falling-oars

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[Roux@Kit] There's been howling in the Wrecks again tonight. Roux comes in close to dawn, humming, with that easy, loping stride, hunched forwards a little like a drunkard, like it's an effort to keep upright. He grins wildly at Kit, all sharp canines and wide, black pupils. "You would not /believe/," Roux drawls, throwing himself down onto the floor with an unnervingly loud thump, "how much I wish I could throw up right now, friend. How's the witchery?" [ WINGING IT TIME ]

Kit’s expecting him.

It’s not witchcraft, not really, though those who ask are met with a gaze steadfast enough to convince them that anything done in Kit’s wide and worrying presence is whatever it needs to be.

Roux arrives every damn week with alarming regularity, desperate for sleep that never comes and fairly burning through his pallid skin: far too full of someone else’s frantic vibrations.

“It’s tremendous, as always.” Kit’s voice curls low, not loud exactly, but large: enough to darken the caves with noise, like a flood rising from the earth. “I’m fantastic at my job.”

Kit grins, hard and fast. “I pulled two minds free of each other last night.” There’s always satisfaction in the work. Fat, bright, cleansing satisfaction.

Knives, a little sharper than is strictly natural, are carefully stripping the flesh from stems and stalks; Kit’s hands moving with practised speed, the mulch left behind scraped carefully into bowls and pots, as that voice continues.

“And you were feasting, and howling, and waking the dead.”

Unacceptable though they find it, there’s a thread of worry winding through those thrumming words. “Eat, Roux. The jars are where they always are. I can’t have you climbing up my walls all day.”

The cavernous pantry, full of everything you could need and absolutely nothing you would want, has a chilled shelf, suspended in the darkness, balancing jars full of a gelatinous blackness that slops red and unpleasantly sticky in the light.

Kit stoops beside him, gripping his chin, eyes darting over his, watching the depth of those fathomless pupils. Taps at his cheek.

“And put some fucking clothes on.”

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[Oisín@Jacob] He isn't sure why he does it. Doesn't think to question it, either. But as Jacob passes by the heap of blankets he'd put down for Oisín and the hound, the giant of a man sits up a little, and tries to headbutt his hand. He butts against his upper leg instead, and pauses for a second, before smiling nervously up at Jacob through his hair. Beside him, the hound keens quietly. [ local man would like Love now that jacob is Trusted ]

Jacob feels the warm weight thud against his thigh. He starts, his heart leaping and skittering, so unexpected is the feel of another pulse so close to his own. His breath falters at the sight of those wide eyes - more open that the ocean and just as wildly unfathomable - smiling up at him: gentle and hopeful, and shy. 

He tugs in a breath, pushing a smile onto his lips. “Comfy down there?” He wants to fall down beside this curious man, rest that nuzzling head against his chest instead. It feels wrong; almost cruel, to stand stiff and unyielding, to hold his weight and offer nothing more, but Jacob is frozen, and silenced for once.

Jacob is good with words. He feels God in language, in rhetoric. He winds words around souls; he makes them dance and sob. And Jacob can hold a gaze to soothe suffering, can mould silence, sculpt sighs and empty breaths into a comforting embrace.

But no one asks him for a hand to grip, for a desperate grasp or an easy caress. And no one leans close, rests their weight against him, no one warms their soul on his skin or opens their self to his touch. 

Slowly, and far too late, he lays his hand against the tickle of Oisín’s mad tangle of hair, marvelling at the heat of his scalp; the feel of him real and solid beneath his fingers. He scratches fondly, finding his thumb smoothing over the soft skin at his temples. Something hot and painful blooms in his heart, too large for the space. He blinks down at the curl of limbs, the easy, heavy figure still leaning on his trembling leg, and he feels his soul singing, crying up to God and thanking him for the sweetness of this man, this friend, the first to reach him for as long as he can recall.

He would ask to sit, to rest against Oisín’s arms, to push his face against the softness and bask in the closeness of his good heart, but his voice is lost.He stands, waiting for another nudge, a whine from the hound, and he lets his fingers touch.

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Exciting Night    -   Susan ‘Sue’ Bright Lautmann Hertel

American,   1930-1992

Print ,  37 x 23.25  cm.

