static_abyss (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
static_abyss) wrote2019-02-02 06:19 pm
static_abyss) wrote2019-02-02 06:19 pm
LJ Idol Werk 14: Firebreak
Abel lived in a single family home at the edge of Maple Street in Haverstraw. Her back windows looked out into a yellowing backyard, wilted grass, and fallen leaves littered across the stone path leading to the back door. Farther back, her home let out into a thicket of trees that blended into the forest behind her home. Her house was flanked by trees that formed an almost circular seal of protection against the rest of the world. Twenty feet high, the forest swallowed Abel in its embrace. A half-mile long dirt path was the only exit to the main road, and as an extra protection, twelve-foot tall hedges filled in for the fence that lay in splintered pieces on the front yard.
In between the main road and Abel's home lay a 1963 Ford, seafoam green paint faded to light gray. Skid marks followed up from the main road, straight twin lines that curved into a half circles, pebbles pushed aside from around the tires. The car lay horizontally in the middle of the dirt path. The rusted, faded, light gray metal bodywork of the driver's side door was thrown open, so that anyone walking up from the main road could look in and see the worn leather seats, the dusty dashboard. Crumpled Burger King wrappers formed a bed under the driver's seat, old cups, half-filled and crusted with age made their home in the spaces left over. The doors to the back seats were stuck, but the boot prints on the driver's seat explained the flyers in the back spilling forth from the black Jansport backpack.
If one made it onto the path from the main road, past the Ford and the scattered pebbles, the fence pieces, and the cooing birds in the trees, one came to the front door. Simple stone steps led to the off-White front door, its hinges and broken doorbell were copper red, and whenever anyone knocked on the door it creaked its protest. If Abel was home, she'd open the door in her checkered apron to send, whoever it was, away. Those who rang the bell never saw the house. But the few who used the proper door, always got an invitation.
So, it was, no surprise that on a cool day in October, when Santi and her younger brother Jimmy, stepped hand in hand through the rusted passenger's side door of a retired seafoam green 1963 Ford, Abel let them in.
Abel never changed her name when she registered, though the uniformed cop and registration officer had both told her she could. She'd seen no point. Let the list checkers and the fancy White magic wielders be uncomfortable. After all, the longer and closer they looked at her, the less they would look at her family.
Abel had known she could do magic for as long as she could remember, and she had known the danger that came with it for just as long. Long before her mother gave up the warm fields of Cuautla for the irritating buzz New York. Before the settling warmth and quiet of her home had turned into a swarm of angry New Yorkers pushing their way through morning traffic.
They'd lived in New York City for a while, where the buzzing of wasted magic was harshest and loudest. New York City, with its blend of different kinds of magic, could not fully hide the deadness at its center. It had once been the home of a great wave of magicians, who had honed and shaped the magic to a malleable hum. Abel's magic had sensed that kinship, so she'd tried, at the beginning, to overlook the rest for that piece of home.
With the registration though, and with Beto and some of the other little ones showing signs of magic, Abel's mother had decided that upstate New York would be safer. Somewhere where the buzz became a hum, and Abel was free to flex her gift. She'd blossomed, under her mother's careful eye, and her father's hard work. They'd build the fence first, unpolished wooden slats standing eight feet high all the way around their house. Abel had been able to work small magic to help her father, just an adjustment of light or a quick snap of her fingers to help her father see better in the dark for a few hours.
She had been registered as a light manipulator, with barely any gifts to show for. But even controlling what she could do, so that no one suspected, Abel was able to live freely. Her brothers had been kept away, their own small spells performed under the cover of night, crouched low by the wooden fence surrounding their home. Abel, standing watch by the fence door, ready with a story and a charming smile if any of the neighbors had happened to be awake at one in the morning.
Beto, her youngest brother, had shown most aptitude for magic, though his own skills lay in flames. He could light a match without a thought, a snap of his fingers and they were warm during the winter. Beto, with his dark brown skin and his black hair, was Abel's exact match, freckle for freckle, down to the shape of their mouths. Their only difference lay in the color of their skin. Abel, pale enough to blend in with the crowds that gathered at the mandatory, yearly magic-wielders' meeting, sponsored by the United States government. Beto, darker than any of them, and their brother Carlos, right in between the two. They'd all learned to keep to their family, to gaze, awed at the small displays of magic around them, to pretend like they hadn't moved past simple spells almost as quickly as they'd moved past formula.
