One hour fic
Screw you, empty screen of Writer!
The hundred day exam was a hard one, but nobody really cared.
All the apprentices in their final year lived in the exam hall, where they weren't expected to labour outside nor earn their bread- there were even younger apprentices to do their laundry and chores. The younger children used service tunnels so that weren't seen- contact with the outside world was strictly forbidden during the hundred days.
A drum sounded out the ten minute warning, and the apprentices all shuffled to the door of the question room. Sometimes they'd get a practical puzzle, sometimes a written question to answer. In either case, it never took more than twenty minutes, and since the questions were randomly assigned everyone had a different question at their desks, and sometimes you get the same question more than once.
Contrary Wicker lay through another scrapbook listlessly aside, the lightly-stained pages of the book stuffed with brittle leaf pressings. Everyone said that Wicker children worked harder- other children could go back to family or villages if they failed the exam, but Wicker children were named after the wicker baskets they'd been found in by the Mothering Gate. Still, Contrary felt ready to live up to her nickname- by now, she reckoned she either knew all the relevant bits, or she didn't, and it was time to stop studying and second-guessing herself.
She didn't allow herself to think about what happened after the exam. Apprentices went down different career paths- aromatherapists and herbalists were popular, especially if they ended up the personal apothecary to some aristo or other. Narcoteer was an offshoot branch, of varying legality but unquestionable profit.
Contrary scowled. There was nothing like deciding not to think about a topic to make her think about it. Paranoia- what was his last name? Something-river? Paranoia Somethingriver had decided to get his heart set on becoming a narcoteer, and the last any of his fellow apprentices saw of him, compassionate hands were prising the grafting knife from his grasp and carrying him off to a distant, sunny room somewhere.
This was day seventy eight, and none of her fellow apprentices displayed the same tension while waiting as they had on the first day. Timidity Farreach had sobbed once, shockingly loudly as the second drum-
And there it was. The second drum that opened the door and sent apprentices scurrying to their desks in silence always seemed louder to Contrary, though she wasn't sure if it was a louder drum, a nearer drum, or simply her own imagination.
Her desk had a little sanded patch on the corner, presumably from where some helpful apprentice had scratched in some formula or mnemonic that might appear on an exam sheet. Other graffiti was permitted to stay- some ancient hand had deeply scored the words I DON'T KNOW, ALL RIGHT? Across the cheap oak.
Today's question was a simple one- draw an accurate representation of the lowland marsh fern. There was plenty of space, and Contrary had a nice sharp point on her stub of graphite, so she drew tiny fronds quite happily with the tip of her tongue sticking out of her mouth. Other apprentices could mock her all for that habit all they liked- Contrary had carefully cultivated the persona of never caring what anyone else thought of her, and she saw no reason to break the mask at this late stage.
Behind her, there was the faint sounds of sniffing. Either someone had a cold- and since she suspected the sound came from Hearty's desk, it was unlikely he'd developed a cold in the last seven minutes- or else someone had been given a series of ground herbs and spices to identify from smell. Contrary had been given that box three weeks ago, and had nearly despaired when she couldn't recognise one particular scent. It wasn't until less than a minute before third drum that she'd understood the problem- the last jar was a mineral-based spice, perhaps some sort of chemical salt, rather than a plant-based herb.
Perhaps, she thought as she sketched in the suggestion of veins, there was an academy somewhere that taught endless squirming apprentices the secret properties of minerals and geodes, in the same way that she and everyone else who lived and grew in the Ivy Walls was drilled in the ways both secret and common of plant life. If there was a- oh, call it Dressed Stone Walls- then Contrary hoped that some poor apprentice like her hadn't been thrown by an unexpected jar of mint.
Root System! Contrary nearly gasped it aloud. She'd spent all but nine minutes happily sketching away at the leaves and stalks- she even added a close up of the unfurling fronds that signalled new growth. But the root system had to be worth at least half the marks.
Her graphite ghosted over the paper uncertainly. One marshland fern had a vestigial tap root, whereas the other was a tight fibrous ball of root. Which one was which? She carefully circled the word “lowland” on her question paper in case that pricked at her memory.
No, thought Contrary, this was the point where she'd have to guess one or the other, and trust in her studies. She lightly swept a circle onto the paper, and started filling it in with roots-
Sooner than anyone anticipated, the third drum sounded. It was echoed immediately by the sound of everyone throwing down pens, graphite, paper, and random puzzle objects.
There was, as ever, a general scrum to get out of the door and away from the possibly unsuccessful exam as quickly as possible.
“That was all right,” mumbled Hearty in the corridor as they passed. As always, there was no sign of any eye contact.
And as always, Contrary made sure her suddenly-downward gaze was covered by a wall of hair. “If you like.”
“Talk tomorrow,” Hearty apparently informed a passing wall panel.
“Could do,” replied Contrary, her face inexplicably the colour of a deciduous leaf in mid-autumn.
Well, all right, decided Contrary. Perhaps there was one person's opinion she courted. And it wasn't whoever marked the exam papers.
