The metal tongue of the seatbelt dangled taut at its upper anchorage near the ceiling of the car, and pointed down and inward as though to direct the eye unnecessarily toward the driver, who was conspicuous enough already. Slumped forward in her seat, she lay unconscious of the blood trickling down from her forehead, matting her blond hair and fanning out across the dashboard. When, by and by, her eyelids strained to open and she made the first halting attempt to pull herself back a few inches, it was to see that another figure was looking in through her window. She had only enough time to register the green hair and moving lips before pain forced her eyelids shut again. She felt her muscles go limp once more.
Next, a thought, with unexpected clarity:
Why isn't she yelling?The green-haired woman outside of the car couldn't have been talking above normal speaking level. Weren't you supposed to shout "Hey! Are you okay in there? Hey"? Unless of course the driver had gone deaf...
But at this time the smell of burning wafted in and it was awfully hard for the driver to think of anything else just then.
She wrenched her eyes open, squinting under the pain from her forehead, and peered through the strangely warped glass ahead. The green-haired woman had moved down toward the hood, still mouthing inaudibly. The driver drew a breath, hesitated, drew a sharper breath, and then tried to say "Is there a fire?" as loudly as she could, but all that came out was "'S fire?"
The green-haired woman said something indistinct in response, but shook her head as well, and the blond driver relaxed slightly. The burning smell lingered, but she found it easier not to think about it. Another drop of blood passed from her temple to her cheek. Her eyes were slipping out of focus. She honed them on the tree at the front of the car, on her side. Actually this wasn't a tree but a telephone pole.
Obviously, dumbass made it through, but insulting herself took a lot more energy than she had at the moment. She closed her eyes. If there really wasn't a fire then it was probably safe to catch a few minutes of sleep—
Then a violent metallic clang at her door brought the driver to her senses. This was followed at once by a high-pitched scraping that shot a sting of protest through her ears. The car was tilting perceptibly toward the other side, and the panicked driver stared through her window at the sight of the green-haired stranger working some kind of instrument against the car. Noticing the driver's distress, she said in a louder and clearer voice:
"I'll pay for the damages."
And the driver's door came completely off its hinges and dropped stiffly onto the cement. The burning smell briefly intensified, then dissipated.
The driver gaped at the green-haired woman, holding what looked like a wooden staff, and started one of probably half a dozen different questions, all of which began with the same slurred word which was the only one she actually managed to speak: "Wha...?"
The green-haired woman, however, wasted no time in trying to piece together the rest of the driver's question. With nothing more than a reassuring yet brisk smile, she laid her staff against the telephone pole and leaned in through the doorframe. Gently she took hold of the driver's shoulder and forearm and eased her back into an upright position, inspecting the area around the seat as she did so, apparently to make sure there was nothing pinning the driver down. Then she touched three fingers to the blond woman's forehead, so close to prodding the open wound directly that the driver couldn't help but flinch. But the green-haired stranger held her hand steady and spoke in another barely-audible murmur. Through her heavy eyelids the driver looked on in sedated wonder as, a scant couple of inches away from the tip of her nose, the stranger's palm began to glow with a thin white light.
And a faintly itchy but not unpleasant sensation of pulling-together made itself felt on her forehead, somewhat as if she were crinkling her brow in disbelief, though neither her eyebrows nor the stranger's hand so much as twitched. The driver's face felt dry, her matted hair fell loosely again, and she saw the blood on the windshield and dashboard wipe itself away and vanish. Indeed, her eyesight had restored to normal, and her brain no longer felt sluggish. She hardly needed to glance into the rear-view mirror to know that the gash on her forehead had been completely healed.
The green-haired woman pulled back her hand and stood up outside the car, and the driver found it hard for a moment to do more than look at her, taking in details that had been little more than blurs beforehand: the jewel on the choker around her neck, the deep blue of her cloak, and the particular shade of green of her hair, which looked strangely muted and organic, unlike the eye-popping, too-vibrant hues that usually resulted from tacky dye jobs. That she was a Power would've been a reasonable guess even before she'd pulled a John Coffey, here.
Though restored, the driver was still at a loss for words, and at length she had to settle for sinking as little incredulity and as much appreciation as she could into the words: "Jesus
Christ, babe..."
The stranger laughed, then said, "It wasn't a serious injury or anything, a concussion and a bit of a nasty cut on your head. Should be all fixed up now. You might wanna buckle your seatbelt next time before setting off, though. If you don't mind, I could check for any other injuries..?"
