A Glove, a carriage, and a mystery

To Geoffrey Madison, London had become home. Victorian London fancied itself the capital of the world. Any Londoner would agree at the notion. Everyone else, including New York born and bred Geoffrey, would laugh and shake their heads.

The population had expanded, and the streets were teeming. The weather was perpetually foul. Sunny days were as regular as a blue moon, and the drizzle that had become the norm fell through clouds of smog from the factories.

Citizens were advised not to let too much rain touch their skin. Despite its hardships, Geoffrey had become fond of London.

Today, he was running to catch the coach. It was just after nine, and he was late. He didn’t mean to be. He never did. His mother and father often joked that he was even late to be born, with the family doctor waiting two days after the predicted date before Mrs Madison went into labour.

27 years later, and he was still running late. Today it was for a meeting with the shipping company dealing with his family business. Realising he’d missed his usual stagecoach, he made the choice to run to the next stop and try to get the next one there. The young American huffed and puffed, his briefcase under one arm, his umbrella in the other. His scrawny frame ducked and weaved through the crowds, earning the ire of more than a few. Ignoring the abuse hurled at his back, Geoffrey made it in view of the next stop for the coach. He was still a long way from it and there was already a coach filling up. Geoffrey sprinted towards it, avoiding the crowd as best he could.
As he drew closer, suddenly his legs stopped moving. His lungs were fit to burst. His heartbeat, already quick after his exertion, became vigorous and urgent. Trying to catch his breath, Geoffrey could do nothing but stare. Then, she turned. It was almost as though she knew he was there.
She had brown hair, tied up but she hadn’t bothered with a hat. His view was blocked for a moment, jolting him out of his reverie. Breaking into a run again he tore towards the carriage. Already, he could see her climbing the step into the carriage. She turned again. Her eyes were crinkled around the corners and a smile played around her lips. Her mouth moved. Geoffrey couldn’t hear it, but It was unmistakeable.

“Run!”

The carriage jolted as the driver whipped the reins, spurring the horses into action. No! Stop! The thoughts thundered through his mind as he lost sight of her as the carriage door closed. When he made it to the stop, he bent double, wheezing. As he did, he saw something. A glove. A woman’s glove, not two feet from where the carriage had stopped. Geoffrey picked it up, appraising it as he caught his breath and stood up straight. It couldn’t have been there long. It was still clean, a miracle given the muck and mire coating the road it had fallen on. Geoffrey turned it over in his hands, and found an ornate “M. L” monogrammed on it. The young American laughed, turning to look in the direction the carriage had gone.
He had a mystery to unravel.

Unravel

The Dark Victors

Wild crimsons, royal blues, and evergreens flew high as the afternoon breeze caught the banners. The heat from the sun only added to the anticipation and tension hanging thick in the air. Horns and battle drums blended and battled in a deafening cacophony over the chosen ground.

At the edge of the fray, the trees grew ever more crowded. Beady eyes, set above jet black plumage and beaks watched, and waited.

As each side rallied, their leaders orating and driving their faithful, they waited. They were secure in the knowledge that they would stand the victors on that day, without ever lifting any weapon. Today, they were the ones with the foresight for victory.

As man’s ambition and reach for power overwhelmed reason, the two sides clashed. Drums and horns were replaced with the screams of terror and pain only war and strife could motivate.

Still, they anticipated, and stood patiently, their numbers growing into an army of their own.

Today, on the day of battle, the only true victors waited on the edge of the battlefield. As the clashing of sword and spear ceased, only then did they make their move. As victory cries died down and the songs honouring the fallen faded, only then did they begin to circle. The spoils theirs, and theirs alone.

They lost precious few in number, if any. Man, in his romanticist fantasies credits the owl as the wisest of birds. Yet today, the crows were the true victors.

The Glassmith Pt. 1

Her love was the waves. His, the dunes. Losing themselves in both had become both life and livelihood for them both.

“How was the catch today?” Rihat asked.

“My back aches from carrying the net to the cart” Lilith smiled

“So a good day, then?” Rihat asked cheekily.

“We’ve had better”. Lilith then smirked as she asked, “How was your catch?”

Rihat chuckled, “Grains of sand do not try and slip through my grasp as fish in a net. Only the wind helps them escape.” He trailed sand through his fingers as he said it. A light breeze carried the lightest grains of grit and rock into the air and out of sight.

“The sea obeys the wind as the sands do. Simply more violently”.

“Spend an hour inside a sandstorm and we’ll see if you feel the same way” Rihat chortled.

The two were on top of the dune. Their dune. It was one of four that formed a natural caldera. It was within easy distance of the city yet almost out of sight over the rolling sands. Habitually meeting there had made it so either of the two could easily traverse the stretch of desert between the city and this dune, blindfolded.

“Have you healed from your burn?” Lilith asked.

“It will heal when it’s ready. My master drives me hard. A single mishap can lead to such things”. Rihat unwound the bandage wrapped around his left thumb, exposing the flesh, still pink as the burn healed. “What of yours?”

