Backdated to late April. Takes place after The Swing at Dusk.
Word Count: 2004
Eight blocks to his neighborhood, and another five to the playground.
For a Friday night, the place was deserted. Énna expected to spot at least a kid or two taking advantage of more lenient weekend rules, maybe a few of his peers hanging out, but there were no shrieking toddlers zooming down the slide, no precocious tweens jumping from the swings, no adolescents hiding among the shadows, seeking a temporary escape from their parents where they couldn’t be accused of straying too far.
Instead, the night was quiet. No sound reached his ears but the wind rustling through the trees and the distant barking of a dog.
Énna stopped at the gate. He gripped the steel fence with one hand and the strap of his dance bag with the other.
There was no figure on the swings that night, nothing to distract him from the path that always drew his eye.
He remembered walking it when he was younger, collecting rocks and flowers, wielding random sticks like they were swords. The route was picturesque — one of the few attractive qualities of their otherwise dreary neighborhood. The year Énna turned eight, Daddy bought a bunch of tiny figures so they could set up a hidden fairy garden among the trees.
Énna wondered if it was still there.
He wondered if Daddy was near it the night he–
The gate squealed when Énna opened it. He crossed through and let it clink shut behind him.
The swings shifted with the breeze. Énna went to them. He dropped his dance bag to the ground and sat on one, facing the path in the trees, kicking off the rubber surface to set himself in motion.
Back and forth he went, his pace unhurried as he tipped his head back to search for stars. He knew the bright white one was Venus, there beneath the moon. Mars hung above it; he knew that from its color. He found both dippers, and Orion’s belt, but couldn’t remember any of the other constellations Daddy used to point out. Énna didn’t even know what became of their old telescope. Maybe Dad threw it out after–
Something rustled in the bushes. Énna’s grip tightened on the chains of the swing, but he didn’t let it disturb him. It must be a squirrel, or a skunk, or a cat — one of the neighbor's pets hunting rodents, or a local stray. Last year, Miss Donna across the street found three abandoned kittens hiding out in a ditch a block away. There were always plenty of animals to be found in the underdeveloped areas of town.
Daddy used to like that. He’d point out hummingbirds and rabbits and chipmunks, woodpeckers and frogs and moles. They’d caught and released lizards and praying mantises, raised butterflies from their caterpillar beginnings and set them free. They’d put out scraps of produce for a herd of deer that had been displaced by a new neighborhood going up nearby, and carried frozen peas down the path to the small lake, where they’d fed the ducks. At the creek behind Mr and Mrs Kirby’s house, they would find crayfish hiding under rocks; Énna remembered the look of disgust on Daddy’s face when Dad offered to cook some up.
A twig snapped, but Énna ignored that, too. Something huffed and snuffled, but he told himself it was a dog. The Drummonds had an Australian shepherd that was something of an escape artist. Scout, he thought its name was.
It wasn’t a dog.
Another huffing, labored breath. A tree branch split and fell, crashing to the ground. Then something landed on the fence. Taloned feet curled around black iron.
A bird of some sort, maybe, but it was enormous, and missing a great deal of its feathers. Where there were no feathers seemed to be covered in fur, not so long or thick that it could disguise the muscular form of its body. It kept its large wings open, perched there like it meant to take off at any moment. Its bird head cocked to the side, eyes gleaming even half concealed in shadow, beak ending in a hooked point.
Énna’s feet skidded along the ground to force his swing to a stop. His heart nearly jumped into his throat. His hands slipped along the chains of the swing. For a moment, fear stole his breath.
A monster.
The creature clicked its beak once, changed the tilt of its head and flapped its wings.
Slowly, Énna stood.
Then the creature was airborne, and Énna ran.
He jumped the fence and ran down the path, soles slapping against the pavement, hoping the cover of trees would protect him. The creature let out a piercing shriek, crashing through tree limbs as if such obstacles were of no consequence, sending leaves and pine needles and twigs of various sizes raining down upon him. Desperation put an extra burst of speed into Énna steps. He ran faster than he knew himself capable of, his surroundings becoming little more than a blur.
He thought, What is it? Why is it chasing me? Where did it come from? Has anyone else seen it? Has it hurt someone?
Beneath that, Énna’s misery and dread began to surge forward.
Daddy died running down this path. Now Énna would, too.
No, he told himself. No.
But the creature swooped down from the cover of an oak tree, shrieking its ear-splitting screech as it came for him. Énna fell in his attempts to dodge it, catching himself along the edge of the path and scraping his palms on the pavement.
The creature landed mere feet away, talons clicking as it prowled closer, beak parting just before it lunged.
Énna scrambled away, off of the path, into the dirt, seeking shelter further into the trees. He reached for something, anything, a rock or a loose branch to hurl at the creature before it struck him. His fingers wrapped around a thin piece of wood…
Then there was light, and warmth. Something welled up within him and burst forth, scaring the creature back a step. It skittered and squawked, wings fluttering, and seemed to hiss a word, nearly lost beneath its garbled attempt at speech, “Knight!”
