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grumpygreenwitch · 4 years

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Summer Gardening.

So it’s been a while, and for that I apologize to the... 200+ people who follow me. I’m sure y’all are here for the cat pics and the nekked men, but TOO BAD. Today you get to suffer through pics of my green children. Also, I do share seed. My seed list link will be up later in the year. To begin with, the summer flowers are out en force:

Echinacea Purpurea, the original echinacea. I do save yearly seed from these guys, although it’s an incredibly pointy, stabby and bleed-y job.

Mountain Phlox. Unfortunately, all of it around the house is afflicted with powdery mildew, so I will not share seed. But it’s still pretty to look at, and the clearwings (hummingbird moths) love it. Not pictured is the white variant, who grows on the other side of the house. Look, it was hot and I was already melting.

Peppermint Balsam. This thing is basically indestructible, for an annual. It will reseed freely (to truly Lovecraftian levels) and blooms continuously from late spring until mid-fall, when the seed-pods set. There is a dormant genetic in it for double flowers, but when it pops up it’s always been sterile. It just pops up occasionally from the peppermint seed.

I may give the roommate hell over the hostas (I hate them. They’re so useful to protect toads and control weeds, but I hate them), but they do put out pretty flowers. There are several variants around the house - white-edged, blue and green, but hostas in general are very, very hard to start from seed. I will save it on request, only. We were also incredibly lucky to have a Moth Mullein sprout in our porch bed, along with some Variegated Solomon’s Seal.The SS doesn’t put out seeds, and I don’t have enough to share bulbs (yet), but the mullein has been exceptionally generous with seed pods, and it repels bugs. It repels ROACHES. It’s going everywhere. And I may be convinced to part with some seed.

Onward!

A view from a hill. Can you see the garden? That’s OK, I can’t either. Those are peach trees, on the side of the orchard closest to the house. Unfortunately a freak storm during early spring killed all the blossoms. Also, don’t mistake ‘orchard’ for ‘organized’. There’s a pear, some apples, a plum, some nectarines? And front and center are two walnuts. I’ll probably be plunking my laurel there to see if it survives winter. And someday when I have a job and money again, I would like to drop a few Chicago Hardy figs, and maybe a kiwi trellis.

This is the big garden (and fortunately not my responsibility, or I would cry). The guys are ‘handling’ it. The weeds say otherwise.

The jasmine tree and the roommate’s garden. Because of a bad back injury that refuses to heal, I’ve been helping them on and off with it. And if you thought jasmine was supposed to stay a delightful little bush, AHAHAHAHAH. Yes, that’s a light-post next to it. For size comparison.

MY CHILDREN. Please ignore the dead soccer ball. That’d be a dog toy.

Lemon balm, amaranth, and a new bed that I’ll be finishing off during fall, for use next year. The lemon balm is a permanent row - it will overwinter just fine, and it will even keep growing through the mildest part of December. Mine didn’t die back until a few solid days of sleet in January. Unfortunately the weed fabric under the amaranth turned out to be an old roll, and fell apart on me (no big, the whole point is for it to fall apart eventually), so the weeds have kinda eaten it alive.

Unfortunately, both cucumber beetles and blister beetles love the amaranth. Fortunately, it does not seem to give a damn. It’s an incredibly resilient plant, not minding weeds, bugs, flood or drought. We’ll see what the grain actually tastes like, but so far it’s looking like a good candidate for continuous growing.

The lemon balm is lemon-balming. Planted on a lark, it’s proven to be a fantastic wind-breaker - because it grows so early and so quick, it keeps the colder winds that come down through the hollow from my more fragile seedlings, like the lettuce, dill and cilantro. You can see here where the spent flower-heads are dying but there’s new growth underneath; I really have to get in there and behead it. It makes nice hot tea, meh cold tea, and hanging fresh bunches of it around the balcony keeps the skeeters off. It also seems to be a decoy for cabbage moths.

Canary Zinnia. The seed was sent to me as a gift with one of my seed orders, and this is my first year growing it. -If- I can save some, I’ll definitely be sharing and growing again. It’s a lovely plant, very sturdy, and the bees love it.

Dwarf Castor Oil. I don’t think there’s anything dwarf about it, but then I’m a short green witch myself, so maybe it’s all about perspective. Don’t let the pods lie to you, until they dry the spikes are relatively soft. However, it being castor oil, I don’t recommend it to anyone with ducks, chickens, goats, or anything that might accidentally try talking a nibble or pecking at the beans. I do, however, recommend them from jewelry if you know how to pierce things and so on. They are a gorgeous tiger-stripe pattern.

Say hello to the chard! Say goodbye to the chard! Nothing else, absolutely nothing else since the limas, has given me so much trouble. The deer love getting into my chard bed and destroying it (ergo all the forks). And once I managed to chase those off, the blister beetles showed up in force. This will be the last year I grow it - we just don’t eat enough of it to make it worth my while, and it only occasionally sold at the Farmers’ Market.

Red lettuce - Merlot and Lollo Vino, a combination of bought and saved seed. I planted a red romaine of some sort, too, but unsurprisingly it bolted in the heat. The darker reds of my favorites, though, keep bugs off them, keep deer from noticing them, and keep them from bolting. It’s just now threatening to, and at this point its kind of allowed. I need more seed for next year. Seed for this will likely be shared by the teaspoon-ful.

Calendula! I searched for a long time to find the plain ol’ calendula officinalis ancestor, rather than a cultivar where I would have no way of knowing if the medicinal principles would have been sacrificed for looks. It’s supposed to work well as poor man’s saffron (color, no taste), and I’m going to be soaking the heck outta my feet on it during winter. The plant is... not pretty. It gets leggy and the leaves get grotty very quickly. But it’s very sturdy and as long as you cut the flowerheads off as fast as you can, it’ll keep blooming until well into winter. I usually leave it to go to seed around late September.

Green cilantro seeds. You pick ‘em when they’re brown, but before they drop off the plant. Or you pick ‘em when they’re brown-ing, and put them in a paper bag so they’ll finish ripening there and you don’t end up with fifty wild cilantro plants in your garden >_> Most of the row is already gone, and I’ll be putting in a late dill crop in its place. No such thing as too much dill!

Don’t let lemongrass lie to you. Unless you tie it up, it will not grow up neat and tidy, as most grass does. Instead it will sprawl like a dramatic wilting Elizabethan lady and do its best to end up under your feet so you’ll feel bad about it. I just tie it up with a half-blade of grass; it dries up and withers away before it can hurt the plant.

I ordered pennyroyal seed because... Well, because it’s something one should have on hand, considering the way the world is going. What I got was Creeping Pennyroyal, which doesn’t care if you step on it (mint family), smells absolutely delightful, and has the most adorable, tiny purple flowers. I plan on harvesting, drying and sprinkling it everywhere in the crawlspace under the house. Making war on cave crickets, wood roaches, and other such sundries, me.

The thyme and Spicy Oregano took a beating in the heat, but they’re slowly bouncing back. The bed behind them is more pennyroyal, desperately in need of weeding, but there’s only one of me, y’know.

SIGH. Just. You absolute, ill-mannered monster of a creature. That would be horseradish, gloriously happy to be alive, as horseradish should be. Also, NOT IN ITS BASKET. Because never mind the rules, I guess.

I don’t even know how I’m gonna dig that up come winter. With some construction equipment, I GUESS.

Decorative gourd! It’s the only one producing so far, but being the seed was 10+ years old, I’m very pleased.

And an apple gourd (I think?), from a mixture of drying gourds that was only slightly less ancient. Snake, apple and birdhouse gourds. There’s a bunch of them competing in the basket at this point, we’ll see what we will see.

And this, I think, is a great use of a dead canopy frame (the dogs ate the canopy. No, I’m not making it up.) I hope to coax the gourds to grow me a lil’ roof so I can sit in shade, surrounded by pennyroyal anti-skeeter barriers, eating my maters.

My Peter Peppers (nrehehehehe) aren’t producing yet - it takes them a while. But my Chinese 5-Color are getting started. It’s a lovely pepper, both edible and ornamental, with (so I’m told) about four times the heat of a Jalapeno. They’re tiny, with deep purple undertones to the plant. They’ll go purple-white-yellow-orange-red.

The bullhorns, on the other hand, are fairly sizable SWEET peppers on very tiny plants, and I honestly suggest staking them while they’re young so they grow a sturdy trunk, else you might end up with all of them growing at a slant.They’re just now beginning to turn colors. Keeping in mind I’m virulently allergic to peppers (less so sweet than hot, but allergic to all of them), the roommate loves ‘em.

It’s a small pepper bed - mainly to refresh my seed on the hots, and to grow sweets for the roommate. Pardon the nekked bed, the autumn lettuce hasn’t sprouted yet. And yes, that’s a mixed basil/dill bed next to it. My basil grew in patchy holes (NEVER buying from those seed people again), so I filled the holes with dill. Unfortunately, dill seed heads are so fine that they’re hard to photograph well.

The tomato row. After arguing with them for this long, I went the extra mile. Every plant has a metal stake. There’s also a double line growing at the top supporting the stakes so they don’t fall over. And they still fell over. Because why not, you unruly children, why not.

Green, white, pink and brown cherry tomatoes. Delicious!

Two kinds of cucumbers, some of the only decent shots of the dill seed-heads, and a special guest hiding in the shade. I usually plant dill as soon as the cucumber sprouts, to keep cucumber beetles off it. Otherwise I’d have no cucumbers and a lot of fat beetles.

The Muncher is a small cucumber, somewhat delicate. It’s very sensitive to temperature changes, and it’s candy to cucumber beetles - basically, it’s impossible to grow it without a heavy curtain of dill, or a heavy duty decoy. This year I got lucky enough to have both. It’s also delicious pickled, keeping its crunch and getting a good ooomph in flavor.

The Japanese Long is, as the name implies, long. It’s also incredibly bitey, and absolutely scrumptious. It’s sweet! And unlike the average cucumber, it does not go metallic when salted.

And now for the SPECIAL CHILD OF MY HEART. Seriously. I have been lusting after Blue Tea Peas since I first saw them offered, and every single time they’d be sold out pretty much the day of. This year I finally got some and... remember me mentioning that freak freeze that killed the peach blossoms? Yeah. Guess what it also killed. But two plants soldiered on. I have them heavily shielded by the cucumbers, dill and chamomile, and really I have no words for the blue. Pics don’t do it justice. I won’t have the tea this year, I’m saving as much seed as I can, but I am so pleased to have it at all!

Last, but not least, and it’s a poor shot of it, the chamomile. I cannot drink chamomile to sleep - it does put me to sleep, but it also gives me bad dreams. I plan on using it as a skin wash for all the bug bites, along with the calendula, and to give me some respite from dry skin during winter.

Stay green! See you in fall! Now back to our normal schedule of frogs, cats and nekked men!

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runningwithhellhounds · 4 years

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The year is 1672 and Keith Kogane is accused of witchcraft.

This can’t start with a dialogue. It starts like this:

Lance is cutting across a meadow to the forest line, and then stops when he spots four village men on the footpath. Two men are holding onto a boy's upper arms, whose eyes are downcast. Whose stride is purposeful.

Lance passes the bucket of peels from one hand to the other. Hoarfrosted grass cracks under his feet. The men couldn't see him from the road unless they really looked, with the hazelnut trees covering him, and the men are not looking; one of them tugs an arm and the boy's rhythm breaks. The boy doesn't look up.

He knows this moment will be replaying in his head in empty moments. Because it came as on overthrow when he expected an underthrow. At eighteen years old, Lance has learnt the shortcuts, because he wants a faster way through, because repetition has started to calcify his body and he wants a faster way through.

When things like that happen, they happen like secrets: everyone knows and cares in the way one cares for secrets. People don't really care.

Except. Except Lance knows the boy is eighteen-to-nineteen; doesn’t wear a hat when he goes outside; except Lance knows his name, because Lance knows things, because his mother calls him curious and it's different from nosy.

Because people talk. People say: Keith is an illegitimate child, born out of wedlock in a tavern or a stall or in the shadow of a cherry tree, and left to grow in the dust of the streets.

People say: Keith is Shirogane's brother, by roof-sharing and hands clasped on shoulders and shoulder-punches and everything not blood. Shirogane had enough space in his heart to make up for the absence of space in his hut for a boy who never says hello on the streets. Shirogane has joined the Habsburg Imperial Army and threw a fit when he had to leave Keith behind, walked all the way to the tenant-in-chief, and then wrote a letter to the chairman of the state himself.

People say Keith knows the forest better than the village and couldn't get lost off forest trails. Lance has seen him at the mouth of the forest, a hatchet swinging in hand. And Lance has hesitated at the forest line, sunlight ending on his back, thinking others' words: it's not safe.

Now Lance sees him from close and sees tufts of hair falling in his eyes. Notices the face mark – and then it makes sense. Isolation and being different aren't safe. Lance knows things and he knows who the men are.

Keith is eighteen-to-nineteen and he will not have even come of age by the time Lance will.

Lance stands hidden from the pathway, bucket handle still cold in his hand.

He keeps wondering, though. He wonders whether he'd see Keith's house trashed if he walked by. Whether Keith was something to hunt down.

He wonders if Keith is so ghostly because he's always in the shadows; Lance's own darkened skin would explain that. Lance is the colours of a breaking autumn, that is: somewhat behind. The tautology of his thought has been somewhat behind, but now he is wondering about Keith, anew. He bets Keith's hair doesn’t get lighter in summer.

