Chatterbox: Inkwell

Aenne leaned against the ship's railing, staring at the gray ocean. White clouds had gathered in the sky above the ship, blotting out any hint of blue the sky might have. A breeze moved around her, toying with her short-cropped hair.

She tucked a few strands of it back behind her ear, humming the beginning of a familiar melody. 

The notes were interrupted by the calling of a sailor as he crossed the deck. Ah, yes, a sailor; and likely one that disapproved of having passengers abovedecks. She smirked, lifting her skirt and slipping behind the mast, back to where he wouldn't notice her. From there it was a few steps, and she was back belowdecks, back to safety.

She walked with a slight spring in her step back to her cabin, the fresh air having raised her spirits. The cabin was small, unimportant--all she cared for was the small desk inside. She took a seat, beginning to write her previously unfinished letter.

I met a woman named Marynne a few days ago. She offered me work for a few days and I accepted--but, oh, that's not important. The townspeople called her a witch and hated her, but for me, for me she taught me songs to sing as I worked, songs she swore helped with the rain and the wind. 

They're wonderful songs filled with made-up words, and lovely to sing--and you feared I'd never learn to be domestic! She taught me a song for clumsiness, one for fear, a good quick-moving one, and another for loneliness, though the second did little to help me--I was interrupted by a rainstorm before I could finish it. I still remember how the rain pressed up against the window pane

She yelped, having knocked the inkwell over. Ink spilled all over her desk, pooling dangerously close to her letter. She snatched it away, tossing the paper onto her bunk. Lovely. And here she was, boasting about being domestic, when she still couldn't keep her cabin clean if she tried. 

She hummed one of Marynne's songs quietly--what was it? A song for clumsiness? As she looked for a cloth in the cluttered little cabin. It slowly rose into the real song, her singing the 'lovely little made-up words' under her breath. "Aentha, tekelmon, seare..." She sang, her voice dropping off pitch at the end with frustration. No, the song made her no happier...perhaps she hadn't sung it right.

She muttered the words under her breath, pulling the cabin's sea-chest open and fishing about in it for a cloth. Aentha, Aentha, Aentha. The words caught in her mouth while she searched, in a way that made her chest ache. And why did her hands feel so very warm...

She finally grabbed the cloth, turning to clean the ink--but it already was oozing across the table, slowly crawling into the overturned inkwell. She wanted to move, to scream, but nothing came of it--the ink simply oozed back in, then the inkwell righted itself as if nothing had happened. She blinked, then slowly realized she was still talking, her voice still chanting the words of the song. She bit her lip, falling silent. 

Perhaps it was the boat rocking that had done it. Yes--that explained it. Inkwells didn't clean themselves--it must've been the ship's motion. She held her still-warm hands close to her, hugging herself. Maybe she was sea-mad.

She took a few uneasy steps toward her cabin's window, staring out the side of the ship, down at the waves below. Hadn't Marynne taught a good song for any occasion, a good song to calm her? She breathed in before singing again, creating the first few words, the first few notes. Yyhen, rene, scor--why did the words seem to tug at her? Why were her hands warm as fire?

The sea stilled, then rose--strands of water creeping up along the side of the ship, toward her window. Her hands were trembling, her eyes wide. The water kept coming, rising toward her in a funnel.

Her voice cracked. The water fell back down again. 

She staggered back into the cabin, leaning against the wall. The songs--it had to be the songs. The songs that weren't songs. They all called Marynne a witch, and in return Marynne had seemed to hate them all, except a visitor she saw potential in, a visitor she taught songs to--a visitor she taught spells to.

She was a witch. Her and Marynne both--they were witches, witches who could sing up a rainstorm and learn spells. She was a witch, a witch who had been tricked into discovering her secret--a witch. Witch, witch, witch. 

Her hands cooled. She took a deep breath. 

Perhaps this wasn't something she would write about in her letter.