Skull of Oghren

by Tuomas Vainio

  Thus the two girls lift the bucket of water out of the well and grab a hold of it together. Pandora blinks, she tries to see where to go. Loge smiles; the seemingly abandoned house should have been a constant eyesore to the local residents. Either a possible rat nest, a constant risk of dereliction and collapse, or an open spot to be filled with any good new neighbour. Although the house is right there in plain sight; anyone who has not spent enough time within its enchanted walls cannot help how their gaze simply wanders past it. If a passer by saw it at all, it was nothing but a fleeting glimpse by the corners of their eyes. Its strange nature was due to how its former magister resident had longed and favoured privacy above all. Hence regardless of his passing and the decay caused by time, the centuries old illusionary enchantments still linger in their place. Hiding Pan, Loge and the old rat from the outside world.

  Loge naturally has no problems seeing the building. But as for Pandora; although she has already been inside the house at least dozen times. she has not stayed long enough for the house's old illusion enchantments to really rub on her. The house does not yet recognise her as someone whose gaze should not be misdirected by suggestions to look elsewhere and beyond.

  Hence Loge's guidance is needed for both of the girls to walk straight towards the open window. Pandora's eyes try to see ahead but only once she stands right under the open window, the building begins to struggle to remain hidden from her. She lets go of the bucket's handle and smiles. Her hands reach upwards and she easily climbs up and pushes her upper body inside the house. Her legs dangle in the air for a moment before those too vanish inside with an audible thump.

  The platinum hair of Pandora is messy as she offers her hands to pick up the bucket. She pushes her fingers down, and holds on as firmly on the bucket's handle as she can while Loge gives the splashing bucket a push from underneath. Through their combined effort, the bucket rises, and rises until it rests on the window's ledge. The two girls can relax for a moment, before their roles become somewhat reversed. Loge carefully keeps pushing the bucket side to side, making it slide over the edge while Pandora does her best to hold still with all her strength.

  Through little twists and turns, and the bucket finally is free of the window ledge, the girl under it wobbles as she tries to balance the swirling contents within the wooden frame. The water splashes back and forth as the girl's arms try to keep the bucket standing straight up right over her head. She takes hasty steps, and her balance is almost gone, until Loge's hand finally reaches the brim of the bucket. A balance is found, and the two girls finally lower the heavy bucket onto the floor.

  While wiping their foreheads the two girls sit down next to the water bucket and both of them laugh heartily. It could have gone a lot worse, the entire floor could have gotten wet instead of just the few random droplets dyeing the wooden floor slightly darker.

  Of the two: Pandora is the first to get up. She grabs the bucket handle and slowly wobbles from side to side towards the pot within the fireplace. Loge in turn decides to first close the window before leaping onwards to help carry the bucket. The two girls raise the old bucket high, and let the water pour into the almost ancient pot. After which they stand on top of the empty bucket in order to peak over the pot's black brim to see how much water they managed to fill it with.

  'Is that enough?' Pandora asks.

  Loge stares at her before answering; 'Pan usually prepares the food, the water part at least.' She tries to grin.

  The other girl gives a long, long sigh; 'I think you might be more hopeless than I am. Um, how about you go get little bit more water? Not a whole bucket.' She taps her fingers against the pot, before asking again: 'Where do you keep the food?' Loge points at the sack near the stairs, before she dashes back to the window with the bucket.

  Pandora slowly fidgets herself to the sack and peaks inside. She looks at the various roots and fruits of plants, the dried meat, and crushed bread in a more or less strange mix. Her mother's shopping basket is neatly sectioned, organized, and not just an old sack filled with stuff. Her gaze wanders to the wall to look at the tools available; her eyes travel from pans to knives, and it is not hard at all for her to see which of them have been recently used. The lack of dust is a dead give away.

