Grandmother's Teeth

Introduction to a Not so Fair tale

Metallic striking erupted in the courtyard advancing shouts of battle met with cries of anger, astonishment then anguish. It wasn’t long before the Villa was burning. Many, from guest, master to servant were being rounded up in the open distraught. A hidden boy overheard the sentinels speaking of the shame of the household.

“The republic is blessed to be rid of this wretched family.” One soldier said.

“Pity no slaves will be kept yet sooner or later their rebellious ideas would no doubt poison the senate.” As the other responded, a barking among the chickens turned their heads. Taking advantage, the boy fled into the garden.

He ignored the dead that had already been discovered stepping over two bodies, one a stable boy hardly older, neither had weapons upon them. Sobs up ahead caused torches from every direction to mass. When the lights began to enlarge his shadow over thick billows of smoke he took the gamble; covering his face he ducked into the folds of air.

Navigating by clutching along the hedge a thin old bearded moaning man rounded the corner and grasped onto him. Startled by the sudden confrontation and the close up sight of his impalement the boy could not protest when the man leaned all of his weight onto him.

“Take to the woods…They wait…along the roads…” The discomfort of a perilous burden was lifted after the man passed away. Though it would have been the child’s right to abandon him alive for self-preservation the idea had made him uneasy. Yet this fellow had advised him. He laid him down and placed leaves over his eyes for the Ferryman, sadly he had no coin. Removing the weapon was briefly considered until the clanging of metal dangerously close forced him to shy away from the body to the side.

This encounter had not only changed his direction but also taught him that stooping lower made it easier to breathe. His heel slid down a watering ditch dry that led to the orchard. This would be the best route to take to the woods. Once there the clouded trees took to imitating the shapes of men. He wove through them with stinging eyes. Nothing discernible, moving limbs drove him against his better judgment toward the heat.

Finally, tenacity was rewarded as his toes pitched into the steep incline of a hill. If fortune was truly with him he might find a lake or pool within the woods to sleep near. The burn off thickened, it felt as though his brow was melting away so the child pretended the beautiful cool lake was just ahead and it rallied him upwards though he could not even see his feet. Hacking with dizziness he began to recite.

“In the cool woods there is a lake. In the cool woods there is a lake.”

The sentiment was already lost to stark reality. If he did manage to get away from the fire turning upon him then most likely he would be lost, shivering, being stalked in the forest. At best he might find a decent vantage point to observe the enemy then when they left, return for supplies. Currently he had nothing to sustain, even the cloth of his robe helped little. His lungs burned and his eyes were growing heavy. Cries of agony and plundering pursuit continued to follow.

The smoke cleared into a serene stillness. His blind trek had carried him much further than he had intended, for here the trees seemed taller and more ancient than he had ever remembered. Between the gaps of the canopy the stars shone bright with secret smiling rings. A fresh silence sliced through the night making him feel as if all at once he had gone deaf.

Yet when he coughed it echoed and his breath carried upon a soft chilly fog that was a far distant cousin to the thick black haze he had emerged from. He spun about to spot persecutors and was met with only more path and forest mingling with shadow. There was no smoke, no hill to look down from, and consequently no villa. However, the sensation that he was being hunted had not gone away.

“Is this a dream? Or maybe death?” he thought with dread thinking that perhaps he had passed out aflame.

The creak of a bow drew his gaze to another. A single glare from one intense glowing eyeball held him paralyzed until the branch below was released by a great claw and a heavy tread kicked up earth from the beastly shadow that was soon gone. The boy mimicked this behavior in the other direction. If he was not dead he had no wish to test it. The wall of still began to crumble as noises of every creeping variety sounded with his bound. The forest began to come to life as rapidly as his sprint.

The bright white feathers of a dove accosted his eyes as it flew overhead. He suddenly remembered earlier that evening before the attack thinking that the moon was only a little lock of hair in the sky. What then gave this creature such light? His curiosity turned him with it as a cat dashed under his lifted leg throwing him off balance. With a start he hopped and turned toppling into an older woman.

“Little fellow, how bold of you to want to dance with me.” She untangled herself from him with a gentle smile, adjusting her shall. A basket full of herbs had scattered and she collected them back in.

“I am…there was a…” He suddenly felt very foolish and faltered over his explanation. Face to face with another person he feared he had run away with imagination. He immediately became sterner and warned her.

“Old mother you must hide. Roman soldiers come to kill anyone they find.” He stood and offered her a hand.

