“Sleep well?” I ask her, before she can say anything.
“Of course, my children.” It doesn't even seem like her lips move when she speaks – it seems like words fall out of her mouth without her knowledge. I swallow thickly at that thought.
“It was never nice meeting you, Madame Veneera,” I work up enough courage to say, “but we will be going now.”
“Going, going?” she questions, her expression not even minutely wavering. “Going, where?”
“Why, back to the staircase, of course.”
The cautionary hand on my forearm alerts me to the fact that Screech has not figured out the meaning of my plan and is actually concerned for my mental stability – I yank my arm away from his immediately, and I know by the reticence next to me that he is disturbed by this occurrence, but I do not change my stance. I await Madame Veneera to try and stop us, but for many moments, she does not say anything, just merely stares at us.
“You should try my refreshing streams! Best in the world!”
“Yes, we know,” I say, while Screech sighs exasperatedly beside me. “But we would like to go back to the staircase now.”
For the first time since we've met her, a frown comes across her features, though her eyes are the same as they've always been, and suddenly I feel nauseous.
“You know that it was I who made the staircase disappear,” she states, does not ask.
This is a serious accusation in her book, I'm sure, and her statement makes that clear, but there is no use in lying. “Yes.”
“And I will put it back,” she assures, her eyes wide and large, beginning to frighten me more than they had before. “But first, I need you to drink the water.”
“Why?” Screech asks from beside me, clearly and suddenly interested in this conversation.
“It will give you strength on your journey. So few make it this far – I have little to do, little to offer, but my water.” The smile returns to its original place, and I know by the way she holds it that it will never leave again.
“Okay.”
“Woah!” Screech grabs me, turns me towards him, his eyes ablaze with an emotion I can hardly even read. “What are you doing, Freckles?”
“It's just water, Screech,” I say to him, a bit lowly, but for some reason neither of us are really concerned about her overhearing our conversation anymore. We've made it amply clear how odd we think she is – there's no use in denying it.
Unless, of course, she doesn't actually put the staircase back.
“Seriously,” he warns, his firm grip on my upper arm. “You can't just drink her water.”
“Why not?”
He seems to be grappling with words – either he can't find one, or he can find too many.
“We're both thirsty,” I go on, as his mouth works but no sounds hit the air. “We're both covered in blood. Why not get washed off?”
“Yes, yes!” chimes the woman besides us. “Why, why, indeed!”
Screech still looks unconvinced, more terrified, as if I'm about to walk into a death trap, so this time I take his shoulder and lead him a bit away from Madame Veneera, despite us not really caring, despite him wanting to not move around too much. “Listen, Screech. This world is crazy, right? And it affects every human who comes here in different ways.”
He stares at me, blankly.
“You know what I mean, Screech. We all get a bit crazy. We do and say things weird, we act weird. And if her way of coping is forcing herself to smile all the time and evade any answers that remind her of where she is... well, then, she's not the worst I've seen.”
His lips tighten into a hard line, because he's realizing that I'm kind of right.
“But what about the staircase disappearing, and this plain with all the water appearing?” he questions, prompting a bit hopelessly for me to hate a stranger.
“Her name is Madame Veneera,” I remind, though I'd only just made that observation. I'm slightly proud of myself for my association, but my accomplice doesn't seem to have a clue what I'm prattling on about.
“So?”
“Veneera? Like veneer?”
“I don't know what that means.”
Once again, his age is made acutely aware to me. That isn't really something a kid in second or third grade would know.
Though... I'm not even sure what grade I'm in, if I ever was in a grade, or really what a grade is or is like.
“It's like, a mask. A façade.”
“Façade?” he repeats.
“That means a mask. Like... an illusion, or something. Something to hide actuality.”
“Oh.” He looks at her, then back at me, then back at her, focusing on the lines of her forever-smiling face. “That actually makes a lot of sense.”
“I’m glad,” is my rather clipped reply. “But still, the least we can do is stay for some water.”
“Freckles.”
“Look, Creep could do stuff like this too, right? And don't even,” I say when realization lights his eyes, and he opens his mouth to say words I already know are inaccurate. “We both know Creep fell.”
“We think she fell.”
“She didn't come passed me, and you didn't see her.”
“Well, then again, you sleep a lot. You could've been sleeping.”
I hesitate. I didn't know I slept that often, often enough for him to realize, and it reminds me of the forgotten dream that I had, and the dream I caught him having this morning. I tell myself not to ask now, but to remember it for later, when our lives don't hinge on a conversation that we're having with what could very well be a psychopath.
“It's not Creep, Scree. She'd never be able to pull this much off.”
He doesn't look convinced, just stares at me, eyes clouded and angry.
I sigh at his stance. “Come on. We're literally stained in blood. And I'm thirsty. Aren't you?”
“I mean... yeah...” he says, uncertainly.
“And this is literally a cup of water offered out to us. Let's just go get washed off and drink something, okay?”
He just stares at me, unblinkingly, not really speaking, not really accepting.
I play my last and final card. “We literally have no other choice, Screech. If we deny, what are we going to do? Sit on this plain forever?”
