Curse of Tolken | ONC 2022 | co-writer @sassy-weirdo

(3.1) El

Part I

The rural road to the little town of Neklot was surrounded by fields filled with dying crops. I wasn't sure why, but those fields, once colourful and beautiful, had become a disgusting waste of rot and weeds. It was like life was sucked out of them.

After ten miles of the land of the dead, we arrived in the sleepy town. Though it was the afternoon, no one was out and about. No one drove their cars on the bumpy, deformed road. No children played outside. It was just... quiet. Almost silent. If it weren't for the cries of a baby, a radio and some siblings yelling at each other, I'd have thought the whole community was dead.

As Hilda drove to the tiny general store—the only store in Neklot—I felt a kind of emptiness. Like something dear to me was stripped away. Like I would never feel it again. That power. I wanted it. I needed it. I was weak without it. I was weak then, watching Hilda stride confidently into the building after parking in a wonky diagonal fashion.

Ignoring the power void, I peered through the transparent doors at Hilda transpiring in an animated conversation with a scruffy man who looked to be the manager of the area. It consisted of screams of joy, a pleasantly surprised face, a greeting kiss on the cheek, many hand motions and a lasting hug that told a story of its own.

When she walked out the door straight to the car I sat in, she wrapped her vertically striped trench coat around her chest, a warm smile and pink cheeks—even more rosey than usual—gracing her face. I eyed the man she left behind, that man who made her so happy and giddy. His grey beard and mustache covered his face, but I could still see signs of gleefulness. Probably lovers. What other secrets from her literally magical history is this woman hiding?

I chose not to bring it up. Instead, we sat in silence, driving past the plentiful fields leading to Lond. The emptiness was growing deeper and deeper, filling my soul with hellish powerlessness. I haven't ever felt that. It was overwhelming. I hoped it wasn't physically showing.

The further we traveled from Neklot, the weaker I became. I felt physically ill by the time centre London was viewed. The famous landscape of the city in all its glory was truly a sight to see. I only wished I could see it when it was dark.

We rode through the bustling streets of England's capital city, me in complete awe and Hilda snickering, and saying pompously, 'Suddenly that white hair doesn't matter so much, hm?'

It was the first time she'd mentioned the hair change. And I knew why then. That hair didn't matter in the face of London's vast beauty. Even while feeling this illness take over, the city's features didn't let my pure sight down. Rows and rows of beautiful steel buildings lined together in my peripheral as we moved forward. My main focus wasn't on that though. It was on what lay ahead.

A large stone building filled my gaze. It was refined, yet untraditional, with its grey and red rusted stones patterned into an impossible puzzle. The large burnt white pillars that held the burden of the terrace at least two stories above ground level towered over us as the car parked in yet another shoddy position that would most likely block the way for other vehicles to use the roundabout that led into and out of the resort's driveway.

Without asking questions, knowing full well I wouldn't get answers, I slid to the left out of the passenger seat. The cool breeze of autumn hit me then and I shrunk into my coat, pulling the hood over my head and wrapping the scarf more securely around my neck.

I turned to Hilda, who was holding her back as she lifted herself out of the driver's seat, and asked in a small whisper, 'Is this where the contact is?'

The wild woman answered in full volume, her French accent sounding over the empty courtyard outside of the building. 'Oh, ma amaura,'—not correct French for "my love", I knew. She always did have an odd way of speaking it. I'd always wondered why, though. I guessed I would find the truth rather quickly. She continued with her explanation, 'I suggest you don't call her "the contact" to her face. Madame Prophet is the correct terminology.' She had been walking around the car to me and finally reached me. She grabbed my shoulders and straightened them, not giving any leeway for relaxation. 'Now, stand tall, chin up. It's time to meet with a great legend.'