  Pandora knows she could start out by peeling the potatoes. Then slicing the carrots, chopping the lettuce, cutting the meat and to throw it all into the black kettle for it to boil and simmer. But as she looks around, there appears to be no firewood for her to kindle a fire around the pot. Not to mention how the charcoal under the kettle would not light up no matter how many times she struck the flint and steel. Growing more and more frustrated, Pandora ruffles her hair as she groans in her anguish of annoyance.

  Letting go of the sack, she decides to peak down the stairs to see if there is any firewood. She doesn't quite see far enough, and the stairs themselves do not really evoke any amount of trust in her with all those old crooked wooden planks with nails sticking out. But with careful steps she descends and discovers the boy sleeping on the basement floor. A mischievous smile rises on her face, a wide grin. She dashes back to the fireplace and plucks a moderately sized piece of charcoal, and then with utmost care sneaks down the old stairs one sneaky step at a time. A moment of waiting between the steps to make sure the boy did not wake up before taking the next one.

  Once she reaches the basement floor, she tiptoes onwards with great silent leaps. But to be entirely honest, she can barely keep her enthusiasm bottled inside in the anticipation of her little jest. She leans over the boy almost bursting out in laughter, before she begins to smudge the boy's face with the piece of charcoal. She draws moustaches and other comic facial features ranging from warts to needlessly long hairs .

  With her work of art finished, she finally gives in and just chuckles and laughs without a single care in the world. Yet the boy remains asleep and thus her smiling face slowly turns into a frown of disappointment. After all, jests and pranks are only fun if there is someone feeling embarrassed.

  Therefore girl discards what remains of the charcoal and wipes her fingers to the hem of her skirt. She gets up, stretches, and looks all around to see if there is any firewood waiting to be discovered and used. She sees a spot reserved for firewood, an iron frame, but the only thing there is but some thin splinters and small pieces of tree bark. Enough to kindle a fire, she thinks, but not anywhere enough to boil a soup.

  When she hears a thump coming from above her, she guesses that Loge must have climbed back from the window. She looks around once more and decides that there really is not much to keep her interested in the barren cellar. Thus without of her earlier reluctance she climbs back up.

  Loge sets down the bucket as the platinum hair pops up behind her. 'Why are you smiling?' She asks.

  'You'll see. You'll see.' Pandora says mysteriously before tiptoeing around Loge and finally pointing her finger at the fireplace. 'There is no firewood, so how are we going to boil the water?'

  'Maybe I could let you on a little secret' – Loge leans towards the base of the old pot, and inhales her lungs full of air, and like the big bad wolf of the stories of old; blows fire and heat onto the cold charcoals. The flames of her wild breath soar upwards behind the pot, and disappear into the pipe and puff out from the tip of the chimney five floors above. No longer are the old chunks and pieces of charcoal black and cold but instead dyed in sparkling red through the fiery breath. Even the base of the pot has taken a reddish tint and the two girls can hear how the water begins to form tiny bubbles as it begins to boil.

  For a while Pandora simply stares at Loge with her own jaw hanging low. While Loge simply grins like an idiot. Breathing fire is not that exceptional talent; many could have kindled the old charcoals with nothing but a snap or a flick of their fingers. But as for someone as seemingly young as Loge, and to do it without passing out of sheer mental and physical strain on the heart, is something that borderlines extraordinary in the city.

  'How?' Pandora manages to utte
r finally.

  'This house once belonged to magistrate, and there are lot of books and other things hidden upstairs. So, with little help of knowledge, and constant practise... anyone can learn to harness their inner strength.' Replies Loge with the profound, yet utterly faked expertise she had heard the old rat say the first time they got inside the house.

  But Pandora does not know any better and she is first lured, and then hooked, and cannot help but to ask with big innocent eyes: 'Do you think you could teach me how?'

  Loge's grin quickly falters, she still recalls the embarrassment of having to follow the old rat's instructions as she slowly and painfully tried to get used to her new body of flesh all while dragging Pan out of the fire. 'I...' Her voice shatters. 'I think I could consider it. If there is time... if we can figure out what talents you are best aligned with.'

