i miss the certainty of us.

the way that we carved our names in picnic tables,

mementos of the defiant proclamations

that we were there, we existed,

we lived loud enough to leave

parts of ourselves behind.

i still marvel at every line etched

somewhere that it shouldn't be.

in the bathroom stalls,

the worn park benches,

the railing of a bridge

overlooking a bustling freeway.

every one of them a piece

of the person who marked it.

the optimistic permanence

of the letters we leave behind.

Excerpt from my story, 'Wizards' Folly'.

Coralie halted in front of a red light at the crossing, unaware of the three unsavoury characters behind her. A tram rolled around the corner with a squeak. Such a hindrance they were to her—such an outdated method of transportation, restricted by two ridiculous metal slivers in the ground, which had caught her tyres more than once. Why couldn’t people just take the underground, or go by bus? That way cyclists like herself would not be bothered by these bulking behemoths, slowly running in their tracks, turning, twisting through the city like demented snakes. The twenty seconds it took to pass were endless in her mind. She couldn’t wait for her day to end, and if her phone didn’t ring by one in the afternoon, she’d consider it an end to the day indeed. She aimed to deliver on her own promise of bubbles and wine. Who cared if it would still be in the afternoon? That was the bliss of being an adult, was it not? To make one’s own decisions, stupid or not.

When the little green man in the traffic light replaced its red colleague, Coralie was off, shouting angrily at a taxi driver who had the audacity to cut her off. She braced herself for the tourist-laden Main Square, where pedestrians believed that walking on the bike lanes was their prerogative. What was the point, then, of having bike lanes in the first place? The city really ought to do something about that—after fixing the homeless situation.

With her mind unfavourably occupied, Coralie pedalled on, annoyed at constantly being slowed down—though she wasn’t going fast to begin with. Although her pace was inconvenient to her, it was very convenient for the three men behind her, as there was no need for them to run.

Main Square was packed, as expected around noon. It was surprising how dense a population would willingly squish itself into an otherwise large, open space. Coralie had grouped the mass into three categories, which she named the meat-munchers, pigeon-prowlers, and selfie-snappers. The meat-munchers were negligible to her; they mostly crowded around hotdog sellers or shawarma stalls and would peck away at their food sitting on far-off benches. Much more cumbersome were the city’s dirty, flying rats, which would peck away at scraps sown by the pigeon-prowlers. This created vast circles of spectators and feeders, intrigued by flocks of frantic feathers, which eagerly gobbled up such delicacies as greasy chips and cigarette butts.

But the worst of the lot were the selfie-snappers. Tourists and Starbucks-touring girls in their tweens,all desiring that perfect selfie with the old palace on the background. At least the pigeon-prowlers could be given a wide berth; the selfie-snappers, however, would backtrack swiftly and without warning, blinded by their own vanity, focusing on the world through a tiny LCD-lit screen. It forced any passer-by (particularly of the cycling variety) to a sudden, screeching halt.

Coralie groaned as she weaved left and right, dodging oblivious tourists, having to go well around the bike lanes. She glanced at some street artists posing as living statues, their acts continuously failing, either because of people’s meddling, or their own ineptitude. And, of course, before she could pass through the blur of people, another tram passed by to hinder her progress. It was a miracle it hadn’t rained yet on top of all things, although she supposed that would be the perfect end to the day.

Blades of grass tower over me. So tall. Too tall. They wave in unfelt winds, encroaching from all sides.

But it is not what causes the rustling.

I walk through corridors of vegetation. Overhead light flickers from crying street lamps, leaking, dripping, unseen tears. The hair on my neck stands up. Goosebumps make me shiver.

But not because of the lamps.

I see them in a field ahead. Their noses pressed to the cold, hard dirt, they shuffle on all fours, endlessly tracing paths in a field of arid, yellowed hay, faces shrouded by black cowls. They snuffle as they search in circles, foraging like mad boars, for treasures unknown. I want to get away from them, but therein lies the problem.

I am forced to pass them.

They pay me no heed, it seems. Their sniffs and rustling are loud, and I am small, so small.

Suddenly they all stop. An icy shiver runs down my spine in the absence of sound. The are still, only turning their heads, back and forth, back and forth, as if deciding on where the intruder is. I move through the grass, and they continue their perpetual crawls. I realise at that point, the futility of running.

There is no key. No key to escaping.

I stoop low and start searching, hands parting grass, face close to the ground. Perhaps it is here? Or... there?

Based on a recurring childhood dream.

MINKA VERSUS MINX

A tale by Chibouk the Stray

‘MINKA!’

A shrill voice echoed over the cobbles of Tahawal Street. It came from miss Kibbel, who had popped her head out of her little bakery called Muffin Tops.