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[Oisín @ Samson] He can't say what it is, exactly, that makes him so abruptly uneasy. Only that the air around them seems to shift, and Oisín becomes suddenly aware that half of the people in town today seem to be pirates- he catches one's eye, finds that he doesn't like the look of it. Casually, one long hand comes to rest on Samson's shoulder, Oisín's arm lightly around him, steering. "Keep walking," he says lowly. He trusts his size to deter threats, usually. "Someone's got an eye on us."

Someone’s got an eye on us

Samson shrinks. He can’t help it, he feels shame rise through his belly and twist at his heart, a flush pounding on his cheeks. His whole body is flooding with fear, legs numbing quickly, a shiver flickering over his back. He stumbles, unbearably grateful for the steady arm around him. 

“Gotta get out, Oisín.” He can feel the eyes on him now, feel the men in the street crowding closer, swarming like flies, the hum of their voices pressing at him, too loud. His mind is foggy, his arm limp, the slashes on his back throbbing. “Gonna get beat.” His heart is yelling, screaming a warning to guard Oisín from the rage he can already feel battering hard against them. He’s not sure where they are any more, and he feels drunk, eyes darting over blurring horizons; looking frantically for a hiding place, trying to drag at Oisín, to get them somewhere the crew won’t look.

He feels his mind curling in on itself, skipping off across the ocean, plunging down beneath the cool, muffling waves. It’s better here.Lets himself be steered, his breathing ragged and harsh,Stares unblinking at the sand beneath his feet. Waits for the crunch of string on skin.

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[Oisín @ Jacob] He's sitting on the floor again, cross-legged, turning a twig over and over in his hands. "You think Hell looks different for everyone? Or is it all the same?" It's a bad thing to bring up. Makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and he can't for the life of him justify the decision to ask Jacob, of all people. But he asked, and now he waits, muttering soundlessly under his breath a moment in the momentary silence.

Jacob hums quietly, gazing down at the curious tangle of hair and limbs curled on his hearth. He likes Oisín. Likes his honesty and his curiosity, and the way his life seems to be built from questions that don’t need answers.

He wonders what sort of life he’d had before coming here. Irish, he can tell from the lilt in his voice, and lonely he thinks, in the bliss he finds in silence and touch.

“I think that’s a very good question.” He wants to answer it well. He doesn’t like to see Oisín hunched and nervous; the twig in his hands turning faster and faster. He watches the movement for a while, until suddenly being up here, up on his chair and far from the soul peeking out and calling to the speck of God within him seems wrong. He slides carefully onto the floor and closes his eyes.

“I think Hell is only an edge of Heaven, Oisín.” Hell is cruelty, he thinks.“The furthest corners, the unseeable side.” Jacob wants to say this right. “A curve, you see, before it curls right back around and Hell becomes Heaven again.”

He traces a circle in the dust with his finger. “Like this.” He wants to look at Oisín, to guess if he’s scaring him, but he doesn’t. 

“I think Hell is just a moment in time. Somewhere you don’t want to be, with people you can’t understand, and who don’t want to know you.” He sighs, feeling cruel, but refusing to lie. “I think the only men who live in Hell are those who refuse to look for Heaven.”

He reaches out to place a hand beside Oisín’s bent knee, palm up, knuckles resting on the cold stone slabs. “You have Heaven in your voice, I think.” He’s always seen slivers of shimmering beauty in men and women, known God in their eyes, their fear, their goodness. 

“You needn’t fear Hell, however it looks.”

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[Oisín @ Alma] Something seems--wrong, today, with Alma. Oisín stands beside her a while, looking out to sea, leans to the side to very gently bump his hip against hers. "What is it?" [ LARGE MAN CONCERNED FOR SMALL FRIEND ]

Alma had been delighted to hear a slow tapping at her window. She’d leapt up, flinging open the door for him with a wide grin, ever so glad to have such a pleasant visitor to fill up her silences. They had fed the pups, flung bright pigments at a blank canvass, creating nothing, and eaten all the sweet biscuits they could find. Together they had stumped, singing loudly, up the tallest hills and across the softest beach.

