Don't even ask why it's in second person, I don't know why I did that. I kind of like it better though. The original version of this ('Enter Quinn') was actually from a writing.prompts post on tumblr! episode 2
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You climb the final hill. The house is there, as the townspeople said it would be, and you make for it slowly.
As you grow closer, you take in the little details of the house and surrounding farm. The pergola wraps around the front of the house, and there is a rocking chair beneath the large window. The door has a sign on it, though it is unreadable from this distance. There are two raised garden beds, situated either side of the gravel path that leads up to the steps to reach the pergola. They are overgrown with flowers, vegetables and herbs; most of which you could never guess at the names of, being from the city. There is a chicken coop to the side, and you see three chickens pecking about the bases of the raised beds. A fourth perches atop the rim of one of them. A fence snakes along beside the path you follow, and it passes the house and disappears into the trees beyond. The trees are tall. You have never seen trees this tall and close together. It is like a wall of forest, blocking you from seeing anything behind the house. Smoke curls above the treetops, dark smoke, rising from the chimney of the cottage. It curls also from the shed to one side. You barely noticed it, it’s hidden a little further into the trees.
A woman appears at the door to the shed, and she leans in the doorway as she watches you. Your skin pricks into gooseflesh. You had been as quiet as possible, you thought. And she is still quite far away. How could she have noticed you so soon?
You reach the garden beds. Two of the chickens closest to you slip away, and the one that had been perching on the edge of the bed peers a beady eye into your soul.
The woman approaches. She is dressed plainly, her shirt smudged with dirt and her cargo pants ripped and faded. She is wearing white padded gloves that reach her elbow. You wonder what they are made for, they are obviously not for warming cold hands.
She steps into the sun then, and you gasp. Her hair is layered, almost a wolf cut, but each strand is silky. Her roots are brown, and the colour reaches down to the end of her curls, where it is bleached a rich gold. It looks as though each individual lock was dipped in the sweetest honey.
Her fringe is windswept, and blows in front of her eyes. She doesn’t brush it away, merely squints through it to stare at you as she reaches you. Her brown eyes are so dark they could be black.
‘What’s wrong with you, kid?’ she asks, stopping a little ways away to regard you with interest. Her voice is rich, sweet, it trickles through your ears like syrup.
You open your mouth and stutter for a moment, before making up your mind.
‘Are you the woman the townspeople spoke of? The one that could make a potion to anger the gods?’ Your voice is quiet and shaky.
The woman laughs, and it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard; thick and delicious and sun-touched. ‘You make me sound like a witch, kiddo.’
You tilt your head. ‘Aren’t you?’
She shakes her head in disbelief, but she’s smiling. ‘Witches don’t exist, kiddo. I do.’
You pause. ‘Right..’
‘I’m Quinn,’ she offers, but does not ask for your own name. ‘What can I do for ya?’
‘I come from the city, far west, near the coast. My people are dying, and the gods we worship refuse to help.’ The wind swirls around the two of you as you speak. ‘My sister is dying, and they can save her,’ you say in a quieter voice when the breeze dies down.
She raises an eyebrow, but does not interrupt.
‘If I can challenge them, maybe they will help.’ Your voice is barely a whisper now.
‘And what do I get in return?’ she asks.
You look up at her. She returns the gaze with a hard stare.
‘I…’ You trail off. What would a woman like her actually want?
‘Anything.’
‘Anything? Is it really that important?’ She chuckles, but grows serious again when you continue your stare.
‘Sure, kiddo. Follow me.’ She shrugs, and walks off; trusting you to follow behind. You drop your backpack by the path, and a chicken immediately jumps on top of it as you race after her. She walks fast.
She leads you back into her shed, and you stare up at the trees when you catch up to her. You get the feeling they are judging you, and as soon as you cross into the shadows of the forest, you feel unsafe under their branches. You clasp your necklace tighter, a memento from your bed-ridden sibling.
She turns back when she reaches the doorway, and waits as you catch up to her. She says nothing as she leads you inside.
The shed is dim, the light flickers as you enter. The walls are simple corrugated iron, with metal shelves lining the left wall. A window to your right looks onto a small cleared area in the forest, where six wooden boxes sit. Grass grows up the edges of each one, and tiny yellow flowers lap up the scarce light filtering down from the canopy above.
