One last BB story
Aug. 29th, 2006 07:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrMinus the drabbles and whatall I'll write to avoid other stuff ^^
Nonslash, more of a backstory than a sidestory ^_~
“Dym! Dym!” Milena shoved strands of beaded hair from her face and swore softly. “Where has that boy gone now? Dym!”
“Mama!” Dym called out, and came running toward her through the camp.
Milena sighed softly to see that he had found yet another treasure. She knelt down as he finally reached her, reaching out to smooth his mussed hair, clucking softly. “Child of mine, you’re filthy. Sticks in your hair, mud on your new shirt…what is that?”
“S’bird, mama. Isn’t she pretty?” Dym held out a small, wood-carved bird painted bright red with gold eyes. One of Sergei’s gaudy little trinkets to sell in the villages where they performed. “Oh, Dym, does Sergei know you have that?”
“Gave me, mama.” Dym beamed, and Milena fought a smile.
Dym looked just like his father – a delicate, tiny, perfect imitation. Every time she looked at their son, she ached with loss for him, dead these six years. But Dym was proof of him, of them.
The soft black hair, those bright, bright green eyes – they’d first captured her attention, so very long ago it seemed now. Pale skin, the boy would never tan like her people. He was every inch his noble father.
It was hard to tell, some days, that he was gypsy. She shoved the thought aside. He’d grow into it. Children never wanted to do anything but wander and play – hadn’t she gotten her own share of reed whippings for going where she was told not? Not that it mattered anymore. She was wasting time on pointless thoughts now.
“Little charmer,” she said, ruffling the hair she’d just finished smoothing. “Go get cleaned up, we’ve supper almost finished.”
“Yes, mama!” Dym smiled, gave her a sloppy kiss when she presented her cheek, then clutched his red bird close and dashed off toward their wagon.
Milena shook her head. “That boy…and he’s lost his shoes again, I didn’t even—“ her mutterings broke off as she began coughing, and she covered her mouth with a kerchief, doubling over as the coughs wracked her body. When she finally stopped, she stared grimly at the kerchief. Blood and mucus.
Nor was she the only one suffering.
All around the camp, people hacked and coughed. A few had already taken to their beds. The rest of them would soon. None of them would get up again. Milena could feel the ache in her body, spreading outward from her chest, getting worse as the days went by.
Somewhere, perhaps traveling through the forest along the Jagged Mountains, the troupe had picked up the blood plague. It was why they were still in the woods, several days away from the nearest village.
Why they would never leave it. They would not be performing again.
Milena fought back tears. Because she was going to die. Everyone was going to die. Her beautiful, wonderful son would never grow into his gypsy blood. He wasn’t sick yet, but…oh, Zhar Ptitka at least permit she would be there to hold his hand, to comfort him, to keep him smiling while the plague racked his delicate frame.
She bent over coughing again, chest aching, burning, vision blurring before it finally relented. As much as she wished, she knew she wouldn’t live long enough to see her son die.
“Mama! All washed!”
Dym came running up, his shirt badly laced, boots too big but he insisted on wearing ‘grown up’ shoes as often he could – and usually lost them on one adventure or another. His hair was once again a mess, but those green eyes so bright…Milena tucked away the kerchief that was evidence of her illness and hugged him close, fighting back tears, eyes stinging with the effort. “I do love you, my sweet, sweet boy.”
“Love you too, Mama,” Dym said, and gave her another sloppy kiss before squirming free of her embrace. “Can I go show my bird to Misha? I’ll stay clean!”
Milena smiled and smoothed his hair. “Of course. Run along, be back for supper – stay clean!”
“Yes, mama!” Dym called over his shoulder as he took off, shouting for Misha even as he finished calling to her.
“Milena…”
Turning, Milena embraced her older sister, who had come up silently, eyes streaming tears. “How is he?” But she already knew. Her sister’s husband had never had a strong constitution.
“He won’t survive the night.”
“So it begins,” Milena said sadly, and the sisters cried on each others shoulders. Around the camp, others did the same or carefully looked away.
“Dym…” Milena stopped as her words turned into wracking coughs.
Dym stared at her, tears running down his cheeks, leaving clear tracks, emphasizing the dirt that had accumulated. “Mama! I’ll get help.” He held her hand close, kissing the back of it, stroking it, green eyes dark with pain. “I’ll get help.”
“No, Dym. There is no help, and you’d make them sick. Just stay here and keep mama company.”
“Mama!”
There weren’t many of them left now. Just her, Dym, old Agata, and Isay. Good old Isay, a leader to the end…he was determined to be the last to go, and would burn everything down to destroy whatever remained of the plague.
Yet Dym was not yet sick. Milena didn’t know what to do…not that she could do anything, but she wanted to pretend he’d be all right. “Dym, Dym, my sweet child, you must not cry. Mama wants to see you happy before…” she trailed off, not wanting her poor son to hear the words. He would not completely understand, but he would understand enough – had he not seen everyone else in camp die? Family, friends…everyone. She had no more tears left to cry. “Sweet little child of mine…” she said softly, stroking Dym’s fine, pale cheek. “You would have grown up into a beautiful man. Just like your father…I wish he could see you now, he would have loved you so…he always wanted a son…” her eyes felt so heavy. She blinked, determined to watch him until the end – the end which loomed so close, she could feel it.
But her boy, her angel, still shone with health. Misery darkened him, but he was healthy.