‘Seriously, where did you run off to?’ she said, rubbing her temples. Twice more she shouted for Minka, before giving up and changing the CLOSED sign to OPEN and heading inside. She left the door open, allowing the smell of fruity, buttery pastries to waft out the door: a hint of cinnamon here, a dash of lemon there, all designed to trigger a bit of a tummy-rumble. Miss Kibbel shuffled over to her furnace and inhaled the scent of roasted almonds on banana bread. They were not ready yet, and so she plopped down in her rocking chair and pushed herself off with her heels, enjoying the cool breeze that came in through the entrance.

Something soft brushed against her legs. ‘Missy Minx! Why, I didn’t see you come in. Come here then, on my lap you go.’

The calico cat that had snuck in meowed and allowed herself to be picked up, and, after softly clawing miss Kibbel’s apron, nestled into her lap, purring at the strokes of her wrinkled hand.

‘Honestly Minxie girl, I don’t know what to do with that girl,’ miss Kibbel said while staring out the shop window, ‘where does she sneak off to every night?’

Minx flexed, yawned and stretched, then rolled on her back, relishing the belly rub that followed. Miss Kibbel smiled at the feline’s delight. Then she noticed the pink bowtie around her neck.

‘Oh, how pretty, Minx! You didn’t wear that yesterday. Did your owner give you that? Gosh, you are a cutie-pie, aren’t you. Tickle tickle!’

With powdery fingers miss Kibbel prodded Minx’s exposed tummy, and in reflex the cat grabbed her wrist as if catching prey – but the baker knew that whenever she did so, Minx never revealed her nails.

A heavy sigh signalled the end of playtime. ‘Where is that girl?’

Minx paused as if thinking on what to do next, then half rolled, half fell to the ground, landed neatly on her paws, and affectionately rubbed her head against the baker’s legs, before sauntering off to the back of the shop and hopping up the stairs. Miss Kibbel got up as well and took another long, hard look at her breads in the oven, straightening at the sound of footsteps coming downstairs. At first she looked surprised. Then her face sagged in displeasure.

‘Minka! I couldn’t find you anywhere upstairs. Where on earth did you come from? And stop doing that, will you!’

The teenage girl that emerged from the staircase stopped licking the palm of her hand, stumbled over her own feet, then adjusted the salmon-coloured ribbon in her hair. ‘Notice anything, auntie?’ she chirped, cocking her head to the side.

‘I notice you’re late, as usual. Waffles are in the kitchen, though they’ll be cold by now. Oh and finish the orange juice will you? It’s about to expire. Chop chop girl – shop’s open!’

Grunting Minka dragged herself to the kitchen, placing her back against the corner of the table and rubbing it to rid herself of an insistent itch. Stale waffles awaited her. The glass of orange milk smelled more sour than usual. With a grimace Minka emptied the glass in the drain and chucked the waffles in the bin. She’d have some milk later, when the maid delivered it. When she saw her reflection in the window she took off her ribbon, wiped it, then squeezed the thing in her fist before throwing it to the ground. Auntie hadn’t noticed it – not when she wore it.

Sighing Minka licked the back of her hand and flicked it through her auburn hair, before walking back into the shop and grabbing an apron from the rack behind the counter. The first customers were in: the grandmama twins who lived across the street, who came by every day.

‘Here’s your cinnamon rolls, Carol, Carla,’ Minka said, handing them two paper bags prepped by her auntie. ‘Will you be staying for coffee?’

Of course they stayed for coffee. They had stayed for coffee since time immemorial, having been loyal customers even since before the shop’s conception, eating rolls and sipping joes with her auntie in an act of neighbourly support. There, the lady of the house emerged, returning from the mirror at back of the shop with a thick layer of lipstick and a copious streak of rouge. Without even looking at her niece miss Kibbel plopped down with the twins and began her routine of morning gossip, ordering her to bring another cup of coffee with a flick of her hand. Minka rolled her eyes, brought the pot and placed it on the table for the ladies to figure out for themselves. She concluded, hearing their cackles, that they didn’t much care. Some more customers came and went, and ultimately it was Minka who took the banana bread from the oven while her aunt yakked away with the dinosaur twins. That’s how it went every single day; Minka ran the shop while Kibbel ran her mouth. As long as nothing broke and the customers were cared for, Kibbel didn’t speak to her at all.

Except, of course…

‘Minka put that down dear, lest you turn into a sweet roll yourself! That stuff goes straight to the thighs – and you really don’t need that, not with hips like yours.’

Scoffing Minka put away the cake she had almost bit into, took off her apron, and stomped up the stairs.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Bathroom!’

Minka slammed the door behind her and faced the mirror, wiping the corners of her eyes. How come that daft woman never paid attention – would willingly let her breads burn – yet somehow always knew when her niece went for a treat? Minka’s eyes glided down her mirror image. She wasn’t exactly skinny, but fat? Minka pressed her hands against her stomach, then let them slide over to her hips. This won’t do, she thought, day in, day out, what’s the point? Maybe I should go and change… But no, she couldn’t, not while the bakery beckoned. Tonight, yes, if only to confound Kibbel about her absence. Slowly Minka retreated to the shop.

