once more, launching herself into the ether on silent wings.
Pegs blew disrespectfully at her retreating tail feathers.
The next thing he knew, his ear was being pinched- rather painfully- between the deceptively dainty thumb and forefinger of his foster mother Klio. He let out a hiss in protest.
“None of that, you naughty stallion!” She smacked him smartly on the nose, causing his eyes to water. “Just what, pray tell, does our recent guest mean by bedeviling her heroes?”
Pegs gave an equine shrug, and she twisted his ear a little harder. “Why don’t we take this down to the ground, and we’ll see if we can’t jog your memory,” This last bit was emphasized with increasing pressure on his abused ear, and he immediately leapt down. In his haste he forgot to check his landing, and a little spring rose up about his fetlocks, but none of his foster mothers seemed to care. They glared at him as one.
“Pegs,” said Nemie, “Have you been harassing heroes?”
He nodded sulkily.
“All heroes, or just hers?” This from Thalia, with a wicked glint in her eye.
He stretched out his wings and gathered as many of the muses to him as he could.
“Well at least she can’t complain that it was specifically against her,” she muttered, hiding a smile.
“That doesn’t make the slightest difference and you know it!” snapped Klio, who had finally released his ear. He twitched it in relief. “It’s no less of an offense to her divine ego!”
“There’s a larger problem,” said Mellie, most somber of his foster-mothers, in a low tone. “If she heard about the spring, she might hear about other things. Like who he really is.” Her sisters turned pale.
“If she figures out his parentage, it won’t matter what he does or does not do to annoy her- she will punish him for his blood. She would consider his very existence an insult!”
“Pegs, listen to me!” Nemie said, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “You must stop harassing the heroes! I can imagine your motivations, but you have to stop. You have to fade from her mind! Because if she puts too much thought into your existence, and realizes who you are, none of us can keep you safe!”
Pegs bared his teeth. He didn’t need to be “kept safe”!
“Pegs, please, you’ve got to promise! Please!” Dozens of luminous eyes pleaded with him. At first he stared defiantly back at them, but then he saw how genuinely frightened they seemed, and he relented. He sighed, nodded his head, and let his wings droop.
“Oh thank you, Pegs!” They chorused, rushing forward to kiss him.
But he did not keep his promise.
2.03.2010
Brothers, Pt VI
Pegs was four years old and, as far as his foster mothers could tell, physically mature. He was beautiful, fast, and strong, and he didn’t need anyone. This is what was running through his head as he soared through the flame-colored sky. He had started flying early that morning, but now evening was falling and he had no desire to return to the mountain. Instead he decided he would find a nice lake to land in, spend the night there (he found water to be almost more comfortable to him than air), and fly back the next day.
Maybe.
He gave no thought to how his foster-mothers might react to his prolonged absence: the only thing that mattered to him was the anger burning in his heart, and the desire to fly and fly and fly until the rushing winds dampened it or the icy heights froze it. So far, neither had worked.
He folded his legs and wrapped his great wings tightly against his body, then let himself free-fall a few hundred meters, baring his teeth against the speed in a silent scream. His wings snapped out and his body jerked up, and he glided close to the tree-tops, scanning the neighboring plains for a suitable body of water. A brief glint on the horizon looked promising, but in an instant he changed his mind about landing there. Instead, he let himself drift to the ground, and gave in to the luxury of a run. He was never allowed to run on the mountain- but here there was no one to scold about any watery trail he might leave, and so he pushed himself as hard as he could, tearing across the earth towards the setting sun. Behind him, his hoof-print-springs made an eerie, bubbling wake before settling into a kind of exceptionally energetic rivulet.
By the time he reached the lake he was feeling a little better. Enough so that he stopped stomping quite so forcefully, and went back to his habitual hopping-flutter to keep from further tearing up the turf (his foster-mother Terpsie said it was more graceful than most people’s dancing). He slid into the water, grateful for it’s cool embrace, and began to duck his head in search of a few succulent plants to make his dinner.
He had just raised his head back up, mouth full of a particularly nice batch of weeds, when something landed around his neck. Pegs immediately surged up and out of the water into the air, and as he did so he felt his left wing glance off something heavy. He did not pause to look, but pumped with all his might until he was higher than the trees. Only then did he hover, shake whatever-it-was off his neck, and turn his gaze back towards the earth.
