I popped into town today. I needed jars and sealing wax for my upcoming jam-making marathon, and the potter had sent word he’d completed firing on a batch exactly to my specifications.
I walked up the hill from the little dock I preferred to use when using the boat and made my way down the high street. It was eerily quiet. People walking by, heads down, no chatting.
Strange, this place was normally abuzz with conversation. And laughter. Everyone was looking miserable.
I stopped one of the women. A spare, cheerful mother of two, soon to be grandmother of one. “What’s happened.”
She winced, grimaced, then opened her mouth. Her words came of in an off-key, creaky aria. “We’ve been cursed to only sing.”
I narrowed my eyes. “By who?”
“The lalala lady staying at Berthold’s i-i-i-inn.”
It seemed I had a detour to make.
The ‘lady’ was sitting on the front verandah, smirking at the people scurrying past.
Her eyes lit when she saw me striding towards her. “Ahh, another player in my opera. Come, now, sing!”
Such a pity my wards were activated. Her command bounced straight back, smacking her fair between the eyes.
No elemental copes well with rebound and this one took it worse than most. Oh yes she was an elemental, one of the petty little breezes from out by the Mermaid Isles if I’m any judge,
I stood over her as she twitched and gasped. “You’re a long way from home.”
The DNA of Stories 