  Loge knows the old rat will not be pleased to hear her ask for help, but Pandora's beaming, happy smile reveals that she will not easily forget the words just said. How could she, who would not dream to become a magister in the city: a master of magic, lord of spirits, a member of the ruling caste, and living in the high academies of the city.

  Loge groans barely audibly. She has not forgotten how only the children of magisters are automatically enrolled to begin their studies. Where as the parents of nobility or affluent guilds can purchase the right of enrolment for their children. Yet as for Pandora or anyone else living near the edges of the city: there is but one chance. A mere thirty minutes at the age of ten to show you posses enough 'raw talent' to be enrolled regardless of who you are, or where you come from.

  For all intents and purposes, Loge has that raw talent. After all her spirit, her soul, is that of a being of fire. But as for Pandora; to even have a chance she would require tutelage and her parents simply do not posses the means to meet even the meagrest of demands of payment.

  Pandora does not pay much attention towards Loge's distraught. Pandora's mind is on the possibilities that have opened before her. Thus in hopes of making more time available; she has returns to the sack and begins to divide the contents onto plates that were plucked off the wall and wiped clean against her dress. Potatoes on one, carrots on another, other roots like turnips and beets all around. Fish and meat in their scrambled mess are piled by her onto one large bowl. She leaves the crumbled bread inside the sack along with the fruits.

  'How can I help' – a tiny question by Loge whose distraught thoughts cause her to fidget behind Pandora's back.

  'Knives. Bring me sharp knives.'

  Loge does as instructed, she wobbles in front of the wall adorned with the kitchen tools picking a knife here and there. Pandora looks at how she goes at it, how Loge gathers ever more knives to rest in her arms. From small to large, from pointy to dull, from ones to cut fish those aimed for bread or meat either raw or crisp. When Loge is finally done, she has pretty much picked up every single knife off the wall before she finally presents them to Pandora.

  Loge is almost like a warlord surrendering all her weapons to the commander of the winning army after a long and bloodied battle. A commander, who in turn is only interested in one tiny knife to peel the potatoes with. Pandora sees no effort to hide her amusement as she sits back on the floor and begins to peel the potatoes. She places peeled potatoes to one plate and the peels to another.

  Pandora glances upwards, and says half-heartedly: 'Take few tiny knives for yourself, you can put the rest back where they came.' Red-faced and quite embarrassed, Loge does as instructed. Luckily for her, the spots the knives had once covered had shielded the wall from excess sunlight and the nails are surrounded by silhouettes of the blades.

  Eventually the two girls sit side by side as the pot boils. Mountains of peeled roots and vegetables rise on over the excess plates. And of course, once here and there, Loge blows some extra heat onto the charcoals and the water keeps boiling. With everything peeled: the girls begin to chop and dice the roots onto the boiling water. Steam rises and the water sizzles. Soon among those bubbles bursting through the water's surface tension, chunks and pieces of various colour and sizes do their little dance of going up and down.

  For some reason, Pandora is cackling manically over the kettle. 'Hand me the meat.' She commands Loge, who dashes to pick up the meat plate and hand it over to her. Holding on with both hands, she shakes down all the meat into the boiling soup. 'Give me the big ladle.' And as before, Loge just does as she is told. Pandora plunges the ladle into the kettle and stirs the contents, mixing it all together. The fat and grease of the meat and fish forms its own bubbles into the boiling soup. 'More, give me something more!' She cries out and waves her free hand towards Loge.

  Loge finally stops and just scratches her curly head. 'Only the peels are left.' She states.

  'Chop them, mince them, and give it all to me.' Pandora replies while almost cackling with maniacal laughter as she continues to stir the bubbling soup in wide circular motions. With no other idea of her own, Loge grabs a big knife and begins to chop through the small mountain of peels. Fragments and pieces fly upwards with every swing of her arm, but the heavy knife dugs deep, and slowly the peels begin transform to more or less perfect mush. Yet Pandora cannot wait for the task to be finished and she demands the plate to be handed over without further delay. The ladle swings around the edge of the kettle on its own as the last plate is emptied into the mix with one swipe at a time.

