Aurora Wolf

The Beginning of Something Wonderful

First Story in the Tavern on the Edge of Everywhere Series

By Kirby McNarie

The prickle begins in my gut.  Squeezing my eyes shut, I brace myself against the bar and let the change happen.  My muscles clench and twist with some discomfort, but the familiar pain doesn’t overwhelm the rush of adrenaline stuttering through me.  Someone new will visit my tavern soon.  And just in time too.  My energy is all but spent.

Looking down at the changes in myself, I notice that I’m bipedal, most likely human, with a decidedly masculine feel.  Around me, the room that’s nearly faded from the vision of my last patron begins to morph with me.  But something’s different; I can already get a sense of my new visitor.  I breathe in, relishing the feel of her.  She’s emotional, creative, with an absolutely beautiful imagination.  Even before she walks through my front door, I know I will like her.

The spasms stop abruptly.  With the metamorphosis complete, I straighten and wait.  The sultry notes of a tenor sax tumble out of stereo speakers I didn’t have mere moments ago.  The mahogany bar, as usual, remains the same, as does the massive fireplace directly opposite.  However, a variety of plush, overstuffed sofas now adorn my establishment.  The neat pattern of parquet checkerboards the floor.  Shelves of books line the walls and the faint scent of book bindings and paper lingers in the air. 

I smile fondly.  This girl’s well read, that’s for sure.  And with this rare gift of a connection, I already know so much about her.  She’s intelligent and sage, but lacks confidence.  She’s kind-hearted and loving, genuine and up front.  And she’s selfless and selfish at the same time; an odd combination.  But for all of her concern for others, she doesn’t understand a thing about herself; and right now her heart is in turmoil because of it.  Though I can, and have been, any gender, I’ve always considered myself very masculine.  And like any human male, a female in genuine distress blinds us to all else.  I must help her.

The front door bursts open.  As lightning flashes, a torment of wind whips rain inside and thunder rattles the shelves of glasses and liquor bottles behind me.  A human woman steps over the threshold with her long hair streaming water and her clothes plastered to her body.  As the door eases shut behind her, she gazes wide-eyed around her and drips on my floor mat.

A smile creeps across my face.  No wonder I could sense her; she’s one of those individuals who wear their emotions close to the surface.  I find myself drawn to her honest reactions and the startling complexity I feel is within her.  She can’t lie convincing, she’s horrible at playing poker, and as I suspected, I like her immediately.

“Hi.”  Leaning against the bar, I project calm security.  ”You okay?”

As she turns at the sound of my voice, her eyes widen and her mouth drops open.

I exhale an amused breath, tickled at her expressiveness.  “Here…  Let me get you a towel.”

Squatting behind the bar, I set the replicator to make something big and fluffy for her to dry off with.  With the ding of completion, I pull out a large rectangle of terry cloth, then pop back up and round the bar to close the distance between us. 

“You can’t be…” She hasn’t moved a muscle and continues to stare with big round and beautiful eyes. “…Aeosen?”

Once she names me, the abilities inherent only to me and my kind give me a wealth of information and insight.  I can actually be the character from the book she’s written, just as I’ve been for a myriad of other patrons over the eons.  But this particular time, I find myself hoping she can see past my appearance.

I grin enigmatically.  “I am whatever you need me to be.”

Her eyes sparkle as if I’ve just told her she’s won the lottery.  But as her lips quirk briefly into a smile, her brow furrows in a vain attempt to hide the delight I sense from her.  She looks away and clears her throat. “And I need you, eh?”

As her beautiful eyes find mine again, I know I’m in trouble, mainly because I can’t seem to wipe the smile from my face.  “Yeah… ya do, if for nothing more than to dry you off.”

Climbing the two steps up to the landing, I drape the towel over her head and shoulders, noting how easily I could tuck her under my chin.  Instead I settle for stepping close, probably closer than I should, and begin to scrub the long wet strands of her hair.  As I tenderly dab the rain from her cheeks, she gazes up at me with such adoration that I nearly risk a taste of her lips.  And as if she can sense my thoughts, she trembles.

But that devotion is not truly meant for me.  It’s for the person I currently resemble.  Swallowing thickly, I step back. 

I tilt my head toward the fire and take her hand in mine.  “Come on.  Let’s get you warmed up.”

Dragging her behind me, I wind my way around the various groups of overstuffed furniture toward the fireplace.  I fight off a sudden wave of exhaustion, knowing that revitalization is close at hand.

