Mist upon the Marsh: The Story of Nessa and Cassie (3 page)

Chapter IV:

To Town

I
t was some minutes before nightfall, when there came a knock at Nessa’s door. Having been most soundly asleep, she rose with only the deepest growl, and crossed the floor with every intention of damning her caller. She had begun to open the door, and had gone halfway already through her refrain, speaking, “If I’ve told you once, Orin, I’ve –”

But the face of her caller interrupted this angry torrent. There behind the door peeked Caramon, with a twinkling eye and an amused grin.

“Not Orin,” said he. “Only your irksome brother.”

“That I will not argue with,” said Nessa. “Is it time already to run?”

“No, not that. I and the others were thinking of something else.”

“What do you mean? You know we must make the rounds.”

“Oh, not tonight!” said Caramon, with an agitated sigh and a wild gesticulation. “There is more to life than work, you know.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Nessa. “I only haven’t discovered it yet.”

“Oh, never mind you, then. Just get yourself dressed! And don’t forget your Turin.”

He had run nearly the length of the hall, before Nessa looked out and asked him, “Why do I need my Turin?”

“We’re going out!”

Nessa only growled again.

~

Though she was certain that the others were waiting, quite as usual, upon her, Nessa moved about slowly as she dressed, and put her hair into a sort of state that would render her presentable to strangers. Lastly she went to the small desk that stood parallel to her bed; removed the key from the chain she wore round her neck; and unlocked the topmost drawer at the left-hand side of the desk. Inside the drawer lay one thing, and one thing only: a shining silver amulet. This she removed from the drawer, and strung upon the chain which held her key.

The amulet – otherwise known as a Turin – was about two-by-two inches tall and wide, with a very small, round ruby inlaid at its center. To one side of the ruby was depicted a woman with hand outstretched, as if in warning, towards the opposite side; where there stood a wolf with head bowed, as if in concession.

Every member of the Endai possessed one of these talismans. Those which belonged to the females looked exactly as Nessa’s did; but those which belonged to the males, of course, depicted a man rather than a woman, at the left-hand side of the Turin – though the action of the hand, and the response of the wolf, was identical. These pieces of silver were worn, as Nessa wore hers, on chains about the neck. They were worn only while spending time in places where humans dwelt, to avoid the accident of involuntary change – which was known to happen on occasion.

These talismans were identical to those which were attached to the chokers of the servants at Mindren. Even without them, the Ziruk could not change their shapes; but were, rather, trapped always in the forms of hulking and horrible beasts. Therefore, the Turins had no use in that sense. They could, however, help in diminishing the strength of the Ziruk, while they were worn; and this was their primary purpose, to control the rebelling of Morachi’s slaves. None would have had the ability to do so, while they wore the talismans.

When prepared finally to her own satisfaction, Nessa departed from her quarters, and went down to the wild moonlit garden at the front of the house, where the others were standing about.

“I honestly don’t know why we never leave without you,” said Dechtire. “We would save so much time that way!”

“But then you would not have anywhere near so much fun, when you did get to where you were going,” said Nessa.

“That is quite a matter of opinion.”

“Oh, never mind it!” exclaimed Caramon. “Let’s go, shall we?”

The four of them (for Orin was present, as well) went to the barn, where they piled into the old truck. Caramon took the place behind the wheel, and Orin the passenger seat, so that Nessa and Dechtire were squeezed rather uncomfortably in between.

“Well, damn it all!” said Dechtire. “If this isn’t just a terrible start to the evening!”

“Oh, quiet down, you,” said Caramon. “We shall be there in no time.”

“We certainly won’t, if you don’t start
driving,
you nit-wit! And, confound it – who elected
you
to drive, anyway?”

“In about ten seconds’ time, Dechtire, we shall have a vote to toss you out of the truck,” said Nessa. “Hush up!”

Dechtire leant back against the seat, and crossed her arms sulkily over her chest, so that her elbows nudged painfully into the sides of both Nessa and Caramon. Yet they started out anyway on their journey, bound for –

“Half a moment,” said Nessa. “Where exactly are we going?”

“I thought we might go on into town, and play that game they have there by the supermarket. Now, let me see – plating, is it called?”

Through the cab swept a roar of laughter at poor Caramon’s expense.

“It is called bowling, brother,” said Nessa.

“Ah, well,” said Caramon. “One serving dish or the next. But how about it?”

“Why do you want to play that silly game?” asked Dechtire. “It’s ridiculous, really.”

“Then what do you suggest, my dear?”

“Well, I suppose we could make a stop at the tavern –”

“Oh, I think not!” interrupted Orin. “I do believe that we had to drag you home the last time by your heels.”

“You certainly did not! I was only dozing.”

“We are going bowling,” said Caramon resolutely. “And that is all there is to it.”

Dechtire lapsed back into a fit of pouting.

~

After a great victory at the bowling lanes (to which Nessa trailed a close second), Caramon hopped back into the driver’s seat, laughing somewhat giddily. He drove quite as fast as the truck could manage down the main thoroughfare, and pulled without warning into the lot of a bright-looking diner.

“And what are we doing here?” asked Dechtire.

“Aren’t you hungry?” asked Caramon.

“Even if I was – I would not solve that particular problem
here.”

“Oh, come now,” said Orin. “A meal out on the town never hurt anyone.”

“Thank you very much, Orin!”

“You’re quite welcome, Caramon.”

The four recent bowlers made their way into the diner, where they were seated in a corner booth by a girl whose hair was blue, and whose earlobes appeared to have been inflicted with large holes. Dechtire stared quite rudely, and the girl made it fairly apparent that she was not appreciative.

“Good show, Dechtire,” said Nessa. “Now she’ll spit in our food.”