There by the edge of the lake was a young man- a very pale and sweating young man who was holding his arm at an awkward angle. Pegs narrowed his eyes, and descended ever-so-slightly. The young man seemed to be having a bit of difficulty. He was saying some words that Pegs knew for a fact were expressions of extreme displeasure, and kicking at what appeared to be- was it a snake? A rope! Pegs hissed in disdain, dropping even further. The stupid human had tried to use a rope on him?!
“Oh majestic steed!” the young man cried, gazing upward. His voice sounded tight with pain. Pegs was glad. “Won’t you let me mount the heavens astride you? Of course you are too glorious by far for any ordinary mortal, but surely I, the hero who slew the monstrous serpent that plagued Kenos, surely I would be a worthy rider of one such as yourself?”
A hero! Not just a mortal but a filthy monster-killing hero had tried to bridle him?! Pegs seriously considered voiding his bowels on the man’s head.
But then he had a better idea.
Arching his neck grandly (one couldn’t spend so much time around springs and not be aware of one’s best angles) Pegs began a slow, spiraling glide back to the ground. He noted with satisfaction that the hero’s eyes never left his wings. He landed close- but not too close- to the man, and fixed him with what he knew to be his most come-hither stare (Erie’s lessons had not been entirely lost on him). The man took a step forward and reached out a trembling hand. Pegs let him get within two meters, and then danced back ever-so-slightly, tossing his head like an ordinary, nervous horse might. The man made soft, soothing noises, and moved forward again.
Oh, this was going to be fun.
***
In the end he got the hero to chase him a good five twisting kilometers into the forest, until they were up to their knees in thorns. The barbs didn’t bother Pegs, of course (one of the perks of being a semi-divine half-breed) but they tore the man’s legs up pretty well, and caught on his tunic, causing him to wrench his bad arm (inevitably followed by muffled curses). Finally, when Pegs decided he had gotten enough entertainment for the evening (and anyway his stomach was beginning to growl) he stopped inching away and fell very still, then took an apparently timid step towards the hero, blowing air in an inquiring manner.
The man stood a little straighter, his eyes feverish with excitement. Pegs let him come within a half-meter of him, let him reach out his hand to touch Peg’s shining white coat-
Then sprang straight up, giving a powerful down-stroke of the wings that grazed the man (and probably broke the other arm) and carried him high into the tree-tops.
For the first time in his life, Pegs wished he could laugh aloud. As it was he contented himself with emptying his bowels (although more from contempt than malice at this point) and began the long flight home.
He no longer felt quite so angry.
Maybe.
He gave no thought to how his foster-mothers might react to his prolonged absence: the only thing that mattered to him was the anger burning in his heart, and the desire to fly and fly and fly until the rushing winds dampened it or the icy heights froze it. So far, neither had worked.
He folded his legs and wrapped his great wings tightly against his body, then let himself free-fall a few hundred meters, baring his teeth against the speed in a silent scream. His wings snapped out and his body jerked up, and he glided close to the tree-tops, scanning the neighboring plains for a suitable body of water. A brief glint on the horizon looked promising, but in an instant he changed his mind about landing there. Instead, he let himself drift to the ground, and gave in to the luxury of a run. He was never allowed to run on the mountain- but here there was no one to scold about any watery trail he might leave, and so he pushed himself as hard as he could, tearing across the earth towards the setting sun. Behind him, his hoof-print-springs made an eerie, bubbling wake before settling into a kind of exceptionally energetic rivulet.
By the time he reached the lake he was feeling a little better. Enough so that he stopped stomping quite so forcefully, and went back to his habitual hopping-flutter to keep from further tearing up the turf (his foster-mother Terpsie said it was more graceful than most people’s dancing). He slid into the water, grateful for it’s cool embrace, and began to duck his head in search of a few succulent plants to make his dinner.
He had just raised his head back up, mouth full of a particularly nice batch of weeds, when something landed around his neck. Pegs immediately surged up and out of the water into the air, and as he did so he felt his left wing glance off something heavy. He did not pause to look, but pumped with all his might until he was higher than the trees. Only then did he hover, shake whatever-it-was off his neck, and turn his gaze back towards the earth.
There by the edge of the lake was a young man- a very pale and sweating young man who was holding his arm at an awkward angle. Pegs narrowed his eyes, and descended ever-so-slightly. The young man seemed to be having a bit of difficulty. He was saying some words that Pegs knew for a fact were expressions of extreme displeasure, and kicking at what appeared to be- was it a snake? A rope! Pegs hissed in disdain, dropping even further. The stupid human had tried to use a rope on him?!
