When I restarted this newsletter, I promised myself that I would use it to put more of my fiction writing out into the world. I write more fiction than anything else; I am trained as a screenwriter, after all. But it’s not something that people ever really read. I get frustrated that it exists only in my head, and that there’s nothing to show from my labor. Sometimes it feels like my writing doesn’t exist unless someone reads it. I write stories to share them, and yet they’re rarely shared. And so, I told myself that I would share via this newsletter. That’s what I’m doing today— sharing the first installment of a fantasy story I’ve been working on.
There’s one problem with this: I am SHY about my fiction writing, and I legitimately feel like I am going to die once I press send on this newsletter. In the very least I will be making like a cartoon Ostrich and putting my head in the sand. Sure, I’m clicking send but I’m also willfully walking into a panic attack. Words? that I wrote? that aren’t screenplay but are fiction? I’m not dead yet but by golly I feel like I will be!
Anyway, all that to say that my plan is to release an installment or two of this story every month, but if you never see it again… I dunno, at least we all know I tried. I’m continuing to write disclaimers because I’m just trying to counteract my own anxiety and procrastinate sending this. Sharing writing of mine that contains the word “elf” makes me feel like I’m in junior high and that my crush is reading my diary. But here I go. Here I goooooooo. Here I gooooooooooooo—
Indigo | Chapter One
Clio felt the effects of the stream long before she could hear it. The soil beneath her feet pulsed with the rhythm of nature. Her journey was easy here, surrounded by a forest too young to know harm. Sun danced down through the trees, nourishing a lush, soft undergrowth that padded Clio’s steps like carpet, and a fresh sheen of dew enhanced the woods’ youthful glow. This was a place untouched by ash and smog, as innocent and pure as the white bark on the trees.
A dappled fawn wandered through the grass, paying no heed to Clio, creating an image that seemed quintessent spring, though the crisp air and golden leaves reminisced of fall. It was as though time was standing still, and Clio liked that. After her long sleep, time felt as painful as the scars on her hands, always reminding her of years lost and lack of belonging in the present. These days, she avoided people to avoid displacement, which would have made the Elders laugh with scorn. They never liked how much time she spent with outsiders. She’d respond by reminding them that their souls were closer to outsiders than the trees they so worshiped. Blaspheme. She could still hear their voices, a long sleep and a dozen years later. You are a bastard child with no understanding of these things. And the ancient oaks would shake with agreement, grateful for their orthodox protectors who were as old and brittle as themselves. And then, when the others turned away, Clio would laugh with the saplings.
She still liked people, even now that her lost years made her feel more divergent from them than ever.
The trees here wore snow-white bark, and were marked with eye-like knots that curiously watched Clio as she passed. Their leaves, yellow and round, rattled a welcome when she walked by, as if she were a breeze. This colony of trees recognized her; they knew her from the many days and nights she had spent in their golden nest. They knew her as a friend, not guessing that the forests to the west thought her a traitor, and shuddered and groaned when she was near. No, these slender trees didn’t know, even as they watched her so intently. When Clio woke from her white nightmares only to see the white bark, the friendly aspens would rattle their leaves to break her out of her ruminations, glad she was among them even for all her secrets.
At the bottom of the gently sloped hill, the trickle of the stream began wafting its way to Clio’s ears. The ground was damp from the collection of dew and rainwater that came down from the hill, and the moss gave the trees’ watchful eyes brows and lashes. When Clio reached the bank of the stream the sun was high in the sky, so she took off her pack and seated herself on one of the large stony rocks, letting the cool water run over her hands as she filled her cask.
“I’m glad to see you again,” she murmured as she felt the icy water numbing her fingers and cooling the old scars on her hands that always seemed to burn. “Not at all nice of these other tributaries to trick me away from you, friend.” There was a distinct relief in reaching the stream again. Forks and springs had led her astray, away from the true source. But this water was the last path to explore. She would walk against the current, through the village, to follow the water up into the mountains. And after that? That was a step too far into the future.
