Brigit's Flame Week 3 - Storyteller
o/` "In the evening when the sun is down
In the last hour of day
I'll entertain the ones wishful to hear
These medieval tales
And then in their sleep, they'll remember days
When lived the kings
in their heroic times." o/`
-- "The Storyteller" performed by Fairyland
The trouble with being a talented teller of tales, Lauren reflected bitterly, is that too few people appreciate the difference between accentuating or adding a few details in order to enhance the best parts of a story and outright lying. She hadn't ever lied, had merely chosen her words carefully for best effect on her audience, but just now that tendency had come back to bite her.
The denizens of her dormitory were used to Lauren's strange modes of dress as she often went about in the robes of a Bedouin but the obvious finery of the wedding robes had attracted their attention. She hadn't simply swept into the common room; she pranced and capered while laughing in sheer feminine delight over the marvelous feeling of Egyptian cotton and Oriental silk. The small gold coins in the hem tinkled melodically with each movement and the gem outlined flowers caught the dusty afternoon sunlight.
“You're a distraction, waltzing around like that,” the dorm monitor complained. “Go change out of that barbaric costume and at least pretend to crack a textbook. You're on notice, you know,” she added reproachfully.
“I'll not,” Lauren replied gayly, swiping a cookie from the communal platter on the coffee table and flouncing across the room. She flopped with ill grace into a battered corduroy beanbag and began nibbling on the pilfered snack. “This,” she stated with a dramatic sweeping motion, “was sent to me by a king and I shall be spending next semester abroad, among oil barons, diplomats, and royalty!”
“You beastly little liar,” exclaimed one of the other girls, “making up tales to avoid studying. I happen to know, Lauren Shaw, that you cannot afford to fail your midterms. Your parents simply don't have the influence to keep you here.”
She meant, Lauren thought caustically, that her parents weren't sufficiently wealthy to bribe the deans and the academic board. It was a sore point with her that her family tree did not contain such notables as a Trump or a Rockefeller and that, while comfortably wealthy, her parents were not among the social elite. Lauren looked around for Elfie, who would confirm her story, and then realized that her roommate had an evening class and would therefore not be in the common room at this hour.
“I have not,” she responded frostily with as much dignity as she could manage, “lied. I am traveling to Saudi Arabia and spending the spring semester there at the invitation of King Abdullah.”
“God, you are so common,” the girl replied scathingly and, rolling her eyes, proceeded to ignore Lauren entirely.
Lauren's pale cheeks burned with humiliation and indignation. Deprived of a suitable retort, she simply sulked. “I'm not,” she muttered, “and I shall do grand things. Wait and see, why don't you. I shall prove you all wrong.”
The soft sound of whispering silks and gentle chiming of bangles interrupted their studies once more. The dorm monitor opened her mouth to order Lauren out of the room but the girl hadn't moved. In the doorway to the common room stood a compact woman wearing a black and red abaya. Only her eyes, warm and the color of good golden sherry in a smooth coffee-and-cream complexion with delicately arched black eyebrows, showed above the veil. Her voice, when she spoke, held the lilt of the lyrical Arabic language though the English was perfectly articulated. A thrill of recognition and something deeper, something intense and deliciously forbidden, shot through Lauren. “Lauren,” she said, “I see you have received our gift. How is it with thee?”
Lauren, in one graceful movement, unfolded herself from the bean bag and crossed the room to exchange affectionate greetings with the stranger. “Ali,” she said, her voice choked with emotion, “it is good to see you again.” The flamboyant mask slipped back into place as she faced the room. She could perhaps be forgiven a trace of arrogant smugness as she announced with a grand gesture, “My fellow dorm mates, I give you the princess Alison Hussein of Saudi Arabia, oldest daughter of King Abdullah.”
The girl who had initiated the insulting comments earlier simply stared. Alison ducked her head demurely in acknowledgment and inquired, “This is a women's dormitory, Lauren? There are to be no men present?”
“Damn straight,” one of the girls muttered in disgust.
“It is,” Lauren assured her friend with a glare at the offender which would have withered paint.
“Then it is permitted to remove the veil,” Alison decided.
“Let me do so,” Lauren responded with a curious sort of tenderness. Her hands lingered over the perfumed silk, tangled in the princess' curly jet black hair. They might have been alone in the room; the very air around the two of them seemed charged with an un-told tale. “Please, sit down. You must have had a long journey.” Lauren guided Alison toward a love seat and they sat, not quite touching, while Lauren poured tea and offered it to her guest.
“How is it with thee?” Alison asked again.
“Better, now that you have arrived,” Lauren responded, her voice husky. “And you, Ali? All in your household are well?”
She smiled, her perfect teeth white against the darkness of her skin. “The camels are fat and the pastures are green. What more can one ask in life?”
“Good to hear,” Lauren responded sincerely.
“Just how is it you know our Lauren?” asked the dorm monitor. The question didn't quite qualify as accusatory but it held an element of incredulity. Obviously she suspected Lauren of some elaborate ruse.
“That,” Alison said, sipping her tea, “is quite a story. I will tell it if you permit?”
“The Bedouin tell stories even better than I, who learned from them,” Lauren informed the girls with an attitude implying it would be a grave insult to refuse.
“We need a study break,” the dorm monitor decided and poured more tea. “Tell us how you came to meet Lauren and invite her to your home for the semester.”
