The Artist

Two hours and a keyboard...

Herbert Henderson's front yard was a mess. A very well-known mess to most of the citizens of this small, sleepy Midwestern town. Almost as well known as the yard's owner, who was an unhappy old grump most of the time, and an unhappy old grouch the rest of the time.
He insisted that it wasn't his fault. Not really, anyway. He had to use a walker, it hurt to kneel and pull weeds, and if the dang Boy Scouts would live up to their promise to take care of his yard, it wouldn't look so bad. Granted they did mow the lawn every now and then, but that had resulted in three broken sprinkler heads so far. Heads he had resorted to covering with rocks to keep them from geysering like Old Faithful and wasting water instead of sprinkling...
His train of thought trailed off as he stood on his porch, staring. Not again. Someone had kicked the rock off the broken head on the far corner. Now he had to walk across the lawn and replace it. Grumbling all the way, he did so, settling it over the broken sprinkler, then turned around and surveyed the lawn from the other direction.
It had been nice, once. His late wife, Janice, had lovingly tended the flowerbeds, chatting now and then with the various lawn ornaments she had scattered throughout. He had teased her once about talking so much to a bunch of wood and metal. She had teased him right back, insisting that the butterfly was a great listener, and the ladybug never interrupted...
The ladybug. It was gone.
Blistering fury filled him from head to toe as he hobbled quickly across the half-dead lawn to the flowerbed. Right there, between the wilted and stunted lilies, was an obvious hole. He was quite used to the neighborhood kids' "pranking" him, but they had never resorted to outright theft.
It had to be around here somewhere. He noticed vaguely that whoever had pulled up the ladybug had also pulled quite a few of the weeds, but that was only to be expected. They couldn't get hold of the wooden stake that held it up without removing the giant bull thistle that had once warded it like a jealous lover.
After nearly an hour of searching, he had to conclude that his first suspicion was right. The sun-faded ladybug with the peeling paint and only one black glass bead eye was gone. He felt a rising sense of mingled rage and helplessness.
Janice had loved that ladybug. They had traveled a lot in their youth, visiting flea markets and artists stands in large cities. She had fallen in love with the small yard ornament immediately, to the point that she insisted that the artist autograph it. About half of her beloved garden guardians had been signed.
He wondered who had taken it, and why. Some kind of vicious prank? Would he find it on the roof in a week or two, broken and useless? Or would they display it in their own yard like some kind of sick trophy? Of course, if they did that, they ran the risk of adult intervention. Most of the adults in this town didn't like him, but they at least tolerated him, and they didn't let the kids "disrespect the old man".
With a heavy, pained sigh, he forced himself back up to his feet, and over to the porch. With the coming of late spring, the weather was nice enough to sit and watch, waiting for the pranksters to return. The evergreens that had once been sculpted in graceful spirals now resembled hair monsters, creating a perfect screen for him to hide behind.
The school bell rang, and he heard the chatter of youngsters headed home for the day. He watched them closely, his face twisted in an angry frown. Would they give themselves away? Would he see the guilt on the face of the miscreant that had so blithely walked away with one of the few memories he had left of his wife, the light of his life?
A group of girls passed by in front of him. The town was small enough, they didn't have a separate middle and high school. All of the older kids attended the joint secondary school, though there was talk of building a middle school soon. These girls looked like they ranged in age from seventh to ninth grade.
All... but one.
He had noticed her before. She looked no bigger than a third grader, with long, braided pigtails that hung nearly to her knees. The other kids were still friendly and kind to her, keeping her in the middle of their "pack", as if to ward her from predators.
His eyes narrowed. Usually, if she noticed him watching her, she would at least attempt a small smile and a wave. To which he would respond with a tolerant nod. But not this time. She ducked behind a larger girl, keeping her eyes averted from the house. Guilty as sin.
He pulled himself back to his feet and hobbled to the railing. "You! Hey, you! Small fry! What did you do with it?"
The girls slowed, staring at him in confusion. The small girl was still behind a friend, who had pulled herself to her full, admittedly impressive height. From her designer tennis shoes and basketball shorts, he guessed she was some kind of sport captain. "What did you say?" she shouted back.
"I ain't talking to you, girl. I'm talking to the shrimp. What did you do with the ladybug?"
The girls turned to each other, whispering angrily now, while the tall once put her hands on her hips.
"I don't care who you think you're talking to, nobody talks to her like that! I don't know what bug you are talking about, but she hasn't done anything wrong!"
He felt his blood boiling as he hobbled down off the steps. "Shut your mouth, kid! Someone stole the ladybug ornament from the flowerbed, and I want to know who! She won't even look at me, it's gotta be her! Where is it?" he demanded, finally approaching the group close enough to see her.
But only for a moment. The others closed in around her protectively, two of them actually having the gall to assume karate stances. "You mess with her, you deal with all of us, old man!" one of them shouted from the back. "She's not a thief, she didn't steal anything!"
He glared at them, noticing that a few of the neighbors were now starting to take notice, one of the pulling out a cell phone and quickly dialing just three digits. It didn't take much brains to guess who they were calling.
He turned his head to look down at the small girl, raising a hand and shaking a finger at her. "I'll give you one chance, girl. I want the ladybug back in my yard by tomorrow morning, or I'll call the police on you! Don't forget, my cousin is the chief, and he don't take kindly to thieves. Even shrimps like you. Got it?"
The tall girl got right in his face, making him stumble backward a step in shock. "I said leave her alone!" she practically screamed. "She didn't do anything to you, and I don't care who your cousin is! You don't have the right to harass her either! Leave her alone or I'll call the looney bin to lock you up!"
With that parting shot, the girls put their arms around each other and hurried down the street, muttering and shooting him angry looks. Only a minute later, a car pulled up with a very tired and aggravated Chief Paulsen inside.
"What is it this time, Herb?" he asked. "I have more than enough to deal with than deal with your constant calls about kid pranks."
"Someone stole Janice's ladybug," Herbert said, pointing to the flowerbed. "I think I know who, and I want you to force her to give it back!"
Paulsen rolled his eyes. "Herb, the law don't work like that, and you know it. Yeah, sometimes I'll cross the line just a tad to save time, but you can't just accuse someone without proof. You don't have proof, do you?"
"She's acting all guilty--"
"Behavior means nothing in the eyes of the law, Herb," the chief snapped. "Unless you have proof, my hands are tied. If you don't want your garden critters stolen, then take them inside. And get rid of these weeds, will ya? You are breaking a half dozen city codes."
With that, Chief Paulsen returned to his car and drove away. Herb fumed, noticing a few of his snoopy neighbors watching the scene closely. With a glare at them, he turned and went back to his porch.
What if he was wrong? No, his instincts were usually right. The girl knew something, even if she wasn't the guilty party. He was going to get answers, and he would get them any way necessary.

The confrontation occurred on a Friday afternoon. Saturday and Sunday were rainy, which made it uncomfortable for any kind of surveillance. He came back out on Monday, ready to cuss a blue streak. The rock had been moved from all three broken sprinklers this time.
Stomping across the yard as well as he could with a walker, he checked the first one, and stopped dead, just staring. The broken sprinkler head had been replaced entirely with a brand-new one. Carefully, he spun it. The head had been perfectly calibrated to spray across his hard. He then examined the other two to find the same thing.
"Well, 'bout time," he muttered, assuming that the Boy Scouts had finally come to repair the damage they'd caused. After all, the assistant Scout Master lived three doors down. Maybe his wife had told him about the stolen ladybug, and out of pity, they had tried to make up for...
He stopped again, blinking. It couldn't be.
Walking slowly this time, thinking that he had to be dreaming, he approached the flowerbeds. The ladybug was back. Not only was it bad, it had been completely restored, right down to the black glass bead eyes. Gently, he tugged it out of the ground and examined it carefully.
Whoever had done the restoration was a master artist. They had even traced the signature of the artist very carefully with red paint, and sprayed the whole piece with a fresh coat of hard lacquer. It would last another five years after such treatment, easily. He put it back in its place, noticing as well that more weeds had been pulled, and the telltale signs of scattered fertilizer could be seen around the struggling lilies.
He just stood there, leaning on his walker, staring. Who? And why? If it was the girl... no. It couldn't be. But maybe...
It would explain why her friends had been so angry and defensive. But how could they have known? Had they helped her?
That afternoon, as school let out, he was careful to conceal himself behind the bushes where they couldn't see. He needn't have worried. They crossed the road before walking by his house, avoiding even looking in his direction. The shrimp was once again concealed in the center of the group, with the giant in the sports clothes keeping herself positioned to block any view of his house.
He tried to maintain his feeling of righteous indignation. After all, even if she had restored it, she had lied about not taking it. Or had she? What had the older girl said, 'she didn't do anything wrong'?
Wordplay, to hide the truth. If he said or did anything about it now, it would be a poor way to repay her kindness. And perhaps she'd had something to do with the sprinklers as well. He would just have to watch and wait, and maybe he could figure out her game.

