The Heartwood

Chapter 8

Asleep, Asher approaches the study.

The halls of Heart Wood warp and coil like the insides of a snake with curved, cozy corners and a thrumming heat. The symmetry is perfect, his life nearly complete. Asher touches the door, a heart beating inside. He knows there are jackdaws gathering. They will peck at the snake, their midnight beaks and talons coming closer and closer, gouging in. He has limited time but the door is locked. Asher peers around him with the awareness that he is coming close to something. That he is crossing over a place that will burn away behind him. Perhaps he is a fool after all, no longer protected by the adults in his life. Alone. His surety and candor are a mask about to be snapped free, exposing him to the venomous insides of the house. Something tells Asher that he has a right to enter the study, though. Something important waits - meant for him - so he tries the handle again. It collapses as he pulls. The door opens.

His mother bursts through, all noise as she erupts from a familiar wood barrier as it swings wide. Bleary-eyed, Asher squints to face her colorful form, illuminated by sunlight, all flutter and hands. She pulls back his covers and then rips wide the curtains making his world even brighter.

He hisses, seething against it until she slaps at him.

"He's been here and you're sleeping late, what are we to do with you Asher? No, you're too old to make strange sounds. Up, up, I'm not asking you again!"

Asher is missing context and he has a study to investigate. Or evade. Maybe escape. It is gone now, teasing him with evaporated rememberings. He rub at his left eye, strangely missing the warmth of animal insides as she addresses him with further clues as to her fluster.

"Your tutor is downstairs and you are going to miss breakfast! Do not keep him waiting further."

His room. The Tuesday. It all falls into place like a backdrop collapsing on a stage full of actors.

There is certainly theatrics from his mother as she makes a grandiose effort of picking up his clothing and flattening his hair as he struggles into them. She even licks her thumb and attacks his ears, an act both motherly and absurd.

He casts her an incredulous and confused glare for she has not babied him in years. "Mother, I either get to make whatever noises I choose, or you stop treating me like I am three -"

She cups his face, letting her fingers slap at his cheeks. It is gentle but the smacks sound pathetic. "You may set the rules another day, but for now sacrifices to your dignity must be made. Mr. Kingsley is a very respected man and I would hate for him to think that your father and I raise a..."

"A Sprite?" The boy squirms and she lets him free. "Was he early?"

Asher normally wakes with the sun - his day starting and stopping as he forms daily designs between dozing. Eventually, he will climb from his nest to put his sleepy plans to motion, though he recalls none of that having happened today. He has a study to invade but..

"He is on time," his mother answers, appraising her child's appearance by spinning him about. Asher is obedient and lets her. "It is you, my bricky boy, who is late."

***

Asher is practically pushed down the stairs. He does not tell his mother that an accidental death will delay him permanently. In essence, he is as timidly excited as she. And with his dignity, "sacrifice" may be a good word to use in approaching this, his new tutor. A mother's instincts may have picked up on the dangerous power simmering beneath the rugged surface of the man. She laughs gayly as they all meet again in the kitchen. Asher recognizes his mother turning her fear into the familiar draught of social awkwardness, though, instead of classifying it as something stranger and more primal.