This and That

"Take Me Back to the Start"

"Western Amorian blue box. Hold the stripes and velvet." The barked order barely left the man's lips before I had dashed away towards the nearest oistré. The deceivingly small room in fact held scores of rows of items, many of which I had not heard. The area teemed with other oists, all running about like worker ants anxious to quickly complete their jobs. My own minute position, in which I could easily be replaced, among the many who claimed the same title gave me an odd sense of security. I suppose the complete organization, of which I played only a small part, made me feel proud of my first real-life job. And, having been on the plump side since the end of the softball season, the constant running offered me some exercise. I don't know if I'd have called myself fat but...

"Where. Is. My. Box? I have waited long enough!" The voice echoed shrilly down the hall, eliciting absolutely no response from any of my coworkers; impatient customers hardly classified as a rarity.

And heaven forbid you wait more than a minute for some stupid blue box.

After rotating the gear to the desired item, I grabbed the bright azure object and ran back to my post. I nearly choked on my own saliva when I noticed the hand waiting underneath the drop-off slot. Surely no noble would go to the effort of actually holding out a hand to receive something. I placed the box into the wrinkled palm, careful not to touch or show anything beyond polite courtesy to the mystery customer.

That is, until said person gripped my wrist in a stubborn hold, yanking me closer until my head smacked against the decorated wall.

Rubbing the sore spot, I waited patiently for the angry rebuke every oist received at least twice a day. Instead, the person shocked me with the clipped whisper, "You are Runnin?"

I'd signed a contract before taking the job--well, rather being forced into it--that required I could not refuse any demand of those I worked for. I decided it best not to see if that included questions.

"Yes, m'lady," I answered the obviously feminine voice.

I used the pause to glance around me. Of course, every waiting oist had trained curious eyes in my direction. They quickly looked away when I turned.

"A cold draft often blows down this hall and underneath my door." I startled to attention at the change of subject. "I believe it comes from the general direction of that way." A fiercely arthritic finger jutted out of the square drop-off hole and pointed to my right, towards the door opening into the east wing of the palace.

The forbidden east wing of the palace.

I ventured a query of my own. "How would you have me resolve this, m'lady?" I buttered on a thick layer of the sophisticated speech I'd read in my medieval novels.

The finger did not waver. The woman offered no answer.

"I apologize but I'm afraid I am not at, uh, leave to explore that area of the, er, palace." Was the finger elongating?

"I feel a draft," the lady insisted.

"As I have explained, I cannot go past that door, my lady."

"I feel. A. Draft!" The woman all but screamed.

Making a split-second decision that would most likely cost me something dear, such as my head, I attempted to placate the customer. "Of course. Please do not upset yourself, good lady; I shall investigate the matter at once." And with that simple but deadly promise, I set off for the plain wooden door hiding who-knew-what, certain I held the attention of all thirty oists in that hall.

It so happened that no guards stood barring entrance through that door; no one made to stop me from opening it; it was unlocked; and, strangest of all, not a one of the many souls who should have witnessed it whispered a word. Only one oist stood in the hall at that moment, and she kept her back turned toward the door nearly the entire time. Instinctively, she wheeled around to face the door just as it closed the smallest of spaces between itself and the frame. Had she seen the door move? No, surely, she must have imagined it. After all, the girl had not slept well this past week.