Bechel Challenge - untitled work in progress, chapter 1
I'm taking a page from hhimring's book and posting the first part of my Bechdel challenge story in the hopes that that'll motivate me to work on it more.
Title: who the f*** knows?! chapter 1.
Rating: G.
Characters: Berúthiel, OFC.
Word count: ~1300
Summary: A young lady of Umbar tries to vanish into the mountains and meets an uncanny new friend.
The dawn cast cedar shadows long and dark upon my left, illumined the crowns of the scarps upon my right. A stream, far happier than I was, clambered down the mountainside a stone’s throw away. I began to veer toward it, but the sprawling miles of foothills out of which I’d come were in plain sight behind me, and it seemed to me as though I must be equally plain to their accusing gaze. Beyond them was the distant haze of the sea, that thing they wanted to bear me across to foreign lands. No, this was no time to stop by a stream and enjoy the scenery. I resumed my uphill course with such haste that I stumbled and caught the hem of my drape on some scrubby plant. The whole thing was nearly yanked off me.
I hissed under my breath and stooped to extract the coarse green cloth from the brambles. For the eighth time, I undid my belt and redid it more tightly to keep the cloth on me. Perhaps a short rest would be in order. Breakfast would make me less clumsy. I went to sit by the stream with my back against one of the cedars, and hunted down the bread and cheese and olives in my pack.
In the midst of my meal, I was interrupted by the sense that I was not quite alone. I looked sharply back the way I’d come, but there was nothing. No person could be seen in any direction. My gaze was relaxing back toward my bread when it snagged upon a small, bright white form in the shade of another tree just across the narrow stream.
My breath caught in spite of herself-for surprise, but also for delight. It was not every day one saw a perfectly-groomed, brilliantly white angora cat reclining calmly by a mountain stream. This particular cat could have been a marble statue for all that it moved, but its eyes gave it away, bright green and alert and somehow knowing.
“I didn’t notice you there,” I found myself explaining to the cat, by way of excusing my own startled gasp.
The cat blinked its eyes closed for a second, opened them again slowly. Its elegant brush of a tail swished up and down once.
I’d always liked cats, but this one was particularly beautiful and composed and strange. Somehow it was quite clear to me that my typical reaction to a cat-a cajoling voice and a peaceably extended hand-would be as an insult to this one.
So finally I said, politely, “I don’t suppose you’d like some olives.”
The tail swished lazily again, and the eyes squinted to amused slits, as if to say, “No, cats don’t generally fancy olives.”
“Cheese?”
Some cats liked cheese. If this one did, it was staying mum.
“Ah well, I’d best save this food all for myself anyhow. I don’t know how I’m going to get more.”
The cat’s head tilted a little, and it rearranged its dainty paws under its chest, as if to say, “I’m listening. Tell me what happened.”
“Well, I’m leaving, you see,” I began, swallowing back a quavering weakness that tried to barge in upon my voice. How ridiculous to want to cry about it now, when resolving to do it in the first place was what had gotten me to stop crying into my pillow in hopeless rage when the indifferent world was asleep. I supposed it was well enough to be able to finally talk to someone about it, even if-maybe especially if that someone was a cat. So I went on:
“They were going to make me marry some prince in Gondor. He’s this horrible, boring lad who came down to the capitol last spring, and all he could talk about was stupid ships. The king of Gondor I guess asked all the Umbarian lords to bring their daughters to Umbar proper so that his boring son could come choose one of us to get betrothed to. Bloody politics. So of all the stupid things, this fellow chooses me, and of course my father and the lords and councilors are all thrilled because they’ll have an Umbarian right next to the Gondorian throne once the old king dies. And what I want doesn’t matter at all, of course.”
The cat seemed to nod refinedly as though to say, “Do continue.”
“This Prince Tarannon is old, too, nearly a grown man. Why does he want to marry a girl of twelve? I mean, I’d be of age myself before they made me do it, but that’s still gross. They were hinting it was because he liked my coloring, because I’ve got the same hair and eyes as most of them in Gondor. Why doesn’t he just marry a woman of Gondor then?” In my ire, I leapt to my feet and paced. “Does he think I want to listen to him talk about ships for the rest of my life? Ships this, ships that, ships are so great, blah blah blah.”
The cat nodded, detachedly courteous.
Nearly tripping over the hem of my wrap again, I readjusted it violently. To conceal my embarrassment at being clumsy before the graceful-looking cat, I concluded with bravado, “And that’s why I can’t wear my own clothes, because everybody would know me for nobility, and I wasn’t able to steal some common clothes, and so that is why I’m wearing a tablecloth for my dress and a lap rug for a shawl. This is the sort of thing I need to do now.”