A pattern formed over the next few weeks. Overnight, one of the ornaments would disappear, along with the weeds that had once concealed it. The beehive with the fluttering bees on wires around it, then the boy and girl gnomes sitting on a bench together, then the tall, graceful heron standing on one leg... all lovingly restored by expert hands, and returned to his flowerbeds within a few days. The flowerbed itself was also restored by someone who obviously knew a thing or two about gardens.
He kept watching the girls, hoping to catch the eye of the little one. He never could, but he did notice that she looked ill. Very pale, and sometimes she shook, and had to be helped along by her companions. He felt terrible, worried that her midnight excursions into his yard were taking too high of a toll on her.
But he hesitated to approach her directly, not sure how the others would react. He just waited, figuring that when the work was done, he could possibly send her a thank you card by way of the school office. Surely they had to know who this tiny, fragile girl was.
The day came that the final ornament vanished. A beautiful stained-glass butterfly nearly as big as his head. His midnight elves had also done some trimming on his bushes, but left the one he hid behind, which told her that they knew very well that he was watching them. He didn't mind. He felt confused, but grateful, that these strange people were choosing to be kind to the most unpleasant person in town. Though he didn't feel nearly so grouchy these days. It wasn't as it had been in the old days, with his wife. But he held doors open at the senior center, he nodded and tried to smile at people at the grocery store... and they noticed. They would give him a smile, and nod back, and continue on their way.
He waited with anticipation for the butterfly. But this time, it didn't come back. He waited for a week, and then two. He started to worry... what if it had broken? It was glass, after all. Were they having to restore it completely, rebuilding it from scratch?
He promised himself that no matter what happened, he wouldn't get angry. Or impatient. He would wait until the butterfly came back.
Four weeks after it had vanished, he was sitting on his front porch, dozing in the summer heat. School had been out for three weeks, and he hadn't seen the tiny girl or her friends. His garden was flourishing under the attention of his unknown helpers, nearly as glorious as it had been under Janice's care.
He smiled to himself, remembering... on the last day of school, he had overheard an older boy talking to a friend, worried because he had forgotten to get his girlfriend flowers for her birthday. In a move that had surprised himself as much as the boy, he had waved the boy over and cut a few roses from the towering rose tree in the corner of the yard. He had wrapped them carefully in a piece of tissue paper from his closet, and given them to the boy. The kid had been utterly shocked, but thanked him profusely. After school, he had seen the boy and his girlfriend, hand in hand, walking home with one of the roses tucked in her hair.
It wasn't so hard to be nice. He often felt that life was unfair to him, ever since his wife's tragic death. But now... it didn't have to be hard. Lonely, yes. But he had friends. People that cared about him, and his wife's beloved garden.
"Mr. Henderson?"
He opened his eyes and looked out to the sidewalk. Standing at the stairs, looking up at him expectantly, was a woman from the school.
In her hand was the butterfly. As with all the others, it had been restored to its former glory, as beautiful as the day it was created.
A few tears came to his eyes as he stood and walked over, accepting the butterfly from her hands. He was confused. He had been so sure... had the girl been taking the pieces to her teacher to fix? That would explain the mastery of the restorations.
"Thank you," he managed finally, looking into her green eyes. "Thank you so much for all of these... they mean everything to me."
She smiled sadly. "I know. I knew your wife, you see. She was my art teacher when I went to this school, and after I took over, she helped me out for the first few years."
A name came to mind. "Chase...Melody Chase, right?"
Melody nodded. "Yes. You wife was my favorite teacher in all my years of school, even college. She talked about her garden so much, it was almost like her ornaments were her pets. She even had names for them."
He had forgotten about that. "That's true... this one was... Lily?"
"Loralei, actually."
Of course. The name they would have given their daughter, if they'd had any kids.
Then, as he watched in surprise, Melody turned and clapped her hands twice. From the bushes around the porch emerged some familiar faces. The schoolgirls. All were dressed in grubbies and wore gloves. As she nodded at them, they pulled garden tools from a bag and started to work.
Noticeably absent was the tiny girl. He looked from them to Ms. Chase. "Where is she?" he asked.
She sighed. "That, actually, is what I came to talk to you about. The girls wanted to bring the butterfly back, but it had been so long, they were afraid you would be angry, and try to arrest them."
He nodded guiltily, waving her over to the porch chairs. "I might have... once. They've been doing all this?"
"Yes. It was Gennyce's idea."
He blinked a few times. The similarity of the name to his wife's was unmistakable. "Is that the girl's name? The little one? She did all this?"
"Yes, her name was Gennyce Lawless."
He stared at her, his heart sinking. "Was...?"
She nodded, staring down at the butterfly. "She passed away last week," she barely managed in a choked voice.
Now, he felt even worse than ever. She was gone, before he had a chance to say anything. "I'm so sorry to hear it," he said. "I noticed she wasn't looking too good, those last few weeks of school."
"She was failing, but none of us knew it. I guess I should tell you everything from the beginning."
He just nodded.
Melody sighed, her eyes taking on the faraway look of a storyteller. "Gennyce was always a small girl, but it wasn't until the middle of grade school that her growth seemed to just... stop. Her parents took her to a few doctors, but they couldn't find anything wrong. And I'm sure you know, around here, our doctors don't exactly have a lot of resources to figure out stuff like this."
"Yeah, I know," he mumbled. They had caught his wife's cancer entirely too late to save her. He was all too familiar with the disinterested staff in the county hospital.
"This year, she knew something was badly wrong. I don't suppose you knew that she was actually the oldest girl in this group?"
That was interesting. Oldest... and no bigger than an eight year old? Really?
"Her friends knew too. That she was sick. When you yelled at her--and yes, I overheard that argument-- that was why they got so defensive of her. They didn't know about the ladybug yet, she asked them for help after that fight. They would come and do the yard work, and trade out the finished ornaments for her. She was the one that did the restorations on them. She has always been too sickly to do anything but sit, and so her parents made sure that she had plenty of things like art supplies. She is a far better artist than anyone in the school, even me."
As he listened, he watched the faces of the other girls. Even turned away, he could see the sadness and grief. They had lost one of the sweetest, kindest friends they could possibly have known. And he finally realized that he recognized one of them. The tall, athletic girl was clipping at his branches like a professional landscaper. Her face was the spitting image of the town florist. Of course his plants were thriving, under her expert care.
"But when she came to the butterfly, she was lost. She had never done glasswork like that before, and she was getting too weak to hold it for any length of time. So, she brought it to me and told me the whole story. I had noticed the yard, and after the argument, I figured... well, anyway, I got the work done, but with end of year exams, it took me longer than I thought. She collapsed one day in the library and was taken to the hospital, then airlifted to the city."
She pressed a hand to her head, as if in pain. "They found cancer. Loads of it, tumors everywhere. It was so advanced, there was nothing to be done. At least she died peacefully, no longer in pain. But she wasn't able to see the finished work in your garden."
"And... I couldn't ever tell her... how much it meant to me," he murmured in anguish. "I was going to... to send a note... to her. Through the office. But I had no idea she would be gone so soon."
They fell quiet for a minute, then he looked up at her again. "But... why? Why did she do all this in the first place? I'm the mean old man in town... why did she care?"
"If you remember, Janice also volunteered at the day care. Every one of these girls knew her, and knew about her garden. As to why they helped you... Gennyce knew she was sick, and she told me that she hoped if she did something really nice, she might earn a miracle. That her good deed could help save her life. Unfortunately, it didn't work out that way. She didn't get her miracle."
"But... it was a miracle all the same," he pointed out quietly. "Not for her... but for me. I don't think she'll ever understand what she did for me."
Melody smiled. "Oh, I think she did. She heard about the roses, by the way. That boy you helped? That was her cousin. He just graduated, and he is now engaged to his girlfriend. They will be married in August before going off to college."
He couldn't say anything to that. He just nodded.
After another long silence, she stood and held out a hand. "Would you like me to put that back in place for you?"
He stared at the butterfly for a long moment, then he shook his head. He stood, grabbing his hat from the edge of the chair, and putting it on. "Miss Melody... could you show me where she is? Little Gennyce?"
She stared at him in surprise, then nodded. "Of course."
He handed her the butterfly to carry, and hobbled down the stairs with her at his elbow. The girls had overheard and set aside their tools and gloves, falling into step with them. The tall girl, who identified herself as Jordan, walked on his other side and helped him avoid tree roots and cracks in the sidewalk.
It was only ten blocks to the city cemetery. He followed them toward the back, where he could see some yellowed sod laid over an area that was newly turned. It was only five lots down from where Janice rested. He paused for a moment, laying a fresh rose over her stone, then continued with the rest to the new grave.
He stopped and looked down. A wooden grave marker lay in the fresh turned dirt, already a bit cracked from the heat of the sun. It had been carved with roses and butterflies dancing around the girl's name and vitals.
He glanced at Ms. Chase. She sighed. "Her father has been out of work for a while, and they didn't have money for a marker. They asked me to make one, so I grabbed a chunk of wood from the shop class bin and made this."
He nodded, turning and staring back down at it.
"Afternoon, Herb."
He looked up, shading his eyes, and spotted Jack Tate, the caretaker of the cemetery. "Afternoon, Jack. Got a question for ya. What's the policy on decorations here? Can I leave one permanently?"
Jack approached, his eyes on the butterfly. "Really? Thought Janice wanted her critters to stay in her garden."
"She did. This one is for the little one," Herbert said, nodding at the wooden marker.
Jack's eyes lit up in understanding as he smiled, his face wrinkling under his broad-brimmed hat. "I see. If there was anyone in this town that deserved a giant butterfly, it's that one. She was my granddaughter's best friend."
"So, can I leave it here safely?"
"Sure thing. When winter comes, I'll just put it in the shed to keep it safe. Not sure how safe it'll be with that marker, though. I can usually mow around most of the stones, but that wood won't last long."
Herb thought, and an idea came to him. "I can take care of that."

One week later, Herbert Henderson stood with about half of the town around him, watching as cement was poured around the newly carved granite headstone over Gennyce's grave. He had requested that the butterfly's iron stand be set in the concrete, safely out of the way of Jack's mower. The butterfly itself could be easily detached with a couple of bolts removed.
The headstone itself was a replica of Melody Chase's painstaking woodcarving of roses and butterflies. Herbert had paid for it with his savings. Gennyce's mother and father were so overcome, they could hardly say a word as they marker was placed.
But his best surprise was yet to come.
The county had managed to come up with just enough money to build the new middle school, but not the land. Herbert donated the lot his house was on, as well as the large farm field behind it, which had been bequeathed by his grandfather and had been leased out to a local farmer for years. He had moved into a senior home across the street, watching in satisfaction as the building went up, day by day. In the process, Mr. Lawless had also found a job, as the head janitor of the new school.
Once it was finished, Herb pulled out a box from his closet, and walked over to the school. He stood at the window of the art class, where Melody Chase would work, and called up each of Gennyce's friends. They reverently placed each of Janice's beloved ornaments in the flower garden beneath the art class window.
Her pieces would be kept safe, for many years to come. He knew that Janice was smiling, wherever she was. And yet, as he watched the girls in their work to tend the school flower, chattering happily, he knew that Gennyce was just as happy with his thank you. She knew. Somehow... she knew.
And that, more than anything in his life, made him happy.

An Afternoon Drive

Half an hour and a keyboard...

