Young Writers Society

The mayor’s house is still quiet when she returns. The foyer, sitting room, and dining room are all very still. By now, it is well past ten, so Jo does not bother creeping up the stairs. Not even as they creak loudly beneath her feet.

She walks down the hall and raps twice on the door. There is the distinct sound of half-muttered complaints, and several seconds pass before a sleep-bedraggled Oscar appears.

“Good morning, Jo.” He yawns.

“I’m off to the Peterson’s farm. I’ll be back before lunch, unless they invite me to stay.”

“Oh,” Oscar scratches his head, taking a second to answer, his groggy mind trying to keep pace with Jo’s clipped words, “would you like me to accompany you?”

“No. Stay behind to tell the Fitzgerald’s where I’ve gone off to.” She glances down the hall, at the stalwart row of doors, “Unless they’re awake already?”

“I don’t think so,” Oscar says, peering past his room. He presses his lips tight together in a small frown, “Will you be all good exploring town on your own?”

“I already have been. I procured supplies from the local inn, now I just need to secure our guide.”

Oscar laughs, “You went out without me?” he asks, folding his arms, “I know I’m only ceremonial, but no need to make me feel useless.” He jokes.

Jo frowns. “You don’t mean that,” she says, even though it’s true. He was there to make sure she didn’t abuse her magic, in the eye of the law, theoretically; but since it was so very uncommon for Magic Practitioners to commit treason, there was very little need for a Scribe. But disregarding that entirely- Jo did not like the perceived insult to Oscar’s character, because Oscar was her friend. And she had few and far of those. “You are not useless. You are very charismatic. You are my diplomat.”

At that, he cracks a broad grin, and places a hand over his heart, “Jo, that may be the kindest thing you have ever said to me.”

“It’s a rather low bar,” Jo concedes, a lick of guilt in her gut at that. She clears her throat and nods her head, “I’ll be off then. This should be a rather straightforward encounter.”

“Here’s to hoping,” Oscar calls cheerily after her, as she vanishes down the hall.

-

Jo had not appreciated just how big a proportion of Monsbury’s soil was allotted to it’s aristocracy; through the gate at the end of the square are rolling fields of grass as high as Jo’s waist. It stretches as far as the distant mountain range, wicked rows of teeth as gnarly as they were majestic, jagged paintings against an azure backdrop.

Jo felt as small as an ant as she scurried down a dirt path, one left mostly to her imagination. The weeds were not beaten back with a pair of shears; rather, the occasional bits of foot and horse traffic. Her skirts snags on the clever fingers of twigs and biting thorns, and more than once she just avoids plunging into heaping lumps of manure.

She is mid whole-hearted swear, when thunder rocks the earth.

It is somewhere between the sound of waves crashing against a rocky shore, or the wind as it races along the sides of an ancient house. And yet, it is louder than either, like the sky is being wrenched in two.

Jo clamps both hands over her ears. It does nothing to muffle the wretched noise, which does not cease for another minute.

When it is over, nothing has changed. Jo still stands alone in an empty field of grass. Her ears, ringing, seem to mostly work, and her legs, though wobbly, still urge her forward.

Earthquake, is her first, (and for a moment, only,) thought. Then, she glances up at the sky, and her eyes arc toward the distant mountain range. A chill darts up her spine, and she knows that it was an animal who set loose the roar.

What had made her think she could kill a dragon?

-

She follows Carter’s instructions to reach the Peterson’s farm.

The walk to the first signpost is longer than expected. The mayoral half of Monsbury vanishes completely behind her, (though the mountain range beyond that, being a fixture of the horizon, remains; giving Jo the impression of a village being swallowed whole).

Con. East, Castle Monsbury.

Southward, Peterson’s.

Jo turns right.

The world vanishes beneath a sea of ash and steals away Jo’s breath. The omnipresent mountain range disappears, swept away in the fierce thundercloud that has consumed this piece of Earth. It is so suddenly midnight. The sun’s influence, which wavered like a candle in mayoral Monsbury, is snuffed. It is like she’s found herself somewhere deep, deep underground.

An ‘ashtray’ draws upon an image of a desert, where no trees or plants grow, and you can see for miles in any direction. The Peterson’s farm is a jungle, where Jo cannot see more than ten feet in front of her at any given time.

Still, she stumbles down the path, clinging to it like a rope.

She eventually, (emphasis on eventually,) finds herself in a place where the fog is somewhat lifted. She sees rows and rows of barren apple trees, fading into the smoke. Like two mirrors shining into one another, they seem to extend forever.

