Appleseed Johnny meets Jack Frost meets Jack the Man with the Lantern.
“Harvest is over,” says Frost, and the lips of his smile are tattooed.
“They’ll slaughter the winter cows soon enough,” says Johnny, peeling a Gala with a paring knife. He tosses the long red ribbon over his shoulder. “Let them have their bonfire first.”
“I love bonfires,” protests Frost. “I love it when they gutter.”
“Not all fires die,” says Jack the Man with the Lantern. In his hand a pumpkin glows, its heart a hellborn ember.
“To the harvest, anyway,” sighs Appleseed, and pours three shots of cider.
“And anyway,” she says, “I’m only fourteen, and more anyway, I already have a–a suitor, if you must know.”
It would be different if he were threatening her somehow: she’d know how to deal with that. But instinct tells her that fists are not the proper tools for this situation. Proserpina, exasperated, wishes she knew how to counterpunch a grin that makes her back tingle.
“So which is it,” Elijah says, “you’re too young to pursue, or already caught?”
“Neither,” she finds herself whispering.
Her overall impression of kissing is that it is sort of wet, and rather defuses everything.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
“Of course I’m worried,” snaps Blow the Skin. “And you should be too! Rotten Gamble and Dragalong never returned from this awful place. If I told you half the things I’ve heard about this Papa Bosom–”
Grit squeals in Kid Rabbit’s exasperated gears. Once again he’s trundling through the desert with a message in his heart, but the place seems crueler now than it has before: dawn pinks the sand like blood in the water. They crest a dune and come upon a crenellated maw, blind ancient iron, too dry to rust.
“I’d better knock, I suppose,” mumbles Blow the Skin.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Gad sent letters south, but those people claimed no king and knew no Inigo. He sent letters west, but their carriers vanished. Lonago had come home, of course; but he spoke to no one who could not sing.
Gad buried their father in silica and state. Heavy was his head at the coronation, but that was just the ceremonial headpiece. He had a lighter one for everyday use.
He abdicated at the age of forty-seven and retired to a hillside summer home. The Council barely noticed. They were trying to decide how many sides should be on the new coins.
Imago ran west with the wolves, upriver, farther than any man had been able to row.
The river became white water; white water split to a thousand streams. Imago and his pack followed the largest each time until they came to a spring as clear as grief, and beyond it waited the end of the world.
Imago sniffed nervously, then peered at the border. It took him some time to remember his voice.
“Is it,” he cleared his throat, “a long way to fall?”
“Only if you look down,” said the end of the world, and drew him over the edge.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Prince Inigo rode south to the mountains, where giants bellowed challenge at his standard. When they fell the rocks boomed like kettle drums; his blade was white with their blood.
Those fled who would not battle, and by spring their savagery was gone from the land. The people of the kingdom came bustling behind him and settled in to iron out the hills.
Inigo found himself lord of a castle in a peaceful and prosperous land. But for his absent brothers, it was quite like home.
He took up his standard and rode south yet deeper, and was not seen again.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Prince Lonago went east until the road became a pier, and stepped onto the ship at its end. He sang down the wind to set them sailing sunward, and they came to an ancient city, peopled with soft accents and clever lies.
Lonago learned there to sing other things: riddles and flattery, counterpoint and intrigue. His voice cracked and warbled, then settled again into subtler tones. But there were only so many homes in the city. None of them were for him.
The wind that took him west was fitful and hesitant, like a lover with a catch in her throat.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Once upon a time there were four princes: Imago, Inigo, Lonago and Gad. Imago was swift; Inigo, strong. Lonago could sing down the wind in a high, clear voice like a violin.
The brothers learned to hunt and sail, the declension of Latin and to declaim in Greek. They cared for the people; the people thought them fine.
When they were twenty-three, twenty-one and eighteen respectively, Imago, Inigo and Lonago rode to the corners of the kingdom to seek wisdom and return as men.
Gad stayed home to actually run the castle.
This story has little concern for Gad.