It had gone that way for some time, up until Abel's mother had gotten caught lighting a candle on a small White child's birthday cake. The mother had seen and reported Abel's mother to the nearest registration officer, under suspicions that there was an unregistered magic user hanging around the suburban neighborhoods. It hadn't mattered that Abel's mother had a registration card from Cuautla, or that she had three kids at home. Abel had been barely eighteen and that had been enough for their mother to be taken into custody.
Abel, Beto, and Carlos hadn't heard from their mother after that. After all, being an unregistered magic user meant the death penalty. But, that, Abel knew, was not the kind of story she should start with. Not when The-One-Who-Would-Set-Them-Free had just stepped through the door of her old 1963 Ford.
Abel hadn't cut her hair since her mother was taken away by men in blue jackets, with the words "Force for Recon Of Supernatural Tensions" stitched in white across their backs. The Frosties were still around, driving nondescript black vans, ready at a moment's notice to pull over anyone suspected of being unregistered. Abel had been pulled over many times, but Abel never left her home without her registration card, and her brothers and their kids had never been mistaken for magic users. It was, after all, common knowledge that people from poorer countries were light on magic, and the darker the skin, the more muted the magic.
She kept her hair long because her mother had done so, because fashion trends among magic users in the US was for short, practical styles. Abel preferred her long black hair in one braid, her white hairs in between like small streaks of protest against the dye ads along Main street. If it was an especially important day, Abel shaved twice in one day, even if meant redoing her makeup. And that day, in October, it was a particularly important day.
"We need your help," the girl said.
She stood hand in hand with her brother, her cheek highlighter shimmering in the afternoon sun. Her eyes gazed from left to right and back, resting for a moment on Abel's front windows and the thick curtains. The girl was tall and thin like carizo, with scared sunken eyes and bags that looked like bruises under her skin. She and her brother had the same straight noses, larger at the bottom, but all the more charming for it. But where she was pale, her brother was dark, and though she had brown hair too, hers hinted at the dark blonde it would become in the summer. Her magic, too, was different from her brother's, his a hum Abel recognized, and her's a fuzzling buzz.
"You walked through the right door," Abel said.
The little boy holding his sister's hand looked up through his dark brown bangs. "I saw you in a dream," he said.
"You're a vidente," Abel said. "A seer."
"And you're an illusionist," the girl said.
When Abel looked at her, there was steel in her eyes as she stepped forward to block her brother. Her eyes were back on the curtains in the front window.
"A good one," she said.
Abel laughed. "Yes," she said. "Perhaps, I am."
"I can see the steel on your windows," she said. "And Jimmy saw your car door in a dream. Once we knew that, it was easy to find you. Every glamour has an edge to it, if you know where to look."
The problem, Abel knew, was that she was a strong illusionist, almost the best, which meant that no one should have been able to see through the broken down Ford and the broken fence pieces. That this girl could see it and that she came with a seer, meant that she was powerful. That she came on a cool day in October as the sun began to set, and that her magic was neither a buzz, nor a hum, meant that this was who Abel was waiting for.
"What's your name?" Abel asked. "And why are you here?"
The girl blinked back tears as her eyes landed on her brother. She had fading acne scars on her forehead, and that, plus the way her mouth pulled down at the corner, made her younger than she probably was. Her brother, though, had smooth skin and baby fat on his cheeks. He was half his sister's height, but when he looked at Abel, the steel in his eyes was the same.
"Victoria needs your help," he said.
"Victoria and Jimmy," Abel said. "There are stories about you. About this moment. One of you is meant for great things."
Victoria glanced at her brother, her fizzling magic grating against Abel's.
"He's only ten," she said.
But Jimmy, Abel knew, understood. Abel could sense it, their magics familiar with each other, soothing hums that reminded Abel of her family in Cuautla.
One of these children before Abel was meant to change the world. The other was meant to die. The-One-Who-Would-Set-Them-Free and a protector. Abel's part here was to provide quiet and comfort while they figured out who was who. She was to create this space that housed her own family, broken on the outside, but thriving on the inside.
"No one will find you here," Abel said. "I cast an excellent glamour."
Victoria and her brother looked at each other as Abel moved away from her front door. She let them see dusty electronics that hid the glimmering countertops and the dirty dishes past the front that hid Carlos's stack of healing draughts.