“Hey!” she exclaims.  “I just saw a sofa disappear.”

“I know.”  Wearily, I step up to the fire, hoping I can get her help before we have to sit on the floor.  “Is this better?”

She nods with a smile.  “Thank you.  I appreciate your kindness.”

“I am whatever…”

“I know… whatever I need you to be.”

We share a laugh.  But as we fall silent she looks deeply into my eyes.  While one hand clutches the towel around her shoulders, the other comes up and traces a soft line across my forehead, then tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear.

“You’re not really Aeosen, are you?”

In all my years, I’ve never had a patron see me–me, not who I resemble.  I open my mouth to answer, but I don’t want to break the spell.  In truth, I wish this moment in time would never end.  I inhale with budding excitement.

“My name is Sisken.  But I am whatever…”

“I know…  Never mind.”  She chuckles.  “It’s good to meet you, Sisken.”

“The pleasure is all mine.”  I take her hand and kiss the back of it, surprised by how true my words are.

As another wave of exhaustion hits me, her head swivels to her right.

“Hey!  Another sofa disappeared.  What’s going on?”

I nod and plop down into the last remaining couch directly opposite the fireplace.  “My strength is leaving me.”

She lays the towel aside, tucks one leg beneath her and sits beside me, resting her elbow on the back of the sofa. “I don’t understand.”

“All of this is part of me.  I become whatever…”

“Don’t say it.”  She lays a hand briefly on my knee. 

I smile, then sigh heavily.  “But it takes energy to maintain.  And it’s been awhile since my last patron was here.”

“Okay, so can I get you something to eat?”

“No.  I need you to give me a story.”

Her eyebrows rise and her chin drops.  “A what?”

“A story.  You know, the recounting of a tale?”

“Yes, I know what a story is,” she replies testily.  “I meant, why?”

I consider my words very carefully.  “As you replace your body’s energy with sleep and food, I replace mine with prose.”

She blinks, but then a slow smile spreads across her face and her beautiful eyes dance with some hidden thought.  “Well, then.  I just might be the perfect person to help you.  What kind of tale would you like?”

“Tell me about yourself.”

She frowns.  “Well, that’s a dull subject.  I have much more interesting ones you might like better.”

“No.  I want to hear yours…first.”  I wink and give her the biggest smile I have in my arsenal.  She returns it with coy self-consciousness.

“Okay, what do you want to know?”

“What do you do?”

“I’m an accountant, a bookkeeper, really.  I have my own business where I do bookwork for pizza store owners.  I currently have sixteen locations that I provide payroll, accounts payable, accounts receivable, and financial statements for.”  She hesitates and looks at me closer.  “You don’t seem any better.  I told you this was boring stuff.”

“No, please.  Keep going.”

“Okay.  Where do you want me to start?”

“Why not the beginning?”

“Why in the world…?”

“Please?”

“Fine.”  She pouts prettily and crosses her arms on her chest.

“I was born a poor black child…”  Unable to keep a straight face, she bursts into nervous laughter.  “Sorry.  That was the beginning to a Steve Martin movie.”

I chuckle.  “Yes, I know.  ‘The Jerk’.  Funny movie. Steve Martin is a riot.”

“Oh, he is!  Did you see ‘Parenthood’ on TV the other day?  I love that scene where they’re driving…” She stops herself as if the absurdity of discussing a television show with me suddenly hits her.  Little does she know that I’ve watched my fair share of TV.  It’s the perfect way for an immortal to fill down time, and it’s a diluted method to replenish energy if I’m desperate.  And surprisingly enough, those soaps can be quite addicting.  

“Okay.  Boring you ask for, boring you will get.”  She stares off into the fire to gather the words in her head.  As she turns back to me, a new resolve lines her face, and she launches into the story of her life in earnest. 

She was born in (a)mid-western farm town to a lower middle class family.  First came grade school, then junior high, then high school, with all the pertinent activities like orchestra, bowling and softball.  She soared through each experience surrounded by a solid bunch of friends that she still chats with from time to time.  Her parents died early, leaving her without guidance.  But she somehow made do, mostly because of those special friends.

“…though it was touch and go for awhile there,” she adds wryly. 

With each of her words, my weariness lifts away and my fondness of her grows.  The feel of her takes shape in my head and heart.  Her voice is light and lyrical.  The way she expresses herself is sheer beauty. 