And now they’re standing atop his favourite dune, gazing down at the ocean and she feels her heart flooding with sorrow. The wild waves toss and snarl, she sees grey clouds crowding the horizon. Feels a breeze pinking her cheeks, and loses herself in worry.

What is it? 

His voice is low, it lilts. It draws her away from her racing mind. She turns to him, placing a hand on his cheek and smiling softly.

“I worry for my wife.” Turns his head towards the flashes in the distance, the darkening sky.“She’s out there. Sailing. And I can’t be sure she’ll return.”

She allows a little fear to spill from her, and dampen her cheeks. Grasps at his hand and leads them away from the threatening sea.

[ @mythwhale ]

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[Oisín @ Alma] "What's--?" He doesn't quite /pick up/ the Very Big Conch resting amongst Alma's collection of shells, but touches it with long, spider-like fingers, curiously. "This is painted?" It isn't. But the colours are peculiar and vivid enough to seem artificial. "A gift?"

Alma chuckles, her eyes disappearing into cheeks and wrinkles.

“You’ve a good eye there.” She reaches over to close his fingers over the cool, smooth shell. “It’s lovely, but it’s all real.” She closes her eyes for a moment, recalling the first touch of her hand to vibrant stripes, and shimmering tips. Her laugh when they lay on her skin, solid, and dry. “Those are the colours you find deep down at the bottom of the blue, Oisín. Where the light can’t touch so creatures have to shine their own joy.”

 “Take it, feel it.” She’s picking up another curiously swirly object; heavier than the others and no longer the shell it appears to be. Smoothes her hand over the ridges and watches him. The shell held tentatively in long, pale fingers is one of her favourite little treasures. She recalls Esther padding in too late, dark eyes sorrowful, the glint of the conch held apologetically in scabbed hands. “These are all gifts, from my wife.” She watches him, cradling the shell so carefully, as if worried he might drop it or crush it. “Gifts from the sea.”

They stand close together and she hums an old song, something green from her youth, music that this lad seems to call up from her depths and onto her tongue. It stirs her, calling tears to her breath, a sorrow in her heart. “Keep that one.”She gazes at his curious eyes. “It suits you, I think.”

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[Oisín @ Samson] "I've taken in birds before, just not this young, or- small." He'd seen the poor thing drop from the nest, hadn't known what to do but to bring it to Samson before a fox or a rat (or, Christ, the small dog) could snap it up. Oisín hovers, hands in constant motion with one another, mismatched eyes flicking steadily between Samson and the injured chick. "Can you fix it? Save it?" [ UPSET!!! ]

The knock on Samson’s door at this hour, a heavy thunk before the sun has woken stills his heart for a moment. He curls up, shrinking small, his skin prickling as sleep and worry cling to him. His mind whines, he wants peace. He breathes steadily for a moment, recalling his cabin, his home.  In the midst of distress, a gentle tap beats at his window, and drawn by the sound he peers out to see the sparkling gaze of his friend, looking wilder than usual, and desperately unhappy.

Shaking out his twitching muscles, he slinks to the door, not bothering to stuff his useless arm into a shirt, and reaches out to pull Oisín inside.

He finds a bundle of trembling feathers puffing too fast shoved into his good hand. Gazing down, he sees a little stain of blood over the tiny breast thrumming desperately; a heart grasping at life like sands trickling through an hourglass. Oisín’s words, soft and thinned with worry are a murmur beside him, but he’s not listening. He sits slowly at his table, before glancing up at his friend and forcing his voice up into his mouth.“Blanket, Oisín.” He sounds too quiet. He hopes he’s heard. “Herbs by the sink. And water.”

He drags his thin finger over the soft little head, a faint peep wailing from its blood-stuck beak. He’s humming low now, smoothing drips of cool, fresh water on the feathers, ruffling them clean, stretching out the bent wing. Petting softly at the rip in its skin. He pushes down hard to stem the warm blood oozing brightly from under the fold of its shoulder. It wheezes, the hiss of a half aborted chirp loud in the silence.“This’ll heal up.” He rips a strip, winding it gently around the straightened wing, crooning down at the sad little creature. Nestles it down in the blanket, gratified at the rhythm of its breath, even and steady now, a little nip of calming herb dropped carefully on the end of its beak. “Come and sit, now.” He settles his friend next to the cradled bird, and reaches over to tuck a lock of that wild mane behind his ear. Offers him a little smile. “He’ll be right, don’t fret.” He moves to boil some water, scavenge something sweet, deciding to offer them both to rest here for a day or two.