“Oh majestic steed!” the young man cried, gazing upward. His voice sounded tight with pain. Pegs was glad. “Won’t you let me mount the heavens astride you? Of course you are too glorious by far for any ordinary mortal, but surely I, the hero who slew the monstrous serpent that plagued Kenos, surely I would be a worthy rider of one such as yourself?”
A hero! Not just a mortal but a filthy monster-killing hero had tried to bridle him?! Pegs seriously considered voiding his bowels on the man’s head.
But then he had a better idea.
Arching his neck grandly (one couldn’t spend so much time around springs and not be aware of one’s best angles) Pegs began a slow, spiraling glide back to the ground. He noted with satisfaction that the hero’s eyes never left his wings. He landed close- but not too close- to the man, and fixed him with what he knew to be his most come-hither stare (Erie’s lessons had not been entirely lost on him). The man took a step forward and reached out a trembling hand. Pegs let him get within two meters, and then danced back ever-so-slightly, tossing his head like an ordinary, nervous horse might. The man made soft, soothing noises, and moved forward again.
Oh, this was going to be fun.
***
In the end he got the hero to chase him a good five twisting kilometers into the forest, until they were up to their knees in thorns. The barbs didn’t bother Pegs, of course (one of the perks of being a semi-divine half-breed) but they tore the man’s legs up pretty well, and caught on his tunic, causing him to wrench his bad arm (inevitably followed by muffled curses). Finally, when Pegs decided he had gotten enough entertainment for the evening (and anyway his stomach was beginning to growl) he stopped inching away and fell very still, then took an apparently timid step towards the hero, blowing air in an inquiring manner.
The man stood a little straighter, his eyes feverish with excitement. Pegs let him come within a half-meter of him, let him reach out his hand to touch Peg’s shining white coat-
Then sprang straight up, giving a powerful down-stroke of the wings that grazed the man (and probably broke the other arm) and carried him high into the tree-tops.
For the first time in his life, Pegs wished he could laugh aloud. As it was he contented himself with emptying his bowels (although more from contempt than malice at this point) and began the long flight home.
He no longer felt quite so angry.
2.02.2010
Brothers, Pt V
Pegs grew swiftly under the somewhat eccentric care of Benthie’s creative kin. By the time he was six months old, his stubby little wings had begun to fill in with feathers, and he took great delight in flapping them furiously, in spite of the fact that they were nowhere near large enough to support him. His color began to lighten, until, by age two, he was a pure and snowy white, save for his golden hooves and liquid black eyes. It was around this age that the most mischievous of his foster-mothers, Thalie, pushed him off the mountain’s edge.
(Thus it was he learned to fly.)
Pegs loved all his many, many foster-mothers (yes, even when they were endangering his equine frame ‘for his own good’): they were lovely, smart, and funny, and taught him many wonderful things about the world and its inhabitants. They filled his life with beauty and wonder- but he longed for his brother Chrys, whom he never forgot. When he was feeling particularly low about it he would go and sit with his foster-mother Mellie, who could be counted on to fully commiserate with him in miserable silence. The misery was expressed in silence because Pegs never did develop the ability to speak; in fact, he was borderline mute. He could snort, grunt, and even hiss- but he could not articulate even a single word-like sound. Not even the whinny of a normal horse. It was something he found profoundly frustrating, although he became quite adept at conveying meaning through body language and intense stares. The muses, mistresses of communication all, never had any difficulty understanding him- although Pollie was prone to expressing regret that he would never be able to sing praises to the gods- something which usually prompted the rough-and-tumble Borie to punch her.
Pegs privately thought he’d never sing the praises of the gods even if he had a voice. Thanks to Kallie's epic poetry, he knew that it was the war-goddess who was responsible for his mother’s curse, and that she had probably outfitted and sent the ‘hero’ that slew her. He also knew that his father was a sea god- and that he had done nothing to save his mother. Pegs watched from hidden places when other gods came to visit his foster-mothers, and although they were bright and beautiful beyond mortal comprehension, devastatingly charming and occasionally quite generous, he saw nothing particularly redeeming about them. As far as he could tell, they were selfish, spoiled, and prone to deadly tantrums.
Not that he, himself, was immune to tantrums. In fact, that was part of Thalie’s motivation in her impromptu “flight lesson”. The day before, he had gotten so angry that he had stamped his hoof in blind fury, much harder than he ever had in the past. It shattered the rock beneath him, and a great spring shot forth, soaking him and all his foster-mothers before carving out a path down the mountainside. Once it was established that he could fly, they began to insist that he flutter his wings to avoid stepping too hard.
