Readers, Meet Wynna

Happy St. David's Day 4 Days ago

Happy Hinamatsuri (Girls' Day)
yesterday!

   I can't believe February is gone! Did I miss any other holidays in the first 4 days of March?
   This is Week 1 of the fiction unit in my class. The assignment was to write a page about a character doing a mundane task that has a greater significance than the task itself.
   Before work, my sister and I recorded our voices reading my response to the prompt, and when I came home six hours later, she had transformed it into a drama!
(Click here to listen along as you read)

"Boot Polishing" 

           Sleet and wind had no power inside the Patrol Tower, where below it lay sleeping dragons. Wynna sat barefoot and cross-legged with her torn, stained travel cloak spread beneath her. The bronze chandelier sixteen stairs above her provided the only light in the windowless mudroom. She flicked her long, dark braid over her shoulder and bent over her work. The mouth of the stiff boot came up to her elbow. She dipped an oily brown cloth into a bucket, then worked it over the leather. She gave a watery sniff and rubbed her nose on her sleeve for the twentieth time.

            “If Mother could see me now,” she said. Her voice was still raspy after the blizzarded journey through the Logoroth Pass. Wynna chuckled, her chuckle turning to an eye-watering, braying cough.

            “Is that you down there, Wynna?” Filip's voice rang against the stone walls, and he appeared on the landing above, a bandage peeking from his gray collar. Wynna nodded, the coughs squeezing her chest. Filip tramped downstairs and set his lantern on the floor. With his good hand he pulled out a flask and uncorked it with his teeth, letting it drop. “Here, a swig'll do you wonders.”

            Wynna gave the flask a look over the crook of her elbow.

            “It's that tea you gave me,” he said. “Go on.”

            Wynna reached for it and took a gulp. She blinked rapidly and gave a short, dry cough. “Yes, I taste a hint of dandelion tea. What’s it laced with?” She corked it and handed it back.

            “Just a bit of good old Hault mead. Reminds me of home.” Filip sat down on the stairs, his shoulders filling up the space. “Warms your throat doesn't it?”

            “To say the least!” she wheezed. “Give me a warning next time?”

            Filip grinned and rested his elbows on his knees. “I didn't know if you'd take it.”

            “So you tricked me?”

            “Well, it worked didn't it?”

            As Wynna picked up the boot a smile crept across her face and she took a labored breath. “Oh, all right.” Giving it a last swipe, she held it in the lantern's glow. “There, do you call that palace worthy?”

            Filip leaned forward, braided roan mustache swinging. “More than,” he said. “Got some polish on that pendant around your neck, too.”

            Wynna glanced down at the preserved dandelion, a gift from her father when she left to become a royal dragon rider. There was a streak of brown across the glass. “Oh.” She reached for it but thought better of it when she noticed her smudged fingers.

            “Give it here. My sleeve'll do it good.”

            “No, no, I'll do it,” Wynna wheezed before he could tear a strip from the hem of his heavy cotton shirt. “I have a whole hour before Will said we ought to be at the palace. He brought the sword by yesterday, and my blues and whites are pressed and ready. We may not be on duty, but I learned my lesson about not wearing flowing gowns at the New Year's Eve Ball.” Wynna turned the boot over and put the rag to the heel. “You wore your blues and whites to the ball, I remember, because you looked so...” she faltered and risked a glance at Filip. The look that met her made her heart stumble. “...so sharp. What?”

            He kept a smile reigned in and shrugged his good shoulder.

Wynna dipped her cloth in the bucket. “It's a shame my old boots were ruined by the snow. They were creased and weathered and limp—but they were like my own skin, and every scratch and burn had its story.” She uncrossed her legs gingerly. “Agh, I've been sitting like this too long.”

            “Too long,” Filip said. “Too long without music!” He pulled out a short willow flute. “How about a healing song for your lungs and throat and my shoulder?” He played a low, dusky note.

            “Oh, let's have something cheerful,” Wynna said. “A song to get the chill out of our bones.”

            “A Hault dancing tune, then,” Filip said, inclining his head. He jumped up and stomped a foot on the varnished stair, putting the flute to his lips. It was a bright, tripping melody. When he reached the end, he didn’t stop but slipped into a Thrycian folk song. By the third tune, Wynna’s boots gleamed. “Bring your lute down,” he said.

            “But the ceremony is in an hour,” she said. Filip shrugged and started another song.

“Oh, all right! Just a few minutes,” Wynna said and stood her boots side by side at the door to dry. Filip let her by on the stairs, and she passed carefully so as not to brush against his bandaged shoulder. She was back in a blink and sat on the top step with the instrument in her lap and strummed a lively accompaniment. With a glint in his eye, Filip sped up the tempo.

             Wynna laughed. She matched the speed and made it even faster until their fingers flew. A low rumble came from below. Wynna stopped the strings and peered down at the shadowy entrances to the Cove. “Someone's not happy at being woken,” she said.

            “Oh, Lichen's had enough ruddy sleep!” he said, and with a grin played one last warbling note. “Haven't you, my friend?” he said in dragon whistles.

            “Don't,” Wynna said. “The mission was at least as hard on them as it was on us, and you know what they say...”

            Filip chuckled. “I know,” he said as he gathered up Wynna's cloak, the bucket, and the oily cloth. “'Never irk a sleeping dragon.' It's all right among friends, and Lichen and I, we could be brothers!”

            The foundation shook with the next rumble, and a sooty burst of steam gusted into the mudroom in answer, erasing the sharp smell of new leather.

Progress: 25.5 pages down

(74.5 to go)