sherry's peninsula †
in the Late Evening of the 21st of Ophus, 2718
Wasn’t right. Not right, not right, not right – it was like a drumbeat in his head, a steady chant, a mantra for his nerves – not right, not right. It matched the muffled rhythm of his boots on the pier, that clipped, unfamiliar gait he was just beginning to get used to. It matched the pounding of his heart, the roaring blood in his ears. Not right. The feeling of wrongness had settled into his bones more surely than the cold; it ached in his chest and it sat in the bottom of his stomach like an anchor, pulling him down, pulling him back into his head.
He was surrounded by the last dregs of the day’s market crowds, the ladies with their baskets, the fishmongers and spice merchants and jewelers packing up their goods and vacating their stalls. Magicians and street performers – some of them wicks, brightly-dressed in piecemeal pinstripes and paisley and a plethora of colors – played and peddled, but not to him. He caught the glances, real and imagined: eyes on him, hostile and hungry. Faces that were closed; faces that had once been open. He imagined he knew some of these people; he recognized them, if he only he could pluck them out of the mists of his memory, if only they recognized him in return.
This wasn’t what it was supposed to feel like. He’d thought he was ready, sitting in Incumbent Vauquelin’s parlor, rubbing elbows with his golly toffin friends and thinking about how much he’d like to be in Old Rose. How much he’d like to walk the pier, haunt his old haunts. Well, he was haunted, that much was certain. He was a gods damned ghost, and he wasn’t ready.
It even felt different. The wind stung at his skin, burned his cheeks as red as his hair; the cold hurt. He had Anatole’s heavy coat wrapped around him, up to his nose in its fur lining, hands – wearing two pairs of gloves, no less! – nestled firmly in its pockets. He’d thought, somehow, that being in the Harbor would fix everything, would fix his heart and set his path aright. But it was like pouring salt into a wound. Nothing would ever be the same, and now, away from his entourage, away from the charming upscale inn they’d put him up in, away from everything – now, he knew that. He knew that, and he couldn’t handle it.
Nothing like coming home in a different body to show you you weren’t yourself anymore.
His feet were taking him away from the pier. The sun had sunk below the horizon some hours ago, and he found himself staring fixedly at the moons; they were brightening against the darkening sky, scattering stars all around them. A circle and a crescent. Benea light your path, someone had said to him once, more than once – and he saw the moonlight in front of him, pooling under his feet. Glinting in the patches of ice, glistening in the slush. Benea and Osa. Circle and crescent.
It was even quieter on Sherry’s Peninsula. His head spun, blurring the stars above him. He hadn’t had enough to drink, or perhaps he’d been drinking too much lately. Both. But the flask in his coat pocket was empty, and he didn’t want anything right now, anyway. He wanted his thoughts to calm down without it.
The sand crunched underneath his boots. As if for the first time, he heard the hushed whisper of the sea; somewhere distant, birds called out, wheeling, shadows before the stars. He took deep, shuddering breaths, trying to master himself. For the first time in a month or so, his hands were shaking violently; he’d pulled his shoulders up around his ears to keep his whole body from trembling. His legs felt like jelly. But he kept walking along the peninsula, scanning the horizon, watching the bustling Harbor – that pile of nighttime lights – melt away behind him.
There it was, then. The Tincta Basta on all sides.
He came to a halt toward the end of the peninsula, the tip of his nose nearly numb with the cold. He bundled his scarf closer about his face, breathed into it, and let out a ragged sigh. He thought about how silly he looked – a tiny, shivering figure against the wide ocean, bundled from head to toe. And with that scattered, messy field, the disturbed mona that still clung about Anatole’s ley lines as if Tom had anything to do with them. What if he could see himself – what if the old Tom Cooke saw him now, standing out at the end of the peninsula, a shivering little mouse of a man?
But he’d come out here so no one would see him.
“Alioe,” he said to the freezing air, swallowing sorely. The moons hung still in the sky, mocking. “Alioe, who the hell am I? Can you tell me that? Why’d you do this to me?”
He was surrounded by the last dregs of the day’s market crowds, the ladies with their baskets, the fishmongers and spice merchants and jewelers packing up their goods and vacating their stalls. Magicians and street performers – some of them wicks, brightly-dressed in piecemeal pinstripes and paisley and a plethora of colors – played and peddled, but not to him. He caught the glances, real and imagined: eyes on him, hostile and hungry. Faces that were closed; faces that had once been open. He imagined he knew some of these people; he recognized them, if he only he could pluck them out of the mists of his memory, if only they recognized him in return.
This wasn’t what it was supposed to feel like. He’d thought he was ready, sitting in Incumbent Vauquelin’s parlor, rubbing elbows with his golly toffin friends and thinking about how much he’d like to be in Old Rose. How much he’d like to walk the pier, haunt his old haunts. Well, he was haunted, that much was certain. He was a gods damned ghost, and he wasn’t ready.
It even felt different. The wind stung at his skin, burned his cheeks as red as his hair; the cold hurt. He had Anatole’s heavy coat wrapped around him, up to his nose in its fur lining, hands – wearing two pairs of gloves, no less! – nestled firmly in its pockets. He’d thought, somehow, that being in the Harbor would fix everything, would fix his heart and set his path aright. But it was like pouring salt into a wound. Nothing would ever be the same, and now, away from his entourage, away from the charming upscale inn they’d put him up in, away from everything – now, he knew that. He knew that, and he couldn’t handle it.
Nothing like coming home in a different body to show you you weren’t yourself anymore.
His feet were taking him away from the pier. The sun had sunk below the horizon some hours ago, and he found himself staring fixedly at the moons; they were brightening against the darkening sky, scattering stars all around them. A circle and a crescent. Benea light your path, someone had said to him once, more than once – and he saw the moonlight in front of him, pooling under his feet. Glinting in the patches of ice, glistening in the slush. Benea and Osa. Circle and crescent.
It was even quieter on Sherry’s Peninsula. His head spun, blurring the stars above him. He hadn’t had enough to drink, or perhaps he’d been drinking too much lately. Both. But the flask in his coat pocket was empty, and he didn’t want anything right now, anyway. He wanted his thoughts to calm down without it.
The sand crunched underneath his boots. As if for the first time, he heard the hushed whisper of the sea; somewhere distant, birds called out, wheeling, shadows before the stars. He took deep, shuddering breaths, trying to master himself. For the first time in a month or so, his hands were shaking violently; he’d pulled his shoulders up around his ears to keep his whole body from trembling. His legs felt like jelly. But he kept walking along the peninsula, scanning the horizon, watching the bustling Harbor – that pile of nighttime lights – melt away behind him.
There it was, then. The Tincta Basta on all sides.
He came to a halt toward the end of the peninsula, the tip of his nose nearly numb with the cold. He bundled his scarf closer about his face, breathed into it, and let out a ragged sigh. He thought about how silly he looked – a tiny, shivering figure against the wide ocean, bundled from head to toe. And with that scattered, messy field, the disturbed mona that still clung about Anatole’s ley lines as if Tom had anything to do with them. What if he could see himself – what if the old Tom Cooke saw him now, standing out at the end of the peninsula, a shivering little mouse of a man?
But he’d come out here so no one would see him.
“Alioe,” he said to the freezing air, swallowing sorely. The moons hung still in the sky, mocking. “Alioe, who the hell am I? Can you tell me that? Why’d you do this to me?”
