Well howdy there ladies and gents long time no sees. Sorry about the extended absence I was worried that the writing quality wasn't up to snuff as well dreading that my progress was glacial. As it would happen setting my page dimensions to 9x11 meant that the 168 pages I had was really more like 324. Soooooooo. Fortunately my hiatus was time well spent working out this new more localized pacing that I mentioned in the above post. It still needs work and I will probably be hammering out the proper balance between action and the more domestic aspects of this section but in truth I'm really enjoying that part. I wouldn't say I'm proficient in it but I am having fun and that's always a good indicator.
Edit: Oh I also keep up this website here where updates to MT and other things can be found: https://tangetialmenagerie.wordpress.com/
I think going forward my plan is to post fifty to sixty pages over the length of some months (what would correspond to something like a chapter), an update a week , take a break for a month, and then resume updates. So without further ado heres to you (N and B)
Monstrous came the raping rain and the vampire powers low hanging by the hangle puked ragnarok and wretched the complexion of the heavens. Potency of the inverted isangelous rescripting the valse of thunder and tree fall and the raked weeds' gnashing and there is a whirlwind gathers birds and slakes its gullet with the white elflocked shrives.
Swaddled in this display of the charnelverse she is treading in a tear of skins cleaved slick and rotten to her like some hideous molted miscarriage. Where she goes there is no shelter not least in her sick black hibernaculum.
Walking through a waste of agrostis she is come upon open air. Swallowed into the grave. She cracks a brittle labyrinthine bone cradle and it is a foxhole she has fallen into and this waste where the plemena had effected a stand against aerial drones that had annihilated them from two miles off. She composed a pyre out of the defenders. Fetching them out the wall burst trenches and foxholes like some banausic bonepicker in a lag of rotary motions. Their equipment had been looted but under a pelvis she discovered an ampule containing an effervescent elding ghost blue. She stowed it by the pyre and reaped the winter weeds, the hibernate flowers, two hours worth, and piled them on the pyre until the denuding of the bones seemed reversed. Shrieks of lightning barred the horizon. She had neither gunstone nor magnesium out which to strike fire and so she emptied out the elding and tried to strike spark out a shinbone with a tooth but more fell then lead in limbs is despair and the instruments slipped from her worn fingers. In the distance the whirlwind loomed and she could see the silhouettes of a herd stampede up the prairie chaos within and what voice spoke out was the screams of horse. And now fall the stones of heaven. Leaven the margent of her bed and fly the unharming fire through her toes and spiral up her shanks and a corset be and trellis her in vagrant tresses spilt across her bosom and do a dance pon her shoulders and with ethereal finesse whisk away her tears and down scars channel warmth and care not even to abate the rains.
She went on through fields of combed weeds gnashed back and across muddy metamorphosis of country roads littered with the gale stripped branches of a pinetum.
At a creek she rested upon a stump and had not long when voices sounded from upstream. Child pitch and child tenor. She didnt turn. Not when they neared nor when they exclaimed her.
A troop that rushed up and clamored her a thousand questions. She slumped to the ground. Someone ran for help. Someone else took her hand.
Youre going to be ok, the someone said.
A man came. He gathered her in his arms and bore her across the waters and across a branchblown bridge and up a path into his town and to his house. A woman awaited him. The frantic shoeslap of the children followed after. He took her to a bedroom and laid her upon the mattress. A postered police badge stared down from the ceiling.
What happened to her?
The man turned to face the clog of children in the doorway. All of you out, he said.
We found her.
All but one left. A girl in a full length cream trench coat and matching panama hat.
Emily held out her arms, one hand clutching her cherry red tie. This is my room.
The man looked back to Dachni. What happened to you? Was there anyone else with you? Where are you from?
Dachni stared at the bossment of the shield. The bow of MPD a perch for an eagle whats wingspread formed the border.
Whats wrong with her?
I think shes catatonic.
Dachni looked past him. The walls were wainscoted. Quartered at her level and a mirror. Police memorabilia was everywhere. Mementos. Trophies for marksmanship. Framed letters. Photographs of this junior detective posing with the officers of the town.
The woman was in the room now. God what is wrong with its eyes?
Shes catatonic, said Emily.
Did you call Holiday?
You didnt fix the phone yet.
Go next door.
Ill get Mr. Trarper, said Emily turning and dashing round the woman.