The maid came to deliver the milk, allowing Minka to quelch her thirst. At nine-thirty she had a salmon-and-cream bagel, which would have to power her through the rest of the day, because lunch time was busy, and with patrons packing their provisions she would not find the time to have a sit down herself. Kibbel, of course, always found a moment to eat, blaming old age and frailty for her incessant need of nourishment, all the while criticising Minka whenever she asked for a break – what with her girth on the grow and all (as if Kibbel herself had not garnered quite the cushion). It wasn’t until five-thirty that the front door would shut and the sign would read CLOSED that, at last, Minka’s shift was over.

Miss Kibbel poked her head out the door, scanning Tahawal Street. ‘Minx? Oh missy Minx! Here puss puss puss!’ she sang, waiting a little while longer.

‘She’s never around at this time,’ Minka said, scowling at her grumbling stomach.

‘Oh shush, what do you know of cats,’ miss Kibbel said, before closing the door anyway. ‘Now be a dear and cook up some dinner. I’ve got tomorrow’s dough to knead.’

With a sigh Minka shuffled to the kitchen, groaning at the pile of plates she had to wash ere cooking could commence. A simple Pasta Romano would have to do, even if the tomatoes were no longer fresh. At least there was plenty of cheese.

Dinner was its usual quiet affair. Minka slurped at her fettuccini while Kibbel twirled the pasta with her fork – failing at her pursuit of etiquette. She tutted at her niece’s habit of licking the plate clean.

‘Cat’s got your tongue except for when you slobber it all over your plate. How are you to become a proper baker with that attitude of yours? And where are you off to now?’ Miss Kibbel inquired, eyeing Minka as she hobbled to the stairs.

‘Long day, I’m turning in,’ was the reply.

Kibbel scoffed. ‘For someone who sleeps so early you certainly manage to wake up late every day. Fine, go, have your cat nap – and don’t shake your hips so much when you walk, dear, it’s unbecoming.’

Without answering Minka trod upstairs, entered her room and quietly closed the door. She took a moment to lie on her bed, pushing her nose into the blankets and writhing around as if she couldn’t quite find the right position. Then she sat up, turned off the light, and waited, listening to the rhythm of the clock. Tick, tock, tick, tock. She focused solely on that sound, tick, tock. She breathed in. Tick, tock. She breathed out. Tick, tock.

It began with a shiver. An itch, just behind her right ear. Slowly the sounds of the world dimmed, while the sound of the clock grew louder. She felt herself diminish in size, and as she did her features began to change. Her nose began to shrink and her ears elongated. The hair on her head shortened while her skin grew bristly, and all the while she grew smaller. Then it accelerated: from her tailbone an actual tail sprang to life, and her arms and legs repositioned themselves to allow for quadrupedal movement. Her nails became claws that retracted in furry paws, and all the while she shrunk and shrunk. The final touch came with a cute little sneeze, causing whiskers to sprout from her face. The feline on the bed scratched behind her ear and meowed, blinking as her eyes enlarged to take in a world so dark.

Minka loved how each time she changed, her awareness changed too. Even sitting still on the bed she revelled in the sensations that swirled in her mind. The shadows of the room turned to silver, allowing her to see the wardrobe, her desk, and her nightstand with great clarity. Her vision had also expanded, as if her world had become panoramic. More impressive, however, were the other senses: without having to even try it Minka could smell everything with an acuity humans could never understand. She picked up the scent of her own pheromones, which were an intimate kind of sweet. There was an undertone of mustiness from dust and pollen, and tucked beneath all that she detected a hint of fermented yeast and sugar. Like a layer of blankets each smell presented itself, together yet separate, covering her surroundings in warm, familiar odours. But that was not all. There were also many more sounds than before: the ticking of the clock dominated the bedroom, but there was also her auntie’s shuffling coming from downstairs, the whistle of the breeze outside, and the scraping of tiny rodent paws in the beams above. She could also deduce with great precision where each sound came from, and she wiggled her ears when from outside came a feline cry.

Minka pushed her hind legs up and straightened her forelegs, stretching her claws and her spine. Then she hopped off the bed and walked the room, so giant, so alien, yet still home. With a wiggle of her whiskers she calculated her jump, before effortlessly reaching the bureau under the window. Strewn under her were pencils, papers and sticky notes, but her paws always avoided them, even without her looking down – her whiskers were like magic antennae, telling her exactly what was directly under her. She hopped on the windowsill. The opening to the outside world was a slither, just enough for her to squeeze through. From there she clambered up the gutter and strut over it like a literal catwalk. Oh she loved how her shoulders rolled with each step. The pistons of this pussy’s power were still a lazy locomotive, but in the blink of an eye she’d be a bullet train, sprinting with a finesse and speed only felines possessed. The rooftops, getting dark in the fading twilight, appeared as bright as midday to her – but now she would have to descend, for her nose had picked up something of interest.