No magic spell could stop the plague – they had tried. No medicine had ever been discovered. Hopefully burning the troupe to ashes would rid the world of it; hopefully they had kept it from spreading to others…Zhar Ptitka willing, no one else would die.
“I love you, Dym…”
“Mama!” Dym howled, tugging hard on her hand, but Milena didn’t move. “Mama!” Howling, sobbing, Dym turned and stumbled from their wagon.
“Dym!”
He ignored Isay, who was running toward him, away from everything, into the forest. Shouts sounded behind, and all too soon feet thundered across the forest floor, but Dym was good at hiding, he knew he was. He always won when they played Fox and Rabbit. He always hid better than the others.
Help. Mama needed help. Dym hid beneath the roots of a great tree, afraid to breathe as Isay walked by…eventually he left. Dym stayed where he was. Misha always pretended to go away when he was Fox. Dym was a good rabbit, though, Misha never caught him.
Finally he crept from his hiding place, and with his heart feeling like it was going to thump right out of his chest, Dym started running, right alongside the brook like mama always said to, because there were always people near water eventually and he had to find people to help otherwise Isay would put mama in the fire like he had everyone else.
And he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Because mama was going to be okay again, and she’d dance and teach him to dance and he’d do better. He’d be a good gypsy, he would! If mama would just get better.
Dym tripped on a root and started crying as he sat up. He was lonely and mama was sick and Isay had gone all mean and the rest were eaten by fire and he didn’t want to be alone in the scary forest.
Still crying, Dym struggled to his feet and started moving again, this time just walking because his legs hurt and he wanted mama to get up and give him a snack only she couldn’t. He wiped tears from his eyes, used his sleeve to wipe his nose even though mama always said he shouldn’t do that.
It started getting dark and Dym tried to be brave, and he found a tree to climb like Misha’s papa had told them to before, and curled up in and was glad he was still wearing his coat but he wanted mama…
Eventually he fell asleep, and sometime in the night, not hard enough to wake him, Dym began to cough.
Where was he?
The little boy tripped over something, he thought maybe a stick, but it was too hard to look back and see for certain.
One foot.
The other.
Left. Right. Or was it right, left?
He felt so heavy. Tired.
What was he doing?
Where was he?
He fell down.
Wet. Oh. He was in…creek? Brook? Long and wet.
Didn’t they lead somewhere?
He coughed, almost choking on the water before he remembered to sit up, get out. Wet was bad. Wasn’t it?
He wished his chest would stop hurting so.
Where was he?
When the coughing finally stopped, he dunked his messy hands in the river until they were clean again.
Such pretty skin, my angel.
He could smell the one who said that. Could see the smile. Feel the softness.
My pretty little boy.
But he couldn’t see her. Was it a her? He seemed to think so.
When his hands were clean, he picked himself up and started moving again.
Where was he?
He didn’t know. But water was good…he thought…and had to…had to…go…somewhere. He had to go somewhere.
And he wasn’t there yet.
The boy kept moving.
He fell out of the forest. Suddenly it just stopped. There were trees one moment…then a great big field.
So green.
Sunshine. The sky was so blue.
The boy started crying and didn’t know why.
He looked around the great big field, and then he gasped.
It was a castle. Like from the storybooks mama used to read to him. Big and golden, with the tall towers with great big tops painted so many colors.
Mama.
That was the name of the soft, nice-smelling woman. She’d…read to him. Sang songs. Played with his hair and said he was her pretty angel.
Where was she?
He didn’t know.
Unable to tear his eyes away from the castle, he left the forest behind and went towards it as fast as he could, no longer feeling his sore legs or so tired arms, not even feeling dirty – which he thought mama always told him not to get but he couldn’t really remember.
When he reached the castle he saw the walls weren’t as smooth as they had seemed. The stone was rough, like the stones he and Misha used to climb while the adults danced and stuff. He sort of remembered that, but it was blurry.
Drawing a breath, realizing he didn’t cough when he did it now – no more icky hands, no more hurting – he began to climb. Misha had been a better climber, but he was okay. He never fell.
This wall was high. Lots higher than in the villages. Not as scary as the one in the big village.
“Oh!” He stared wide eyed at the other side of the wall, and almost fell off because he forgot to hold on.
It was a garden. A magic garden, just like the stories mama told him! He saw redberries and blueberries, even sweetberries! Trees with the big green things, another with the orange things. There was a little pool of water filled with bright orange fish, and a path and so many other things!
Eagerly he squirmed over the wall and tried to climb down – but fell halfway there and landed with a cry in the fish pond. “Sorry, fishies!” he said as he came up sputtering, the shock of the cold water waking him up completely.
So it wasn’t a dream. He was awake and in a magical garden.
Was an evil wizard going to get him? Cast a spell?
He was hungry. He had stopped noticing, then he’d gotten sick.
Would he turn into a frog or be locked away in a dungeon if he ate the fruit? It looked so yummy…
Trembling from cold and fear, the boy slowly crept to the bush of sweetberries. Mama had shown him how to pick the berries without getting pricked by the thorns, but his hands shook so much a few pricked him anyway but he didn’t care because they were sweetberries which were his favorite especially with cream but there was no cream right now but that was okay because the berries were yummy by themselves too.
He ate until his tummy ached, and his hands were stained red-purple and he knew his mouth was a mess too and mama would smile and tease him and clean him up but mama wasn’t here anymore.
