Into the free, Friday

Friday,  very early.  TOO early.

A beacon in the dark shone brighter than a lighthouse;  I had walked for hours in the dark, or what felt like it as I carefully placed my feet missing exposed roots and crudely placed blackberry thorns and travelled only a few meters.  
There was no where else to go, at least anywhere preferable, so, like a moth blindly following a route to a flame, I was drawn in.

The clearing I found myself in was unusual; I'm no expert in all things woody, but the plants seemed to be all leaning away from the centre as if an invisible orb sat there with its bubble thin walls pushing them back. In the middle, like a snow globe without the glitter, sat a stone box.  I couldn't even call it a cottage, although it did have a roof and four walls it lacked pretty much all cottagey things. A breeze block shed with a door and very thankfully a light.

'You look half drowned.''  The voice was not only authoritative like it was stating a clear point but it also made me jump literally and give a little squeak.

A shadow detached itself from the wall of the ...................I'll call it a house, and stepped forward into the light streaming from the window.  Although in silhouette it was clearly the old lady who scared me earlier; she also scared me now, I'm sure I didn't wet myself but I would have to remind myself to check later.

''The kettle has boiled.''  She said and moved towards the door.
  I didn't know if this was an invitation to tea or another statement of fact. 
I hesitated and in that time the threshold had been passed and the door remained open, i took this as a sign of invitation and as i fought every impulse starting from the soles of my feet to walk away and walked into the house feeling like a naughty school girl being requested to visit the head mistress.  I got as far as the doormat.  Maybe my instincts had won as I didn't move any further.

''The rear door is open.  Kindly use it.''  Came the statement,  'Your tea is getting cold.''.

The walk around to the rear was short but filled with aroma.  Garlic blubs, close to a hundred of them, were hung threaded together by their leaves around the door.  The smell almost knocked me backwards. 
''Strong enough to keep out vampires.''  I muttered as I held my breath.
The door was opened from the inside and I entered, this time without issue.

''There is a chair by the fire.''  The lady was busying herself with making tea in a small kitchen area at the back of the room.
I restated my previous comment to my audience and was rewarded with a piercing stair straight down her sharp nose;  I felt two inches tall.

'I would have thought someone in your world would have a better understanding of the principals and respect for the pale ones than you;  but......''  She walked over with a large mug of thick brown tea and gave it to me.  ''With your Master I am not surprised one little bit.''

She moved away and opened an artisan crafted cupboard built into the room.  I use the term artisan to describe a craftsman who isn't a master of their craft but kept going with whatever materials they had to hand. In this case what appeared to be reworked pallets.  From within it she extricated an old brown towel and a shapeless black dress, these were delivered to me with efficiency or at least no wasted energy.

'You know who I work for?''  I asked with my head wrapped in the towel which smelled of rich tea biscuits.

I heard a sniff from within my cocoon of towel.  'I have had my share of dealings with Xanthic over the years.  He knows me and I know of him and I know what he says and does.''

The tea was as strong as it looked but tasted like manna compared to the taste of muddy water I had for the last half hour.

'Thank you for the tea.''  I said as I moved the towel down to my shoulders and back.  'I'm sorry.''

''Why?'' Came the response.

I wasn't sure and I said so.

''One piece of advice my dear, never apologise for anything especially if you can do anything about it and even then know exactly why you are apologising and why you have too.  I can see your education is severely lacking.''

My two inch stature was reducing by the moment and if I wasn't so scared about venturing out into the dark I probably would have left.

She noticed the look on me which I hoped was one of defiance but in truth was more of kicked puppy.

''Drink your tea and I'll have you home at first light.''

''Look, what do I call you. I can't be sitting here scared of someone i don't know in their own home.''  I said with as much defiance as I could muster.

The corners of her mouth turned up in what I assumed as a smile and i hated it if it was mocking me.  I was mistaken but it was the closest thing to a smile she's had for years.

'At last a sensible response and about time too.  You can call me Melody, and before you ask its not my real name but its as good as any.''

''Nice to meet you Melody I'm......''

The woman not really called Melody cut me off with a wave, her eyes wide and bright with intelligence.

"You are Valentine, and you are working for the devil himself.  Luckily he's pretty useless in that role and your learning under him reaffirms that opinion.  You have power; what that power is I cannot at this time tell but I do know you are in a great deal of trouble and its growing all the time you are here."  Melody sniffed and looked around me before reaching forward and carefully with index finger extended, pulled my top down an inch.

"And you are also under some powerful protection."

My tattoo, still raw and throbbing felt hot under Melody's gaze.  She walked to a shelf on the wall which remained on the wall more through will power and spider web than with sturdy looking brackets.  Upon it sat a small line of old worn leather bound books.  Melody reached for one slightly apart from the others as if there were an invisible line keeping it apart from the others; that or the books had an argument and the last one had been ostracised by the others.  

Melody leafed through the book, turning pages carefully until she found what she was looking for.  She turned it around and handed it to me.  In my hands the book weighed a ton, heavy with knowledge and shaped by time, age hung over it.  The pages were printed but with more than enough hand added extras, comments and scribbled doodles and diagrams to make it a handwritten document.  One well annotated page included a woodcut print of a circle surrounded by faint lettering containing a tailed eye within a triangle.  I looked down at my own chest and then back at the book; although the lettering in the book was unclear, not through age but either by poor woodcutting or the artist did not fully know of what they were recreating.  I closed the book and on the spine between a gold line image of a burning star at the top and a goat legged satyr were the faded and marked words   ARA CUSTODIA ARX and within my head violins played.