Umbrology
Spring is not a season in Palisade. It is only an idea: a renewed production of pale blues and airy yellows in ladies' fashion, a line of powders -- for the cheek only, and even then scandalous -- to emphasize a girl's blooming youth and fresh, dewy complexion. And all the while the tender shoots of dandelions emerging from the cracks in the street are trod to dust by the fashionable new shoes; the blooming youths work until their fingers bleed in the textile mills, and only emerge after dark, like strange creatures of the night, to scent the fading promises of the wild spring air. People purchase the season when it arrives, and forget it in cupboards when it leaves.
Yet there are some places, if one knows the right way to look, where old trees droop over the cobblestones untended and moss spills from the windows of vacant houses. Long abandoned by outward growth, these thriving urban microcosms are wedged in between busy thoroughfares and housing developments, often strangely inaccessible, the openings of their narrow streets repurposed as new space for the expansion of neighboring buildings. In consequence, one must be willing to navigate rubbish-strewn alleys -- or in some cases rooftops -- to reach them.
This one in particular is known locally as the Garden; its street lamps are grown over with ivy, and yet a single dedicated (and likely rather whimsical) lamplighter still visits it every evening to kindle flames behind the cracked and greenish panes. The end result is something like one who has never seen the Wardwood before might imagine it to look: a multitude of feeble fairy-lights glimmering from behind tangles of leaves.
It is late afternoon now, and the lamps will be lit soon, but for now the street is bathed in the brassy glow of the sun, which has almost descended past the Garden's encircling rooftops. It is quiet. The only sound at all is the gentle burbling of pigeons, who are particular regulars of the Garden, finding it quite appealing as an ample source of both grubs and comfortable statuary. One pigeon struts past an open doorway, head bobbing. He scratches at the ground and coos to himself approvingly.
With no warning a hand shoots out of the doorway, snatches the pigeon, and vanishes back into the shadows. The rest of the nearby birds take flight. A single feather drifts to the ground.
"Stop it, Henry!" says the empty doorway. "You want me to eat you? 'Cause I might if you don't stop scratching me real soon. You see this leaf thing? Yeah, I'm gonna use it as a garnish."
Yet there are some places, if one knows the right way to look, where old trees droop over the cobblestones untended and moss spills from the windows of vacant houses. Long abandoned by outward growth, these thriving urban microcosms are wedged in between busy thoroughfares and housing developments, often strangely inaccessible, the openings of their narrow streets repurposed as new space for the expansion of neighboring buildings. In consequence, one must be willing to navigate rubbish-strewn alleys -- or in some cases rooftops -- to reach them.
This one in particular is known locally as the Garden; its street lamps are grown over with ivy, and yet a single dedicated (and likely rather whimsical) lamplighter still visits it every evening to kindle flames behind the cracked and greenish panes. The end result is something like one who has never seen the Wardwood before might imagine it to look: a multitude of feeble fairy-lights glimmering from behind tangles of leaves.
It is late afternoon now, and the lamps will be lit soon, but for now the street is bathed in the brassy glow of the sun, which has almost descended past the Garden's encircling rooftops. It is quiet. The only sound at all is the gentle burbling of pigeons, who are particular regulars of the Garden, finding it quite appealing as an ample source of both grubs and comfortable statuary. One pigeon struts past an open doorway, head bobbing. He scratches at the ground and coos to himself approvingly.
With no warning a hand shoots out of the doorway, snatches the pigeon, and vanishes back into the shadows. The rest of the nearby birds take flight. A single feather drifts to the ground.
"Stop it, Henry!" says the empty doorway. "You want me to eat you? 'Cause I might if you don't stop scratching me real soon. You see this leaf thing? Yeah, I'm gonna use it as a garnish."
"I've heard they're quite good with a little lemon," says a voice.
He must have just arrived--surely he could not have concealed himself--and his steps must have been shrouded by the noise of the pigeons and the leaves. And maybe the voice will be familiar, coarse and ragged, but maybe also it won't--because it has been years, and because there is a curiously thick, strained note to it, like someone teetering on the brink of a heavy sigh, and that note distorts the voice and makes it seem very old.
A figure darkens the doorway--far enough away to dodge an assault, if one is forthcoming--and a hand is raised to shade his eyes; backlit by the cobble-diffused gleam of the sun all that is discernible is that he is thin and hunched and wearing a strange, long, wild-looking coat, and that he has long hair--nearly to his shoulders--that hangs loose and feral. The figure cants slightly to one side as though it carries a heavy pack, and it leans just slightly forward to peer into the shadowed doorway. A slice of his jaw, as it catches the light, is sun-brown and unshaven. "But I don't know if it's good manners to eat something you've given a name to. When once you give an appellation, forever barred from mastication."
