The Hut of Chicken Bone, Afternoon of April 11th

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Nathan of the FoS
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The Hut of Chicken Bone, Afternoon of April 11th

Post by Nathan of the FoS »

Somewhere someone is singing in a low, cracked voice, the same syllables over and over, seven up, five down, and a light is flickering over closed eyes; the singing is become nearer and more distinct, it is almost familiar, and then it ceases and the voice speaks.

"Levantez-vous!"*

She sits up, aware (she could not tell you how) that this is all wrong. She should not be here (she could not say where she should be), she should not be in the company of this elderly, dark-skinned man (she could not tell you who should be at her bedside), she should not be wearing only a simple cotton shift (she could not tell you what manner of dress she is accustomed to).

Everything is wrong, and yet...surely she knows this place, this man? "Ah, Madame Trouve'," the old man says, in his deep baritone. "Bienvenue. Avons une affaire inacheve, ne c'est pas?"**

*Get up!
**Ah, Madame Trouve. Welcome. We have unfinished business, isn't that so?
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Post by Pamela »

Goose-bumps cover her pale arms and she shivers, then suddenly begins to cough. Unknown care had been directed to her corpse, but the taste of the swamp is still in her throat, brackish green.

She is disoriented but the first question that crosses her mind is “Where am I?” “Who” is dangerous, too frightening; her mind evades it as it tries to come to grip with her concrete surroundings.

She hears the old man’s words, can easily decipher them, but they sound wrong and inappropriate. Bienvenue? Have I just arrived here? Her eyes taken in the circle and altars; the crudely joined floor and rice curtains; the shelf of skulls. Why would I come here?

Drunk, drugged, tired… All good reasons for her foggy thoughts of course but sick resonates best. Body and mind so heavy- she latches on to this.

Her reluctant gaze finally turns back to the old man. She can’t quite recall his name or where she last saw him but he arouses a wide array of emotions. “Bonjour, monsieur,” Mme Trouvé begins and halts, self-conscious about her pronunciation. “Je m’excuse mais…quelle affaire?” She shrugs her shoulders a bit helplessly.

*Hello sir. I'm sorry but what business?
His only real danger is if stupidity is contagious and lethal. In which case, we’re all dead…-Gertrude
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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

"Vous ne s'en souviens pas?" the old man replies, looking at her sharply. "Mais..."*

Scowling (not at her, but at this unexpected difficulty) he drums his fingers against his thigh for a moment, then says "Vous me excusez, madame, je dois voir..."**

Without really waiting for the requested permission he takes her head in his hands and begins a careful investigation of her temples and the back of her neck, exclaiming a guttural curse she doesn't recognize as he sees something there. "Eh bon," he mutters. "Je vois. Madame, que s'en souviens vous? S'en souviens vous de me?"***



*You don't remember? But...
**Excuse me, madame, I need to see...
***Well. I see. Madame, what do you remember? Do you remember me?
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Post by Pamela »

She shakes her head slowly at his first question, hesitating, as if the negation might trigger a rebuttal in her memory. The fog within her mind doesn’t stir. She watches him intently as he pauses, waiting for an explanation, an insight into the situation.

She barely has time to wonder what he must see before his hands gently take hold of her head. She waits for him to give her some diagnosis. She feels no pain or tenderness, and so is worried at her sudden exclamation. Her hands quickly rise to explore the areas that had sparked the outburst; she can feel no heat or swelling; no scars or blood.

Relieved, Mme Trouvé smiles and eagerly tries to address his questions. “I remember you…” Her smile then fades into bewildered embarrassment as she tries to recall when or how. She looks around the tree house again. Nothing in this room is familiar except for the old man.

