cookies 'n' cream and rocky road with whipped cream
Story: Timeless { backstory | index }
Title: Many Rivers To Cross
Rating: PG
Challenge: Rocky Road #27: bridge, Cookies ‘n’ Cream #15: throw
Toppings/Extras: whipped cream
Wordcount: 1,325
Summary: The first time Isaac Prowse killed a man.
Notes: I’d say Isaac is fifteen or sixteen here. Now, let’s all wave our arms around and sing to UB40.
The River Brue ran swift and silent besides the two adolescents as they strode alongside it on a grassy verge. The wind corrugated its gleaming blue-green surface, sending thick ripples rolling across the satiny ribbon of its course. Further onwards, the roaming river coalesced smoothly with another, cutting deep valleys into the cow-dotted fields that stretched as far as the eye could see.
Isaac Prowse breathed out slowly, gazing around at the endless springy fields that stretched out around them. The wind was high and a heron took to the air from the riverside, elegant neck curved in a flexing S-shape as its large wings scooped the biting country air. Isaac wasn’t used to the countryside and, as such, found the open spaces a little unnerving after a life spent in London. Nevertheless, he had to admit that it was beautiful.
The boy he was walking alongside had the all of the ability to appreciate aesthetics of a brick, and wouldn’t appreciate having it pointed out to him. Charlie Buckett was scowling down at his muddy boots as he tromped over the cart-worn track, only looking up when he noticed that they had stumbled onto a crumbling stone bridge. He glanced idly down at the water and continued with his journey. They hadn’t even left the bridge when he suddenly felt a tug at his elbow.
“Charlie,” Isaac said, voice muffled from the wind. “Charlie.”
Sighing, Charlie turned around to see what Isaac was staring at. Downstream, just on the verge of another twist in the river that rendered them very nearly hidden behind the reeds, were two figures; a man and a woman. They were both in the river, and appeared to be caught in an odd kind of embrace. Charlie realised quickly that the man was forcing her down, down beneath the silt-clouds of their struggle, and her small hands were weakening.
He was drowning her.
Charlie frowned in disgust and then turned away.
“Leave it, Zac,” he muttered. “It’s none of ours.”
Despite the goings-on just a few dozen feet away, it was eerily silent. The occasional slap of water was all that cut through the darting air. Then Charlie heard quickly departing footsteps behind him.
“Oh, fer God’s sake!”
They needed to stay out of trouble, and God only knew what Isaac would do. Charlie turned in time to see Isaac vaulting the wonky wooden fence that separated the rutted path from the river and plunge down the embankment. Charlie’s pursuit of his friend was more of a jog than anything else, with a pronounced limp to go along with it; since having a lot of his left foot amputated, he knew he’d never be as fast as he had been, or as fast as Isaac was now.
He had a perfect view as Isaac drew his only throwing knife, bounding towards his perceived enemy. Charlie raised his eyebrows. Isaac was damn good with a knife, he’d give the lad that, but he wasn’t sure how the boy would fare against the hulk of a fellow doing whatever it was he was doing down in the river.
The sun was already low in the sky and it cast a haze of amber over the scene. Charlie watched in some surprise as Isaac whipped his arm back with much more violence than he usually did; his gait was a half-leaping run, eyes narrowed against the sunblaze, and in profile he seemed almost like a portrait of one of the ancient Grecian heroes, javelin raised by one shoulder. As his boot touched the ground in front of him his arm came down in a blurring swoop, taking advantage of every bit of momentum he had, his knife a lethal eclipse that spun once, twice-
With a shower of blood, the man in the river collapsed. The knife was embedded in his skull.
“Shite,” Charlie managed to mutter as Isaac slid down the slope towards the girl, dark hair coiled amongst the rank reeds, skin translucent and nebulous beneath the water. Charlie leapt the fence as Isaac had and followed the river to the point where Isaac stood, thigh-deep, dragging the girl from the water, which sucked at her as if desperate to stake a claim to her.
“We’ve got ter get somewhere warm,” Isaac said. The fragile birdneck of the girl was juddering against his arm, her lips edged with blue. He was determinedly ignoring the man’s corpse slowly being dragged into the current, sliding through blood and mud alike.
“Yer just killed a bloke,” Charlie said. “Yer stabbed him in the head.”
“Shut it, Charlie,” Isaac replied, not meeting his gaze, “an’ help me up.”
Hands on his hips, Charlie gazed over the scene, eyes moving up and downstream. The air was still and tasted of spring showers. The sun spilt around thin, light clouds that reflected beamingly into his eyes. It was a picture of idyll-aside from the dead man, the drowning girl and his helpless friend below him.
The banks were steep. Charlie edged his way close and reached down for his friend.