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[Oisín @ Jacob] It isn't that he /dislikes/ the man. It's just that he feels--small, somehow, beside him, has the urge to duck his head and keep his hands at his sides. Outside, the big, lanky mutt that shadows him whines, but doesn't scratch at the door. Oisín ignores the sound, watches Jacob uneasily. "You know Mrs. Barlow, don't you?" The voice is soft but low, the kind of voice that goes easily unheard. "Lives further in. On her own. Think she's a widow." [ take one (1) cryptid boy ]

Jacob had been far more surprised than he’d care to let on to have found Oisín, hovering fretfully at the bottom of his lane. He had watched Jacob for a time, nose peeking from the wild waves falling around his jaw, almost entirely covering those strange eyes. Jacob had nodded friendlily down the path, noticing the wild shadow shivering behind him. A giant hound of some sort, with a heavy tail curling fearfully between its legs. 

He had dragged a chair onto his front step, and sat sipping his tea; a second mug cooling on the ground in front of him.

The mutt had crawled towards him first, and he had been delighted with its sweet snuffling, and its gentle, floppy ears. The strange concoction of limbs had  followed soon after, crouching down to lay his head on the back of that tall, puffing dog.

“Does he like to be tickled?”  He’d sat on his hands: waiting for permission from the nest of curls in front of him to scratch at the lovely thick fur. Oisín had looked unblinkingly up at him. Hadn’t replied. Just sniffed at his tea, and when they stood, had followed Jacob inside, settling himself on the stones in front of the cooling hearth.

It’s the first thing he’s said to Jacob. You know Mrs. Barlow, don’t you?A smooth little rumble, gentler than rain pattering on sodden soil.

He smiles at Oisín, understanding the question for what it is: a feeler, poking tentatively into the dark. He rises, opening the door wide and letting that glorious pup inside. 

“I do, indeed.” He takes the long path back to his chair, keeping himself in view of the lanky little man curled up on his floor. “She’s been a good friend to me.” He tilts his head, pushing down the questions almost tripping off his tongue, smiling instead, and talking softly. “Good to many people who find themselves alone in these parts, I think.” He waits a little, but other than the happy grumbling of a dog pushing his head into the tummy of his friend, the shack remains quiet. “Aye, I know her. She’s sharper than a thorn, and sweeter than honey.” He fiddles with the cross slung around his neck, an old weight from another life. “Doesn’t judge. Doesn’t have time for those who do.” He finds himself relaxing a little, and stoops towards the odd pair, hand outstretched. 

“Does he have a name?”

[ @mythwhale ]

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[ @thatwasdark continued from here ]

Silver doesn’t look like he’s watching him intently, but he is. He’s been keeping Jacob in the corner of his eye this entire time, and that doesn’t change when the man moves away to occupy himself with making tea. Silver watches that much more carefully. He didn’t come here to be poisoned.   

It does catch him off-guard, though, when the man speaks to him. Do you need something for the cuts? That’s new. Gates and his crew could hardly have cared any less.  

Silver takes the mug from him, isn’t subtle about sniffing it. “I’m fairly certain I won’t die without it,” he shrugs, indifferently. His face hurts. “But since you’re offering - yes.”   

He waits–without really thinking about it–until Jacob isn’t actively looking at him to take a sip of the tea.

Jacob raises his brow, not particularly surprised that Silver is still waiting to be murdered. A little surprised at his brazen suspicion.

He finds himself watching the lad, wondering how astute he really is. An itch at the centre of his mind begins to threaten him again and he rubs at his side, at the ribs already begging for relief.  Jacob turns away, two dark eyes watching him, waiting for privacy.

He sighs, thinking of his city parish and the wide-eyed children who had gathered after church to snatch scraps from his hands; shoulders hunched, licking tentatively at new foods before wolfing them down as if fearing it would somehow vanish from their grasp. 

Rummaging in his cupboard he finds a salve, and wets a cloth from the pot of boiled water on the stove before handing both to Silver.