Quinn ignores the objects lining the shelves; more boxes, tubs and barrels and what look to be wooden frames crowding each one. Instead she crosses the room to reach an enormous metal barrel, propped up on wooden legs. It’s rusted with age, and a wooden handle is connected to a bar that runs across the diameter of the top. Quinn tugs off a glove and pulls the lid open to peer inside. She grunts, unsatisfied. Somehow it is still a sweet sound.
You hover in the centre of the room, unsure. Would she ask you to collect rare and impossible ingredients, as in the stories? Would it be your own blood that she needs? Would the potion take long? All these questions and more swim through your head, but mostly it is worry for your sister that consumes you.
Quinn does not notice your apprehension and doubts, and pulls down the lid. She grunts again as she twists the handle. It turns and turns and turns, and there is a whirring sound coming from inside. It sounds as though the mechanisms inside are moving faster than Quinn’s slow turning would imply.
She drops the handle, and it continues spinning. The two of you wait in silence for it to slow to a stop. Quinn opens the lid again when it does, and hums to herself indecisively. ‘Should be enough for now. No need to flip the frames,’ she mutters. Her rich voice is loud in the silence after the loud whirring of the mechanism.
She motions for you to look beside you, and you turn. There are glass jars on this shelf. You take one from the top of the stack and nervously place it in her impatient hand. She does not thank you.
There is a tiny tap at the bottom of the barrel. Quinn opens the jar and holds it directly underneath the tap’s opening. She turns the faucet.
Thick, golden honey drips out. Quinn taps her foot impatiently. You watch on in awe.
After only a little has dripped into the jar, she turns the tap off with a squeak, wiping the edge of the jar on the faucet to stop the excess from falling to the floor.
Quinn turns to you with a smile. She extends her arm, inviting you to take the jar. The thick honey glints in the light streaming softly in through the window. You glance at her quizzically.
‘You wanted a potion to challenge the gods. Take it.’ She grins. You do not like the look behind her eyes.
‘Are you sure this is… enough?’ you ask. There are a million more questions, with a million more useful answers, but in that moment all you notice is that there is only enough honey to spread on a single piece of toast in the jar she offers you.
Quinn shrugs. ‘Probably. Might even be too much.’
You nod, not quite listening, and take the open jar from her.
You tip it to your lips.
It slides down your throat, the syrupy-sweetness filling your stomach with warmth.
You drop the jar. It does not shatter, and your immediate thought is that of course it doesn’t smash, Quinn wouldn’t use ones that smash she’s too sensible for that, but you are coughing now and it is boiling in your stomach and the thought escapes and all you can think to ask is ‘what was that?’ and Quinn’s responding laugh fills your ears with sickly sweetness and clogs your brain with sticky syrup and the heat is reaching out from your stomach now, it slows your blood with its texture but continues to drip, drip, drip, down your arteries until your whole body is screaming with the sun-burned pain from within and Quinn continues to laugh until you fall to the floor with a whimper.
The pain recedes. A coolness washes over you. Your blood thrums with power.
‘Now,’ Quinn says from above you. She is smiling too wide. ‘You told me anything, kiddo, and I hope you intend to keep that promise.’
You sit up. ‘You’re not a witch, but you’re not human either.’
Quinn chuckles. The noise slips down your ears but doesn’t stuff your brain with sugar as before. ‘Caught me, kiddo. So what am I?’
You shake your head, not daring to say it. ‘What’ll it be, then?’
Quinn smiles. ‘I need a worshipper.’
You raise your head to her. You give her a single nod. It had been a deal, after all.
She smiles at you, and this time it is softer, her face melting into something resembling love. Her eyes glaze over, but her gaze is still on you.
Her irises fill up with honey. She shuts her eyelids, and when she opens them her eyes are glowing gold like the sun and you can barely look away. She sighs contentedly.
‘One follower is all I need,’ she whispers, and the air fills with a gentle buzzing. It grows louder as she strides past you, and you twist your head to see your god walk out the door.
You wonder if you misheard her name, the first time. If she really said Quinn.