With a motion more akin to water Minka flowed down a drainpipe and jumped onto the canopy of a small confectionary shop, gleefully bouncing on its elastic surface. Her movements were sinuous – and she felt mischievous. With her whiskers she picked up a change in the air even before she felt the canopy tremble behind her. It was the orange alley cat Otto, who roamed the back alleys and side streets and who lived behind perpetually overflowing rubbish bins. They rubbed heads, purred in recognition of one another, then leapt down, stalking the shadows of Tahawal street. Bags and bins were there to be toppled, rats and rodents there to be thwomped – and nightly rest was to be thwarted by the falsest of falsettos: a balcony duet to make even the moon regret its rise.

A shrill, wet cry interrupted the acappella. The calico cat looked up and with an air of nonchalance pushed Otto off the wooden fence that they had made their stage. Then she dropped to the street and at a brisk pace went for the source of the sound – which was, of course, Muffin Tops.

‘MINKA!’ the shriek went, and the cat could hear high heels tapping against the cobbles. With a meow she let the baker know of her presence, and she heard a sigh of both relief and worry.

‘Minxie dear, have you seen Minka, by chance?’ Kibbel said, studying the feline’s face.

The cat rolled over the woman’s shoes and rubbed her head against her shins.

‘Of course not… you probably don’t even know who Minka is. She’s not in her room, and I never heard her leave the bakery. Darn it, why does that girl have to worry me so?’

Slowly the cat lifted her head, as if comprehension dawned. While miss Kibbel tutted and groaned the cat slipped inside and ran up the stairs. The room she went for was closed, and without opposable thumbs it would’ve been impossible to turn the handle. But the little window up top stood permanently ajar, and with little to no effort the cat made her way up the shelves in the hall, jumped up the window’s ledge, and dropped in like the cat burglar she was. Wait – why was she here again? She scanned the room… Oh why was it so hard to remember?

It was the noise miss Kibbel made downstairs that did the trick, and deftly the feline hopped onto the bed, locking onto the clock. Tick, tock, tick, tock. The cat’s eyes barely moved, focusing on the hands of time. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Not a minute later a groggy Minka stumbled out of her bedroom, half wondering where she was and why she smelled of discarded mackerel tins. But with a bigger brain to process the world around her, the answers presented themselves even before she reached the stairs.

‘Minka!’ Kibbel turned when she heard footsteps coming down. ‘Where have you been girl? I came to check on you when I noticed your room was empty.’

‘Bathroom,’ Minka mumbled, scratching the dishevelled nest that was her hair. But Kibbel was not so easily deceived.

‘I took a shower dear – you weren’t in the house. Gods knows how you escaped – the window I suppose, but then what? Dropped down from that tiny ledge?’

Minka looked down at her socks. One of them had a hole in it.

‘I guess we’ll get to that later.’ Kibbel rubbed her temple as if trying to clean away smudge. ‘Tell me, what is this?’

Minka eyed what her aunt was holding up to her. It was her pink ribbon – the one she had discarded in the kitchen.

‘My…’ she began.

‘What did you do to Minx? This morning that little darling came into the shop wearing this lovely ribbon, before going upstairs. And then I found it, creased and crumpled, on the kitchen floor! And just now I saw her and she didn’t have it anymore! So I ask again, what did you do to that cat?’

‘Give me that, that’s mine!’ Minka said, reaching for the ribbon that dangled in front of her. But her feline finesse had left her, and Kibbel easily manoeuvred around her grabby hand.

‘Please! I’m not stupid, you know. If it’s yours then how did it end up with Minx? Now what did you do to her?’

Anger bubbled to the surface and Minka began to tremble. ‘You don’t get it, do you? You never do! And you say you aren’t stupid…You care more about that cat than you care about me!’

‘Don’t you wag that finger at me young lady! I care for you plenty! Took you in after your parents died, didn’t I?’

‘Don’t you dare use them as an excuse!’

‘You are horrid, Minka!’ Kibbel continued, deaf to the girl’s pleas, ‘Disappearing night after night – making your poor aunt worry sick! I should bolt that damned window shut! Now I will ask one last time: what did you do to missy Minx?’

‘Nothing!’

Miss Kibbel’s face reddened. She straightened her back and puffed herself up. ‘LIAR!’ she belted, ‘You are nothing but a horrible liar! Always complaining, eating my life savings away, but do you hear me making a fuss? No more! You are grounded, missy, until you decide to be honest with me! And if you DARE to leave the house tonight, better prepare to stay away, because you won’t be allowed back in anymore! NOW GO TO YOUR ROOM!’