  The soup is not alive, but in a way it is not that far from simply getting up and walking out of the window. It is a thick, clumpy mixture of everything thrown in. Its smell fills the kitchen, and creepily sneaks through the other floors.

  …

  Pan's eyes flash open. His nose twitches. His body aches but he sits up and discards the blanket. By habit he rubs his eye and face only to be startled how his hands have became black from charcoal. He definitely smells something, but it is not the smell of something burning, although it remains strangely pungent and mouth watering. His feet wobble but he starts his climb up the old stairs. Step after step, he lifts his heavy feet as he leans to his left for support from the wall. The hairs on his back rise, he can hear sounds coming from above. Sounds like muted growls of an angry bear, or any other similar forest monstrosity he had never actually encountered beyond bed time stories.

  Slowly, and as quietly as mouse in a house of cats, he peaks into the kitchen. What he sees is two girls on their backs on the kitchen floor. Surrounded by dozen dirty soup bowls and used spoons. One of the girls releases a loud burp, while the other releases a long and winded fart.

  Loge tries to wave her hand as a greeting, but she is too pained to do it properly. Pandora just mutters the words: 'We ate too much. Too much.' And both girls giggle until their laughter is cut short with additional burps and farts.

  Pan looks at the sack of food that lies near empty on the floor before him and then onwards to pot on the fireplace. His stomach grumbles and he must sigh in defeat. He picks a bowl and spoon off the wall and goes to fill his bowl with the ladle. The soup still oozes with warmth, and having walked past the two girls, it doesn't smell all that bad either.

  He puts down the bowl and spoon in order to whip the ladle clean against the edge of the pot before sealing the pot with its lid. He leaves the ladle rest on top of the lid. 'I think I'll go up to eat.' He says to the two girls, who barely manage to utter reply in their blissful and stuffed indifference.

  The climb upwards, to all the way to the attic on the fifth floor is long for the boy. But he thinks it is worth it. The view to the city around, the peace of mind, and the stars you cannot see under the lights, ropes, and flags of the city.

  Pan pushes the old and crude wooden door open, and enters his very own little piece of heaven. He utters the words he always does; 'Illuminoia.' The paint on the wall and ceiling fades into transparency. One of the many secrets the past residents had left behind them. Paint of invisibility on the attic to star gaze with the old mounted telescope. Sadly, the boy has not managed to fi
nd any more of the paint, or even its recipe to one day make more of it. Yet for now, the attic was more than enough. He sees how the rain drops are hitting his invisible roof before sliding down to the storm drains.

  He sits down by his bed and begins to eat. He just pushes the food into his mouth and swallows it nearly right away. No extra time spent to taste it or chance to let it grow colder. Once the bowl lies empty he leaves the spoon neatly on top of it. He stretches his arms before crawling under his blanket and squiggling onwards to press his head against his pillow. And after a while he begins to feel too warm, and so he also squirms out of his clothes and casts them out under the blanket's edge.

  Pan's eyes and body are weary, and it does not take too many twists and turns for him to fall asleep yet again.

  Chapter 3:

  The mid-day Sun wakes up the boy. Pan sees the old rat waiting on his pillow next to his head. 'I, uhhh.' The boy tries to start, but the old rat simply motions its paw for him to fall quiet.

  'I had the girls already clean their mess earlier on the morning, both of them are away already. So if you want to take a bath, they did leave you some water in the tub.' A large wooden barrel cut in half to produce a tub. 'The water is most likely cold now. Though Loge did really do her best to boil it.' The rat scratches its jaws and whiskers.

  The boy in turn rubs his eyes and says: 'I dreamt of a three-eyed fox.'

  'Really?' The old rat's eyes squint. 'Tell me more.'

  'I was in a forest, looking for firewood. I encountered a three-eyed fox and it tried to play with me – I tried to drive it away. It fell down a cliff, I think.'

  'A three-eyed fox. Huh.'

  The boy sits up and asks the short question: 'Yes?'