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Percy Deuces assures me that this is the proper garb: the finest suit the Salvation Army can provide. It is too tight around my shoulders and chest, and it is decidedly unflattering, covering my entire body from neck to wrists. All of the women get to show off their bodies, why not the men? And if this is what one calls a funeral, its a wonder anyone will know that the Father has died. No sacrifices, no singing, no send off. Just a closed wooden box and a man much like the father speaking generic platitudes while everyone sits in silence. Shameful. The man deserves better. At least he will go into the ground and cross the river with his proper fare. But, I remind myself, that this is not a funeral -- it is a hunt. The killer may have come to gloat, or to relish in the grief of the Father's loved ones. I am not here to celebrate the passing of a warrior, I am engaged in the preliminaries of a battle of own. At the reception, none strike me as capable of such power. None of these men possess the strength to reduce a man to nothingness with the force of their blows. But a powerful sorceress, perhaps? There is only one woman in the crowd who fits that particular bill -- the wife of the king. Already she has the crowd eating out of her hands, literally, as she regales them with tales of how she makes the local children cheer, and who knows what spells might be woven into the mashed root vegetables she has decided to serve, and of which Deuces and Hazel have already begun to partake? Of course a woman like her would serve the chthonic fruits of Hades. Approaching her is all too each. She makes herself approachable. "Did you know Father Pryor well, ma'am?" I ask, with studied friendliness.
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May 16, 2018 00:17
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| # ¿ Apr 26, 2024 12:52 |
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Percy "Yes, who indeed. He was a wonderful man, someone who helped me more than I ever could express." The witch is sweating now, she can tell that I am on to her. Perhaps the Father was not her target, and now, seeing those who her actions have harmed, she is consumed by her guilt. Even the proudest of people could be brought low when they know the furies are on their backs. "Tell me," I say, putting a comforting arm around her shoulder, supporting her sagging weight, and leading the ill witch away from the crowd towards the hall. "Who made those lovely potatoes?"
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May 31, 2018 21:19
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