Post by Maeve nó Heliotrope on Oct 9, 2006 19:51:16 GMT -5
It was midnight in a little village near Troyes-le-Mont, and something was amiss. An older woman, carrying a sleeping baby in her arms, stood in the middle of the road. As a wagon drew near, the horse jumped anda voice cried out, “Hey! You can’t stand there, you be scarin’ me hoss!”
“How much do I have to pay you to take me to the City of Elua?” said the woman calmly. The baby slept on, blissfully unaware of what was happening.
“Eh, I’d say about 20 ducats.”
The woman was steadfast. “Ten.”
“Eighteen.”
“Twelve.”
“Fifteen.”
“Thirteen.”
“Done.” The man came down and helped the woman into the wagon. “Is that your daughter?” he asked. “You look right old to be her mother.”
The woman ignored his unflattering comment. “This is my granddaughter,” she said.
“Right-o,” said the man, climbing back up behind his horse and clucking the reins. The wagon lurched and began to move.
In the back of the wagon, the baby stirred and began to wail for her mother’s bosom. The woman shushed her, tucking a jimsonweed between the baby’s lips; soon she was in a drugged sleep.
A day later, the wagon pulled into the gates of the City. “Mont Nuit,” said the woman.
When the wagon reached the base of the mountain, the woman plunked the coins into the man’s hand, and with a brief thank-you, hurried up the mountain. She knew nothing about the Houses, save which one she wanted her grandchild raised in.
Knocking on the door of Heliotrope House, she thrust the baby into the arms of the adept who opened the door and ran, fleeing her own guilt at stealing a child from her mother. The baby began to cry again.
Shocked, the poor adept went to the Dowayne and explained what had happened. Valeraine nó Heliotrope had the baby brought to the nursery, and so I grew up.
“How much do I have to pay you to take me to the City of Elua?” said the woman calmly. The baby slept on, blissfully unaware of what was happening.
“Eh, I’d say about 20 ducats.”
The woman was steadfast. “Ten.”
“Eighteen.”
“Twelve.”
“Fifteen.”
“Thirteen.”
“Done.” The man came down and helped the woman into the wagon. “Is that your daughter?” he asked. “You look right old to be her mother.”
The woman ignored his unflattering comment. “This is my granddaughter,” she said.
“Right-o,” said the man, climbing back up behind his horse and clucking the reins. The wagon lurched and began to move.
In the back of the wagon, the baby stirred and began to wail for her mother’s bosom. The woman shushed her, tucking a jimsonweed between the baby’s lips; soon she was in a drugged sleep.
A day later, the wagon pulled into the gates of the City. “Mont Nuit,” said the woman.
When the wagon reached the base of the mountain, the woman plunked the coins into the man’s hand, and with a brief thank-you, hurried up the mountain. She knew nothing about the Houses, save which one she wanted her grandchild raised in.
Knocking on the door of Heliotrope House, she thrust the baby into the arms of the adept who opened the door and ran, fleeing her own guilt at stealing a child from her mother. The baby began to cry again.
Shocked, the poor adept went to the Dowayne and explained what had happened. Valeraine nó Heliotrope had the baby brought to the nursery, and so I grew up.