Énna senses came into sharper focus. He saw the creature clearly, some demented gryphon, fur and feathers so dark it nearly blended in with the night, except the parts which gleamed in the moonlight. He heard the approach of rapid footsteps, the snap of twigs and the rustle of leaves. He felt the wood in his hand, slim but strong, with a flowering head. He smelled the earth beneath him, tasted something on the air, dark and ugly, foul, rotten, corrupted.
Something had poisoned this creature, something that looked, and sounded, and felt, and smelled, and tasted like death.
It reared back, preparing another attack…
Then it screamed and writhed. The creature tossed its head as it stumbled about, eyes suddenly wide with pain. It scrabbled at its own body, as if the pain came from within, talons ripping through feather and fur, drawing its own blood.
Then it shattered, bursting into specks of dust or ash that were soon carried away on the breeze.
Énna looked around, searching for any sign of further danger, but all was quiet. He shifted, beginning to rise, and looked at the piece of wood still clutched in his hand.
It was a carved flower. Énna cast his gaze toward the spot he’d found it and spied a collection of tiny figurines — mushroom houses and winged figures, and a little arched door set into the base of a tree.
Daddy’s fairy garden.
A stuttering breath tore through his throat. Énna blinked through the tears in his eyes. He sobbed once, then curled his hands into fists and glanced up, through leaves and branches and into the night sky, where the stars twinkled and the moon was a thin sliver.
“Are you alright?”
Énna whipped around, breathing fast.
The woman from the swings stepped toward him, expression creased with concern. Her presence seemed even more distinct now. Palpable. He could sense her brightness, her purity. If the monster had been death, then she was life.
“What was that?” he asked, voice hushed with strain, certain she knew.
“A youma,” she said, offering him her hand. “They’re beings so riddled with Chaos they’ve been twisted into monsters.”
Énna accepted her help and rose, climbing back onto his feet, only to find that his balance had shifted. Gone were the sneakers he’d pulled on after dance practice. Énna looked down to find a pair of boots in their place. They rose to his ankle, where they ended in ruffles, and sported two inch heels.
His shoes were not the only thing to have changed. His leggings had become shorts, trimmed by ruffles like the boots, and glittery stockings. In the place of his t-shirt and light jacket, he wore a flouncy blouse with a big black bow. Feeling something on his head, Énna reached up and removed a black hat, decorated with flowers, a striped bow, and an odd symbol.
He looked to the woman again, and gave in to the urge to ask what he hadn’t let himself days before.
“Who am I?”
She stared at the hat in one hand and the carved flower in the other. Something flickered in her eyes — a spark of recognition, maybe. A frown marred her face, but she did not seem angry or impatient. If anything, she looked quite sad.
But she answered him, gazed into his face like she was trying to find something there, and said, “You’re a Page of Ganymede.”
Ganymede. He knew that name — as a moon of Jupiter, as Zeus’ cupbearer, and now as something else, something that spoke to parts of him he’d never even known existed.
“A Page is a new knight,” she continued, “tasked with guarding a sacred Wonder on various worlds throughout the universe. That flower is your weapon.”
Disbelief crawled across Énna’s face. “How can a flower be a weapon?”
The woman laughed lightly. She seemed young, still, but she carried an air of poise and certainty that came with age and experience. Daddy would’ve said she had an old spirit.
“Maybe it should be called an artifact instead,” she conceded. “As you grow into your power, it’ll help you channel your magic. It might be a flower now, but one day it should become something a little more useful.”
She spoke of knights and magic like they were more than fairytales, like all those old stories of princesses and monsters had been real all along. Énna thought he should question her sanity, maybe even laugh at the absurdity of it all, but he could feel it — that power she spoke of, deep within. He could feel her.
“You should know the name of your Wonder,” she told him. “Your name. It’s instinctive.”
She was right. The name was there, right on the tip of his tongue. It wasn’t a name he’d heard before, wasn’t even a word he would’ve known how to pronounce, if not for his connection to it.
“Yvoire,” he said.
The woman’s sad frown curved up into an equally sad smile — like she’d known, too, and something about that knowledge made her mournful.
Énna, now Yvoire, Page of Ganymede, returned the hat to his head. He clutched that carved flower between his hands and swallowed down his nerves. A cool wind blew, sending a few strands of long, fair hair over his shoulder.
Finally, he asked, “Who are you?”
He looked into her eyes, which were guarded but kind, then up beneath the fall of her hair, where the symbol on his hat glowed gold on her forehead.
She laughed again, quiet, not truly amused, but as if she couldn’t help herself. Her smile, at least, was genuine, even when the edge of sadness remained.
“I’m Ganymede.”
