Huckleberries and the Women Who Love Them

Today did not go as planned.

See, the plan was that Katie and I would drive to the coast, take some photographs, have a picnic on the beach and maybe even a bonfire. It was to be a totally awesome Valentine's day girl date.

Here is what actually happened:

I woke up feeling like death warmed over and then dropped back in ice-water. I was in pain, head-achey, cold, and generally miserable. This being a continuation of the prior day's scenario, I decided it might be best to go to a doc-in-the-box.

Couldn't get in until 2:30, but that was okay- Katie and I went out to the Spaghetti Factory, where I picked at some broccoli (she insisted I needed to get more in my system than just toast, which is what I'd been eating the day before) and felt like the worst friend in the world. Afterward we drove down to Portland (the site of the closest clinic that a) would take my insurance and b) was open on a Sunday) and browsed some vintage shops until it was time for my appointment (Katie got a super-cute full-length coat. I might have been jealous if I hadn't been so wretched).

The doctor diagnosed me with "We don't know what the hell it is", which was not exactly comforting. He figures I actually do have something (as opposed to it being allergies) because I'm running a low-grade fever. The quick-strep test came back negative, so he did a full culture but of course we won't get those results for a few more days. In the mean time, he told me I could take some penicillin if I wanted to, just in case. I did (I would have preferred a shot, but they didn't do those there). And so they sent me on my merrily-undiagnosed way.

We came back to Vancouver and curled up to watch Tombstone, which had some wonderful dialog and a fairly stupid "romantic" element. I enjoyed it nonetheless, and I now understand what Nathan is referencing when he says "I'm your huckleberry," which is nice. And he is my huckleberry, so that's even nicer (he spent his day in a similar fashion to mine, only he got shots, the lucky so-and-so).

Anyway, now Katie is re-dying her hair, and I'm whipping this out and sipping on hot chicken noodle soup. The pain in my throat has progressed to the point where swallowing is a chore and speaking is just about unthinkable. Here's hoping tomorrow will dawn a pain-free day.

Phone Haiku

write every day
a command made difficult
by circumstances

this one is phoned in
composed via my cell phone
sitting in a bar

time with my best friends
this trip has been wonderful
(wish I wasn't ill)

Roaming Hearts on the Range

Man, this is taking me back.

We (and by ‘we’ I mean Katie and I) stayed the night on our friend Anna’s couches, and I can’t help but smile remembering all the couch-surfing I’ve done down through the years. Being transient is a very different feeling from having a home of your own, but by no means is it a bad thing. There’s something nice about knowing you know people who love you enough to put you up, and that you have enough of those people stretched out across a continent to keep you going for a while, no matter what life might fling at you. Also, there’s something freeing about having nothing more than what you can fit in a suit-case: fewer things to worry about. Of course, this is me just playing pretend, since I have a whole apartment full of stuff back in Birmingham, but it reminds me of the days when I had less, and I don’t mind that at all…

Right now it’s a little past eight in the morning, and I’m sitting at the kitchen table staring out the corner-window at the wet, gray day. Cars roll past, children stroll by (one assumes they’re going to school, which gives me a bit of an “In my day we had to be there before eight!” moment) and a soft shimmer of rain falls on the impossibly green glass. I am so in love with this part of the country, and with the way my spirit opens up when I’m here.

The house that Anna lives in with her friends Zach and Rebecca is absolutely perfect and wonderful, exactly the sort of place I’d like to live in with Nathan one of these days. And it’s more than just the physical traits of the house (although of course I am a sucker for high ceilings and hardwood floors): it’s the feel of the place. This is a house with a lot of love, a lot of creativity, and a lot of kindness; it feels like a place that would be home to just about anyone who walked into it. There is art all over the walls (much of it done by my hosts), home-baked bread sitting on the table in front of me (okay, okay, also in my mouth being chewed), a sweet dog laying at my feet, and chickens clucking contentedly outside. It is a place that feels calm and happy and right to me. So yes, it is the kind of place I’d like to create with Nathan one of these days.

Maybe even this rain-swept neighborhood.

Nathan I Am Totally Using My Tether for This

(Okay, before we get started, let’s have a moment to have a happy little freak out over the fact that I’m typing this up while sitting in the airport. Yes, I am aware that this is not, for the vast majority of people in my class, a major innovation. It is, however, special and awesome to me. I love my tiny, tiny netbook.)

I find that the older I get the more anxiety I have getting on planes. I’m not sure why, and it doesn’t keep me from sucking it the hell up and getting on, anyway, but there it is. Dread, dread, and occasionally further dread. Especially when the flight in question involves not being with Nathan. (Somehow his presence manages to soothe 99.7% of my strange neuroses/paranoia, regardless of the occasion.) So here I am, completely and thoroughly excited to be flying back up to Portland for the first time in over two years, to see a bunch of people I care desperately about, and yet my stomach is a pit of roiling (say it with me now) dread.

