Ravens and Writing Desks: A Metaphysical Fantasy

by Chris Meekings

  The girl irritated Lucy to the point of distraction. Poppy did nothing but complain: her feet hurt, her knees hurt, the sun was too bright, she was thirsty, she was cold, she was bored, Lucy was too slow, Lucy was too quick, Lucy was boring.

  Lucy found herself deliberately digging her fingernails into her own palms, trying to stem the anger. The ethereal lion had almost been unleashed twice, and it was only her promise to Conscience which had stopped it coming out.

  Every night they had camped on the plains, Lucy had collected the largest of the grasses for tinder, Lucy had lit the fire, Lucy had set the camp, Lucy had boiled the rice for dinner, and Poppy had just sat sullenly huffing.

  She admitted the meals were meagre, boiled rice, maybe some roots she’d found, and then some of the salted jerky meat, which was left from Marsh. Meagre, yes, but you really couldn’t expect fine haute cuisine on a camping quest, could you? Besides, Poppy would probably turn her nose up at haute cuisine as well.

  It hurt Lucy to watch the little girl push the rice around the plate, take one begrudging mouthful, sniff distastefully at the jerky and then give up on the meal. Every mealtime Lucy tried to encourage the girl to eat, but all she got in return was the staccato sentence, “Want sweets!”

  She didn’t have any sweets to give, and when she tried to explain this the little girl just looked uncomprehendingly at her. As if the possibility of someone not having sweets was unheard of. Lucy was pretty sure that even if she’d had sweets, she wouldn’t have given them to Poppy, not in place of a good meal of solid carbohydrates. The little girl was getting malnourished, but Lucy could do nothing to force her to eat. Every day a little more of the puppy fat disappeared from Poppy. She’d become only a scrawny shadow-thin representation of the chubby girl who had been rescued in the wood.

  The days continued, blurring into a never-changing grey dullness. A fight to get Poppy up and dressed in the morning. A fight to get her to walk and a fight to get her to eat anything in the evening.

  Lucy was unsure of just how far they had to go, or just how long they had walked together. She was pretty certain that these were the Cantab plains, and that they should be leading her to the Falls of Wanda. Even so, of the falls themselves, or the mountains from which the falls must spring, they she could see no sign.

  However, time and space did seem to be a bit wibbley in this world. For example, Lucy could clearly remember Miss Redd’s lair and everything that had happened there. Yet, the next, however-long-it-was, with Poppy just seemed to zoom by in a few token images. This reasoning led her back to the familiar thought that this whole thing was some kind of story, either of her own construction or made up by an all-knowing author. Miss Redd’s lair had been important so it was covered in detail, the next, however long, with Poppy was unimportant so had been skipped except for a lazy “and time passed” explanation.

  Time passed. The weak sun, the colour of dead straw, slowly began to sink for another day. The icy wind whipped up, and Lucy could smell the frost on the air. She looked at their position and felt the wind’s direction.

  The leeward side of the hill they were just breasting would do for a campsite she estimated. The wide valley in front of them would offer no shelter from the howling winds which would undoubtedly be the night’s feature. She breathed out longingly, her breath cauterized on the air as she scanned the horizon for something, for anything.

  Poppy lolloped to her side with a bored flounce. The little girl grimaced at the broad expanse of wilderness before them and sighed.

  “What are you looking at?” Poppy asked, which rated as the nicest thing she had ever said to Lucy.

  Lucy stared at a small figure on the horizon. Silhouetted against the dying sun, she could not make out any of its features except to say that it was on horseback, and it was coming towards them.

  “We’d better start making camp. We’re going to have a guest for dinner,” Lucy said, as cryptically as she could.

  There was someone coming to meet them, and that could only be a good thing. She was getting near the quest’s end, and she needed explanations fast. Maybe, the guest would have a new piece of the puzzle, or could explain something in a way that she understood. There were so many things to sort out, and she was sure they were running out of time.

