The Rokkoh Adventures

Rokkoh and the Old Woman, Chapter 7

"Sure," the man shrugs. "Why not? We'll make some sort of accommodation for you. Please, come on in."

Like the exterior, everything is made of wood inside: the walls, the floor, the large table and its chairs of varying size. The table is set for five, simple plates and utensils waiting for its five diners. Though the material is the same throughout, the colors vary. The floor and walls are made of a plain brown. The chairs are dark, though the severity ranges with each piece. The table is the lightest color, an off-white bordering on pale yellow. In the center, however, runs a lake of deep crimson brown. It fades at the edges, the heaviest of the stain resting in the center. Its darkness takes residence there, the ovular shape of it all forming a vague shape of an eye. The pupil obsidian is touched by scarlet, its iris a growing red stepping out of the black, the sclera becoming a sick pink until there is only the true hue of the wood. An eerie design choice, I imagine.

The door closes and the three children return, this time carrying platters. They set each upon the red and black: one of fruits, one of mashed potatoes, and in the middle is a platter of meat. The woman hands off one of the tunics to her husband and whisks the little ones back through the doorway from which they had appeared.

"Please, take a seat," he says with a too-polite tone. It borders on forced, irritated. He excuses himself to change clothes, leaving us in an odd and uncomfortable quiet. We claim chairs for ourselves nonetheless. Whispers of a hushed argument play in the background of our silence, but the words themselves are deafened by a door somewhere.

Max's greedy and hungry eyes linger on the little meat mountain, while Nana watches the fruits in anticipation. My stomach grumbles, begging to just dig in already. With all of the excitement of the day, we had not taken time to stop and eat. Though I can hear nothing coming from her, I can only imagine how hungry Nana must be. At least she and Max had those biscuits earlier. I doubt they were filling in any capacity, but a little regret crawls into my empty gut.

A thought occurs as I distract myself from the argument and the food: we had delivered too many tunics. The package held two for the adults and four for the children, yet only three little ones seemed to live at the hut. Curious.

The couple's quiet fight ceases and a door opens. The five of them return, dressed similarly: plain white tunics that stretch down to their calves. The only difference is the flowing sleeves of the adult's tunics while the children's hang tighter. The children each carry an additional set of plates and utensils. The table, though wide, is a snug fit for us all. Max, Nana, and I take up a whole side for ourselves. The other adults take their spots at the ends of the table, the man choosing the side closest to me. Sitting opposite are the children, none older than nine but all with the same black hair of their parents. Their eyes differ, two of them bearing the father's browns while the third has the mother's blues. But all three keep their eyes away from us.

"Guests first," the woman says. What little of the smile that remains seems sincere.

I offer a small thanks as Max and I prod chunks of meat. I fill Nana's plate with a little of each item, Max taking a little more than what I give our elderly companion. My plateful is more moderate. The adults serve themselves next, leaving the last to the children.

"Before we eat, we would like to offer thanks to the Novhina," the man says as Max prepares a mouthful of potato. My friend lowers his fork to the plate. Our hosts hold out their hands, and each takes a gentle hold to form a chain. With only a brief hesitation we join.

A low jolt sends through my body at the connection, a subtle hum of energy connecting us all. The candles hanging on the walls burn brighter. The bleeding black on the table looks like it would leave a wetness on my fingers if I were to touch it. Under the aroma of the dinner, there is a metallic twinge in the air begging to take center stage. Little details on their tunics become clearer: curving veins widen and narrow at will, the end of each curling in upon itself; in the center of the front, running down the length, is a thick thread with wild barbs flaring out in varied angles and points; at the hems of the arm cuffs are traces of red. The family's bowed heads cast a shadow upon their faces, drawing snarled expressions on the otherwise emptiness.