Minka clawed at her head and let out a long, loud shriek, before stampeding up the stairs, slamming the door shut behind her, and shoving her face into her pillows to weep. And when she had no more tears to shed she stood up, made her bed and tidied her room, before fully opening the window. She clambered through, almost slipping over the little ledge, and softly shut the window behind her. With a quiver in her voice and a shiver from the cold she straightened, closed her eyes, and jumped.

A calico cat landed on the cobbled street.

***

‘MINKA!’

A shrill voice echoed over the cobbles of Tahawal Street, which bathed in the light of a watery sun. The sign of Muffin Tops said ‘OPEN’.

Carol and Carla, the next-door dinosaurs, came and went. No coffee was poured this morning. And to the great surprise of the lunch-going crowd, Muffin Tops was closed before noon, with the lights inside turned off, despite the door being open.

The baker sat motionless in her rocking chair, gazing out the window, seeing nothing. A meowing sound eventually made her look down.

‘Minx,’ she said, her voice faltering. The calico cat that had snuck in purred and allowed herself to be picked up. Softly she clawed at miss Kibbel’s apron, nestled into her lap, and shivered at the strokes of the baker’s calloused hand.

‘Oh Minxie girl, I think I’ve done it now,’ miss Kibbel said while staring out the shop window, ‘Minka disappeared… Oh Minx, where could she be?’

Minx’s eyes narrowed, as if she was thinking really hard. Then she flexed, yawned, and rolled on her back. Wrinkly fingers prodded her tummy, and softly the feline grabbed the lady’s wrist, only vaguely aware of the drops that fell into her fur.

The splash of boots stampeding through puddles echo over the deserted plaza. Hoods and cowls obscure grim faces, anxious to move, move, and move! Boxes and crates and packs and bags; trinkets and baubles and whatnots and gauds. The foreman hollers against the wind instructions that fall on deaf ears, eyes strained against an onslaught of rain. He stands alone, a centerpiece ignored – the willing heart of a failing body. His bristled brow plays a curious dance; a concoction of expressions that betray his fatigue and desperation. But like a soldier who cannot give in, even if the battle is lost, so does the foreman exhibit a stubborn resolve, and ushers on his fellow marketeers, the foolishly brave.

At the entrance of the square, at his master’s flank, one merchant fails to put up his poles, winds whipping and beating the canopy. The tarp is in tatters and, defeated, allows the wind to whistle through its scars, mocking the man’s futile attempts at taming his beast. He has not seen the crate of bruised apples, which lies cracked and upside-down, wedged between his would-be stand and the slick stone wall of the Brownstone on his right, for the poles are groaning in their attempt to lie down, and require his full attention. His teeth are clenched at the burning of rope against his palms as they are desperate to escape his waning grasp.

Elsewhere two oxen groan against the crack of the whip, their agony worsened by the burden on their backs; the leather straps that hold such heavy bags, though slickened with rain and mud, bite into their hides like vicious dogs, the pain stubborn and unrelenting. Not through the city gates yet they pull their weights forth, eyes shining in brilliant madness. They ignore their master’s cries and the flogging he gifts them, for what drives them forth with foaming mouths is the promise of wet hay that lies ahead, as well as the subconscious, instinctual knowledge that their backs will soon be burdened no more.

To the foreman’s right a tugging war of sorts happens upon a young errand boy and his mule – both equally stubborn in their foolish desire to have the other give in first. Unlike the great oxen at the gate the ass finds no allure in the sloppy heap of hay, and with an iron will (and devious delight, mayhap?) it denies the boy the pleasure of cooperation. Similarly the young lad, his hair plastered to his face and his arms trembling with fatigue, resorts to a mulish determination – the irony of which is completely lost on him. The rain’s continuous assault is ignored, or perhaps not even felt, by these equally opposing forces of will. The clash, indefinitely, persists.

Towering above all stands a figure, bronze and graven, overseeing the miserable lot that grovels at its mighty feet. The gold-plated collar of office that was meant to embellish his might instead becomes a chain, undermining his good nature in unintended mockery. In the absence of sunlight his smile has turned callous, like a deranged God who relishes the suffering of his minions, stone-cold eyes devoid of meaning and life. He is a monument, a testament, to the negligence of nobility – but the merchants down below pay it no heed, for this is a fact they already know and feel, oh yes, from the intrinsic knowledge that the aristocracy sleeps, warm and undisturbed and very much unaware of the struggles of lesser men, who toil in torrential torment that means to drown them, if only it can, if only it can…

Oh maiden fair, why do you weep?

No well of sorrow is dug to deep.

Come wipe your tears and do relate

The troubles that befell your fate.

Oh wise old sage, your listening ear

Is not meant my burdens to bear.

