Chatterbox: Inkwell

Prologue

           In a lush,
green forest clearing, all was silent except for a single wisp of birdsong. The
full moon was rising; it was a night of no stars. The clearing was empty, or at
least, that was how it would seem to anyone passing through.

           Only
one person would have noticed the eyes that almost glowed in the shadows.

           A
young man, who was surely no older than sixteen, stepped cautiously into the clearing
and looked around. A bush behind him rustled, barely making a sound, really,
and he spun around. A look of horror fell across his face, but a moment later his
expression held only relief.

           “You
have come,” said a voice. “I didn’t think you were going to make it.”

           “Of
course I came,” the man protested. “Why wouldn’t I?”

           The
owner of the voice, whose hair was long and black as the raven’s wing, and
whose eyes were the color of emeralds and glowed, spoke again. “Because you had
to get past your father.” The word “father” was spoken with a mixture of
fear and scorn. “He is determined to keep you locked in, isn’t he?”

           “Well,
I suppose he is,” the young man admitted, “but I managed to slip past him. I
don’t understand it. He has always been so set-apart from the rest of the
family, and has never treated me with anything close to fatherly love. He never
wanted anything to do with me. But now he seems to have taken an interest in
me, and I don’t like it. Now that he’s taken an interest in me, it is harder
for me to find a way to be with you.” He looked into the girl’s eyes
with a look of such love, such longing, that the girl was frozen with shock and
an emotion she did not recognize.

           “But-but—”
the girl’s heart was racing. “I don’t even know your name. If you really feel
this way, you must tell me your name.”

           The
man’s eyes hardened. “No,” he spoke firmly. “I will never tell you my name. It
was my father who named me, and my father’s name is my own last name, so you
must never know it.” The girl appeared shocked and horrified, and the man’s
glare softened as he rested his eyes upon her nearly flawless, though somewhat
mud-stained, face. “It’s not that I don’t want you. I love you. But I
don’t want you to think of my father every time you say my name. I don’t
want to think about my father every time I meet you.” He turned his head so
that he was gazing at his feet. “I don’t want you to think about me that way.”

           The
girl grabbed his shoulders, making him look up suddenly, afraid of what she was
about to do. But in her eyes there was only bitter longing and sweet love. “If
you don’t want me to think about your father when I speak to you, I understand.
But if you’re doing this for the reason you speak of,” she blushed slightly and
looked away, “then prove it.”

           “I
will,” the man said suddenly. Without warning, he picked her up and spun her
around, both of them shrieking with laughter. Then he looked up at the moon,
and his face grew pale. “I must go,” he said, setting the young woman on the
ground with gentleness. “I will meet you here at the next full moon.” The girl
nodded, still laughing.

           Then, to
the astonishment of the girl, he kissed her lips in an embrace that lasted
several moments which seemed to last as long as an eternity, and as short as a
single second. Neither wanted to break the embrace, but the man did after only
a moment. He whispered to her: “I love you.” Then he ran out of the clearing,
disappearing into the shadows.

           The
girl stood there, frozen in shock, staring at the now-empty space before her.
Then she tenderly touched her lips, which were still warm, and with a soft,
dreamy sigh, headed back home, where the rest of the village slept soundly.

           For
the next month, it was as if she were in a dream; on the coldest of nights her
lips remained warm, and during the day she could do no task without dropping
something or stopping, staring out into empty air.

           She
was in the clearing on the next full moon, waiting impatiently for the man to
arrive. He never did, though the girl waited for hours, and at last she had to
return home, disappointed.

           She
was still in a dream-like revery, though it was less obvious. She waited
anxiously for the next full moon, which was when she could see her love again.
When the full moon did at last arrive, it found her waiting alone in the
clearing, not bothering to hide herself. But when, after an hour or so had
passed, her love had still not arrived, she couldn’t help but feel as if something
was wrong. She suddenly knew that whatever had happened on that night, two
months ago, was over, and she left with her heart nearly broken in two.

           The
next full moon shone down on an empty clearing, and the stars seemed to cry at
the great loss. That was when everything began to change.