[Silvermoon Forum][drablet] An Unkindness
Jul. 1st, 2009 01:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
meejCal asked me to tell her a story, so I totally spun this up over IMs.
Once upon a time, there was a woman and her son in the swamps.
They ate muskrat stew and stewed eels and vine-hash with okra.
Sometimes they drank goat-milk, if the goat were in a good mood, but mostly they drank whisky and cheap red wine.
Sometimes they could afford water or apple juice.
The woman earned money by weaving reeds and lathes into baskets, her son earned money by catching eels and mending shirts. (He had a prodigious talent with a needle; he made himself a set of bone-needles, from tiny to sock-darn-sized.)
One day the swamp-woman's son found a raven in one of his eel-traps, cussing without dignity at the wraps and knots of the woven snare.
"Ho there, raven," said the swamp-woman's son, "and what are you doing, going after my eels?" It crossed his mind to wonder what a raven was doing in the deep swamps, so far from the castle and the waterfront middens and the king's courtyard, but ravens - then as now - do as they please when no one stops them.
"Never you mind the eels," said the raven, examining his sturdy right foot hooked and snaked with reeds and weaves. "Never you mind them, or their tender eyes, or their slippery shadows that make such fine cloaks and masks. Just you get me out of here, boy, and I will give you gold and amber."
The swamp-woman's son did not pause to wonder that a raven was speaking to him. Maybe all ravens could speak, and he was the only one who hadn't known.
Besides, it is not hard to look at a raven, with its hot sly eyes, and imagine that it could cuss so stringently, nor that it would promise gold and amber for freedom.
"Don't want no gold or amber," the swamp-woman's son said. "Just you never mind the eels or their eyes. Take their shadows if you've the mind. Can't eat shadows. Can't sell them. Can't weave them into any cloak I might wear."
And he bent in the swamp-path, muck oozing on his knee and foot, and began patiently worrying the knots and snares of the raven's trouble, and all around him the dying eels splashed and the raven muttered.
The swamp-woman's son was skilled with needles, and in his hands threads did as he wanted, and knots were baffled and humbly begged his pardon if he set his will against them.
But these knots had a grudge against the raven, because his unkindness had been unkind to knots and traps for many years now, and when he'd foolishly stepped into a snare, the tangles stood at attention and wrapped around his foot and wings, and held him fast.
"Tarnation," said the swamp-woman's son, and "hellfire" and also something else a trifle bit ruder that the raven pecked him for.
"None of that," said the swamp-woman's son, and his fingers pried at the knots, and the tip of his tongue was caught between his teeth so he wouldn't let loose with a string of cusses and a rosary of ruckus.
Presently the swamp-woman's son said "tarnation" again, and he slumped into the mud, sitting on his seat with his knees drawn to his chest and his elbows cast over his knees. "Hellfire," he said, and "damn", and added for good measure, "these knots be full of hate and cussedness."
The raven said nothing, but pecked at a passing water moccasin to show what he thought about the matter.
"M'sieur Raven," the swamp-woman's son said, "this trap does what I tell it to, but it hates you more than it loves me. Suppose you tell me what you've done to make it so crabby."
The raven hunched its wings, and allowed as to how he liked to be the boss of everything, and this included high-toned crooked pieces of cord and string.
The swamp-woman's son sighed, and thought about saying another cuss, but that would bring his string of swears up to a six, and everyone in the swamps knew that hexes of any sort were up to no good.
"I can make a peace between you and the trap," the swamp-boy said, "but you got to be promising that you will let me talk to knots on your behalf. You don't know the ways to be talking to them, and they take it personal, and the way they sit crooked with bits of them behind themselves, you can't ever see their hearts."
The raven hemmed, and it quorked, and it muttered to itself, and its eye as it cocked its head was very fierce and bright. But it looked a ridiculous sight with its wings and its foot caught in an eel trap, with the slime and the stench coating it like the sheen of its plumes, and it finally sighed and dipped its beak.
"You set me free, then," the raven said, "and you come with me, and you talk to knots and strings for me, and we won't be feuding any more."
And the swamp-woman's son bent low, and talked to the eel-trap one more time, with his hands and his heart and his knack, and the knots unclenched themselves from the raven's wing and talon.
The raven stretched, and its wingspan was the whole tree-canopy, and it shook itself, and its talons were all the roots and branches of the mangroves and dry-stalks.
The raven is a bird of its word, and its unkindness is trustworthy, and it folded itself up again to hide the span of its wings and the reach of its claws, and it said to the swamp-woman's son, "Now we will be friends. Leave those eels, and their stink and their taste, and you come with me."
But the swamp-woman's son said, "First I take them to Maman, then I go with you," and this was done, and they went on their road, and that is a story for another day.
It needs some work, but I'm overall pleased with it for something I spun up in fifteen minutes.