Please let me be and worry not,

Continue on your sullen trot.

Oh maiden fair, I understand.

Allow me instead to take your hand,

For danger lurks under these trees

From beasts most foul to witches’ deeds.

Oh wise old sage, you are too kind,

Alas I must once more decline.

For though the night is dark and cold

My broken heart long was foretold.

Oh maiden fair, how could it be?

Are we to meet here by prophecy?

For that which drove me to this plane

Were magic forces most arcane.

Oh wise old sage, is it not said

How curiosity’s best not bed?

What if the spell that summoned you

Was that of witchcraft, vile and slew?

Oh maiden fair, I carry a stick

Which wards off any ol’ witch’s trick.

I shan’t be bested, I cannot yield

As long as my trusted wand I wield.

Oh wise old sage, how can it be?

This wand of yours I wish to see.

My, it does shimmer ever so much!

It must feel wondrous to the touch.

Oh maiden fair, I read your wish;

I’ll lend you my stick for a single kiss.

Here, hold my wand in your hands so sleek,

Then plant your lips upon my cheek.

Oh blind old man, you played the fool!

Now you are naked without your tool.

For it was I who lured you here

To take your life and all you hold dear.

Oh cunning witch, your trick is most vile!

How could I have fallen for your wiles?

I’m blind no more, though it is too late;

Let me make peace with my fate.

First page of the fantasy book I am currently working on: Stone Whispers.

PROLOGUE: ANNE

The Night of Nergal, the year 12,013

From the depths of the murky underground lake a stone coffin emerged. Four workmen struggled to lift it out of the water, their muscles straining against the weight of the slippery chains. A veiled lady stood nearby; her piercing gaze fixed on the sinister casket as it was dragged onto the shore.

The guard who stood beside her cleared his throat. ‘I still can’t believe you found this place, let alone that thing,’ he said.

‘Don’t speak of her so recklessly, Schoffel,’ the lady replied, her voice cold as ice.

‘I also don’t quite understand what you need her for.’

‘Worry not your pretty head about my wants or needs. Just do as we agreed upon, and your reward will be substantial.’

The guard scowled. ‘Still. To disturb a grave so ancient and so hidden… it’s blasphemy.’

The chains fell silent as the coffin crashed onto the ground with a deafening thud, sending shudders through the earth. The workmen stumbled back, huddling together and mumbling prayers as they tried to distance themselves from the horror they had uncovered. The stone slab was pitch black and slick with algae, but the message etched into it was clear and unmistakable: a single, chilling word, carved with visible fury and malice:

WITCH

FOREST OF FORGET-ME-NOT

A tale by Chibouk the Stray

She awoke to the patter of rain on her forehead. With her eyes closed she listened. The crisp snap of droplets rolling off leaves. The waving waltz of grass in the wind. The creaking of bark and twig. It took her great effort to open her eyes, so heavy and reluctant, but finally she made them comply.

She saw she was in a forest.

She did not remember entering.

The wind cooled the rain on her cheeks, but she did not feel cold. A coat was loosely draped over her shoulders. It was too big for her and it smelled like tobacco and figs, but it was warm and woollen, and she welcomed its embrace. The sky overhead was a sliver of silver, the clouds mostly obscured by a canopy of leaves. As she glanced down she saw a man was watching her, leaning heavily on his walking stick. He stood but a few paces away and studied her with dark, sunken eyes. She should’ve felt alarmed, but there was something about his hunched position and his gentle smile that told her he was not a marauder.

‘I’m glad you are awake, Eleanor Nettleheart,’ the man said. Although he spoke slowly and his voice sounded dark and rough, there was a sincerity to his words.

‘This must be your coat,’ Eleanor said, unmoving. ‘Aren’t you cold? Mister…’

‘Ashenburough. Theodore Ashenburough, botanist and potion master. And no, I welcome the cold.’

‘You’re a wizard?’

‘As are you,’ Theodore said, after which he rubbed his eyes and stretched his arms, letting out an elongated yawn. ‘Though you prefer the moniker wood witch, for reasons that are beyond me.’

Eleanor blinked in surprise. ‘’How can it be that you know who I am, yet I don’t know you at all?’

As Theodore’s smile widened Eleanor saw the lines and folds on his face. The man was advanced in years, and he looked tired.

No, not tired. Exhausted.

‘The answer to your question,’ he said, ‘pertains to the woods we find ourselves in. But before we get into any of that, will you join me for a walk? I made a hearty vegetable soup, though what’s left of the fire I dare not say.’

The man stepped forward and extended his wrinkled hand. After a pause Eleanor took it and allowed herself to be hoisted up, puzzled yet intrigued by the stranger who knew her.

‘Come, we won’t take long. This way.’