"We'll be safe here," Jimmy said, pulling his sister forward. "I trust her."
Victoria exhaled, and it was like the years fell off her. They were both children, Abel realized, both young and impossible old with the knowledge of what was to come. Jimmy knew it, just as Abel had known all her life that this day would come. Victoria had yet to know the secrets of her life, but Abel had to trust that by the time Victoria figured it out, Abel would have done enough.
In between the main road and Abel's home lay a 1963 Ford, seafoam green paint faded to light gray. Skid marks followed up from the main road, straight twin lines that curved into a half circles, pebbles pushed aside from around the tires. The car lay horizontally in the middle of the dirt path. The rusted, faded, light gray metal bodywork of the driver's side door was thrown open, so that anyone walking up from the main road could look in and see the worn leather seats, the dusty dashboard. Crumpled Burger King wrappers formed a bed under the driver's seat, old cups, half-filled and crusted with age made their home in the spaces left over. The doors to the back seats were stuck, but the boot prints on the driver's seat explained the flyers in the back spilling forth from the black Jansport backpack.
If one made it onto the path from the main road, past the Ford and the scattered pebbles, the fence pieces, and the cooing birds in the trees, one came to the front door. Simple stone steps led to the off-White front door, its hinges and broken doorbell were copper red, and whenever anyone knocked on the door it creaked its protest. If Abel was home, she'd open the door in her checkered apron to send, whoever it was, away. Those who rang the bell never saw the house. But the few who used the proper door, always got an invitation.
So, it was, no surprise that on a cool day in October, when Santi and her younger brother Jimmy, stepped hand in hand through the rusted passenger's side door of a retired seafoam green 1963 Ford, Abel let them in.
Abel never changed her name when she registered, though the uniformed cop and registration officer had both told her she could. She'd seen no point. Let the list checkers and the fancy White magic wielders be uncomfortable. After all, the longer and closer they looked at her, the less they would look at her family.
Abel had known she could do magic for as long as she could remember, and she had known the danger that came with it for just as long. Long before her mother gave up the warm fields of Cuautla for the irritating buzz New York. Before the settling warmth and quiet of her home had turned into a swarm of angry New Yorkers pushing their way through morning traffic.
They'd lived in New York City for a while, where the buzzing of wasted magic was harshest and loudest. New York City, with its blend of different kinds of magic, could not fully hide the deadness at its center. It had once been the home of a great wave of magicians, who had honed and shaped the magic to a malleable hum. Abel's magic had sensed that kinship, so she'd tried, at the beginning, to overlook the rest for that piece of home.
With the registration though, and with Beto and some of the other little ones showing signs of magic, Abel's mother had decided that upstate New York would be safer. Somewhere where the buzz became a hum, and Abel was free to flex her gift. She'd blossomed, under her mother's careful eye, and her father's hard work. They'd build the fence first, unpolished wooden slats standing eight feet high all the way around their house. Abel had been able to work small magic to help her father, just an adjustment of light or a quick snap of her fingers to help her father see better in the dark for a few hours.
She had been registered as a light manipulator, with barely any gifts to show for. But even controlling what she could do, so that no one suspected, Abel was able to live freely. Her brothers had been kept away, their own small spells performed under the cover of night, crouched low by the wooden fence surrounding their home. Abel, standing watch by the fence door, ready with a story and a charming smile if any of the neighbors had happened to be awake at one in the morning.
Beto, her youngest brother, had shown most aptitude for magic, though his own skills lay in flames. He could light a match without a thought, a snap of his fingers and they were warm during the winter. Beto, with his dark brown skin and his black hair, was Abel's exact match, freckle for freckle, down to the shape of their mouths. Their only difference lay in the color of their skin. Abel, pale enough to blend in with the crowds that gathered at the mandatory, yearly magic-wielders' meeting, sponsored by the United States government. Beto, darker than any of them, and their brother Carlos, right in between the two. They'd all learned to keep to their family, to gaze, awed at the small displays of magic around them, to pretend like they hadn't moved past simple spells almost as quickly as they'd moved past formula.
It had gone that way for some time, up until Abel's mother had gotten caught lighting a candle on a small White child's birthday cake. The mother had seen and reported Abel's mother to the nearest registration officer, under suspicions that there was an unregistered magic user hanging around the suburban neighborhoods. It hadn't mattered that Abel's mother had a registration card from Cuautla, or that she had three kids at home. Abel had been barely eighteen and that had been enough for their mother to be taken into custody.