The soft touch of the sun lulled Clio into contentment. She set up camp for the afternoon, spread out on the mossy bank, and ate plump red berries from the nearby bushes as she carefully unfurled her parchment. She marked the stream’s path in ink. The map she was working on was nearly finished on the right hand side, but only the new arm of the stream stretched out to the unexplored left. The yellowing parchment reminded her of the books and maps in Pryntell’s library, and the imposing tapestries standing amidst them. Back then, she had as many colors of ink as alchemy and nature could provide, mathematical tools to ensure accuracy and scale, a wide table, sharp pens, all the time she needed. Maps from that time were as vibrant as the stories Clio recorded in her notebook, and if you were to follow their paths with your eyes you could begin to smell the forests and feel the rocks underfoot. But for now, with a single bag of belongings and ten years lost to sleep, this would do. In the very least, there was comfort in letting her hands glide across the page.
Clio eventually left the parchment stretched across the ground to let the ink dry, and followed the birds to find more berries. Higher up on the hill were violet ones, so tiny that she missed them on her way down. They were tart and flavorful and their juice left magenta stains on her hands. Bloodberries, she had heard them called. Clio gathered handfuls of them, and then brought them back to the stream where she washed them before storing them in the hinged wooden box she always carried.
By now the ink on her parchment was dry. Clio lightly brushed away a beetle that was climbing over it. She packed her things in her leather bag, and was just about to continue walking when she heard singing.
They were small voices, as innocent as the trees. The melody was clear and bright. Notes bounced along, mischievously playing with the minor key, clueless to the tragedy contained in the song.
Sadness washed over Clio like a wave. She sunk back to the ground, kneeling down as if to withstand it.
Where have they gone, the marching
O’er to shadows in the west
Where have they gone, the marching
Have they perished on their quest
The wind ripped through with violet smoke
No mem’ry left to save
But purple flowers sprout from blood
And grow across their grave
A line of children appeared in the trees upstream. They marched in time to the music, waving homemade banners, adorned in flower crowns.
But purple flowers sprout from blood
And grow across their grave
They finished their song and the parade dispersed into childish laughter. As quickly as they came, the children disappeared over the crest of the hill. But the song stayed.
Clio remained still for so long that the forest forgot she wasn’t part of it. A dragonfly rested on her shoulder. A chipmunk scurried down from the tree. And still she didn’t move. Weight settled in her limbs, a weight that reminded her of death and sleep. The song brought with it memories of before, and an anxiety that had been briefly forgotten in the warm morning sun. With the memories came a strange pain that ached deep in her limbs, and she found herself wanting to be left in the hollow tree to dream for decades more.
But she was here to solve a mystery. That was the journey she was on, the journey the stream had been leading her down.
As if to nudge her along, a bird sang from above, and woke Clio from her reverie. Dutifully, she pulled her parchment map back out, and drew a purple flower next to the freshly inked stream.
When she continued on, Clio felt the weight of history slowing her down. And amidst the young trees, it seemed it was hers to bear alone.
As the sun lowered and the sky turned to pink, the trees began to thin. Clio had walked upstream the whole afternoon, back up the steep hill of the mountain before the ground sunk down toward a valley.
The colony of aspens began to rattle their goodbye, letting loose some of their yellow, coin-like leaves. Clio caught a few, and whispered her thank you. She’d press these later in the pages of her notebook, so that she could fondly remember the innocent forest and the network of trees that sheltered her.
But her shelter was gone, and Clio stood exposed at the foot of the hill. Across the valley was carefully tended farmland, the crops just sprouting. It was nestled in a cove of tall, snow-peaked mountains. There’d be a village ahead. She’d stop there and compare her maps with the locals, and urge them to tell her stories by firelight. Outside of the woods, that was the only place she didn’t feel lonely.
They would take her for a minstrel trying to expand her repertoire. She would share some stories and songs in return, and give them the news she had gathered along her journey. But they wouldn’t realize what she was really after: the secrets that lay hidden in the songs, the voices that spoke of purple flowers and violet wind and a violent past too soon forgotten.
It was the pattern she’d followed for nearly two years-- and a pattern she had begun to enjoy. But this was the last stream, the stream that would lead to the true source of water, and looking up at the steep ridges of the mountains, this would likely be her last stop before she was back to loneliness and a world in white.
Twilight welcomed the next shift of life. Near a farmhouse she could hear children laughing as they chased fireflies, glad for the newfound warmth of spring. Clio continued on, careful to stick to the path that wound between the farmland and the stream that fed it. She took her knife from her belt and hid it in her bag, and slipped on the gloves that hid her scars from the world.
