Bloody Knuckles

I used my chipped water basin and an old lump of cloth to wash the dust from my face, the back of my neck, my arms and my hands. My right hand had swelled just a bit, but nothing was broken and I knew it would be perfect again in an hour or two. I glanced up and caught my reflection in the ancient mirror. I never used the mirror; I just plain did care what I looked like. But just now I did! My eyes were glowing like a cat’s shining night eyes; not even close to my normal leafy green. I leaned forward to inspect myself and a thump came from the door. My heart jumped into my throat and tried to make a home between my vocal cords. It took me a moment to breathe again.

My God! I had no idea this was why people were afraid. No one had ever really explained it. Not even Henry’s once-upon-a-time explanation, “Your eyes are scary when you’re mad,” that didn’t even scratch the surface of what I was seeing. Course I think I was pissed off about having to ask Henry anything in the first place. If memory served… he’d run, not walked, but run like hell right after he given me an answer. Stupid little coward that he was, I had to give him credit for sticking around long enough to answer the question. My eyes were creepy as sin... What the hell was wrong will me!

I was starting to panic. I put my hands to my face and pushed on my cheeks. I pulled the skin below my eyes and opened my lids as wide as they’d go. The thumping started again and turned quickly into pounding. I watched as my eyes glowed brighter and I realized I was pissed that someone was arrogant enough to hammer on MY DOOR! So, this is what all the fuss was about… fine, time to have some fun.

I stalked to the door and wrenched it open. “WHAT!”

Martin, huge dark man that he was, took half a step back and dropped his fist back to his side. It was hard not to laugh at the look on his face. Shock and shit scared. It relaxed something in my chest to finally understand why people reacted that way to me.

“Can we talk?” He asked.

“Why the hell not.” I was having fun but I needed to rein this in. Martin was a Choose and one of the few leaders that didn’t demand my expulsion from the encampment. I literally bit my tongue and raised my arm in a mocking invitation.

He hesitated for an instant, but it was only a moment and then he stepped passed me. I followed the door as I closed it and when I turned he was inspecting the inside of me little home. His eyes scrutinize the hearth covered in the same ornate carvings as my little door. Then it was the two spinally wooden chairs, then the gnarled bed in the corner. Everything was neat and orderly, but it took me a moment to realize that Martin hadn’t been in here since my mother’s death.

He turned to me, “You haven’t changed much in here.” The way he said it made it a question, like he really wanted an answer. Maybe he did. He was avoiding eye contact by inspecting the bundled herbs that I’d hung from the ceiling.

His eyes snapped to mine as I replied, “Why would I change things?” My voice was a monotone.

“I don’t know. I’d just expected…” his words trailed off and I suddenly knew what he expected. He thought I was a cold bitch. He thought I didn’t give a damn and maybe part of that was true. But not when it came to this place, my parent’s place, my only home.

“There’s nothing to change.” My words were quiet, but they were firm. As I said them I realized it hurt that I had to defend myself over this.

“Oh.” Was his only reply and I raise my eyebrows. Wow, how could a Choosen be this ineloquent? I was ready to be alone.

“Is there something you want, Martin?” I wasn’t mad anymore and as I spoke I turned to catch my reflection in the mirror; my eyes were back to their leafy green. Martin noticed me looking. The skin between his eyes wrinkled like he was trying to solve a riddle, but didn’t say anything. Smart Man.

The silence lengthened and his expression was hard when he finally answered, “You socked Henry pretty good.” Once again his words were more like a harsh question than just bitter observation. I didn’t reply. “He’s already starting to bruise.” Again, I didn’t reply and the pause lengthened. “He’s having a hard time talking… You might have broken his jaw, Harding’s still checking on him.” Harding was the camps doctor. He was a good man even if he never wanted anything to do with me. I could live with that.

It didn't escape my notice that Martin was baiting me into a reply. I decided to answer, but only because I knew he didn't really expected me to. Shock value! His eyes grew a size when I opened my mouth, “Henry’s jaw isn’t broken and Harding can check all he likes." My voice was almost sing-song, "He’ll be sore for a week or so. It’ll be hard for him to talk and his face will look like hell." I was smiling, "But it’s not broken. Little bastard should count his lucky stars. He left me in the middle of nowhere! No Food, No Shelter, No Help! I walked for a full day and when I finally get back here and he's laughing...” Martin looked shocked, like I’d grown a third arm while I spoke. I knew it wasn’t just that I’d replied or even what I was telling him; this was a speech coming from me. I was never much for talking and considering I never had anyone to talk to, that trait fit right in.

He hesitated, then said, “How do you know it’s not…?” The word broken was implied; he cocked his head to the side, waiting.

Crap, I was pissed, again! I knew my eyes were glowing cause Martin was starting to lean away. “Because, damn it! I wanted him hurt... But not... Not broken. And I know.... I have... Shit... I have control over what I’m doing!” The words sounded ominous and confused even to me, but it was the best I could do. And it was the truth. I stared at Martin as evenly and honestly as I could.

I don’t know if it was the cussing, my attitude, the eyes mixed with my stammering, or that fact that I was a skinny little girl acting like a bad ass. Whatever it was… Martin exploded into laughter and it startled the hell out of me. I tensed like the laughter had punch me in the nose and that only made him laugh harder, doubled over, shaking. What-the–hell-was-so-f***ing-funny! No one ever laughed around me, let alone at me. I knew my eyes were glowing and wrinkled up the same way his had been. He was almost choking on it now. Holy crap! All that was missing was him pointing at me. Shit, if he started pointing he was getting a taste of what Henry got.

I waited a moment or two and he just continued. I sighed and shook my head saying, “Sit down, before you fall down.” The last person I remembered saying that was my mother. I wondered if it sounded the same coming from my lips as it had from hers. I was nostalgic remembering the smiling ethereal tone of her voice. I was not smiling and this didn’t feel all that funny.

Martin didn’t just sit, he plopped down hard on one of my little chairs. He smiled up at me. It made me want to smack him or run away, but I couldn’t decide which. So, I crossed my arms, leaned back against the door and stared until the rest of his shallow giggles finally stopped.

He was waiting for me to speak… “Glad to be so amusing.” Sarcasm, yet another talent I rarely got to use.

I was cold with remembering. My mother had laughed hard like that. She liked to laugh till it hurt, till tears came. I wished that could have been her gift to me. Her ghost felt so near and only her memories could leave me this cold in midsummer. I walked to the hearth and built the small up into a cone. Martin watched, but he kept his thoughts to himself. I took one small willowy stick in hand and drew five small shapes in the old ash. It looked like calligraphy, but it was enchantment. With each turn and twist of my wrist the wood began to smoke, more and more and with my last flourish I blow on the ashes; the kindling ignited in a blue and purple burst.

Martin’s voice was hushed, “I didn’t know your mother taught you the witching ways. I didn’t think you were old enough.” He was right to think it. My mother had died when I was twelve and it left me with no family.

“She had time enough to train me in most of the arts.” It was a moment before I added, “She started before my father died.” His eyes rose in surprise and I didn’t blame him. Papa had died when I was three. Chills crawled up my spine and down my arms, remembering.

I concentrated on feeding more wood to my little flames and I let the conversation die out.