Little bit of something odd
Oct. 5th, 2007 05:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
28/9/07 - 539 words on It's Not Funny
29/9/07 - 647 words on Quiet
30/9/07 - 852 words on The Lunatic Cabaret
1/10/07 - Day Off
2/10/07 - 837 words on Blood & Diesel
3/10/07 - 1769 words on untitled fantasy story
4/10/07 - Ill
5/10/07 - Goat-Knuckles
         "What," said Duncan, "does the ghost of a goat know?"
         "Well," murmured Eliss, leaning out of the firelight, away from the witch-woman's sight, "... I dunno."
         "Stands to reason,' said Duncan, brushing fragments of dried herbs off his chain mail singlet, "that the ghost of a goat don't know nothing about nothing but goat things."
         "What, like how to get into the herb garden?" Eliss said, looking ruefully at the ceiling of the small, round hut, its greasy beams strung with an upside-down garden of twiggy bundles.
         "Like where the lady goats are, sort of thing," Duncan said. His chain mail rustled, and the witch-woman raised her heavy head to glare at them, her mane of hair falling in bone-strung tangles. In the chair at the hearthside, their lord sat all curled over sideways to look over the witch-woman's shoulder as she spread the painted skin on the straw-covered floor.
         On the other side of the wicker screen that divided the hut in half, something bleated. Eliss remembered the nasty story his grandmother had told him about what happened to boys who snuck into the witch's herb-lot. And into the pot you go! Granny's voice cried down twenty years.
         "Goat-knuckles," Duncan muttered, ever the voice of cynicism. "Five silver coins for her, and them shiny beads, and what does 'is lordship get? Goat-knuckles."
         "Fucking pillock," Eliss hissed, reminding himself that Duncan was a town lad and didn't know any better yet. He hadn't liked 'them shiny beads', not the way they glittered in the starlight when his lordship brought them out, not the way the old woman's smiled peeled her face back over her gums when she saw them. "Goat-knuckles is good for stock."
         "Ah, good eating, but by the ice-cold balls of the great Sky-Horns, what do goat-knuckles know about the future?" Duncan said, scratching the warts on his cheek.
         "More than you, I reckon," Eliss said, and sighed. "Why did I have to get stuck on duty with you on a night like this?" He shuffled; his mail clinked, his spurs clinked, the tip of his spear scraped a rafter and loosed a small flurry of dried leaves onto his head and shoulders.
         "Hey up, Eliss," Duncan said with a laugh, "you've got dandruff!"
         "Shut up, you prat," Eliss said, shaking his head. "She's starting!"
         Seated on the hearth, her back to the fire, the witch-woman with the hair like heather stroked her hands across the painted cloth. Her fingers, knotted like willow-branches, flexed and curled, flexed and curled, feeling the ridges of the paint, the broad sweeps of circle-edge and curving line.
         Eyes more than half closed, what gaze there was towards the open door, the horizon and the rising stars, she dug her fingers into her folded skirts and scooped out the goat-knuckles, so chiselled and carved, so stained and old. Raising her hands towards the stars, the sickle horns of the moon, she groaned a word, a name, and let the knuckles fall from her hands. They spilled like dice, like tacks, like coins, like last month's chestnuts, bouncing and scattering and rolling away into the straw.
         Their lord sat up a little, the gold thread on his heavy doublet glinting between the folds of his riding cloak, and leaned over to watch the old woman mumble over her bones. She traced her knotted fingers over the bones and the painted cloth, murmuring names of runes and gods, tracing a skein of tomorrow in yesterday's remains; hide and bone in shadow and the smell of smoke.
         Duncan turned to Eliss and said, in the quietest tones possible, "I forsee goat stew."
         Eliss had to bite his tongue to stop himself from laughing.
29/9/07 - 647 words on Quiet
30/9/07 - 852 words on The Lunatic Cabaret
1/10/07 - Day Off
2/10/07 - 837 words on Blood & Diesel
3/10/07 - 1769 words on untitled fantasy story
4/10/07 - Ill
5/10/07 - Goat-Knuckles
         "What," said Duncan, "does the ghost of a goat know?"
         "Well," murmured Eliss, leaning out of the firelight, away from the witch-woman's sight, "... I dunno."
         "Stands to reason,' said Duncan, brushing fragments of dried herbs off his chain mail singlet, "that the ghost of a goat don't know nothing about nothing but goat things."
         "What, like how to get into the herb garden?" Eliss said, looking ruefully at the ceiling of the small, round hut, its greasy beams strung with an upside-down garden of twiggy bundles.
         "Like where the lady goats are, sort of thing," Duncan said. His chain mail rustled, and the witch-woman raised her heavy head to glare at them, her mane of hair falling in bone-strung tangles. In the chair at the hearthside, their lord sat all curled over sideways to look over the witch-woman's shoulder as she spread the painted skin on the straw-covered floor.
         On the other side of the wicker screen that divided the hut in half, something bleated. Eliss remembered the nasty story his grandmother had told him about what happened to boys who snuck into the witch's herb-lot. And into the pot you go! Granny's voice cried down twenty years.
         "Goat-knuckles," Duncan muttered, ever the voice of cynicism. "Five silver coins for her, and them shiny beads, and what does 'is lordship get? Goat-knuckles."
         "Fucking pillock," Eliss hissed, reminding himself that Duncan was a town lad and didn't know any better yet. He hadn't liked 'them shiny beads', not the way they glittered in the starlight when his lordship brought them out, not the way the old woman's smiled peeled her face back over her gums when she saw them. "Goat-knuckles is good for stock."
         "Ah, good eating, but by the ice-cold balls of the great Sky-Horns, what do goat-knuckles know about the future?" Duncan said, scratching the warts on his cheek.
         "More than you, I reckon," Eliss said, and sighed. "Why did I have to get stuck on duty with you on a night like this?" He shuffled; his mail clinked, his spurs clinked, the tip of his spear scraped a rafter and loosed a small flurry of dried leaves onto his head and shoulders.
         "Hey up, Eliss," Duncan said with a laugh, "you've got dandruff!"
         "Shut up, you prat," Eliss said, shaking his head. "She's starting!"
         Seated on the hearth, her back to the fire, the witch-woman with the hair like heather stroked her hands across the painted cloth. Her fingers, knotted like willow-branches, flexed and curled, flexed and curled, feeling the ridges of the paint, the broad sweeps of circle-edge and curving line.
         Eyes more than half closed, what gaze there was towards the open door, the horizon and the rising stars, she dug her fingers into her folded skirts and scooped out the goat-knuckles, so chiselled and carved, so stained and old. Raising her hands towards the stars, the sickle horns of the moon, she groaned a word, a name, and let the knuckles fall from her hands. They spilled like dice, like tacks, like coins, like last month's chestnuts, bouncing and scattering and rolling away into the straw.
         Their lord sat up a little, the gold thread on his heavy doublet glinting between the folds of his riding cloak, and leaned over to watch the old woman mumble over her bones. She traced her knotted fingers over the bones and the painted cloth, murmuring names of runes and gods, tracing a skein of tomorrow in yesterday's remains; hide and bone in shadow and the smell of smoke.
         Duncan turned to Eliss and said, in the quietest tones possible, "I forsee goat stew."
         Eliss had to bite his tongue to stop himself from laughing.