Two days later, he hears someone else mention the trial. It’s like this, some people mention it and some don’t. Maybe because of the uncomfortably thin line between knowing and being. Lance feels uncomfortable.

During Confession, he lies and doesn't feel bad about it, then feels bad about not feeling bad. Maybe he shouldn't, though. Priests who have been coming to their church, with city accents, say quite honestly and call that honesty.

He receives his absolution and then steals the pastor's keys.

Going before nightfall is a simple choice. Lance can feel the blue hues of dusk on his skin, and people might still be around, but – darkness blinds, alright.

He notices he’s trying to walk soundlessly, and that is false stealth. Revealing stealth. Shut up, he thinks at his boots, and steps on a twig.

It’s there: the bare-brick church extension that Lance has seen used for funerals. For storing bodies with soulless mouth curves and walnut pies and poppy seed bread, pretty things. What a cut-throat irony.

As he walks, he stretches his sleeves over his fingers. Like he's cold; not like he's clutching a set of keys. They feel like rusty metal, which makes Lance loosen his grip. He knows of a woman who has died from an axe cut.

What a cut-throat irony, huh.

He passes the church entrance and steps off the beaten path, onto grass and dry mud. This contrast: mud and bricks. Mud fits with death and funerals. Bricks, though. Should be too luxurious. For death sentences. Four keys are attached to the key ring; he'll have to test them one by one. Maybe the one with a smoother surface is—

And he falls hard.

The door slams into him and he falls hard – falls with the door atop him, the boards breaking apart.

He hadn’t, but he could have imagined it just like this: a body is framed by the doorframe, like a saint statue in front of stained glass. Lance would recognise just the outline.

Keith takes a step back.

He’s breathing shallowly, and Lance wonders which one of them seems more real to the other. Lance is fixated as Keith’s gaze sweeps the surroundings, and starts when Keith looks at him again.

''Sorry,'' Keith says and starts striding away.

''Wait,'' Lance says. Keith doesn't turn. Keith's arms encircle his body as though he was guarding his possessions. He starts running, and Lance runs after him. ''Wait, I'm helping you.'' He holds up the keys.

Keith stops. Nothing falls out of his arms uncoiling when he turns.

''Thanks? I need to—'' Keith blinks at his unfound words and then gestures at the church. Lance needs a moment to realise Keith isn't pointing at him. Feels like a flinch at being pointed at. Them standing like this, eye to eye, creates the duality: Keith, edged, Lance, an idler. It's not true. It's not nice, to dispute someone's truthfulness just by being nearby.

Lance opens his mouth, but Keith walks off, again. Across the meadow, making Lance think, this is what we are, huh, stretched across a meadow.

''Hi, uh. I'm Lance. What’s your—'' he stops, because he thinks Keith so loudly.

Keith ignores him.

''Hey. Hey. Where are you going? It's too dark for the forest. Hey. Walking right—'' Keith turns suddenly, and Lance almost crashes into him, the energy in his fisted hands vanishing too slowly. They both take a step back.

''Look — why are you following me? Stop.''

Your senses are innervated all wrong, Lance thinks.

''I'm trying to help.''

Keith glances at Lance's hand enclosing the keys. ''I don't need it. Thanks.''

''Literally,'' Lance starts, stops. ''Where are you going, the forest?''

Keith tries to kick the mud off the soles of his shoes, face scrunched up. Some flies into Lance's legs and Keith’s face smoothens a little. Still doesn't look at Lance.

''What about bandits,'' Lance says.

Keith shakes his head. And then moves so slowly, barely perceptibly, but Lance picks it up; the slow bent of knees, into a maybe-fighting stance. A ready stance. And Lance processes it slowly like pressing on a pressure point, wishing for a skilled reflex. Instead, he grabs a handful of soil. As defence. As an explosive projectile.

Keith breathes out before abruptly stepping away. He looks surprised.

''Wait,'' Keith says. ''I'll just walk away. Okay? I can’t give you anything.''

''Wait,'' Lance says, and it ends up being a repetition, but it's not. ''Wait. I don't want anything.'' Jesus. A hypocrite. His own judgements about senses are obviously beyond his judgement. Get the hell attuned. Listen for a damn second.

''Okay,'' Lance says slowly. It feels like placating, and that’s rich coming from him. ''You live on, like, the other side of the village. I live closer. There,'' he points.

The silence feels long, thickening, the breathing of Lance's heart quickening. The soil in his hand feels stupid. He resists the urge to look at the grass that's caught in it. Keith shakes his head.

''No what,'' Lance bites, and Keith looks at the forest.

''They took my jacket.'' It's pushed through his teeth.

''I have a jacket,'' Lance offers.

Keith shakes his head again but doesn’t divert his gaze, and Lance thinks, there's something there.

''This isn’t a joke,'' Keith says lowly. ''What do you want?''

''Nothing. I don’t know,'' Lance replies honestly. ''But I can give you a jacket.''

Under the weight of Keith's consideration, he hopes he looks truthful. The meadow is at this time is short and mud-clamped and faded and dead. The grass is dying with winter and things are waking up under Lance's skin.

He's angry. Angry, maybe, or maybe canceling the falling quality of his organs, and now everything is in his chest. He's the promise of a glint of a sickle. Not a joke, yeah. He lied because of this.

''If you call anyone,'' Keith starts. Then exhales, and Lance thinks, yeah. He is too all half-finished thoughts. He would too be in trouble. Please. They’d both be dead. Watch him.

''I won't,'' he says, seriously, and it’s a promise.

They walk in silence. Fast and intentional, and Lance wonders whose intention is more defined. This feels like pretending, which is again a lie of a feeling. He feels on the edge of his silence. Too many questions to ask. And Keith — who knows? He has the confidence of nobility but a tongue too tied.

Maybe this is why Lance says: ''We're building a chimney,'' when they step over the stones in their yard. Keith doesn't say anything. Lance speeds up, arms folded.

Once inside, Lance watches Keith take in the rosary on the wall and the sunflower on the table.

''Wait here,'' he orders, or requests, or maybe he still feels the unrealness of his act. He can figure it out. He pulls his second jacket out of the chest in the loft, with a hole on the elbow. Brings water for both. He can figure out how to help. Even if Keith doesn’t know what he needs. Lance is good at picking up the sides of people unknown to them and make it a gift when he wraps them right and they're accepted with a crooked smile and eyes spelling enchanted—

But Keith has just not been saying anything.

Lance brings bread, a little too dry, and a handful of dried apple slices and shoves them at Keith until he offers his palms. God. Keith is just looking at him. Lance shoves too many into his own mouth.

''What are you gonna do?'' he asks around them.

''Go somewhere. Away,'' Keith answers, looking like he knows what he's saying is inescapable anyway. Should Lance be feeling more of, what, empathy? Less fizz, maybe. Keith doesn’t look like he wants empathy. Lance is good at reading people.

Lance nods, with his whole body, bouncing, feeling like he's stalling. Keith eyes the jacket in Lance’s arms.

''Can I,'' Keith starts and hesitates until Lance almost says just say it, can you what. ''Can you give me a knife,'' he says, not entirely a question, a little skewed, a little far from the side of questions.

''A knife?'' Lance repeats, somewhat alarmed. ''To what, skin dormice in the forest?''

''Well, yeah,'' Keith says, immediate, and Lance thinks, okay, alright. ''Look, you could go to my house and take something. The house isn't mine but you can look if you find— I'm not sure I have anything though.''

''Yes, you do,'' Lance says instantly, stubbornly. Because if there wasn't anything about Keith, they wouldn't be looking at the large air hole in the bread Lance is holding halfway out. Because he imagines a tint of sadness. Because of the vicarious blandness.

''So what do you want,'' Keith asks. A little darkly.

''Nothing. I don't want anything. Keith,'' Lance says. He pushes the jacket into Keith's hands and starts buttoning his own.

''What? You can’t come with.''

''Well, but I am, aren’t I,'' Lance says, with a forged copy of confidence. He couldn't say, but I’m hooked. But this feels irrevocable. But you’re real and I feel real.

Keith licks his lips and turns his gaze to the side, away from Lance. Lance sees it, he does, why it was him. The line of reasoning goes like this: it starts with destroyed crops. In winter, crushed buckwheat tastes like a broken oath, which is to say, it's not something to taste at all. Keith is somewhere in the middle. It ends with the law: harm inflicted by witchcraft is to be compensated by burning at the stake.

They walk to the forest. Lance doesn't know why. He has heard people have gotten impaled on a stake and left to die. Some people have gotten sold into slavery.

They make a fire, which they probably shouldn’t, but Keith just goes for it, while Lance blinks through the – something. A magnitude. They sit down on dry leaves and ivy and moss and lean on waist-high rocks. Lance thinks: are we supposed to relax now?

''What about bandits,'' Lance asks, again.

''I’ve seen their tents,'' Keith replies, and Lance thinks, that’s not great, is it, but then Keith adds: ''They’re not here.''

''Okay,'' Lance says. Makes his shoulders untense, but it’s cold, so he sits back up, tight.

He has a million questions. All welded to his breaths. How does he breathe them out? It keeps being just breathing.

He rolls a leaf of a deadly nightshade between his fingers. It grew on the way, the jaws of the forest. He holds it up.

''It makes you see things,'' he tells Keith.

''What things?'' Keith asks. Not with reciprocated caution. Not secret-like.

''Do you think I'm a—''

'I don't believe in witches,'' Keith says.

And Lance realises: the way Keith holds his gaze is a form of caution. No – it’s very deliberate. A secret in itself.

''Okay,'' he says, again.

Here is a secret: Lance knows more about hallucinogenic plants than a magician priest. He knows about ointments, but – he doesn't know what to believe in, and – doesn't use them, either, with no belief-ground to stand on. He calls that stagnant knowledge.

It's something he doesn't tell his family. His sister has put a forked stick in his hand and said, draw on the ground how much you love me. Lance stores village rumours to tell as goodnight stories, and he'd burn the whole of cultivable land for them. Breathe in the ashes. Of course he'd coat a foul interest in something nicer. Of course he'd keep his mouth closed.

And now he's telling Keith. Because Keith stands outside of law? Because the fire is melting Lance's better sense, huh. Huh.

''It would be easier for you if you went to church,'' Lance decides.

Keith shrugs, inspecting his laces. Something about that is so bothersome. ''It doesn’t matter, I guess. I didn’t confess. I got out.''

The way Keith looked at the keys in Lance’s hand. Lance says: ''Anyway. It’s a travesty of justice, anyway.''

Keith raises his eyebrows at him. And Lance is caught thinking about how he used to ask his mom to sew collars like royalty onto his shirts. He thought Keith’s silence translated to stupidity, thought that he saw through. Stupidly, an hour ago, he thought: Keith, temptation, Lance, redemption. He had felt good using words like travesty. But now he thinks: what does that translate to?

''Do you believe what they tell you? That—'' Keith looks at the flames and Lance watches them flicker in Keith's eyes. ''I don't know, buying indulgences? And talking to toads, and that.''

Lance throws the night shade into the fire. Maybe it’s really not the fire, with how much Keith feels like causality.

''Because you say things like that,'' he says. ''You can't just say things like that.''

''That's why I don't,'' Keith says, then frowns and looks sideways.

There's something compelling about the flames, transforming matter like rebirth that light-boned boys like Lance yearn for; flickering and cracking in a pattern no man with a diploma from Vienna can predict. It makes Lance not matter, and not mattering okay. It feels like — like the first night-chilled breath that fills your lungs when you step away from an overcrowded room, through the door, and let your body fall into resonance with cricket calls. It feels like relief.

''So what’s the plan,'' Lance asks. All bare this time.

''What's my plan?''

Yeah. Nosy. Lance? He’s a bit weird. Intense. Nosy.

''That's what I asked.'' He watches Keith watch the flames.

''I don’t—'' Keith shakes his head. Lance nods.

''You could be imprisoned,'' Lance says absently. Keith looks at him slowly and it takes Lance a moment to register the weight. ''No, I'm just telling you. That's how it is.''

''I would be burned,'' Keith says, plain as a field. ''Sacrilege and all that. Purification and all that.''

Lance, a collector of pretty things, thinks of that: how extravagantly these words fall down a tongue, the sound of them a luxury Lance haven't had the chance to chase, always burning away getting soil behind his nails, always mudding his clothes, leaving white shirts to Sundays and making him hate how they feel like play-pretend—

''I'll find Shiro,'' Keith announces.

''You couldn't,'' Lance says. ''How?''

''Watch me,'' Keith says, and it works as an answer.

Keith touches the back of his hand to the wound on his cheek, then with his sleeve, and Lance says, ''You should clean that.'' Clears his throat. Keith narrows his eyes at him.

''I'll do it,'' Lance says then, too quickly. Looks at his fingers, dirty, and his shirt, the same. He clears his throat, and it feels like again. Pulls his handkerchief from where he has it tucked under his waist, and then he thinks about that, and then he doesn't want to think about it anymore.

''No, never mind, do it yourself,'' he tosses the handkerchief into Keith's lap.

They both watch the burns on Keith’s hands. Not overawed, shut up.

Lance thinks: this is empathy. Don’t call it— don’t call it what it’s not. Dreamy reasoning, that is, the reasoning of a boy asleep. He is not, okay. Unlike what people think: that he acts without the thought of consequences. But it’s all so deliberate. And they are bullshit deducing.

He has found a word for himself, the sifted form of his mother saying head in the clouds: wishful.

They both watch the burns, and Lance thinks: so we have that too in common, huh.