I will be fine once we get in the air, of course. It’s just all this sitting around ahead of time that brings me face-to-face with my own mortality, and whether or not I have anything that will hang, chain-like, from my ethereal neck should the plane go down. This often leads to a lot of gate-side, occasionally tearful phone-calls for me to tell people I love them. Yes, I am That Girl. Don’t judge- we all have our moments of Completely Irrational, and I can think of far worse than a compulsion to tell people how I feel about them. Today, however, in spite of my roiling stomach, I find another layer of myself almost serene- no last-minute phone calls, because I feel fairly confident that those people that I need to know I love them do know I love them.

So at least I have that going for me.

Early Valentine's Day

I will be out of town this Valentine's Day, which was to have been our first as a married couple. Never ones to be slaves to dates on a calendar (I think most military brats are that way) we decided to split the occasion in two and observe it at our leisure. The first half we celebrated tonight with a meal as the sublime Bottega in Southside, the second half will be celebrated once I get back by going to see The Wolfman (I'm sure there's a love story in there somewhere...).

One of the nicest thing about going out to a fancy restaurant is having the chance to get all dolled up, which I most certainly took advantage of. I wore this salsa-inspired red dress which is entirely too short for the current weather, but that's okay because it gave me an excuse to wear my uroma's ocelot-and-mink coat. Now, I do not generally condone the making of new fur coats- but by golly, if you happen to have a vintage one laying around it seems to me a damn shame not to wear it at least once in a while. Especially when it's so freaking cold outside and the fur keeps you oh-so-warm... heavenly...

Speaking of heavenly, the food at Bottega's really was divine. It is such a privilege to be present when food transcends sustenance and achieves art, and that is definitely what happened on our plates and tongues tonight. Not to mention the lovely bartender who, when he could not meet my request for hot cocoa or a hot buttered rum, brewed up a lovely concoction of bourbon, lemon, and honey that warmed me right up.

All in all a highly pleasant evening.

But back to me being out of town.

I leave for Portland tomorrow, and I'm not sure what my internet access will be. I'll still be writing every day, but the updates may come in chunks as I find wifi... so hang in there, loyal readers... ;)

Summoning

It wasn't as much of a last resort as she'd have them believe, but that did not mean it did not take effort.

She banished the rest of them from the house that evening- partially because she did not wish to share her secrets with the uninitiated, and partially because the creature she sought to summon was notoriously fickle- she could not risk the thing possessing someone else. (Come to think of it, that, too, probably counted as not wishing to share her secrets...)

Once they were gone, she purified herself. No creature of light would care to take up residence in a filthy host, so it was holy water and a good strong salt scrub for her- with a few drops of rose oil because hey- why not smell pleasant while invoking Beings from a higher plane? Still tingling from her bath, she began laying out the candles in the appropriate patterns. Long trial and error had taught her the prudence of moderation- too few flames and the creatures might not even notice you- or, worse, they might be insulted by your stinginess (and heaven save her from the petty grudges of spirits!) Too many candles and you might attract the attentions of something more powerful than you were willing to bargain with. Always awkward.

Her hair was beginning to dry by the time she changed into her ceremonial robe. It was soft and black, in no way competing with the vivid white lights cast by the candle flames (again- best to avoid any hint of insult). Not to mention it hid stains beautifully... She was already wearing her summoning amulet, strung on a chain as silver as the moon itself. She was ready.

She was not ready! She had almost forgotten the Offering. Shaking her head at familiarity's contempt, she padded into the kitchen on bare feet and filled a goblet with the appropriate liquid. She, personally, could not stand the stuff, but she need take no more than a small sip to align her awareness.

She settled herself down amidst the candles and began chanting, eyes half-focused on the shimmer of reflected candlelight in the goblet. Suddenly, the shimmer stopped wavering, grew brighter, and began to pulse in time to her words. Carefully, knowing that the small sip was more than enough to knock her on her ass, she raised the vessel to her lips, and drank.

Immediately she fell backwards (part of the reason for the oh-so-painstaking arrangement of the candles), surrendering control of her body to the Being she had called. If it was pleased with what it found (both in the cup and in her) it would stay. If not... well, never mind that.

As if in a dream she watched the Being raise up from the dark liquid and dance through the candles (counting them, probably, thought the small fraction of her brain still able to function). There it was, born of fire and poison, creation and destruction:

Her Muse.

