Young Writers Society

A/N: I'm trying out a different style.

"What is this?" Jale's bark shook me from my thoughts. I shrugged my shoulders and raced down, with the figurine cupped in my hand like a dying pet.

"Mom!" I called desperately. "I found this under the bedding when I was looking for my saw. Why would anyone put a prakfura under my bed?"

She slammed her work onto the table and hurried over to peer at it. Her face blanched. She swiveled her head around, as though her eyes would catch some evil being. I saw none. "Mom!" I demandingly prodded.

She blinked several times, as though trying to refocus, and turned her gaze back on the figurine. "Take this outside. Throw it away, but make sure no one sees you throw it away."

"Why?"

Fear showered her face. "You know what such figurines mean," she replied testily. "Throw it away."

"No." I pouted. "The coward raider who put it there will have to come back for it. Then I'll kill him. And you still haven't told me why."

My mother seemed to bend to my will, as she sighed and then shrugged her shoulders. "Well then, willful one. Have it your way. It means you're protected by the raiders. I don't want that. Not should you."

"Really. Care for me?" I saw Mom's jaws clench at my sarcasm. "You mean take my money and my life and my." I ran out of breath and words.

She shrugged and returned to her work, but warily kept her eyes on me. Sometimes I hated following my instincts. They always seemed to put me at odds with those I loved. Especially times like this. I groaned inside. Why my instinct had chosen to be perverted and act mean to my mom I couldn't fathom.

I stalked back up, wishing to unsay what had just been said. Sometimes Mom became angry for no reason, I tried to justify to myself. I huffed out a breath and put it from my mind. This would have to wait. As would the sawing, I thought bitterly. I'd hoped to make a stool with it, but that too, I put from my mind.

"Jale, could you put out the banners?" I suddenly remembered that there was only five hours to the celebration and slapped my forehead in dismay.

"What? So you can run to get the peppers?"

"I don't know!" I wailed in despair. My carefully planned evening was going crashy.

"Well, that's normal for you." His smile was genuine. "But we can't delay the peppering. New year is two days away."

"That I know." I snapped at him as I felt my anger rising. I could not explain the bursts of rage which always seemed to grasp me at the most inopportune times. The adrenaline rushed my thoughts, and instinct told me I could do it, so I tried hedging my promises. "Fine, I'll get the peppers. But the banners. And don't forget Master Dwinfer's name. It's John. Wait. No. Dwinfer. Dwin. Ah, yes, it was Ryan. And don't forget the Harks, they said they'll be here early to help. And the."

He cut me short with a wave of his hand. "And the goats. And the horses. And the humen." He listed random items off his fingers, knowing I would only get the more angry. "Well, I think I can remember well enough now. Why the Harks would come early to bother us I have no idea."

I was sent scuttling off to find the peppers, which grew thickly round the moat of the castle. As indeed it grew everywhere near the castle. A long time I sat there, pondering over the best peppers to take back. In the end I chose three withering cases which I thought might do the trick, and looked to the sun with dismay.

I raced back just in time to see the Dwinfers hobble down Tailor's Row. I ducked under the Buffon's veranda. There, in the shadows, I kept the peppers properly, in an inside pocket of my jerkin.

"Welcome, Master Dwinfer!" I greeted as I hurried up behind them.

He turned around, his walking stick digging into the dirt. "And a good morning to you, Aley. Have I already said my well wishes this morning?"

He had, but I wanted him to repeat it, so all I said was, "Did you?"

"Ah, my tricky young friend. I remember I did. Ha, you won't get to hear it again." He pulled his stick from the ground to wag it at me, a smile splattered on his face.

I smiled in return and led him triumphantly to the door, where Jale insisted on cupping a hand over my ear and whispering his demand for a dance. The scowl on my face made him laugh all the more.

The evening flew by, as all joyous occasions do. There were few guests, and with the arrivals of the Keiths, who seemed to have forgotten or forgiven my prank, all the neighborhood children, as well as Jale's father, it became an evening to remember.

When our dinner of smoked fish and ham, chewed down with walnut breads given by Dwinfer, was over, the honored man took his place in the middle of the row and began to dance. When he was finished, he complained loudly of a broken back and would not do anything but sit in one of the Hark's rocking chair with a mug of ale in his hand.

Thus withdrew the adults, to sit around and do "adult gossip," as one of the Buffon's boys told me. We gave ourselves over to the night's revelry, and it was not long before we had started a bonfire right there. A pair of town watchmen came down, but laughingly set aside their duties to join in.

That night I went to sleep with the fire burning bright in my eyes. Somewhere, somehow, a man was tied to a stake, burning. I smiled.