Keith just doesn’t– ask anything about Lance. It’s frustrating. But he’s scowling, hugging his knees, and he has lived alone, word has it, and he has burns on his hands, and these must be things Lance doesn’t understand.

''We could,'' Lance offers, revealingly tentatively, ''wait until dawn in my house. It’s safer. And warmer.''

''I can't sleep in your house,'' Keith says.

''I'm not giving you my bed.''

Keith bites his lip and Lance has to stop himself from mirroring that. ''Look— what's your name?''

Lance freezes. A wave rolls from his core up. He is – so sick of feeling like the wrong superlatives.

He stands up, but is tugged back by his sleeve. ''Sorry, I just, I wasn't paying attention. Sorry. What’s your name?'' Keith looks flustered. ''Sorry.''

Lance pulls his arm back. His voice is steel. ''Lance.''

Now he is the one to raise his eyebrows. Thinks: how funny.

''Lance. You have a family. You can't be serious.''

''I’ve told you before.'' Steel. But he’s thinking: told you what? I don’t know.

''What,'' Keith breathes. In a small voice.

''Whats your problem? You can't be serious –it’s my house, not an— not an, I don't know, a cathouse, I'm not inviting you into my bed, so I don't get what your problem—''

''Bark beetle,'' Keith jokes. He stands up. Lance stands up, too.

Keith shakes his head – but goes, because he's eighteen and without a name that would give him anything.

Lance holds out the blanket. ''Here.''

''Hello,'' Keith says absently, dumbly, and then he takes it. He unfolds it, shaking it, and brings it to his nose; and Lance is suddenly aware it must smell like smoke, but so does his and—

''Ouch,'' Keith turns to look at the wall at his back. It must be a nail, Lance knows there are nails hammered into the walls of this stall, in places that don’t make sense.

''Watch out,'' Lance says in reversed causality. Then sneaks out, sneaks back in with his hands full.

''Bread and milk, baby,'' he says. Keith makes a mhm sound. Lance thinks: okay.

The air of the stall is irritating. Keith looks surprisingly calm. Lance – feels hyperaware. The undercurrent of this space contains so much of his life, and he has Keith in it. Lance has carved an L into one of these walls to self-permanentise.

He wants Keith to be interested in him.

''Are you not—'' he starts, then stops before he says something deleterious. Makes a fatal mistake.

''Am I not what?''

Keith's small frown is all in Lance's mind, and Lance is obligated not to look away, because that would be telling. He needs to stop not having reflexes. He's stumbling too much. Never knows how to catch himself.

''Nothing,'' he says, thinks, damn. Keith raises his eyebrows and Lance extends his hand in front of Keith's face front of his face, and Keith flinches back, and Lance flinches, too.

''God, sorry,'' Lance realises he touched the hurt skin. He lightly touches the skin around the wound as remedy, on impulse. Keith is still, again with that dumb spacey expression.

Lance leans back heavily. The silence is something that burns with smoke and he's caught on that spaciness. It's so intriguing.

''That feels nice,'' Keith says, gaze fixed on the hand that Lance withdrew. Lance catapults.

''The unpredictability of it, right?'' Lance says. A fatal mistake.

''Oh? '' Keith voices smugly. Because he seems to take it as a compliment, in a way Lance doesn't understand, and now Lance is half-dead.

Everything about this. He has the last few hours playing inside him, all at once.

''You could buy an indulgence,'' Lance jokes.

Keith's eyes sparkle and Lance feels his chest curve inwards the way it does when he's watching the stars.

''Bullshit,'' Keith says, and his eyes sparkle, and — Lance finds himself seeing more and thinking what if's as if Keith was a damn sky, and maybe it's the strayness of shooting stars he's drawn to. Maybe it's the life he doesn't have.

Lance makes a little hay-nest for himself and watches out for nails. Him and Keith fall quiet. He can’t fall asleep.

In the morning, Lance panics. He wakes to a hand shaking his shoulder and his name hooking right into his brain, and he ghostly opens his eyes. The thumb on his collarbone is just a pressure, static, and shouldn't feel like that; like his collarbone is a rewarding body part to have. Then there is a quiet and distanced thump and Keith drops his hand and Lance panics.

Keith stands up steadily, in the way Lance has learnt, too quickly, to take as reassurance. Reassurance that throws his heart rate over the steep rock face and into expectation. He notices Keith has folded his blanket, placed atop a hay bale, centred and aligned with the wall.

The thump must be his mother awake. It must be handling pots. Maybe she's pushing her sleeves up right now, the way she always has and the way that had little Lance imitating, possibilities on the tip of his mind. Maybe she's dividing her hair into two and twisting both sides, then tying them together and turning them inwards and the way that mesmerised Lance ever since he remembered to pay attention one day when he was thirteen. Maybe she's squishing her cheeks in the way that makes Lance think that longing is contagious.

She must have noticed Lance wasn't home last night. She must worry.

''You're not going,'' Keith tells him, reading into something that Lance thought he folded between the fabric of his own blanket, ''you have a family.'' And Lance, who has waited a lifetime to prove something, says, ''Watch me.''

They could study in Vienna, or Prague, or Bologna. They could become knights.

His sister has called him a misfortune – Lance, a boy among his five sisters. Lance, with the length of whose legs there's never quite enough space when the six of them sit on the fireplace. His grandmother greets them by where are you, vermin, and thinks she's hilarious. Lance has a lot to leave behind.

Keith biting the inside of his cheek is all the unbeautiful words Lance has never liked. Lance is intrigued.

''Are you going to — are you going to say something to them?'' Keith looks uncertain. Lance sees so much sympathy, the sole observation insults village rumours, or maybe the rumours insult him.

''Nah,'' Lance says. He can't.

At the end, he doesn't take anything from home; the payment day is in five days, and increased tax has been flowing into military defences. Lance works on the field, so he knows. Shiro is gone, so Keith knows.

''Keep the jacket,'' Lance says, and Keith shoves his hands deep into the pockets, like it's something dear, and it makes Lance's heart ache. He's turning around, looking for a way to ease the hurt while Keith just watches him, looking calm and taut at once. Keith glances outside, and Lance gets it, he does. He ends up pulling the hay from where it's bundled and arranges it into a smile on the floor, as a message, as easing worry. He feels better once they step outside.

They are waiting by the road, just outside of the village. Lance knows of a man that rides out a few times a week. If today isn't one of the days—

''I don't know,'' Keith sounds irritated and it surprises Lance. ''Like, I guess I don't get it. I'm going to Shiro and you just—'' he drags the backside of his hand over his cheek, looking away instead of finishing.

''We could go to the city,'' Lance says, not wanting to think about that, could like helium, like head in the clouds. ''Have you been?''

''I’ve been,'' Keith replies and drags the tip of his shoe through the dirt, leaving a line. Self-permanantisation. Says it like it's nothing. Like city curfew laws aren't intriguing, being something that can be broken.

''What is it like?'' Lance asks, casually.

''You know,'' Keith shrugs, like Lance would know, like it's nothing. ''I don't understand German.''

''Oh, damn, that's right. How will we communicate? And we'll have to find a way to pay for things.''

''Lance.''

''But I guess communication comes first. Like, you have to say what you want to pay for. Not that you want to. Or maybe the city people take the pay first, and don't—''

''Not everybody in the city is from the city,'' Keith says, finally facing Lance fully, like a bayonet to the gut, but not bad at all. ''Lance.''

''I know what you want to say,'' Lance snaps. ''You don't have to say it, okay? Thanks.''

At the end, he lies again. They are sitting on a cart with barrels. It almost didn't work, convincing that someone will be awaiting at the city gates with payment. A dubious but possible eventuality. The lie is all his. He wonders if Keith feels bad.

Lance's acts are deliberate, even when his wishfulness overtakes him; or maybe sometimes they are not when his wishfulness overtakes him. They are watching the road elongating under the wheels, and Lance is carefully watching Keith. He watches Keith like everything he wants to tell him. Like leaving home and stupid comparisons.

Keith glances at him suspiciously and Lance turns back to the road, eyes unfocused. He tries to relax. This is a familiarity: no matter how heavily he sits, he's always on the edge of his seat, always—

Keith looks at him again; Lance sees it in the corner of his vision, honesty to his previous lie. Keith looks twitchy, but he blinks away, shaking his head.

‘’What?’’

Keith suddenly stands up, sways until he regains his balance. Keith nods at Lance, as if that explained anything. Lance stands up, looking around, feeling uncertain. And then Keith is in his space, and Keith's hands caught on his jacket, and his eyes very close and getting closer. And then still, waiting.

Lance swallows. ''I don't know what I want.''

Keith half blinks and it's almost ridiculous, and then he's blinking rapidly, fluttering, eyebrows furrowed, eyes on Lance's cheeks. It's ridiculous. In how deliberate it looks, and Lance would bet such awareness is not something Keith even thinks about.

Lance thinks, he likes my freckles, and then swallows around that.

''What are you saying,'' Keith whispers. Lance swallows around that whispering, too.

''A warning.''

And then Keith pushes him off the cart.

It's like the church again, but Lance's reflexes don't lock him in: his hands drag Keith down with him. Both fall on their sides. Keith's eyes are squeezed shut and when he opens them they stare at each other.

And then Lance sprints to the cart and pulls himself up, seeing Keith follow. They both plop down.

Keith is breathing heavily, looking down at his lap. Cranes his neck backward, covers his eyes. Lance waits for him to say something, but Keith doesn't.

''Keith.'' His voice is permeated with indignance, with hurry, with coming to a stop. It's unfair that Keith gets to hear that, a liar – he just stood by Lance while he lied to the rider. Retrospect leaves such a nasty scrape burn.

Keith shakes his head. Just continues not saying anything, so Lance pulls his hands from his face, leaving Keith blinking at the ground.

''What,'' Lance says, voice too high. I tried helping you.

''I don't know, okay.''

''The hell,'' Lance hates how upset he sounds. ''The hell do you not know, Keith.'' Keith looks to the side, at the growing distance from the village.

''You're not thinking straight,'' Keith says.

Lance keeps swallowing, keeps breathing, feeling brittle and like something that wobbles. Feeling an indescribable magnitude of something inarticulate.

''I said I wanted to go. I thought we were past this, you fucking jerk.''

''I changed my mind.''

But Keith has joked. He has said watch me.

''You could have said just. You could have just said, like, now. If you didn't want me to go with.''

Keith shakes his head and frowns, still not looking at him. Lance feels it: a fissure in coherence.

''I can't believe you. I wanted to go. You're just— you were just there.'' He can't even tell if he's lying. He had all this – hope.

''They're your family,'' Keith says, tender, and Lance can’t.

''You do not get to sound like that. Shut up.'' He hopes Keith will resent the resent in Lance's eyes. He hopes for Keith to burn.

''What are you gonna do now,'' Keith asks, again sounding tender. Keith could have just said if he didn't want Lance to come with.

''Shut up, I'm in the assessment stage. I haven’t figured it out yet.''

''You decide,'' Keith says and Lance just looks at him, breathing shallow, contempt compact in his throat. ''You decide. Not figure out.''

''Shut up.'' Lance is horrified. ''Oh my god.''

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24413080

#klance #voltron fic #vld fic #voltron keith #voltron lance

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semperintrepida · 5 years

Text

In the Sanctuary of Lies

The night of her first death, it was the smell that led her to the bodies piled high at the foot of the cliff. Putrid and oppressive, it nearly forced her to her knees, and even the rain — a cold, hard rain that turned the stone around her an oily black — couldn't wash it out of the air. But she could not stop, not even to retch. She had to find them. Both of them.

She stumbled in the dark, threw her arms out and felt her hands sink into rotting ooze. She looked back at her feet and saw the cooling body of the Elder priest, his head cracked open across the rocks like a bloody egg.

Ahead of her, rain pooled in the upturned cup of an infant's skull. A flash of lightning turned the bone stark white against grey, followed moments later by a thunderclap that left her ears ringing with Zeus's anger. She scrambled on hands and knees across a table set with a feast for vultures, surrounded by stone and bones and those long dead.

But no Kassandra. No Alexios. She couldn't find them.

Her children. Her babies.

Her heart constricted in her chest, squeezing the life out of the hope that had driven her to search the bottom of the cliff. She couldn't find them. They were gone. They were—

Shouts in the distance. The Elders, looking for her after she'd torn herself from their grasping hands, away from them and away from Ni— No. Her mind put a blank where his name had been. The time to hate was later.

She almost missed the whimper, barely louder than the rain and the strangled beats of her heart. Where? Her eyes swept the dark rocks around her, the piles of white bones up ahead, and then the world went white with another lightning bolt and she saw a white shape in a jumbled nest of rib bones. Her heart boomed with the thunder, and she crawled to the bones and brushed her fingers against a blanket she had touched a thousand times.

Alexios. She drew his face to her cheek and felt a whisper of breath, but his skin was so, so cold and he hardly moved.

More shouting. Close now, along with the orange glow of torches.

Kassandra was here, somewhere on these stones, someplace in the dark, but if she stayed and kept looking, the Elders would find her and Alexios, and they'd kill him for sure. Lose one or lose both. Her choice to make.

She tucked Alexios against her bosom and hurried away from the cliff, and part of her soul left her body and died there on those dark stones, the part that had entwined itself around her daughter the moment she knew the gods had blessed her with a child. She had done the unforgivable by giving up on her daughter, and one day she would stand before the gods and answer for it.