“Better than being killed in a few minutes,” he grumbles.
“Screech!”
His eyes are still on me, never moving, his face never changing, before finally he hangs his head in submission. I am, after all, older and bigger and, more importantly, right.
The two of us pad back to Madame Veneera, him vastly trailing behind. I give a tight-lipped smile to the woman, forcing myself to be nice.
“We'd like to get washed off and have a drink, Madame Veneera.”
“Excellent!” she says, and though I expected for a moment her face to light up, it doesn't. I honestly shouldn't be surprised, but I think I am, a bit.
“Go over to the springs and wash yourself off. When you are done, and ready for a drink, come back, and I'll give you enough to make you sink!” She smiles at us widely, not that she ever hasn't though, and in silence, Screech and I turn away and began to walk towards one of the nearby springs, which bubble and splosh quietly.
“Really?” he asks behind me, and I can't help but allow a grin to claim my own face.
“Stop it.”
“Did she really just make a cheesy rhyme?”
“I think she did.” When I look back at him, he too is smirking.
I can't help it. I begin laughing, lowly, trying not to let her see, and he joins in, almost as if he has no control over his reaction.
“Oh my God! I think that was the cheesiest thing I've ever heard,” he tells me.
“I lived with a two year old and that's the cheesiest thing I've ever heard,” I agree, chuckling and knocking against him, now that he's quickened pace to walk beside me.
“When you come back, I'll give you enough to make you sink!” he mimics loudly, his voice several octaves ab
ove normal, and far surpassing hers.
“No, no, it was more like…” I cock my head to the side, staring blankly and smiling widely for no reason, then speak in an odd, creaking voice “When ye come back, I'll give ye enuff ta mak ye sink!”
His giggle is probably one of, if not the, most beautiful things I've ever heard. It fills the air, completely surrounding everything it touches, and lights up his face and his whatever colored eyes. I don't think I've ever seen that much happiness on his face – not that there is really much to be overly happy about.
“You could be her twin,” he says reassuringly as we reach the smooth stones and babbling waters.
“Don't insult me so,” I say in a jokingly wounded voice, and the smile that pulls up the corners of his mouth makes my heart melt.
He's so young, and he's so beautiful, and he's just so little. He should be laughing and jumping and singing, like normal kids do. He should be enjoying his life.
I should be, too.
We step into the water, and the moment our toes hit the cool streams I get the oddest sensation, one I've never felt before. My feet feel almost numb in the cold water – I’ve never noticed how hot my body temperature was, but now it's being placated, and I have to work to not let my body sink into the water.
Screech stands just outside the circular basin made of paled, smooth rocks, apparently allowing me to test trial before he gets too close.
“Thanks,” I say, smiling tiredly at him, and he returns my simper.
I take my clothes off, because they're drenched in the red iron as well, of course. I slowly sit down into the water, letting it hold me, and watching the red seep out of my skin gently.
In some places, it seems to be crusted on, and I know I will have to manually scrub it off with my nails, but for now, I work on my clothing. I still have my very baggy, beige nomad pants, but now I turn my attention to my shirt. It's strapless, for some reason, pale yellowed, with a large strip made of the same fabric but slightly more crumbled running along the top of the shirt. It stretches down, to about my belly, and that's where it ends, where it stops.
I sit there in the water, nude, washing myself off, and Screech looks around, as if awaiting something to attack me.
“Screech, come on. You have to have some faith.”
“I don't have to have anything,” he counters, his voice back to the cool and hard tone that I'm far too used to. I sigh, but I don't meet his gaze.
The coat of blood is not a perfect one – because of the way skin bends, there are some cracks and holes where the blood did not reach. I put my nails in those areas and use that to scrape the bits of blood that are so hard and dried on that they cannot come off at the mere contact of water.
“Take off your pants,” I say to Screech as I scratch my blood off.
He goes a bit pale, steps back. “Wh-what? No.”
“What's the use in modesty? Come on, they're disgusting. I'm not letting you walk around in those. If you're not going to wash yourself off, I'm going to wash them off.”
He looks back at Madame Veneera, who is not watching us, just staring straight ahead into nothing, and finally consents, taking them off and handing them to me. I smile at him but he's obviously embarrassed and doesn't look at me. Holding a sigh and a smile, I roll my eyes briefly before dunking them in the water with my clothes, squeezing the red juice out of them, and when I believe they're adequately clean, laying them out on the rocks.
First I lay my top, then my pants, and then... I throw one of Screech's pant legs out towards him, gripping the other one, and I catch the one I threw in mid-air. I have him now, between the two legs, and quickly, before he can struggle, I pull him into the water, backing up myself so he doesn't land on me.
He cries out and protests, but with a loud splash, enters the water. I grin happily, and stand to wring out the now again wet jeans.
But Screech is only glaring unhappily, checking the backs of his legs. “I think you scraped me.”
“Can't tell with all that blood on you.” I splash him with my foot, and he cringes before glaring at me again. “Get washed off.”
“You get washed off, miss.” He splashes me back, but I'm so close to the clothes that he gets them soaking wet.
