SRθ: Grim Inquiries (2023-2024)

Sit.14: The Trip

THE NEW

Tried, and true, the old conventions
they make us warm with hearth
settle in by cozy fires
to share in gentle mirth

but then, at times, the old feels broke
and busted b'yond recognition
and many break upon the wheel
of time, trial, and tradition

so make anew a space for us,
to join together free,
and dress ourselves howe'er we like,
and sing in awesome glee

We take from stories that we know,
we try to be our betters,
we follow every single word
and chant, down to the letters

we pride ourselves in copy rote,
we know the tales so true,
that if you flub a single line,
we all make fun of you

but all's in jest, so rest assured,
there's room for all aplenty
to join into the fun and cheer
you lose from life so empty

Still, the danger's there innate,
from taking other's traits -
be careful not to lose yourself,
forgetting your true gait

let bolster what you see inside
let loose what suits you none
let lie what shall not be disturbed
let flow what calls to run

if inside you see a someone,
then that someone you shall be
and if you hold them tight enough,
the older you will leave

So do regard your other selves,
don't punish them for being,
their flaws are all the same as yours,
before growth made them fleeing

you may yet want to look again,
to check what's in your name,
and be a bit of you once more,
if not fully reclaim

the most important thing to know
is dreams are dreamt by us
and people that we dream of
become real the same way thus.

* * *

The Scribe took us back to The Author's home, which she shared. The entrance was a creaky shack that whistled as wind passed through, but the inside was a cozy cottage built from grey stones around thick struts, with a nice, tight ceiling that let nothing inside and sloped from front to back. There was a kitchen and coal oven, a kettle, a and a small wooden table with two chairs. Dried herbs hung from shelves topped with bottles, labeled with strokes of paint to tell apart seeds from roots. Each member of the house had a bedroom - The Author's had only a bed and a writing table, with paper, pen, and ink. Notes were tacked to a strut up and down, and paper was strewn about all over the bed – the sheets sat on the floor below, and it looked like he'd been sleeping there inside, softed only by a fur-skin rug. In The Scribe's room, there was a bed, a wardrobe, and surprisingly, a fine vanity desk complete with a silver mirror. In it, I was saddened to see a man, a woman, and a greasy wad of hair on two legs. I thumbed at my bangs, and scratched my beard, and saw that my face had grown thinner and more pronounced – probably from eating nothing but potato soup. Then I looked at The Scribe, whose red hair flowed straight and wavy both, neatly combed, and her perfectly plucked eyebrows rested nicely over her unlikely kind, blue eyes, which were narrow on the bottom but big and round on top. Her crooked smile and thin lips made my heart beat, as did her fine, perky body, that still curved nicely at her thighs. She was like a squirrel, so lithe it made the cats jealous.
Noticing my sadness, she tried to cheer me up. "Don't worry!" she beamed. "I can fix you up, good as new, even better!"
"What're you gonna do, shave me?" I whined.
"She shaves me," The Author shrugged. "She does a fine job of it, too."
I groaned, but she was smiling from ear to ear.

In a matter of days, I heard of boys upon girls upon everyone who ever lived there, gossip for miles about people whose names I'd not caught in a town I couldn't pronounce. The Scribe helped me boil honey, and with several cloths we waxed my face and limbs bare again. We practically turned the river into hairy wine by washing them all at once. She remarked that I took the pain well, but in honest, the pain was much less when I ate only plants as The Doc had instructed. Hearing that made her frown, as she wasn't ready to give up anything she liked to eat, least of all bread, meat, or cheese. So I helped her next, and was entertained by the raw brutality of it all – here were two young adults naked as sin, sweatin' and bleedin' in a room together, not a hint of lust between us as we tore each other apart for beauty's sake. Maybe it was a mood-killer, I couldn't be bothered to know. I wanted to be cute again. When at least we looked like herrings on two legs, she taught me to braid hair and clip nails, by doin' mine first and drillin' in the finer points, sometimes literally – into my nail-beds and under my skin, with a file. She even sheared my mop on top, and fined it with little snips. I was startin' to look down-right human again – even royal.
Next, she showed me cosmetics, and I spent a week learnin' powders from balms, pinks from reds, yellows from greens. She used a boar-bristle brush, same type for soap to shave her brother with (though she had another for that), and fluffed 'erself with colors on top of charcoal lines around her eyes. Her cheeks were rosy, her face was pale, an' 'er eyes flashed fiery red, or maybe orange. Then she did my face next, and gave me green lids to match my eyes, with dark circles under them (barely a shade beyond what was naturally there). She lined them last, black so pitch I could've crawled out from the earth. I didn't take to coloring of my lips and nails at first, but I did agree eventually, and mine were done in black while hers outshone mine in fire again – though I didn't mind that, and I felt the contrast of light and dark suited us. It made us more interesting to each other. We did start to make out, then, while admiring each other's looks (and what was mostly her handiwork), but The Author interrupted us with a clearin' of 'is throat to review his latest work. We gave our thoughts, and moved on to trying dresses. The Author didn't seem to mind our friendship and courtship, as it gave him time to work, though I had been making sure to dine with him for morning and night, and shared my ideas for another story he could tell – which he predictably scoffed at.
Back to the wardrobe, The Scribe chose a white dress and black bodace for me, that matched my cloak (she'd had me wash it first, which let out brown soot into the water under the dock). For herself, a light green dress, with yellow cord at the bust and waist. It had a generous neckline, unless you were her. She loved it.
"Our mother was a seamstress," she told me. "She traveled far abroad to study different sewing, and took colors from all over the world. Careful in that, nothing staining for lunch – it's real Egyptian cotton."
"That's where my mother's from," I beamed. "I'll take good care of it."
Finally, we looked at ourselves in the mirror, done-up and nearly tarted out.
"Shall we take ourselves to market, then?" she posed.
"Are we ON the market?" I quipped.
"Nah," she leaned. "Not exactly, not like that. But still, for fun."
A pit grew in my stomach. "Won't they know I'm-"
"What?" she cut in. "You're close enough for me, and like I said – we're not bloody Catholic."
So we ventured into town, picking up our hems in front of us. I felt tighter in my bodace than a rat in a snake's jaw, but The Scribe was well at-ease, clearly enjoying herself. It wasn't so much that she was flamboyant; more like she was natural, with flair. The women gave us smiles and shook their heads, while one got red in the face and glared. We really didn't mean anything by it, I hoped. The men whistled and cheered from the bar, and The Scribe blew them all a kiss with a wink. I waved, awkwardly.
She called out, "If you want your wives to look like us, send them to me! I'll fix them up for some coin."
A gruff drunk yelled back, "I don't got me no wife! How 'bout I just buy you?!"
Everyone laughed, but she rolled her eyes and turned to me again.
"Aah, they're still pigs. But to Hell with 'em. I just want to be The Artist, not The Scribe, and get out of my brother's shadow."
I nodded, knowing the feeling: The Knight's promised conquests by blade always far outweighed my simple task at field by rusty sickle.
"Now," she whispered into my ear, "Let's grab some lunch, and find a meadow."