Umbrology
Bird is caught in the strangely guilty-looking act of submerging Henry in a bucket. She is squatting on the ground, barefoot, her unfashionably colorful threadbare dress pulled up around her waist, which leaves not an inch of her scrawny legs to the imagination (except maybe the bits covered in dirt). She seems to have gotten a little thinner since Taym left.
She squints up at the part of his face she can see like she's staring into the sun, like looking at him hurts, and then turns away and gives Henry another dunk, perhaps more forcefully than he strictly deserves. The pigeon has stopped struggling: whether he has done so because he truly understands Bird isn't going to hurt him or is merely petrified with terror is less clear.
"Thought you were dead in a gutter somewhere, mister," Bird says finally, her voice too casual. "I looked for you for a long time." She briefly goes silent as she dunks Henry again. "And I don't know what that means, except it sounds kind of dirty." Punctuated by another dunk. "Plus, your face looks like a boot."
She squints up at the part of his face she can see like she's staring into the sun, like looking at him hurts, and then turns away and gives Henry another dunk, perhaps more forcefully than he strictly deserves. The pigeon has stopped struggling: whether he has done so because he truly understands Bird isn't going to hurt him or is merely petrified with terror is less clear.
"Thought you were dead in a gutter somewhere, mister," Bird says finally, her voice too casual. "I looked for you for a long time." She briefly goes silent as she dunks Henry again. "And I don't know what that means, except it sounds kind of dirty." Punctuated by another dunk. "Plus, your face looks like a boot."
"Yours looks like a monkey," he replies serenely, moving up to lean against the doorframe, the better to watch Bird's strange activities which, for the moment, he does not question. His own voice sounds a little too nonchalant.
Umbrology
"Bet you say that to every girl," Bird accuses halfheartedly. She pries open Henry's wings and scrubs underneath them. Finally she lifts him out of the bucket, puts him down, and releases him. He waddles rapidly past Taym's shoes and out the door, dripping profusely and glancing back over his shoulder every few steps with something akin to paranoia in his eyes. Bird wipes her hands off on her dress; it only gets them dirtier. "So where have you been, anyways?" She still isn't looking at him.
He waves his hand vaguely, scooching aside to let the bird pass; not yet up to talking about the past few days or the Wardwood, he skips it. "Over the ocean, in the New World," he says, as casually as if he were saying he'd been across town. "I don't guess you looked there. Also, I will have you know I save my compliments for only the most simian of my acquaintances."
Umbrology
"You could've at least said something," Bird says, to the bucket. Then she reaches up and lifts an object from the windowsill that had previously appeared to be a big clod of mud but now proves a toad -- an unusually large and fat one, with great golden eyes that seem, surely by some trick of the evening light, to glow dimly in the darkness of the room. "Also, Alphonso smells the Wardwood on you, so don't leave that part out." Bird pauses, and then adds for clarification, brandishing the toad, "I've told you about Alphonso."
She has not, of course; she has previously made mention of her mysterious, ever-absent "familiar," but she has likely never uttered the name Alphonso before in her entire life.
She has not, of course; she has previously made mention of her mysterious, ever-absent "familiar," but she has likely never uttered the name Alphonso before in her entire life.
He pauses. The instinct had been to go along with the silly joke, or the story, or whatever it was. But he hadn't mentioned the Wardwood, and there is a look in the toad's eyes that alarms him, and seems too... intelligent. He puts his hands in his pockets and his fingers brush over the cool surface of the totem, and he thinks: there are stranger things.
He doesn't like it. He liked it better when fiction stayed in books.
"You tell me about Alphonso first," he says. It keeps him from talking about the Wardwood and it keeps him from apologizing for disappearing.
Umbrology
"I've already told you about Alphonso," Bird protests. "Here, hold him."
She thrusts the toad up at Taym without ceremony, still doing her best not to look at him. For the toad's part, it remains still and regards Taym with its bulging eyes, which are as blank and sideways-staring and profoundly unmoved as any toad's. Yet at the same time its gaze seems far older than it should be and full of unexpected secrets, like gold coins lying half-buried at the bottom of a murky pond. Its throat bulges placidly.
"And get inside here so you stop looking all dramatic, with the sun behind you like that. It's hurting my eyes."
She thrusts the toad up at Taym without ceremony, still doing her best not to look at him. For the toad's part, it remains still and regards Taym with its bulging eyes, which are as blank and sideways-staring and profoundly unmoved as any toad's. Yet at the same time its gaze seems far older than it should be and full of unexpected secrets, like gold coins lying half-buried at the bottom of a murky pond. Its throat bulges placidly.
"And get inside here so you stop looking all dramatic, with the sun behind you like that. It's hurting my eyes."