His eyes stung suddenly and then he realized he was crying. Sitting down hard in front of the sweetberry bush, he began to cry hard, tugging his knees up and burying his face against them, not certain why he was crying except that it had to do with mama and it made him sad.
Eventually he stopped, because his eyes hurt and his throat hurt and he was so thirsty. Wiping his eyes with his hands, he used his dirty sleeve to wipe his nose and then crawled back to the little pond and washed his face like mama always told him to do when he got messy. He looked in the so clear water, because the fish were so still and quiet and not moving it at all, and realized he was really dirty – the kind of dirty that made mama mad.
He stripped off his clothes and slid into the pond, whispering ‘sorry, sorry’ to the fishies as he began to try and clean himself, dunking under the water to get the dirt and sticks out of his hair, rubbing hard at the dirt in his skin, all the weird sick stuff that had made him cough and the world go strange and fuzzy and dark.
Eventually he felt cleaner, like mama wouldn’t be mad, and started to put his clothes on and realized they were dirty too and would make him dirty again. Saying ‘sorry’ to the fishies again he dragged his clothes to the pond and tried to clean them except some of the stuff wouldn’t come out and it wasn’t fair he was trying and he didn’t want mama to be mad at him. Splashing hard, trying to stamp his foot in the slippery pond, Dym left his clothes there and climbed out, sitting down and crossing his arms and glaring at his stupid clothes.
He finally stood up and went to do other things, ignoring his stupid clothes. His tummy still ached so he couldn’t have more sweetberries but there was so much to look at. The pretty white stones, the high, golden walls, the pretty round tops of the towers…he hoped there wasn’t an evil wizard inside who would turn him into a frog. Maybe there was a princess trapped! Was she sad too?
Finally he went back to his stupid clothes and pulled them out of the water.
They looked cleaner!
Not lots, but some. They weren’t as yucky. “Sorry, fishies.” He remembered what else he was supposed to say. “Thank you, fishies.”
Squeezing all the water out, sort of making the ground muddy, he did his best to dry his clothes out before putting them back on. Dripping but dressed, he started to explore the garden again, looking at the bushes, stealing more sweetberries before moving toward the one thing that had really caught his eye.
Apples. On a great big tree that he couldn’t reach if he grew to be as tall as, as—he couldn’t remember the giant’s name. But he’d been tall and he bet even the giant couldn’t reach those apples they looked so far away.
But they were gold. Like mama’s necklace that she said papa had given to her long, long ago. So bright and shiny in the sun.
A strange sound broke the silence of the garden, and he stared wide eyed as he saw something move – then he ran and hid beneath the redberry bush because it didn’t have thorns like the sweetberries.
He gasped as the moving thing appeared.
It—it—it was a Splendid Lord! Just like the stories! Not an evil wizard. Those were always ugly and mean and they had scratchy voices – mama always used scratchy voices when she did the evil wizards.
And this man was singing. So pretty, it made him start crying again because it reminded him of mama and the others, and even though he felt bad thinking it the Splendid Lord sang prettier than mama, like his song was magic.
He watched as the Splendid Lord walked through the garden, heart stopping when the sandaled feet that flashed beneath long red robes when he walked paused in front of his bush and it felt like he was playing Fox and Rabbit only if the Splendid Lord found him he’d make him leave because he was wet and dirty and maybe still sick though he wasn’t coughing and he wasn’t nearly so fine as the Splendid Lord and it made him cry more but then the Splendid Lord started walking again.
The Splendid Lord moved to the apple tree and reached up – so easily, he must be really high – and picked one of the golden apples and oh he looked even more Splendid when he smiled.
He watched and listened until the Splendid Lord once more vanished, and tried not to cry at how lonely he suddenly felt. Would the Splendid Lord come back? What would happen if the Splendid Lord found him?
Crawling out from underneath his bush, he went the way the Splendid Lord had gone and found a great big door blocking the way. He backed away and returned to the garden, gathering more fruit from the different bushes and the little trees he could climb easy and then took it all back underneath the hollow of his redberry bush.
Sniffling softly, he arranged his fruit and then curled up beside it, murmuring softly as he fell asleep thinking of the Splendid Lord.
He couldn’t take his eyes away. The Splendid Lord had hair that looked gold at the tips, and his eyes were like fire and he sang so pretty, just like a magical bird. His robes were so soft-looking, and he’d almost touched them once! He hadn’t been thinking, and the Splendid Lord had been so close to his little bush but he’d remembered at the last minute and stayed hidden like a good rabbit.
Because he didn’t want the Splendid Lord to send him away. He didn’t want to get lost and sick again like he sort of remembered. He didn’t want to go back to the dark, scary forest. He wanted to stay in the magical garden even if it got a little cold and the ground was hard and his clothes were dirty…
He waited for the Splendid Lord to appear, because he could tell by how the shadows were bigger and the sun not as bright that it was almost time for him to show up.
Except he didn’t and then it got darker and time for sleeping and still the Splendid Lord didn’t come to sing and eat his apple.
Was the Splendid Lord lost? Sick? Was he sick like mama and the others?
He was supposed to sing and eat his apple, that was how it always worked. Every day! He couldn’t count like mama had been teaching him, or maybe he had but had forgotten that too, but there had been lots and lots of days where the Splendid Lord had come and sang and eaten his apple and he was supposed to come now and what if he was lost like mama?
Scrambling out from under his bush, sniffling, scared, he wandered toward the Splendid Lord’s tree.