(Summoning the Muse)

Brothers, Pt VIII

Pegs did stop harassing the heroes for a couple of years- and hellish years they were. He was profoundly bored, for starters. Although he appreciated his foster mothers’ varying arts, he had neither the drive nor desire to follow any of the disciplines they specialized in. And as much as he loved flying, he felt his life needed some purpose beyond it.

Worse than the boredom, however, was the rage.

Without the regular outlet of hero-bating, the fury inside Pegs’ heart steadily accumulated, burning hotter and hotter, until there was nothing that did not set his temper off. He hissed and bit savagely at anything and anyone that got too close to him, sometimes following it up with a fierce kick for good measure. He knew he shouldn’t behave in such a way- it made him miserable to be so horrid to everyone- but he didn’t know how to turn it off… and soon the misery would fester and become more rage. The hurt in his foster mothers’ eyes made him ashamed, and he took to hiding in far-flung locations, spending all his days in bitter solitude. While this kept him from physically hurting anyone, it did nothing to cool the anger that pumped through his body like super-heated blood.

Finally, a little more than two years after he’d given his promise, Pegs snapped.

***

There was probably no avoiding it in the long run (not with the way his internal pressure had been mounting) but it’s quite possible that it might have been delayed a little longer had it not been for the specific scenario he witnessed.

Pegs was out for a flight, soaring low across the edge of a sea, when his sensitive ears picked up the sound of crying- feminine crying.

Now it must be said that Pegs had something of a soft-spot for women. How could he not, after being raised by so many? That, combined with the story of Meddie, his blood-mother, made him particularly responsive to females in distress. He banked his wings and headed inland towards the crying.

He soon found its source- a young woman with a tangle of tentacles in place of legs, trapped in a shallow pit. It would have been easy enough for a normal human to scramble out of, but the girl’s lower limbs were obviously not meant for climbing. Pegs eyed the pit, but decided there was not enough room for him to land in it without crushing the girl. Instead he landed next to the upper edge and peered over.

“Oh!” gasped the girl, momentarily forgetting her distress. “Oh, how lovely!” Pegs, who had spent his life surrounded by deities who both embodied and inspired beauty, returned the sentiment: the monster was absolutely stunning. Her tentacles were a gorgeous bronze-green, with just the faintest iridescence, mottled with a rust-colored pattern that continued up past her trim waist into the smooth olive of her skin; her hair was deep red and done in dozens of thick, elaborate braids that hung to her elbows; her eyes, dark brown with neither pupils nor whites, were luminous with tears. Just then, her finely formed features crumpled.

“Oh, oh! Flee! You must flee, before he returns!”

Pegs cocked his head to one side to indicate curiosity, but the girl failed to understand. Instead she groped along the floor of her prison until she found a small clump of dirt, which she flung half-heartedly at him. He dodged it easily, and lowered his head closer to her, attempting to lip at her fingers to give her some comfort.

“Flee!” She sobbed, and he noticed her teeth were ever-so-slightly pointed. “Flee quickly, or he’ll hurt you, too!”

Hurt him too? Pegs narrowed his eyes and re-evaluated the girl. He realized that what he had assumed was a natural pattern on her skin was, in fact, dried blood.

His heart exploded with fiery rage and he reared up, screaming silent fury. As he came back to all fours, he heard a sharp intake of breath behind him. He whipped his head around and saw what could only be a hero.

The man was tall and well-built, just shy of his prime. He wore a much-dented breast-plate and matching arm-guards, all decorated with an olive-branch motif. In one hand he held a piece of dried meat that he was obviously making a quick meal of. The other held a long spear- a spear with dried blood on its head.

Pegs didn’t even think- couldn’t have, even if he’d wanted to. The anger had control of his limbs, and he surrendered himself to it utterly. Quick as a snake, Pegs wheeled towards the man and lashed out with his hooves, striking him squarely in the temple. He felt the hero’s skull crush beneath the force of the blow, and the man dropped like a stone. Pegs stood over him, trembling and blowing hard, waiting to strike again should he see the slightest movement.

There was none.

Finally, feeling strangely disconnected from his own body, Pegs leaned down and grabbed the spear with his teeth. He dragged it over to the edge of the pit and let one end extend down. At first the girl let out a small shriek and cowered as far from him as she could, but when she realized nothing was attacking her she slowly uncovered her face and turned it upwards toward Pegs. He tossed his head, once, to emphasis the spear, made a motion as though he was pulling it out.

The girl understood, and although her hands trembled she wrapped them around the spear’s shaft, and held on with all her might. Slowly, painstakingly, Pegs managed to pull her out, and once free she collapsed into a shaking, crying heap at his hooves. Still numb, he knelt down beside her, stretched out a wing, and folded it over her battered form.

He did not notice her blood slowly staining his feathers.