The doctor was unavailable but his apprentice was. Young man. He put a stethoscope to Dachni's breast and looked at his watch.
170/190, he said. 174 BPM.
No the literature says thats normal.
So shes ok?
Are you kidding?
Between the visit of the doctor and the custodian of the law the woman fitted Dachni into jeans and a sunflower dress. No one saw her lack of ears. When Trarper came he knelt and pulled the dress down a little. He had a scratchpad on which he'd written relevant inquiries as he had a forgetful nature. Dachni heard the questions as if they were of another world. As if there were no words for the things of which she had been witness.
The apprentice poised earnestly with her own pen ready to record any utterances. Trarper looked over his shoulder at her.
Has she said anything at all?
She clicked her pen twice and twirled it between fingers. Nope. I asked everything you did and she hasnt said a word. I dont think she can speak. Can shine bloods speak?
Its bez dushi, said the woman.
Trarper removed his cap and flapped it twice and put it on again. Ive been told they could. Maybe. I dont know. I dont know if we can do anything with this. He snapped his fingers over her eyes. Shes completely out of it. If she cant talk then well never know.
Is there anyway we can help?
Yes actually, Trarper said rising to his feet. Keep her overnight. Otherwise I have to cell her. Maybe they arent so vagrant as a gypsie but theres no telling how long this might take to sort out. Fact is I doubt it can be sorted.
We cant keep her here, said the woman. Theyre dangerous.
Trarper braced a hand against a hip. Thats. Its hard to say. Ive seen them hired to good labor. Theyre not lunatics. Which makes everything Ive heard come out of the frontier even worse.
What did you hear?
Theyre fucking homicidal.
Bad word alert!
Trarper smiled uneasily. Sorry ma'am.
The woman turned worriedly to her man. I dont like it. Who knows whatll happen if it wakes up.
The man rubbed his beard.
Your choice Mikhail, said Trarper.
We can manage her, said Emily. Ill keep watch.
Mikhail looked at Trarper. You dont have any space downtown?
Packed. That brawl filled us up. I guess I could let Marshall and Mills out but then I dont think theyd learn their lesson. Its either that or put ten men in a closet or add her to the mix and I dont think anyone would like that except the ones who would.
Traper shoved a hand into a pocket and got out a pair of cuffs. If the answers yes I can lend you these.
Mikhail looked at the dangling cuffs shaking his head slightly. Then he clapped his hands halfheartedly. No. I think we can manage. Fifty pounds of coma is exactly that.
The woman stepped forward and took the cuffs.
Might be fifty pounds of murder.
Mikhail rubbed his wife's back. No. Its alright. Because even fifty pounds of murder is exactly that. Fifty pounds.
Trarper flipped his notebook shut and put it away. Ill ring Harter tonight. See if anyone else has seen her before or maybe at least if banditry has been reported but with that storm I doubt anything is working. Ill let you know tomorrow.
Do you think well find the people who did this? said Emily.
There might not actually be anyone who did this. She might just have been caught out in the storm.
As beat up as she is?
Trarper shrugged. It might be. In any case even if someone did beat her up I dont think we'd find them.
Well theyre probably long gone. And even if we did find them. Well. Maybe she was a thief. Or maybe. Even if she wasnt its not exactly a crime. I mean yeah its a kid and its wrong but these things are outside the law. And killing her aint contrary to the law.
They left Dachni to rest but a few hours later when they returned to invite her to dine she hadnt so much as winked for in that solitary interim she had undergone an epiphany adjacent the concept of suicide. The man got her out of bed and conducted her out of the room with her puppet legs dragging senselessly under her.
Supper was pilece belo. An onion and cabbage salad and fries and rye bread. Her utensils were wrapped in a napkin and balanced on the rim of her plate. She stared at them and she could not see the friendly visages smiling for for the uplift of her spirit. Emily proclaimed the bestness of the meal but Dachni was staring at the knife.
Did you have a name?
Im just asking.
They dont have names.
Blunt knife shallow salamander toothed. The girl leaned into her view.
Im going to be a detective when I grow up. What did you want to be? I passed the academy exam last year and the detective exam last month. I got a certificate for both and a picture with the police chief. Ive got letters and formals to boot.
I think it wants to be left alone, said the woman.
Do you want to see my badge?
But Emily had already sprung from her chair and was
running for her room.
Try to eat something, said Mikhail.
They dont speak, said the woman.