“I fear your boots still give you away,” said the cat, with polite regret.
“I know that, but I couldn’t-what! Who said that!” I whirled around, wide-eyed and glaring at the mountains and the sea. There was no one but the cat. I really did need to get going, I’d wasted too much time, and now I must be hearing things on top of that.
I cast the cat an uncertain glance, aware that the hairs on my arms stood on end, and concluded experimentally, “I couldn’t find anything for my feet. That’s why this tablecloth is so long, to hide my boots.”
“Fair enough. Where do you intend to go?” said the cat. The mouth didn’t move, but there was a voice somehow, unspoken. It was something one just understood, in one’s mind.
More than shocked or afraid, I was embarrassed. I’d made a fool of myself with my ranting. More than embarrassed, I was intrigued. I crouched back down at the edge of the stream, arranging my awkward garment around my knees, and said, just to make sure, “You spoke to me. In my head.”
“Evidently.”
“Can all cats do that, if they wish?”
“What do you think?”
“No.”
The cat did that squint again which seemed to be a smile. Everything about her was self-assured and elegant. “Call me Yaulë. I would ask your name, but if you plan to leave this place, that too you must leave. You’ve told me the tale of how you are wronged by these petty lords of Men who’d have your life as clay fashioned to their own purposes, how you would sooner leave as a self-sentenced exile. Therefore, I name you Nehtanë. It is in an old tongue, and it is a good name for one who knows what the world has done to her, what she must do in the world. Will you take this name?”
Because Yaulë knew just what to say, and because she was something even better than a cat, I nodded gladly.
______________NOTES
Nehtanë: derived from Nehtano, as seen on Fauskanger’s Quenya-English wordlist (http://www.uib.no/People/hnohf/): “‘one deprived, exile whose rights and goods have been confiscated’ (PE17 : 167).” I’m not sure if simply replacing the -o with an -ë to make the term feminine would work with this particular construction, but I went ahead and did that. Correction welcome, if there is any to be had.
Yaulë: (Q.) cat. One of my less inspired choices of name, to be sure.
I interpret Umbar as something like a city-state, which is why Nehtanë refers to herself as Umbarian even though she is from a smaller settlement in the foothills. Northernmost Algeria is my analogue for the Umbarian region.
Title: who the f*** knows?! chapter 1.
Rating: G.
Characters: Berúthiel, OFC.
Word count: ~1300
Summary: A young lady of Umbar tries to vanish into the mountains and meets an uncanny new friend.
The dawn cast cedar shadows long and dark upon my left, illumined the crowns of the scarps upon my right. A stream, far happier than I was, clambered down the mountainside a stone’s throw away. I began to veer toward it, but the sprawling miles of foothills out of which I’d come were in plain sight behind me, and it seemed to me as though I must be equally plain to their accusing gaze. Beyond them was the distant haze of the sea, that thing they wanted to bear me across to foreign lands. No, this was no time to stop by a stream and enjoy the scenery. I resumed my uphill course with such haste that I stumbled and caught the hem of my drape on some scrubby plant. The whole thing was nearly yanked off me.
I hissed under my breath and stooped to extract the coarse green cloth from the brambles. For the eighth time, I undid my belt and redid it more tightly to keep the cloth on me. Perhaps a short rest would be in order. Breakfast would make me less clumsy. I went to sit by the stream with my back against one of the cedars, and hunted down the bread and cheese and olives in my pack.
In the midst of my meal, I was interrupted by the sense that I was not quite alone. I looked sharply back the way I’d come, but there was nothing. No person could be seen in any direction. My gaze was relaxing back toward my bread when it snagged upon a small, bright white form in the shade of another tree just across the narrow stream.
My breath caught in spite of herself-for surprise, but also for delight. It was not every day one saw a perfectly-groomed, brilliantly white angora cat reclining calmly by a mountain stream. This particular cat could have been a marble statue for all that it moved, but its eyes gave it away, bright green and alert and somehow knowing.
“I didn’t notice you there,” I found myself explaining to the cat, by way of excusing my own startled gasp.
The cat blinked its eyes closed for a second, opened them again slowly. Its elegant brush of a tail swished up and down once.
I’d always liked cats, but this one was particularly beautiful and composed and strange. Somehow it was quite clear to me that my typical reaction to a cat-a cajoling voice and a peaceably extended hand-would be as an insult to this one.
So finally I said, politely, “I don’t suppose you’d like some olives.”
