[Current Events] August 30, 2008
When we arrive, I am immediately met by people whose faces I recognize, whose scents are familiar. A very large man introduces himself and I promptly forget his name. He tells me that someone I know is looking for me. The doctor. Oh, right. Boy.
We wander until we find him, and my barnacled boy. The one with the fluffy white hair, who has been living with me, but whose name I can’t keep in my head. They tell me a disjointed story of the Old Man’s death. All that’s left- some coins, a robe, a necklace. We pass the coins around, try to identify the necklace. Goblin-made, someone says. I nod, try to remember the old man. Someone thinks to look for a journal, and it is given to me. Perhaps they know that I keep journals, too.
My warm boy stays by my side. He is scared and I don’t blame him. He looks to me with shadowed, haunted eyes, shudders. I smile, put a hand on his shoulder, squeeze his fingertips in mine. He steadies a little.
Someone else reports that hobgoblins are outside across the street, guarding a porta-potty. The image is so ridiculous that I laugh; I can’t help it. No one else seems to understand the joke, so I try to curtail my laughter. I ask if anyone has tried talking to the hobgoblins, which no one, evidently, has. I make a decision, then, and my boys follow me.
By the time we reach the porta-potty, half the court has followed me. The hobgoblins will only let four people in - the number of coins the Old Man left. I tell the Doctor-Boy to go, send my wizened old man in with him, the fairest who thinks so damned much of himself. They will do well, I think. We were told by the Old Man not to let his death ruin the party. Someone finds music and we laugh and sing and dance a bit. My boys return soon with a bag full of tiles, that look a bit like the ones for that game. My warm boy and the barnacled boy rearrange the tiles, trying to make sense of them. The Brother, the thing that killed our Old Man, is afraid of what is in there. Letters swirl around us as we try different combinations. We settle on Katrina, a name.
People come and go. I talk to some, remember so little. Screams and gunshots and fear… oh, we are afraid.
And finally, in the end, we are called by something. A man lays on the ground, begging for his death. We debate it, we talk about it. He begs and he pleads and tries to kill himself if we do not do it. We stop him, I fall on his arms and hold him down. Tears stream down his face. I do the only thing I can, I comfort him. I hum a melody that I recall from years ago, from a lifetime ago, from a time before Arcadia. I can’t remember the words, so I follow the tune, and watch as he relaxes. The crowns leave to make a decision as to what to do with him. When my doctor-boy returns, it is with a death sentence.
It goes so fast. The poor man on the ground, whose faith has been with the Fae, tries to escape, to kill himself, and oh, his gun jams. My doctor-boy steps in and kills him in one swift motion as shadows rise around us and another changeling dispels it with sunlight. I want to bathe in the light, in the warmth, but then it is gone. Men shout and argue until I can’t stand it any more. My doctor-boy is yelling at the pretty one, the pretty one shouts at the doctor-boy. Someone has kicked the corpse over. It goes so fast.
Someone takes the corpse away after I order it. I tell the doctor-boy and the pretty one to stop their arguments. This is not the time for it. I don’t know when would be, but this is most certainly not the time for it. My warm one helps me to stand - I’ve been sitting on the cold ground for too long and the cold has seeped into my bones. I ask my barnacled boy if anyone has sought out a will. He goes to find it.
And so I am left with the doctor-boy, my poor, sweet boy who doesn’t know why what he did is wrong. He knows so much and is yet so stupid. I’d weep for him if I could - but right now isn’t a time for comfort. My doctor-boy is the Spring Crown. He ought to know better, he ought to, but he doesn’t. For a moment, I wonder if this is my fault.
My barnacled boy brings me the note and I read it while I talk to him. The Old Man left his estate to the Spring Crown, the poor stupid boy in front of me. He shakes his head, sorrowful, confused. I understand a little, I do, probably more than he does. I say my peace and leave, pressing the note into his hand. I feel his eyes on my back as I go, arms linked with each of my boys, my barnacled boy on my left, my warm boy on my right.
We wander until we find him, and my barnacled boy. The one with the fluffy white hair, who has been living with me, but whose name I can’t keep in my head. They tell me a disjointed story of the Old Man’s death. All that’s left- some coins, a robe, a necklace. We pass the coins around, try to identify the necklace. Goblin-made, someone says. I nod, try to remember the old man. Someone thinks to look for a journal, and it is given to me. Perhaps they know that I keep journals, too.
My warm boy stays by my side. He is scared and I don’t blame him. He looks to me with shadowed, haunted eyes, shudders. I smile, put a hand on his shoulder, squeeze his fingertips in mine. He steadies a little.
Someone else reports that hobgoblins are outside across the street, guarding a porta-potty. The image is so ridiculous that I laugh; I can’t help it. No one else seems to understand the joke, so I try to curtail my laughter. I ask if anyone has tried talking to the hobgoblins, which no one, evidently, has. I make a decision, then, and my boys follow me.
By the time we reach the porta-potty, half the court has followed me. The hobgoblins will only let four people in - the number of coins the Old Man left. I tell the Doctor-Boy to go, send my wizened old man in with him, the fairest who thinks so damned much of himself. They will do well, I think. We were told by the Old Man not to let his death ruin the party. Someone finds music and we laugh and sing and dance a bit. My boys return soon with a bag full of tiles, that look a bit like the ones for that game. My warm boy and the barnacled boy rearrange the tiles, trying to make sense of them. The Brother, the thing that killed our Old Man, is afraid of what is in there. Letters swirl around us as we try different combinations. We settle on Katrina, a name.
People come and go. I talk to some, remember so little. Screams and gunshots and fear… oh, we are afraid.
And finally, in the end, we are called by something. A man lays on the ground, begging for his death. We debate it, we talk about it. He begs and he pleads and tries to kill himself if we do not do it. We stop him, I fall on his arms and hold him down. Tears stream down his face. I do the only thing I can, I comfort him. I hum a melody that I recall from years ago, from a lifetime ago, from a time before Arcadia. I can’t remember the words, so I follow the tune, and watch as he relaxes. The crowns leave to make a decision as to what to do with him. When my doctor-boy returns, it is with a death sentence.
It goes so fast. The poor man on the ground, whose faith has been with the Fae, tries to escape, to kill himself, and oh, his gun jams. My doctor-boy steps in and kills him in one swift motion as shadows rise around us and another changeling dispels it with sunlight. I want to bathe in the light, in the warmth, but then it is gone. Men shout and argue until I can’t stand it any more. My doctor-boy is yelling at the pretty one, the pretty one shouts at the doctor-boy. Someone has kicked the corpse over. It goes so fast.
Someone takes the corpse away after I order it. I tell the doctor-boy and the pretty one to stop their arguments. This is not the time for it. I don’t know when would be, but this is most certainly not the time for it. My warm one helps me to stand - I’ve been sitting on the cold ground for too long and the cold has seeped into my bones. I ask my barnacled boy if anyone has sought out a will. He goes to find it.
And so I am left with the doctor-boy, my poor, sweet boy who doesn’t know why what he did is wrong. He knows so much and is yet so stupid. I’d weep for him if I could - but right now isn’t a time for comfort. My doctor-boy is the Spring Crown. He ought to know better, he ought to, but he doesn’t. For a moment, I wonder if this is my fault.
My barnacled boy brings me the note and I read it while I talk to him. The Old Man left his estate to the Spring Crown, the poor stupid boy in front of me. He shakes his head, sorrowful, confused. I understand a little, I do, probably more than he does. I say my peace and leave, pressing the note into his hand. I feel his eyes on my back as I go, arms linked with each of my boys, my barnacled boy on my left, my warm boy on my right.