“Do people do such things?”

“To people like you, quite often!”

Orin sighed. “Can you two not manage to be agreeable, for even a single evening?”

“Considering who is doing the managing,” offered Caramon, “I would say that they are doing quite well.”

Luckily enough, it was not the blue-haired girl who came to their table. What with the new arrival’s mousy brown hair, and earrings of an entirely normal size, there was not much about her to fuel the fire of Dechtire’s incorrigible insolence. Rather on the unfortunate side, however, neither was there much to commend concerning her waitressing abilities. The four not-so-recent bowlers received their suppers some five-and-forty minutes after having sat themselves down; and those suppers were cold, stiff, and in some cases gelatinous where they should have been firm. To add to all this cause for discontentment, there was also the fact that, before taking a bite of anything, Dechtire insisted on checking it thoroughly. Nessa became so annoyed with the process, she began to wish that she had spared inspiring in her friend this particular anxiety.

“This is absolutely ludicrous!” shouted Caramon finally. (The fellow’s demeanour was typically quite joyful and merry, and entirely the antithesis of that of his sister; but his fondness for food was perhaps more than most people’s, and when he encountered a supper whose poor quality could find no words for explanation, he tended to lose his head.) “I shan’t give a penny for this rubbish!” he added.

Every head in the diner (though there were admittedly few) seemed to turn, then, towards him. Some looked startled; but others seemed simply curious.

“Hey there, you – English fella!” called a man from across the room, who wore a brown hunting cap atop his head.

Caramon frowned. “I’m not English.”

“Fine, then.
Strange
fella. Why don’t you hush up, so all the rest of us can eat in peace?”

“Quiet, you,” said Caramon, shaking a fist in the man’s direction.

“No!” replied the man. “Quiet,
you!”

“A man has the right to a decent dinner!” Caramon cried.

“Then go eat someplace else!”

The two waitresses were standing between the long counter (before which sat perhaps fifteen swivel-stools) and the serving station. They were whispering fearfully to the cooks behind the station, and glancing nervously and repeatedly towards Caramon. He was breathing heavily, and the cords in his neck had begun to show through, so that he resembled a miniature of an enraged Titan. Orin rose up quickly, and took hold of Caramon’s arm, so as to lead him from the restaurant.

“Very sorry, everyone,” he said. “He means nothing by it.”

“Well, I certainly do!” cried Caramon. “I mean every bit of it! Especially
you
there!” Again, he gestured threateningly at the man in the brown cap.

He and Orin disappeared through the door. Nessa looked out into the lot, where Orin was standing with his hands on Caramon’s shoulders, while the latter seemed to be attempting to charge back into the diner in the manner of a raging bull. Nessa sighed, and looked to Dechtire, who appeared not to have noticed anything at all. Still she was peering under the bun of her hamburger, searching for evidence of saliva.

Nessa sank down in the booth, the better to hide herself from the eyes of the other diners, and put a hand to her face. When finally she gained the nerve to look again, she saw that a third waitress had joined with the pair already mentioned, having apparently been out of the dining room, and hence out of earshot of all that had occurred. She looked with something of a smile towards Nessa and Dechtire, and patted the arm of the mousy-haired waitress, who looked even more anxious than her blue-haired colleague, before setting off across the room.

“Oh, no,” muttered Nessa.

Dechtire, who had taken to scraping the first and foremost layers off of every item on her plate, in order to enjoy safely their undoubtedly hygienic cores, sat utterly oblivious.

The waitress came to stand beside their table, looking down at Nessa (for, of course, Dechtire did not notice her) with nothing of her smile having faded from her face. She peered for a moment out into the parking lot, where it seemed that Orin was succeeding in the feat of calming Caramon.

“Is there a problem here?” asked the waitress.

“Not with me,” said Nessa.

“Then with
whom,
may I ask?”

“My brother.”

With every response, Nessa felt her voice shrinking even farther into something which was nearly inaudible. The waitress looked at her strangely, with a single eyebrow arched, and her right foot tapping.

“I take it he’s the angry-looking one, out there in the lot?”

“You take it rightly.”

Finally, Dechtire glanced up, and eyed the waitress suspiciously. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Look here,” said the waitress. “You picked a bad night to come to Wiley’s. Both of the cooks back there – well, they don’t honestly know how to cook. So what do you say you slip on out the door, before anyone else comes asking questions? I’ll say you squared your bill with me.”

“And why would you do that?” asked Nessa.

“You look like good people. Let’s leave it at that.”

Nessa glanced from Dechtire (who, at the best of times, looked as a far cry less than good people) to Caramon, who stood huffing and puffing between Orin and the truck, doubled over with his hands upon his knees. His silver Turin had fallen out of its hiding place beneath his shirt, and hung down from his neck, glinting in the moonlight above the gravel in the lot.

“If I were you,” said the waitress, “I would follow through on that offer, right about now.”

Nessa looked, for the first time, rather carefully into her face. A face more than pretty, it was, with bright blue eyes to contrast the thick, dark hair piled atop her head. Nessa, who was in the habit of thinking and comparing as such, could only match it most closely to the fur of Faevin. To solidify this association, there seemed something about this waitress, too, that was reminiscent of shadow (just as were the inexplicable Faevin’s appearance and movements), and of things visible but intangible. There was something in her smile that was not entirely spurious, but which was neither entirely genuine.

She made the other waitresses, at any rate, look something silly. Rather tall she was, too; at least enough to increase the feeling of discomfort which looking at her already engendered in Nessa, by forcing her to crane her neck most awkwardly. Her name was Cassie – a piece of information Nessa gleaned by glancing at her little blue nametag.