The driver raised an eyebrow with exaggeration. "Oh? I need to strip for that, or—?" But she pulled up out of the driver's seat and took a few perfectly steady steps out of the Chevie. She surveyed the damage. There was a sizable dent at the front left corner, where she'd hit the pole. The headlight was shattered, and the hood slightly crumpled along the side. The windshield bore a substantial crack --
her work, the driver thought with a certain primitive kind of pride, before remembering that the windshield had originally done quite a number on her head in return. And, of course, her door lay detached and still slightly sizzling on the cement. The driver could see where the hinges had been bent askew by the impact, and supposed the green-haired woman must not have been able to pry the door open normally.
"Damn it," she observed. "God damn it," she added, by way of clarification.
"What happened?" asked the stranger.
"God..." The driver leaned an arm on the telephone pole and looked back down the street where she'd come. "It was my fault, I guess," she allowed. "Mind wasn't really on the road, and I
know I was cruising north of the speed limit." She pointed up the road perpendicular. "I get here and I'm not paying that much attention at the stop sign, and here's
this guy trying to turn the other direction same time that I'm tryin' to turn up that way." She illustrated this helpfully with her hands. "So of course I save the situation by doing a hard ninety right into the pole. Jeez, he didn't even stick around, did he...?"
Not that she could blame the other driver, honestly. He must not've wanted to deal with her claiming it was his fault, which she would indeed have done. Adamantly. And lying through her teeth.
She rubbed her brows, then tentatively ran her fingers across her forehead, encountering not the slightest twinge of pain. The gesture put her in mind of something.
"Hey... I hate to ask, but I'd be an idiot not to. You couldn't just patch up the car, could you?"
The green-haired girl's face looked torn between amused and apologetic as she said, "I'm sorry, I can only heal living creatures." She paused to check her pockets, then pulled out a notepad and pen. After scribbling something down, she tore a sheet out and handed it to the driver. "Here's my number, I'll need to get to town again but I can get the money to pay for the damages to the car in a couple of hours. My name's Illiana, by the way."
"Channery," said the driver, accepting the sheet with a frown, "but also, are you kidding? Why would you have to pay anything? Just cause of the door? Hell, I should be paying
you, shouldn't I! How much do you want?"
Illiana laughed, before saying, "No, it's fine. I can cover it. I caused the most damage to the car, after all. Anyway, I think I got the most severe of your injuries but if you notice any dizziness, it should pass. Just a mild concussion." She paused to check her phone briefly, then continued, "I should get going though, I'm meeting a friend soon. Nice to meet you, Channery."
She smiled and extended her hand. The driver, however, held back.
"I don't..."
Channery lowered her head as if to regard the green-haired woman from a new angle.
"That's -- Look, that was magic, what you did, right? That wasn't just any kind of power, it was magic. Right?"
Illiana's brow twitched; she was evidently a bit puzzled by the change of topic, but she responded with a clear "Yes."
"I thought so. Okay. Cool. Now look at this." Channery reached out her hand immediately, then realized that looked a little stupid, as she hadn't thought ahead about what she was going to recall. After a second's pondering, though, she settled her mind on the image of a fat purple candle in a glass jar which proclaimed the unlikely scent of
STORM WATCH, sitting on the shelf over the radiator in the upstairs hallway. It happened that the jar was rotated with the label away from passersby and toward the wall. The jar stood fairly, maybe dangerously, close to the edge of the shelf, but the radiator's low height, the glass' thickness and the plush carpeting below made it unlikely that a fall would cause damage. The wax sat high within the jar, testifying to the fact that she'd barely ever lit the candle in the year since buying it. Truth be told, it was one of those restless, distracted, semi-compulsive purchases Channery occasionally made for no other reason than to prove to herself that she didn't need to shoplift every single item she owned.
Like so: and the candle in its jar suddenly materialized in her hand.
"That," she said, passing it to Illiana as her handprint faded off the glass, "wasn't magic. I think I was like, maybe eight or nine when I figured out how to do it? 'S far as I can tell, I might've been able to ever since I was born. But you -- I've met a few mages before. I know what it means to become one. People like me, we're just... fuggin'... spoiled brats, kind of, you know? We never had to work for our gifts.
You guys have to burn sweat right off your skin just to make it through Rookie's Beginner Guide to Magic for Novices, Chapter One Point Oh Oh One."
She leaned her weight back against the door behind the driver's, careful to avoid the still-hot frame from which she'd emerged, and crossed her arms. "Seems to me that anyone who starts down that street, does it cause they want
something back from the world. And that is why, Illiana, what you're saying is super cute, but you got to forgive me if I'm still trying to figure out what's in it for you, here."