Abel, Beto, and Carlos hadn't heard from their mother after that. After all, being an unregistered magic user meant the death penalty. But, that, Abel knew, was not the kind of story she should start with. Not when The-One-Who-Would-Set-Them-Free had just stepped through the door of her old 1963 Ford.
Abel hadn't cut her hair since her mother was taken away by men in blue jackets, with the words "Force for Recon Of Supernatural Tensions" stitched in white across their backs. The Frosties were still around, driving nondescript black vans, ready at a moment's notice to pull over anyone suspected of being unregistered. Abel had been pulled over many times, but Abel never left her home without her registration card, and her brothers and their kids had never been mistaken for magic users. It was, after all, common knowledge that people from poorer countries were light on magic, and the darker the skin, the more muted the magic.
She kept her hair long because her mother had done so, because fashion trends among magic users in the US was for short, practical styles. Abel preferred her long black hair in one braid, her white hairs in between like small streaks of protest against the dye ads along Main street. If it was an especially important day, Abel shaved twice in one day, even if meant redoing her makeup. And that day, in October, it was a particularly important day.
"We need your help," the girl said.
She stood hand in hand with her brother, her cheek highlighter shimmering in the afternoon sun. Her eyes gazed from left to right and back, resting for a moment on Abel's front windows and the thick curtains. The girl was tall and thin like carizo, with scared sunken eyes and bags that looked like bruises under her skin. She and her brother had the same straight noses, larger at the bottom, but all the more charming for it. But where she was pale, her brother was dark, and though she had brown hair too, hers hinted at the dark blonde it would become in the summer. Her magic, too, was different from her brother's, his a hum Abel recognized, and her's a fuzzling buzz.
"You walked through the right door," Abel said.
The little boy holding his sister's hand looked up through his dark brown bangs. "I saw you in a dream," he said.
"You're a vidente," Abel said. "A seer."
"And you're an illusionist," the girl said.
When Abel looked at her, there was steel in her eyes as she stepped forward to block her brother. Her eyes were back on the curtains in the front window.
"A good one," she said.
Abel laughed. "Yes," she said. "Perhaps, I am."
"I can see the steel on your windows," she said. "And Jimmy saw your car door in a dream. Once we knew that, it was easy to find you. Every glamour has an edge to it, if you know where to look."
The problem, Abel knew, was that she was a strong illusionist, almost the best, which meant that no one should have been able to see through the broken down Ford and the broken fence pieces. That this girl could see it and that she came with a seer, meant that she was powerful. That she came on a cool day in October as the sun began to set, and that her magic was neither a buzz, nor a hum, meant that this was who Abel was waiting for.
"What's your name?" Abel asked. "And why are you here?"
The girl blinked back tears as her eyes landed on her brother. She had fading acne scars on her forehead, and that, plus the way her mouth pulled down at the corner, made her younger than she probably was. Her brother, though, had smooth skin and baby fat on his cheeks. He was half his sister's height, but when he looked at Abel, the steel in his eyes was the same.
"Victoria needs your help," he said.
"Victoria and Jimmy," Abel said. "There are stories about you. About this moment. One of you is meant for great things."
Victoria glanced at her brother, her fizzling magic grating against Abel's.
"He's only ten," she said.
But Jimmy, Abel knew, understood. Abel could sense it, their magics familiar with each other, soothing hums that reminded Abel of her family in Cuautla.
One of these children before Abel was meant to change the world. The other was meant to die. The-One-Who-Would-Set-Them-Free and a protector. Abel's part here was to provide quiet and comfort while they figured out who was who. She was to create this space that housed her own family, broken on the outside, but thriving on the inside.
"No one will find you here," Abel said. "I cast an excellent glamour."
Victoria and her brother looked at each other as Abel moved away from her front door. She let them see dusty electronics that hid the glimmering countertops and the dirty dishes past the front that hid Carlos's stack of healing draughts.
"We'll be safe here," Jimmy said, pulling his sister forward. "I trust her."
Victoria exhaled, and it was like the years fell off her. They were both children, Abel realized, both young and impossible old with the knowledge of what was to come. Jimmy knew it, just as Abel had known all her life that this day would come. Victoria had yet to know the secrets of her life, but Abel had to trust that by the time Victoria figured it out, Abel would have done enough.
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