The tail swished lazily again, and the eyes squinted to amused slits, as if to say, “No, cats don’t generally fancy olives.”
“Cheese?”
Some cats liked cheese. If this one did, it was staying mum.
“Ah well, I’d best save this food all for myself anyhow. I don’t know how I’m going to get more.”
The cat’s head tilted a little, and it rearranged its dainty paws under its chest, as if to say, “I’m listening. Tell me what happened.”
“Well, I’m leaving, you see,” I began, swallowing back a quavering weakness that tried to barge in upon my voice. How ridiculous to want to cry about it now, when resolving to do it in the first place was what had gotten me to stop crying into my pillow in hopeless rage when the indifferent world was asleep. I supposed it was well enough to be able to finally talk to someone about it, even if-maybe especially if that someone was a cat. So I went on:
“They were going to make me marry some prince in Gondor. He’s this horrible, boring lad who came down to the capitol last spring, and all he could talk about was stupid ships. The king of Gondor I guess asked all the Umbarian lords to bring their daughters to Umbar proper so that his boring son could come choose one of us to get betrothed to. Bloody politics. So of all the stupid things, this fellow chooses me, and of course my father and the lords and councilors are all thrilled because they’ll have an Umbarian right next to the Gondorian throne once the old king dies. And what I want doesn’t matter at all, of course.”
The cat seemed to nod refinedly as though to say, “Do continue.”
“This Prince Tarannon is old, too, nearly a grown man. Why does he want to marry a girl of twelve? I mean, I’d be of age myself before they made me do it, but that’s still gross. They were hinting it was because he liked my coloring, because I’ve got the same hair and eyes as most of them in Gondor. Why doesn’t he just marry a woman of Gondor then?” In my ire, I leapt to my feet and paced. “Does he think I want to listen to him talk about ships for the rest of my life? Ships this, ships that, ships are so great, blah blah blah.”
The cat nodded, detachedly courteous.
Nearly tripping over the hem of my wrap again, I readjusted it violently. To conceal my embarrassment at being clumsy before the graceful-looking cat, I concluded with bravado, “And that’s why I can’t wear my own clothes, because everybody would know me for nobility, and I wasn’t able to steal some common clothes, and so that is why I’m wearing a tablecloth for my dress and a lap rug for a shawl. This is the sort of thing I need to do now.”
“I fear your boots still give you away,” said the cat, with polite regret.
“I know that, but I couldn’t-what! Who said that!” I whirled around, wide-eyed and glaring at the mountains and the sea. There was no one but the cat. I really did need to get going, I’d wasted too much time, and now I must be hearing things on top of that.
I cast the cat an uncertain glance, aware that the hairs on my arms stood on end, and concluded experimentally, “I couldn’t find anything for my feet. That’s why this tablecloth is so long, to hide my boots.”
“Fair enough. Where do you intend to go?” said the cat. The mouth didn’t move, but there was a voice somehow, unspoken. It was something one just understood, in one’s mind.
More than shocked or afraid, I was embarrassed. I’d made a fool of myself with my ranting. More than embarrassed, I was intrigued. I crouched back down at the edge of the stream, arranging my awkward garment around my knees, and said, just to make sure, “You spoke to me. In my head.”
“Evidently.”
“Can all cats do that, if they wish?”
“What do you think?”
“No.”
The cat did that squint again which seemed to be a smile. Everything about her was self-assured and elegant. “Call me Yaulë. I would ask your name, but if you plan to leave this place, that too you must leave. You’ve told me the tale of how you are wronged by these petty lords of Men who’d have your life as clay fashioned to their own purposes, how you would sooner leave as a self-sentenced exile. Therefore, I name you Nehtanë. It is in an old tongue, and it is a good name for one who knows what the world has done to her, what she must do in the world. Will you take this name?”
Because Yaulë knew just what to say, and because she was something even better than a cat, I nodded gladly.
______________NOTES
Nehtanë: derived from Nehtano, as seen on Fauskanger’s Quenya-English wordlist (http://www.uib.no/People/hnohf/): “‘one deprived, exile whose rights and goods have been confiscated’ (PE17 : 167).” I’m not sure if simply replacing the -o with an -ë to make the term feminine would work with this particular construction, but I went ahead and did that. Correction welcome, if there is any to be had.
Yaulë: (Q.) cat. One of my less inspired choices of name, to be sure.
I interpret Umbar as something like a city-state, which is why Nehtanë refers to herself as Umbarian even though she is from a smaller settlement in the foothills. Northernmost Algeria is my analogue for the Umbarian region.