  ~

  The fire crackled, spat and tried to draw attention to itself as the travellers and their guest sat and ate their rice and salted meat. Lucy blew a heavy breath on a spoonful, and the wisps of steam fled like ghosts into the night. The firelight cast their features in a pale yellow glow as the wind howled around them. And Lucy couldn’t help but think that she knew the face of their new guest.

  “Don Quixote De La Mancha,” was how he had introduced himself, with a bow that made his knees explode like gunfire.

  He’d dismounted from his skin-and-bone donkey, clanking in his rusted, iron armour, and then waddled, bandy legged, to their fireside.

  Lucy had sighed and continued to stir the rice.

  Poppy had, just plain, ignored the armoured man. Another character out of a book. Don Quixote, the impossible dreamer, thought Lucy to herself, as she’d handed out the meal to the assembled travellers.

  The Don was dressed in badly fitting plate armour, with leather pantaloons and a grubby, white cotton shirt underneath. Around his shoulders fastened by a piece of old twine was a worn and shredded cloak. On his head, he wore an upturned brass shaving bowl, and in one gauntleted hand he grasped what looked like a garden hoe with a flag tied to the end of it.

  There was something about his sallow, pointed face she recognised. Something within the lined features and crazed eyes called to her, begging her to recognise it, to acknowledge its presence. It was on the edge of her mind, irritating as a bur under her clothing.

  The Don finished his rice with a loud slurp, wiped the dregs of rice water from his moustache, and spoke in an accent so upper crust it practically had webbed toes and no chin.

  “You do me proud, sir! Indeed, you do. Fine vittles, magnificent fire, fine company and grand environs.”

  Lucy surveyed their lowly surroundings, a scratch hollow on the side of a windswept rolling plain, a small fire to keep hypothermia at bay, boiled rice and salted jerky for dinner and likely as not, snow on the way—hobo fine.

  “You are fine company, aren’t you?” asked the Don, his eyes watering in the firelight.

  “None finer,” she said, with the smile which she gave to people who introduced themselves and their friend the invisible imp who tells them to burn things.

  “I thought so. I thought so,” said the Don, shaking a conspiratorial finger. “None finer. I was only saying to myself just before I came over that hill, I said to myself ‘Don, what you need now is company—fine company- - intelligent peers. And if you don’t find it, you’ll, like as not, end up talking to yourself,’ that’s what I said.”

  Poppy stared at her steaming, untouched pile of rice slack jawed as though in hope it would turn into confectionery. If Lucy was any judge, Poppy was greedy, selfish and an idiot, hardly fine, intelligent company. And Lucy was? Well, what was she? She was so confused and impotent that she couldn’t even decide if what she saw was real or not. Again, hardly fine, intelligent company.

  “I suppose you haven’t seen Sancho on your travels, have you, wot? Only…only I seem to have lost him, somewhat. Bit of a rum do, embarrassing actually. Me, being a knight and all, gone and lost my squire. Bad show, really, bad show…”

  “No, I’m afraid you’re the first person we’ve met since we got to these plains. Isn’t that right, Poppy?” Lucy asked the little girl.

  Poppy gave Lucy a foul stare and uttered her mantra, “Want sweets.”

  “Sweets, young lady, sweets, you say?” said the Don, as the roller-coaster of his emotions took an upswing.

  Poppy’s eyes lit up like candle flames in the mine shaft of her sunken eye sockets as the hopeful anticipation of sugar to eat cracked across her gaunt face.

  “Well,
I’m sorry, but I don’t have any,” finished Don Quixote, his eyebrows sinking in disappointment.

  The little girl returned to staring into the fire. Her face crestfallen into despair as she contemplated the possibility of no sweets in her future.

  The Don looked at her with concern, and Lucy felt the wheel of prophecy click on another notch. Something was coming. She could sense it in the air. They were getting to the point. The coercion spell pounded in her chest, crying its insane mantra like a lunatic: On with the quest—to the Falls of Wanda—up—up!