Lilith held out her right hand. On the back of her hand, just before the wrist. A small hole where a chunk of her flesh had needed to be cut out, “It was my mistake and mine alone” she quickly spoke as Rihat looked concerned, “Baba always said to never cast your line against the wind, but the shoal was in plain sight and I grew impatient”.

“Over-hastiness is one of your flaws” Rihat smirked.

“An easier task would be counting the grains of sand in this desert than it would be to mention all of yours”, Lilith retorted with a smile. They sat in the sand, caressing each other’s hands. They were each covered in scars. Rihat’s callouses from burns long since healed. Lilith’s, a myriad of small cuts and bruises crisscrossed her palms and some of her fingers. They watched the desert as the sun began to set, the sky becoming alive with shades of orange and pink. As harsh and unforgiving as it was, the desert had its own beauty. From the swirls created by the drifting grains of sand, even to the scorpions and snakes, each leaving their own unique patterns in their wake as they moved. Rihat had come to love the desert. The two rose and made their way back towards the city, following the Euphrates back towards Ur.

The city was peaceful in the evening. The heat began to fade as the sky darkened and the moon appeared, casting ghostly reflections on the surface of the water. They bid each other goodbye and each returned home. The two embraced. They knew they wouldn’t see each other for another two days. After a lingering hug, the two went their separate ways. Lilith to her father’s house, Rihat to the glassmith’s.

Sometimes days could go by without the two meeting. This could happen when Rihat would venture into the desert in search of finer grains of sand for the glass, or Lilith and her father would leave for a longer fishing voyages as part of a larger group of fishermen. It mattered little to them, for though they missed each other (whether they realised it or not) when they were apart, such feelings were instantly gratified upon their next reunion. Whether atop their favourite sand dune, or in the city. Treasured memories the two shared and reminisced upon often, included afternoons and twilights spent traipsing through the city, getting lost in the market and marvelling at curios and wares that were novel or interesting to them.

The next morning, Lilith and her father boarded their vessel and sailed towards the ocean. Rihat waited to wave goodbye, another of their traditions. Lilith’s boat was mid-sized, but compact enough to be crewed by two or three while still being able to bring in a good catch. Lilith made a habit of standing at the very prow, whenever they started a new voyage. Rihat knew this, and would always be there to wave goodbye.

There she went. Rihat smiled to himself and busily hustled towards the glassmith’s, raring for another day of work. It felt like it hadn’t been long since the Phoenicians had come with news of a novel concept; the melting of grains of sand in a furnace hot enough to render them molten. Rihat could remember that day in the market, when the Phoenician merchant had exalted his wares, inviting all and sundry to see and touch, and marvel in delight. Rihat had been one of the first to see it. He had touched a vase. It was smoother than clay, yet it sparkled with a brilliance to put any painter to shame. From that day, Rihat had coveted the substance, and the knowledge of how to craft it. Luckily, the man who would come to be his master had it, and a lot of it.

“Rihat! Come! Look at this!” Having been a merchant by trade, Khaled’s loud voice was something of a trademark. It was a running joke between the two that it was a marvel he hadn’t rendered all their wares to dust with his booming voice. Rihat hunched over next to his master. The workshop was large, but the majority of space was dominated by vases, glasses, chimes, anything and everything the richer inhabitants of Ur could want to adorn their houses with. The furnace was behind the shop, built well and built of brick, it had and would continue to serve them well. Khaled spoke in wonder,

“On the other side of the quicksand pit. You remember, the one from our last excursion, three days west of here.”

“Yes master I remember”

“By the grace of the Goddess I traversed it without harm, and found this” Khaled proudly poured some a portion of sand onto the counter. “Look at this! White as snow, fine as dust. No impurities to speak of. With this, we shall make glass that will resemble the tears of the Goddess herself.”

Rihat stared in awe. His master wasn’t lying. White with the slightest tinge of grey as oppose to the usual golden yellow, this sand also felt finer, little to no rocks or quartz somehow. It was akin to the sand on the beaches in Africa Khaled spoke of visiting. He would surely be able to make glass of the finest quality with this.

 

“We have a good wind! If this stays we shall reach the fishing grounds within an hour!” Lilith’s father, Gashar yelled above the breeze. A crew of three today, Gashar and Lilith were accompanied by Minesh, another fisherman they regularly worked with. Lilith tied off the sail and returned to the prow, leaving the boat to crest the waves with the wind. She stood tall at the prow, the spray against her skin, the thundering crash of the waves in, the smell of sea salt filling her nostrils. She opened her mouth, feeling the acrid taste of salt on her tongue. Screwing up her face at the taste, she giggled to herself in a giddy daze. How she loved the ocean!

 

Rihat pulled the rod slowly out of the furnace, turning it as he did, leaving the molten sand curled around it. Checking briefly, and after an approving nod from Khaled, who was busy at work preparing ornate moulds for later use, Rihat returned it into the red hot coals to resume the melting. Dusting his hands, he began preparing the moulds. A vase first for today. Rihat couldn’t wait to see the fruits of his labour.