The hundred day exam was a hard one, but nobody really cared.
All the apprentices in their final year lived in the exam hall, where they weren't expected to labour outside nor earn their bread- there were even younger apprentices to do their laundry and chores. The younger children used service tunnels so that weren't seen- contact with the outside world was strictly forbidden during the hundred days.
A drum sounded out the ten minute warning, and the apprentices all shuffled to the door of the question room. Sometimes they'd get a practical puzzle, sometimes a written question to answer. In either case, it never took more than twenty minutes, and since the questions were randomly assigned everyone had a different question at their desks, and sometimes you get the same question more than once.
Contrary Wicker lay through another scrapbook listlessly aside, the lightly-stained pages of the book stuffed with brittle leaf pressings. Everyone said that Wicker children worked harder- other children could go back to family or villages if they failed the exam, but Wicker children were named after the wicker baskets they'd been found in by the Mothering Gate. Still, Contrary felt ready to live up to her nickname- by now, she reckoned she either knew all the relevant bits, or she didn't, and it was time to stop studying and second-guessing herself.
She didn't allow herself to think about what happened after the exam. Apprentices went down different career paths- aromatherapists and herbalists were popular, especially if they ended up the personal apothecary to some aristo or other. Narcoteer was an offshoot branch, of varying legality but unquestionable profit.
Contrary scowled. There was nothing like deciding not to think about a topic to make her think about it. Paranoia- what was his last name? Something-river? Paranoia Somethingriver had decided to get his heart set on becoming a narcoteer, and the last any of his fellow apprentices saw of him, compassionate hands were prising the grafting knife from his grasp and carrying him off to a distant, sunny room somewhere.
This was day seventy eight, and none of her fellow apprentices displayed the same tension while waiting as they had on the first day. Timidity Farreach had sobbed once, shockingly loudly as the second drum-
And there it was. The second drum that opened the door and sent apprentices scurrying to their desks in silence always seemed louder to Contrary, though she wasn't sure if it was a louder drum, a nearer drum, or simply her own imagination.
Her desk had a little sanded patch on the corner, presumably from where some helpful apprentice had scratched in some formula or mnemonic that might appear on an exam sheet. Other graffiti was permitted to stay- some ancient hand had deeply scored the words I DON'T KNOW, ALL RIGHT? Across the cheap oak.
Today's question was a simple one- draw an accurate representation of the lowland marsh fern. There was plenty of space, and Contrary had a nice sharp point on her stub of graphite, so she drew tiny fronds quite happily with the tip of her tongue sticking out of her mouth. Other apprentices could mock her all for that habit all they liked- Contrary had carefully cultivated the persona of never caring what anyone else thought of her, and she saw no reason to break the mask at this late stage.
Behind her, there was the faint sounds of sniffing. Either someone had a cold- and since she suspected the sound came from Hearty's desk, it was unlikely he'd developed a cold in the last seven minutes- or else someone had been given a series of ground herbs and spices to identify from smell. Contrary had been given that box three weeks ago, and had nearly despaired when she couldn't recognise one particular scent. It wasn't until less than a minute before third drum that she'd understood the problem- the last jar was a mineral-based spice, perhaps some sort of chemical salt, rather than a plant-based herb.
Perhaps, she thought as she sketched in the suggestion of veins, there was an academy somewhere that taught endless squirming apprentices the secret properties of minerals and geodes, in the same way that she and everyone else who lived and grew in the Ivy Walls was drilled in the ways both secret and common of plant life. If there was a- oh, call it Dressed Stone Walls- then Contrary hoped that some poor apprentice like her hadn't been thrown by an unexpected jar of mint.
Root System! Contrary nearly gasped it aloud. She'd spent all but nine minutes happily sketching away at the leaves and stalks- she even added a close up of the unfurling fronds that signalled new growth. But the root system had to be worth at least half the marks.
Her graphite ghosted over the paper uncertainly. One marshland fern had a vestigial tap root, whereas the other was a tight fibrous ball of root. Which one was which? She carefully circled the word “lowland” on her question paper in case that pricked at her memory.
No, thought Contrary, this was the point where she'd have to guess one or the other, and trust in her studies. She lightly swept a circle onto the paper, and started filling it in with roots-
Sooner than anyone anticipated, the third drum sounded. It was echoed immediately by the sound of everyone throwing down pens, graphite, paper, and random puzzle objects.
There was, as ever, a general scrum to get out of the door and away from the possibly unsuccessful exam as quickly as possible.
“That was all right,” mumbled Hearty in the corridor as they passed. As always, there was no sign of any eye contact.
And as always, Contrary made sure her suddenly-downward gaze was covered by a wall of hair. “If you like.”
“Talk tomorrow,” Hearty apparently informed a passing wall panel.
“Could do,” replied Contrary, her face inexplicably the colour of a deciduous leaf in mid-autumn.
Well, all right, decided Contrary. Perhaps there was one person's opinion she courted. And it wasn't whoever marked the exam papers.