“I think I’ll let you tend to yourself. There’s a mirror in the next room if you need it.”

It’s not a nice room, filled as it is with drying specimens and boiled skulls, but he likes it. Enjoys the clutter, finds comfort in the shapes as he drifts off on his hard cot.

“I’ll be cooking some food later. You’re welcome to some, but I won’t keep you here if you want to find your own.”

He hopes that Silver is a man to leave when he has the chance. Wonders how long he will be able to go before clawing for breath through the linen bound tight against his chest.

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Alma Thoughts

Alma, originally from Ireland (County Clare), the only daughter of a reasonably well off family, grew up fairly safe, but rather neglected. 

She was born a twin, but her brother died shortly after he was born. Ill treated by her mother as a result and ignored by her father, she was a quiet child - always trying to compensate for her perceived faults. 

Raised a Catholic, strong in her faith but not quite so faithful to the church, she is careful but kind, clever but selective in the people she trusts. 

She is not naive or timid; rather bright and wild but cautious with whom she allows to know this honest side of her. 

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a flock of sheep, ireland

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Johann Jacob Dietzsch (1713-1776) - Still Life with Shells - via The Morgan

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Piskies Cove

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[ sort of...continued from here ]

It was rather distressing, she supposes. Not the being shouted at part, no, she had heard the worry thinning her friends voice and felt safe. Held.

But the shadow on Esther’s face, the tight eyes, the curling hands.

A little thread of guilt is squirming in the curls of her mind.

She tosses her head slowly, feeling the grit against her scalp. Decides to apologise once the worry has dimmed.

She has stretched herself out, deeply enjoying the scratch of the sand on her skin.

Oh Lord, the sun is heavy on her belly. It sinks like syrup, spilling thick and hot from her ends of her burning hair to the tips of her wriggling toes.

A sigh escapes her. She would sing, she thinks, but the air sits too close and her mind is already half claimed by sleep. And, she reasons, Esther already looks fairly murderous without the provocation of carefree song.

Alma giggles, chastising herself idly for being so mean. A glance at the sopping figure beside her, already fully clothed and wonderfully damp does little to suppress her mirth.

She clenches shut her eyes, still in awe of the power of this bright light.

The coasts of her childhood were wilder, greener; far more full.

But here there are shadows, deeper than caves. Here the waves are greedy and harsh, and yet inside their tossing rage there exist whole nations: eons and skies.

And perfect, clear deliverance.

She opens her eyes wide, the better to watch Esther hunched up beside her, and framed as faint dancing lines against the maddening blue.

The wheedling it had taken to coax her out of her ratty old coat, to tease a smile from her wild features. A fond flush seeps through her.

Alma wants to lie here, naked and fierce. Wants to wait until the water pricks at her soles and drags her down deep. She chuckles, picturing the tickle of a million fishes, nibbling at her thighs, her breasts.

She pushes out her arms now, digging her wiggling fingers deep into the scorching sand. Hums lazily and turns her head to squint up at her friend.

“Esther.”

The breeze seems to flutter in response.

Have I spoken, or am I falling asleep?

The flush becomes a small, sad ache.

Your eyes were angry, Esther.

Words feel blurry, and sweeter than usual.

I do wish you wouldn’t worry.

Does Esther hear? The shadows are swaying, too bright, too hot.

A smooth hum rumbles from beneath the waves, stilling their rhythm, rising mad and wicked from the depths. She sits up, the sand on her back clinging to her like a grainy cloak, flowing behind her as she drifts towards lapping waves that sit motionless. Thick like solid fog. She reaches forward, pushing her fingertips into the viscous column pulling itself tall from the floor of the sea. It sticks to her, it bleeds down her arms. It reaches her throat, her breasts, her heart. She breathes it in, drowning willingly.

She wakes suddenly, feeling eyes pinning her. Shivers despite the heat, skin prickling with an anticipation she doesn’t quite understand.

Smiles sleepily, glad to be bare in the sun.

“Esther.”

[ @mythwhale I sort of got carried away. Anyway. Feel free to keep going with the weird dreamscape-ignorant-lesbian-longing/ whatever I’ve started here OR. Inject some Pragmatic Esther into the dizzying mix. Smush.]