A door opened, and light spilled out from the farmhouse. A man approached her, waving in the waning light. Clio waved back with a friendly smile and slowed her walk. He had mud on his boots, a cloth draped over his shoulder, chicken feathers stuck to his shirt. His fingers held traces of green, a stain from the herbs that farmers here often sowed.
“Evening, traveler!” The man bowed his head as he joined her on the path. Maintaining a friendly smile, he scrutinized her, carefully eyeing her strong frame, full bag, and worn clothing.
“Good evening.” Clio responded, bringing her hand to her chest in the tradition of the kingdom she was about to claim as her own. He watched the formal gesture carefully. His face betrayed a touch of suspicion.
“We don’t often get strangers around here.” He glanced at her clothing once more, as if to ascertain that she really didn’t have a coat-of-arms or creed, and then to look curiously at how her bag was patched with thick, rubbery leaves.
“I’m Clio. I hope I won’t be a stranger long.” She dropped her hands from her bag, careful to show she was carrying nothing that might cause harm. Perhaps he could even see the stain on her hands from those tiny violet berries.
He quickly relaxed; it was easy to do so when presented with a visitor as threadbare and humble as he was. “Moss,” he introduced himself. “What brings you here?”
Clio studied his face. His face was suntanned and beginning to wrinkle. His eyes shone bright. But the suspicion was still there.
“I’m a mapmaker of sorts.” Clio smiled. “I hail from Pryntell. I’ve been following the Indigo up to its source.”
“The Indigo? Ah, that’s what folk west call the river into which our little stream flows, isn’t it?” He ran his hand through his hair. The air was sweet with blossoms and the earthy scent of the crops. “Well, you’ve got a long climb ahead of you then.”
“Indeed I do. I was hoping to buy supplies and get a hot meal and a good night’s sleep before I continue on. Is there a village ahead?”
“Yes, yes. You’ll just follow this path.” He gestured along the road. “The pub has soom rooms. Only inn we have.” Moss smiled warmly. “You should be able to get there before it’s too dark. There’s likely a warm mead to greet you.”
In a burst of laughter and shouts, the children from the farmhouse ran toward Moss, skidding to a stop at his side. The smallest one, a little girl, wedged herself beneath his hand, and shyly regarded Clio.
“Hello, little one.” Clio raised her eyebrows and the girl bashfully put her face in her father’s arm, giggling. Clio looked to the other children. There were four, two boys and two girls, the oldest just beginning to lose the round face of childhood. “I think I heard you all singing earlier, in the woods.”
“That was the ghosts!” the smaller of the boys piped in, causing his siblings to giggle one more.
“Oh, hush now, our new friend is far too clever for your tall tales.” Moss looked apologetically at Clio, but she was grinning. Ghosts. There were many stories in that word, and no doubt fireflies amid the white-barked trees stroked the imagination.
“Ghosts or no, I liked the song.” Clio looked at them encouragingly, and then acted as if she were carefully remembering the words she heard once, rather than reciting a poem etched deep in her heart. “‘Where have they gone, the marching.’ Is that a local tune?”
Moss darkened, though he kept his friendly tone. “You’ve a fine memory of songs for a mapmaker.”
“Of sorts,” Clio corrected. “You might say I’m a minstrel of sorts as well.”
“We were practicing it for the festival,” said the older girl. Her back was straight and she met Clio’s eyes with reserved confidence, though her hesitant tone betrayed her. “You could hear it again then.”
“Ah, well minstrels-of-sorts are always primed for a festival.” Clio looked to Moss.
“Day after tomorrow, in the village,” he confirmed.
“And I follow this path there?” she gestured again to the path at her feet, and was met with a chorus of nods. “Thank you for your help.” Clio again bowed slightly, hand to her chest, and continued on her way.
Behind her, Moss beckoned the children back to the farmhouse. They giggled and shouted, lighting up the dark as they stumbled to race each other back in.
Clio waited a long time to look back at the farmhouse, hoping they’d all be inside when she turned to confirm that no suspicions lingered. But when she did, Moss was standing near the house watching her as she walked away. He waved goodbye, the little light remaining showing the smile on his face. Clio waved back, but apprehension had settled in her heart. “We don’t often get strangers around here,” is what he had said. And while the trees wouldn’t call her by such a name, Clio knew it suited her well.