Would something bad happen if he touched it? He didn’t want to turn into a frog, because then how would he give the apple to the Splendid Lord?
Gulping, scared but he had to do it he just had to what if the Splendid Lord was sick and couldn’t get his own apple then how would he sing and smile? Trying to make his hands stop shaking, he moved to the trunk of the tree and slowly began to climb up it though it was smooth and so high and hard to grip but he bit his lip and kept trying and—there! He reached the first branch and pulled himself up to the second branch and almost slipped but caught himself!
He held carefully the branch above him and stood up, reaching out to pick the biggest, shiniest apple he could reach and…he held it close and waited, but it didn’t feel funny like he was going to turn into a frog.
Though the ground looked so far far away…
Tucking the apple into his shirt, he bit his lip as he clung tight tight tight to the tree and began to sort of slide down, scared because he was going to fall but he didn’t and finally he was back on the ground and he pulled the apple out and made sure it was okay.
It was okay. So bright! Holding it tight, he slowly crept toward the door that was so big and scary and he gulped and bit his lip again even though it hurt and pushed hard and the door opened and he waited for someone to yell at him but no one did.
Slowly he stepped inside, and the air smelled different, sort of like cinnamon cakes and the fires where mama put them to cook. Warm and sweet. Holding the apple tightly, he crept forward, further into the house and away from the garden.
Just like a magical palace! Gold and fancy pictures and so many shiny things. The floor was soft, soft, like the blankets mama used to wrap around him but made with so many different colors. Candles were on the walls, lighting up the empty rooms and he thought there should be people but he wasn’t sure.
He kept going, eyes wide as he stared, traveling through so many rooms. There were so many! Mama could count really high and he bet she couldn’t count all these rooms.
He wandered out of one and back into a long, narrow room that led to lots of others, and he saw that light spilled from one whereas all the others were mostly dark. Holding the apple more tightly than ever, he made for the room full of light and stopped at the door, more scared than ever because he could hear singing.
It was soft and quiet, but he knew it was the Splendid Lord singing because no one else sang as pretty as that, not even mama though he still felt bad thinking that.
Heart thudding, feeling like it was going to break out of him, he stepped into the room full of light and looked around, searching for the Splendid Lord.
Oh.
He was sitting in the window, sunlight shining on him, and his hair looked gold and his robes so red. He gasped, unable to be quiet, and the sight of the Splendid Lord made him want to cry though he didn’t know why and he suddenly realized he was crying.
The singing suddenly stopped, and he realized, feeling really really scared, that the Splendid Lord was looking at him with those bright eyes that looked like fire but were more pretty. “Oh, my” the Splendid Lord said softly, turning in his seat. “The little mouse has emerged from the garden. Whatever’s wrong, sweet? Why are you crying?” The Splendid Lord held out a hand. “Come here, little mouse, I won’t hurt you.”
And he was so scared, so scared he was shaking and almost dropped the apple but he couldn’t because he had to give it to the Splendid Lord so he wouldn’t get sick and would still sing and smile. Creeping forward, that voice calling to him even though he was scared, he slowly crossed the room and stopped in front of the Splendid Lord, who slid to his knees and smiled.
“Pretty little mouse, why are you crying?”
He held out the apple. “For you. Don’t get sick.”
“Sick?” The Splendid Lord blinked, got that confused look Misha had gotten sometimes when big people said stuff. Then he smiled and took the apple, then slowly reached a hand to Dym’s cheek, gently brushing away tears with his thumb. “I won’t get sick, sweet. I promise. Is that what happened to you?” He shook his head, then smiled again. “What’s your name, sweet?”
“Mama…mama called me sweet. And angel. But everyone else called me…” he frowned, trying hard to remember. He knew what a name was, but he couldn’t remember his…he bit his lip hard. Mama had called him her sweet angel but everyone else said… “Dym!” He beamed, pleased.
“Dym,” the Splendid Lord said, returning the smile. “Why are you all alone, sweet Dym?”
“Mama…got sick. And the others got sick too. They got put in fire.”
For a moment the Splendid Lord looked sad. “Poor thing. But your mama is happy now. She’s very happy, and is glad you’re safe.”
Dym nodded, not quite understanding but willing to agree to what the Splendid Lord said. He pointed to the apple. “For you.”
The Splendid Lord smiled. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Won’t get sick?” Dym asked.
“No, sweet Dym. I won’t get sick.”
“Sing?” Dym asked wistfully.
The Splendid Lord laughed, but it was nice laughter not mean laughter. “Is that what you would like? For me to sing?”
Dym nodded.
Smiling at him, the Splendid Lord held out his hand. “Why don’t we get you a bath, sweet Dym, and some real food, and then you can rest in here with me and I’ll sing to you as long as you like. Hmm? Does that sound like a good idea?”
“Food?” Dym repeated. “Not just sweetberries?”
“No, sweet Dym,” the Splendid Lord replied with a laugh, “not just sweetberries. Whatever you want. Does that sound good? Would you like to stay here and be my Dym?”
Dym nodded and put his hand in the Splendid Lord’s, and didn’t even mind when the Splendid Lord suddenly picked him up and bundled him close – mama had done that too sometimes – because as the Splendid Lord started carrying him away to a different room he started to sing. Dym pressed closer, fingers holding tight to the so-soft robes, and let his heavy eyes fall shut as he listened to the singing and felt the thump-thump of the Splendid Lord’s heart.
