Chapter 13
Thirteen
Two days later, Oaklin lay flat on the ground beside their house where they had just fallen off the roof.
“That was a bad idea,” Granny said, leaning against the side of the house with her arms crossed. It was like looking at a second gap in the boards, only person-shaped, and Oaklin didn’t appreciate it.
“A very bad idea that I will never repeat again,” Oaklin agreed, head all floaty and strange from the rush. Overhead, a cloud drifted past. It appeared to be laughing. A nearby baby goat, seeing Oaklin’s supine pose, happily clambered atop Oaklin’s propped up knees and perched there, triumphant.
“Yeah, you think you’re really something, don’t you?” Oaklin asked her. The goat stared back and gave an adorable bleat, her rectangular pupils piercing straight into Oaklin’s soul.
Oaklin sighed. “Gods and grains, you’re too cute and I can’t handle it. Just stop.”
They gathered the goat in their arms and gave her a squeeze, then let her scamper away as they studied the newly enlarged hole in the side of their house.
“Another one to add to the ‘problem for another day’ list?” Granny asked sweetly.
Oaklin glared. “Look, you can’t help me with these repairs. You can’t even help me up out of the mud. Do you think laughing at me is a useful contribution?”
“I think helping you realize what a terrible idea it is to climb on the roof of the house with no one else around is a great contribution, actually,” she shot back. “People die falling from ladders and roofs all the time.”
Oaklin grumbled a rude comment under their breath and shooed away a second goat who attempted to nibble on their hair. Goats were not cute, actually; they were little jerks. With a sigh, Oaklin planted their palms in the dirt to get back on their feet with much groaning and soreness.
The sequence of events had gone something like this: Oaklin, tired of having to stick their only cook pot under the hole in the roof every time it rained, got up the morning after a storm and set the ladder against the edge of their wood-shingled roof.
They climbed the ladder. The ladder, resentful of its placement in a puddle of slick mud, immediately slid out from under them, leaving them dangling from the roof, kicking wildly.
At the end of it all, the roof had fewer shingles than it had started the day with and a giant hole in a previously unnoticed rotting wall plank.
Oaklin watched as one of the chickens broke off from the flock and, with a chaotic flap, scrambled through the hole and into the house. Panicked clucking soon followed.
“Oh, for grain’s sake…” Oaklin grumbled. They propped their hands on their hips and glared at the rotted-out board. “I have no idea how to fix this.”
“You could ask for help,” Granny said, her tone pure acid. “And oh, look, you have company. You can practice asking right now.”
“Company? What—”
“Well, it looks like I’m too late,” Lior said, coming around the side of the house and taking in the scene with chagrin.
Oaklin’s first instinct was to say this isn’t what it looks like, except, well…it was exactly what it looked like. Oaklin had ripped part of their roof off and kicked a hole in their house in the process, and there was no sugarcoating that fact.
“Hi,” Oaklin said glumly. A clump of mud plopped to the ground from their soaked trousers. “Too late for what?”
Lior withdrew a book from her bag and waggled it with a regretful smile.
“When we were talking at the library before your meeting, you mentioned needing some repairs, so I brought you a book. I also wrote down the names of a few locals who could help you out—a roofer and a builder. But, you know, I had a feeling you might be more of a do-it-yourself type.”
Oaklin stepped forward to take the book, oddly touched at the gesture.
They ran their fingers across the soft brown leather cover, stamped with the title Do It Smart: Home Repair for the Hopeless.
A slip of paper bookmarked the chapter on roof repair.
Mildly strangled by the emotion, Oaklin looked up to say thank you, but before they could, Lior pulled out three more books.
“These ones have nothing to do with home repair or farming, and you definitely don’t have to read them,” Lior said, her cheeks lightly flushed and words coming faster. “You just work so hard out here and I thought you might like something fun to read. Do you even like to read fiction? Or poetry?”
At Lior’s sudden pinched frown, Oaklin rushed to reassure her. “I love to read fiction and poetry! Or, at least… I used to read all the time before…”
Oaklin gasped at a sudden sharp pain at the base of their skull.
“MY FOLLOWERS! GIVE YOUR MINDS OVER TO ME!”