Eleanor allowed the man to lead her through the shrubbery, tracing a faded path between patches of flowers that grew blue and purple petals. She could make out the path consisted of his footsteps. Wait – there were other prints in the soil, now soft and moist, that were too small to be from his feet. She looked at her shoes and realised they were an exact fit.

‘Here we are,’ Theodore said, brushing some branches away to reveal a cosy clearing. A pot hung over a dying fire and Eleanor could see steam escape from under the lid. Theodore walked over to a fallen tree trunk and sat down, inviting her to do the same. Silently she accepted, subconsciously clasping his coat a little tighter.

‘How do you know me, Theodore Ashenborough?’ she asked.

‘Theo, please. First, soup. You must be hungry.’ Theo grabbed two clay bowls from behind the trunk, inspected them and blew in one to shoo away a spider. Then he took off his backpack and rummaged through for some spoons and a ladle, after which he approached the smoulder and looked inside the pot. He grimaced at first, before raising his brow and finally nodding as he scooped a royal amount of soup in each bowl.

‘There. Not as good as mum used to make it, but then mum never had to deal with rain in the kitchen.’

Before Eleanor could respond Theo offered her a hot, steamy bowl, and when she took it and smelled the fresh roots and herbs she realised the man had been correct: she was hungry. Softly she stirred and blew the soup, then brought a spoonful to her mouth. It was surprisingly thick and flavourful – wait what was that crunchy thing that sought to get stuck in her teeth? Scowling she picked the culprit away and examined it between her fingers.

‘Pinecone.’

Theo laughed and scratched his head. ‘I guess I missed one or two. Pinecone soup is rather healthy. Or so sayeth mum.’

For the first time since she woke up Eleanor smiled, and despite the odd addition of pinecones this was a delightful little veggie soup. When she saw Theodore spitting out a bit of cone as well she laughed. Before too long the bowls were empty.

‘Your mum has a curious taste in soups,’ she said.

‘And it has grown curiouser still,’ Theo answered, ‘though that may be the senescence, bless.’

Eleanor let out a content sigh and stared at the thin wisps of smoke that slithered up from the firewood. Some time passed before she spoke. ‘That was lovely, Theo, you seem like a nice man. Which is why I hate to impose, but…’

‘But I haven’t answered your question. Yes, I believed the answer would be easier to stomach on a full, eh, stomach.’

Concern crept into Eleanor like a chill up her spine. She saw that Theodore had noticed her unease, as he flashed her a smile that faded a little too quickly.

Theo cleared his throat. ‘In the left pocket of your vest you keep a leather-bound notebook. Would you kindly take it out?’

Slowly Eleanor did what Theo asked.

‘The bookmark should be somewhere in the middle, between a page with spells and a page with a tally.’

With growing suspicion Eleanor opened her notebook by pulling the bookmark to the side. Theo spoke the truth: on the left there was a list of spells, some of which had been crossed through. The page on the right showed a row of stripes, the first four being hashed through, as a means of keeping score. How could Theo know about this? Had he searched her? No, it was clear she had written the lines and spells herself, using her trusty, stubby pencil (which she had felt in her pocket when fishing out the notebook). But how Theo knew about the spells was not nearly as troubling as the type of spells she had written down. Ascendele had been crossed through, which meant she (or they) had tried to fly. Exitas was mentioned in a couple of spells, implying she had wanted to escape from something. But what really irked her was the first spell in the list, crossed through multiple times in vivid frustration:

ET MEMINISSE ME

She kept staring at the phrase, as if hoping that by doing so the words would take effect, for the spell had been meant to make her remember. The irony was that she did not remember writing the spell at all, nor did she remember the other spells or the tally. She flicked back one page and found her notes on how to catch crimson-gold jewel beetles. She did remember writing that down, about two weeks ago, when she was out to acquire the critters for her bug collection.

‘How many stripes do you count?’ Theo asked. It almost caught her off guard.

‘Seven. Eight, eight stripes.’

‘Kindly take out that stubby steed of yours and add one more.’

Eleanor bit her lip. Theo even knew her pencil’s pet name. With a tremble in her hands she went for her pocket.

‘Why can’t I remember us meeting?’ she asked, trying to ignore the quiver in her voice.

‘Good, you are catching on.’

‘I really am not. It’s just – well, the spells…’

Theo yawned and gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘They paint a rather sombre picture, don’t they.’

‘It feels more like a puzzle of which most pieces are missing.’

‘A fitting metaphor. And I am sorry, I truly am, but the few pieces that I have will not alleviate your worries.’

Eleanor looked at the old man who sat beside her. He must’ve seen the strain on her face, for he once again presented her with that gentle – that stupidsmile. Had it not been for his tired visage she would’ve slapped it off his face.

‘Apparently it was a matter of mistrust at first,’ Theo began, ‘with a lot of blaming and debating on the topic of who hexed who. Being strangers didn’t quite help the matter along. We didn’t get very far, those first few rounds.’