Nonslash, more of a backstory than a sidestory ^_~
The Boy and the Golden Apples
“Dym! Dym!” Milena shoved strands of beaded hair from her face and swore softly. “Where has that boy gone now? Dym!”
“Mama!” Dym called out, and came running toward her through the camp.
Milena sighed softly to see that he had found yet another treasure. She knelt down as he finally reached her, reaching out to smooth his mussed hair, clucking softly. “Child of mine, you’re filthy. Sticks in your hair, mud on your new shirt…what is that?”
“S’bird, mama. Isn’t she pretty?” Dym held out a small, wood-carved bird painted bright red with gold eyes. One of Sergei’s gaudy little trinkets to sell in the villages where they performed. “Oh, Dym, does Sergei know you have that?”
“Gave me, mama.” Dym beamed, and Milena fought a smile.
Dym looked just like his father – a delicate, tiny, perfect imitation. Every time she looked at their son, she ached with loss for him, dead these six years. But Dym was proof of him, of them.
The soft black hair, those bright, bright green eyes – they’d first captured her attention, so very long ago it seemed now. Pale skin, the boy would never tan like her people. He was every inch his noble father.
It was hard to tell, some days, that he was gypsy. She shoved the thought aside. He’d grow into it. Children never wanted to do anything but wander and play – hadn’t she gotten her own share of reed whippings for going where she was told not? Not that it mattered anymore. She was wasting time on pointless thoughts now.
“Little charmer,” she said, ruffling the hair she’d just finished smoothing. “Go get cleaned up, we’ve supper almost finished.”
“Yes, mama!” Dym smiled, gave her a sloppy kiss when she presented her cheek, then clutched his red bird close and dashed off toward their wagon.
Milena shook her head. “That boy…and he’s lost his shoes again, I didn’t even—“ her mutterings broke off as she began coughing, and she covered her mouth with a kerchief, doubling over as the coughs wracked her body. When she finally stopped, she stared grimly at the kerchief. Blood and mucus.
Nor was she the only one suffering.
All around the camp, people hacked and coughed. A few had already taken to their beds. The rest of them would soon. None of them would get up again. Milena could feel the ache in her body, spreading outward from her chest, getting worse as the days went by.
Somewhere, perhaps traveling through the forest along the Jagged Mountains, the troupe had picked up the blood plague. It was why they were still in the woods, several days away from the nearest village.
Why they would never leave it. They would not be performing again.
Milena fought back tears. Because she was going to die. Everyone was going to die. Her beautiful, wonderful son would never grow into his gypsy blood. He wasn’t sick yet, but…oh, Zhar Ptitka at least permit she would be there to hold his hand, to comfort him, to keep him smiling while the plague racked his delicate frame.
She bent over coughing again, chest aching, burning, vision blurring before it finally relented. As much as she wished, she knew she wouldn’t live long enough to see her son die.
“Mama! All washed!”
Dym came running up, his shirt badly laced, boots too big but he insisted on wearing ‘grown up’ shoes as often he could – and usually lost them on one adventure or another. His hair was once again a mess, but those green eyes so bright…Milena tucked away the kerchief that was evidence of her illness and hugged him close, fighting back tears, eyes stinging with the effort. “I do love you, my sweet, sweet boy.”
“Love you too, Mama,” Dym said, and gave her another sloppy kiss before squirming free of her embrace. “Can I go show my bird to Misha? I’ll stay clean!”
Milena smiled and smoothed his hair. “Of course. Run along, be back for supper – stay clean!”
“Yes, mama!” Dym called over his shoulder as he took off, shouting for Misha even as he finished calling to her.
“Milena…”
Turning, Milena embraced her older sister, who had come up silently, eyes streaming tears. “How is he?” But she already knew. Her sister’s husband had never had a strong constitution.
“He won’t survive the night.”
“So it begins,” Milena said sadly, and the sisters cried on each others shoulders. Around the camp, others did the same or carefully looked away.
*~*~*~*
“Dym…” Milena stopped as her words turned into wracking coughs.
Dym stared at her, tears running down his cheeks, leaving clear tracks, emphasizing the dirt that had accumulated. “Mama! I’ll get help.” He held her hand close, kissing the back of it, stroking it, green eyes dark with pain. “I’ll get help.”
“No, Dym. There is no help, and you’d make them sick. Just stay here and keep mama company.”
“Mama!”
There weren’t many of them left now. Just her, Dym, old Agata, and Isay. Good old Isay, a leader to the end…he was determined to be the last to go, and would burn everything down to destroy whatever remained of the plague.
Yet Dym was not yet sick. Milena didn’t know what to do…not that she could do anything, but she wanted to pretend he’d be all right. “Dym, Dym, my sweet child, you must not cry. Mama wants to see you happy before…” she trailed off, not wanting her poor son to hear the words. He would not completely understand, but he would understand enough – had he not seen everyone else in camp die? Family, friends…everyone. She had no more tears left to cry. “Sweet little child of mine…” she said softly, stroking Dym’s fine, pale cheek. “You would have grown up into a beautiful man. Just like your father…I wish he could see you now, he would have loved you so…he always wanted a son…” her eyes felt so heavy. She blinked, determined to watch him until the end – the end which loomed so close, she could feel it.
But her boy, her angel, still shone with health. Misery darkened him, but he was healthy.
No magic spell could stop the plague – they had tried. No medicine had ever been discovered. Hopefully burning the troupe to ashes would rid the world of it; hopefully they had kept it from spreading to others…Zhar Ptitka willing, no one else would die.