A tree flies by the window. No, not a tree. A telephone pole.
Another soon follows it, and another. A long succession of what used to be beautiful, graceful trees reaching up to the heavens. Now they sit silent and rigid, condemned to stand stark and barren against the desert skyline, holding slender metal threads with enough electricity to kill a human in a nanosecond.
I rest my head against the window with a sigh. So bored. There has to be something more entertaining than watching cars go by every five miles or so. The odd jackrabbit bounding across the scrub on a suicide run toward the asphalt gives momentary excitement, but it always vanishes long before it can be appreciated.
I want to be home. I want to be in my own yard, chasing across the grass, looking for butterflies, lying on the thick green sod looking up at clouds in the sky, or just taking a long snooze on one of the padded chairs on the back patio, dreaming the afternoon away.
But, no. "Let's go for a ride, it will be fun!"
Fun. Yeah, if this is fun, I do not want to know what boredom is supposed to be like.
Is there a point to this drive? Are we going somewhere? Is there ice cream involved? If there's ice cream, I can handle any amount of boredom. Assuming I don't die of starvation in the process. I can hear my stomach pleading for me to relieve the emptiness, but there's nothing to eat in here. Nothing that would interest me, anyway.
My mouth waters as I think of the contents of the refrigerator, back in the nice, cool house. I turn my head to look at the driver, wondering if complaining will do me any good, or if I'm stuck in this endless nightmare of telephone poles and dim-witted critters.
Perhaps he is more perceptive than I thought. He returns my look with a grin of apology. "Sorry, I didn't remember this road as being so boring. Or so long. We'll be home in twenty minutes."
Might as well be twenty years, from where I'm sitting. But at least there is a defined end to my torment. With another sigh, I look back out to the road and wonder if it's worth the effort to find a comfortable position for a nap, or if we'll be home before I can actually get to sleep.
We pass a few road signs, but they have been thoroughly battered by time, wind, and the occasional miscreant with more bullets than common sense. Doesn't matter... that's why we have the nice lady with the soothing voice telling the driver where to go. He's been driving these roads for thirty years, you'd think he would know the way by now.
Sometimes I don't know if he needs the directions, or just the voice. He seems lonely, sometimes. His last three dates were all disasters. Partly my fault, I'm sure. I didn't like any of the ladies, and I made my disdain readily apparent from the second they walked in the door. The feeling in each case was mutual, so I doubt that circumstances would have been any different if I had chosen to be friendly and welcoming.
In the far distance, just beyond a rise, I see a familiar sight. The big wooden sign with the peeling paint announcing the edge of the city limits. At last, a real, tangible sign that the long ordeal is finally over! Is that the drive through? Yes, sure enough, it is. A quick side trip, a few words exchanged, the clink of paper and coins... and the coveted vanilla ice cream is mine. Much to my regret, I wolf the stuff done much faster than I had intended, and the moment of sugary bliss is over entirely too soon.
"You're going to make yourself sick, you know," I hear. I disregard it. My stomach can handle anything, at any speed. Anything except nothing, which is all I've had in the last two hours.
I ignore the advice and turn my attention back to the road. A right turn, then a left, then another left, a long stretch of houses that all look the same, then the field full of cows... and home. My home, at last. I can already see it in my mind's eye. Oh please, let us just be home, that ice cream has convinced my bladder that it needs to kick up a fuss along with the rest of me!
Oh no... the grocery store. For a man, he sure spends a ridiculous amount of time shopping. He parks the car in the shade, cracks the windows, and goes inside while I wait with barely concealed impatience. This is nearly unbearable. The next time he says "let's go for a ride", I'm going to make him seriously regret those words.
Much to my relief, he is back in less than ten minutes. But now, my bladder is hurting. I need to go, and if he isn't quick, I'm going to go right where I'm sitting! He turns the car toward home. I know every bump on this road, every pothole, and they all contribute to the irritation in my midsection.
There it is! The two-story Cape Cod with the bright green front door and the rocking chairs on the front porch! The car turns into the driveway, and the engine shuts off. I am shoving through the door the second it is opened and bail out, running like I'm being chased by angry, possessed zombies with rocket-launchers.
Oh blessed relief. Home at last.
Now that my needs have been met, for the most part, I decide to investigate the grocery purchases. A big tub of vanilla ice cream. I'll take that as an apology. It's time for supper, and after supper, another scoop of ice cream and a long sleep on the back porch.
He looks at me with a sheepish grin. "Oh c'mon, it wasn't that bad, was it?"
I decide to forgive him. After all, he is my best friend, and I know he cares about me. I give him my best tail wag, and a lick on his face, and he laughs, rubbing my ears fondly. I fall asleep at his feet as he sits with his glowing letter plate on his lap, watching some strange show about people who think it's fun to do obstacle courses that might kill them. Hmph...people.
When I wake up, he's getting ready for bed. I take my place at his feet, contentedly sighing as sleep overtakes me. The night is quick, and with the dawn, he is up and dressed. After a quick breakfast, which involves me stealing a half-dozen pieces of his bacon, he picks up his keys and jangles them. "Let's go for a ride!"
I grin and follow him out the door. What can I say? You never know what might happen on an afternoon ride.

Princess or Pauper

Another "no time limit" short story, just kinda getting it out of my head and onto paper. This is a sort of Cinderella-esque Rags to Riches story, but instead of starting at the beginning, I'm going straight to the middle, to one of the revealing scenes with a major plot twist. Thing is, after this scene, the plot gets even more twisted, until it resembles Gumby after an incident in a taffy puller.
This should be fun.

Short overview of the story up until now: Pallia is the foster daughter of the local flower seller. He used to be an expert warrior, until he lost a leg and had to retire. Since then, he has become the local expert on all things involving plants, and so, rather than being the ragged flower-cart-dragging bag lady, Pallia actually has a pretty good life. She does not know much about her past, except that he found her as an infant, and that no one had any idea who she was or where she came from.
At the same time he found her, the infant princess of the realm vanished. The royal family claim she was stolen away in the night by person or persons unknown. Of course Pallia was examined when she was found, but the queen insisted that this was not her daughter, and why would someone kidnap the princess, only to leave her where anyone could find her easily?
One afternoon, shortly before what the flower seller has determined to be her seventeenth birthday, the king's vizier pays a visit to the flower shop and takes interest in her. What the royals want, they get, so when he orders that Pallia be brought to the palace, she cannot argue. To her utter shock, in a ceremony before all of the royalty and nobility, the vizier tests her with the crown of the princess, and identifies her as the long-lost princess Zarilya. There is a gem in the crown that would only light up and show its magic if the crown is placed on the head of the true heir.
This basically means that she belongs to the king now, and has to bid her foster father goodbye. He has taught her many things while growing up, and one of those things is a strong sense of duty. She hates being taken from her old life and thrown into the stuffy, rule-ridden life of the palace, but she is determined to bear it.
But then, late one evening, the king calls her to his study...

Zarilya paused at the door, glancing at the king's aide. The man glanced inside, then nodded respectfully to her. "You may enter," he said solemnly.
Steeling herself, she walked into the room. The only person here was the king himself. She suspected that the Vizier had to be around; he had a habit of haunting places unseen. It was almost creepy, the way he just came and went without being detected.
King Rysten watched her as she approached, barely managing a curtsy without falling over. "You sent for me, Father?" she asked stiffly.
He nodded, waving a hand to the other chair in front of the fireplace. She sat on the edge of the cushion, hoping that this interview would be over quickly. Her bodice was tied so tightly, she felt like her ribs were being broken.
The king's gaze turned from the girl to the fire. She watched him, rather than the fire, noticing that his face seemed even more worn and aged than it ever had. Deep down, she knew something was wrong, but she wasn't sure if it was something that involved her, or something else entirely.
Of course, if it didn't involve her, then why was she here?
After several minutes of silence, as she sat and sweated in the heat of the fire, he finally stirred and sat straight in his chair. "Zarilya... do you like living here? Do you like being a princess?"
She hesitated. How in the world was she supposed to answer a question like that? At least, without offending him.
He noticed her reticence. "My dear, this room is protected. No one else will hear you, and I want complete honesty between us. So answer me honestly... do you like it here?"
Lowering her head, she stared at the finely woven rug beneath her feet. "Not really," she muttered. "I'm not used to living in a place that is so strict. And this dress makes me feel like I'm being strangled by a hungry octopus."
He laughed softly. "I'll never understand women and fashion. Were it up to me, you wouldn't have to wear that ridiculous dress. But your mother insists that you be dressed properly."
He stood and walked closer to the fire, leaning against the mantel, and staring into the flames. She could see something in his eyes... a certain kind of pain. One she knew well. The pain of loss. Why was he still in pain when his long-lost daughter had been returned?
"As to my pledge of honesty, there is something important that you need to know."
She waited, with bated breath. What was going on here?
He turned his head, his painful gaze locking on her face. "My dear... you are not my daughter."
She just stared at him, a whirl of painful emotions and even more painful questions washing through her. She wasn't the princess? Then... why on earth...
She decided that if he preferred honesty, she would be honest. "Why?" she demanded hoarsely, coming to her feet before she could think better of it. "Why did you take me from my home? Away from my father? Yes, I know he isn't my real father, but he's the closest thing I've had to a real father in my life. Why did you lie, if honesty means so much to you?"
She realized she was speaking more loudly that was prudent, but she suddenly didn't care. She was angry, and when she was angry, she had no interest in caution.
He sighed, waving for her return to her seat. "My dear Pallia... Zarilya, whichever you prefer... it is something of a long story, but trust me when I say that I had little choice in the matter."
"Since you have already lied to me, why should I believe anything you have to say?" she snapped, feeling just a little bad that he had flinched at her question.
"Because I want you to know the truth, as far as I am capable of revealing it. You see... I truly don't know who you are. I don't know who your parents were, or where you came from. As far as I know, you are nothing more than what you seemed when Xerix found you. However, that very lack of history is what makes you the ideal candidate for the throne."
She frowned. "You've lost me."
"Allow me to explain from the beginning, then," he said, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands contemplatively. "When my daughter was born, it was a great relief to both my wife and myself. She'd had a devil of a time just conceiving a child, and the pregnancy was extremely difficult for her. The birth was likewise complicated, and the doctor told her that our darling Zarilya would be the only child she would ever bear."
He raised his head, looking into her eyes. "When she was taken from us... it was the most painful thing I have ever faced in my life. I was ready to tear the kingdom apart to find her, and indeed, my soldiers did very nearly that. Yet even after a week of intense searching, they were unable to find her anywhere. She had simply... vanished."
"And you are certain that I am not her?" she asked pointedly.
He nodded, his face twisting with even greater pain. "Yes... because eventually... we did find her. Or rather, her body. Xerix located her, drowned in a canal, about three weeks after she had vanished."
Pallia stared at him, her heart aching for the bereaved king. "I am so sorry," she said softly. "That had to be so... hard."
He nodded. "The Vizier identified her body. My wife was too distraught to even try, and I had been rather busy in the short time she was in our household. I knew very little of any identifying marks, anything that would allow me to be certain that the child was mine. Babies look very much alike, after all."
She just nodded in return. "But Xerix is sure?"
"Yes. Very sure." He stared at the flames of the fire, then back at her. "I admit, it is uncanny how much you resemble my wife. If I didn't have such faith in my Vizier, I would almost be willing to toss aside his assurances and believe that you really are my child. But... I am afraid I cannot."
"Then why am I here?" she pressed.
"As predicted by the doctor, my wife has been unable to conceive any more children. Her health has been so fragile, there was some concern that she might die before any more heirs could be born." He squeezed his eyes shut. "I am loathe to admit it, but at times, I almost wished for her life to end. So that I might marry another, and that she would bear more children."
She stared at him,appalled. He threw up a hand, an almost pleading look on his face. "I promise you, with all my heart, I would never wish ill on my wife! Her life has been very difficult, and it would be a kindness to her to spare her the pain she has lived with for so long. I love her very much, and I always will. It is just... I hope... do you understand?"
Strangely, she did, and she nodded. She knew that it must be very difficult for the king to unburden himself of all the long years of dark thoughts, anger, and pain. And he was confiding in her, a girl he had met barely a week ago. She couldn't help feeling just a bit of pride that he trusted her so much.
But on the other hand... why her? Why did she have to be the one to share in his burden?
"As to why you are here, it has become blatantly apparent to us that we will never have another child. Never know another chance to have a blood heir. And do you know what will happen to the kingdom when I pass on?"
She thought about it. "No, not really."
He locked his gaze firmly with hers, a hardness there that she had never seen before. "The throne will fall to my half-brother, Count de Cross."
She felt an icy shiver through her entire body. Martyn de Cross, the most notorious gambler, womanizer, and certainly one of the most cruel and vindictive men in the known kingdoms. For the throne to fall to him...
It all made sense to her now. In a twisted sort of way. The king had lost his daughter, and she had no past. It was his only hope.
"I think I understand, Sire," she murmured. "You don't want your brother to take the throne, so you'll take any chance you can get to keep it from him."
"Indeed. I would much rather have the kingdom in the hands of an ignoramus than in his claws."
From his teasing tone, she knew he didn't really consider her to be ignorant. He was simply making a point. "But Sire... what if I can't do it? What if I make some kind of terrible mistake?"
"A mistake made in ignorance is far more tolerable than deliberate malevolence," he said in a bitter tone. "My Vizier is wise, and has many good years ahead of him. He will advise you well, once you take my place. I'm sure he can keep you from doing anything truly unforgivable."
She chuckled weakly. "How very reassuring. But, there is one other thing that is bothering me. Why are you telling me this? Wouldn't it be easier to just let me keep believing that I'm really your daughter?"
"Perhaps... perhaps not. I wanted you to understand that I trust you. And that I intend to be as honest as I possibly can. You are in some danger here, now that you have been crowned as my heir. My brother will no doubt take steps to eliminate you, and that cannot be allowed. You need to know exactly what you are up against."
She pressed her hands to her face. "This is such a mess. You are asking me to live a lie!"
He reached out and grasped her chin, lifting it gently until her eyes met his. "My dear... you claim that your foster father is the closest thing to a father that you have ever known, am I right?"
She nodded, confused.
"Then you of all people should understand that blood does not make a family. It is love, and the sense of belonging. I have chosen you to be my daughter, and whether my wife brought you into this world or not, I will love you just the same."
She smiled weakly, feeling a few tears in her eyes despite her misgivings. "I... I understand, Father. I want to say that I love you, but... I just don't know."
"I understand completely. I won't expect you to accept all of this right away. But in time, certainly before you take the throne, you will need to come to terms with it. I hate to place such a burden on your shoulders, but I feel that you are equal to it."
He paused, then looked at her guardedly. "I guess the only question left is... do you accept it? If you feel you simply cannot tolerate this situation, I will... I'll understand."
"It scares me to think of the notorious Count de Cross coming at me with a knife, but you are right about one thing. The kingdom cannot be allowed to fall into his hands. If I have to pretend to be royal, and wear uncomfortable dresses, and learn a million ridiculous rules to protect my people, then I'll do it."
The smile returned to his face, and he clasped her hands. "My dear... it warms my heart to hear you say that. I regret placing this burden upon you, but I am grateful that you are strong enough to bear it."
He stood, pulling her up with him. "I'll let you go, so that you can free yourself of that ridiculous dress. Just know that if you need to ask me anything, no matter how painful or troublesome it may seem, I am always at your service."
She nodded, reaching up and kissing his cheek. "I understand, Father. Good night."
She followed him to the door. He opened it, and kissed her forehead before she left. All the way back to her chambers, her head was spinning. Conspiracies were for bedtime stories! And yet she was knee-deep in one. What was she going to do now? How could she get out of this?
She couldn't. She had promised the king... the man she would have to learn to think of as her father. It was so unfair, but then, as Tato had said so many times, life just wasn't fair.

