Post by JACKDAW on Jul 23, 2015 21:00:10 GMT -5
Maiana Resh rapped the wooden spoon against the cast iron pot that stood, bubbling, on her stove. Carrots, celery, parsley, corkscrewed pasta, and diced tomatoes swam around in her homemade vegetable stock, swirling lines of steam rising, brushing against her face, filling her kitchen with the scent of fresh soup. She sighed and tapped the spoon again, watching as a tendril of faded light wiggled its way out of the sanded utensil and dropped into the pot. A second, then a third tap, the colours sifting, pearlescent hues, but each streak noticeably different.
Some warmth, good cheer, and the tiniest dash of luck. The last was pure white and blazed a little when Maiana added it. Not too much–her food had the reputation of being magical, but the danger came from people believing it.
She mixed the colours in slowly, free hand bouncing on the counter as she tapped out a rhythm. Magic for the mute, made in patterns and noises, short staccatos (nails against wood) mixed with longer thumps (palm against counter). Created without words, because words were a crutch (she’d learned this early, born into a world filled with syllables that weren’t hers) and the true power was in intent. Intent, meaning, faith.
The people who ate her soup believed a little, because they needed the hope, so the magic worked for them. It did less for the scornful, but the only ones who mocked her didn’t need her help anyways, so Maiana ignored their pettiness.
The swirls were shining even more now, brilliant against the faded brown-green-orange of the soup. White-light luck, steady-burning orange warmth, sunshine-yellow joy. They dodged each other for a bit, resisting the blending magic that Maiana was pressing against them. They weren’t exactly antitheses to each other, but magic tended to stand proudly, freely, showing stubborn independence that Maiana usually only saw in cats and adolescents.
She sighed, slapped the counter loudly, and the swirls jumped before diving back into each other, their colours bleeding together until they disappeared into the soup.
There, that was better.
The soup, now two shades brighter, sloshed in the pot as Maiana began pouring it into wide Tupperware containers. All handlessly, of course, directing the pot with minute movements of her fingers. The steam eddied in the humid kitchen air, subtly coloured (a defiant, visibly divided, mixture of white, orange and yellow) and curling into patterns that may have been words, or runes, or simply pictures. Shapes–moving, running. Maiana thought she could hear children laughing.
She sighed, brushing a hand through the steam and dispelling it.
Some warmth, good cheer, and the tiniest dash of luck. The last was pure white and blazed a little when Maiana added it. Not too much–her food had the reputation of being magical, but the danger came from people believing it.
She mixed the colours in slowly, free hand bouncing on the counter as she tapped out a rhythm. Magic for the mute, made in patterns and noises, short staccatos (nails against wood) mixed with longer thumps (palm against counter). Created without words, because words were a crutch (she’d learned this early, born into a world filled with syllables that weren’t hers) and the true power was in intent. Intent, meaning, faith.
The people who ate her soup believed a little, because they needed the hope, so the magic worked for them. It did less for the scornful, but the only ones who mocked her didn’t need her help anyways, so Maiana ignored their pettiness.
The swirls were shining even more now, brilliant against the faded brown-green-orange of the soup. White-light luck, steady-burning orange warmth, sunshine-yellow joy. They dodged each other for a bit, resisting the blending magic that Maiana was pressing against them. They weren’t exactly antitheses to each other, but magic tended to stand proudly, freely, showing stubborn independence that Maiana usually only saw in cats and adolescents.
She sighed, slapped the counter loudly, and the swirls jumped before diving back into each other, their colours bleeding together until they disappeared into the soup.
There, that was better.
The soup, now two shades brighter, sloshed in the pot as Maiana began pouring it into wide Tupperware containers. All handlessly, of course, directing the pot with minute movements of her fingers. The steam eddied in the humid kitchen air, subtly coloured (a defiant, visibly divided, mixture of white, orange and yellow) and curling into patterns that may have been words, or runes, or simply pictures. Shapes–moving, running. Maiana thought she could hear children laughing.
She sighed, brushing a hand through the steam and dispelling it.