The forest underbrush tore at her skirt, and she ducked her head under tree limbs and climbed over fallen trunks. Tree bark and branches scraped her skin but she didn't feel pain. She was soaked through but she didn't feel cold. The rain continued to fall in sheets, but the lightning storm faded along with the shouts of those who pursued her.

She didn't know how she made her way down from the mountain through that dark forest, only that there were lights in the distance ahead, and she recognized them as Pitana, the helot village on the far outskirts of Sparta.

Alexios did not stir, and he was still so cold that despite her fears of injuring him further, she paused and unwrapped him from his blanket and tucked him inside her dress next to her skin. No one in Sparta was skilled enough to help him, even if they were willing to disobey the Elders. The healers in Argolis were her only option, she realized, choking back despair as she calculated the distance. Days away by foot. Faster by horse, if she had one.

If. She set her jaw and moved as swiftly as she could across the muddy wheat fields that ringed the village, avoiding the huts and hovels until she reached the road to Sparta. She'd be safe on the roads as long as she stayed ahead of the messengers of the priests, but she could not risk running into any soldiers in the city. Her home was lost to her now. All she had left in the world was Alexios.

She kept moving, coming to the crossroads where the northern and eastern roads met. There was a kapeleion here, she knew, a squat building from which firelight and drunken laughter escaped. And just outside, a few horses picketed at the fence. She swallowed hard, straightened her shoulders, and walked up to a sturdy-looking gelding. Heart pounding, she untied his lead, swung herself onto the saddle with Alexios cradled against her, and rode off into the night. King Leonidas's daughter Myrrine, reduced to a common thief.

She rode the horse harder than she had any right to, until his flanks were coated in lather and he could no longer keep up a gallop, and as the sun rose, she stopped at the river on the border with Argolis and let him drink deep while she cradled Alexios in her arms.

He was dying.

She mounted the horse, urged him forward. The city of Argos up the road, help up ahead, and Alexios against her breast, so very, very, still.

.oOo.

It seemed to Kassandra that all roads in Argolis pointed to the clinic of Hippokrates of Argos, nestled as it was in the foothills above the city. The clouds wrapped the mountaintops in fluffy grey wool, and it had rained steadily all morning, foul weather leading to foul moods.

Raised voices greeted her at the clinic's doorstep. An older woman, sharply berating a young man. "Look, you insignificant peon. Tell me where he is, or by Hera I'll burn this clinic to the ground with you in it!"

He raised his hands, trying to placate her. "I already told you what I know."

"If Hippokrates thinks he can disrupt social order to make himself into a demigod of healing, perhaps the gods themselves will have their revenge." The woman took a step towards him, and Kassandra could see her arm coiling back, ready to strike.

Kassandra was already stepping into the frame. "Back away from the boy. Slowly," she said.

Now the woman's fury focused on her. "Who dares threaten the Priestess of Hera?"

"Me." Kassandra crossed her arms and moved in close, close enough to emphasize just how far down she had to look to stare into the woman's eyes. "Now step back."

The woman narrowed her eyes, zealot eyes that danced at the edge of madness, and for a moment Kassandra thought she might try something stupid. But then she drew herself up with wounded dignity and said to the young man, "It seems the gods wish me to grant you and your master another chance. Tell Hippokrates that if he doesn't make a public show of respect to the gods, I'll raise an army of believers against him. And if he can't think of a suitable offering, his head will do." Then she pushed her way between them and stormed off.

By the gods, were all priestesses of Hera like this?

"Thank Asklepios she's gone," the young man said. "I thought she was going to kill me this time."

"Who are you, and what was all that about?" Kassandra asked.

"I'm Sostratos," he said. "Chrysis has accused my master Hippokrates of impiety."

"Is he?"

"He believes that beyond praying, people can take their health into their own hands and make themselves well."

That seemed reasonable. After all, it was easier to stab someone with her spear than wait for one of Zeus's thunderbolts to strike them down for her. "Fascinating. Can I speak with him?"

"I'm sorry, he isn't here."

"Then where can I find him?"

"He's gone to Hera's Watch to help the sick there." She could find him if she traveled to the southeast and looked for the end of a long line of desperate people. And did she mind delivering these medical supplies that he'd forgotten in his haste?

When it came to finding her mother, nothing would ever be simple.

She tied the bag of supplies to the back of her saddle and mounted Phobos. Above her stretched woolly skies in every direction. It would be a cold, wet ride to Hera's Watch.

.oOo.

The first person Myrrine encountered in Argos took one look at Alexios and pointed her to Hippokrates's clinic, as did the second person, and the next. She had never been to Argos, and needed to keep asking the way through the blurry maze of houses and temples that surrounded her.

Right at the walnut tree. Left at the statue of Apollo. Follow the fence up the hill to the path through the laurel grove. She slumped forward, weary from riding all night, her horse valiantly keeping up a trot. He'd given her everything he could and still she asked for more.

They left the canopy of laurels and entered a cluster of low buildings with stucco walls, the grounds swept and tidy.

A young man emerged from the building at the sound of hoofbeats in the courtyard, his eyes widening as he caught sight of her. A golden pendant of a snake wrapped around a rod hung from his neck, the sign of the priests of Asklepios, and the last of her energy drained out of her as she realized she had made it to the clinic. She sagged bonelessly in the saddle, and he hurried to her, his hands gentle as he helped her to the ground.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

She held Alexios out to him. "My son," was all she could say before her throat closed around the rest of her words.

A glance at the infant in his arms was enough to cause him to hurry. "Come in, come in," he said, leading her into the building. A woman stood in the corner, tending a brazier. "Ortygia, take care of this woman, please." Then he retreated to a back room, carrying Alexios away from her sight.

Her heart raced and she slipped towards panic, but the woman suddenly appeared at her side, gently taking her by the elbow and preventing her from following him. "You're freezing," the woman said. "Come and sit."

Myrrine let herself be guided to a bench next to a burning brazier. Its warmth seemed far away. Her exhaustion made everything feel cold and distant, inert like a pile of ashes. She wanted to sleep and not wake up until Alexios was whole again.

She felt a warm cup being pressed into her hands. "Drink this." Hot wine and herbs. She sipped, tasting nothing. That wasn't right. Sipped again. Nothing. She could no longer trust her senses. The heat from the wine crawled down her chest and thawed something inside, and the meltwater began leaking from her. She closed her eyes against the tears. No. Not now.

After some time, Hippokrates emerged from the back room carrying Alexios, and she knew in an instant that he would not bring her good news. He knelt before her and placed a hand on her knee. "Your son..." His voice wavered, and he shook his head. "This is beyond my abilities as a healer."

She could die kneeling in the middle of a field of ashes, or she could dig, dig down into those cinders. She heard her own voice, steady as it said, "If you can't save him, tell me who can." Warmth under her hands, the smallest embers.

"He's too—"

Embers to flame, her voice raising. "Tell me who can!"

Her tone made him flinch. "The priests at the Sanctuary of Asklepios." He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time.

"How do I get there?"

He told her. Placed Alexios into her arms. Helped her to her feet, wrapped her in a blanket, and brought her to her horse. She took up the reins, turned the horse towards the road that led to the Sanctuary, and heard him call out behind her, "Gods be with you both."

Which gods? The ones who told the Oracle in Delphi that Alexios would bring about the downfall of Sparta, thus condemning him to be thrown from a cliff?

There were no gods left for her to trust.

.oOo.

Kassandra stared at the dead man in the cot and shook her head in frustration. All that effort in Fort Tiryns — sneaking past the soldiers, finding the garrison's physician, and bringing him back to Hippokrates — had amounted to nothing.

"I'm sorry for the delay, Hippokrates," Dymas said. "Kassandra helped me save my own patient first."

She'd had to choose: wait for Dymas to finish his surgery, or force him to come with her unwillingly. She'd decided to wait, and it had been the same as picking one life over another. Dymas's patient had survived. This man didn't.

"But why are you here?" Hippokrates asked. "I only needed my notes."

"They were burned in an attack, but fortunately, I have them memorized." Dymas tapped a finger against his temple. "And Kassandra insisted I come with her."

Hippokrates turned to her. "Did you kill anyone to bring Dymas here?"

Anyone? Did he mean the entire fort full of soldiers he'd asked her to sneak into? It took effort to keep her voice neutral. "No." She'd slipped past every sentry without any of them raising an alarm, and she'd done it as quickly as she could. It hadn't been enough.

Hippokrates rested a hand on Dymas's shoulder. "All of us are in the business of making tough decisions. You saved one soul today, and many others to come."

Dymas nodded. "If we're finished here, I'll write down what I remember of your notes."

Kassandra watched him hurry off, then said to Hippokrates, "I won't keep you from your work any longer, doctor. I'll go ask the priests at the Sanctuary about the woman I seek."

He gestured for her to follow and said, "Come with me. You've had a busy day."

They walked inside a large tent, its interior crowded with tables of medical equipment and racks of herbs. It smelled faintly of spices she couldn't place. A large bowl of fruit sat next to a pitcher of water, and he grabbed an apple off the top and tossed it to her. "The importance of diet to maintaining one's health cannot be overstated."

Kassandra looked at the apple in her hand. "What good can one apple really do?"

"Well, taken daily, they can keep the doctor away." The smile in his voice faded. "But on to more serious matters, like the reason you're here. You're looking for your mother."

She'd never been that specific when talking to him.

His gaze roamed across her face. "You have your mother's eyes," he explained.

"Ah." Her chest suddenly ached.

"I've never forgotten her face." He leaned back against a table and sighed. "I was young then, and I didn't have the skills to help her. I turned her away." He looked down at his hands. "I'd... given people bad news before. But your mother... She burned with determination when others would have collapsed into their grief. She shamed me."

"How?"

"Before I met her, I was just a priest. After, I swore to Apollo that I'd never turn away another patient — that I'd dedicate my life to learning everything I could about healing, even the things the other priests refused to try." He was silent for a moment, thinking of the past. "She had a strength about her that left an impression on me."

"She'd be happy to know that."

"I sent your mother to the Sanctuary of Asklepios. They'll have votive records of her visit, but you should try to get an audience with the Elder priest. Tell him I'll be sending him my notes on a new treatment for the sacred disease."

She bowed her head and clasped her hands together in gratitude. "Thank you for this, Hippokrates."

Her mother had spoken to this man, had been here and traveled these same roads, and for a brief moment she'd come to life in his telling. Hippokrates had brought Kassandra closer to her mother than anyone else had, just by remembering her.

.oOo.

The Sanctuary of Asklepios was less a refuge than a place where misery fed upon the living, who drifted like spirits within the shrines and buildings, caught between life and death. Myrrine was one of them now. She'd delivered Alexios into the care of the priests, had allowed herself to be bathed and fed, before being turned out to wander the Sanctuary's grounds until the priests brought her news.

She found a bench in a quiet corner near a fountain, away from the crowds on the walkways. The leaves of an olive tree shivered above her, and the Sanctuary swirled with nervous winds under grey skies. It had not yet begun to rain.

The people around her were silent as they dwelled in their own private worlds, and the fountain's lively waters poured into its basin, indifferent to them all. The basin was ringed by a grooved path worn deep into the stones. Heavy were the worries that burdened all those footsteps.

Every so often a priest would stop by to update her on Alexios's condition, and they spoke words she only half-heard, reassuring words meant to distract her from noticing that they never said he was getting better.

It was growing harder to keep her hope alive. Even embers ran out of fuel to burn eventually.

She paced the perimeter of the fountain's small square. The priests had placed large marble slabs around the edge, making a fence of sorts. Names were carved into the slabs: Agestratus, whose head ached so severely it drove him to madness, cured by applying a poultice of a rooster's tail feathers; Euphanes, suffering from bloat, cured by sacrificing ten dice and his gambling habit on the temple altar. Sometime soon, a priest would strike a mallet to his chisel and inscribe the names Myrrine and Alexios on the stone. She wondered what the words next to them would say.

Day turned to night, the moon hiding behind clouds that spat a fitful rain. She found herself alone next to the fountain. Most of the Sanctuary's visitors had retired to places she didn't know, and didn't care to. She had no need for a bed and no willingness to sleep.

Then she heard her name in the dark, spoken by a priest she didn't know. He was older than the others, and wore his pendant of Asklepios on a necklace of heavy gold. Mydon was his name, he said, and that he was sorry, deeply sorry — and his mouth kept moving and words came out but she didn't understand them. Words like "The fall was devastating..." and "There's nothing we can do..." and as long as she had hope, none of them would make any sense.

But he kept talking, and as he did, her hope faded to nothing, and she knew then what the priest was trying to tell her: Alexios was dead.

Then it felt as though her bones had turned to water, and she sank down to the ground as the last of the embers inside her went out. She broke into sobs, hunching over as they swept through her. "They're gone. They're both gone," she said between gasps, and then she cried out, her voice twisting into a dark howl.

The priest didn't move.

She sat there in the silence left after her wail. Inert like ashes.

Then she spoke to the stones beneath her, so worn with burdens. "Show me."

He helped her to her feet, let her lean on him as he guided her into the temple, past haggard young priests and a priestess, back to a room, and a table, and her son's motionless form.

The other part of her soul left her then. She had lost both Kassandra and Alexios, and only the barest of threads remained for the Fates to weave within her. No mother ever expected to outlive her children; their ghosts would pursue her like the Erinyes until the end of her days, but oh, she was too proud to go mad. She would exist, and she would be both alive and dead within the same body.

She picked Alexios up, cradled him in her arms, and began to sing him a song.

.oOo.

