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“A
mouse!”
Anyone
walking in eastern Marndid late after the finishing of breakfast
would have heard the shriek. It was the type of shriek that appeared
without warning, causing terrible damage to the ears of those who
were close enough to encounter it, echoes rushing through the
corridors and reaching to the farthest, coldest, and draftiest
corners of the house. The shriek was accompanied by delicately gloved
hands frantically clutching at wide, swaying skirts and a hasty,
rather unladylike gallop backwards that threatened to trample any
standing in the unfortunate path.
~*~*~*~*~*~
“Dav?
You up?” Ahmis's voice came distantly through the thick door the
next morning.
Davin
rolled over and shoved a hand into his face to wipe the sleep out of
his eyes. His fist came up faster than he had expected, and the
suddenness of his fingers striking the bridge of his nose stole a
moan from his throat.
“Are
you fighting someone in there?”
Davin
gently rubbed his sore nose. “Only myself.”
The
door creaked open, and Ahmis's blond head popped in. “Oh, good. So
you're awake, then?”
Davin
stuffed his face into his pillow in an attempt to go back to sleep
and give his brother a hint about leaving him alone. “I wasn't.”
“But
you are now, and that's the important thing.” The excitement in
Ahmis's voice made Davin pull his face out of the pillow. “I want
to show you something.”
~*~*~*~*~*~
Near
the scarred capital of Marndid, a rusty
lion weather vane stood crookedly atop a shabby barn. The battered
metal had withstood the test of time, keeping erect in every kind of
storm that nature had dared to produce. Hail had beaten down on the
regal form of the lion carefully watching over the tiny farm below,
leaving it unmercifully bent and bruised. Rain had washed over it,
leaving it bitterly rusted in numerous, scratchy patches. Snow had
covered it, freezing the iron so that it could not move to point the
direction of the breeze. Gusts had tortured it, casting about this
way and that so that the lion now sat askew in his position on the
roof.
And
yet, the vane still stood proudly, a symbol of resolve and endurance.
It had been that way for years proceeding to the current time, and it
would remain that way for years to come. Jod Mirtruse was certain of
it.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Davin
took advantage of the stilled page to try to read what had been
written. “That's not the main language of Dron.”
“No,
it's not. I think it's Vieumot.”
“View
what?”
“Vieumot.
It's an ancient language, from which our modern tongue has been
adapted.” Ahmis responded, slipping quickly back into his old,
scholarly self, the boy who had once enjoyed being the toast of the
biggest universities in Dron. “At one time, it was the accepted
language of Dron, but since then we've had too many immigrants, and
the dialects and the language changed drastically. It's hardly used
now, except by university students, although it was very popular for
the wealthy to read, write, and even speak it once upon a time.”
“Can
you read it?”
“No,”
Ahmis scowled at the page, as if angered at the thought.
“Unfortunately, I had to choose between classes at Stylo, and at
the time I didn't think Vieumot was important.”
Davin
couldn't deny that his heart grew disappointed. “So, you can't read
any of it?”
Ahmis
squinted at the page. “Well, I did have a few friends who learned
to read and write Vieumot, and I did manage to bribe a few of them
into sharing some of their lessons with me. I didn't learn very much,
and what I did learn, I forgot most of it. However...” his words
trailed off as he turned the faded leaves back to the very beginning
of the journal. “There are some words that I keep seeing. They're
coming up quite often in the entries.”
“Do
you recognize them?” Ahmis was taking way too long sitting over
this in Davin's opinion.
“I...
wait.” Ahmis plunked his good hand down on the page and ran his
fingers over the written phrase under the first date. “This word is
the first person possessive pronoun linking it to the following
second word which is...” Ahmis bit his lip, his face tightened in
thought.
“Is
what? I don't even know what you're talking about.”
“It's
says my name. Those are the first two words, but the script is
difficult to read.” Ahmis drew the book closer to his face.
“Trenlam? No, that's an F at the beginning, not a T.”
“An
F?” Davin echoed, as a sudden thought rushed into his head.
“Yeah,”
Ahmis stretched the syllable out as if the same thought had occurred
to him.
“Is
it...?”
Ahmis's
hand trembled beneath the leather weight of the book. “It is.
Davin, it says My name is Frendan Teur de'Gon. It's our
father's journal! We found our father's journal!”
~*~*~*~*~*~
“And
you're just going to let them two go off alone?” Grant shot a
furious glance at Rodnal.
“I
am not the final authority, young Grant,” the storyteller stated
evenly. “You are all, I believe, old enough to make your own
decisions, and although Père made me the oldest and, for a
while, the leader of this group, I am not your designated commander.
That would be Davin. If you have a problem with his decision, then
you should take that up with him, not me. Furthermore, I am not
against them leaving to discover the truth. And they won't be going
alone, not entirely. Our loving Creator will guide and protect them
each step of the way, and I know His protection is beyond anything
that we could ever offer them, even if you yourself, Grant, went with
them.”
Now
the furious glance was directed at Ahmis. “Never.” Grant said
between his teeth, then stalked from the room.
God bless!
Very nice, very nice indeed! You have successfully destroyed my peace of mind as I hungrily await the REST OF THE STORY! Please hurry and finish!
ReplyDeleteOh, lovely! Sounds like you have a wonderful (not-so-little) story on your hands!
ReplyDelete