Tillie- Timing is important
Tillie:
My bare feet swallow up the ground, hopping from bare warm patch of dirt, to bare warm patch of what I really hope is also dirt. I keep my eyes down, hoping to see something worth more than a few tren. If possible, I’d like to bring back more than a loaf a bread and some oil. Thew’s jokes are getting a bit repetitive.
The suns beat down on my neck and shoulders, the relentless heat highlighting the lack of wind. It’s stifling up here, without any breeze or shade, just us and the endlessly burning suns. I love it.
It’s incredibly peaceful on The Midden, with no-one around for miles. People don’t dare venture out on their own, and guides charge purposefully high, so that only the important (and therefore rich) can come, and even then only when absolutely necessary. I suppose they’ve heard of the Guild of Guides various ‘accidents’- even the guides can’t always tell when the piles will move, despite obvious warning signs.
‘Ouch!’ Nor yelps, as I march straight into her. She turns and scowls at me, rubbing her heel ruefully.
‘What was that for?’ I raise my head, still keeping one eye on the ground, and one ear cocked for tremors, as I look at her.
When we were little, everyone always used to ask if we were twins- we went everywhere together, had the same mannerisms, and even looked quite similar with dirty blond hair and olive skin. In reality, we’re not even related- we never told them that though.
Older now, the differences are more obvious. I just didn’t stop shooting upwards until I was at least 15, towering over both Nor, and my brothers. While I’m no longer taller than Thew and Uctor, I’m still quite a bit taller than any other girl I know. While I was busy trying to be a flagpole, Nor’s body decided to be kinder, and grew her out in all the right places, leaving her looking stunning without having washed for a week, while I continue to look like the ‘before’ girl in a beauty product advert for rich people.
Still, I feel slightly better in the knowledge that she would probably die if she came out onto The Midden without me. I also find it immensely amusing watching the hordes of men, women and variations thereupon who come swarming around her on Sunday afternoons. They all seem to be oblivious of the fact that she’s clearly in love with the son of the woman who runs the Thursday wine collections. The lucky man himself however remains stoically oblivious, despite the long, mournful looks from my friend. It'd be funny if it wasn't so painful...
‘Hey! Tillie! Are you even listening?’ I’m guessing she launched into one of her famous lectures about why I should pay more attention to the world around me instead of drifting of into my own private headspace where there’s peace, and quiet, and quite a lot of chocolate. Personally I think it’s a no-brainer as to which I should do, but apparently it make me look like I have no brain at all: not quite the look I’m going for…
I’m about to raise my hand to tell her just what I thought of her lecture, when the sight of the sunlight glinting off something in the distance grabs my attention. I grin, and point, before leaping over to its source, and falling to my knees, tapping it lightly with my knuckles. Around 30cm long with a rounded edge, hollow, possibly containing something. Unfortunately it’s half buried, but that can be sorted soon enough. I reach into my waistband, and pull out a long flat metal stick. Vid tells me that it’s called a ‘spatula’. Stupid name really, it sounds like an annoying breed of fly. Or maybe a crocodile.
Carefully, I slide it down under what I assume must be some sort of cylindrical box. A heavy feeling in my gut appears, like something’s tugging gently on my intestines. Next I pull out a second spatula, this one bent so that it has a 90 degree drop down, then out again, so that it resembles a step. I slide this under too, at the end where the dirt is shallower, adjusting the angle carefully so that it’s nearly supporting the full weight of the mysterious cylinder. The feeling in my gut intensifies.
I cast a look over my shoulder, and low and behold, about half a metre away is a large round stone that looks roughly the right size. Rolling my full weight onto one leg, I stretch the other out, so that my toes wrap around it, and shuffle it closer painstakingly slowly. A huff of irritation blows my hair into my eyes for a second, only to see Nor stroll over and pick it up.
‘No need to show off,’ she says, placing it just behind the handles of the spatulas.
‘You ready? 3,2,1 and go!’ On go, I lever the cylinder up and tip it out onto the ground, while Nor almost simultaneously pushes the stone back into the freshly made hole. Almost simultaneously. My stomach flips, and I’m already on my feet as the ground begins to rumble.
