All Your Fates (Currently editing/updating)

Chapter 12: The Volva ~ Randy Astle

Chapter 12 – The Volva

MUSIC TRACK LIST:

George Crumb – Black Angels #4: Devil-music

(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YG1W_6TN82g)

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DAVID’S POV

It was dark. And humid—the heat and water vapor hit me right as we stepped through the door. It smelled musty . . . melted wax, tree bark, heaven knows what else. Truth be told, my shoulder was throbbing too much to pay any attention to the old hag’s aroma therapy. It probably wasn’t that bad—Pepper’s knife wasn’t that big, after all—but I swear it cut into muscle and I was feeling lightheaded. The ceiling was probably high but this lady had enough stuff dangling from the rafters that I kept bumping into things—leather bags, metal trinkets, I think a pig foot—as I followed her down a twisted passageway. 

We stepped into some kind of kitchen. There was a hole in the center of the ceiling for smoke that let a little light in, but there were also glowing embers in the fire pit that a cast a low red light on everything—creepy. There were black metal pots all around the floor and the walls were lined with all kinds of junk: pots, bags, antlers, hooves, bunches of herbs and roots, and more of those paper scrolls.

Figures. I was in the witch’s brewery.

She pulled a stool out from behind some big pots and sat down, saying nothing. At this point I didn’t know what to do, and all I could think of was my aching arm—I could feel each heartbeat in my shoulder.

“How do you explain yourself?” she asked.

I couldn’t even answer that, but I knew enough to watch my manners. “If it’s alright, ma’am, I’m kinda bleeding out here. Do you have any kind of bandage,” I looked around at the walls, “…or medicine, even?”

She laughed, scoffing, but slowly rose to her feet. She scooped some ashes from the fire pit with her bare hand and placed them on my arm. It felt like Rice Krispies snapping, crackling, and popping away, but it was cool, not hot, and really kind of soothing. Like aloe vera on a nasty sunburn. She pulled her hand away and there was gray mud on my arm—I brushed it off, with the blood, and there was only a little scar. Holy frijoles. I should have been grateful but I was more freaked out than anything. How long ‘til I got out of this place?

The old woman brushed her hand off and returned to her seat. “Now then, you were saying?” She motioned for me to sit on the ground.

But I still didn’t know what to say. How could I explain myself? There was that awkward moment where all you say is, “Er . . . um . . . ah . . .” and then she cut in.

“What’s your name again?”

Crap. She had me this time. “Mervin?” I practically asked. Then it came. “No! Milken. Milker, I mean, Milker. Like a cow.” Her eyes narrowed and she leaned forward, reaching out a hand as though she was going to try to adjust my face. I half expected lightning to shoot out of it, but I tried to keep my cool. “Honest. Milker. …Milkman?”

“No,” she said slowly. “What’s your original name? Before your renaming ceremony.” She paused. “Your name where you come from.”

Ah. So it was going to be like that. “Um, David.”

She pursed her lips, leaned back, and repeated it a few times. “David, David, David.” Then another bony finger thrust at my nose. “And how did you get here? You must know a great deal of magic, hm? Not at all the ignorant little stooge that that wife of yours outside thinks, are you?”

I noticed her fingering her wand—it was like she was jealous of her power. Oh, crap. I got the all-powerful sorceress jealous of me, probably ready to bump me off. And I’d only been here an hour. I figured my best bet was the truth.