“I love you, Dym…”
“Mama!” Dym howled, tugging hard on her hand, but Milena didn’t move. “Mama!” Howling, sobbing, Dym turned and stumbled from their wagon.
“Dym!”
He ignored Isay, who was running toward him, away from everything, into the forest. Shouts sounded behind, and all too soon feet thundered across the forest floor, but Dym was good at hiding, he knew he was. He always won when they played Fox and Rabbit. He always hid better than the others.
Help. Mama needed help. Dym hid beneath the roots of a great tree, afraid to breathe as Isay walked by…eventually he left. Dym stayed where he was. Misha always pretended to go away when he was Fox. Dym was a good rabbit, though, Misha never caught him.
Finally he crept from his hiding place, and with his heart feeling like it was going to thump right out of his chest, Dym started running, right alongside the brook like mama always said to, because there were always people near water eventually and he had to find people to help otherwise Isay would put mama in the fire like he had everyone else.
And he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Because mama was going to be okay again, and she’d dance and teach him to dance and he’d do better. He’d be a good gypsy, he would! If mama would just get better.
Dym tripped on a root and started crying as he sat up. He was lonely and mama was sick and Isay had gone all mean and the rest were eaten by fire and he didn’t want to be alone in the scary forest.
Still crying, Dym struggled to his feet and started moving again, this time just walking because his legs hurt and he wanted mama to get up and give him a snack only she couldn’t. He wiped tears from his eyes, used his sleeve to wipe his nose even though mama always said he shouldn’t do that.
It started getting dark and Dym tried to be brave, and he found a tree to climb like Misha’s papa had told them to before, and curled up in and was glad he was still wearing his coat but he wanted mama…
Eventually he fell asleep, and sometime in the night, not hard enough to wake him, Dym began to cough.
*~*~*~*
Where was he?
The little boy tripped over something, he thought maybe a stick, but it was too hard to look back and see for certain.
One foot.
The other.
Left. Right. Or was it right, left?
He felt so heavy. Tired.
What was he doing?
Where was he?
He fell down.
Wet. Oh. He was in…creek? Brook? Long and wet.
Didn’t they lead somewhere?
He coughed, almost choking on the water before he remembered to sit up, get out. Wet was bad. Wasn’t it?
He wished his chest would stop hurting so.
Where was he?
When the coughing finally stopped, he dunked his messy hands in the river until they were clean again.
Such pretty skin, my angel.
He could smell the one who said that. Could see the smile. Feel the softness.
My pretty little boy.
But he couldn’t see her. Was it a her? He seemed to think so.
When his hands were clean, he picked himself up and started moving again.
Where was he?
He didn’t know. But water was good…he thought…and had to…had to…go…somewhere. He had to go somewhere.
And he wasn’t there yet.
The boy kept moving.
*~*~*~*
He fell out of the forest. Suddenly it just stopped. There were trees one moment…then a great big field.
So green.
Sunshine. The sky was so blue.
The boy started crying and didn’t know why.
He looked around the great big field, and then he gasped.
It was a castle. Like from the storybooks mama used to read to him. Big and golden, with the tall towers with great big tops painted so many colors.
Mama.
That was the name of the soft, nice-smelling woman. She’d…read to him. Sang songs. Played with his hair and said he was her pretty angel.
Where was she?
He didn’t know.
Unable to tear his eyes away from the castle, he left the forest behind and went towards it as fast as he could, no longer feeling his sore legs or so tired arms, not even feeling dirty – which he thought mama always told him not to get but he couldn’t really remember.
When he reached the castle he saw the walls weren’t as smooth as they had seemed. The stone was rough, like the stones he and Misha used to climb while the adults danced and stuff. He sort of remembered that, but it was blurry.
Drawing a breath, realizing he didn’t cough when he did it now – no more icky hands, no more hurting – he began to climb. Misha had been a better climber, but he was okay. He never fell.
This wall was high. Lots higher than in the villages. Not as scary as the one in the big village.
“Oh!” He stared wide eyed at the other side of the wall, and almost fell off because he forgot to hold on.
It was a garden. A magic garden, just like the stories mama told him! He saw redberries and blueberries, even sweetberries! Trees with the big green things, another with the orange things. There was a little pool of water filled with bright orange fish, and a path and so many other things!
Eagerly he squirmed over the wall and tried to climb down – but fell halfway there and landed with a cry in the fish pond. “Sorry, fishies!” he said as he came up sputtering, the shock of the cold water waking him up completely.
So it wasn’t a dream. He was awake and in a magical garden.
Was an evil wizard going to get him? Cast a spell?
He was hungry. He had stopped noticing, then he’d gotten sick.
Would he turn into a frog or be locked away in a dungeon if he ate the fruit? It looked so yummy…
Trembling from cold and fear, the boy slowly crept to the bush of sweetberries. Mama had shown him how to pick the berries without getting pricked by the thorns, but his hands shook so much a few pricked him anyway but he didn’t care because they were sweetberries which were his favorite especially with cream but there was no cream right now but that was okay because the berries were yummy by themselves too.
He ate until his tummy ached, and his hands were stained red-purple and he knew his mouth was a mess too and mama would smile and tease him and clean him up but mama wasn’t here anymore.
His eyes stung suddenly and then he realized he was crying. Sitting down hard in front of the sweetberry bush, he began to cry hard, tugging his knees up and burying his face against them, not certain why he was crying except that it had to do with mama and it made him sad.