She casts her nets wider into her memories, and a brief look of wonder and beatific smile cross her face. “I remember the water. It was so beautiful…”

“The swamp,” she continues thoughtfully, as she peeks at her memory’s surroundings. Impressions slip into her mind, devoid of emotion or context. She offers them up like pieces of a puzzle they are trying to assemble.“Voices- more than one." She scowls as she tries to pin them down, but they float out of reach. "A street- rows of buildings. Not busy- too late to be. Too dark to see well…My house? I go in…”

She is silent, waiting for something else to emerge, then shrugs again. “That is all. Monsieur-“ she hesitates at the rush of questions in her mind. She settles for one that may answer most at once. “Why am I here?”
His only real danger is if stupidity is contagious and lethal. In which case, we’re all dead…-Gertrude
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Re: The Hut of Chicken Bone, Afternoon of April 11th

Post by Joël of the FoS »

Nathan of the FoS wrote:"Levantez-vous!
Nathan of the FoS wrote:que s'en souviens vous? S'en souviens vous de me?"
:roll: :wink:
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Re: The Hut of Chicken Bone, Afternoon of April 11th

Post by Nathan of the FoS »

Joël of the FoS wrote::roll: :wink:
*shrug* :lol:
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Re: The Hut of Chicken Bone, Afternoon of April 11th

Post by Joël of the FoS »

Nathan of the FoS wrote:
Joël of the FoS wrote::roll: :wink:
*shrug* :lol:
And that's how my previous post was meant to be taken :)

As I already wrote you, it gives some genuine kind of creole feel to Souragne. But in those two specific quotes, you outdid yourself :P

Sorry for the OCC!

Joël
(who makes many English mistakes)
"A full set of (game) rules is so massively complicated that the only time they were all bound together in a single volume, they underwent gravitational collapse and became a black hole" (Adams)
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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

Pamela wrote:She settles for one that may answer most at once. “Why am I here?”
"Madame, she tell m'seigneur, an' he tell me, I go out and find you," the man says, switching languages with her but speaking with an accent that rings oddly on her ears. "But if you remem' nothing...firs' we mus' fix dis, yes? You remem' where dis house is you go to?"
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Post by Pamela »

Mme Trouvé opened her mouth, able to see the entrance of the house once more. She then closed it, as she tried to recall in vain the name of the street, let alone the contents of her …. Home? She nodded instead and reluctantly said, “I’d know it if I saw it…”

Her stomach began to knot as she was forced anew to consider how little she was able to remember, but she tried to divert her anxiety once more by the hint of allies. “Madame who? Who is m’seigneur?” And why am I in your hut and not his home, she wondered.

She looked around the room once more, and began to listen more carefully to her surroundings. There were none of the noises of human traffic or interaction. She was able to make out bird calls and the sound of the wind in the leaves. She was isolated, but not sealed up in some large edifice. “We’re not in town, are we?”
His only real danger is if stupidity is contagious and lethal. In which case, we’re all dead…-Gertrude
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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

The elderly man gives Mme. Trouve a considering look, then says, "De name has power, no? You will meet dem 'gain soon enough, I think. No, we are not in de town. We are at my house."

Offering a hand to the woman sitting on the low couch--no, she realizes with a prickle of fear, it is no couch, nor a bed, but a long, low altar--he helps her stand and walk to a shuttered window, which he throws open to reveal the cypresses and willows of the Maison d'Sablet, from a vantage perhaps twenty feet above the surface of the swamp. "But perhaps we go to de town?" he says. "I am sure you have de friends dere; perhaps you visit dis house you remember, an' more come to you?"
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Post by Pamela »

Mme Trouvé considered the odd phrase; circumstances were certainly proving the truth of that particular cliché. Unconsciously she clung to the hope that names would be like keys- opening up the doors that were presently sealed in her memory.

Taking his hand, she rose to her feet. Again, she began to examine her sensations- there was no hint of pain or unusual weakness; no numbness. The sight of the altar sent a shiver down her spine as an idea darted like a fork of lightning through her mind, leaving no trace in its passing.

Instead she quickly turned away, glad to follow the old man to the window. She gasped at the sight, and placed one hand carefully for support against the pane as she examined her surroundings. A treehouse, she thought in amazement, staring at the still waters which separated the clusters of trees. How did I get here? Mme Trouvé wondered, sorry that she had no recollection of the imagined tranquil journey.

She turned at his question, then smiled at the possibility. “Could we?” she asked hopefully. “Is madame among these friends?” She then hesitated, as she wondered why none of these friends had come themselves, but depended on this agent with some unspecified business. “Are they in danger?”

