Superstition

It's cold. I hate the cold, especially this time of year. It's just a warning, a promise that more cold is on the way. The seasons will be changing soon and that means hibernation. It's not a requirement, I don't even know if any other of my kind does it but it helps me survive. If I were trapped down here all winter I'd go mad and end up trying to kill myself. I learned that lesson the hard way when I tried to wait out the winter. It seemed like every morning I had to dig out the hidden exit from my watery tunnels and then go foraging for food. Sometimes it wasn't even worth the effort. I'd come back with spent energy and nothing to show for my effort. Oh, how I hate the cold.

This will be my eighty-fifth year here, living like a vagrant in the tunnels under the old monastery. I look at my reflection in the ocean water to search for lines, gray hair, something to tell me I'm aging. But there's nothing new. Just the grotesque scar running down the left side of my face from temple to jawline. Not that I was all that handsome to start but the way my skin has tried to heal makes it look like ground meat that's turned bad in spots. And then there's my eye. One blue, clear, cold. The other, the damaged one, is just white and completely blind. I reach down and violently splash my reflection away, then run a hand through my blue hair. Time to get up, time to move. I only left my home for one reason and I was already feeling like a complete idiot for doing so.

Getting to my feet I pull my scarf up over my nose, a patch down over my blind eye, and the hood of my cloak down low to hide my face. This was the only way I could go into town in my human form. I'd never actually tried it in my shifted state but something told me a Water dragon would be more welcomed than the ugly human I am. My old leather boots make soft beats as I walk down the beach, to the docks and eventually into the town of Amme itself. No one looks at me more than once; everyone here is so preoccupied with themselves, their clothing, their money that a person of lower quality is best ignored. I'm just fine with it.

There's a miller here that I've bought from before when I wanted something other than raw meat for dinner. He doesn't question his customers as long as they give him his due for what he offers. Lucky for me, I have a small purse to work with. And there's more if I want it. It's truly amazing what you can find at the bottom of the ocean when you don't have to worry about trivialities like air and water pressure.

Inside the dusty old shop I quickly pay for a small bag of flour and a hunk of brown bread, then hurry to make my way out of the village and back into the woods. But before I get there I see her. She's sitting outside the chandler's shop with several strings of newly made candles draped across her arm, her free hand cupped and outstretched to feed the chandler's dog. Her long pale pink hair is braided and tied up with ribbons of green and gold, and I can just see the hem of her matching gown beneath her heavy brown cloak. I duck into an alley between shops and press my back to the cold stone. My heart beats fast as I turn my head, lean to the side and glance up the lane to watch her. She smiles and laughs as the mutt noses around for more of whatever she's treated it to. The sounds makes me think of chimes tinkling in the wind. I right myself, take a deep breath, and step back out into the moving crowds.

"There's no more," she says to the dog, and stands just as I am passing. She takes a step at the very same time I do and we collide. My sack of flower falls to the ground and explodes in a little white poof. "Oh my goodness," she breathes, delicate hands covering her mouth. I can help but wonder how she dismisses the fact that a dog was just licking those very same hands. "I'm so sorry." She reaches out and touches my sleeve as she speaks, true sorrow in her turquoise eyes. And then she pauses, looking at what can be seen of my face. A smile slowly replaces her dismay and she tilts her head in the most endearing way. "You."

"It was my fault," I say, crouching to tie up the satchel so I can carry home what's left of it.

"I haven't seen you for many days. I though you were gone."

"I've nowhere else to go," I answer honestly.

"Your Iyrish accent tells me different."

I feel my cheeks burn both from shame and irritation. My cursed heritage would forever follow me no matter how hard I tried to pretend otherwise. "It has been many months since I've been to that home, my lady." Many, many months. At least it is not a total lie.

She finally removes her hand from my arm and pulls her cloak tighter at the neck. "How many times must I ask you to call me Meida?"

I bow my head respectfully. "Every time you see me, my lady." Straightening, I glance at the candles on her arm and grasp for something to talk about. I've never been good at conversation with anyone but would do just about anything to keep her with me, talking in that soft, wondrous tone that is so unique to her. Thankfully she sees where my one visible eyes goes and picks up the conversation for me.

"A present for my mother. The chandler made these especially for her." She takes the strings in her hand and holds them up. "Smell them."

I lean forward and sniff through my linen scarf. "Frankincense and lavender. It's lovely."

"You have a keen nose," she tells me with a grin. "Do you think she will like them?"

"I am afraid I do not know your mother, my lady. But as you are her daughter, I am certain they will please her greatly."

She looks at me a moment, hooking the candles back over her arm. A thin line forms between her brows and I must resist the urge to touch it to try and smooth the skin once more. For a moment I am sure she's going to say something deeper than casual conversation usually entertains but the line goes away and she is once again wearing that small smile. "I suppose I should be getting home if I don't want to be late for supper."