She couldn't sleep that night. She tossed and turned, trying every possible position, but sleep simply wouldn't come. She would look a total wreck the next morning at court, but it couldn't be helped. She gave up after about three hours and went to the chair by the window, staring out at nothing.
She was the princess, but she wasn't. She was reasonably good at keeping secrets, but if she said or did just the wrong thing...she would be a dead woman walking. Or worse, she would embarrass her new parents. She cursed the wretched whims of Fate that were putting her in this position.
Behind her, she heard the slightest sound. It was no louder than a mouse's sneeze, but it made her turn anyway. She frowned, her eyes widening as she saw a large panel open up to reveal a secret passageway.
From that passageway, Xerix emerged. He held a finger to his lips and beckoned for her to join him. She just nodded and pulled a dressing gown around her shoulders, figuring that he had come to explain things to her a bit better than her would-be father had. It would be interesting to know how he had managed to pull off the switch, with no one catching on.
She followed him through the servants' passages until they reached a stairway that led upward into a tower. His workshop, she thought. When they arrived, she looked around in wonder. The somewhat dim room was more of a library than anything else, the floor to ceiling shelves stacked with books and scrolls, some even stacked on the floor around them. Xerix, looking a bit distracted, waved a hand for her to sit across from him in front of his fire.
She was still a bit too warm, but now that she was in a comfortable night dress, it would be a bit easier for her to bear. She sat, watching him in curiosity. "If you are going to tell me the truth, that I'm not really the princess, you can save your breath," she muttered. "I just spoke to the king a few hours ago."
He nodded absently. "I know. I was there. Thing is... neither one of you knows the truth."
She frowned, then rolled her eyes, throwing up her hands. "Let me see if I can guess... you are now going to tell me that I really am the princess?"
Looking over at her, he nodded. "Exactly."
She stared at him in utter disbelief, her head spinning. "Good grief, Xerix, where do the lies end? What in the world am I supposed to believe? Am I a princess, or an orphan, or what? Why are you people doing this to me?"
He sighed. "If you think about it, I'm sure you can answer that question for yourself."
She narrowed her eyes. "I'm not interested in playing games, Vizier. Yes, I know Count de Cross is a danger to me, but why all the lies and conspiracies? Am I really the princess, or not? I want the truth!"
He turned to face her, clasping his hands in front of him, his face more serious than she had ever seen. "My dear... you are the blood daughter of King Rysten and Queen Ferylia. Really and truly, without a doubt."
"Why should I believe you?" she whispered furiously, her hands squeezed so tightly, she could feel her perfectly manicured nails digging into her palms. "I can't believe anyone here! I can't believe anything any of you are telling me!"
"Not even your own eyes?"
She blinked, staring at him. "What?"
He walked across the room to a bookshelf, raising his hand and tracing it in an intricate pattern over the books, muttering under his breath. The books on that shelf vanished completely, revealing a hidden niche behind them. Inside the niche were three intricately carved wooden cases.
She recognized the one on the right. The one carved of ivory. It was the case her crown rested in.
Reaching in, the Vizier removed it and carried it over to a table near her, opening it. The crown rested on a bed of brilliant gold silk, the center gem as dark and quiet as it had been the first time she had seen it.
"I know you don't know who to believe, or even what to believe, but you know the legends as well as anyone. The crown only responds to the true heir to the kingdom. Put it on."
She hesitated, just staring at it. "What kind of spell are you going to cast on me? And if it lit up in the throne room, then why doesn't the king believe me to be his daughter?"
"I worked this out from the first, my dear, even before you were born, when I was still nothing more than an apprentice. I swear to you, I will explain everything shortly. For now, just put on the crown and prove to yourself who you are."
Reaching out slowly, as if she were about to touch a poisonous viper, she lifted the crown from the bed of satin and stared at it. "Are you sure?" she asked quietly.
He nodded. "Put it on."
She grit her teeth, lifting the crown and setting it on her head, nestled amongst her wavy raven locks. As it had before, the center gem lit up, with a light that was so dazzling, she was sure it could be seen for miles around. Her head was spinning again, as she glanced at the dull reflection of her and her crown in a nearby window. Why? Who was the real liar here, and what was really going on?
Reaching up, she removed the crown again and set it back into its case, watching as the light in the gem died down again. "Okay, Xerix... I'm convinced. Now you owe me the truth. What is going on, why doesn't my father know who I am, and why is everyone lying to each other?"
Xerix picked up the case and returned it to its hidden niche, restoring the bookcase with a quick wave of his hand. He came back over to her side and sat down facing her.
"My dear princess, first and foremost, you must understand that I have no intention of hurting you further. I am trying desperately to protect you, and I have been for many years. You know very well of the danger that Count de Cross presents to the royal family, yes?"
She nodded.
"It is no secret that he has been after the throne ever since he came of age. He has no respect for Rysten, and cares little for what anyone thinks of him. His goal is power, nothing more, and he will do whatever it takes to get it. Even murdering an infant."
She shivered. "Was he really going to kill me?"
"That is what I had heard. I have a rather large network of spies, my dear, and they see and hear just about everything. I knew from the day your mother announced her pregnancy that you would be in deadly danger, and I took steps to ensure that you would be protected."
"Protected?" she laughed incredulously. "By leaving me in a flower seller's field in the middle of the night? A helpless baby, and you just abandoned me?"
He shook his head. "I suppose you don't know that Tatonym is my cousin?"
She stared at him. "Um... no?"
"Well, he is. We grew up together, and I knew that he could be trusted. Even he does not know the truth of your parentage. I left a note with you that he would be sure to find, telling him that the princess had been murdered, and I had arranged with the father of a baby whose mother had died in childbirth to take his child and hide her away, then claim that she was the princess when she came of age. Tatonym understands the danger of the Count as well. Martyn de Cross is the reason Tato has a peg leg, incidentally."
She thought about that. "He never told me," she said quietly.
"Of course he wouldn't. Speaking ill of the Count in public is a near-certain way to shorten your lifespan. The man doesn't tolerate criticism. At any rate, the only man alive that knows that you are really and truly the princess is myself. The crown proves it. I had told your father that I would cast a spell on the crown to make it appear to light up, so that the court would accept you. The crown, however, is not the real reason they have been so welcoming. I don't know if you realize just how closely you resemble your mother."
"Father mentioned that," she mused.
"You have his eyes... blue as a piece of the sky. But you have your mother's beauty, her coloration, and her stature. A bit taller, certainly, and you are much healthier than she has ever been. We can be thankful for that."
"But... I still don't understand. I know the Count was a danger to me, but why send me away to a simple farmer?"
"Tatonym is far more than just a farmer, and you know it," Xerix said firmly. "In his household, I knew that you would get a far better education than you would as a princess. Your mother was adamant that you would be raised as a lady, which would leave you horribly vulnerable to attacks. Your father wanted you trained to defend yourself, but your mother did not want to risk injury to you in training. It was one of their most bitter disagreements. And so, I acted instead, knowing that you would need every bit of training you could get. Even with a peg leg, there is no finer warrior in the kingdom than Tatonym."
"But why are you still lying to my parents?" she demanded. "Why doesn't the king know the truth about me?"
"Because he is a terrible actor," Xerix said, a rueful yet fond look on his face. "I have great respect for the man, naturally, and he has been one of the best kings this land has ever seen, but he simply could not be trusted to act the part. You see, once the announcement was made that the princess had been found, every gossip in the land started watching you closely. You, and your parents. If the Count knew for certain that the blood heir had emerged, you would be in immediate danger. However, if your parents acted suspiciously, he would suspect that it was all a ruse, and that you were not really the princess. At that point, all he would have to do is bide his time and wait for you to make an unforgivable mistake, revealing the ruse and embarrassing your father."
"I hedged my bet a little. I know very well that the Count has his own spies within these walls, and I made certain that one of them was on duty tonight, outside of your father's study. He heard the conversation, and he is sure to report it to the Count. Martyn de Cross will think you are a fake, and will not see you as a real threat. It was the only way I could think of to protect you, short of hiring a man to murder the count, and he is said to be impossible to assassinate. Others have tried. Many, many others. And the assassins always come up on the short end of the deal."
She stood and started to pace, feeling even worse than she had after the meeting with the king. Who was, apparently, her real father. She had no idea what to do, no idea what the Vizier expected of her, no clue whatsoever how she was going to handle this situation.
She stopped, turning to face him. "So... what do I do now?"
He smiled slightly. "Nothing more than what you have already been doing. Before tonight, you believed yourself to be the real princess. You must continue to act as though you believe that. Truly, you are the princess, but--"
"You swear to that?" she demanded, turning and pressing her hands to the table to get right in his face. "Do you swear to me, on your life, that you know for certain that I am really Princess Zarilya?"
He stared directly into her eyes. "I swear it on my life. You are really and truly the princess."
She watched him for a moment, then moved away. "So, I just keep learning to be the princess, then?"
"Yes, and leave the traitors to me. Certainly, you must keep your eyes open. You would be a fool to do otherwise. But I am doing what I can to see that de Cross sticks his head in a noose of his own volition. I want to trap him into acting against you, and against your father, so that he can be eliminated as a threat once and for all."
"You're using me as bait?" she asked, not sure whether to be aghast, or amused.
"In a way," he admitted. "I assure you, I have taken steps to make sure you are well guarded, day and night. No harm will befall you so long as you do what I tell you."
He hesitated and stood, coming over and placing his hands on her shoulders. "There is... one other thing I would ask. And I know this will sound utterly absurd, but it is necessary."
She frowned. "What is it?"
"In order to ensure that you are protected, de Cross must believe that the king's court is fully on your side. That we are all determined to defend you to the death. To that end... I had the thought that it might not be a bad idea to act as though you are being courted by someone within these walls. That would give the Count something else to worry about... should you marry before he can eliminate you, your spouse would still be the legal heir before him. It might make him act a bit faster."
It was an utterly ludicrous suggestion... but it made some sense. The sooner she got this idiotic feud out of the way, the sooner she could be safe, and concentrate on things like tea parties and stitchery, and stop watching for assassins over her shoulder. "I think you're crazy, but... okay. Who, exactly, is supposed to be my not-so-secret admirer?"
He gave her a quirky grin. "Me, of course."
She stared, taking a long step back out of his reach. "You? Xerix, I'm not sure whether to be flattered, or insulted. You are nearly twice my age!"
He shrugged his broad shoulders. "True, but I am still a strong, vital man by most standards. It is not so absurd. And lest you think that your parents would be dead set against the idea, rest assured that I have already broached the idea with your father. He has agreed."
"You do realize that if you pretend to court me, it might make you the Count's next target instead of me, right?" she asked. "Why would you take such a terrible risk? I know you are a strong man, and powerful in magic, but as you said, he's a slippery guy. Why would you court death to protect me?"
He took a few steps forward, once more placing his hands on her shoulders. "Because... I would not be pretending to court you, my princess. I am truly in love with you."
Once again, she was at a loss for how to respond. So she decided to stall. "How is that possible? You don't even know me!"
"Oh, but I do," he said softly. "I have watched you for years, all while you were growing up. I had to protect you. I could not simply depend on my cousin for your protection, I had to be certain that no harm would come to you. And as I have watched you, I have found you to be one of the most desirable women in the kingdom."
"Me, or my throne?" she asked pointedly, folding her arms.
"I promise you, I am not a gold digger," he said in exasperation. "I love you for yourself, my dear. And I would gladly lay down my own life to save yours, if it became necessary."
She fell silent, just staring helplessly at him. She could not come up with a response, not even the faintest protest. She knew very well that he wouldn't let her protests sway him anyway. He was determined to go through with this.
But what if she did? After spending time acting like she was in love with him, after all the time he would spend protecting her, would he expect her to show her gratitude by marrying him? What kind of man was he, really? Was he using her? Or was he genuinely trying to protect her and the kingdom?
She had so many questions racing around in her head, she was completely startled when he put an arm around her waist, kissing her ever so softly. It was the first time a man had kissed her, and despite her misgivings, it felt wonderful. She found herself wanting him to kiss her again.
He seemed to sense it, and he obliged. This kiss had a bit more strength in it. When he finally released her, the entire room was spinning rapidly around her. She reached out blindly for her chair, practically falling into it.
He dropped to one knee in front of her. "I am sorry for startling you, my dear. But I can hardly help it. I am in love with you, and nothing will change that. I will understand if, in time, you cannot say the same to me."
At the moment, she was completely incapable of speech of any kind. She just nodded.
"Earlier, you asked me what you needed to do. For now, just continue your princess training. Say nothing to your father of our conversation. I have told him what he needs to know for now. But I promise, once the Count has been eliminated, I will tell him everything."
"I... er... alright," she stammered. "And... you... we... how do I..."
He shook his head, laughing a bit. "It would seem I took you by surprise more than I thought. These things take time, my dear, and it would be very suspicious if our relationship grew too rapidly. Therefore, given that I am one of your tutors, just let things appear to take their course. In the time we spend together, our friendship will naturally grow, and from that, others will make their own inferences. There should be very little deception involved."
She just nodded, still feeling a bit dizzy.
He pulled her back up to her feet. "You need to sleep now. After everything you have been through tonight, you need rest."
She didn't fight him. She had no strength to resist anything. He led her carefully through the passageways back to her room, making sure that she was safely in her bed before moving back to the entrance.
"Just as your father said, I am always available if you have questions," he assured her. "But for now, just rest, and let things take their course. The Count is a snake, but I have dealt with such men before. Have no fear for your safety, my princess. I swear by my life to protect you."
She just nodded, curling up in a tight ball on her bed. He slipped into the passageway, the panel closing tightly as he went. She watched him go, certain that she would be unable to get any sleep at all, after everything that had happened.
Instead, a sudden drowsiness overtook her, and she was asleep in seconds.