Warming to her subject, she speaks of her turbulent young adulthood.  The strength of her will blossomed just as a close girlfriend announced that she wanted more than a friendship.  This so-called friend pleaded her to see their relationship from a new perspective, and even went so far as to condemn her for not at least considering it.  At that same time a manipulative boyfriend abruptly headed out to seek his future.  He threw her a casual invite to join him, knowing she couldn’t take the rejection of being left behind.  With her heart under the pressure of the push and pull between a friend she couldn’t stand breaking the heart of and the guy who she could potentially spend the rest of her life with, she made a choice. 

At seventeen, she left everything she’d ever known, only to find that leaving wasn’t the answer, she wouldn’t be sharing the rest of her life with the boyfriend, and finding a job without a college education can be tough.  But she kept slogging ahead, plowing through relationship after relationship, ever searching, yet never marrying.  However, through all of it, her muse has never left her.

She frowns like she wants to add something pertinent, but doesn’t.  As the last of the cobwebs clear from my mind, I’m able to detect just how important writing is to her and how much distress she’s feeling because of it.  Intuition sizzles through me.  Suddenly, I know what’s troubling her.  But I let her finish her tale. 

“I had worked for the pizza company for a total of twelve years when they closed up shop completely.  My experience with them gave me a nice severance package.  So, I used it to start my own accounting business.  I bought a house and work from home; I have five wonderful dachshunds that are my children.  And that’s where we are.”

I scowl at her, knowing she has excluded the true reason she’s here.  “But that’s not all.”

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“You really rushed that ending.  There’s more there, I know.”

“Perhaps.  Perhaps not.”  She grins enigmatically.

I study her expressive face and know I’m on the right track.  “You’re not really writing now, are you?”

“Your color is better.  How do you feel?”  She presses the back of her hand briefly to my forehead.

“I’m very well, thanks to your wonderful story.  But I’m not falling for that change in subject.”  I glare in mock anger. “You miss writing, don’t you?”

She looks away and answers in a small voice.  “Yes.”

“Then write.”  I shrug.

Her head snaps back around, her brows drawn fiercely together.  “It’s not that easy.  It’s all tied up in… emotions.”

“I don’t understand.”  Which isn’t true because I can sense just how perfectly entwined the craft is within her.  Someone who can’t access such an integral part of themselves is unhappy, indeed.  But it’s not me that’s working through this problem, she is.  I want her to comprehend it.

She heaves a defeated sigh.  “Well, I suppose I let myself get discouraged again.”

“Why?”

Her eyes, whirling with some unknown question, find mine.  The fire pops and crackles.  I hold her gaze with sheer will and project all the security I can muster.  At last she looks away, a decision made.

The words she speaks next are harsh with the strain of keeping her emotions in check.  “Because I’m not good enough.” 

A grin of triumph stretches my lips, but I smooth it away before she can see.  If she’s willing to trust me with this, how much farther will she go? 

“Good enough for what?” I ask.

“To get published.” 

I blink, surprised.  “Who says?”

“Me, I guess.”

“Why?”

“Because people don’t take to what I write the way I do.”  Her eyes shut tightly and fat tears roll down her cheeks.  Self-consciously, she wipes them away.  “It’s stupid, really.  It shouldn’t matter what anyone else thinks…”

My gut twists with the desire to wash those tears away.  Her insecurities are so frail I want to banish them with a flurry of compliments; I want to enfold her in my arms and squeeze her until she has faith in herself.  But that won’t do it.  She’s got to believe all on her own.  But…  Perhaps I can give her a nudge.

Rising, I grab a novel from the nearest bookshelf and place it in her hands.  “Here.  Read the beginning.”

She sniffs and gapes up at me.  “Huh?”

“Just read.”  I return to my place on the couch.

With a thoughtful expression, she pages to Chapter One.  I watch her face, deadpan expression, eyes scanning left to right.  Finally, she looks up from the text.

“Well?” I prompt.

“Well what?”

“Describe what you read.  Give me your opinion.”

“Very beautiful, flowing.  Artfully done.  This author has true talent.”  She sighs heavily and sets the book aside.  “It’s a perfect example of what I can’t do, string phrases together so effortlessly and stir the soul with mere words.”

But she can do exactly that if she puts herself into whatever she writes.  I want to shake her, make her see just how special that kind of talent is.  “You’re an avid reader, right?  Tell me what you thought of the story.  Are you interested to read more?”