"Yes, I wouldn't want to keep you."

Her shoulders lift as she takes a breath in and sink when she sighs. "My father usually escorts me home but he has been busy all day. Perhaps he has forgotten me."

"I can find him for you if you would like."

Now there is disappointment in her gaze, though I cannot understand why. "No," she says quietly. "Thank you just the same." It is now that company would usually part yet she lingers, watching the small square of my face left unhidden. Then her gaze slips and she gives a polite curtsey. "Good day, my strange friend."

I tip my head and utter, "My lady." As she sweeps past me I can smell the candles and something more like honey that must come entirely from her.  In my half bent position I watch her walk away and catch her glancing back only once as I straighten. To date, that is the oddest exchange we have ever had. Once she is swallowed by the crowd I take my small treasure of flour and bread and hurry in the opposite direction.

No one stops me or gives me a second look at I start on the trail that would lead to the town surrounding Montania Castle, and no one notices when I deflect from the well-worn path and head straight for the woods. It is here that I quickly find the hidden entrance to my underground home. I look all around to make sure I am alone before my transformation begins. My clothing appears to stretch and make a second skin of blue and black scales. My fingers and toes become talons and my jaw elongates and reshapes itself into an impressive maw, all while my body thins and extends. Once the transformation is complete I am little more than a python with four legs. With the flour satchel and bread carefully between my teeth, I slide underground.

The water is absolutely frigid but my body adjusts quickly. It's uncomfortable to swim with my head above water but it is imperative I keep my flour dry. These tunnels have been my home for so long that I don't need to think about where it is I am going. Habit has me turning when and where I need to and before I have time to think again just how much I hate the cold I am at my destination.

There are very few spots down here that show the damage of time where stones have fallen from the roof below and provide a dry area to rest. The largest of these spots is where I crawl up out of the water to where all of my sorted belongings are. I have a lantern that doesn't work, a damp blanket, a few soggy books, some broken dishes and a flint. I shake my scales free of moisture and shift back to my ugly human form. I'll need my fingers for what is next.

The bread I place on top of my books and the flour sits at my feet. I grab a cup and saucer and set them beside one another on the stone floor. The satchel is opened and flour is spread on the saucer. I toss what's left aside and look at the slimy walls around me. There are snails all over the place down here and when I find one, I set it on the flour and cover it with the cup. Then I set it aside so I can curl up in my blanket and get some sleep.

There is an old Iyrish legend that says if you place a snail on a plate of flour, cover him and return to him in the morning he'll have carved out the first letter in the name of the person you would marry. I've never really cared about such things as marriage; the chances of any woman wanting to spend their life looking at my face are beyond slim. But the more I see Meida, the more I begin to think about what could possibly happen.

Shivering in my blanket, I reach for the bread and break it off into chunks that I eat slowly. I'm going to need some more blankets this coming winter if I choose to weather it out. Or I need to commit to hibernating and start eating much more than this dry bread.

Once my meager meal is finished I glance at the cup and saucer, then curl myself into a ball under my blanket and fall asleep. As always on the days I see her, I dream of Meida. Her voice, her laugh, her telling eyes. She can never hide what she is feeling with eyes like that. I cherish that about her even if I don't always understand why she feels a particular way.

I know it's morning just by the temperature in the air. Even as far in as I am there is some definite change between day and night. All of my old bones ache and I think, not for the first time, what a thing it must be to have a nice straw mattress and warm dry blankets. I lay on my back for a time trying to get the sleep from my eyes. And then I remember the saucer. I bolt up into a sitting position and reach for my flint in the darkness. With a few strikes I manage to make a small fire of the rest of the flour and the satchel it came with.

Taking the plate and cup in hand I hesitate. What am I really expecting? To find the snail has written the exact letter I want? It is a foolish superstition and I shake my head at my own idiocy. Yet my hand still trembles as I reach for the cup. I grip the cold porcelain and take a breath, then lift.

The snail is in the exact same spot I set him in, only his shell is on its side and his body hangs limply inside. I killed it. I killed it and didn't even get anything out of it. Not even a simple line that I could translate to be an "I" or an "L" was left for me. But really, what should I have been expecting?

Deflated, I roughly return the saucer and cup to my books and, sulking, curl back up into my blanket. It is a foolish superstition, I must remind myself. All it cost me was a little bag of flour that was now giving me a small source of warmth. I stretch a hand out to grab the dead snail and pop it in my mouth, the sound of the shell crunching between my teeth so loud that it seems to bounce off the walls around me. A foolish superstition.

Well, at least I had breakfast.