Someone Else's Child
Today, I am someone else’s child. Someone else’s charge. Miss Elizabeth had me yesterday, though the time I spent in her company was fleeting. I do not mean to say she was not there – she was, physically. It’s rather that her mind was elsewhere.
We walked all over the worlds; her travelling upside down on her broom; me traipsing along behind, my boots tapping rhythmically against the slipstream she had at least thought to conjure so that I might follow safely through the void. The hours were spent, as they always were with Miss Elizabeth, hunting. Her left hand had gone missing again – the real one – and we could do nothing else until it had been tracked down.
I have lost count of how many times Miss Elizabeth has promised to do something fun with me “as soon as we find my hand.” This time we eventually found it being used as a crude sofa by a mischievous froglin in a world where the ground was made entirely of toadstools pretending to be hair atop a giant’s head. By then, I was already preparing to be passed on to my next guardian.
Miss Elizabeth waved me off with that same apologetic look she always wears when she is around me and promises that next time, we will definitely do something fun. I tucked that empty promise into my pocket along with all the others.
The day before yesterday, I was the charge of the witch on the dark side of town. We do not live in the same world, her and I. I do not live anywhere. Instead, I am passed between the weavers of the known universe day to day, so they might all share the burden of raising me, child of the cosmos, and impart to me their supposedly infinite wisdom.
They do not know that my own knowledge extends far beyond the reaches of their feeble minds, nor that I have not aged a day since they took up this game except for when I have willed myself to grow.
The witch’s name is Hemlock. At least, that is what she says. I have met far too many witches named Hemlock to believe them all. There are a hundred such witches on the dark side of town alone. My false Hemlock has a thirst for memories, for the things that make people who they are. One look into her eyes and you might forget your mother’s face or where you live. I do not meet her gaze. I doubt she would dare take anything from me, but I have few memories that are real, and I prefer to keep them close. They are more precious to me than even the broken promises pushing at the seams of my pocket. Incidentally, she never tries to meet my eye.
Hemlock can have her mortals’ memories. I much prefer the pastries from the bakery down the road. They are usually shutting up shop when I arrive, being folk of the nocturnal kind, but if she knows I am coming, Hemlock always saves me a muffin or a tartlet so that I can still enjoy their creations. Their apple tarts are baked with music, and I have gorged myself on their symphonies for years.
Today, I am someone else’s child. Someone I have never seen before. I hear him, and I know with full certainty that he walks by my side on the days I am his ward, but never have I laid eyes upon him. The most I have seen is his thin shadow. With other guardians I am loud, a chatterbox. With him I walk in silence and simply listen to his deep, husky voice as he spins new worlds with his words. I do not know if the places he speaks of are real, or if they only become so with his telling of them, or even if they are truly nothing but words. Perhaps his worlds exist for as long as he speaks of them. Bright stars that fade after barely glimpsing life.
I could listen to him forever.
Not sure who Miss Elizabeth or Hemlock are? Check out their stories below!