Kassandra arrived at the Sanctuary of Asklepios at dawn, under skies of broken slate streaked with red. Harbinger skies, and if she were back on the Adrestia, Barnabas would have taken one look at them and declared a storm was on its way.

The Sanctuary was nearly silent, save for the footsteps of priests hurrying to the temple, or abaton, or wherever else they needed to go across the expansive grounds. She caught one by his elbow as he tried to pass, but he looked at her, stammered, "I'm sorry Eagle Bearer, I can't help you," and scurried away.

Her reputation had apparently preceded her.

The next few priests said much the same thing, and she finally lost her temper with the last, dragging him into the shadows between two outbuildings before pinning him up against a wall with her forearm. "Who told you not to talk to me?" she demanded.

"Chrysis. She said it would be our heads if we talked to the Eagle Bearer."

Chrysis, the priestess she'd met in Argos. "How is it that she rules over the Sanctuary?"

His eyes widened. "She's the High Priestess of Hera in Argolis!"

So this Chrysis had power to go with her madness. "I need to see the Elder priest."

"Please, Eagle Bearer. She'll have me killed."

"Talk. Now."

"Find Mydon. He has quarters in the guesthouse. But good luck getting a word out of him — he no longer has a tongue."

She released him. "Go."

Priests without tongues and priestesses out for blood. This was a Sanctuary in name only, and time would tell how deep the sickness ran within it.

She returned to the walkway. It was warmer now, though the sun remained reluctant to come out, and when she breathed in, she smelled rain-damp soil and smoky incense. The grounds were more crowded, and a steady stream of horse-drawn carts wheeled past, carrying the ill and the infirm to the abaton and baths. White marble blocks lined the paved path on both sides, their smooth faces inscribed with names and treatments. Votive records, just as Hippokrates had said. But there were hundreds of these blocks, covered in thousands of names with no sense of organization. Finding her mother's name would take days.

She continued wandering, taking in the layout of the walkways, and the locations of the temples, shrines, and other buildings within the grounds. Her path took her from the Temple of Asklepios at the Sanctuary's core, to the outer edges, where the stone buildings were less worn and the trees were smaller and the marble blocks lining the path held fewer names and more blank spaces. Then she heard the sound of a chisel on stone, and followed it around a corner to its source.

An older priest stood at a marble block, carving another name into the Sanctuary's records. He pretended not to notice her, instead leaning close to his work and brushing stone dust away with his hand.

She stopped an armspan's distance away from him. She could pretend also, and she regarded the stone block in front of her without seeing. "If one wanted to find a particular name on these stones, how would they do it?" she mused.

"They'd have to ask a priest who keeps the records."

"A priest such as yourself?"

His fingers stilled on the carved letters. "There are countless records in this Sanctuary. Surely I'm too feeble to remember them all."

"It's a shame. I've traveled here a long way in search of my mother, and all I find are priests too afraid to talk to me."

"Times have changed, Eagle Bearer. It's..." He lowered his voice. "Chrysis. She says she'll kill anyone who helps you, and her threats are not idle."

"Just tell me where I can find the stone that holds the name Myrrine of Sparta. That's all I need."

He rested the point of his chisel against the stone and tapped it with the mallet. "Go to the grove of Artemis." He'd never looked at her once during their entire conversation.

She murmured her thanks, then left him to his work.

It was only a short walk to the grove of Artemis, its cypress trees an island of vibrant green among the skeletal ash and lindens in their winter sleep. In the summer, the cypress would smell of woody, heady spices, but winter's chill had buried it under the scents of damp earth and rotting leaves. The record stones jutted from the ground like a titan's teeth.

There were so many names. Here and there, entries caught her eye — Amyntas of Makedonia, suffering from sword wounds, healed after being licked clean by a pack of dogs — but none with her mother's name, or even names bearing the inscription 'of Sparta'. It was a rare Spartan who would leave Lakonia for anything other than glory.

More names. More odd treatments: snakes and boars' tongues, bear fat and chicken feet. And then she found an inscription notable for what it was missing than what it actually said: —of Sparta, with child, seeking pity from the gods— Someone had carved out the rest.

She was staring at the obliterated stone when she felt someone approaching from behind.

"It is as I feared, then." The stone-cutting priest.

"What is someone trying to hide?"

"I'll tell you. Myrrine of Sparta, who arrived filthy and bleeding from her travels. We cared for her, gave her food, a bath. The child... could not be saved, though we tried everything we could. Where she went after, I do not know."

The child could not be saved. After her encounters with Deimos, she begged to differ. Alexios was alive and unwell, and this priest was either a good liar, or believed the lie himself.

He went on. "I have something more for you. Meet me at sundown, near the Olive Tree of Herakles at the entrance of the sanctuary."

Footsteps sounded on the path into the grove behind them, and she turned to find another priest walking towards them.

"And what do we have here, a priest and a mercenary having a chat?" His manner was friendly, but his eyes were cold.

The stone-cutter cowered under the other priest's gaze. "May the gods be with you, Pleistos! I was just on my way to the archives when she bumped into me."

"Is that so? Might I ask what were you discussing so fervently?"

Kassandra took the opening. "The good priest here was teaching me how to heal sword wounds."

"And what is the treatment for sword wounds according to my friend?"

"You use dogs to lick the wounds clean," she answered.

"Very good! Don't give away all our tricks, Timoxenos. Who will bring offerings to the gods when our patients learn to heal themselves?"

"No, no, of course not," Timoxenos stammered. "Now if you'll excuse me, I must get to the archives." He bowed, then hurried away. He had placed himself in a great deal of danger to seek her out.

"You have your treatment, Eagle Bearer. Now please leave the Sanctuary. We have nothing else for you here."

"A shame to find a place of healing so unwelcome," she said, giving him an exaggerated bow. "But it shall be as you ask."

The Sanctuary was no longer safe for her to travel openly, but there was much she could do from the shadows. The long night of winter would provide them to her soon enough. She returned to the stable where she'd picketed Phobos, mounted up, and disappeared into the forest.

A little before sundown, she watched the Olive Tree of Herakles in the evening light, waiting to see if Timoxenos would arrive as he'd promised.

She saw him walking up the road, and met him beneath the branches of the enormous tree. He pulled a piece of white fabric out from inside his robes.

"Your mother left a blanket behind. We tried to return it, but she said it was too painful a memory." He held it out. "Take it."

She did, and her hands shook as she beheld a blanket she hadn't seen in twenty years. White fabric had turned dirty grey, stained with streaks of rust and brown. She remembered her mother's fingers tucking that fabric around her baby brother the night the Elder priest and the guards came for them. "How did you get this?" she asked, as she folded the blanket and slid it carefully inside her armor.

"I took it from the archi—" His eyes suddenly widened as he spotted something behind her. "Oh, no."

She turned. It was the priest who'd threatened her earlier, Pleistos, along with a burly-looking guard.

"So, Chrysis was right," Pleistos said. "You knew the rules, Timoxenos. You will suffer her wrath."

Kassandra pushed Timoxenos against the tree. "Stay behind me," she said, shifting position so he stood between her and the tree's massive trunk. Keeping him alive would complicate matters.

Pleistos pulled a dagger from his belt, and the guard hefted a poleaxe. She drew her spear and launched it at the priest in one smooth movement. Risky, but her reward was the sound of a gurgled gasp that let her focus on charging the guard. His body was already twisting back into a swing.

The head of the poleaxe slid into view, and then she was inside its reach, with her sword held high. The handle of the axe slammed against her armor as she chopped down at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. The impact of the axe handle against her ribs stole her breath and dropped her to her knees, but the guard went down with her, his head flopping over at an unnatural angle. She pulled her sword clear, and staggered to her feet and over to Pleistos.

Her spear jutted out from the priest's throat, and as her fingers wrapped around its handle, the blood craving wrapped her in its pleasures. Her ribs no longer ached and she smiled down at the dying man and said, "You chose poorly," as she pulled the blade from his neck.

Timoxenos appeared at her shoulder. "They would have killed us both."

She nodded, only half-listening as she bent down and used the point of her spear to sweep the guard's cloak aside. His armor was heavy and angular, stamped with an insignia of twined snakes.

The Cult. The pieces were beginning to fit into place.

She turned to Timoxenos. "You're no longer safe here. Do you have someplace you can go?"

"This is the only home I have."

"Then go to Hippokrates's clinic, and wait there while I deal with Chrysis. But first, I need a favor."

"Name it."

"Which room in the guesthouse is Mydon's?"

"Mydon? He's well guarded!" He looked down at her bloody armor and weapons. "But you won't have any trouble, I suppose. His chambers are the largest in the back of the building."

She gave him her thanks, then looked back at the lights of the Sanctuary flickering in the twilight. It was only a matter of time before someone noticed the men she'd killed were missing and raised an alarm.

That could not happen before she found Mydon.

She stowed her sword and spear and broke into a run, heading for the forest, the blood on her skin drying slowly in the cold wind.

.oOo.

The guesthouse was guarded, as Timoxenos had said it would be, with two sentries at the main entrance, one at the side entrance, and one at the servants' entrance. All wearing bright armor with Cult insignias.

She climbed the wall that shielded the servants' entrance from sight, high enough to sneak a look. The guard she'd seen in the doorway earlier was no longer there, perhaps on patrol within the building, or off having a piss. No matter; it only made things easier. She levered herself over the edge and dropped down the other side, wincing as the landing jarred her ribs. She kept in a crouch and moved to the wall to the right of the door. Then she held her breath and listened.

Footsteps on tile. Heavy. A man's tread approaching the door.

Her fingers closed around a stone and she stood up slowly, flattening herself against the wall. Most people looked to the right when they passed through an open doorway; a distraction would ensure this man did.

She tossed the stone as the footsteps reached the threshold, heard the clack as it landed and a sudden indrawn breath, and then the man stepped through the doorway looking away from her. She was on him in an instant, her spear opening his throat and her weight forcing him to the ground to keep him from thrashing.

The servants' foyer was dark and silent. A doorway on the other side opened into an atrium. She could see no other halls. Every guestroom would open to the atrium directly.

She hid within the shadows in the foyer and looked out across the atrium. Benches covered with pillows, lit braziers, delicate vases. All the trappings of hospitality, except for the armed guard standing watch next to a set of ornate double doors. The atrium was too open, the angles too poor for her to sneak up on him. She could use her spear to kill him, but leaving any blood in the open would be risky. There was no way to tell if all the guests had returned to their rooms for the night.

Sounds at the main entrance, followed by movement, as a young servant woman walked into the atrium carrying a jug. She walked up to the guard, exchanged quiet words, and then Kassandra heard the sound of the doors opening.

That was all the distraction she needed. She came up behind him as he was closing the doors, and as he turned back around she chopped him hard across his throat with the edge of her hand. She caught him as he fell, covered his mouth with one hand and hooked her arm under him, and dragged him back through the servants' foyer, dumping him next to the other guard's body. The strangled choking sounds he made gave her pause, and she knifed him quickly in the throat. She'd shed no tears for Cultists, but asphyxiation was a hard way to go.

Her path back to the doors was clear, and she opened them and slipped inside.

She found the young woman and the old priest in the middle of an embrace, so distracted with themselves that they didn't notice her come out from the shadows and lean up against a nearby wall. She folded her arms and watched them kiss and paw at each other. At this rate, she'd end up seeing something she absolutely didn't want to.

She cleared her throat.

The woman whirled around. "Guards!"

Kassandra examined her bloody fingernails. "They're dead," she said simply. She looked at the priest. "And you must be Mydon."

He let out a disconcerting moan. So she'd been told at least one true thing while she'd been in the Sanctuary.

"He doesn't speak," the servant said. Apparently she was used to speaking for him.

"So I've heard. I'm here to find out why."

"Chrysis did this to him."

"I thought he did this to himself."

"To prove his loyalty to her!"

"Now why would Chrysis want an Elder priest to cut out his tongue?"

"Mydon is a caring, generous man!"

"I don't care what kind of man he is. And now I want answers from him, not you." She fixed her gaze upon him. "Do you remember Myrrine of Sparta, and the baby she brought here years ago?"

He nodded. Yes.

"Did you save the baby?"

No.

"Did she tell you where she was going after?"

No.

She put together all the pieces she'd gathered. "I know why Chrysis made you cut out your tongue. The night my mater brought my brother here, you and your priests thought he was dead. And Chrysis didn't want you telling the story because she took the baby, didn't she? She made you cut out your tongue to hide the truth."

Yes. Yes. Yes.

"Mydon told me how the Spartan woman wept. Held the baby in her arms, sang to him, before finally leaving him to the gods."

"But Chrysis took him instead. Where is she?"

"There's an altar and a small temple near the statue of Apollo Maleatas, up on the bluff overlooking the valley. People take their sick babies there to be healed."

Mydon's eyes glistened with tears, and he clasped his hands together, bowed his head, and tried to speak. None of it was understandable.

Kassandra was suddenly tired of this place and its desperation. "People come to this Sanctuary to be healed — but I come here and find people dying without hope, priests without tongues, and babies left with a madwoman."

She would cut out this sickness at its source.

.oOo.

It was a long, hard climb to the top of the bluff, and once she reached the altar that stood upon it, she smelled blood clotting in the cold breeze. Someone had killed a golden eagle and left it splayed across the top of the altar. It wasn't Ikaros, she knew, but the threat was close enough. The anger she'd kept sheathed within her since she arrived at the Sanctuary pulled itself free and lanced into her blood, bright and burning.