He placed a heavy hand on Dachni's shoulder and that
shoulder sagged until the hand slipped off.
Sorry. Вы русский?
Emily slid back into her chair. She had a picture. This is me and Chief Aires. The man of whom she spoke was a bald rotundity of belt loose law and slothful oculus. Sun shades pushed up on his forehead. The badge next. A junior detective badge advised a precursor to the soon enough real article to be acquired. A blind double headed eagle bossed into the shield, banner in its talons, Horus eyes socketed at extreme of its extended wingspan. And the letter. Good papyrus mayhaps affirming all the girl had told.
Emily she doesnt understand.
Mikhail forked fries into his jaws and chewed and took a drink of water to help them down. He looked at his wife.
Wash your hands, she said.
You touched it.
Dachni wiped her eyes with her wrists.
Oh I think shes crying. Dont be sad.
What otherwise to be? Her gaze drifted across chicken, off
plate, across a gossamer tablecloth of diagrammatic embroidery of galleons and mans of wars to an arm of sparse blond down, bony elbow toeing the shield. Nouvea iteration of chivalry in nickelplate, in adversum malum. Eternal adversary of natural evils. Emily requested the salt and when it was passed she craned the shaker over the stiff folds of cabbage in a liberal dosing and flagged her daint arm to restore the shaker to the side of pepper in a restoration of the yin yang of the seasonings. Dachni shoved the butter knife into her arm pit. Emily screamed. The mother. She snatched the letter and the badge and dropped to the floor and scrambled through the kicking legs and burst out in a flare of tablecloth and clatter of cutlery and charged the door. The frame bulged outward in a loud crunch. She threw the knife at Mikhail and threw herself again into the door and fell out into the street.
A colder rain slanted down now. A gravid coal blue overcast. Dachni sprinted upstreet, her unshod soles sliding viciously over the granular macadam where puddles twinned lamp lights spinning round their stringed axis. Mikhail burst out the doorway beseeching the storm for an apothecary, Emily limp in his arms. Windows heretofore blinded slitted to reveal tintype ghosts alarmed at a sprite fleet Ptolomean tearing bandylegged through the street. She hurdled a fence into a backyard and leapt back again and lunged at pug polycreased mug of a pitbull bulging the waterbloated picket and dug her thumbs beneath the fat wrinkled eyelids. The pitbull whimpered and twisted, its saggy jowls throwing strings of slobber but it had lodged itself in the gap and when Dachni let go it howled against the sudden abruption of sight. Someone slid open the glass patio door of the house and yelled for her to quit harassing his dog and she ran on. Farther back from whence she had fled voices were gathering alarmed and speculative, their flashlights parceling out the darkness in whiplash illumination.
She scrabbled clear of the meager urbanity and turned towards the creek. Entering the bracken her foot stubbed a root and she tumbled down to a path paralleling the chopping waters. A recreational path favored by hikers and the domesticated and that in an hour's painful travail let out next a lake where docks undulated upon a chopping tide. A thin board where some landlocked bohemian surfed the disturbances. Who waved. She turned to receive the charge of what wheeling pursuants bore down but there were none and when she swung round again the surfer was gone.
She went on and there was violence yet more in the inclemency of the storm. She took a second path winding through a thready anorexia of birches to a road where beyond and alone in the blanket whiting of the heaven strife a cathedral granite and goth loomed like an apostolic horror house. Dachni sallied across the road and lambasted upon its asylum gates blows you would not have heard, that she did not hear herself. She jumped to grab the stolid pig iron bob of the doorknocker and hauled in vain against the portal. After several essays she gave it up and circled round the cathedral past the ribbed flank buttresses with their elongate gargoyles spewing gutter water and past a garth wall with painted tapestries of medieval battle, the placid combat wherein squires seemed fond of their braining. And past a cemetery where stacks of tombstones like playing cards awaited dealing. In the musty confines of the groundskeeper's shed she might have sheltered but didnt. Among garden tools was a barrel therein an axe and armed with thus returned to the gate and split the oak along its banded grain. Were that it was some enemy. The lodging of the axe was of a high tenored prate of splintering not unlike the thunder. In ten minutes of mechanical assault she mutilated the wood and now she hacked sparks out of the furniture mindless enough that she failed to perceive through the rents a gliding occlusion. The gate creaked away of its mangled double and the axfall shoved it back and then it shot open. Its corner struck the prominence of her ankle and that ankle folded and she went down.