Once upon a time, there was a woman and her son in the swamps.
They ate muskrat stew and stewed eels and vine-hash with okra.
Sometimes they drank goat-milk, if the goat were in a good mood, but mostly they drank whisky and cheap red wine.
Sometimes they could afford water or apple juice.
The woman earned money by weaving reeds and lathes into baskets, her son earned money by catching eels and mending shirts. (He had a prodigious talent with a needle; he made himself a set of bone-needles, from tiny to sock-darn-sized.)
One day the swamp-woman's son found a raven in one of his eel-traps, cussing without dignity at the wraps and knots of the woven snare.
"Ho there, raven," said the swamp-woman's son, "and what are you doing, going after my eels?" It crossed his mind to wonder what a raven was doing in the deep swamps, so far from the castle and the waterfront middens and the king's courtyard, but ravens - then as now - do as they please when no one stops them.
"Never you mind the eels," said the raven, examining his sturdy right foot hooked and snaked with reeds and weaves. "Never you mind them, or their tender eyes, or their slippery shadows that make such fine cloaks and masks. Just you get me out of here, boy, and I will give you gold and amber."
The swamp-woman's son did not pause to wonder that a raven was speaking to him. Maybe all ravens could speak, and he was the only one who hadn't known.
Besides, it is not hard to look at a raven, with its hot sly eyes, and imagine that it could cuss so stringently, nor that it would promise gold and amber for freedom.
"Don't want no gold or amber," the swamp-woman's son said. "Just you never mind the eels or their eyes. Take their shadows if you've the mind. Can't eat shadows. Can't sell them. Can't weave them into any cloak I might wear."
And he bent in the swamp-path, muck oozing on his knee and foot, and began patiently worrying the knots and snares of the raven's trouble, and all around him the dying eels splashed and the raven muttered.
The swamp-woman's son was skilled with needles, and in his hands threads did as he wanted, and knots were baffled and humbly begged his pardon if he set his will against them.
But these knots had a grudge against the raven, because his unkindness had been unkind to knots and traps for many years now, and when he'd foolishly stepped into a snare, the tangles stood at attention and wrapped around his foot and wings, and held him fast.
"Tarnation," said the swamp-woman's son, and "hellfire" and also something else a trifle bit ruder that the raven pecked him for.
"None of that," said the swamp-woman's son, and his fingers pried at the knots, and the tip of his tongue was caught between his teeth so he wouldn't let loose with a string of cusses and a rosary of ruckus.
Presently the swamp-woman's son said "tarnation" again, and he slumped into the mud, sitting on his seat with his knees drawn to his chest and his elbows cast over his knees. "Hellfire," he said, and "damn", and added for good measure, "these knots be full of hate and cussedness."
The raven said nothing, but pecked at a passing water moccasin to show what he thought about the matter.
"M'sieur Raven," the swamp-woman's son said, "this trap does what I tell it to, but it hates you more than it loves me. Suppose you tell me what you've done to make it so crabby."
The raven hunched its wings, and allowed as to how he liked to be the boss of everything, and this included high-toned crooked pieces of cord and string.
The swamp-woman's son sighed, and thought about saying another cuss, but that would bring his string of swears up to a six, and everyone in the swamps knew that hexes of any sort were up to no good.
"I can make a peace between you and the trap," the swamp-boy said, "but you got to be promising that you will let me talk to knots on your behalf. You don't know the ways to be talking to them, and they take it personal, and the way they sit crooked with bits of them behind themselves, you can't ever see their hearts."
The raven hemmed, and it quorked, and it muttered to itself, and its eye as it cocked its head was very fierce and bright. But it looked a ridiculous sight with its wings and its foot caught in an eel trap, with the slime and the stench coating it like the sheen of its plumes, and it finally sighed and dipped its beak.
"You set me free, then," the raven said, "and you come with me, and you talk to knots and strings for me, and we won't be feuding any more."
And the swamp-woman's son bent low, and talked to the eel-trap one more time, with his hands and his heart and his knack, and the knots unclenched themselves from the raven's wing and talon.
The raven stretched, and its wingspan was the whole tree-canopy, and it shook itself, and its talons were all the roots and branches of the mangroves and dry-stalks.
The raven is a bird of its word, and its unkindness is trustworthy, and it folded itself up again to hide the span of its wings and the reach of its claws, and it said to the swamp-woman's son, "Now we will be friends. Leave those eels, and their stink and their taste, and you come with me."
But the swamp-woman's son said, "First I take them to Maman, then I go with you," and this was done, and they went on their road, and that is a story for another day.
It needs some work, but I'm overall pleased with it for something I spun up in fifteen minutes.
no subject
Date: 2009-07-02 06:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-07-03 04:06 am (UTC)But damn it, the false cognate is just so cool. I'ma pretend that in sympathetic magic hexes work better if they're in sixes.