Eleanor’s heart skipped a beat. What did he mean by “first few rounds”?

‘Eventually one of us found out that we would lose all memory of each other, as well as of these woods, whenever sleep took us. That is when we started the tally and when we decided to take turns to rest.’

Eleanor clasped the coat tighter and brought her fist to her chest. Suddenly it was difficult to breathe, and as she drew in large gulps of air she turned to the fire once more, fixating on the battle of the final brave specks of wood that hissed and spat against the arrows of rain in a stubborn, admirable defiance. Their end was signalled by drums of war that came at the courtesy of distant thunder.

When she looked up she saw Theo was staring into the fire too.

‘So every time one of us sleeps…’ she began.

‘The other must tell this tale.’ He finished.

‘And before we decided to do that? You mentioned we bickered and fought, but how can you know if sleep made us forget?’

Theo grabbed a notebook of his own from his bag. ‘I appeared to have scribbled a thing or two here about our encounters – though I won’t read it to you, as I fear my words weren’t exactly flattery. I also wrote of my surprise finding my thoughts readily expressed – and in my own handwriting at that. But the notion of memory loss came from you, I believe; I never did have the wit to come to a conclusion like that.’

‘And my spells…’

‘Failed attempts, alas. We have yet to find a solution to our recurring predicament. Until then we are trapped, you and I, meeting one another for the first time, over and over.’

The two wizards fell silent and once more looked at the fire. The battle was over – the rain had won. The notion filled Eleanor with great sorrow.

‘That reminds me,’ Theo said, rummaging in his pack. He drew forth a long and thin stick, polished and painted black and green. A tiny crystal was embedded at the thicker end, flashing like the rear end of a firefly. Gently the old man presented it to her.

‘You took my wand?’

‘Perish the thought! You entrusted it to me so I could try and break the heinous hex that traps us so. I failed in that regard, and so I must return the wand to its owner, and ask for your help. Will you help me, Eleanor Nettleheart?’

Eleanor took the wand and pressed it against her buxom, closing her eyes. She felt tears well up at the comfort of having her wand with her, even if she hadn’t thought of it until now. Then she stood up and pointed the stick at Theo, who stared at her with those kind, thoughtful eyes, and she let her tears roll.

‘What if this is a trick? What if you made this up, used my wand to manipulate me? To make me forget?’

His smile never dissipated as he looked her straight in the eyes. ‘If you truly believe that you may strike me down. I shan’t stop you.’

That smile. That damned smile and those kind, sullen eyes.

Eleanor lowered her arm. She felt her face contort in what would become an uncontrollable bawl, and having shed her tears already she did not want this man – this sweet and patient man – to witness her break down.

‘I need a muh-moment,’ she managed.

‘Of course. It’s a lot to take in. Just don’t take too long, please. There are still a few things I must share with you.’

Nodding Eleanor turned and walked away in what she hoped would not appear as a hasty retreat, passing through the patchwork of flowers and disappearing in the trees. When she believed Theo couldn’t see her anymore she dared to walk faster, until finally her heart could take no more and she ran, sobbing, through the woods, letting her tears join the rain. Finally she collapsed, unable to bear the weight of her emotions. She beat the ground and gave a loud wail, clawing her way to the nearest tree and grabbing it like a child clinging to her mother’s skirt. There she cried, letting the waves of anger and agony and despair wash over her, until at last the storm of feelings passed. In the quiet she sat and looked up at the rooftop of leaves that bowed to the gentle if constant intrusion that was the rain.

Eleanor drew in a deep breath, held it for several seconds, then released it, and noticed her heart was calm. It was time, she decided, to go back and help Theo with their plight. Unburdened by her fears she stood up and made her way back, her wand firmly pressed in the palm of her hand.

‘I am back, Theo,’ she said upon entering the clearing. ‘Sorry to have kept you wai…’

The man sat still, hands folded in what could’ve been a prayer. His chin was pressed to his chest. His eyes were closed. And despite her best efforts, Eleanor couldn’t help but shed another tear. Carefully she unclasped his coat and took it off her shoulders, before draping it over him like a blanket. She took some steps back and whisked her wand through the air, beginning to practice those spells she had not yet crossed from her list.

***

The hoot of an owl made Theo stir. The cadence of crickets signalled to him it was night.

Why were there crickets? Owls? The breath of the wind in his neck?

He opened his eyes to find himself hunched in front of a fire. A pot hung over it – his pot – though how it had gotten there was a mystery. The clearing was surrounded with flowers, which he recognised as the genus Myosotis, more commonly known as forget-me-nots.

Then he noticed the woman who sat at the fire, eyeing him with great intent. He did not know her, but when she realised he had seen her she smiled to him like an old friend.

‘Good to see you, Theodore Ashenborough. We have a lot to discuss.’