Venom and Vengeance

chapter one

I was warned it's always raining in Scotland but not to bother with umbrellas. The wind is the grip of God and will yank the handle from your hand before you can say "Crivvens!"

Outside of the taxi, the trees shifted in patterns of vibrant greens usually reserved only for paintings. There had been fifteen minutes of silence between the driver and I, with the exception of pleasantries at Edinburgh airport when he helped lift my suitcases into the trunk.

Beneath the shade of his cap, the driver was watching me. I made the mistake of meeting his gaze, giving him the cue he'd been waiting for to begin interrogating me for his own entertainment.

He asked a question in a thick Scottish accent. When I only opened and closed my mouth in confusion, he repeated himself, "Are you here on holiday?"

"No, I'm moving here," I replied, hoping curt answers would deter him from a lengthy conversation.

"So you're boarding at Shambles then, good school," he said, "Whereabouts in America are you from?"

"Georgia."

"Is that north or south?"

"Above Florida."

"South then," he said, "I've got a cousin who moved to Illinois, is that anywhere near there?"

"No," I twisted my fingers in and out of one another like the celtic knot necklace packed somewhere in one of my suitcases.

"They don't usually have Americans at the College of Shambles, it's very prestigious," he chattered on, "One of the professors won a big award recently if I'm not mistaken."

"Well, that was my aunt," I said. Unfortunately, I knew very little about my Aunt Gwendolyn, only tidbits of information mentioned periodically and casually by my mother. The only picture I'd seen was the one printed in black and white on the fridge. It was held up by a broken magnet from the Bahamas, an article from the College of Shambles' newsletter announcing Gwendolyn's nomination for the Dan David prize.

"Ah, it's Gwendolyn Torrance isn't it?"

I nodded, turning my head fully toward the window. The forest had melted into rolling hills. Mist rose from the sea below the distant cliffs. If Scotland was a bride, the fog was a veil, spreading across the landscape in an opaque mist.

"How do your parents feel about your moving?" he asked.

My jaw tightened, "They were actually murdered."

Silence enveloped the car, smothering the flames of conversation. The weight of those words hung heavy in the air. Though I hadn't asked the cab driver to carry the burden along with my suitcases in the trunk, it had detonated in the backseat.

"My condolences," he muttered.

The images were conjured in my mind as though the words had been a summoning spell. The ceiling of my bedroom with a dark patch growing larger in the middle of the night. The shadow formed a drop which fell onto my cheek like a crimson tear. It was my mother's blood, falling like the beginnings of rain.

The cab's movements turned jarring as the road snaked into sharp, unpredictable curves. Bile stung the back of my throat. A gag punched its way toward my tongue. I swallowed. The aeroplane lasagna was congelling into a solid in the pit of my stomach.

By the time the cab passed through the tall iron gates, I was ready to be sick. Stumbling from the car, the illness claimed victory in a nearby shrub. There was little room for embarrassment as I awkwardly yanked the folded notes from my pocket. Trading the money for my suitcases, I wiped a bit of sickness from my chin with determination.