“C’mon,” he muttered gruffly.
-----
They never found out the girl’s name and she died about an hour after they managed to get her to an inn. She was cold and convulsing and somehow her skin had a horribly unnatural shine to it the whole time, like a layer of river-slime that wouldn’t leave. She gained consciousness briefly, looked at them for a while and then slipped away.
“We’ll get askin’ around right away,” the scrawny woman behind the bar assured them as they made their way to the door.
“Do that,” Charlie said, thrusting his arms through the sleeves of his coat angrily.
“Make sure you find out who she was,” Isaac said with the lingering fortitude in his voice of one expecting an unbroken promise, and then he followed his friend out of the inn. The sun had set all too suddenly and their journey was incomplete. It didn’t matter: they could walk through the night.
Toeing at the mud-slicked track that made up the central road of the village, Charlie began to walk. He had morphed his limp into a swagger some years ago, but it was still discernable as uneven.
“Yer lost yer knife,” he said after a few minutes of silent walking. “It’s still in that feller’s ‘ead.”
“I know,” Isaac replied, voice low. “I’ll get some more.”
“Never seen you kill someone before,” Charlie commented with a strange, forced cheeriness he always found somewhere in his blackened soul during such situations.
“That’s ‘cause I never have,” Isaac sighed.
Spinning around, Charlie continued to walk backwards, scrutinising Isaac closely. Eventually he nodded as though something had been confirmed in his mind.
“Yer fine with it,” he said. “Yer didn’t even know who he was and yer fine with killin’ him!”
Charlie seemed almost proud of him. Sometimes, Isaac wondered how in the world he had managed to sustain a thriving conscience with a morally backwards friend like Charlie hanging around him all of the time.
“The girl,” he said eventually, thinking out each word. “I bet she was clever. She looked clever. She prob’ly read a lot of books. Knew things. A lot of words, I expect.”
For a few moments, the same images thundered in the air between them: the glistening, dew-dropped skin and the jetty eyelashes; the slumber of her downturned lips and tangled, streaming mass of her waterlogged hair. It made Charlie feel intensely uneasy that they had never discovered who she was and why she was submerged under the lapping surface of the River Brue. He didn’t like feeling uneasy. It didn’t happen much.
“Forget her,” he said shortly. “We need ter go.”
In response his friend merely hunched his shoulders further beneath the thin, tatty coat he wore and continued to trudge behind him in silence. The village fogged into the darkness behind them before long.
Title: Many Rivers To Cross
Rating: PG
Challenge: Rocky Road #27: bridge, Cookies ‘n’ Cream #15: throw
Toppings/Extras: whipped cream
Wordcount: 1,325
Summary: The first time Isaac Prowse killed a man.
Notes: I’d say Isaac is fifteen or sixteen here. Now, let’s all wave our arms around and sing to UB40.
The River Brue ran swift and silent besides the two adolescents as they strode alongside it on a grassy verge. The wind corrugated its gleaming blue-green surface, sending thick ripples rolling across the satiny ribbon of its course. Further onwards, the roaming river coalesced smoothly with another, cutting deep valleys into the cow-dotted fields that stretched as far as the eye could see.
Isaac Prowse breathed out slowly, gazing around at the endless springy fields that stretched out around them. The wind was high and a heron took to the air from the riverside, elegant neck curved in a flexing S-shape as its large wings scooped the biting country air. Isaac wasn’t used to the countryside and, as such, found the open spaces a little unnerving after a life spent in London. Nevertheless, he had to admit that it was beautiful.
The boy he was walking alongside had the all of the ability to appreciate aesthetics of a brick, and wouldn’t appreciate having it pointed out to him. Charlie Buckett was scowling down at his muddy boots as he tromped over the cart-worn track, only looking up when he noticed that they had stumbled onto a crumbling stone bridge. He glanced idly down at the water and continued with his journey. They hadn’t even left the bridge when he suddenly felt a tug at his elbow.
“Charlie,” Isaac said, voice muffled from the wind. “Charlie.”
Sighing, Charlie turned around to see what Isaac was staring at. Downstream, just on the verge of another twist in the river that rendered them very nearly hidden behind the reeds, were two figures; a man and a woman. They were both in the river, and appeared to be caught in an odd kind of embrace. Charlie realised quickly that the man was forcing her down, down beneath the silt-clouds of their struggle, and her small hands were weakening.
He was drowning her.
Charlie frowned in disgust and then turned away.
“Leave it, Zac,” he muttered. “It’s none of ours.”
Despite the goings-on just a few dozen feet away, it was eerily silent. The occasional slap of water was all that cut through the darting air. Then Charlie heard quickly departing footsteps behind him.
“Oh, fer God’s sake!”