Illiana rubbed the back of her head, apparently choosing her words carefully: she ran the tip of her tongue over her front teeth before speaking. "I'm guessing by your accent, you're not from the Archipelago originally, are you?"
Now it was Channery's turn to register confusion at the unexpected subject change, but her response came quickly enough: "Nope, not me. I've lived here 'bout a year now, but I'm from... back that way. A stone's throw north of Eagleland." She pointed behind her in the general direction of the Pacific. "You're a sharp one! Thought I was incognito. I didn't even blurt out a single 'eh'."
The green-haired woman smiled, but not for long. "If that's so, this might not mean very much to you, but: I'm a South Pole Summoner. We're taught magic from a young age, either healing or combat. We don't really get a choice in that, but it's not such a bad thing. Magic is useful, it's handy. So yeah, I might have exhausted myself just learning how to cure a small cut, that was part of how I grew up. I guess you're right about wanting something back from the world, even if it's probably not what you think. A few -- or --
did you hear about Slateport?"
Channery shook her head, though she had at least heard mention of the South Pole gang before. Never in much of a favorable tone, but she saw no reason to throw this in.
Illiana nodded in return, which was a pretty tidy trick considering that she didn't even seem to be looking at Channery, but down at the sizzling door which lay on the street. She scratched her neck again before continuing: "Well, a few years ago, our leader attacked Slateport. He didn't mean to cause destruction, but he was fighting off some of the highest-level Powers that the Archipelago has to offer. They pushed him just that little bit too far, and he brought out his strongest summon monster..." She did not elaborate on this point, leaving the other woman with the comical image of a staticky black-and-white Godzilla flattening a full-color city, but then Channery's better judgment prevailed. She
had heard of the Slateport tragedy, though she'd never been clear on the cause or details. Even so, she'd gathered that it remained a serious talking point for anti sentiment across the island chain.
"Since then," Illiana went on, "South Pole Summoners have been feared or hated. Even up 'til today, anyone suspected of being an ally or sympathizer to us might be arrested, beaten up, anything." Now she met Channery's gaze again with a new firmness to her tone. "But we're not like that. Not even Lord Miko. He only used that summon because he had to. He didn't want to destroy Slateport. On the whole, most of us are content with our lives -- we're not crazy invaders or anything. I left home to travel the world and try to show people what we're really like. That's why I'm happy to put myself out to help people."
By this time Channery had relaxed her stance, and she rested with both hands by her sides, palms flat against the faintly warm metal. She grinned. "Look at you," she said. "Miss Galahad!
"Well, I got to say I'm definitely on board with your campaign, so far as it involves doing a bunch of great stuff for me. No -- but seriously. Thank you. I appreciate it. A lot. It's... I'm sorry, is this not sounding all that grateful? I've never had anyone maybe save my life before." She half-forced a chuckle and rubbed her temple. "What I'm trying to say is I owe you pretty big, here. And don't you even give me another word about paying for this shit. My boss's got it covered. I'm runnin' a job for him right now. He'll cut my head off and make me eat it, I'm not saying otherwise, but he isn't gonna leave me out in the cold."
"I understand," said Illiana, without asking any questions, and this was good since Channery didn't have a quick lie handy. She would not have told the summoner that her boss's name was Massimo Giarrettiera. She certainly would not have added that the job consisted of delivering thirty kilograms of cocaine to the Don's sometime allies, a pair of runners operating out of Brightmeadow under the moniker Salt and Pepper.
She would hear it from Don Massimo, all right -- the Chevie was a loan from his garages, newer and speedier than her own beat-up Subaru -- but she knew good and sure he wasn't about to fire her over a little hitch like this. It all came back to the wonderful thing about being Channery Keigler, which was that the thirty kilograms were not sitting in her trunk at this very moment. Actually they were under wraps in a stainless-steel case the size of a coffin, fitted with a triple lock and bolted to the floor of the storage room at the far end of the basement. The blocks of powder were overlaid with a felt tray holding two hunter's rifles, and resealed into cardboard ammunition packages. The delivery was still underway. There was no question about this. All that turning in the Chevie meant was that she wouldn't have the convenience of pulling over into the woods on the outskirts of Brightmeadow and loading up the trunk before her arrival. She could just as well call a cab, it was only a problem of keeping up appearances. Come to think of it, she knew a rental service back in Winstone, whose owner the Don had helped out with startup funds. That guy could probably line up three or four fresh cars for her on the double, and she'd have the goods delivered before Don Massimo even needed to know. All she had to do was say the word...