He steps inside the room and reaches for the toad. Although he makes a face, the lack of hesitation betrays him, and anyway, Bird probably knows how Taym feels about all things small and slimy--even ones with eyes that unnerve him. "Is that why you won't look at me?" he demands, but he sounds more injured than he'd meant to.
Umbrology
"Uh-huh," Bird lies. She's never been good at lying -- is possibly even incapable of it, at least to the extent that her feeble, guilty dissembling is immediately recognizable as such -- and this hasn't changed.
The toad transitions peaceably into Taym's hands. It remains still for a moment, and then begins lazily pedaling its legs in the air.
"He won't piss on you," Bird says. "Probably." She finally looks up, using her toad as an excuse to focus on Taym's hands. From there her gaze transitions to his face. She looks back down again. "I'm sorry I said you looked like a boot."
The toad transitions peaceably into Taym's hands. It remains still for a moment, and then begins lazily pedaling its legs in the air.
"He won't piss on you," Bird says. "Probably." She finally looks up, using her toad as an excuse to focus on Taym's hands. From there her gaze transitions to his face. She looks back down again. "I'm sorry I said you looked like a boot."
"I do look like a boot," he answers, holding the toad in front of him as though it were the most usual thing in the world. "I probably smell like a boot too, I don't know. My nose shut down somewhere about halfway across the ocean." He turns his head to cough into his shoulder and that, at least, has not changed. "I'm not sorry I said you look like a monkey. You do. Why are you tormenting pigeons?"
Umbrology
"You smell more like something that crawled under a wagon of horse s**t and died," Bird says, and then adds, "Alphonso doesn't mind, though."
She looks at Taym again when he coughs, searchingly, and then crouch-waddles a few inches forward to empty her bucket out the doorway. Bird is optimistic, but she isn't entirely immune to reality (well, every once in a while); she doesn't expect a miraculous discontinuation of the habits that originally led her to suspect Taym's ignoble death in a gutter, and the expression on her face makes that clear.
"I'm not tormenting them, I'm fixing them. They've all got lice. I bet you could use it too, Smelly, what with your hair looking like something that got run over in the street. My tea bath is one hundred percent effective." A bold claim, considering she earlier referred to one of her herbs as a 'leaf thing.'
She looks at Taym again when he coughs, searchingly, and then crouch-waddles a few inches forward to empty her bucket out the doorway. Bird is optimistic, but she isn't entirely immune to reality (well, every once in a while); she doesn't expect a miraculous discontinuation of the habits that originally led her to suspect Taym's ignoble death in a gutter, and the expression on her face makes that clear.
"I'm not tormenting them, I'm fixing them. They've all got lice. I bet you could use it too, Smelly, what with your hair looking like something that got run over in the street. My tea bath is one hundred percent effective." A bold claim, considering she earlier referred to one of her herbs as a 'leaf thing.'
"I thought pigeons and lice went together like kids and sticky fingers. You can get rid of them but they'll just come back." Creakily, painfully, he lowers himself to a squat. His strange coat piles up on the ground behind him and he absently goes to push it out of the way before he realizes his hands are full of toad, and doesn't, instead crouching near Bird with Alphonso in his hands--they still shake; she is right--and attempting to meet her eye. "I was expecting some kind of joyous celebratory laughing reunion, not being handed a toad and being told I look like a boot and playing second-fiddle to a pigeon with lice. I've probably got lice. My head's been itchy since I got on the boat. If I make some noises like this--" and he does a poor imitation of a pigeon's burbling "--will you pretend like you give a s**t I'm standing here and not, as you put it, dead in a gutter?"
Umbrology
"Well, somebody's got to try," Bird replies, folding her arms across her scrawny chest. She's probably aiming for a determined look, but the gesture falls short and just suggests that she's gotten cold. "And no one else is. Trying, I mean."
A long pause. Bird doesn't move, but even so she seems to withdraw from Taym somehow when he sits down -- her presence becomes smaller. She wipes her nose on the back of her arm. "Never told me you could speak pigeon," she says finally, her voice watery. And that's all. It's unclear whether she's even registered the rest of what he's said, in that weird way she has of blocking out the bad things in life like her brain's incapable of processing them, or whether she's just chosen not to acknowledge it.
The toad begins to struggle in Taym's hands, though, with startling vigor for such a languid creature; it plants its soft damp feet on his fingers and pushes, throat pulsing, while its front legs wave desperately in the empty air for purchase. If he doesn't put it down soon, it will probably hurt itself.
A long pause. Bird doesn't move, but even so she seems to withdraw from Taym somehow when he sits down -- her presence becomes smaller. She wipes her nose on the back of her arm. "Never told me you could speak pigeon," she says finally, her voice watery. And that's all. It's unclear whether she's even registered the rest of what he's said, in that weird way she has of blocking out the bad things in life like her brain's incapable of processing them, or whether she's just chosen not to acknowledge it.