“Ummm… well…”  Her gaze drops from mine.

“This is important.  Say what you feel.  I won’t tell anyone.” I wink. 

Her lips quirk into a regretful grimace.  “No. I’m not.  To be honest, this feels like it was written for the sake of it, like the author wanted to show off how many pretty words he knows.  I’d probably skim this and head straight for the character interaction, which there isn’t any in the passage I read, just one girl anguishing over her childhood.”

“When this author wrote this, it sang to him.  He felt it was the best work he’d ever done.”

“Really?”  She frowns in thought.  “How do you know?”

“Oh, he’s visited me a time or two.”  I shift sideways and rest my elbow on the back of the couch.  “Don’t you think he wants you to feel the way he does about it?”

“I suppose he does.”  She nods. 

“But you don’t.”

She throws me a guilty look.

“And that’s okay.”  I take one of her hands in both of mine.  “It’s all subjective.  Just because you don’t care for it doesn’t mean it’s not a good story.  It’s sold a lot of copies.  You can’t write to please everyone, you know.  All you can do is create something that touches you.  And because it touches you, others will follow right along with you.” 

Her gaze trails away from me and seeks the flames with her thoughts swirling so fast, I nearly have to laugh.  I’ve reached her.  I know it.  In her heart I can sense the tiniest bit of hope.  Now, I have to give her something to write about.  And, of course, find a way to see her again.

“Inspiration is a funny thing.  An idea can be sitting right in front of you, but you’ll never see it unless you decide to.”  With gentle fingertips under her chin, I return her attention to me.  I know the warmth in my chest must be showing on my face.  Is it my imagination or do I see it reflected in her eyes?  “I think your muse has been calling, but you’re too preoccupied to hear.”

A knowing smile spreads across her lips.  I watch in delight as it lights up her expression.  What a beautiful transformation.

“You know what?” she asks in a soft voice.

“What?” I ask, even though I know what she’s going to say.

“I think I have something to write about.”  She grins shyly and it nearly does me in.  But then that beautiful smile falls away from her face, and she gazes adoringly into my eyes.  Her voice drops to just above a whisper.  “You really are what I need you to be.  Thank you, Sisken.”

I never thought that hearing my own name would affect me so much.  My pulse thuds in my ears.  Suddenly, nothing else in the universe exists but her and those enticing lips, and I must have a taste.  I inch closer until our noses are mere millimeters apart.  As she stares intently in my eyes, she begins to tremble.  Or is it me?  I settle my lips lightly over hers.  Then as if a damn has broken, a surge of emotion wash over me…  hers… mine… all mixed together in one heart-pounding moment.  I pull her into my arms and deepen the kiss, tongues dancing together in a heated tango of sensations.  And time has no meaning.

At long last I pull back to look upon her.  Her face glows with the heat of passion–for me, not who I resemble.  There’s nothing I’d rather do than to take her by the hand and lead her upstairs to my private quarters.  But it would be wrong to take this any further when she’s so close to the solution she needs.  Sighing with regret, I release her and brush her cheek with the knuckles of my right hand. 

“I don’t even know your name,” I whisper.

Her grin is instant and genuine.  “My name is Kirby.”

Kirby… I roll it around in my head.  It’s cute and unique, just like her.  “It suits you.”

Kirby turns away, her cheeks pinking.  “I suppose I’d better get back.  My computer is calling.”

“I understand.”  I nod, then lay a hand on her arm.  “But only if you promise to return.”

Her face lights up again with one of her warmest expressive smiles.  “Count on it.”

She rises and heads for the exit, pausing with the knob in her hand.  Her gray eyes sparkle with a hint of blue.  With a wink and a wave, she turns and leaves. 

As the door swings slowly shut behind her, a flood of emptiness hits me full force.  But I know that leaving was the best thing for her to do.  She has to see the problem through.  Sighing, I stretch out to rest my head on the arm of the overstuffed sofa, consoling myself with the knowledge that I’ve helped her.

The squirmy feeling that by now is old hat writhes in my stomach and spreads through my body.  The plush sofa morphs and twists beneath me, bringing the realization that I’m about to meet someone new.  Even as I wonder what I will look like next, I know it won’t be the same.  But I can always hope that with each metamorphosis, I’ll see Kirby’s beautiful smile again. 

And I have no doubt that I will.