Confused yet? Just wait... it gets better...

Going to skip a few scenes, to a confrontation with the bad guys. Or so she thinks. She was kidnapped during a quick visit to a neighboring kingdom, while Xerix was not with the royal family, and carried away to an unknown castle deep in a forest. She was only partially conscious during the trip, and everything is confusing around her. By this point, she has started to really fall in love with the Vizier, and she is worried that he might not be able to save her in time, or that he'll get himself killed rescuing her. Her kidnappers give her another dose of sleeping potion, this time knocking her out completely, and when she finally wakes, there is a strange man in her room...

When the captive princess finally floated back to consciousness, she immediately regretted it. The sun was shining directly in her face, and the blinding light gave her an instant headache. She rolled over on the bed, scrunching her eyes tightly shut, and waited for the pounding in her temples to subside.
She had been captured. It didn't take much imagination to figure out who her captors were. But if it really was her uncle, then why was she still alive? Xerix had made it pretty clear that Martyn wanted her dead by any means.
Unless... she was bait for the Vizier. Or her father. Or both.
She forced her eyes open, looking around the room with a rising sense of panic. She had to escape, now, before either of the men she loved came after her and got themselves killed.
"Finally decided to join the land of the living, have you?"
She froze, her heart hammering inside of her as fear shot through every inch of her. Who was here? Was it the Count, one of his guards...
And what was he going to do with her?
Slowly, she sat up, looking across the room. Seated in a simple wooden chair, leaning back casually against the wall, was a young man. He had flame-red hair, laughing blue eyes, and a three-inch scar on his left cheek.
She frowned. Where had she seen him before?
Her head was still foggy from the sleeping potion, and so she decided to just ask him. "Who are you?" she demanded.
He grinned, standing up and walking over to her bedside. She shrank from him, and his smile slipped a bit. "You don't remember me? I can't say I'm surprised, we only met once. In the forest, when you were lost."
She frowned, then a faint memory came to mind. She had been lost, when she was ten, and a kind stranger had given her a ride on his horse, returning her to her father's fields. The stranger had been wearing a hooded cloak, but the scar on his face was unmistakable.
She looked up at the man in her room. It was him. "You saved me... then why are you kidnapping me? What is going on? Did you know who I was back then?"
He nodded soberly. "Of course I did. It was my job to watch over you, to be sure that no harm came to you."
Now, she was thoroughly bewildered. "Who are you?" she demanded. "I mean, really, who are you, and are you an agent of Martyn de Cross?"
He nodded slowly. "I am his agent. But I'm afraid you have been given some bad information. My uncle isn't out to kill you, whatever your father and the Vizier have said."
She stared. "Your uncle?"
He turned away. "You need to eat something and get your strength back. I will have a servant bring you some clothes. When you decide that you are ready, the servant will bring you down to the study. Uncle Martyn is anxious to set the record straight with you."
"How can I trust you?" she asked. "How do I know this isn't some trick, that you aren't going to kill me?"
He raised an eyebrow, his smile now looking a bit chilling. "If I wanted you dead... you already would be."
He closed the door quietly, his footsteps vanishing down the hallway. She wrapped her arms around her knees, shaking a bit now, worried sick. What was de Cross up to? What was his game? This had to be a trap of some kind, something intended to either draw Xerix and her father to their deaths, or turn her against them.
But she was curious to see how the trap would be sprung. Anything she learned could only help the situation, and perhaps she could find an opportunity to escape. Even if she didn't, she knew that Xerix would move mountains to see her safe. She missed him so much, it ached.
The door opened again, and an older woman came in. She looked like a grandmotherly type, her hair gray, hands callused from years of work, but she had a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye. She set down a tray with some food, and laid out a dress on a chair, setting some slippers beside it.
"Take all the time you need, dearie," the woman told her. "I'll be just down the hall, doing some mending. When you are ready to visit with your uncle, I'd be happy to take you."
The woman left again, closing the door behind her. For the first time, Zarilya noticed that the door to her room didn't have a lock on it. Pretty strange policy for a prison room. Unless they were still trying to trick her.
She was nervous about the food, worried that it might contain some kind of poison, or some other potion. But after a thorough examination, and taking time to smell it, she couldn't detect anything. Hunger won out, and she wolfed down the food. When she had finished, she put on the dress and pulled the slippers onto her feet. Running her fingers through her hair, she wrapped it into a messy pile on her head, tying it in place with a piece of ribbon.
She opened the door, looking up and down the hallway, spotting an open door. As if by magic, the woman appeared and smiled, waving for her to follow. She took a deep breath and complied, walking down the hallway and down a sweeping staircase.
This castle was nice, and well-kept, but not as opulent as she would have expected for a power-hungry madman. She saw servants here and there, cleaning and walking around with baskets of laundry or buckets of water. None of them looked like the beaten, cowed slaves that she had pictured working for Martyn. They all looked well cared for. What was going on?
The woman led her over to a set of carved wooden doors, poking her head in and murmuring something too quiet to hear. There was a reply, and the old woman moved back, waving a hand. "Go right in, Your Highness. They're waiting for you."
She swallowed hard. Was she walking to her death? Or were they going to turn her into a pawn to use against her father?
She walked slowly into the room, pausing a moment to look around. It looked like a cross between a study, and an armory. There was a large collection of weapons displayed on racks around the room, from all over the world. She noticed two men sitting across the room in matching leather chairs. Both stood as she entered, and bowed respectfully.
One was the red-haired man. The other, even though she had never seen him in her life, was instantly recognizable. He looked so much like her father, she could almost imagine that he was Rysten.
Except for one very obvious difference. Her father had blue eyes. This man had one blue eye, and one brown one. And both of his eyes were locked on her face, an unexpected moisture showing at the corners, a bit of it leaking onto his cheek.
"My dear... you look so much like your mother," he said softly, holding out a hand to her.
She hesitated, still terrified of him, but then took it reluctantly. No reason to make him angry. He bent and kissed her hand, then led her over to a chair, where she sat, rigid as a post.
The redhead noticed, and he grinned. "Relax, Princess. Despite what everyone else has told you, I promise, you are in no danger here."
"Not from us, at any rate," Martyn grunted, taking his seat again. "I can't vouch for the Vizier, of course. In fact, you are in more danger from him than from anyone else in the known kingdoms."
She narrowed her eyes. "Why am I not surprised that you would say something like that? You are trying to trick me, but it isn't going to work."
Martyn sighed, closing his eyes. "And I, in turn, am hardly surprised that you are suspicious of me. I can't say that I haven't encouraged my rather terrible reputation, but you see... I am not the man everyone believes me to be. I am not a criminal, and I am not really after my brother's throne."
She was about to say something sarcastic, but the redhead raised a hand. "Princess, please... let my uncle explain. I know you have little enough reason to trust us, but you could at least give him a chance to tell his side of the story. If you want to protect yourself from the true enemy, then you need to know what's really going on."
She folded her arms, sitting back in her chair. "Okay... I'll listen, but I doubt you can convince me of anything."
"A good ruler is one that keeps an open mind, even to the most unlikely of stories," Martyn told her with a sad look. "I am not an evil man. I have a bad temper, certainly, and I am not exactly the most well behaved man around barmaids, but most of that is when I allow myself to get drunk. It is a vice, and a terrible one, but it does not make me evil."
She raised an eyebrow. "Okay... but what about the rumors that you are out to kill me?"
"You need to know the real history of the throne to understand that nonsense," the younger man said, shaking his head. "Xerix is really good at twisting things to his own advantage, and this is no exception."
"Perhaps you should tell her, Gilyn," Martyn suggested, pressing a hand to his head in a gesture that suggested he had a headache. "You do it so much better than I."
"If you would learn to keep emotion out of it, you would do better, Uncle," Gilyn said in a gently teasing voice. Zarilya could tell that the younger man was very fond of his uncle, and she wondered how anyone could care about a man as terrible as the Count de Cross. Something didn't add up, and she was determined to find out what it was.
Gilyn turned to her, leaning forward, lacing his fingers together and resting his chin on them. "Zarilya, I give you my word, what I am about to tell you is true. Even your father would confirm most of it as fact, though his conclusions are a bit jaded. Once again, that is Xerix's fault. I am perfectly aware of your feelings for him, so I'll try not to let my anger get the best of me. Though, if you think about it... are you really in love with him?"
She frowned. "What business is it of yours?" she snapped.
"I care about the future of this kingdom as much as you do," he said earnestly. "And that means that I have a vested interest in making sure that a snake does not claim the throne. Tell me one thing... and I want you to really think about this. When you are with him, does your head feel clear? Are your wits sharp? Or is everything a bit... fuzzy?"
She flamed a bit, though she wasn't sure if it was from embarrassment, or anger. She knew instantly what he was suggesting, and as much as she wanted to deny it... she couldn't. Her thoughts drifted back to that night in his tower, the first time he had kissed her. She had let him, hadn't even tried to resist... and he was a virtual stranger. Then, she had actually wanted him to kiss her again, and she'd had no idea why.
She didn't answer, but she could see from the look on his face that he knew he had her. She just glared at him. "My relationship with Xerix is my own affair. If you have something to tell me, then get on with it," she growled.
"Alright then, I will. First of all, has your father explained to you his exact relationship with Uncle Martyn?"
She glanced at the older man, who was just staring into the flames of the fire, apparently oblivious to their confrontation. "Not really. I know that Martyn de Cross is his half-brother, but that is it."
"Actually, Martyn's the older of the two. It is something of a scandal, so of course they keep it quiet. Your grandfather was married to Martyn's mother for about five years. In that time, he had no idea that she was secretly in love with the crown prince of a nearby kingdom. She had formed a pact with the prince that she would see her husband dead so that she could marry the prince and bring the two kingdoms together. She bore a son, which complicated things. Martyn would be the heir, and her new husband would be, at best, a regent. In the midst of everything, her husband got suspicious of her strange absences, and set a spy on her. He found out about her tryst, and immediately divorced her."
"He was concerned that Martyn was a bastard child, the son of her secret lover, and wanted nothing to do with him. She swore to her dying day that Martyn was truly his son, his blood heir, but the king refused to believe her. He sent both of them away from the kingdom, banishing them until the death of his ex-wife, at which point Martyn returned and attempted to reconcile with him."
