The TwiceBorn

And Ye Shall Know Wonders

"...And the grammar of our bodies breathing poems to our lips..."--Foucault

Alora picked up the tray and took it over by the hearth.  She sat it down between her and Islinn and made a show of breathing in the hot aroma of roasted deer meat and the savory spice of the rack soup.  Islinn raised an eyebrow and a smile played around the corners of her mouth but she remained silent. 

Alora picked up one of the bowls of soup and a spoon and handed it to Islinn before settling herself down in front of the fire and digging into her own bowl.  Her mind cranked up the familiar litany of what may have happened to the food as others prepared it but she was too hungry to give it her usual, paranoid attention. 

“So…why are we going to Lochedge?”  Islinn asked as she tasted the soup.  Winnie may not be anyone’s mother but she sure could cook like one.  The soup was rich with potatoes and carrots that complimented the wood-like gamy taste of the antlers. 

“Well…the reason I was given was to…help…Darius Buron with his dead brother.  Alex or Alan, something like that.  But there’s more to it, I think.” 

Alora scraped her spoon loudly across the bottom of her bowl.  She glanced at Islinn’s bowl of soup. 

“Aren't you hungry?”

“Yes. I am, I’m eating. Just…not as fast as you are.” Islinn replied.

She was amazed at how quickly The Twiceborn could absorb food. She ate as though every meal might be her last one which, Islinn supposed, was always a distinct possibility.  She took another sip of her soup and watched as Alora took a huge bite of one of the meat pies.

“How can you help Darius if his brother is already dead?”  Islinn asked. 

Alora smiled as she took another bite of her meat pie.  It was an eager, predatory smile and one that Islinn didn't care for much.

“I can do more for him dead then alive, actually.  What I’m not understanding though is why Darius thinks he needs a sin-eater for his brother.  That’s the part no one wanted to fill me in on. Well, that and the Hynti.” 

Islinn set her bowl of soup down, no longer quite as hungry.  She was familiar with the Hynti and not just from her father’s bedside stories.

 Back when she was waiting on her father to return, some of the boys from town had caught one they’d found wandering through the brush.  Sometimes the night hags traveled through the woods by Borea, Hynti in tow.  Islinn had been part of the contingent that had gone out and sprinkled salted bread and holy water along the edges of the trees to make sure they stayed out of town.

She remembered she’d been plowing on the day the Hynti was caught, struggling to hold the handles steady as Casper pulled in fits and starts.  He’d already stopped on her twice to enjoy the shade of a tree she had to pass him under and no amount of yelling and rein-slapping could convince him to move until he was ready.  She’d finally stopped, exhausted, with the reins looped over her shoulders and the sun beating down on the back of her sun-burned neck, like fire.

Movement out of the corner of her eye had caught her attention and she had turned to see DeWitt Moser gallumphing across the rows, one dirty hand holding up his drawstring trousers as he leaped and lunged. Not the brightest of the town boys, but one of the sweetest. The other boys in town called him Half-wit.   He’d proudly presented her with a bouquet of flowers one day then run off yelping like a scalded dog when she’d smiled and said thank you.  Today though, she eyed him with a less then welcome eye. No bouquet of flowers was going to fix what ailed her this time around.