*Here's a short story that's been floating around in my head for a few months and I finally got it out of there!!*
All she knew was that it glowed.
“Why does it do that?” she asked.
It lit up as he answered, “I don’t know.” It only happened
when he spoke.
After the sun set she would sneak away from home, wrapped to
shield her body from the bitter cold. He waited for her, pacing his small room,
embracing when the snow yeilded her on his doorstep.
“Tell me a story,” she’d plead. It was one way to get him
talking. He wove stories of birds and bears, foxes and hunters, magic and
folly. She listened, rapt attention with every word, eyes trained on his arms
turning from from black to gold and every color in between.
Stolen evenings spent by the fire became heated evenings
spent in blankets. Wrapped in his warmth she traced the black bands ringing his
limbs from elbow to forearm. Different pictures for each permanent bracelet.
She asked,
“What do they mean?”
He sighed. And told a story.
“Once a boy was born from the pit of a peach,” he began. The
bands began their golden dance. “He was called Momotaro.”
His voice carried the tale of Momotaro growing into a
warrior, his marked arms carried the beauty of the sunrise. He told of the
Peach Boy setting out on a quest to defeat a group of evil ogres. His mother
made dumplings for the long journey and sent Momotaro away. Along the way
Momotaro met a monkey, a dog and a pheasant. Each animal offered to help the warrior
in his quest after the Peach Boy shared his precious dumplings.
“And here is the important part,” he said, his marks
unglowing. Sometimes when he spoke the black would remain black. She wished
they would glow always. “The pheasant flew out of reach of the ogres,” the
marks took on a lazy hum of gold, “dropping rocks on their heads and alerting
Momotaro of their strategies. The monkey scaled walls and moved swiftly to
confuse his enemies and beat them with cunning. The dog bared his teeth, using
his brute strength to overcome many an evil ogre. Momotaro fought a mighty
battle but only won because of his friends.”
He took her hand in his, using her finger to trace the marks
on his arm. “Loyatly and bravery go hand in hand,” the bands did not glow. “I
wear the mark of the Peach Boy,” he traced their fingers over a ring of
connecting circles. “He reminds me to be brave and train hard to reach my goals.
The pheasant’s symbol,” he moved their hands to a ring of black feathers,
“tells me I cannot always have what I want right away. The mark of the monkey,”
he said, tracing a band of swirls vaguely resembling monkey tails, “reminds me
to use intelligence to achieve my ends. And the dog’s symbol,” he lightly
stroked their hands over a ring of different-sized squares. “The symbol of the
dog tells me that sometimes force is necessary. But it is always the last
resort.”
She sat, his hand covering hers, contemplating the story.
“Why are they not glowing now?” she asked.
He breathed in deeply. “I don’t know.” They glowed.
She breathed in deeply. “How did you get them?”
He sighed, then told her of a ceremony of magic, known only
to his tribe.
“Can I be marked?” She asked his hands.
He lifted his hands and gently, gently, turned her face to
his. “You are not of the tribe,” he said.
She looked unwaveringly into his eyes. “But I want to be.”
He tilted his face to hers, placing a breath of a kiss on
her lips. “I will speak with the Shaman,” he said. The bands did not glow.
They continued their nights of stories and magic. Her
sneaking away, him warming her soul. The day was just beginning when he took
her hand, guiding her to the house of the Shaman.
He led her through three rings of houses settled in the snow
until they came to a perfectly round structure of wood traced with gold. Inside
were walls of gold and black woven tapestries and a withered old woman marked
from finger to forehead.
“You wish to be marked?” the Shaman rasped. Her symbols did
not glow.
She nodded. The Shaman began. Spices filled the air, chants
filled her head, needles pricked her skin and she was marked. Feathers. The
pheasant to see all, lining her forearm.
“You are pleased?” the Shaman rasped. Her symbols did not
glow.
She nodded. He led her away from the Shaman, back to her
home. He would see her tomorrow.
She was marked of the tribe.
She entered the house of her parents happy.
“Is that you?” came her mother’s voice from the kitchen.
She lifted the sleeve of her clothing, watching her mark as
she said, “Yes, mama!” The mark did not glow.
“You’re late today. Where have you been?” said the pleasant
voice of her mother.
“Nowhere,” she answered, nearly laughing as the black faded
into gold.
“Well, what were you doing?” accused her mother’s voice. She
moved to the door of the kitchen, keeping her arm hidden behind a wall to watch
the mark.
“Nothing,” she replied, watching the mark light up as she
spoke, an idea forming in her mind.
“Mama,” she began. “How would you feel if I dated a boy from
the tribes?” The mark did not glow.
Her mother scoffed, “Darling are you seeing someone?”
“No,” she lied. The mark glowed.
“Mama,” she began again. “I went to school today,” she lied.
The mark glowed.
“Well, that’s wonderful, dear, but I want to hear more about
this boy,” said her mother’s voice.
Eyes wide, she lied again, “There is no boy.” The mark
glowed.
“Then why,” her mother’s exasperated voice chided, “would
you bring up a boy?”
Her voice trembled as she said, “Just curious.” The mark
glowed.
Her mother looked at her for a long moment. “Ok, then,
dinner will be ready in thirty minutes. Would you like to help?”
“No, mama” her voice quavered. The mark did not glow.
“Are you alright?” her mother asked.
“Yes, Mama,” she lied. In that moment she knew why she was
marked with the pheasant to see all.
In that moment she knew why the marks glowed.
In that moment gold became an ugly color.