The clouds overhead looked as if a giant beast had riven them with its claws, and moonlight filtered through their torn edges. The wind jostled the dead eagle's feathers. She scanned the top of the bluff, looking for the temple.

She only found a worn path leading away from the altar into the forest.

Suddenly the breeze picked up, and brought with it the sound of a baby crying. Her mind knew it was a trap, but her heart accelerated anyway, and she started running up the path, following the sound.

Nyx had stolen the color from the forest, cut the trees into slashes of black and the underbrush to mottled granite. Beams of light slanted through the cutouts and sparkled in droplets of water scattered by her passage.

Her heart drummed in perfect, relentless time, and her breath came easily, fueling her long muscles to plant, and push, plant, and push as the path gently curved, and the forest thinned, and she saw orange specks of light bobbing in the far distance.

The path opened into a small clearing, and she felt the attackers before she saw them, twisting aside as a dark form dropped from the tree above her. A blade whipped past her ear and smashed into the armor across her left shoulder. Fire bloomed in the joint, shooting tendrils of pain up her neck and down into her chest. She dropped to the ground and rolled into the underbrush, heard the smack of metal against the dirt where she'd just been, and she kicked out, feeling her greave sink into meaty flesh.

She rolled again, then climbed to her feet with her spear in her good hand. There were two armored outlines in front of her, swords glinting, one with a shield and the other dual-wielding a dagger. She swapped her spear to her left hand, biting back a hiss as fire cascaded down her arm, and drew her sword with her right. Pain could be ignored, pushed aside. She'd let her anger fill its place.

She backpedaled, drawing them into the trees. Shield and Dagger. Shield was limping, and she edged around to his weak side, her senses open and ready. His sword-arm tensed, and she backpedaled another step, putting tree branches between her and Dagger and making Shield come to her. His sword sliced down in a silver arc and she raised her spear to meet it. Their blades clashed, and then she sank down instead of pushing back against him, letting his follow-through pull him off-balance above her as she swung her sword around and cut his legs out from under him.

The momentum from her swing lifted her upwards, and she bounced to her feet with her weapons raised in time to deflect a rapid series of sword and dagger strikes.

Her opponent was good. Disciplined. Moved like a woman, with a woman's fluid quickness. They traded attacks: quick, testing strikes. Kassandra kept moving, kept circling, and she could feel the winds shift around them as they moved between the trees. She sensed stillness behind her, and she stepped back, back, inviting the arc of the woman's sword, waiting for commitment to the swing. She ducked. The sword bit deep into the trunk of the tree, and Kassandra's spear sank deep into the woman's side, just above her belt. The woman died with a sigh, as if surprised by the sudden turn of events.

Kassandra took a few steadying breaths and let the warm wave of satisfaction lave the jagged edges of pain in her shoulder smooth. She'd been careless. She shook off the memory of metal whipping past her ear.

As her heartbeat settled and its pounding in her ears faded, she could hear the baby's cry louder than ever, coming from the temple that was now visible through the trees, its columns haloed in torchlight.

She kept her weapons unsheathed as she approached, and she paused before its heavy wooden doors. Stillness, but for the baby's desperate wails.

The doors opened reluctantly, and she ignored the flare of pain as she pushed them apart and stepped into the temple, breathing in the heavy scent of incense. The air felt strangely greasy.

A small marble altar sat at the back of the chamber, its surface strewn with dried flowers and a few scattered oil lamps. Behind the altar stood Chrysis, with the baby cradled in her arms. The priestess's eyes glittered as they lingered on Kassandra's bloody weapons.

"Killing seems to run in your bloodline, oh mighty Kassandra."

"Keep my name out of your mouth, snake."

"I still remember the night your mother brought me my child. So sad and pathetic, crying in the rain. Had I known then that Myrrine had two children... but, here you are. My family is complete."

"Your family is built from lies. You let my mother believe her baby was dead."

"But he was. How she wept after his little heart stopped beating. But then I took care of him. Placed him on this very altar. Screamed for the gods to spare his life. And they listened."

Kassandra took a step closer. "What did you do with my brother?"

"I saved his life. By teaching him to suffer. To know pain so well that he would learn to welcome it like an old friend. And now, he will teach all of the Greek world to know that pain."

"You... tortured a child?" Kassandra didn't want to believe what she was hearing, but it explained too much not to be true. Her fingers tightened around the handle of the spear, and white-hot pain seared within her shoulder.

"I taught him to survive! This world is cruel. It demands strength, or death. So I gave him strength." Chrysis rocked the baby in her arms. "That's something your weakling of a mother could never do. I let her crawl off to Korinth, but that's before I knew about your bloodline." Her eyes returned to Kassandra, looking at her hungrily. "But she can't hide forever. She will give us more children."

"I'll run my spear through your throat before that happens. And you'll pay for all the pain you've caused my family."

Chrysis threw back her head in laughter. "This world is pain. I gave Deimos strength to cope while your mother whined to the gods like a pig on an altar. I'm more a mother to Deimos than she ever was. I can be a mother to you, too, Kassandra."

"You're insane. You bring nothing but suffering."

"You talk of suffering and yet look at you now, drenched in blood. How many did you kill just to come here?" Those mad, piercing eyes stared at her. "Tell me, Kassandra, do you enjoy it?"

For once, Kassandra had nothing to say.

Chrysis smiled benevolently. "You're a killer, just like your brother. Here, let me show you." She placed the baby on the altar, then swept the lamps to the floor before Kassandra could move.

The entire chamber went up in a fireball. Kassandra threw her arms in front of her face as the wave of heat enveloped her — and swirling out from that heat came great howls of laughter. The mad priestess meant for Kassandra to choose: the baby, or her vengeance.

She waded into the inferno, its hot teeth gnawing at her as she looked for the altar. She almost ran into it before she saw its outline through the smoky flames, and she scooped the baby into her arms and dashed out the back doors into fresh air.

Chrysis was long gone, as she'd expected, and she kept running until she felt grass under her feet and the heat from the burning temple faded to warmth. Then her legs gave out and she stumbled to her knees, barely able to hang on to the baby cradled in her good arm. The shawl she wore over her armor was singed and smoking. She lifted the baby closer, and tentatively pulled its wrapping away from its face.

The baby was a boy, and he looked as if he'd frozen solid, his eyes scrunched shut and his mouth wide, and for a moment Kassandra feared the worst. But then his eyes snapped open — eyes of wet, milky blue that drifted around without focus -- and he took a breath, and then another. He began to wriggle, and then fuss. "Hey, little one. It's okay," she murmured.

Kassandra knelt there, scorched and aching in the moonlight, and she rocked the baby in her arms, and began to sing him a song.

Part of the Elegiad. Go back to the previous story, or on to the next...

#kassandra #myrrine #ac odyssey #wherein i commit a big writing sin in this fic #but i don't care because i wanted this structure damn it #i only hurt the characters i love #elegiad

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leo-lucid · 5 years

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Bewitching Which Monster Chapter 1: The Home

The road to my new home was bumpy and long. I looked out the window from my cab and watched the trees go by. I smiled a little as I saw the wind start to blow up the colorful leaves that were lying on the dirt road. They swirled around within the air and landed on the back on the ground behind us. Oh yeah, I could totally find myself living here and practicing my magic for a while.

"So, what brings you all the way down here? Young women tend to go off to the big cities, not small towns with nothing but forest for miles." My driver tried to make conversation. I settled back into my seat and looked at her through the mirror.

"I inherited the mansion up this road. My grandparents left it to me in their will and I have been looking for a more secluded place surrounded by nature. It may help me work more productively and it's peaceful up here. I have a greater chance of finding what I'm looking for here too." I explained.

The driver kept glancing back and forth between me and the road. "So, you're their granddaughter, Anise Devane. They talked about you fondly whenever we met in the town festivals. I'm so sorry about your grandparents. What are you looking for exactly?"

I returned my attention back to the trees. "A plot of land to grow herbs and plants. And to grow as a person myself." I answered as honestly as I could. I couldn't tell her that I was a witch and I was going to plant plants for my magical practices. We witches are a lot more free to practice than we were many years ago but it was still a little bit of a taboo topic to talk about with normal humans.

"Well, you'll definitely find peace and quiet up here. Welcome to Hazelview. Small town, small people and a whole lotta nature. You'll fit right in in no time." She chiperily described. "Here we are!"

I looked out the front windshield to see the small mansion my grandparents have left for me. The foliage was covering a majority of the grey shingles and the curtains in the window were drawn back. The steel gate would've looked menacing if it weren't for the flourishing vines wrapping all around the bars. I remembered this old house. So many memories. Even if the mansion was huge for one person alone and secluded in the woods, it still looked warm and welcoming.

The taxi driver pulled into the white gravel driveway and stopped the car. I got out and looked up at my new home. The driver opened the trunk and started to unload my luggage for me. "Here you go, sweetie. Hopefully, your moving truck will arrive before you run out of clothes to wear."

"Thank you so much. How much do I owe you?" I asked as I reached for my wallet in my back pocket.

"Nah, free of charge. You're one of us town folk now. If you ever need a lift, just give me a call. See ya later, neighbor." She declined, finished unloading the trunk and sped away before I could insist or even say thanks.

I grabbed my bags from the ground and began to drag them inside the house.I pushed the gate open with my shoulder and made my way to the large, oak door. I put my bag down on the porch and fished around my pocket for the key.

The door swung open slowly once I unlocked it, creating a loud squeaking noise. I made a mental note to fix that soon.

The house was a bit dusty and there was a lot of furniture that was left behind. The wood would need to be shined again and the walls would probably have to get a new coat of paint. The house was on the older side, dating back a good century or so. It's had a lot of work done since when it was first built. It was always known as the Devane house. Always have and always will be.

I went up one of the staircases that elegantly curved towards the wall. As I walked up, I could see all the old pictures that decorated the wall. There were old, antique pictures of my grandparents, the generations before them and the generations after. At the very top of the stairs I could see my moms at their wedding and a few more family photos including me.

I finished looking at the pictures and headed to one of the upstairs bedrooms. Upon opening the master bedroom, I noticed that the room was incredibly dusty. If I was going to sleep in the room for the night I would have to clean up a little and get some fresh air in.

I settled my luggage on the king sized bed and went to open the window. It took a bit of strength but I was eventually able to get it open. The room already started to feel a lot better. But if this one room was like this then the others must be in the same condition.

Instead of unpacking immediately and resting, I went downstairs to find the broom closet. I grabbed a clean rag and some polisher to start clearing away the dust. I traveled from room to room, opening windows and rubbing down the old furniture. To my surprise, a bunch of rooms were pretty decent. They weren't as dusty as I expected.

In fact, the bedrooms almost seemed recently lived in.

I shrugged it off, remembering that my grandparents would occasionally run a bed and breakfast out of their home for extra money. They must've cleaned the guest rooms last before they passed away. As my grandparents got older they began to sleep in smaller, separate beds. It would explain why the master bedroom was so bad.

I continued to make my way through the house, dusting and cleaning anything I could reach and opening windows to air out the house.

The house creaked slightly with each step and sometimes it did it by itself. I knew it was an old house but it almost sounded like someone else was living here still.

Again, it was probably just nothing. It didn't stop me from being a bit nervous though.

The entire house was mostly dust free and promised that I could rest easy tonight without suffocating. While I was cleaning the house I found my grandmother's Witch Room. She left a bunch of mason jars with herbs, plants that were slowly dying in their pots, and other materials scattered around like crystals and feathers and inks.

I went back to that room and looked through the scattered papers along the floors and shelves. They were all in Irish Gaelic with little English words scattered here and there. Old sketches flooded the papers as well.

I gathered them all up and stacked them on top of the wooden table. I promised myself to check them out later after I got settled into the house. It was getting late and I haven't eaten since the morning. I had to call my moms too to let them know I was safe.

Pulling my phone out of my back pocket, I called up a pizza place to order something quick. I was told that my mushroom and bacon pizza will be ready and delivered in less than thirty minutes. After thanking the person who took my order, I sat down at the family dining table on the first floor to Facetime my moms.

It only took about two rings before they picked up. My mom's red, frizzy hair was in a sloppy bun and she was wearing a black tank top covered in dirt. She probably started cleaning the house as soon as I left. She tended to clean when she was stressed, nervous or worried.

Her cool, ocean blue eyes lit up through the screen as she saw that I was perfectly safe and managed to make it to the mansion. "Hi, Ani! Oh, Olivia! Honey, Anise is on the phone!"

I could hear my ma run towards mom, excited to finally see me after waiting for me to get here. Her face appeared next to mom's, almost pushing her out of view. Her walnut wood skin was covered in sweat and showed signs of being slightly sun-burnt. She was most likely working in the garden before I called. "Anise! Oh my gods you're alive!"

"Yeah, Ma. I didn't die on the way here. Thank you for worrying about me. Once I got here I cleaned up some of the dust and opened the windows to circulate the air." I joked and explained.

"My baby is growing up! I already miss seeing her freckles that are scattered across her nose and cute cheeks, Avery!" Ma exclaimed to Mom, talking about me like I wasn't listening.

Mom pushed her away so she could have some camera time. "Don't you think I'm gonna miss her asking me to help dye her hair dark purple? I miss our baby too, ya know! Anyways, Ani, make sure you call us whenever something goes wrong, okay? Your ma and I love you very much and we want to help you get used to living on your own."

"I'll send you some boxes of purple hair dye, herbs, books, and cookies every month, Ani. If you need anything else that you can't afford on your own just call us and we'll send it over." Ma continued, her smoky quartz eyes tearing up.