Eventually he stopped, because his eyes hurt and his throat hurt and he was so thirsty. Wiping his eyes with his hands, he used his dirty sleeve to wipe his nose and then crawled back to the little pond and washed his face like mama always told him to do when he got messy. He looked in the so clear water, because the fish were so still and quiet and not moving it at all, and realized he was really dirty – the kind of dirty that made mama mad.
He stripped off his clothes and slid into the pond, whispering ‘sorry, sorry’ to the fishies as he began to try and clean himself, dunking under the water to get the dirt and sticks out of his hair, rubbing hard at the dirt in his skin, all the weird sick stuff that had made him cough and the world go strange and fuzzy and dark.
Eventually he felt cleaner, like mama wouldn’t be mad, and started to put his clothes on and realized they were dirty too and would make him dirty again. Saying ‘sorry’ to the fishies again he dragged his clothes to the pond and tried to clean them except some of the stuff wouldn’t come out and it wasn’t fair he was trying and he didn’t want mama to be mad at him. Splashing hard, trying to stamp his foot in the slippery pond, Dym left his clothes there and climbed out, sitting down and crossing his arms and glaring at his stupid clothes.
He finally stood up and went to do other things, ignoring his stupid clothes. His tummy still ached so he couldn’t have more sweetberries but there was so much to look at. The pretty white stones, the high, golden walls, the pretty round tops of the towers…he hoped there wasn’t an evil wizard inside who would turn him into a frog. Maybe there was a princess trapped! Was she sad too?
Finally he went back to his stupid clothes and pulled them out of the water.
They looked cleaner!
Not lots, but some. They weren’t as yucky. “Sorry, fishies.” He remembered what else he was supposed to say. “Thank you, fishies.”
Squeezing all the water out, sort of making the ground muddy, he did his best to dry his clothes out before putting them back on. Dripping but dressed, he started to explore the garden again, looking at the bushes, stealing more sweetberries before moving toward the one thing that had really caught his eye.
Apples. On a great big tree that he couldn’t reach if he grew to be as tall as, as—he couldn’t remember the giant’s name. But he’d been tall and he bet even the giant couldn’t reach those apples they looked so far away.
But they were gold. Like mama’s necklace that she said papa had given to her long, long ago. So bright and shiny in the sun.
A strange sound broke the silence of the garden, and he stared wide eyed as he saw something move – then he ran and hid beneath the redberry bush because it didn’t have thorns like the sweetberries.
He gasped as the moving thing appeared.
It—it—it was a Splendid Lord! Just like the stories! Not an evil wizard. Those were always ugly and mean and they had scratchy voices – mama always used scratchy voices when she did the evil wizards.
And this man was singing. So pretty, it made him start crying again because it reminded him of mama and the others, and even though he felt bad thinking it the Splendid Lord sang prettier than mama, like his song was magic.
He watched as the Splendid Lord walked through the garden, heart stopping when the sandaled feet that flashed beneath long red robes when he walked paused in front of his bush and it felt like he was playing Fox and Rabbit only if the Splendid Lord found him he’d make him leave because he was wet and dirty and maybe still sick though he wasn’t coughing and he wasn’t nearly so fine as the Splendid Lord and it made him cry more but then the Splendid Lord started walking again.
The Splendid Lord moved to the apple tree and reached up – so easily, he must be really high – and picked one of the golden apples and oh he looked even more Splendid when he smiled.
He watched and listened until the Splendid Lord once more vanished, and tried not to cry at how lonely he suddenly felt. Would the Splendid Lord come back? What would happen if the Splendid Lord found him?
Crawling out from underneath his bush, he went the way the Splendid Lord had gone and found a great big door blocking the way. He backed away and returned to the garden, gathering more fruit from the different bushes and the little trees he could climb easy and then took it all back underneath the hollow of his redberry bush.
Sniffling softly, he arranged his fruit and then curled up beside it, murmuring softly as he fell asleep thinking of the Splendid Lord.
*~*~*~*
He couldn’t take his eyes away. The Splendid Lord had hair that looked gold at the tips, and his eyes were like fire and he sang so pretty, just like a magical bird. His robes were so soft-looking, and he’d almost touched them once! He hadn’t been thinking, and the Splendid Lord had been so close to his little bush but he’d remembered at the last minute and stayed hidden like a good rabbit.
Because he didn’t want the Splendid Lord to send him away. He didn’t want to get lost and sick again like he sort of remembered. He didn’t want to go back to the dark, scary forest. He wanted to stay in the magical garden even if it got a little cold and the ground was hard and his clothes were dirty…
He waited for the Splendid Lord to appear, because he could tell by how the shadows were bigger and the sun not as bright that it was almost time for him to show up.
Except he didn’t and then it got darker and time for sleeping and still the Splendid Lord didn’t come to sing and eat his apple.
Was the Splendid Lord lost? Sick? Was he sick like mama and the others?
He was supposed to sing and eat his apple, that was how it always worked. Every day! He couldn’t count like mama had been teaching him, or maybe he had but had forgotten that too, but there had been lots and lots of days where the Splendid Lord had come and sang and eaten his apple and he was supposed to come now and what if he was lost like mama?
Scrambling out from under his bush, sniffling, scared, he wandered toward the Splendid Lord’s tree.
Would something bad happen if he touched it? He didn’t want to turn into a frog, because then how would he give the apple to the Splendid Lord?