"By then, the king had remarried, Rysten had been born, and was named the Crown Prince. Martyn was angry and hurt, and jealous, of course. He wanted the throne that was his by right, and he made no secret of the fact that he had no love for his half-brother, who he saw as a usurper. When his father died, Rysten took pity on his half-brother and granted him a claim as the Count de Cross, in an effort to offer him at least that little bit of respect.  But Rysten refused to hear any of Martyn's claims that the throne should be his."
"So... is Martyn really the blood heir of the king?" Zarilya asked, scoffing. "Do you have proof of that?"
"In fact... we do. We were able to prove from various records, given the timeline of his mother's pregnancy, that Uncle Martyn had to be the son of the king. The prince was on a long voyage, an embassy to a distant island kingdom, in the time that Martyn had been conceived. The king was the only possible father."
She nodded slowly, glancing at her uncle. He was still staring into the fire, but she could see some redness in his cheeks, and his hands were clenched tightly.
Gilyn waved a hand at his uncle. "As he said, he hasn't really helped his reputation. He has a terrible temper, and in his younger years, he had a tendency to get drunk and go off into terrible rages. Everyone thought him to be this awful, cruel, vengeful man. He would make horrible threats when he was drunk, especially against his brother, but he never meant any of them. He wanted the throne, but he would never resort to murder."
She raised her hands helplessly. "Then... Xerix... and everything Father has warned me about...why are they so afraid of you?"
"It is complicated," Gilyn said slowly. "Before you were born, as I said, Martyn would make threats. At the time, Xerix's master, the Vizier before him, had died of a terrible illness, and so at a very young age, Xerix became the royal Vizier. He was rabidly loyal back then, and determined to protect the king, and so I'm afraid he took things a bit too seriously. He hatched his little scheme to protect you, to switch you with a dead baby, hand you over to his cousin, all of that. You already know of it, so I won't bother to repeat it. But as I said, Martyn would never have hurt the king. Xerix kept warning the king, however, poisoning his mind against Martyn."
"I assume something has changed, then?" Zarilya asked.
"Yes. In fact... it all changed the day Uncle Martyn found out, through his spies, that you were presumed dead."
She frowned. "How so? That would have practically assured him the throne, assuming he outlived my father."
"True. But seeing the pain your death caused his brother... something in Martyn changed that day. He felt so terrible for everything that had happened, for everything he had said... he still had his drunken rages now and then, but he stopped making threats. He actively worked to improve himself, to change his life... but the damage had been done. Xerix even had the king convinced that Martyn had to be the one behind the baby's death, but there was no proof, and so they were at an impasse."
Zarilya looked at her uncle again, startled to see that there were tears in his eyes. "How long have you known?" she asked softly, addressing the older man. "That I was really the princess, that is."
"Ever since you were brought to the palace," Martyn answered, looking into her eyes. "Your mother's face, and your father's eyes... I have a near perfect memory, my dear girl. And I wasn't fooled in the slightest by the Vizier's chicanery. There was no way you could have such a strong resemblance to them unless you were related somehow. I also knew that he was turning you against, and at first, I had thought to simply leave you alone, and hope that over time, you would dismiss the threat against me as paranoia."
"What changed?" she asked. "Why did you kidnap me?"
"To protect you," Gilyn said seriously.
She rolled her eyes. "Oh, of course," she drawled. "Everyone is all claiming that they're trying to protect me, and I'm starting to wonder if anyone can be trusted!"
Gilyn nodded, smiling sadly. "I can understand that. I don't blame you for not trusting us. I don't blame you for hating us. But I assure you, we have nothing against you."
"You don't want the throne anymore?" she asked Martyn pointedly. "And I'm supposed to just believe that?"
He nodded. "I am not fit for the throne. This whole mess has proven that to me, beyond a doubt. I will forever be unhappy that I was denied my destiny, but I cannot blame Rysten. He was lied to as much as I was, and he is a far better king than I can claim. Because of my reputation, there isn't a woman in the land that will have a thing to do with me. Therefore, I will never have an heir. You are my brother's only child, and our only hope to keep the throne. I am just as anxious to protect you as my brother is."
She still wasn't sure that she believe him, but there was something in his voice... a simplicity, an earnestness... it reminded her so much of her father, she found herself wanting to believe him.
"Assuming I believe any of this... what is the real danger here?" she asked. "Surely you don't expect me to believe that Xerix is a threat to me?"
The two men exchanged dark looks. "Actually... he is," Gilyn said in a sharp tone. "It didn't used to be that way, but it would seem that something has changed."
She frowned. "Okay, so here it comes... what kind of wild conspiracy are you going to spin for me?"
"Nothing wild about it. We have our own agents in the palace. Xerix is aware of some of them, but not all. In particular, my most trusted agent, Darin... he is deaf and mute, but he is an expert at reading lips. He has been watching Xerix closely, and you need to know just what kind of man you are allowing to court you."
"He is a snake," Martyn spat. "Of the worst kind. He is evil, and murderous... but he fully believes that he is justified in his actions."
"At the beginning of his whole 'hide the princess to protect her' scheme, his intentions were pure," Gilyn said quickly, cutting off her retort. "I don't think he had any machinations against the king at that time. But since then, as he has watched over you, he has hatched other schemes. He has gotten used to being in the king's confidence, and he has developed a taste for power. Ultimate power, of course, would be the throne. It would be nearly impossible for him to seize the throne by any other means, so... he hatched this plan to pretend to be protecting you, while at the same time, he would be working his way into your confidence, and convincing you that you were in love with him. After that, marrying you and taking the throne would be all too easy."
"But what about my father?" Zarilya asked, with a nagging feeling that she already knew the answer.
Gilyn nodded. "That is where he crosses the line," the redhead told her. "If he were just scheming to win the princess, even with the spells and potions he has used on you, it could possibly be forgiven. I wouldn't blame him... you are a beautiful and spirited young lady. Even if you weren't the heir to the throne, you would still be a highly desirable woman."
Martyn cleared his throat rather loudly. Zarilya hid a grin as Gilyn reddened. She could tell easily, from the look in his eyes, that he already had feelings for her himself. He was trying to hide them, but he had let it slip anyway.
"The problem is what Xerix plans to do once you are married. He is going to see your father dead, though slow poisoning, or an accident, or some such. Then he would be crowned the king, and have all power."
She pressed a hand to her head. It seemed so unbelievable. And yet, Gilyn had hit a nerve when he asked how she truly felt about the Vizier. Whenever she was with him, she felt like he was the most important person in the world to her, that she loved him deeply, and never wanted to leave his side. But her brain was fuzzy in those times, and her feelings seemed so unnatural. It was easy to dismiss in the palace, but out here... just what exactly was it that she saw in him?
She raised her head, looking at Gilyn in suspicion. Was it possible that the redhead was the one using magic on her? Twisting her feelings to turn her against Xerix?
She stood and started to pace. Everything was so tangled. She had no idea who to believe, who to trust. Was Xerix a traitor? Was her uncle a murderer? And what exactly was Gilyn's stake in this? Was he truly concerned about protecting her and her father? Or was he the treacherous snake that he accused Xerix of being?
She had no idea how to figure it out. She didn't have Xerix's magic, or her father's experience and wisdom. How could she possibly solve this?
Then, she remembered something that her father had told her months earlier. The magic of her crown protected her from outside influence. If she was wearing it, she would be protected from evil magic and potions. If there was a notable difference between how she felt when wearing it, and how she felt without it...
Before she could say anything, there was a commotion outside of the room. Gilyn came to his feet, grabbing a sword from a rack on the wall and racing out of the room. Martyn followed him to the door, looking outside, then grimacing.
"It would seem your beloved was faster in tracking you than we thought," he said, glancing back at her. "He has brought the Royal Guard to your aid." He drew his own sword and hurried out, locking the door behind him.
She sank back into her chair, just waiting for... what, she wasn't sure. If Gilyn's whole purpose had been to drive a wedge between her and Xerix, he had succeeded.  But she still had no idea whether or not the redhead could be trusted, or if he was a bald-faced liar.
And the Vizier... she had no idea what to do about him. As she listened to the sounds of battle outside, she found herself yearning to be with him again. To be safely in his embrace, away from the danger presented by her volatile uncle.
And yet, Gilyn had a point... her head felt fuzzy. She just couldn't think straight.
The battle seemed to be getting worse, and it had moved into the entrance hall of the house. She felt twinges of fear rolling up her spine. Grabbing a sword from the rack on the wall, she hid behind a chair in the corner, waiting, her heart pounding wildly in her chest.
She heard shouts outside of the door, from familiar voices. There was a cry of pain and a loud crash, then she flinched back as the wooden doors shattered, flinging shards of wood all over the room. Standing in the doorway, a terrible, forbidding look on his face, was the Vizier.
She stood slowly, lowering her sword, relief flooding her. "Xerix?" she murmured.
The angry look on his face vanished. He swept across the room, catching her up in his arms and holding her tightly. "Zarilya! My dearest one... I was so afraid I would be too late. That they would have already disposed of you. But it would seem that they decided you were more valuable as bait."
He smiled, a cold, mirthless look. "Unfortunately for them, they seriously underestimated me and the guards."
She nodded, clinging to him, her doubts about him melting away as he held her in his strong arms. Bending close, he kissed her, and led her with him out of the shattered door and into the hallway. Once outside, he stopped, looking over the scene before him with a look of satisfaction.
Martyn and Gilyn were on their knees, their hands manacled behind them, heads down in defeat. She noticed that Gilyn had a terrible gash in his arm, and his face was getting paler by the minute as his blood dribbled down his sleeve to stain the marble tile of the floor. He glanced up at her once, a strangely knowing look on his face. She looked at Martyn, who just looked tired and ill, then back at Xerix.
A moment later, her father came striding into the house, holding out his arms when he spotted her. She raced to him, hugging him as the stress of the moment caught up to her, bringing tears coming to her eyes.
"It is alright now, my dear daughter," Rysten assured her. "We're taking you home. My one-time brother has finally demonstrated his true colors, and he will pay dearly for everything you have suffered."
"But... Father--"
He turned away, ignoring her as Xerix gave an accounting of the battle. She bit her lip, just watching the two prisoners. Something was very wrong about this situation, but she couldn't tell what it was. She no longer knew who to trust, or what to believe. Worst of all, she had no idea if the man she loved was a traitor.
Rysten called out, and two of her ladies in waiting came in, leading her gently out to a carriage. One of them wrapped a blanket around her, against the chill of the autumn air, while the other murmured quiet, meaningless assurances. She ignored both of them. Her entire life was in shambles, and she hadn't the faintest idea what to do about it.

