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Chapter 1: Of Truth and the Saying of it
 This is the truth, what I speak, not for what I speak it but for how I speak, and that iswhat matters in the speaking of it. Yes, said Old Man Richards, yes, I said, and yes I will say, my friend. You have done well.Rest now, and I will wake you when the food smells hot and fresh, and the day is finished, yetnot yet the mind. Rest now, my friend.And then she rested, but not her mind, nor her body, for the food smelled hot and freshbut the Old Man Richards did not come to awake her, and she had no right to move with hisguidance, and the lure of it stirred her from her mat, and she went to the door, where Old ManRichards was waiting.Good evening, my friend. You have rested, now, follow me.A potent smell of meat hung about Old Man Richards as he walked, lithely andsmoothly, until they entered the dining room and everyone looked, and said, You look well,good evening, our friends.She nodded deeply to each and took her place, and hunched into herself to concentrateon the godly hot and fresh food. Eventually, she listened to Old Man Richards' talk. The boy, down the road, he has gotten himself into trouble, and we shall be the ones tofish him out again. That boy is trouble.If you do not mind me asking, she said, breaking her vow, which boy? There are manyboys. There were many chuckles. Jem, my friend. It was the boy Jem, the boy of Saskia and Mangu.What did Jem do, my friends?He was caught. That was all. He was caught being clever on a street corner, when heshould have been helping his mother. He was teaching a young boy the words of a song—youknow it?Old Man Richards hummed it, gently, and they all bowed their heads. She did not,because she did not know the custom, but she quickly followed their lead. That was wonderful, Richards, he said. What a great song. What lovely words. So fitting.Old man Richards nodded. It was how it was meant to be sung, in the language of thepeople, not of language they teach in the schools. Yes? Yes, yes, yes, there was a chorus. There is a question. Yes, my friend?I do not understand.Understanding is difficult, and is men’s work, my friend.Do not call me, then, ‘my friend,’ if I am not one.Old Man Richards leaned back, upset, and said, But I am one.She pushed her chair back from the table, delicately, and thanked the cook. It waswonderful food, she said. Thanks to you and the food, and go well, my friends.She turned to leave.Isabeau! he cried. Then he cried no more, for Isabeau is a not a crying name, but aproud name, one that one should not cry. The friends at the table ducked their heads and allowed the Old Man Richards to leave,and they did not speak the rest of the meal except in the language of men, which is food andwine.
Chapter 2: Of Sweet Skies
 
I walked quickly along the narrow streets, ducking when there was a change andwalking straight when there wasn’t one. I arrived where I was wanted, a small grass field, andI lay out on a picnic table and waited for him to find me. There were other people my age, nearby, and they were holding red plastic cups andlaughing too loudly. One girl ventured over, timidly, almost tripping over the flat, dry grass.“Drink?” she said, smiling widely.“Okay,” I agreed, “just one.”She hurried to get it, and I reclined.“This is a great party,” she said. “It’s yours, right?”I sat up a little straighter, and took the cup from her, and took a sip. I took another, notbecause of my thrist, but because I wasn’t thirsty. That was worrisome.“Come on,” she said. “I’m June Williams, and I’m all yours tonight. Let’s go. Let’s befriends. You know my name, what’s yours?”“Isabeau,” I said, and she laughed.“That’s pretty,” she said, and stumbled, and sloshed a bit of her red cup onto me.“Oops! Not on the party girl. Oh well, Isabeau, let’s get some more. That’ll help your shirt,most definitely.”When my father finally found me, the cup had been thrown away, my shirt was dry, and June was kissing John David over by the trees.“Isabeau,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”I tilted my head, imagining myself not as a moon but as a sun. “Alright,” I told him.He took my hand. “Isabeau, we are different.”I became a moon, and looked back toward him. “We are only different when you saythat I am different,” I instructed him. “This is what I feel, and this is what I say. Don’t you knowthat feeling?”He peered into my cup. “Beer, Isabeau? I thought you were…different.”I walked away.
Chapter 3: Of a House, Worn
What did I say, Richard, what did I say? You said advice, my wife, and what rings true about advice is that there is norequirement to follow it.Hmph.Do not blame yourself, my wife, it is nature of the advice. And also the nature of thegirl. The girl, my husband?Isabeau.Ah. You see? My wife, this girl—she is not like us.My husband, you of all people, should understand that not many are like us, anymore.But I told the girl, that she was out of our custom. And she was upset. She argued withme.With you, my husband?Did I not just say that, my wife?I apologize.Of course. The girl left, suddenly, although another girl and a boy went with her. Theywere both young. They all walked quickly.
 
 The gasp was sudden, and sharp, and Old Man Richards extended his hand to coverher’s.Hush, hush my wife. There was a knock at the door. It was not the humble knock of one who knows theirplace, nor the sure knock of one who does know their place. It was somewhere in between,and Old Man Richards cocked his head. Vanessa held still, as well, then went quickly to thesmall stove and put the kettle on.My husband, are you going to answer it?Make the tea, my wife, said Old Man Richards unnecessarily. I will get the door, andeverything that will follow. The door was opened by the inside hand, and pushed open by the outside hand.Isabeau, he said delicately.My father.My—he choked.My daughter, she prompted.My daughter, he amended.My father, she spoke, soft and pleading.Come in.She already had her foot over the door, but she pulled back, then forward again, ratheras a cat does.Good evening, Vanessa. How do you go? The woman nodded stiffly, then poured a cup of steaming hot tea.I will go get Salvatore, he should like to know.Good-bye, my husband. Go well.Good-bye my wife…and my daughter. Until we meet again.
Chapter 4: Of Black Tea
She stood above me, though she did not hold her head or shoulders as high as some.She smiled, timidly, when I brought the tea to the worn kitchen table.I stirred mine, delicately, with my pinky finger. If you imagined it right, I could bewearing a fancy dress, too, and be holding a silver spoon.—Is there honey? she stuttered.—Nay. Black tea, only.A smile crept about her lips, and she took a sip of the burning tea. I longed to ask herwhat for, what for this smile was, but I did not. Fools are only fools when they are labeled assuch.My husband had long since disappeared from sight, a clean bill gripped between hispalm and his fingers. Ah, if he had not gone, there would be noise yet in the house besides thenoise as the tea cooled.—Vanessa?I inclined my head, only to show my ears were hers. I would not encourage herboldness. It was unsuitable.—Have you a place for me to sleep?I nodded. I would not put myself to shame with the use of my tongue. The girl then flushed, and ducked her cheeks as though I had hit her.What could I do to show her my true meaning? I pushed my chair back from the table,and left, pulling my shawl from the door as I left.—Vanessa? she called to the door. Vanessa?
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z.rose7

HELP ME! READ DOWN HERE! PLEASE comment with any critiques...also, does anyone have a better title?

reply02 / 21 / 2009
z.rose7

Hey everyone! I know the start of this story is a little slow, but stick with it...it may just be suprising. If you are confused, there is a guide at the end!

reply02 / 18 / 2009
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