Alison grinned. “It happened about a year ago....”
In the last hour of day
I'll entertain the ones wishful to hear
These medieval tales
And then in their sleep, they'll remember days
When lived the kings
in their heroic times." o/`
-- "The Storyteller" performed by Fairyland
The trouble with being a talented teller of tales, Lauren reflected bitterly, is that too few people appreciate the difference between accentuating or adding a few details in order to enhance the best parts of a story and outright lying. She hadn't ever lied, had merely chosen her words carefully for best effect on her audience, but just now that tendency had come back to bite her.
The denizens of her dormitory were used to Lauren's strange modes of dress as she often went about in the robes of a Bedouin but the obvious finery of the wedding robes had attracted their attention. She hadn't simply swept into the common room; she pranced and capered while laughing in sheer feminine delight over the marvelous feeling of Egyptian cotton and Oriental silk. The small gold coins in the hem tinkled melodically with each movement and the gem outlined flowers caught the dusty afternoon sunlight.
“You're a distraction, waltzing around like that,” the dorm monitor complained. “Go change out of that barbaric costume and at least pretend to crack a textbook. You're on notice, you know,” she added reproachfully.
“I'll not,” Lauren replied gayly, swiping a cookie from the communal platter on the coffee table and flouncing across the room. She flopped with ill grace into a battered corduroy beanbag and began nibbling on the pilfered snack. “This,” she stated with a dramatic sweeping motion, “was sent to me by a king and I shall be spending next semester abroad, among oil barons, diplomats, and royalty!”
“You beastly little liar,” exclaimed one of the other girls, “making up tales to avoid studying. I happen to know, Lauren Shaw, that you cannot afford to fail your midterms. Your parents simply don't have the influence to keep you here.”
She meant, Lauren thought caustically, that her parents weren't sufficiently wealthy to bribe the deans and the academic board. It was a sore point with her that her family tree did not contain such notables as a Trump or a Rockefeller and that, while comfortably wealthy, her parents were not among the social elite. Lauren looked around for Elfie, who would confirm her story, and then realized that her roommate had an evening class and would therefore not be in the common room at this hour.
“I have not,” she responded frostily with as much dignity as she could manage, “lied. I am traveling to Saudi Arabia and spending the spring semester there at the invitation of King Abdullah.”
“God, you are so common,” the girl replied scathingly and, rolling her eyes, proceeded to ignore Lauren entirely.
Lauren's pale cheeks burned with humiliation and indignation. Deprived of a suitable retort, she simply sulked. “I'm not,” she muttered, “and I shall do grand things. Wait and see, why don't you. I shall prove you all wrong.”
The soft sound of whispering silks and gentle chiming of bangles interrupted their studies once more. The dorm monitor opened her mouth to order Lauren out of the room but the girl hadn't moved. In the doorway to the common room stood a compact woman wearing a black and red abaya. Only her eyes, warm and the color of good golden sherry in a smooth coffee-and-cream complexion with delicately arched black eyebrows, showed above the veil. Her voice, when she spoke, held the lilt of the lyrical Arabic language though the English was perfectly articulated. A thrill of recognition and something deeper, something intense and deliciously forbidden, shot through Lauren. “Lauren,” she said, “I see you have received our gift. How is it with thee?”
Lauren, in one graceful movement, unfolded herself from the bean bag and crossed the room to exchange affectionate greetings with the stranger. “Ali,” she said, her voice choked with emotion, “it is good to see you again.” The flamboyant mask slipped back into place as she faced the room. She could perhaps be forgiven a trace of arrogant smugness as she announced with a grand gesture, “My fellow dorm mates, I give you the princess Alison Hussein of Saudi Arabia, oldest daughter of King Abdullah.”
The girl who had initiated the insulting comments earlier simply stared. Alison ducked her head demurely in acknowledgment and inquired, “This is a women's dormitory, Lauren? There are to be no men present?”
“Damn straight,” one of the girls muttered in disgust.
“It is,” Lauren assured her friend with a glare at the offender which would have withered paint.
“Then it is permitted to remove the veil,” Alison decided.
“Let me do so,” Lauren responded with a curious sort of tenderness. Her hands lingered over the perfumed silk, tangled in the princess' curly jet black hair. They might have been alone in the room; the very air around the two of them seemed charged with an un-told tale. “Please, sit down. You must have had a long journey.” Lauren guided Alison toward a love seat and they sat, not quite touching, while Lauren poured tea and offered it to her guest.
“How is it with thee?” Alison asked again.
“Better, now that you have arrived,” Lauren responded, her voice husky. “And you, Ali? All in your household are well?”
She smiled, her perfect teeth white against the darkness of her skin. “The camels are fat and the pastures are green. What more can one ask in life?”
“Good to hear,” Lauren responded sincerely.
“Just how is it you know our Lauren?” asked the dorm monitor. The question didn't quite qualify as accusatory but it held an element of incredulity. Obviously she suspected Lauren of some elaborate ruse.
“That,” Alison said, sipping her tea, “is quite a story. I will tell it if you permit?”
“The Bedouin tell stories even better than I, who learned from them,” Lauren informed the girls with an attitude implying it would be a grave insult to refuse.
“We need a study break,” the dorm monitor decided and poured more tea. “Tell us how you came to meet Lauren and invite her to your home for the semester.”
Alison grinned. “It happened about a year ago....”