To those who don't know any better, any technology which they do not understand, is tantamount to witchcraft. But occasionally the True Craft comes to light, amid whispers of curiosity and fear.
Such were the whispers which guided him, and so many before him, to my door, hands open and arms outstretched in the universal gesture of peace. His face told me nearly as much as a True Reading would have done. He bore the tales of his past as lines, shadows and scars on his twisted mien. He was also conflicted. His posture told me as much. He walked as one accustomed to having his back to a wall, currently leaving himself open to the inevitable- or so he believed- dagger in the back, was a painful assault on his instincts. Instincts which were likely all that had kept him alive through all of the obstacles on his Path, but for the touch of the Great Mother on the thread which was his Fate.
I could have met him with the visage of the blind old Crone. This was normally the face which ppl found least threatening. But his superstitions clung to him as fear did the majority of my patrons.
And so, it was the Innocent who greeted him , along with the faint tinkle of the coloured glass beads which hung in strands as partition betwixt my Shoppe and the bustling market.
I sat perched on a high stool on the nearside of the partitioning table, my knees tucked to my chin, my grubby hands clasped across my ankles. The skirts which barely covered my equally grubby feet were wound and carefully patched, the stringy hair which hung in my eyes, clean and mostly well kempt, but for a wilting flower crown, perched slightly lopsided on the [bistre] nest of hair.
The eyes which I peered at him through were wide with long lashes, cautious and full of curiosity.
This was where most Face Changers befouled themselves; the The glamour has to extend to the eyes for the lie to believable. You must keep your own joy, tragedy and Knowledge from them, the Windows to the Soul. I have always likened it to pulling the shutters closed on a GreatHouse.
None of my own Vast Truths met him when he met my gaze.
His eyes flickered around the enclosure before he slowly let his hands fall to his sides, just as slowly making his way to a spot a few feet from me to lean casually on the table top, taking up an air of nonchalance, an attempt to put the cautious Innocent at ease.
I had read him well, indeed.
He leaned forward, making a show of looking for the Keeper of the place. “Is the woman who runs this place about?” His voice was soft, gentle. The tone of one trying not to spook a thing of the Wilds.
Inwardly, I grinned, outwardly, I nodded briskly, lips still tightly closed.
“She's left you to mind the Shoppe, has she? That’s quite the honour,” he remarked, sounding duly impressed.
I let my frame open a bit, straightening with appropriate pride at his words.
“I’ll bet that wreath of blossoms is tribute from the last briggand to have passed these curtains,” he continued.
I blushed at his exaggeration of my might. “I like you,” I declared, and let go my grip of my ankles, letting my feet dangle and rewarding him for his kind words with a warm smile.
“You honour me, Steward,” he flourished his cloak and I could see his blades in the dim light shed by the lanterns, the hilts were bound, peace tied, and my esteem for him rose yet higher.
“Would you accept tribute from a lowly patron of the shops?” he asked, patting the small bulge in one of the many pockets of his vest. I sat up a little straighter, eyes alight with curiosity, and nodded eagerly. His finger and thumb dug into the pocket and pulled out a carven medallion on a length of leather cord. It was a circle imprinted with the Rune of joy and happiness.
Again, my esteem for him rose. I'll say this for him, he knew how to make an impression.
He motioned an inquiry for permission to tie it in place and I let him. Some cannot hold a glamour under touch. I can, but still I let it fall away as he drew back, and he found himself facing a grown woman with the eyes of Ages.
He gaped for a moment, not surprisingly. What was surprising was that he managed to keep his hands from flying to the bound hilts of his blades, or from some superstitious gesture of warding. Instead they resumed their open gesture of peace.
“Well met, Madre.” He used the word of his people for my local title, Mother. [address the innocent as a little mother from now on]
“Well met, Child.” He hadn't retreated. He was still close enough for his breath to rustle the hairs on my head, likely unsure if retreat would bespeak of cowardice or even rudeness at this point, after having been invited so close to the Mother of All, or so the children referred to me as.
He blushed and lowered his eyes when he realized he'd been staring into the depths of mine. “Forgive my rudeness, Madre,” he begged in humble tones.
“I am not some noblewoman of your world, Child, there is no trespass in meeting my gaze,” I reassured him. “It's beautiful,” I remarked, fingering the token he'd given the Innocent.
“I thought her an urchin. It never occurred to me...” he trailed off, looking embarrassed. The truth of his words was like the tang of fresh fruit hanging on the air between us. Not trying to impress the daughter or ward of the mother, then. Good.
“You've come a long way. Can I offer you water to freshen yourself? Food? Mead?” The faint tinkling of more glass beads and a teen girl appeared, ready to see to our needs now that the meeting was beginning in earnest.
“Those would be welcome.” He smiled, looking somewhat sheepish and relieved to have the structure of a regular offer of refreshment from this quite irregular hostess.
I nodded in confirmation to the attendant, and slid off of my stool, gesturing with the crooking of my fingers for him to follow me through another of those curtains in into my inner sanctum.
A thought - one of crisp, ice water - and an image, of a thread unravelling- and my Wards parted enough to let him pass through the curtain behind me. A curtain he had not noticed upon earlier inspection.
I could taste the rise of his nerves, sour, like lemons. He was making a good show of not being outwardly disconcerted.
My bare feet trod across the moss which carpeted this part of the tents. I soaked up the comfort of the earth and sent a wisp of it to coil around the stranger, who was not so strange to me. His face had haunted my dreams for weeks now. His whispered plight echoing through the vaults of my subconscious.
I could smell the spun sugar in the air as his muscles and sinew relaxed. I took a sympathetic breath of relief, as we both settled, cross-legged, in the center of my space.
“There, isn't this better?” I asked, glad he was now at least somewhat at ease.
The attendant returned with a laden tray. A basin with water and cloth, a pitcher of mead with 2 glasses, and a plate filled with nibbles of fresh fruit, and veg with cured meats.
I poured the mead with my own hand while he washed, and took a few tidbits for myself, helping to dispel the notion of tainted food as I popped them into my mouth and chewed.
His eyes roamed the tent as he quenched the immediate thirst and hunger which comes with reaching your destination.
I resisted the urge to taste his experiences as he took in his surroundings. I settled for watching the reactions on his now, unguarded features.
It was quite obviously not remotely what he expected. Each support post was wreathed with life. Plant life, a cluster of eggs in a nest, the subtle movement at the mouth of a hole in the earth he spoke of the curiosity of the rabbit to warrened there. There were many openings in the roof of the tent, the flaps pulled back to let in the sunlight and what passed for fresh air this close to the press of humanity.
The market’s hustle and bustle was deadened by the moss and the tumble of green tendrils from all available climbing surfaces.
There was indeed a cabinet filled with jars and vials, but none of the wing of bat nor eye of Newt which so often adorned the tales of Witch Kind amongst the children. Instead, there was a lump of honeycomb, seeds and nuts, feathers, dried bark, preserved blossoms, and a switch from each of the trees of the region. The most macabre item, A small collection of teeth, all animal, and each collected once the owner no longer had need of them. Either shed naturally or collected from skulls of the Beasts.
I refused such items of trade from Hunters unless they smelled of the Lilac scent of offerings. Those which were taken without proper rites stunk of sulfur and Ash.
I could very nearly taste the him change his mind about Witch Kind as he wiped his fingers clean and took another long draught from his cup of mead.
“Many thanks, Madre. I am much refreshed.”
“Niani, if you prefer.” I invited him to call me familiarly. “And what do I call you, Child?”
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