“Whom do you call an old mother? May death hold your tongue! You suppose you see wrinkles because I have a wise look about me.” The woman blushed holding her cheeks.

“I suppose so.” He gritted accepting a forearm pulling her aloft quickly.

“Hmm, the way you bare your teeth while you struggle. An animal spirit is what brought you here. She took the time to brush her skirt with his next tug she pulled back with an unexpected strength.

“Wish you, safe haven? I shall provide. It has been a long, since... a new guest has come.”

“We may be tracked to your home.” The boy cautioned.

“Then tread lighter.” She smirked and he found this moment of good humor annoying yet somehow filling him with a false reassurance.

It seemed they traveled deep, a great distance in no time at all, until they came to a cottage with a pebbled path leading up to the door with sprigs and flowers hanging above the frame. A little stool beneath a window sill outside had upon it a small pipe. She picked it up and began to smoke, placing a hand upon his shoulder to pause entry. “A moment please,”

“Why do you smoke?” the boy asked, astonished for he had only seen ritual herbs gathered in bowls.

“I have company.” She muttered.

Again he could not think her answer was sound; If a scent was heavy women did not want it in their homestead. He, sadly, thought of all the women whose residents and belongings were burning. She flicked the pipe at the door and began to read the contents of the ashy shape she had created trickling slowly down.

“No evil spirit in or upon your person but you have come from a cursed household. Such an uncommonly gifted soul, blessed to endure. Your observations are very keen. Ah you enjoy stories, listening, and telling them. That is what makes us kindred I believe.”

“Woman, are you a priestess?” Warily the boy started to back away. She only smiled and opened the door to him.

There was a soft looking white bearskin on the floor just in front of a crackling fire. After such smoke and heat he thought that fire would be the last thing he wanted to see. Certainly it was a far cry from the lake he had dreamt about. However, just standing there he was beginning to become weary and the air was beginning to bite at him making him feel stiff and cold.

“I cannot have a depleted child running about my forest, come in and rest. I shall replenish you.” Her beckoning invitation was all the push needed. After entering he noted the furnishings were even more cheering and comfortable than the rug on the floor.

The treatment that soon followed was subtle, increasingly pleasurable. He was offered a drink to soothe his parched throat, then a bath was filled for him and while he soaked she made his dinner and laid out clean clothing. He wondered at how the previous child could share his exact measurements, mentioning nothing supposing the memory might be painful to his host.

He sat at a table to a delicious meal yet in truth could enjoy it very little. He had such guilt for those who had suffered in his place. He complimented it to be polite and forced it down not knowing when the next might come. She only nibbled a bit herself before preparing his bed upon the bearskin. When he laid down he feared the nightmares that were to come but surprisingly he fell into a slumber deep, undisturbed.

When he awoke she was sitting by her window looking up at the moon.

“Are you keeping watch?” he asked, sitting up.

“For your…what were they called, Romans? No, my child you have slept for an entire day and they have not come. Few find their way here.”

“You are waiting for something. What?” The boy inquired, growing anxious.

“My how observant. I was merely looking out at my garden and remembering someone like you.” Her eyes glazed over with the memory she spoke of.

“Like me?” The boy rubbed his own eyes feeling more awake with every word for he truly did love stories.

“This was a soul laden with guilt, with such potential and wit.” Her cheeks grew warm as if she had grown amused with her musings toying with them in her head. She gestured for him to grab the tea from the fireplace.

“You hardly know me.” The boy frowned as she took the pot from him, poured and laced their drinks with pedals.

“Oh I know you.” Her words poured out as smooth as the liquid into the cups.

“We have met many times. Stay, heal, eat and I shall ramble to you awhile unless you are eager to place your feet back on the road.” The door opened unexpectedly with no one around it. The boy took a nervous step toward it. A breeze from outside wafted the scent of his tea to his nose and he followed the curls of steam to look back at her watching sadly out her window.

“They will just be waiting for me on the road.” He clicked the door shut.

“Yes, and back in the villa if you ever return to it for supplies…” When he turned back he noticed that the pot was back over the fireplace though the woman had seemed not to move. While her warning frightened him, making him rethink which way he had swung the hinges.

The lady threw her braid before her, opening her arms to him.

“Here you are safe in a space that is mine. In a realm between worlds I shall keep you, weaving the strands of my story while I stroke the strands of your hair until it is long and your soul is strong enough to face the world.”

And before he knew it his head rested on her knee. She rubbed his temples and played with his hair and he saw what it was she spoke of as if he were there.

“Can you guess the soul that is yours, that soul that reminds me of you?”