  Of course, on with the quest did not necessarily mean physical movement. This was on with the quest. It was as on with the quest as any step she had taken this moment.

  “Oh, my dear, my dear, don’t look so down. I know! Why don’t we have a little game, a game in the firelight to drive away nightmares?”

  Poppy glanced up, distrustfully, “What sort of a game?”

  Lucy heard herself speak before she even had time to think.

  “A riddling contest—riddles in the dark—there are riddles which must be answered,” her voice was flat and dreamy.

  “Oh, yes, yes,” cried Don Quixote. “Perfect! Absolutely, capital, I love riddles!”

  “Riddles?” asked Poppy, hopefully.

  Lucy could almost touch the prophetic crackle in the air around her as she reached into her rucksack and brought out the riddling box. She seemed detached from the whole event, as if she were having an out-of-body experience. Her arms moved without her knowledge. She couldn’t feel her hands grasped around the ornate wooden box. Everything was numb and dreamlike.

  “Oh, my,” said the Don, “sir, that is a proud one, isn’t it, by Jove! You do us great honour. A fine evening’s entertainment it shall be, yes indeed!”

  “Riddles,” said Poppy, with the same fervour that had previously been reserved only for sweets.

  Lucy set the riddling box down by the fire, and the group huddled around in a low arc. Lucy on one side of Poppy, the Don on the other side, as the little girl took centre stage. The howling wind whipped around them, dragging the first edges of sleety snow with it. The fire leapt, spat and crackled. The travellers pulled their shawls, cloaks and vestments close about them as they waited for the box to ask its riddles.

  I am a box without key for my lid.

  Inside all your treasures may be hid.

  The box spoke in its high, screeching, headmistress voice.

  “Ask your riddles, box,” Lucy heard herself say.

  At last, it seems, you have the time,

  To try to solve my riddling rhymes.

  Remember you must answer all three,

  So, come now Childe, riddle this for me.

  We are little creatures,

  all of us have different features.

  One of us in glass is set,

  one of us you’ll find in jet.

  Another you may see in tin,

  and the fourth is boxed within.

  If the fifth you should pursue,

  it can never fly from you.

  What are we?

  There was silence as the group pondered the riddle. Lucy, once again, had the phrase “the quick fox jumps over the lazy brown dog” in her head. Just like she had in Marsh when she’d first heard the riddle. And again, she felt an urge to touch the fingers of her left hand in order.

  “Shakespeare poems?” asked the Don, tentatively as though sceptical about his answer.

  “No, I tried that to start with,” Lucy said. “Why does everyone guess Shakespeare poems to start with?”

  “Vowels,” said Poppy, in a quick, no-nonsense voice. “That’s a real easy one. The answer is vowels: a, e, i, o, u. A in glass. E in jet. I in tin. O in boxed and U in you.”

  “Of course!” snapped Lucy, as the answer materialized. The quick fox jumps over the lazy brown dog, that’s all the letters in the alphabet, including the vowels. And wanting to touch the fingers on my left hand, that’s all the vowels in sign language. I knew I knew the answer!”

  The wind blew around them once more, sparking the fire higher. It roared and crackled as it ate through the wood at its heart. Its flame heat was in stark contrast to the chill wind which whipped about the travellers.

  Lucy saw the concentration etched on Poppy’s face. The little girl looked more alive now than Lucy had ever seen. Her eyes were quick and furtive, with an intense penetrating glare.

  You are right, my little friend,

  At last, this riddle has come to an end.

  Vowels was the answer,

  and this you knew,

  Now, on to riddle number two.

  There was a loud click, as the first of its inner locks sprang free.

  “I say, little Dulcinea!” exclaimed Don Quixote. “That was very fast!”

  “It was easy,” said Poppy, returning to her gloomy demeanour.

  “Easy? Well, Lucy and I didn’t get it, and she’s had the box for ages, wot.”