They needed to stay out of trouble, and God only knew what Isaac would do. Charlie turned in time to see Isaac vaulting the wonky wooden fence that separated the rutted path from the river and plunge down the embankment. Charlie’s pursuit of his friend was more of a jog than anything else, with a pronounced limp to go along with it; since having a lot of his left foot amputated, he knew he’d never be as fast as he had been, or as fast as Isaac was now.
He had a perfect view as Isaac drew his only throwing knife, bounding towards his perceived enemy. Charlie raised his eyebrows. Isaac was damn good with a knife, he’d give the lad that, but he wasn’t sure how the boy would fare against the hulk of a fellow doing whatever it was he was doing down in the river.
The sun was already low in the sky and it cast a haze of amber over the scene. Charlie watched in some surprise as Isaac whipped his arm back with much more violence than he usually did; his gait was a half-leaping run, eyes narrowed against the sunblaze, and in profile he seemed almost like a portrait of one of the ancient Grecian heroes, javelin raised by one shoulder. As his boot touched the ground in front of him his arm came down in a blurring swoop, taking advantage of every bit of momentum he had, his knife a lethal eclipse that spun once, twice-
With a shower of blood, the man in the river collapsed. The knife was embedded in his skull.
“Shite,” Charlie managed to mutter as Isaac slid down the slope towards the girl, dark hair coiled amongst the rank reeds, skin translucent and nebulous beneath the water. Charlie leapt the fence as Isaac had and followed the river to the point where Isaac stood, thigh-deep, dragging the girl from the water, which sucked at her as if desperate to stake a claim to her.
“We’ve got ter get somewhere warm,” Isaac said. The fragile birdneck of the girl was juddering against his arm, her lips edged with blue. He was determinedly ignoring the man’s corpse slowly being dragged into the current, sliding through blood and mud alike.
“Yer just killed a bloke,” Charlie said. “Yer stabbed him in the head.”
“Shut it, Charlie,” Isaac replied, not meeting his gaze, “an’ help me up.”
Hands on his hips, Charlie gazed over the scene, eyes moving up and downstream. The air was still and tasted of spring showers. The sun spilt around thin, light clouds that reflected beamingly into his eyes. It was a picture of idyll-aside from the dead man, the drowning girl and his helpless friend below him.
The banks were steep. Charlie edged his way close and reached down for his friend.
“C’mon,” he muttered gruffly.
-----
They never found out the girl’s name and she died about an hour after they managed to get her to an inn. She was cold and convulsing and somehow her skin had a horribly unnatural shine to it the whole time, like a layer of river-slime that wouldn’t leave. She gained consciousness briefly, looked at them for a while and then slipped away.
“We’ll get askin’ around right away,” the scrawny woman behind the bar assured them as they made their way to the door.
“Do that,” Charlie said, thrusting his arms through the sleeves of his coat angrily.
“Make sure you find out who she was,” Isaac said with the lingering fortitude in his voice of one expecting an unbroken promise, and then he followed his friend out of the inn. The sun had set all too suddenly and their journey was incomplete. It didn’t matter: they could walk through the night.
Toeing at the mud-slicked track that made up the central road of the village, Charlie began to walk. He had morphed his limp into a swagger some years ago, but it was still discernable as uneven.
“Yer lost yer knife,” he said after a few minutes of silent walking. “It’s still in that feller’s ‘ead.”
“I know,” Isaac replied, voice low. “I’ll get some more.”
“Never seen you kill someone before,” Charlie commented with a strange, forced cheeriness he always found somewhere in his blackened soul during such situations.
“That’s ‘cause I never have,” Isaac sighed.
Spinning around, Charlie continued to walk backwards, scrutinising Isaac closely. Eventually he nodded as though something had been confirmed in his mind.
“Yer fine with it,” he said. “Yer didn’t even know who he was and yer fine with killin’ him!”
Charlie seemed almost proud of him. Sometimes, Isaac wondered how in the world he had managed to sustain a thriving conscience with a morally backwards friend like Charlie hanging around him all of the time.
“The girl,” he said eventually, thinking out each word. “I bet she was clever. She looked clever. She prob’ly read a lot of books. Knew things. A lot of words, I expect.”
For a few moments, the same images thundered in the air between them: the glistening, dew-dropped skin and the jetty eyelashes; the slumber of her downturned lips and tangled, streaming mass of her waterlogged hair. It made Charlie feel intensely uneasy that they had never discovered who she was and why she was submerged under the lapping surface of the River Brue. He didn’t like feeling uneasy. It didn’t happen much.
“Forget her,” he said shortly. “We need ter go.”
In response his friend merely hunched his shoulders further beneath the thin, tatty coat he wore and continued to trudge behind him in silence. The village fogged into the darkness behind them before long.