The Enchantrix’s voice is like an ice pick between the cultist’s eyes, boring a hole straight through their skull.
They gasp, and the book they hold falls to the floor with a spine-cracking THUD as their hands fly to the sides of their head.
All around the cultist, their new friends cry out and fall to their knees, clutching their hair, hiding their eyes. Someone vomits.
Someone weeps.
“Together, in my hand, your magic will be the strongest force this world has ever witnessed!” the Enchantrix calls, their voice unnaturally loud, seeming to come from every corner of the room.
It’s like a physical thing crawling inside the cultist’s ears, scuttling under their flesh after breaching their tender defenses and burrowing in deep.
It pulls them, down, down, a pressure at the back of their neck, their knees beginning to bend.
With some last reservoir of pure stubborn strength, the cultist holds, keeping their feet firmly planted, a scream tearing itself from their throat. The tide pulls them out to sea, and they fight like hell, spitting and screaming, clawing for every last bit of lost ground.
But the current is too great, and they are already so very tired of swimming.
The shock of pain barely registers as their grip on their own mind
slips
s l o w l y…
Below the cultist, the pages of the book blur in and out of focus, the words running together in a meaningless snake pit of tangled lines and pooling ink. Blood.
Ink.
Blood.
I’ve been looking forward to reading this for months, they think.
It’s the last thought they have before their grip breaks and they are completely submerged.
“Oaklin!”
Lior’s voice shattered the vision, and they blinked against the suddenly too-bright sun, the ache in their head slowly receding.
Lior had moved to within arm’s reach, the books clutched under one arm, other hand out at the ready, as if to catch Oaklin if they fell.
Once their gazes met, Lior sagged in visible relief and dropped her hand to her side but did not back away.
“I thought you were going to pass out again,” she said.
“I think I almost did,” Oaklin replied, voice as hoarse as if they’d been screaming. Maybe they had been and Lior was simply too polite to mention it.
Lior’s expression crumpled with empathy, her mouth pursed in a small frown. “Another Enchantrix flashback?”
Oaklin rode out the automatic stab of panic and kept cool, avoiding any glimpse of the symbol of the Three on Lior’s tabard. All they had to do was confirm the narrative Lior had already built.
“Yes,” they said. “There was a book I was looking forward to reading before…well, before. And now I can’t even remember the title.”
As the pain receded, Oaklin clawed through their molasses-thick memory and found the threads of the conversation from before their vision. “I used to read fiction and poetry all the time. I don’t even know what I would be interested in anymore, though.”
Lior cracked a small smile, a bit of her usual spark creeping back in. “Well, I brought three very different options for you so I can learn your taste. Even if you don’t like any of them, tell me what you think so I can be more accurate next time. I will find the perfect book for you!”
A panicked ba-CAW! came from inside the house, bringing Oaklin back to the (now even greater) task at hand. They reached for the stack of books Lior held and nodded to the clucking, crumbling structure. “Wanna come rescue a distressed chicken with me?”
“I’d be honored,” Lior said.
Oaklin led Lior around the front of the house to rescue the poor confused chicken, who unsurprisingly couldn’t seem to find the same hole she’d come in through, then grabbed a broom to sweep up the splintered wood from their new impromptu window.
“Do you have any spare lumber? I could help you replace that board before I head back, if you want,” Lior said.
Oaklin had a brief flash of Lior, sleeves rolled up and strong arms on full display, carrying large planks of wood over from the barn.
“Yes,” they said, possibly too emphatically. They whirled around to hide their heating cheeks and strode out the door while Lior scrambled to catch up. “There are some spare boards out in the hay loft. I could definitely use help carrying one over.”
“Happy to help!” Lior said.
Oaklin bit the inside of their lip to stop themself from grinning.
***
The view on the way back to the house was exactly as glorious as Oaklin anticipated, and before long, they had the old board torn out and chopped into small pieces for hearth kindling.
They chatted on and off about Ryn and Jules, about drama in the temple, and Oaklin’s plans for the farm, sweating up a river as the heat of the first truly sweltering day set in.
“So hey, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Lior began, pausing to heave the new wall plank into place. “How was the Farmer’s Union meeting? Did they give you a lot of nonsense? They can be a little…”