Gulping, scared but he had to do it he just had to what if the Splendid Lord was sick and couldn’t get his own apple then how would he sing and smile? Trying to make his hands stop shaking, he moved to the trunk of the tree and slowly began to climb up it though it was smooth and so high and hard to grip but he bit his lip and kept trying and—there! He reached the first branch and pulled himself up to the second branch and almost slipped but caught himself!
He held carefully the branch above him and stood up, reaching out to pick the biggest, shiniest apple he could reach and…he held it close and waited, but it didn’t feel funny like he was going to turn into a frog.
Though the ground looked so far far away…
Tucking the apple into his shirt, he bit his lip as he clung tight tight tight to the tree and began to sort of slide down, scared because he was going to fall but he didn’t and finally he was back on the ground and he pulled the apple out and made sure it was okay.
It was okay. So bright! Holding it tight, he slowly crept toward the door that was so big and scary and he gulped and bit his lip again even though it hurt and pushed hard and the door opened and he waited for someone to yell at him but no one did.
Slowly he stepped inside, and the air smelled different, sort of like cinnamon cakes and the fires where mama put them to cook. Warm and sweet. Holding the apple tightly, he crept forward, further into the house and away from the garden.
Just like a magical palace! Gold and fancy pictures and so many shiny things. The floor was soft, soft, like the blankets mama used to wrap around him but made with so many different colors. Candles were on the walls, lighting up the empty rooms and he thought there should be people but he wasn’t sure.
He kept going, eyes wide as he stared, traveling through so many rooms. There were so many! Mama could count really high and he bet she couldn’t count all these rooms.
He wandered out of one and back into a long, narrow room that led to lots of others, and he saw that light spilled from one whereas all the others were mostly dark. Holding the apple more tightly than ever, he made for the room full of light and stopped at the door, more scared than ever because he could hear singing.
It was soft and quiet, but he knew it was the Splendid Lord singing because no one else sang as pretty as that, not even mama though he still felt bad thinking that.
Heart thudding, feeling like it was going to break out of him, he stepped into the room full of light and looked around, searching for the Splendid Lord.
Oh.
He was sitting in the window, sunlight shining on him, and his hair looked gold and his robes so red. He gasped, unable to be quiet, and the sight of the Splendid Lord made him want to cry though he didn’t know why and he suddenly realized he was crying.
The singing suddenly stopped, and he realized, feeling really really scared, that the Splendid Lord was looking at him with those bright eyes that looked like fire but were more pretty. “Oh, my” the Splendid Lord said softly, turning in his seat. “The little mouse has emerged from the garden. Whatever’s wrong, sweet? Why are you crying?” The Splendid Lord held out a hand. “Come here, little mouse, I won’t hurt you.”
And he was so scared, so scared he was shaking and almost dropped the apple but he couldn’t because he had to give it to the Splendid Lord so he wouldn’t get sick and would still sing and smile. Creeping forward, that voice calling to him even though he was scared, he slowly crossed the room and stopped in front of the Splendid Lord, who slid to his knees and smiled.
“Pretty little mouse, why are you crying?”
He held out the apple. “For you. Don’t get sick.”
“Sick?” The Splendid Lord blinked, got that confused look Misha had gotten sometimes when big people said stuff. Then he smiled and took the apple, then slowly reached a hand to Dym’s cheek, gently brushing away tears with his thumb. “I won’t get sick, sweet. I promise. Is that what happened to you?” He shook his head, then smiled again. “What’s your name, sweet?”
“Mama…mama called me sweet. And angel. But everyone else called me…” he frowned, trying hard to remember. He knew what a name was, but he couldn’t remember his…he bit his lip hard. Mama had called him her sweet angel but everyone else said… “Dym!” He beamed, pleased.
“Dym,” the Splendid Lord said, returning the smile. “Why are you all alone, sweet Dym?”
“Mama…got sick. And the others got sick too. They got put in fire.”
For a moment the Splendid Lord looked sad. “Poor thing. But your mama is happy now. She’s very happy, and is glad you’re safe.”
Dym nodded, not quite understanding but willing to agree to what the Splendid Lord said. He pointed to the apple. “For you.”
The Splendid Lord smiled. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Won’t get sick?” Dym asked.
“No, sweet Dym. I won’t get sick.”
“Sing?” Dym asked wistfully.
The Splendid Lord laughed, but it was nice laughter not mean laughter. “Is that what you would like? For me to sing?”
Dym nodded.
Smiling at him, the Splendid Lord held out his hand. “Why don’t we get you a bath, sweet Dym, and some real food, and then you can rest in here with me and I’ll sing to you as long as you like. Hmm? Does that sound like a good idea?”
“Food?” Dym repeated. “Not just sweetberries?”
“No, sweet Dym,” the Splendid Lord replied with a laugh, “not just sweetberries. Whatever you want. Does that sound good? Would you like to stay here and be my Dym?”
Dym nodded and put his hand in the Splendid Lord’s, and didn’t even mind when the Splendid Lord suddenly picked him up and bundled him close – mama had done that too sometimes – because as the Splendid Lord started carrying him away to a different room he started to sing. Dym pressed closer, fingers holding tight to the so-soft robes, and let his heavy eyes fall shut as he listened to the singing and felt the thump-thump of the Splendid Lord’s heart.
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Date: 2006-08-30 03:21 pm (UTC)And not to mention, This story was wonderful and ADORABLE!