Dusty Roads

This one isn't a half hour brain-on-paper... but it is a raw, unedited short story.  Writing prompt: a young girl walking along a dusty country road at sunset.

The day had been hotter than usual, even for July. Local residents sat here and there in whatever snatches of shade they could find, craning their heads to catch a breeze, occasionally engaging in conversation until the heat-induced fatigue made conversation more of a burden than it was really worth.  There were less than a hundred people in this town. They all knew everything about each other. What was there left to talk about?

The sun was starting to seriously contemplate the western horizon. It was closing time, but most of the shop owners continued to hang around the front doors, wistfully watching the traffic roll by on the distant interstate, hoping for just one or two more sales from the weekenders heading up into the nearby mountains.

The barber saw her first. She was petite, with long, dark hair, pale skin, and a look on her face that suggested she had been hit over the head and wasn't happy about it.  The girl looked to be about twelve or thirteen. Her family was new to the area, and the locals were eager to learn all about them, but they spent most of their time in the city at their jobs or at the expensive private school with the French-sounding name that most of the locals couldn't hope to pronounce. The father did something with farm science, so the rumors went, which was the only explanation for why a rich city-slicker scientist would buy a defunct farm and uproot his family to live there.

The barber watched her as she drew closer. From the hunch in her shoulders, and the way she kicked at the ground, he could tell she wasn't feeling well. He narrowed his eyes, noticing that she seemed to have some swelling on her face. Had she been beaten? Was she being abused? Should he talk to someone, like the sheriff?

No, he needed to let it be. The last time he'd gotten involved in what he thought was an abuse case, it turned out that the wife was the one doing the beating on herself, so she could sue her husband out of his money and run away with her secret boyfriend.  No way was he going to involve himself in something like that again. But his heart went out to this girl. He himself had been beaten by his father on a regular basis, and he knew what it was like. He shook his head and went back into his shop to find his broom.

The grocer saw her next. He kept one suspicious eye on her while sorting out bad fruit from the front display. Her hands were jammed into her pockets, and she kept her gaze down, but he noticed a few furtive looks here and there. A delinquent, almost certainly, coming into town to hunt for the perfect opportunity for a five-fingered discount on some hapless storekeeper. It was something of a tradition for the kids around here to dare each other to test his observation skills, and he wasn't going to let the new kid in town get the best of him.

Everyone knew city kids had no morals, no manners, and no compunctions about stealing from the hard-working folk in farm country. He kept his head turned roughly in her direction, watching without really looking, until she had passed by. With a snort of derision, he went to empty the ruined fruit into the pig trough out back.

The sheriff's deputy was just coming out to his patrol car when he spotted her. He had been out of town for some training for the last few months, and had never seen her before. He frowned, watching her as she walked along the road, shoving her dark hair away from her face now and then, not paying a bit of attention to the people around her. Was she lost?  Running away? Was she an accident victim wandering in from the interstate? No, that couldn't be it, or she would show some kind of trauma. Her face did look rather swollen... but if she needed help, wouldn't she ask him?

His radio squawked and he had to hurry off. Some crazy speeder out on the highway risking life and limb. He hurried into his car and sped off down the road, still watching the girl in his rearview mirror. When he returned, he would have to look for her. Something just wasn't quite right with that situation, and he was duty-bound to find out what it was.