I gave a small giggle and smiled. "Got it, ma. I'll be fine. I'm nineteen for crying out loud! I can take care of myself so there's no need to worry."

Mom frowned. "Of course we're gonna worry! We're your moms!"

The doorbell suddenly rang and I hovered my finger over the hang up button. "My pizza is here. Gotta go! I'll call you guys when the moving truck and handyman gets here. Love you!"

"Love you too, sweetie! Enjoy your pizza." They said goodbye. I hung up and went to answer the door.

I paid for the pizza and tipped the delivery guy. As soon as they left I close the creaky door and headed to one of the living rooms to watch some television. My grandparents should've had Netflix on all of the televisions as an app since guests would've most likely requested some modern media.

Turning on the TV, I sat down on a dusty, pink rose couch and tried to enjoy my pizza and Earth documentary. Most people my age weren't really in to documentaries, but I personally found them fascinating. It was like reading a nonfiction book but much quicker and much more entertaining.

Due to me watching mainly documentaries, my brain is filled with all sorts of facts from science to history and anything in between. It definitely made high school a breeze for me. It also helped convince my moms to let me take online college classes instead of going to an actual college.

An hour later, the cities episode ended and my pizza was completely gone. I checked the time and saw that it was 7:00 pm. Like the responsible adult I was, I got up, cleaned my mess and went to get ready for bed.

I decided to inspect the master bathroom before stripping down and using it. It would've been terrible if I noticed mold or spiders while I was bathing. To my astonishment, the bathroom was perfectly polished and cleaned. The marble counter was clear and dust-free, the shower was sparkling as well as the freestanding, claw-foot tub and even the towels seemed fresh.

Perhaps my grandparents still preferred to use the master bathroom?

I grabbed my bath essentials and began to draw up a bath. While the tub filled up with warm water, I put some music on from my phone. The sound echoed through the massive bathroom, almost drowning out the sound of the running rush of water from the faucet.

With a little bit of bubbles, some candles and crystals and some rose petals that I packed with me, I was ready to relax.

I slid right in and adored the quiet time I was able to have. There weren't a lot of opportunities to relax like this back when I lived with my moms. But now I was able to take a bath like this whenever I wished.

Just as I poured some lavender shampoo into my hand, there was a loud creak and footsteps from outside the bathroom door.

My heart sped up, my breathing stopped and I froze. There was no way that that was just the wind or the house settling. Unless I was going crazy, that was a stranger.

I stopped the music on my phone and sat in the bath in silence. I wasn't a particularly brave person so taking the time to muster up some courage to see if there was an intruder was necessary for me. With a few deep breaths and a reassuring nod to myself, I got up and grabbed a towel to cover myself with and began to check out the noise.

I opened the door very slowly and peered out. It didn't seem like anyone was in the bedroom and there was no evidence that anything was tampered with. I opened the door wider and noticed something on the wooden floor in front of me.

Bending over, I picked it up and held it in my hands. It was brown fur.

It suddenly hit me. During the few times I visited my grandparents I noticed that a few stray cats would occasionally roam around the property. Most of the windows from when I opened them up were still open. One of the cats must've found their way in and began to explore the mansion.

It was possible that the cat stepped in a particularly creaking spot in the floor and scared itself, causing it to run away. I knew that I would get freaked out if I heard a foreign sound seemingly coming from nowhere.

Hopefully, the cat would find its way outside without me intervening. The last thing I would want is to scare the poor thing with my presence.

I shrugged and went back to my bath. I wasn't able to enjoy it like I first did but it was still kinda pleasant. My time bathing was over within several minutes and I drained the tub. The only thing I packed as pajamas was an over-sized shirt that said "Inconceivable!"

Within a few minutes, my teeth were brushed and my purple hair was let loose from being in a tight bun all day. I changed the sheets on my bed with fresh ones I found from a linen closet. I made sure that all the windows were closed and all of the doors were locked before getting into bed.

Man, I was so tired. It's been a long day and I still had a long list of things to do. The moving guys and handyman were supposed to show up sometime tomorrow, I had to do some grocery shopping and budgeting, clean some more of the mansion and more.

It was best to get some sleep and be ready for all of that in the morning.

I rolled on to my side to find a more comfortable sleeping position and shut my eyes. Before I could fall asleep, I could feel the bed dip from extra weight and a body hovering over me. I snapped my eyes open and looked up to see a strange man with deep red eyes and white fangs inches away from my face. I couldn't help but scream.

"AHH!"

#creative writing #novel #romance #be prepared for there are gonna be 9 more chapters. . .#writeblr #reverse harem

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jraywelch · 6 years

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The life and death of Thomas Jefferson, the cat

We found out on a group text that our cat was dying.

I suspect for families that genuinely loved their pets these moments would be grounds for a phone call or even a video conference that would involve the immediate family attentively watching the last breaths of their beloved friend. There could also be a kitschy burial ceremony with a brief, but genuine program with a eulogy and shared memories. The truly devoted might even erect some kind of memorial for their pet, or at least hang a picture.

In the case of one Thomas Jefferson Welch, TJ for short, there was no such pageantry. I'm still not entirely sure what happened to his remains.

My nonchalant approach to his departure to the big litter box in the sky is probably being passed off as cruelty, and that might be fair. I felt stronger emotions for the animated pups in Isle of Dogs than I did for the cat that inhabited the Welch home for 18 years. His presence alone made him a part of the family but before you judge me for being heartless (as highly accurate a claim that it may be) please try to understand the true nature of TJ.

***

At the end of every episode of The Price is Right, Bob Barker (and now Drew Carey) would conclude by saying, "help control the pet population by getting your pets spaded or neutered." I like to theorize that Mr Barker had a vision in which he saw our cat roaming the earth and thought, "This cat is bad news. More of him would be a terrible idea."

To put it lightly TJ very well could have been the devil himself, capable of turning the hearts of even the most ardent feline lovers.

His journey with our family began on the 4th of July, 1999 when my mother brought him home. She went to the grocery store and saw a woman giving away kittens and couldn't resist. This might be commonplace in some families but the Welch household had never been a home to any pets whatsoever. The closest we ever came was one year when my parents decided to tell us they were going to get us a dog by leaving bowl with some dog food in it under the Christmas tree. I don't know if my dad stepped in some dog feces or what changed their minds but they backed out and we only found out about the foiled plan five years later we found the bowl and unopened can of Purina buried somewhere in the basement.

The fact TJ came to us free of charge by way of a person we didn't know outside a grocery store called King Soopers was quite ominous. We certainly got what we paid for.

Those first few months with TJ were such a blur not because they went by so fast but rather the fact that once he grew in size all of those pleasant memories were replaced by nightmares. He was a gentle creature at first but once he discovered his sharp teeth and claws it was a different story. He became a ferocious creature who would prey on anyone who would walk through the front door. And I'm not just talking about a few harmless scratches here and there. TJ would pounce with purpose, that being to inflict a maximum amount of pain on his victim. Or so I assume.

At first we all through it was bare legs that set him off but once we all started wearing pants around the house TJ's clawing and biting would continue and eventually spread to arms, and in the case of small children, faces. If you don't believe me you go back through family photos you'll see pictures of my youngest sister Hannah with scars on her face and arms. Or you can ask any child under the age of six that ever visited our house. No matter how many times we would tell them, "THE KITTY KAT IS NOT YOUR FRIEND" they would immediately run over to try and pet his tail, which was reciprocated with a claw to the face.

Instead of doing the logical thing and getting his claws removed (my kind mother thought it would be too cruel) we decided to fight fire with fire. The only thing that TJ hated more than our presence was being sprayed with a water bottle, one of which was placed in just about every room of the house. A common scene would be the family sitting around the table eating dinner and my father holding his fork in one hand and a water bottle in the other, manning his post and ready to gun down the enemy combatant at a moments notice.

What’s worse is we never knew when to expect an attack. One second he would be completely docile and then at the flip of a switch he would set out on his warpath. Not that there is anything funny about pet-on-owner violence but it was rather humorous to be in a different part of the house when TJ would strike. First we would hear the loud screams, the commotion of a few others leaping to grab a spray bottle and then TJ bolting to a safe place. All of this was followed by more yelling, crying and my dad saying, “ahh that stupid cat.”

And it wasn't just the pain that TJ inflicted that made him a bozo. There was long list of strange habits including (but not limited too) jumping on top of cars that would pull into our driveway or only drinking water that came out of the kitchen faucet. There was the normal cat stuff, like sitting on the newspaper whenever someone was trying to read it but then there was the pooping everywhere but his litter box and the full on sprinting throughout the entire house for no reason whatsoever.

His true wildcat personality drove everyone bonkers but it played well in other areas. Not once did we ever find a live mouse inside or around our house. He did bring a few dead ones inside to show off his handiwork, making sure we knew of his worth. My favorite TJ moment was when I witnessed a standoff that he had with three deer who encroached on our front yard in New Jersey. Instead of retreating inside TJ held his ground against the three deer, who were on their way to feast on the freshly planted shrubs. After a few minutes of posturing, TJ jumped up and clawed one of the deer in the face, sending the three of them into the next yard.

For about 12 years it was like this, pure mayhem inside and outside of the house, until one day things changed. Much like Saul on the road to Damascus, TJ was transformed from his life of sin and debauchery. His heart was miraculously softened not by way of a higher power but rather thanks to Prozac. Yes, you read that correctly. My cat was tamed by an antidepressant that is routinely prescribed to pets. (Routinely might be a stretch as I have no idea if this is a normal case or if our vet was so vexed for a solution to TJ's crazy that he decided that desperate times called for desperate measures.)

I wasn't living at home when TJ first started taking his new medication but apparently the first doses put him into some kind of inebriated trance that wouldn't allow him to take more than 37 steps a day. He went from leaping over six foot fences to barely being able to walk between the litter box and his food dish. They eventually figured out the correct dosage but once he we was medicated he didn't go back to his wild ways.

For the last few years of his life he was finally the nice cat that everyone could enjoy, which is a hard thing for me to understand. To me he was a wild beast and then all of the sudden TJ became this beloved creature that even some of my other family members began to forgive and embrace. My niece and nephew love TJ (probably more than they love me) and it takes a herculean effort to restrain myself from yelling, "IF YOU ONLY KNEW HOW MUCH HE HURT ME. HOW MUCH HE HURT ALL OF US."

Maybe my opinion of our feline frienemy will probably be forever skewed by the fact that I am allergic to cats and everyone just pretended that this was a normal thing. When a family discovers that their kid has a nut allergy do they plant a couple of walnut trees in the back yard? For years I've endured itchy eyes, sneezing and difficulty breathing just so he could stick around. Every Christmas I would make a plea for his exile so I could enjoy a holiday break free of Benadryl drowsiness or an endless runny nose but no, the cat had to stay. Until now.

His antics aside, TJ saw our family through what was the largest period of transition as we moved across the country and back again with many changes in between. As each of the kids left the house for college he was there for my parents, not so much to be a warm cuddly friend but someone to keep them on their toes.

TJ made life difficult but maybe in the end he was just preparing us for the challenges that would come our way. Who knows if any of us could have survived disappointment or heartbreak if we were not first betrayed by the only pet we ever had. We usually despised him and in doing so we were united in our disdain, a special bond that can last a lifetime.

So thank you TJ. Thank you for being the cause of evil that unified our family, even if it was you that we were united in fighting against.

And best of luck on the other side because I sure as heck won't vouch for you.

#cats #death

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josephkitchen0 · 6 years

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Solar Dyeing Wool Using Natural Plants

Solar dyeing wool with natural dyes is a simple procedure that yields beautiful results. The process is fairly safe so the whole family can enjoy the experiment. Solar dyeing involves learning which plants to harvest from the yard or woods that make dye and provide lasting color. The possibilities are fascinating and some of the colors will surprise you. When you learn how to make homemade clothing dye, you will enjoy repurposing older garments.

Pre-Mordant Instructions for Solar Dyeing Wool

Before starting with the actual dyeing process, a preliminary pre-mordant step needs to be taken so your yarn is ready to accept the dye. A mordant is a substance that combines with a dye or stain and fixes it in a material. This step does require some heat so make sure to grab the wool yarn you want to use for solar dyeing wool and a large pot for the stove. If you don’t have a stove available, you can use a solar oven and a pot that will fit inside the oven. Skipping the pre-mordant phase can result in less vibrant colors with some dye material. If you really don’t have access to any heat source, then you can just soak the yarn in vinegar and warm water. I use a half-cup of white vinegar to two gallons of water.

Mordants used in the pre-mordant phase are usually vinegar or alum. Using a vinegar pre-mordant is essential when solar dyeing wool with pokeberry. Add mordants to the dye pot during the dye phase, too. Mordants can increase the intensity of the dye or change the color slightly.

Add the vinegar to the pot of water and bring the water to a simmer. Add the skeins of yarn you want to dye. I often pre-mordant a few skeins more than I am planning on using. You do not have to pre-mordant the skeins again. I simply re-wet them when I want to begin solar dyeing wool.

Simmer the yarn in the vinegar water for 30 to 60 minutes. Remove from heat and allow to cool slightly before touching the water and yarn. Gently squeeze out the excess water, being careful not to wring or twist the fiber since agitation of the wool can lead to felting.

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What Are Natural Dyes?

Natural dye materials are found in food, plants, and insects. Other dyes used for dying are referred to as acid dyes. Acid dyes can contain questionable heavy metals that may require special handling of the dye and some are harmful to the environment if not disposed of properly.