Am I in danger?
His only real danger is if stupidity is contagious and lethal. In which case, we’re all dead…-Gertrude
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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

The old man smiles broadly at Mme. Trouve's first two questions. "Madame, you migh' say, she be waiting for us, yes. I don' know when an' where we see her nex'. But, yes, I t'ink dat is bes'. I take you to de town an' we look for your friends."

He leaves the last question unanswered, instead turning away and clapping his hands sharply. "Marie! Une robe pour la madame!" A moment later a rather pretty but formidably blank-faced young woman emerges from behind a rice curtain with a rather worn, but very clean, calico dress in a small blue checkerboard pattern.

"Marie, she he'p you with the dress, madame," the old man says. "Marie, aide la madame avec le robe." The young woman doesn't even nod in acknowledgement, simply stepping forward, the dress in her outstretched hands; the old man steps through the rice curtain to another "room" while Mme. Trouve gets dressed.
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Post by Pamela »

She beams at the old man’s positive reaction and the encouraging words, imagining a warm reception without any clear images of the actual participants. She is slightly wary when he avoids the topic but has no time to pursue it as Marie approaches with the dress.

Her smile falters as it is not returned; she doesn’t sense any hostility or snubbing and this somehow seems more worrying. Perhaps she is simple, she rationalises to herself but is still unnerved despite herself, especially when she touches Marie’s unresisting cold hands to gently take the dress from her.

She hopes despite his wording that it is her own dress and examines the material with some vague hope of recollection. The clean scent of the material makes it clear that it has not been recently worn. “Merci,” she says dispiritedly, as she raises it over her head and slips it on. The girl moves forward and begins to button up the dress mechanically before Mme Trouvé has wriggled to get the material properly over her shoulders and arms. They may have washed it while I was…sick…

How long have I been here?


The dress is not a perfect fit, but she cannot recall if secondhand clothing wasn’t her lot in life. The colour appeals however, and she pushes her long hair over her shoulders and docilely waits for the girl to finish.

A thought crosses her mind and she leans forward to ask Marie, “Mademoiselle, qu’est-ce que le nom de l’homme?”

* What is the man's name?
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Post by Nathan of the FoS »

Marie does not reply; finishing with the buttons, she lets her hands fall to her sides, pauses, and bobs a curtsy, then steps away, her small feet all but silent on the wooden floor. As she departs through the rice curtain the old gentleman enters again, having put on a clean white shirt and an ancient and rather battered straw hat.

"So, madame, we go," he says. "Please, you follow me, de pirogue she be below." So saying, he gestures to the stairs which circle the tree-trunk to the ground and takes a few steps down himself, looking up to see how Mme. Trouve' is managing the steps.
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Post by Pamela »

Mme Trouvé bobs in mute reply as the mysterious girl disappears, then pliantly replies, “Yes, m’sieur,” to the old man’s directions, unconsciously slipping into a faint replica of his accent.

Her curiosity at the staircase segues into delight as she sees the steps windowing around the massive trunk, out of sight. Her bare feet step carefully on to the wood; her balance is fine and she doesn’t suffer from acrophobia. She sneaks a peek at her soles, and then her palms; walking barefoot and doing manual labour do not seem to have been her lot in life, judging from the softness and lack of calluses.

Her mind however recoils from this line of thought and she turns her attention anew to her unusual surroundings, admiring the panoramic descent as she winds her way down. She releases her hold on the staircase, preferring to brush the bark and moss. There is no sunlight to pour between the gaps of heavy foliage; the murky brown water still reflects the towering trees, and is interspersed by the emerging green branches of plants and patches of algae.

The memory of her own journey by water suddenly fills her, and she closes her eyes, recalling the serene presence which had once touched upon her. She grins, promising herself, I will get that back. Her gaze focuses on the water for the rest of the way down, hoping that it will trigger it anew.

She had not recognised the term “pirogue” but she sees that it is another name for the narrow canoe. She tentatively approaches it, wondering if this craft had originally carried her; again, a frustrating, gnawing absence answers her.

“Do I get in first?” she asks then suddenly blurts out, “M’sieur, what is your name?” She blushes, embarrassed but also hoping that any answers she can finagle out of this cagy old man might help.
His only real danger is if stupidity is contagious and lethal. In which case, we’re all dead…-Gertrude
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