The librarian was just finishing her usual cleaning of the door glass when she saw the girl. She was curious... she had noticed the child a few times before, but she never went to school, never came to the library, didn't seem to have any interest in learning at all. In this state, it was perfectly okay to homeschool your children... unless she went to some kind of private school? Maybe that was it... the woman vaguely recalled meeting the girl's brother at one time, and he said something about a school project. She hoped that this girl did indeed attend school. She looked so lost and sad. What she needed were some friends, and a few good books.  And a library card. The next time she saw the girl, she would have to do something about it. Picking up her glass cleaner, she went into the library and started to straighten up the shelves.

*    *    *

Marissa followed the dusty old road into town, absently kicking up dust here and there, inwardly composing the perfect diatribe of curse words to level at her idiot brother when he finally came home from school with his horrid little friends. This was the third time in a month that he had failed to put gas in the car after borrowing it, and she was livid when she found it with an empty tank. Since their family lived five thousand miles from the middle of nowhere, the car was necessary for just about every daily task, and he just didn't seem to get it through his head that there was only one gas station nearby, and she didn't have time or energy to have to constantly walk to town to fill up the gas town.  

She certainly wasn't going to do it today. Lifting her hand to her cheek, she absently rubbed it with a wince. The dentist had not been kind, and the anesthetic was already wearing off. Her jaw throbbed as if a major-leaguer had swung a grand slam across her poor face. All she wanted to do was take a pill and crawl into bed in her nice, air-conditioned room. But thanks to her moron of a brother, she had to walk to town to get her medicine.

At long last, she reached the pharmacy and went inside. At the back, behind the rows of geriatric supplies and suppositories, she saw the counter where her uncle worked. She flopped onto a bar stool and tried to smile, but it just hurt too much.  "Hi, Uncle Ted."

He gave her a look of utmost sympathy. "Hey, kiddo. I got the fax from Dr. Dawson, here's your pills. And some water. Take one now before you fall down; I'll drive you home, so don't worry about being drowsy."

She seized the water and gulped the pill down, grimacing as some of the water spilled on her shirt. Oh well, it was hot, and that's why some genius had invented the washing machine.

Ted took the empty glass from her and shook his head. "I hope you've learned your lesson about chewing ice now, young lady. Your mother warned you I don't know how many times."

She rolled her eyes and nodded. "I know. From now on, the only ice I ever want to see is the stuff I put on my face. Speaking of which--"

He handed her a plastic bag full of frozen cubes, which she pressed to her jaw with a sigh of relief. Laughing at the look on her face, he waved a hand toward the display cabinet where the ice cream buckets were neatly lined up. "Mint Chocolate Chip, or Cookie Dough?"

"Cookie Dough."

Flash Fiction April 15,2018

Today's story...

Story Prompt: Write a story about a common laborer who finds a horse wandering around a futuristic city.

The sun was low in the smoggy sky, turning everything a kind of sickly, burnt sienna shade. Half-dead ginkgo trees made a halfhearted effort to shade the sidewalks and clean the air. It was a wasted effort. Industrial barons had very little concern for the sorry wastes of skin that lived on the planet’s surface, and thus, planting trees, made no difference in the air quality. They simply produced more pollution when they could get away with it.

Mac wasn’t thinking about any of this, however, as he stumbled along the road towards home. All he was thinking of was a hot shower, a good meal, and a reasonably soft bed. His wife and children would be home, but after a twelve hour shift, he had very little energy for play or idle chatter. They understood this, even if they didn’t like it.

His name wasn’t really Mac, but it was what everyone called him. In fact, he doubted if more than five people in the entire world knew his legal name. And he didn’t really care. Shoving a tuft of grizzled brown hair out of his eyes with his burly hand, he wiped sweat off of his brow with his hat, then jamming it back on his head. Summer was the worst. Except for winter, when the workshops were something more akin to giant freezers. Every year they lost more and more laborers to the weather. The Bosses didn’t care; if one man fell, there were always others eager to fill their boots.

In his exhaustion, Mac didn’t notice the horse until he had walked right into it. He nearly fell backward, but his six-foot-six frame was solid enough, he was able to shrug off the blow. He looked up, his chocolate brown eyes staring in utter disbelief and confusion. Where had the horse come from? They were in the middle of the city! Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen a horse outside of a zoo in almost twenty years.

He wasn’t sure what kind of horse it was, but he could tell it wasn’t your average cart horse. He guessed its height to be somewhere around eighteen hands, its coat and mane black as night. It had a saddle, so he guessed the rider had to be around here somewhere… but as he looked, he could see no one but himself on the street.

Reaching out slowly, he took hold of the reins and gingerly patted the creature on the neck. “Where did you come from, big fella?” he asked. “And where is your rider? This ain’t a place for a critter like you.”

The horse whickered softly. In its eyes, he could see intelligence and a certain gentleness that seemed out of place on such a powerful animal. He looked around again, frowning. “Hey… this belong to anyone?”

There was no answer, except for a gust of sour, smog-laden wind blowing dust and litter up the street. He shrugged and looked back at the horse, debating what to do. The Animal Control authority had closed half an hour ago, and he couldn’t very well just leave the horse where it was. Making up his mind, he wrapped the reins firmly around one hand, and gently tugged. Obediently, the horse followed in his wake, trailing him toward his home.

In the twenty years he had been working in the metal shops, he had managed to earn enough money to buy an actual house. It was small and spare, but it had a real yard. It was the size of a postage stamp, but there was grass, a few flowers, and a tree. Best of all, it was fully fenced. It would do for tonight, he supposed. He couldn’t help a tired grin as he considered the possibility of keeping the horse around as a lawn mower. He hadn’t gotten around to cutting the grass in weeks, so the grazing of the big animal would save him the trouble.

He unlocked the gate and swung it open, leading the horse around the house to the yard in the back. He wasn’t quite sure how to tie the animal up with the short reins, and still allow it to move around, so he found a length of rope and tethered it at a comfortable distance from the tree. He found a bucket and scrubbed it out, filling it with water and setting it out. The horse immediately dunked its muzzle, guzzling nearly all of the water in one go. With the dry, hot air, he figured the poor thing had to be half dead of thirst.

He filled the bucket again, then patted the horse on the neck. “I suppose I’ll just let you be, then. In the morning, we’ll call Animal Control and have them come and pick you up. I expect your owner will be looking for you soon enough.”

The horse seemed to glance at him, but of course, it did not answer. It was a horse, after all. Feeling a bit ridiculous, he turned and went into the house.

His wife had been watching from the kitchen window. As soon as he entered, she was in front of him, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him lightly. “Mac, I know Lacey has been begging for a pony, but really? A stallion? How on earth are we supposed to keep an animal like that?”

He laughed. “Honey, I found him wandering on the street. I couldn’t just leave him out there; with his dark coat, he’s gonna get himself run over by some idiot. I’ll call Animal Control first thing and have them pick him up.”

She nodded and sighed. “Well, you get to tell Lacey, then. She’s already on the Net, telling all of her friends that her daddy bought her a horse.”

He rolled his eyes. “Great. I get to the be the bad guy again.” He found himself wishing he had never seen the animal at all.

Despite how tired he was, Mac found himself unable to fall asleep. He was wondering about the horse. It was unusual enough to see a horse wandering around the city, but this one obviously had a rider. Where was he? Or she, he amended hastily. He hoped they hadn’t gotten hurt, or mugged. Muggings were uncommon these days, with the government cameras on every inch of every street, but they still happened from time to time.

Giving up, he slipped out of bed and went to the window, looking outside. The horse was there, its legs tucked under it as it tried to sleep in the summer heat. He realized that he hadn’t removed the saddle, but he really didn’t know how, and he didn’t want to risk being accused of theft. The poor thing had to be very uncomfortable…

His thought screeched to a halt as he spotted a shadow slipping along one fence. His eyes narrowed. It might be the rider… or it could be a thief. Guns had been outlawed a long time ago, but he still had a nice big aluminum bat from his days on the high school baseball team, and he had a hefty swing. He pulled on his pants and a shirt, slipped his feet into boots, and hurried to the back door.

By this time, the shadow was right across from the horse. The creature had come to its feet, looking at the intruder, and whickered again. Mac came out the back door and hurried over to it, brandishing the bat at the shadow. “Show yourself!”

There was no answer for a long minute. The shadow stood frozen against the fence. As Mac looked closer, he realized that they were standing on one foot, and seemed to be swaying a bit.

“Excuse me,” came a tenor voice, with a strange accent. A man, most likely. “But that’s my horse there.”

Mac took a step forward. “Oh yeah? You got proof?”
“Nothing that would convince any of the authorities around here. But I assure you, he’s mine.”

Mac laughed softly. “Right. And I’m supposed to just believe you?”

“Release him, and I’ll call him.”

Mac was still uncertain, but he really didn’t want to have to put up with the animal. If the authorities were slow in coming to pick it up, he would be late for work, and he really didn’t want to risk annoying his boss. He couldn’t afford to lose his job.

Reaching over, he untied the rope and removed it from the reins. The shadowy figure limped a few feet closer, then whistled softly. The horse responded immediately, walking over and letting him grasp the reins.

Mac nodded slowly, lowering the bat. “Okay, he seems to know you. But what are you doing around here with a horse? Who are you, anyway?”

There was a pause, then the other man sighed. “That is a very long and unbelievable story, and I don’t wish to waste your time. However, if you could--”

He broke off with a grunt, stumbling and going down on one knee. Throwing caution to the wind, Mac hurried over and dropped down beside him, looking closely in the darkness.

It was hard to see anything, but the man looked younger, with thick, black hair, a very thin, pale face, and a slender build. What Mac noticed more than that was the blood. On his face, on his white shirt, and spattered on his light-colored pants.

“What happened to you?” he demanded. “We should call the police!”

“No!” the man nearly shouted, grimacing. “Please… the last thing I want is to cause you trouble, but I cannot involve the police. There is more at stake here than you know. If you could just… help me onto my horse… I’ll be on my way.”

Mac shook his head firmly. “Not a chance,” he insisted.

Where this is going... the rider is an inventor who invented the concept of time travel.  Unfortunately, he ended up stuck in the 19th century, and in his desperation to get back home, he has accidentally destabilized time and Mac's era is at risk of collapsing, along with all other times except the one in which the time-travel device was invented. For some unknown reason, the inventor cannot get back to that exact time to stop himself from doing all of this, and in his travels, he was attacked by bandits in the 19th century and badly wounded. He randomly jumped to Mac's time and location to escape them and passed out, falling off of his horse. He still has a few ideas how to solve all of this, but he is too weak to act alone, and he cannot wait to heal.  He needs help, and Mac reluctantly allows himself to get roped into the mess.