was going to stand up, but Haiku stayed him with a raised hand.
“So your mother took you out of the bar through a back door,” Haiku said a few moments later, picking up where Wren had left off, gently leading. “And then...”
He trailed off, leaving Wren to once more take up the story from there. The words called him back, fixed his mind on that moment. But Wren found his mouth had gone dry and sticky. The images still swirled.
“Through the back, and...” Haiku repeated.
“And then we went to a chemist,” Wren managed to answer. “Can I have some water?”
“Sure, buddy,” jCharles said, and as he was standing to get it, Wren heard the clicks and whirs of Mol’s approach. She passed by and waved jCharles off, moving towards the kitchen for the water herself. She returned moments later and sat down beside Wren, handing him a plastic cup with her left hand while draping her right arm over his shoulders. Wren sipped the cool water, let it sit in his mouth for a few seconds, feeling how it swished and swirled as he moved his tongue through it. He swallowed, took another sip, then a longer pull.
“And what happened at the chemist’s?” Haiku asked.
Wren stared down into his cup. “Bad things.”
Telling the story was much harder than he’d expected it to be. After that initial burst of information, Wren spoke little, answered directly, without elaboration. It was easier for him that way, to think of each event in isolation, to tell only what seemed necessary. Eventually he decided he’d been too eager. Told too much, too quickly. This way was better. One step. Don’t linger too long, don’t rush too far ahead.
But over time, Haiku’s careful, respectful tone and insightful questions began to work their cure. His voice was quiet and words kind, and gradually he drew forth the answers he sought. Wren’s responses lengthened. Without his notice, he began to share more details, to offer information more freely, to expound without prompting. And all the while, Haiku’s pen flowed across the pages, capturing every moment, freezing each in ink.
Cautiously, compassionately, Haiku led Wren through the journey, recording it all in his leatherbound book. Occasionally they stopped for breaks, sometimes at jCharles’s or Mol’s prompting, sometimes because hunger or thirst or weeping demanded it. Wren hated crying. He fought it off as much as he could. But at times the tears were irresistible. The memory of leaving Mama, knowing she was dying. The shock of the guards’ attack when they first reached Morningside, when their journey was so nearly done. Mr Carter’s death, and Dagon’s. The utter helplessness of being pulled from Three’s arms by the surging crowd. Asher’s cruelties. His mother’s return as a Weir. Mol sat with him as he relived those terrible moments, her arm tight around his shoulders, her cheek pressed to the top of his head, her tears falling freely with his.
Whether it took an hour, or two, or four, Wren didn’t know. He completely lost track of time in the telling. But it didn’t seem to matter. Once the barriers had been brought down, Wren found the courage and the determination to tell it all. And tell it all he did, right down to the final seconds of Three’s life, his death, and the giving of his remains to the fire and the setting sun.
Only once did Wren notice Haiku stop writing. It was when Wren told of how he brought Mama back from being a Weir.
“I don’t understand,” Haiku said, lifting his pen. “What do you mean she ‘came back’?”
“She was a Weir, and then she wasn’t.” Wren took a drink of water, wiped the corners of his mouth with his fingers. “I mean, she’s still kind of one. Her eyes and... stuff. But she was herself again,” he said with a shrug. “Like she woke up.”
“How is that possible?” Haiku asked, and then looked to jCharles. “That can’t be possible.”
“I assure you it is so,” a voice said from near the door.
“So your mother took you out of the bar through a back door,” Haiku said a few moments later, picking up where Wren had left off, gently leading. “And then...”
He trailed off, leaving Wren to once more take up the story from there. The words called him back, fixed his mind on that moment. But Wren found his mouth had gone dry and sticky. The images still swirled.
“Through the back, and...” Haiku repeated.
“And then we went to a chemist,” Wren managed to answer. “Can I have some water?”
“Sure, buddy,” jCharles said, and as he was standing to get it, Wren heard the clicks and whirs of Mol’s approach. She passed by and waved jCharles off, moving towards the kitchen for the water herself. She returned moments later and sat down beside Wren, handing him a plastic cup with her left hand while draping her right arm over his shoulders. Wren sipped the cool water, let it sit in his mouth for a few seconds, feeling how it swished and swirled as he moved his tongue through it. He swallowed, took another sip, then a longer pull.
“And what happened at the chemist’s?” Haiku asked.
Wren stared down into his cup. “Bad things.”
Telling the story was much harder than he’d expected it to be. After that initial burst of information, Wren spoke little, answered directly, without elaboration. It was easier for him that way, to think of each event in isolation, to tell only what seemed necessary. Eventually he decided he’d been too eager. Told too much, too quickly. This way was better. One step. Don’t linger too long, don’t rush too far ahead.
But over time, Haiku’s careful, respectful tone and insightful questions began to work their cure. His voice was quiet and words kind, and gradually he drew forth the answers he sought. Wren’s responses lengthened. Without his notice, he began to share more details, to offer information more freely, to expound without prompting. And all the while, Haiku’s pen flowed across the pages, capturing every moment, freezing each in ink.
Cautiously, compassionately, Haiku led Wren through the journey, recording it all in his leatherbound book. Occasionally they stopped for breaks, sometimes at jCharles’s or Mol’s prompting, sometimes because hunger or thirst or weeping demanded it. Wren hated crying. He fought it off as much as he could. But at times the tears were irresistible. The memory of leaving Mama, knowing she was dying. The shock of the guards’ attack when they first reached Morningside, when their journey was so nearly done. Mr Carter’s death, and Dagon’s. The utter helplessness of being pulled from Three’s arms by the surging crowd. Asher’s cruelties. His mother’s return as a Weir. Mol sat with him as he relived those terrible moments, her arm tight around his shoulders, her cheek pressed to the top of his head, her tears falling freely with his.
Whether it took an hour, or two, or four, Wren didn’t know. He completely lost track of time in the telling. But it didn’t seem to matter. Once the barriers had been brought down, Wren found the courage and the determination to tell it all. And tell it all he did, right down to the final seconds of Three’s life, his death, and the giving of his remains to the fire and the setting sun.
Only once did Wren notice Haiku stop writing. It was when Wren told of how he brought Mama back from being a Weir.
“I don’t understand,” Haiku said, lifting his pen. “What do you mean she ‘came back’?”
“She was a Weir, and then she wasn’t.” Wren took a drink of water, wiped the corners of his mouth with his fingers. “I mean, she’s still kind of one. Her eyes and... stuff. But she was herself again,” he said with a shrug. “Like she woke up.”
“How is that possible?” Haiku asked, and then looked to jCharles. “That can’t be possible.”
“I assure you it is so,” a voice said from near the door.
Similar Books