You stand, and follow her out the door. It’s hard to see her through the swarm of honeybees.
The swarm shifts, and Quinn reappears. You watch her as she turns to you. Her eyes shine even brighter in the sunlight.
‘You will be spared, of course,’ she says, and you assume she had been speaking to her workers before she continued the conversation with you. ‘And your sister, if you wish. But the rest of them will pay for forgetting me.’
You nod. No sense going against your own god. Especially when your god had been wronged so, one of the many forgotten as the world around her worshippers crumbled, and they turned to other gods for help to survive. You had made a deal, you and her, and you would wipe out the gods with her honey in your blood and she would rid the ruined world of people. You and your sister would be safe, and that was all that mattered.
Again your thoughts wander to her name, and if you previously misheard her. She could have said Quinn, but it was just as likely she had said Queen. The queen bee was head of the hive, after all, and what better name for the God of bees, honey, hives; anything of the like. She protected the bees and their beekeepers, kept the honey sweet and rich, let flowers flourish and plants thrive.
Poisoned those who acted harshly against her.
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The metal is cold as you clutch it, knuckles white with the strain.
Your sister lies still on the bed, IV sticking out from under her hospital gown and brow furrowed. She doesn’t look peaceful, and you can imagine the pain she must be in.
Rashta sits on a chair near you, heart on her sleeve. She gazes at your sister with kindness, empathy, compassion; love. It makes you sick, but you are unsure why. It isn’t a crime to love, and your sister is a popular candidate for those who know her.
She may not look peaceful, but Tyra is always unchangingly beautiful. Her dark, wavy hair spills over the hospital bed pillows with grace and a fluidity your cropped hair has never had.
You curl your fingers tighter around the railing of the bed. Quinn should arrive soon.
A nurse steps over then, shoes tapping lightly on the tiled floor. ‘Are you Tyra’s brother?’ she asks you, clipboard clutched to her chest.
You shake your head. ‘Sibling.’
The nurse nods. ‘And you?’ The nurse glances to Rashta, who tears her gaze away from Tyra with remorse.
‘I..’ She trails off. Rashta looks nothing like you and your sister, blonde hair hanging in tight curls around her face. It reaches only her shoulders. While your and Tyra’s hair is dark and your skin pale, Rashta has slightly darker skin, sun-touched; tanned. Her hair is like gold.
She was Tyra’s only rival in terms of beauty in your little community.
And yet, your eyes shine gold when you look at her. Green eyes stare back beneath those golden curls.
Rashta shakes her head. ‘I’m Tyra’s… friend.’
You turn away, back to the nurse, but she gives a knowing smile back. Rashta is too obviously in love for her to hide it now.
And then, the door opens.
A few other nurses in the room, attending to other patients behind green curtains, turn to the sound, and the woman standing before them in the doorway. She smiles at them.
The nurse closest to us turns to her as well, and calls out. ‘Ma’am, you aren’t allowed in here.’ She turns to you with another smile, this time apologetic. ‘Sorry. She should have knocked.’
‘It’s okay,’ you say. ‘She’s with me.’
Quinn spots you in the far corner then, and strides over with all the confidence in the world. She smiles down at the nurse; who is a head shorter than Quinn. You stand as well, still an inch or so shorter than the nurse again.
Quinn ruffles your short hair. You don’t mind. She is your god.
‘Are you with Tyra and her sibling, ma’am? Do you know Tyra?’ the nurse asks.
‘Sure,’ Quinn says unconvincingly.
You nod. ‘Yes, she is. Sorry.’
The nurse eyes you both suspiciously. ‘I’ll leave you be.’
Quinn watches her go, mischievous grin still plastered on her lovely face. When she turns to you her eyes light up. ‘I’ve got more.’
You hesitate. ‘You want to give her the honey?’
‘She’s got a hereditary disease. It will kill her soon.’ Quinn shrugs. ‘I can dilute it if you want.’
It takes you a moment to give Quinn an answer. Tyra should not be dragged into this any more than she needs to. ‘Dilute it, please.’
Quinn sighs, but inclines her head. She struts off with a wave of her hand, you assume to find a sink to mix the honey with water.