  Lucy felt a weight lift from her shoulders. A weight she hadn’t even realised she had been carrying all the way from Marsh. The key would soon be free.

  The coercion spell beat loudly in her chest, like an over-proud drummer boy. On with the quest—through and through—up and up—to the Falls of Wanda!

  One down and only two more to go. This is it; this is on with the quest. This is an answer at last.

  “Box, your second riddle please?” asked the Don, twirling his moustache. “Let’s see if I can get this one right.”

  The fire crackled, the wind howled, the travellers hunched, and the box spoke.

  Thin, with teeth,

  no snake I be,

  Cracked and tumbled,

  nothing’s safe from me.

  Lucy paused, trying to think of an animal which was thin like a snake and had teeth. She was rubbish at biology, and she knew it. Some sort of worm?

  The Don also appeared puzzled. His fingers bridged into a steeple on his lips as he tried to think. Wind whipped at the unruly crops of grey hair, which escaped from under his bronze, shaving basin hat.

  Poppy seemed bored. The little girl glanced sideways, first at the Don then at Lucy. She huffed and began to fidget.

  “You know the answer,” said Lucy.

  Poppy bit her lip and then nodded.

  “And you’re waiting for us to guess wrong, aren’t you?”

  The little girl looked sheepish then nodded again.

  “Go on, say the answer,” said Lucy.

  “Lock-pick,” said Poppy.

  There was another audible click as the box’s second lock sprang open.

  You are right,

  my little chum,

  It was even easier than number one.

  Lock pick was the phrase to say,

  Shall we try the third riddle today?

  The box said the rhyme in its irritating sing-song voice.

  “I say, little Dulcinea, right again, eh? Capital, that’s just capital, ha ha! You are really quite excellent at this, eh wot,” guffawed the Don.

  “It was easy. I can’t believe you two didn’t get it,” she said.

  “Why don’t you tell us how you did it?” asked the Don, picking up a stick and poking the fire.

  “Don’t know,” said the girl.

  “Oh, come now.” The Don encouraged Poppy, as the blaze spat at him for annoying it, “surely you must know.”

  “It’s sort of like a path—the words can’t go anywhere else. No, it’s more like a drawing—the shape was the answer. Like a hand,” she said, holding up her hand, “the fingers were the words and the answer, when you put them together, is there, is a hand—understand?”

  The Don stared bewildered and shook his head.

  Lucy spat a laugh. “She’s a savant at riddles, because she’s got synaesthesia. She sees the connections between things like a picture in her head,” she shook her head in bogglement. “No wonder she’s impossible to talk to. She’s not operating on the same plane as anyone else. She doesn’t see t
he world as other people do.” Lucy stared at Poppy and felt nothing but pity for the little girl. She saw the total isolation being a savant must be. Lucy was no savant. She was clever, yes. However, Poppy was something else entirely—a complete breed unto herself.

  It explained everything about her character. Her unbridled hedonism was a response to everyone appearing to be nothing but idiots. If Poppy was the only intelligent person in the world, then why not just concentrate on pleasing herself?

  “You must be so bored. Has anyone ever been able to talk to you?”

  Poppy appeared startled and then confused, as if Lucy were a rock which had started to speak.

  “Next riddle,” demanded the little girl, as the wind howled about them, and the sleet began to fall.

  “Your last riddle does not come from me,

  But, instead, from Childe Lucy.

  The rhyme, I see,

  locked inside your mind.

  Write it, speak it,

  and your answer you shall find.”

  They all stared at Lucy in mute fascination. She, once again, felt disconnected from the world. Her arm reached out and took the stick with which the Don had been annoying the fire. The tip glowed with red embers like the dying heart of a volcano. She saw her left arm wipe a patch of sandy dirt flat, and then the stick plunged into the blank surface.

  She worked feverishly for a few moments, slashing the words into the dirt until the landscape bore the legend: Tears and tears, tears and tears. But which is which?