Worry

[Amerist]

Worry

By Kyt Dotson © 2004

Worry blew warm air into her cupped hands and rubbed them together against the December cold. The wintry wind nipped painfully at her exposed ears and teased at her raven black hair trying to pull it free from the grey ribbons she’d used to tie it down. She liked to wrap her hair up because it would show off her beautiful pointed ears. A feature she felt helped draw attention from the crisscross scar on her face.

The silver disk of the moon rose overhead, crossed by a squawking stream of startled crows. Magic brimmed in the night. Full moons had become one of the few reasons little Worry would leave her secluded home and steal into the city. Her magic was stronger when the moon was full, and it was easier to muddle the minds of mortals who might question why a ten year old girl was wandering the streets at three A.M.

Worry approached her destination with a reverence she kept only for very dangerous things.

It was a tree in the midst of a small cluster of dull apartment buildings. A place where old mortals took themselves to die, she was told. “The Granholm Home for the Elderly and Infirm,” read the sign in front. Worry would have liked to explore the mystique of this place if she had no other pressing concerns.

The tree grew up from a plot of blackened soil where no grass could thrive, only weeds contended for the dirt there and most of them had withered and turned to brown husks. Gnarled and twisted branches clawed outwards with bare twigs jutting towards the buildings like old bony hands. Several branches nearly touched some of the windows of the nearby apartments; Worry could hear the gentle scratch-scratch of the twiggy fingers brushing the glass.

The rumor was this tree had once grown proud and true. It would flourish with green leaves and blossom bright purple flowers every year, and then shed orange and yellow leaves in autumn. It was a plant to be respected and gazed upon with admiration. Or so it was until the apartments became where the old came to die.

To Worry the transformation could not have been more obvious. Living things near death were always touched by it. She could almost see the tree transmogrify from a creature glowing with health into the old and withered thing that eked out its existence now in the plot of despoiled dirt.

Worry walked with a hush about her as she approached the tree. It may have noticed her already, but she knew that she would be safe from whatever malice it intended her.

A bird had died at its base the day before. Its head turned to the side and one eye stared lifelessly up at Worry. A robin that should have left long ago with its feet curled up against its red breast.

The dark haired girl knelt there above the dead robin. She unstrung a pouch about her belt and removed from it a powder she had made special for this occasion. The bones of all manner of creatures she threw under her pestle and pulverized them until they became a fine dust. When combined with the proper herbs and dirt taken from an oak pool it became a very potent magical charm.

“Breathe,” Worry said to the bird. She sprinkled some of the dust onto the creature from her small hands.

Then there was a twitch. A feather ruffled. One of the robin’s feet clenched and unclenched. The bird took a tiny breath and rolled off of its back.

“What?” the bird squawked shrilly.

“You know of this tree?” Worry said.

“It’s poisonous,” the bird said, cocking its head to one side. The bird’s eye reflected Worry’s small face. “If you touch it, you will die.”

Worry nodded. “You know this from experience?”

“The tree killed me?”

“You were dead.” Worry smiled as she spoke, necromancers were never alone; they could make friends whenever they wanted. “Did you touch the tree?”

“I needed somewhere to land. I was too tired to fly any further.”

“I want something from this tree.”

“If you touch it, you will die,” the bird repeated.

“I want you to get it for me.” Worry rose and pushed her shoulders back. She looked up into the tree. The knotty branches twisted together in a tangled weave that seemed to have snared the moon. She paused to smile at it for a moment; the tree did not smile at her.

“What?” the bird asked shrilly.

“That,” said Worry, “the only green twig in the entire tree. I want that.”

The robin looked up into the tree. The twig was jutting from a topmost branch; other branches had curled around it as if protecting a precious jewel. The hugging branches brandished thorns like tiny knives.

“Won’t I die?” the bird asked.

“No, silly,” Worry said. “You are already dead.”

“Oh,” the bird replied. Presently the robin leapt into the air and fluttered up through the branches of the tree.

The robin grasped onto the branches near the twig and thrust its beak between the thorns. They raked at the bird’s face viciously but drew no blood. The robin wrested with the tree for the green twig for a short time and finally it gave way with a splintering crack. When the bird jumped free of the branches the entire tree seemed to shudder in anger.

The bird returned to worry and handed in her outstretched palm. She retrieved the green twig from its beak with a pair of small metal tongs and dropped it into a pouch. The bird blinked.

“What do you want the twig for?”

“The same thing I want you for,” Worry replied. “I want to see my grandfather again.”

With that, she closed her hand around the bird and put it also into the pouch. She pulled the drawstring tight and lashed it to her belt.

Worry waved to the tree and blew it a kiss before she skipped away into the moonlit night. All the while she whistled a gay tune that reminded Worry of her grandfather.

[Brenda Starrr]

Wow.............

[Sybil]

you creative little thing you..

[Amerist]

Thanks both of thee. I won a contest with this one. We were asked to write a story "about a tree." In 24 hours.

I should really continue by writing more stories about Worry... the bird and her just crept out of my subconscious to complete the tale.

The tree was the easy part. I had a friend once describe to me a place where old people went to die (an old folks home that just had too many deaths for its own good.) I mean, people expect the old and infirm to die, but a person begins to wonder.

Well, the tree supposedly grew crooked and twisted. Warped by the presence of death and the general mistreatment of the people who lived in the home by the staff. After getting over my distaste for the workers of the real place the imaginary is based on, I wondered who would have use for such a tree.

And Worry came to mind. An almost cartoon-like caricature of a girl, a child possessed of wisdom far beyond her years, and a necromancer (most of her friends are dead.) Who has one driving goal: to bring her dead grandfather back.

Songs such as "Don't Wake Me When I'm Dead," came to mind whilst I was writing this.

I'm sure her adventures shall continue.

I courted an artist for a little while to do a comic about her.

I think Worry would be an excellent counterpoint to Lenoré.