The Deep Prick

~Chapter 9~

 

    ~Our grandmothers name was Petra Sinclair. She was a princess, born in England. She had beauty like the sea; pulling you in, even drowning you and you of course would accept. She had the kind of beauty that radiated goodness and kindness. She possessed the kind of beauty that never teetered with falsities. Her inside coexisted with her outside like the wild beauty of a rose; all its parts working together as one, keeping you captivated.

On her twelfth birthday many kids attended her party. Many she knew, a few she didn’t; and for the few she did not know; there was a bearded girl named Madeira Everheart.

 

Twilight was approaching and in the English countryside on top of a succulent emerald green grassy hill, sat a castle, ladened in ancient brick. The castle was overpowering yet welcoming to the many guests who were attending the extravagant ball. People of all different ages entered the castle and were escorted directly into the ballroom. They joined in on the many guests who danced, including my grandmother, little princess Petra Sinclair. Petra was full of light and life, smiling and dancing around the ballroom, to Eugene Doga's “Gramafon Waltz.” She danced and danced, like her small stature did not feel small, when it came to the many taller dancers above her eyeline. She twirled around in her yellow tulle dress and would not seem to slow down her momentum until someone in her eyeline drew in her attention. Petra slowed her twirl and looked to see a bearded girl, sitting all alone at a table with half eaten horsdeorves, barely taking in any ounce of pleasure from the music. Bearded girl, Madeira Everheart, had a beautiful head of hair, which flowed down long and curled, over her black lace dress. Her small beard circled around her mouth ever so subtlety, but noticeable enough to make an impact. Petra skipped over to Madeira, cheerful and curious.

     “Hello,” Petra said, with a friendly smile.

     “Hi,” Madeira replied, with barely a glance at Petra.

     “Why not dance?” Petra asked.

      “I do not care for the dance,” Madeira replied, still not very sociable.

     “Do you not like the music?”

     Madeira shrugged her shoulders.

     "Well, my mother always says, if you don't like the music, the music in your mind should suffice. Just think of any music you want, and dance... it is very fun... I’m Petra.” Petra put out her hand. Madeira hesitated for a moment, then shook it. Petra then pulled Madeira to the dance floor and Madeira accepted, with a slight smile. The two girls danced to the waltz. Enjoyment seemed to find its way to Madeira's face and then Petra whispered in Madeira’s ear. “What are you?”

     Madeira stopped dancing. Her dancing body was now unmoved, as she looked at Petra without any kind of friendly twinkle in her eye. Madeira backed away slowly, as if Petra was a wild animal ready to attack her. But Petra was far from it, she smiled at Madeira, curious, but the smile faded the moment Madeira turned and walked away, through the crowd, outwardly bothered, maintaining hunched shoulders and a fast stride.

     “Wait don’t leave, please,” Petra shouted after Madeira, who was long gone.

      'What are you', is what Petra asked quite sincerely; and those three words, were what would change Petra’s life forever. Madeira went running to the forest, riddled with anger. She held a small blow dart in her small determined fingers. She stopped her fast run, placed the blow dart in her mouth and shot a dart at a bird, a weasel, and a rabbit. She brought the lifeless bird and weasel and rabbit, back to her small cottage in the forest. Madeira sat down at her old wooden desk in her bedroom, overlooking different colored powders in clear potion bottles. Madeira began to rid the animals of its hearts; squeezing out the vile substance into a mortar and pestle. She continued to mix this with other unheard-of liquids and  she then poured the vile concoction into a soiled pot. Madeira took a long nap on her bed. She then woke up to find the makings of the dark and glistening seed that she dug out from the soil. It shined like an angry sea at dusk and loomed placid like a shark’s eye. Madeira smiled; she had just made her very first Iris flower seed.