At the end of the path is a quiet farmhouse. No lights flicker inside, and the door and windows are bolted shut. Quiet as a bird house in the dead of December, save for the hushed song of a windchime, somewhere out of view, and the crunch of gravel beneath Jo’s heels.

She does not see the woman, who stands on the rotting porch, watching Jo’s approach, until she is a few meters away. The two make eye contact.

She is tall, with cropped hair and warm skin, the color of burning embers. Her shoulders are broad and strong. She wears a women’s blouse and men’s pants and practical shoes, all well-worn. Her expression is still, but appears to flicker behind the screen of smoke. She is around the same age as Jo, but appears older; stress having carved her face into its image.

Even without the extra height lent to her by the porch, the women towers over Jo. There is something very unsettling about her strange stillness, like she’s been waiting here for a very, very long time. Like a door rusted around the hinges, her head slowly creaks to the side. “What do you want?” she asks.

“My name is Doctor Josephina Gundry,” Jo says, “Is this the Peterson farm?”

Most of the woman’s expression does not shift- but her eyebrows do lift in a way that takes Jo a minute to decipher- not quite surprise, no. Sarcasm, maybe? “That’s right.” She says.

Jo bites her lip. “And you would be?”

“Name’s Angelique Peterson.”

“Ah,” Jo attempts her smile. It wobbles unhelpfully at the corners. “you’re exactly the women I was looking for. Do you mind if I come inside?”

“I guess that depends. What is it you want?”

“I’m a magic practitioner sent from Sol. I’m here to kill the dragon,” Jo says, “I need a guide up the mountain; I hoped that you would be it.”

Angelique takes the moment to survey Jo. Her face is steely, like the blade of an axe, and Jo feels very small beneath her gaze. Then, Angelique sighs. Her voice, though calm, wavers, water simmering over a fire. “You can’t come in. But why don’t we walk?”

-

“You’re a witch, then?” says Angelique, as she hurls a stick into the trees for her dog to bolt after. “That sort of thing gets you hung, I hear.”

Jo shakes her head no, lips thin and voice sour. “I have a permit.”

They walk side by side down a path behind the farmhouse. Contrary to the one that took Jo here, it is well maintained, and wide enough that a carriage could be hulled through with room to spare.

“Oh, of course. My mistake.” Angelique shrugs.

Jo scowls. There is a sizable difference between a witch, an illegal partaker in magical arts, and herself. She went to university. For eight whole years. She works directly under her majesty, the queen, only practicing sorcery for the betterment of society. Her work is not the hobby of a bored housewife, a heathen, or anything in between- all this and more, she barely keeps herself from spouting. “I don’t do well with sarcasm.” She warns instead, “I’d rather you just say what you mean.”

The dog comes bolting down the path back toward them, it’s tongue lolling from it’s face in a grotesque, monstrous manner. Jo winces as it drops the slobbered-over stick at Angeliques feet.

“Good fetch,” she says, already flinging it back into the orchard, before turning her gaze on Jo. She has very pretty eyes, the color of a lantern burning low. They search Jo’s face, narrowed and distrusting. It takes her a long time to settle on words. “I’m not interested in facing the dragon myself.”

“I can work with that,” Jo says, her foot thrumming impatiently against the ground, “So long as you can get me close.”

“I only want to find my sister,” Angelique continues.

Jo’s gut wrenches. If Susanne Peterson had not become a midday snack, then she was a matchstick. Dragon’s, as mindless as any other monster, killed their victims quicker than a tiger on the prowl. The thought makes Jo sick, but she swallows the bile and tries to keep her expression convincingly impassive, placating, and sympathetic. Like how Oscar does so sincerely. She presses her lips together, lilts her head, and pinches her brow. “Why, of course you do.”

Angelique’s voice is thick with an undisguised disgust. “I can see it in your face.” She drawls, “You think that Susie is dead.”

“I think that it is likely.”

Angelique waves her hands in a grand, dismissive gesture, taking a whole step back from the force of it. She folds her arms and turns away, gnawing at her nails. She shakes her head, not at Jo, rather as though shooing away an obtrusive thought. She says, “If you think you can help us, I don’t see why you can’t come.”

“Thank you,” Jo says.

“But let’s be clear on one thing,”

“Yes?”

Angelique’s exhales deeply, her breath a puff of smoke. Her eyes squeeze shut, and her shoulders fall, a surrender, “Susie was not killed by the dragon. She’s gone to slay it.”