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Chapter two! And it only took a little less than two months. :0 I know, I’m amazed, too.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy. :3
The cat looked from Michael to its tail with a hopeless look in its eyes and Michael stared at it with utter dismay. Melinda hobbled in a moment later, looking almost as dismayed as her brother.
“My concoction didn’t work,” she said sadly. “Meant to give our little Beastie a rabbit’s tail, you know. I bet my warts it‘s that falling star’s fault it didn‘t work.”
Michael grimaced somewhat. It indeed looked like more warts had sprung up on Melinda’s face since yesterday. Michael reflexively put his hand to his own face. His skin was blessed with the freshness of boyhood, and he was thankful for it. That and he washed vigorously every day. Melinda had that sort of effect on some people.
“Maybe you should leave the poor thing alone,” Michael suggested. “The cat won’t tolerate you forever. And did you at least make an antidote?”
“Yes, yes, it’s right here,” Melinda said, pulling a lump of a greenish looking substance from her pocket. “I couldn’t liquefy this but I’m sure Beastie will eat it anyway.”
The cat hissed and jumped off the bed. It bolted between Melinda’s legs and out the door.
“Come back, Beastie, don’t be silly,” Melinda said, shuffling after it.
Michael fell back on his pillow and sighed.
-- -- -- -- --
It took Melinda most of the morning to finally corner the cat and force-feed it the antidote, and by that time Michael had arrived back from town. He had gone to buy himself a new blanket using the money Melinda kept stashed in one of the kitchen cupboards. She rarely used this money and Michael thought he was quite justified in taking it. Besides, his current blankets were as scratchy as the cat’s tongue and older than Michael was, and he was sure any sleep trouble he had over the years was his old blanket’s fault.
“What’s that?” Melinda asked upon seeing the parcel Michael was carrying.
Michael hesitated a moment before responding, “A new blanket. My current one is too uncomfortable.”
“I could have made a potion for your blanket, dearie,” Melinda said. She didn’t sound very irked, though, and Michael felt relieved. He was about to go up to his room and Melinda was about to head down into the cellar when there was a thunderous crash from outside. The house shook. Michael stumbled on the stairs and Melinda grabbed onto the cellar door to keep herself from falling. Items fell from the kitchen cupboards and crashed onto the floor. And then, stillness.
“Dear me, what was that?” Melinda asked.
Michael dropped his parcel and ran to the back door. He opened it to find a great amount of smoke in the back yard and a burning, metallic smell. A breeze picked up and began carrying the smoke away. With the breeze came a couple of passers-by from the town. They went over to Michael, looking nervously around, asking fearfully what happened.
“I have no idea,” Michael said. He was as nervously curious as they were.
More people were fast approaching, and finally they were able to see something in the midst of the departing smoke. There was a glinting silvery object with charred patches on it. As the last wisps of smoke disappeared, they saw that the thing before them was large, sleek, and entirely incomprehensible.
“What’s it made of?” the butcher asked no one in particular. “Can’t be iron, can it?”
“Maybe silver?” a young woman suggested.
Before anyone could agree or disagree further, a sound came from the large, shiny object. A door-shaped outline on the object that Michael had only just noticed was sliding slowly and screechingly open. More smoke poured forth from within the object, as well as a person who was having a coughing fit and staggering. Everyone stared at the person. It was a young man, only he wasn’t like any young man the townspeople had seen before. His hair, which hung just above his shoulders, was a darkish blue color, and his eyes were as silvery as the strange smoking contraption behind him. Even his skin had the lightest blue tint. He was a head taller than the butcher, who was the tallest man in town. Even stranger were the man’s clothes, which looked to the people like a tunic, a large belt, a dark undershirt with long sleeves, boots, pants, gauntlets, and knee armor. Indeed that was what he was he was wearing, except he just had a long t-shirt and a sort of short jacket over it instead of a tunic, but the people didn’t know any better, and his clothes were actually much different in material and function than what the people thought. Moreover, neither could even begin to fathom how utterly different the other was in thought and custom.
“By the stars,” the strange young man said. He coughed again. “To think I’d run out of fuel like that. Cheap piece of junk. Airbags exploding in my face, I should sue.” He kicked the contraption, and then turned to the people. “Um, hello, do you have a-” He stopped, looked around, and concluded hopelessly, “repair station?” Everyone stared. “I suppose there’s no place to even refuel my ship,” the man stated obviously.
“Strange sort of ship, that,” the butcher said. “No sails or deck or nothing.”
“Oh, er, well,” the man fumbled for words. “Well… oh, I don’t know. What sort of technology do you have? Do you have any air crafts?” Everyone was silent. “Not even automobiles?” Again, he was greeted by perplexed silence. “My, you’re really primitive,” the man said, more to himself than the crowd.
He looked around at everyone’s faces. His eyes passed over where Michael was and Michael heard a gasp and the slam of the door behind him. Michael could only spare a glance behind his back and then he returned his attention to the strange man.
The man sighed hopelessly. “Well, do you have any sort of, um, hotel? Inn?”
An old woman, the town innkeeper, stepped forward. “I should say we have an inn, sir,” she said, her frail frame quivering more from old age than fear. “But I doubt you’d have the sorts of money we use.”
“You’d be right about that,” the man said, nodding. “You use silver and gold coins?”
“Aye, but mostly it’s the rich with the silver and gold,” the innkeeper said. “We get by with copper, we do.”
“Well, I expect that I can’t stay at your inn, then,” the man sighed.
“Not saying that, lad,” the innkeeper said. “I’ve been needing some help since Miss Liza went and got herself married. You can stay in exchange for chores.”
The man looked somewhat apprehensive but said, “Alright, we have a deal. At least until I can repair my ship and find fuel.”
“Hold it,” the butcher said. “This man suddenly appears out of nowhere in that silver thing, says he has no money, speaks of odd things, looks odd, and we just let him stay, no problem? What if he’s a powerful witch? Come to steal our resources and enslave us? Sacrifice our women to his wicked gods?”
“Excuse me?” the strange man said. “Witch? Come off it, there’s no such thing.”
“Course there is,” a little girl said. “There’s all sorts of witches. Why, Michael’s sister’s a witch, you know.” She pointed at Michael. The strange man looked at him and tilted his head slightly.
“Well, if you say so,” he said doubtfully.
“Come on, lad,” the innkeeper said. “I’ve been alive longer than that miserable little pig carver and I knows a witch when I sees it. You’re just foreign is all. I know I’ll show you hospitality as long as you deserve it.”
“Ok, just one second,” the strange man said. He went back through the door in his contraption and came out a moment later holding a small box, which he then put into his pants pocket.
“Off we go then. Help an old woman, would you?” The innkeeper took the strange man’s arm.
“Hey, what’s your name?” a man in the crowd asked.
“Ragnar,” the strange man said, “Rag for short.”
The innkeeper led him away with celerity impressive for one as old as her. The crowd spent a few more minutes discussing the strange events and shooting ominous looks at Ragnar’s ship. Finally they cleared away.
Michael looked at the contraption in the yard one last time and, knowing he couldn’t do anything about it, went back into the house.
“Hey, Melinda,” Michael said, walking into the living room. “Where are you? Did you see him? Wasn’t he-” Michael stopped. Melinda was standing next to the rocking chair, her gnarled hands on her cheeks, blushing like a schoolgirl.
“Oh, yes! Yes, I saw him,” Melinda said dreamily.
But the next words out of her mouth were ones that Michael could hardly grasp after such a day.
“Michael… I… I want to be a Good Witch again!”
Concrit is much loved and appreciated!