 

It had appeared on the horizon. No larger than a hand at first, the grey cloud seemed to have grown exponentially in what felt like a matter of moments until half he sky was grey-black. The boat was full of fish, weighing it down. Gashar cast a worried glance skyward and exchanged a nervous glance with Lilith. It was time to leave, though it was doubtful they could reach land before the storm arrived. The rumbling in the sky was already audible, yet still a ways away. Gashar and Minesh quickly turned the direction of the sail and made for land.

 

Rihat stepped backward and appraised his work. More cobalt next time. The colour was a pale aquamarine blue. It was beautiful, yet Rihat didn’t favour the hue. Khaled was in ecstasies, “Look! Hahaa, look! The quality is outstanding! You’ve outdone yourself today, Rihat. This will fetch a pretty price in the market next week.” Rihat nodded sheepishly in agreement. The quality was indeed exceptional. The curvature of the glass was consistent, and the thickness was consistent. Khaled continued rambling exuberantly, as he did when he smelled money, “Ohh yes. We need more, though! We must get more as soon as possible. We…” He stopped and looked outside. “Rihat, my boy. Try one more glass and then douse the furnace. A storm is brewing on the ocean. We must close up the shop so nothing breaks”. Rihat looked toward the sea. Khaled must have had very good eyesight. Rihat squinted for a moment to catch a sight of the dark clouds. He hoped Lilith was safe and had already returned. He would close the workshop and check in the town if the boat had returned.

Panic began flooding through Lilith. The storm had accelerated faster than any she’d ever seen. The boat was heavy with the day’s catch and listing slightly as it struggled to outrun the coming chaos. The waves roiled and undulated violently. Lilith was having difficulty keeping her footing on the slick deck. Suddenly, a wave washed over the deck. Gashar screamed something, but Lilith barely had time to collect her thoughts before her head struck the deck with a thud, and she was washed over the deck and overboard in a daze.

“Lili!” Gashar screamed. He yelled to Minesh, throwing him the other end of a rope. Tying the other end around his waist, Gashar lunged deep into the darkening waters to save his daughter from the waves.

My Alpha and I

The snows were here, and winter was heavy. The trees had already shed the last of their leaves and stood as skeletal figures, casting long shadows and drooping as though in despair and begging nature to return them to their former vermilion lustre. The wind was sharp and frigid as it whistled through the air, sending involuntary shivers down my spine whenever it touched any exposed skin.

I recognised him immediately. We had met before, he and I. I had beheld him at the head of his pack as they hungered after the bison. He and his pack had watched me trapping game with curiosity. We had had our share of disagreements. They had stolen our kills, we had chased them from theirs. Such was the way of the world, especially in these harsh lands.

He was injured. And badly, it seemed. A ragged wound was visible on one of his front paws. As I drew closer he alternated between running his tongue over his wound as if commanding it to heal faster, and baring his fangs, warning me to keep my distance. He had climbed, or crawled, down into a natural pit formed by boulders on one side and trees on the other. He sat at one end of the pit, trying to shelter himself as best he could from the elements. At one point he rose and attempted to totter away, only to be brought down after a couple of steps, snow falling off the layer of thick grey fur he’d grown for the winter.

Whether through stubbornness or pride, I didn’t hear one whine escape him. The only whining was the wind through the tree trunks and he voice in the back of my mind bidding me return to the fort. He was a tough one, no mistake. No wolf is alpha without thick skin, sharp fangs, and the survival instinct to do Mother Nature proud. That was his challenge now, survive. He was useless to his pack now, and they had no doubt abandoned him because he couldn’t pull his weight. Mother Nature seemed a utilitarian, and a brutally honest one at that. Without meaning to I stepped closer and closer, each step a crunching sound with the snow underfoot. I raised my rifle, intending to end his misery, and he looked up.

He looked up at me and there was something in his eyes. I don’t believe an animal knows a gun when it sees one, but this wolf. The alpha of his pack, practically crippled and cast aside, seemed to know I meant to end his life. He just looked at me. No anger, I didn’t sense any fear, only acceptance. If he could speak I’d imagine him saying “Make it fast”. I don’t remember my mind commanding me to, but my arms lowered, and I slid my rifle onto my back. Taking out some of the dried squirrel meat I had, I tossed a morsel of it towards him. He looked down at the meat at his feet then at me, and I swear I sensed surprise. What a hunter I must have made in his eyes, feeding the quarry instead of hunting it down. Laughable.

I turned to head back towards the fort. I was done checking the traps. It had been slim pickings for today, but we had food in the stores and would replenish it with elk meat. Hopefully no visits from the Sioux this time. I heard a sound behind me in the snow and I turned. There he was. Three legged, holding his injured paw up, limping after me without a sound. He saw me staring and stopped, closer than I would have imagined, and sat in the snow, as if waiting for me to continue walking. Taking out another piece of meat, I tossed it to him and kept walking.

By the time I made it to the fort, he was doing his best to walk, well, limp alongside me. I made to touch him, but thought better of it. I’d lost two fingers already and I wasn’t looking to lose more.

“Jones! What took you so long? Search Party was about to head out!” The sentry at the gate, wrapped up tight so I only knew him by his voice, “What you got there?” he asked in surprise.

I smiled and looked down at him, my new friend it seemed, “New recruit” I smiled.