Collecting the Natural Dye Material

Use products from your kitchen for solar dyeing wool. Coffee beans, teas, and spices are good options. Hibiscus tea from the petals of the flowers produces a soft pink shade on wool yarn or roving. Other kitchen dyes can be obtained from onion skins (yellow), turmeric (dark yellow/golds), avocado pits (pinks), and dry black beans (blue).

Nature gives us many interesting dyes. Black walnut is a popular choice. The color is found in the outer green hull. Wear rubber gloves when working with black walnuts to protect your hands from the long lasting stain. Various shades of brown can be achieved, depending on how strong the dye is made. Leaving the black walnut hulls in the dye pot with the yarn will result in a dark variegated brown.

The berries from the pokeweed plant are another source of natural dye. Oak galls, goldenrod, tree barks, marigold flowers, indigo, and madder root are some other options. It is fascinating to try other natural dyes for wool.

Fugitive Dyes

Beets are often mentioned when talking about plant dyes. The juice from beets will stain most fabric. Beets are considered a fugitive dye though and the stain quickly washes or fades away. Beets and other fugitive dye plants can be fun to experiment with. Try beet dye for dyeing Easter Eggs or painting on paper.

Making the Dyes for Solar Dyeing Wool

I used test size skeins of wool yarn that had been pre-mordanted in vinegar and water. The skeins were all 25 grams and each jar contained a quart of water. If you want to increase the amount of dye for coloring larger skeins of yarn, simply adjust the amounts.

You can make up the jars of dye ahead of time. Once the jar has sat in the sun and brewed for a few hours, store the dye in the refrigerator to keep it fresh.

Recipes

Turmeric — One tablespoon of powdered turmeric, half a cup of white vinegar, fill the remainder of jar with water.

Madder Root Powder — (Note: I did purchase this dye material although if you are growing madder, you could harvest and dry your own.) Two tablespoons dried dye, one teaspoon of alum, one quart of water.

Black Walnut — Black walnut is high in tannin which acts as a natural mordant. Use fresh black walnut hulls for best results. Four to five black walnut hulls, one quart of water.

Hibiscus Petal Tea — Hibiscus and Pokeberry are sensitive to heat, which makes them great candidates for solar dyeing wool. You don’t run the risk of overheating the dye and having it turn brown. One large teabag (makes a one-gallon pitcher of tea), half a cup of vinegar, and fill the remainder of jar with water.

Steps for Solar Dyeing Wool

Mix the dyes in quart jars. Place in a sunny location. You can aid the sun by lining a cardboard box with foil and placing the jars in the box in direct sun. If you have a solar oven, you can place the jars in this but keep a close eye on the temperature. Solar ovens can reach very high temperatures. Avoid extremely high temperatures since boiling the dye can lead to browner shades of dyes. I allowed the dyes to steep in the sun for three hours.

After the dyes have steeped, get ready to add the yarn skeins. If you have loose dye material floating in the jar, such as the turmeric powder, you can strain the dye through a coffee filter if you choose. This will help in the rinsing phase but is not necessary.

Re-wet the skeins of pre-mordanted yarn. Gently squeeze out the extra water. Carefully push the yarn into the dye jar. Using a wooden spoon can help as the yarn accepts the dye water. Recap the jar and place the jar back in the sun. I left my jars to sit for two hours. You can let them sit longer, even a few days. Remember, each dye will react differently and is affected by the amount of sun available, the time of year, and the heat in the air.

Rinsing the Dyed Yarns

I use a colander to hold the yarn as the dye is poured out. If you are interested in using the dye again for an exhaust bath of color, pull the yarn out and gently squeeze the excess dye back into the jar. Some dyes can have an excess color that could be used to obtain a lighter shade with another skein.

Place the jars in the sink to work. Rinse the yarn in cool water, until no more color is running from the wool. Gently squeeze out the excess water. Lay a dry towel out on a flat surface. Lay the dyed skeins on the towel to dry.

Safety Precautions When Solar Dyeing Wool

Take care to not splash the dye in your eyes. Even natural dyes for wool can be irritating. Eye protection is always a good idea when experimenting.

If you have sensitive lungs or asthma, wearing a safety mask might be a precaution to consider. Even though the substances used are plant-based, some can be irritating.

Remember that the sun can heat liquids to a very warm temperature. Use caution with small children handling the jars.

The fun part of solar dyeing wool is the varied colors and intensity you will see. Use your imagination and the steps provided to try some other natural dyes. What natural dyes do you use for solar dyeing wool? Let us know in the comments below.

Solar Dyeing Wool Using Natural Plants was originally posted by All About Chickens

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lalegumiste · 7 years

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Ch-ch-ch-changes!

The man may be gone but so glad the music is still with us! This is not about David Bowie, of course. It’s about change. And how well some of us may or may not accept it. Or how quickly or not we accept it. Or how intensely we begin to crave it after too many years of sameness or indecision. And how in the end we all adapt, one way or another. I just realized this is my hundredth post here, so the topic seems very apropos. It’s been waaay too long a time coming, and in the blogosphere, I believe I have achieved glacial pace. Although I’m pretty sure even glaciers these days are moving (errr, melting) faster than I do when updating this poor blog.

Change is the only sure thing, and for me, accepting that has always been problematic. I’m a little better about it these days, but it will probably continue to be a work in progress for as long as I’m around. Anyways, I had lots to say about it, and typed it all out here, but ultimately decided that part of the post would be better located after the jump. If you want to skip directly to the recipes(don’t blame you), they are after the jump as well, and clearly separated from this more meandering portion.

Moving on to some food related changes. I may have written about this before, but I can’t remember and do not want to go back through the posts and figure it out. I come from a place with lots of food traditions, most of them involving meat, which I no longer eat. One of the biggest feasts takes place at Easter, and other than the dyed eggs and dessert, pretty much every dish involves meat. As my ties to the proverbial old country are getting older (I mean that literally), I am becoming more intent in trying to preserve some of the old recipes, but changing them to vegetarian versions, so that I can, in the future, uphold at least some of the links to the place I came from.

And so this past Easter, I made two of the traditional dishes, and changed the recipes to be both meatless, in the case of one and to use available ingredients, in the case of the other.

The first dish is a savory one called drob. It’s hard to describe it exactly, the closest I can come is to say that it is somewhere between a quiche and a mince pie, with a lot of herbs. Traditionally, it uses no dough, relying instead on a large piece of lamb’s intestine to hold the whole thing together. The filling is made by finely chopping all of the lamb’s entrails and mixing them with a lot of chopped fresh parsley and dill. The top gets brushed with a beaten egg, and the whole thing is baked until the top begins to brown. I will say this for my people - they really subscribe to the waste not/ want not mentality. This is an example of that mentality applied to the Easter lamb - every bit of it gets eaten or used. Still, this didn’t help me any when I got a craving for this “pie,” since the only thing I’m interested in doing to a lamb anymore is petting it. The changed recipe contains absolutely no meat or entrails, relying instead only on mushrooms and eggs. And a very large amount of fresh herbs, because that’s where the flavor really comes from.

The second recipe is for a traditional Easter dessert called pasca, which is essentially a cheesecake, a well flavored but not terribly sweet one. The funny thing is, growing up I refused to touch it, preferring chocolate or sugar eggs for my festive sweets. Then when I went back to visit Romania as an adult, my godmother made something like pasca and after I tried it, I had to wonder why I’d refused it so strongly all those years ago. The traditional pasca is made with a fresh cow’s milk that I can’t purchase in the US. The dough, which is similar to the dough of the walnut cake we traditionally eat at both Easter and Christmas, is apparently very involved and temperamental, and so far I have been dissuaded from even attempting it. Even if, according to family lore, my paternal grandmother was a master at it. Of course, no one has her recipe. This very special dough is used both as a bottom and a top for the cheese filling of the pasca, but since I was not going to be using it, I decided to use only a bottom crust in my adaptation and opted for phyllo dough in order to keep it thin and end up with those crunchy brown edges. Obviously, I also changed the type of cheese.

Whether you read this far or skipped straight to the bottom, the recipes for both my vegetarian drob and cheesecake-like pasca are after the jump. I hope you enjoy them.

***

This is not about how I will change my ways, and be more diligent about posting here, and getting on a schedule, etc - because I already wrote about that, and obviously it did not work and now I feel a bit like an errant kid.

This is more about some changes I’ve encountered that may or may not be related to my lapse in posting. If nothing else, it might help me sort out some thoughts, and what else is a blog good for if not for brain dumping into the world?

First of all, I became very enthralled with Instagram. Obviously, my writing here is not of the highly edited and fact checked variety, but after getting used to how easy it is to just post a picture and add some hashtags, using an actual keyboard to write out thoughts, spending more than two minutes putting something together before posting, well, it started to feel more and more “involved.” Which I guess is not something I felt like being for a bit. So, one of the changes was that I started posting pictures on the gram box regularly, and stopped even attempting to write here.

Second, I think I hit some kind of writer’s block/ boredom/ disenchantment as far as writing about food was concerned. I just couldn’t think about anything food related that I wanted to write about. Yes, I know how pretentious and borderline stupid that sounds, but it’s the way I felt. I did not want to write about my take on the chia bowl, or my adventures with non wheat flour baking, although I engaged in both. I felt a little bit like no one around me was eating real food anymore, and while I continued to cook and eat (of course!), I didn’t have much to say about it. So I didn’t. And yes, I know this is in part to spending too much time on Instagram.

Third, I started to question the validity of my posting here. It used to be that this was just something I did for me, giving me an outlet for my thoughts and maybe a bit of practice at writing, because we all know practice makes perfect. Ha! But after a few months of instantaneous likes on my Instagram posts, I started to feel a little miffed at not getting the same response here. Good old tree falling in the forest dilemma. Not sure why I couldn’t get past it, since it didn’t bother me before, but, there you have it.

Of course, after the extensive, although believe me, not exhaustive, rant, I guess I could have kept it a lot shorter and to the point: I’ve been neglecting my blog because of Instagram! But it’s never been my way to be quick and to the point, so I see no point in editing down this rant.

***

Vegetarian Easter Pie (Drob)

1 lb mixed mushrooms (such as shiitake, cremini, oyster, button), finely chopped

1 bunch fresh dill, finely chopped

1 bunch parsley finely chopped

3 scallions, finely chopped

1 onion, finely chopped

2 hard boiled eggs, diced small

2 eggs well beaten

1 t fresh ground pepper

2 t salt, more to taste as needed

2 T olive oil

1 T butter

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F.

Chop all the mushrooms, including stems, and place together in a large bowl.

Chop the parsley and dill and place together in a bowl.

Heat the olive oil and butter in a large saute pan over medium heat. Add the chopped onion and scallions and cook until softened, about 2-3 minutes.

Add the mushrooms and salt, stir to combine, and cook until the mushrooms have released all their moisture and any liquid has evaporated, about 5 minutes.

Add the dill, parsley and chopped hard boiled egg and stir to combine.

Remove from heat.

Beat the two eggs and add to the mixture, stirring to incorporate. Add salt and pepper and stir to combine, adding more salt if desired.

Coat the bottom and sides of a 9 inch pie dish with butter.

Pour the mushroom mixture into the pie dish and bake for 35 minutes or until the top begins to brown and the edges of the pie begin to come away from the pie dish.

Let cool to room temperature. Slice and serve with a green leafy salad - my favorite is torn butter lettuce leaves, red onion, and a simple red wine vinaigrette.

Cheesecake-like Pasca

1 32 oz container ricotta

1 oz cream cheese

1.5 T sour cream (optional)

4 eggs

1 cup raisins

4 t sugar

3.5 t vanilla sugar

zest from one lemon

rum (optional) or water

5 sheets phyllo dough

2 T butter, melted

*Note: This is less sweet than a typical cheesecake, although the raisins provide added pops of sweetness. You may want to taste the mixture after adding them to decide if you want to add more sugar than the recipe calls for.

Bring the rum to a low simmer over medium low heat. Remove from heat and pour over raisins in a small bowl, enough to cover the raisins with liquid. Cover with a small plate and set aside to steep, at least an hour. Drain the raisins very well in a fine mesh strainer. Follow the same steps with water if using instead of rum.

Preheat oven to 380 degrees F.

In a large bowl, using a hand mixer on low speed, mix together the cheeses, sour cream (if using), sugars and lemon zest.

Beat the eggs in, one at a time, until well incorporated.

Stir in the well drained raisins. Set mixture aside.

Brush the bottom and sides of a low 10 inch pie dish with melted butter. Layer a sheet of phyllo dough in the dish, centering it as well as possible, and press lightly so the dough adheres to the dish. Brush with melted butter, turn the dish slightly clockwise, and repeat with the next sheet of phyllo, brushing with butter again. Repeat until all phyllo sheets are in the dish and brushed with butter. Trim any excessive overhang around the pie dish, but leave some in order to be able to fold it around the filling.

Gently pour the cheese mixture into the prepared pie dish. Going around the pie dish, fold any phyllo overhang, almost as if braiding it over the edge of the filling, to create a bit of a decorative element. Brush the top of this braid with some melted butter.

Bake for 40 to 55 minutes, until the edges of the dough are browned, and the filling has become solid and slightly puffed.

Remove from oven, allow to cool to room temperature, slice and serve. It may take a while for the pie to cool to room temperature.

#change #easter #traditions #romanian #main dish #dessert #mushrooms #cheescake #raisins #herbs #vegetarian

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