But Channery was getting ahead of herself, there. Turning her attention back to Illiana, she called to hand a notepad and pen of her own, not unlike those the summoner had on her person. Though Channery meant for this to be a feat as impressive as recalling the
STORM WATCH candle, the truth was that the notepad and pen had actually been fetched earlier and then stored in the topmost pocket of her pack, which was in the back seat of the car anyway.
"Let's just say I owe you a favor, huh?" she said, after writing down her own number and handing it over in turn.
Illiana hesitated for a moment, but accepted the scrap of paper with a smile. As the Summoner tucked it neatly between the pages of her own notepad, then back into her pocket, Channery saw fit to add: "Owe
you a favor, I mean. If you don't mind. Cause, I really hate getting arrested, and there's enough people who want to beat me up as it is..."
"That's fine," Illiana said, but Channery could only hope the message had sunk in; she looked lost in thought, her gaze unfocused. Channery wondered if she were about to name the favor then and there, but instead, after fidgeting for a second, Illiana slid her phone out of her pocket again and looked at the screen. "I should go, my friend's waiting for me and I'll never hear the end of it if I don't make it on time." She demonstrated the gravity of the situation with a small laugh. "It was nice to meet you, Channery. Try not to crash your car again, okay?"
Channery shook her head.
"Or anyone else's," said she.
They clasped hands in parting.
* * *
And that is the story of why Channery Keigler was crouched in an oblong forest-green one-man tent, sipping coffee out of a thermos she had prepared and left on the kitchen counter some eight or nine hours earlier, while outside the harsh Nunavut wind whistled and scraped against the canvas.
She had to admit that if, in the year since moving back to Canada, she'd ever happened to think about that episode with Illiana Silna, it was only to ponder:
Guess I'm off the hook after all. Silna'd had months upon months while Channery was still in the Archipelago, before stealing the Boullogne, but she'd never gotten in touch. Channery had been pretty content to assume that she must have forgotten the debt. What Channery had not expected was to receive a phone call before dawn, stirring her out of her nice Quebecois bed, and to hear that level, concerned voice again, as commonplace as it was instantly recognizable.
So what could Channery do? She had a favor to return.
As it turned out, there was an answer to that rhetorical question. What she could do was pack up and haul out north, all the way to the end of Baffin Island that was
not conveniently close to Quebec's tip, in order to go have a right merry jaunt around an abandoned mine, apparently because Channery's presence would come in handy if Silna ran out of flashlight batteries or anything. She'd deboarded the puddle-jumper at Pond Inlet Airport, and hiked the rest of the way. Now she was steeling herself for a final ascent up any one of a huddle of stark, frosted hills, from which, according to her map, she'd be able to see the lake where Silna should be waiting.
If nothing else, this was already the most interesting thing Channery had gotten up to since arriving back in Canada. Well, actually that was a huge lie because pitting all the antique dealers in Quebec against one another in an escalating monetary war over their mysteriously elusive goods was very interesting business. But this was the most physically demanding thing and would probably make the better story to tell her grandkids.
Channery slid the white woollen toque back down over her scalp, covering her ears with room to spare, and strapped the ski goggles back on, shading a yellow-orange hue over her field of vision. For good measure, since this chink in her armor had bothered her on the hike so far, she recalled a scarf from its place on top of a cardboard box on the shelf in the downstairs hall closet and wrapped it around the lower half of her face, stifling her breath slightly, but this was a fair trade if it would keep her damn nose warm. Finally she zipped up the bulky silver parka all the way, until the rim reached her lips, and put the thick waterproof gloves back on over the thinner but longer-reaching cotton ones. With all of this accomplished, she emerged from the tent, collapsed it, concealed it under some loose dirt and rocks, removed a digital camera from her pocket, and took a picture of the tent's location.
Forty minutes later she was standing atop a snow-capped headland, overlooking a shockingly bright blue lake which jarred against a monochrome rocky shore on the other side. A heavy mist hung above the still surface of the lake, as if trapped in place by the hills to either side of Channery. The sun had nearly set, and she hastened to find a safe path down the cliff to the water before darkness settled in. Even now she was finding it hard to make out any details around the edge of the lake, any sign that Silna had already arrived. The Summoner had told Channery to expect to find her there already, but how she intended to manage that, Channery had no idea. Using both hands to steady herself against the rock face, she edged her way to a point and jumped down to the next sizeable crag.
OOC: Hurpy burthdurr urliurtt
(Btw in case it wasn't obvious, he supplied the Illiana parts.)