What I Write
Deja faced the next day with grim fortitude. Hills seemed an especially insulting trick of geography. Going up was pure burning effort of legs and lungs. On steep hills wheels and gears stopped even being a feasible way of moving forward, and Deja had to get off and push the cursed bike. Then sometimes the downhill slopes were so steep that Deja’s hands strained at the brakes, while everything bumped along with teeth chattering violence.
Water was another issue, much of the weight in her packs that wasn’t tools was water. She drank gallons of it, accompanied by salty seaweed snacks to keep from unbalancing her salts. She also sweat profusely, from the heat of the day and the already moist air. It seemed a futile and soggy cycle, surrounded by water inside and out. Around noon of the second day the clouds opened into a warm spring shower. At least the rain washed off the mud and the saltiness of sweat.
Of course by the time she reached — that evening she had accumulated a fresh layer of mud, salt and bicycle grease. Locks of damp black hair had worked their way out of Deja’s braid and lay plastered across her forehead.
Golden light shone on the tall bay trees as she crested the hill, and the houses of — spread out around her. Wobbling into town, Deja felt exhausted and triumphant, like a hero from legend who had just taken down a rogue dragon mech.
She asked woman with a basket of chayote squash the way to the mage’s house, and the woman looked at her as if she was indeed a fantastic figure, or at least a strange one. She pointed Deja to a large house just off the main road into town.
Deja had pictured the Arch Mage living in a foreboding tower, perhaps some miles from town, where the mage could conduct dubiously ethical experiments in privacy. The actual house that the woman with the chayote pointed to was only three blocks away from the town square, and looked warmly welcoming in the yellow sunset light. Just as well, Deja didn’t feel up to biking any farther.
The house had a wooden deck scattered with chairs, hammocks, and a table with abandoned cups. A few tall madrone and bay trees around the house offered some shade and privacy. Deja pushed aside a deck chair and approached the door. A silver chain with an elegant metal owl hung to one side of the door and a sign on the door itself said,
“Bell is broken. Just knock.”
|What I Write||
Working on a fantasy novel. Also sometimes songs.
My Write-a-thon Goals
Setting aside time to write every day. 300 words a day and/or research.