You turn back to the hospital bed. Rashta stares up at you with her bright green eyes. It startles you slightly.
‘Is that your mother?’ she asks. This shocks you more. Quinn looks nothing like you and Tyra.
‘Why.. do you ask?’
‘You seem comfortable around her. But Tyra has never talked about her parents before, so I assumed you either didn’t have any or didn’t like them. Did that woman adopt you?’
You give her a stare. She sure loves to ramble.
‘Sorry, I– it’s just you look nothing like her but, um…’ She gulps for air, averts her eyes. ‘Sorry.’
You regard her with interest. While Tyra’s beauty was cold and almost ethereal, Rashta’s is much more approachable; she is stereotypically pretty. Her personality makes her more likeable too, she’s nervous and kind and obviously regrets her actions. Tyra does not have regrets. She barely makes mistakes.
‘She’s a doctor,’ you lie. ‘She’s got a medicine that can cure Tyra.’
Rashta jumps up then, the excitement written all over her face. ‘Really? Tyra will wake up?’
You avert your eyes. ‘Maybe.’
Rashta’s hopeful gaze dims at the word. ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘We can pray for it, then.’
She clasps her hands together in prayer at Tyra’s bedside. Immediately the rage builds up inside you, how dare she pray to any old god without asking you first? The gods are the reason she’s like this in the first place, why would they help her now, after all the times you’ve asked them. The anger spikes when the thought that Rashta is more loved by the gods, and may have a real chance, appears in your head.
Quinn slaps Rashta’s hands away.
Your rage bubbles away. You wonder when Quinn appeared by your side.
Rashta looks up at Quinn in horror. Quinn gives Rashta a thinly veiled smile.
‘I-I was only–’ she starts to stutter, but Quinn interrupts.
‘I’m sorry, kid. These two have a very special god to help them. Whichever god you pray to; Medicine, Safety, she might not like it.’
Rashta’s eyes widen, but she nods. Quinn releases her hands. You silently thank your ‘special’ god, who is helping you right in front of your eyes. Something no one else but Tyra has ever done for you.
Quinn sighs. She hands you another of her jars, this time half-filled with milk. As you grasp it in your hands, you realise it is warm.
‘The honey’s mixed into that,’ Quinn says, placing her hands on her hips. ‘Your sister here has to drink it.’
You nod at her, not trusting yourself to speak. You brush past Quinn as you round the corner of your comatose sister’s bed.
You want to thank her, but why would a god accept a hug from a human?
Rashta stares up at you as you pass her, mouth open. She really has no idea. You give her a pitiful look before you realise, and turn away.
You reach Tyra’s head, and kneel beside her. Her face contorted in pain, but still her expression is perfect. Tyra is never anything but perfect.
You hold out the jar to her pink lips. You tip it back into her mouth.
Quinn is immediately on the other side of the bed, holding your sister’s mouth closed so she can swallow. She convulses almost violently. Tears blur your vision.
Suddenly the hospital room is full of noise. The nurses are yelling, Tyra is making gurgling sounds, Rashta is screaming, clutching her open mouth, horrified. You cry softly in the corner, pushed to the side as a nurse tried to tug Tyra away from Quinn. Three nurses gang up on Quinn, but none of them can so much as nudge her to the side. They grab at her clothes and hair, but all she does is continue to hold down your sister. She is not smiling.
Somehow that is worse.
And then, quiet. The nurses hang back.
You stand,walk to her; again clutching the railing of the bed.
Tyra looks up at you, dark eyes piercing into your very soul. Oh, how much you had missed that gaze.
‘Laurence,’ she says. She sits up. There is no pain in her movements, in her voice. She places her hands gently on your shoulders, wipe away the tears rolling down your face.
‘Tyra,’ you choke out, before shoving yourself at her and into her arms. She leans over you, holding you gently, as you kneel, crying, on the floor beside the bed. Her long hair tickles your face and brushes softly against your skin.
She gazes lovingly down at you, paying no attention to the rest of the room.
Rashta is staring. Quinn too, but less menacingly; if you could call Rashta menacing.
Gold, sticky honey swims in the irises of Tyra’s dark eyes as she ignores the rest of the world to comfort you.
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