The toad begins to struggle in Taym's hands, though, with startling vigor for such a languid creature; it plants its soft damp feet on his fingers and pushes, throat pulsing, while its front legs wave desperately in the empty air for purchase. If he doesn't put it down soon, it will probably hurt itself.
Startled by its sudden urgency, Taym deposits the toad as gently as he can on the floor, aiming it at Bird although he suspects (and is alarmed by suspecting) that it will head towards her anyway.
With his hands free, Taym reaches into his pockets for his cigarette case, for a match; the fumbling is an old familiar thing, because apparently a lifetime of smoking habits isn’t enough to nail down a single pocket to use consistently. The act distracts him, gives him an excuse not to look at her in the same way she doesn’t look at him. He suspects wretchedly that he is the reason her voice sounds like that and doesn’t understand why.
His fingers fumble like a palsied old man’s with the latch on his cigarette case, having as much difficulty with it as he always had—while the shaking of his hands might go nearly unnoticed when he is leaning in a doorway or holding a toad, watching Taym perform tasks requiring fine motor control is painful and carries a whiff of contact frustration. “There’s lots of things you don’t know about me,” he jokes feebly, muffled by the match held in his teeth.
All things considered it is probably the worst thing to say at this moment in time, but he isn’t aware of that. Taym is unaware of a lot of things.
Umbrology
The toad hops ponderously over to Bird and crawls onto her lap like a pet cat, though considerably clumsier and less emotive: when it turns a single slot-pupilled eye in Taym's direction (meanwhile, Bird's gaze remains downcast) it might as well be regarding him through an empty glass bead. Now freed, it doesn't seem to be thinking about or feeling much of anything at all.
Bird turns it over and looks at its belly while Taym prepares his cigarette. A tear drips off the end of her nose, nearly invisible except for when it briefly flashes silver in the sunlight on its way down.
"Taym, man of mystery," she says, still staring at the toad's belly as if it holds all the secrets of the universe. Maybe for her, it does. "He's gone international. Speaking of, Jude wants me to ask about the Wardwood. He says you held him wrong, so you have to tell him, or else he won't let you hold him again."
Bird turns it over and looks at its belly while Taym prepares his cigarette. A tear drips off the end of her nose, nearly invisible except for when it briefly flashes silver in the sunlight on its way down.
"Taym, man of mystery," she says, still staring at the toad's belly as if it holds all the secrets of the universe. Maybe for her, it does. "He's gone international. Speaking of, Jude wants me to ask about the Wardwood. He says you held him wrong, so you have to tell him, or else he won't let you hold him again."
Taym pauses before he answers, managing to get the cigarette lit; it is with considerable relief that he inhales—more for the excuse it gives him not to speak and to instead gather his thoughts.
The hair is standing up on his arms and he is grateful for his long sleeves.
He’d built a… drama, in his head; riding up to Bird on the street somewhere on his spotted mule, saying her name to see her turn, sweeping her onto its back when she looked up and smiled a broad toad smile at him and laughed to see him again. Resting his chin on her head like he would on his daughter’s, opening his palm in front of her with a gift therein and telling her stories about bison and city streets and what the pigeons of the New World are like.
Riding to the rescue, sort of.
Instead Bird crouches before him and he has seen her tears hit the ground, and everything seems dreamlike, with the stomach-weight dread of a dream that verges on an inexplicable nightmare that you can’t explain the terror of when you awake. The toad’s eyes alarm him and the way Bird talks about him alarms him. He’d taken her outlandish claims in easy stride before, playing along with a solemn face, but now that he suspects they might be true he finds he can no longer do this. He thinks of the totem in his pocket and of the dim glow of lupine eyes between the leaves. The night before he’d dreamed button-round eyes glazed over in forever-sleep in an alley in his absence—in much the same way Bird must have pictured him, he realizes—and he’d gone looking without looking and her gift in his pocket had seemed far heavier a burden than the totem, and he’d wondered if he’d be buried with them still in his pockets, two unkept promises. But everything tilts back now on the fulcrum of reality.
“I don’t know anything about the Wardwood,” he says quietly. And it’s true. He blows a smoke ring for her, but she isn’t looking at him, so he just turns it into a cough. He reaches into his coat and extends his hand, his callused, trembling fingers open, and in the leathery, dirty cup of his palm the totem is pale and gleaming like a phosphorescent mushroom in the hollow of a dark tree. “I was hoping you might tell me something. I don’t know why you’re crying,” he adds, pleading and uncharacteristically sincere, “but please stop.”