‘Damn.’ Nor breaths.
We run.
The suns beat down on my neck and shoulders, the relentless heat highlighting the lack of wind. It’s stifling up here, without any breeze or shade, just us and the endlessly burning suns. I love it.
It’s incredibly peaceful on The Midden, with no-one around for miles. People don’t dare venture out on their own, and guides charge purposefully high, so that only the important (and therefore rich) can come, and even then only when absolutely necessary. I suppose they’ve heard of the Guild of Guides various ‘accidents’- even the guides can’t always tell when the piles will move, despite obvious warning signs.
‘Ouch!’ Nor yelps, as I march straight into her. She turns and scowls at me, rubbing her heel ruefully.
‘What was that for?’ I raise my head, still keeping one eye on the ground, and one ear cocked for tremors, as I look at her.
When we were little, everyone always used to ask if we were twins- we went everywhere together, had the same mannerisms, and even looked quite similar with dirty blond hair and olive skin. In reality, we’re not even related- we never told them that though.
Older now, the differences are more obvious. I just didn’t stop shooting upwards until I was at least 15, towering over both Nor, and my brothers. While I’m no longer taller than Thew and Uctor, I’m still quite a bit taller than any other girl I know. While I was busy trying to be a flagpole, Nor’s body decided to be kinder, and grew her out in all the right places, leaving her looking stunning without having washed for a week, while I continue to look like the ‘before’ girl in a beauty product advert for rich people.
Still, I feel slightly better in the knowledge that she would probably die if she came out onto The Midden without me. I also find it immensely amusing watching the hordes of men, women and variations thereupon who come swarming around her on Sunday afternoons. They all seem to be oblivious of the fact that she’s clearly in love with the son of the woman who runs the Thursday wine collections. The lucky man himself however remains stoically oblivious, despite the long, mournful looks from my friend. It'd be funny if it wasn't so painful...
‘Hey! Tillie! Are you even listening?’ I’m guessing she launched into one of her famous lectures about why I should pay more attention to the world around me instead of drifting of into my own private headspace where there’s peace, and quiet, and quite a lot of chocolate. Personally I think it’s a no-brainer as to which I should do, but apparently it make me look like I have no brain at all: not quite the look I’m going for…
I’m about to raise my hand to tell her just what I thought of her lecture, when the sight of the sunlight glinting off something in the distance grabs my attention. I grin, and point, before leaping over to its source, and falling to my knees, tapping it lightly with my knuckles. Around 30cm long with a rounded edge, hollow, possibly containing something. Unfortunately it’s half buried, but that can be sorted soon enough. I reach into my waistband, and pull out a long flat metal stick. Vid tells me that it’s called a ‘spatula’. Stupid name really, it sounds like an annoying breed of fly. Or maybe a crocodile.
Carefully, I slide it down under what I assume must be some sort of cylindrical box. A heavy feeling in my gut appears, like something’s tugging gently on my intestines. Next I pull out a second spatula, this one bent so that it has a 90 degree drop down, then out again, so that it resembles a step. I slide this under too, at the end where the dirt is shallower, adjusting the angle carefully so that it’s nearly supporting the full weight of the mysterious cylinder. The feeling in my gut intensifies.
I cast a look over my shoulder, and low and behold, about half a metre away is a large round stone that looks roughly the right size. Rolling my full weight onto one leg, I stretch the other out, so that my toes wrap around it, and shuffle it closer painstakingly slowly. A huff of irritation blows my hair into my eyes for a second, only to see Nor stroll over and pick it up.
‘No need to show off,’ she says, placing it just behind the handles of the spatulas.
‘You ready? 3,2,1 and go!’ On go, I lever the cylinder up and tip it out onto the ground, while Nor almost simultaneously pushes the stone back into the freshly made hole. Almost simultaneously. My stomach flips, and I’m already on my feet as the ground begins to rumble.
‘Damn.’ Nor breaths.
We run.