“I mean, the little springs you’ve made while prancing about are one thing-” said Klio while watching the water surge down to the plains far below. “Our gardens and groves were never so green or lush before you came- but we really can’t have you making any more like this one. You’ll wash us all away, and then where would our mortal supplicants be?”
Pegs didn’t know, and didn’t much care: as far as he could tell, mortals were just like the gods- although fortunately without powers (really they managed more than enough mischief as it was). It seemed to him that the monsters, the semi-divine, and the half-breeds tended to turn out best- although of course many of the half-breeds grew up to be gods-pandering “heroes”.
Still, he did do his best to avoid any more rage-fueled stamping. Instead he began taking long, strenuous flights to work out his bouts of temper.
It was during one such flight that he had his first real encounter with a hero.
(Thus it was he learned to fly.)
Pegs loved all his many, many foster-mothers (yes, even when they were endangering his equine frame ‘for his own good’): they were lovely, smart, and funny, and taught him many wonderful things about the world and its inhabitants. They filled his life with beauty and wonder- but he longed for his brother Chrys, whom he never forgot. When he was feeling particularly low about it he would go and sit with his foster-mother Mellie, who could be counted on to fully commiserate with him in miserable silence. The misery was expressed in silence because Pegs never did develop the ability to speak; in fact, he was borderline mute. He could snort, grunt, and even hiss- but he could not articulate even a single word-like sound. Not even the whinny of a normal horse. It was something he found profoundly frustrating, although he became quite adept at conveying meaning through body language and intense stares. The muses, mistresses of communication all, never had any difficulty understanding him- although Pollie was prone to expressing regret that he would never be able to sing praises to the gods- something which usually prompted the rough-and-tumble Borie to punch her.
Pegs privately thought he’d never sing the praises of the gods even if he had a voice. Thanks to Kallie's epic poetry, he knew that it was the war-goddess who was responsible for his mother’s curse, and that she had probably outfitted and sent the ‘hero’ that slew her. He also knew that his father was a sea god- and that he had done nothing to save his mother. Pegs watched from hidden places when other gods came to visit his foster-mothers, and although they were bright and beautiful beyond mortal comprehension, devastatingly charming and occasionally quite generous, he saw nothing particularly redeeming about them. As far as he could tell, they were selfish, spoiled, and prone to deadly tantrums.
Not that he, himself, was immune to tantrums. In fact, that was part of Thalie’s motivation in her impromptu “flight lesson”. The day before, he had gotten so angry that he had stamped his hoof in blind fury, much harder than he ever had in the past. It shattered the rock beneath him, and a great spring shot forth, soaking him and all his foster-mothers before carving out a path down the mountainside. Once it was established that he could fly, they began to insist that he flutter his wings to avoid stepping too hard.
“I mean, the little springs you’ve made while prancing about are one thing-” said Klio while watching the water surge down to the plains far below. “Our gardens and groves were never so green or lush before you came- but we really can’t have you making any more like this one. You’ll wash us all away, and then where would our mortal supplicants be?”
Pegs didn’t know, and didn’t much care: as far as he could tell, mortals were just like the gods- although fortunately without powers (really they managed more than enough mischief as it was). It seemed to him that the monsters, the semi-divine, and the half-breeds tended to turn out best- although of course many of the half-breeds grew up to be gods-pandering “heroes”.
Still, he did do his best to avoid any more rage-fueled stamping. Instead he began taking long, strenuous flights to work out his bouts of temper.
It was during one such flight that he had his first real encounter with a hero.
2.01.2010
Midnight
twist twist twist
you are far from me
and the bed is as empty
as only one person can make it
(i cannot sleep)
twist twist twist
i wind the sheets about me
until i am held fast-
a mockery of your arms
(they are never so stifling)
twist twist twist
tossing and turning through the heavens
even the poor sweet moon
is embracing a void tonight
(stars cannot fill her
as bright Helios does)
twist twist twist
slowly we spin
our loneliness together
crafting a rope of vibrant red love
(it stretches out, shining-
longing unending)
twist twist twist
(Midnight Macro)
you are far from me
and the bed is as empty
as only one person can make it
(i cannot sleep)
twist twist twist
i wind the sheets about me
until i am held fast-
a mockery of your arms
(they are never so stifling)
twist twist twist
tossing and turning through the heavens
even the poor sweet moon
is embracing a void tonight
(stars cannot fill her
as bright Helios does)
twist twist twist
slowly we spin
our loneliness together
crafting a rope of vibrant red love
(it stretches out, shining-
longing unending)
twist twist twist
(Midnight Macro)
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