“Look what you've done!” I scold immediately, and he looks slightly frightened and apologetic before I continue, “You've started an all-out splash war!”
He smiles as I drop his jeans onto the rocks and dive into extremely shallow water after him, shaking the water back at him, completely dousing the young form in front of me. The blood is beginning to fade from his skin, and he looks a lot more like himself. He's splashing me back, laughing quietly, and I decide that I love that sound, that I love how completely adorable he is in these rare moments that he's happy.
I grab onto his back and he tries to wade away – as the pool's so shallow, he can only be completely covered by the water when sitting, and I probably could when laying. “Hold your breath!” I warn, and he does before I dunk him, running my fingers through his thick, dark hair, releasing the dried chunks of blood. Apparently eight year olds have terrible “holding your breath under water” stamina, because within seconds he's struggling against my gentle grasp, so I let him up for air.
He gasps for a moment, then relaxes, lying into the water and floating on his back, though it's totally possible his back is brushing the bottom of the basin in some areas. I smile at him slightly and continue cleaning myself off until I turn to him.
“How am I?” I question.
“Optimistic. Tall. Smart. Freaky, but in a good way.”
“No, I mean...” I hesitate, blinking, as my mind processes his words. “You really think I'm smart?”
“Well, yeah.” He looks at me sidelong in the water, still floating, before finally pulling himself up into a sitting position, his whole body submerged save for his neck and face. I see the red seeping from his slim form in the water. “You catch things I don't ever see.”
“You catch things I don't ever see,” I say, a bit aghast at how he read us so wrong.
“Yeah, I guess. But then you catch even what I don't. We're good, you and I.”
I give him a bit of a sad, small smile. “Yeah. Two peas in a pod, or something.”
“Yeah.”
“Anyway, that's not what I meant. I meant with the blood.”
“Oh.” He's washed off enough for me to tell he's turning a bit red in embarrassment. “Oh, yeah. You're good. Did you get behind your ears?”
“Oh, right!” I dunk my head under water, scrubbing at it for a bit, before coming up. He looks up at me, but there's still streaks of red all over his face, primarily on his nose.
“How am I?” he asks.
“Intelligent. Quick. Depressing. You find what's hidden, and you miss the obvious. Like the blood all over your nose.”
He smiles back at me, and I swim over and wash it off for him, despite his groaned protests.
“Stop... Mom, stop,” he says.
I freeze for a moment, remembering his dream, and decide the best course of action is to react casually. Continuing to wash him off, I ask, “Mom, huh?”
“Sorry.” He's suddenly very still beneath my fingers. “Force of habit, or something.”
“Or something.” I turn his face towards me, holding his chin in my hands as I examine it to make sure all the blood's off. “You know anything?”
“I know a lot of stuff.”
“No, I mean about your mother.” There's a spot I missed, right below his cheek, which I set to working on.
“I told you when we first met that I didn't know anything about stuff like that.” His voice is very harsh and snappish, but for some reason, it doesn't faze me as much as I know it should.
“Yeah, but time's passed. I'm sure you've had dreams or something.”
“Why would you say that?” The hostility does not leave his timbre for one moment.
“Because it's true.” I release his face and look around at my w
ork. His skin, like mine, is still red, but that's because it was stained – not something that can be washed away, something that must fade. Otherwise, though, I think we look considerably better.
“You don't know that,” he's grumbling at me. “You don't know anything.”
I sit there in silence, staring at him. From telling me I was smart less than a minute ago to telling me I do not know 'anything', I feel like this is a drastic change in point of view.
Finally he sighs, cringes slightly, and looks away. “I'm... I'm sorry, Freck. Just... I don't know. I promise I didn't learn anything new. I... just got really upset when you mentioned it. I don't know why.”
I give him another one of those smiles that I always seem to have on hand – weak, tired, but overall, kind. “I know. You seemed pretty upset.”
He nods, and looks down, rubbing the back of his neck with his palm, and for a second I wonder whether or not I should tell him about the words he was whispering, crying out in his dreams. But then I remember his smile, and his laugh, and I'm frightened that if I say anything, I'll never see those again.
So I say nothing. Instead, I rise and pick up my clothes, putting them back on my body slowly, gently. They're still wet. We've not been in the water very long, but it's fine – I’m more thirsty than I was uncomfortable under the blood. I hand Screech back his pants, and he puts them on as well, and then slowly, together, we both step out of the basin.
“Oh, wait,” I say to him. “You missed a spot.”
“What?” He looks down at his bare, shirtless body. “Where?”
“Here.” I grab his neck under my arm and start ruffling his still wet hair while he cries out, protesting, but still laughing. Now that I've found out that I can make him laugh, I'm kind of obsessed with doing it – especially since here there's no staircase to worry about falling off of.
“You suck,” he says, shoving at me, albeit smiling, when I finally release him. I just wink and grin, then continue towards Madame Veneera and her creepy, distant smile.
“Let's see how much water we get,” I whisper when we get close, leaning in towards him. He leans back up at me.
“I bet enough to make us sink,” he returns, jovially.
We sit down in front of the woman, both of us this time, sitting criss-crossed as she does, and await her to speak.
Edge Page 6