The Town Herald

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Newborn

A story by [Chimes]



It wrote by itself, the pencil made from jade with an agate lead in its middle, in neat lines of joined up writing. The words were indecipherable, to most people. There were some beings that could read it but they kept themselves to themselves, rarely venturing out into the light of the day. It was to be expected, the oracles of fate had no need to venture out, they knew everything anyway.

That was before.

It happened one dreary morning, the clouds were grey and the streets were bleak and everything seemed that little bit ... odd. Not that anyone noticed, no, they were too busy ogling over the newborn in number seventy-two and eights, Towerside, Milwalken, the Netherseen. Newborns didn't happen every day. Especially not like this. This child was different. It did not cry.

The Netherseen was not famous for newborns or for a lack of tears, all children cried; it was the natural order of things. A child that did not cry did not belong in the Netherseen. The Netherseen was a dark place, which is why the dreary morning was so out of character, it was lighter than usual. It was not supposed to be light.

The newborn was watched, every movement was noted and analysed, every breath was tested for changes, every noise recorded. It was not any place for a child but that wasn't the worst of it. No. The worst came later, when watching gave no answer.

The Netherian's began to poke and prod and pick at the newborn, testing its reactions, they did things which should never be spoken of and more. Yet, still the child did not cry. It just stared blankly with a question on its face, in its eyes. The looks screamed 'why' at the top of their lungs and then exploded into yet more questions, more worries. None were answered.

The newborn did not cry. Not until that night, it was late, later than any Netharian should be awake. The child lay sleeping, waking up at the twitching of its door. Its eyes moved, glancing at the figure in the shadows, a figure it would always know. Mother.

She glanced down at it, looking at it with no feeling in her cold eyes and with a cruel tongue, she spoke.

"Bye bye, baby. Mummy doesn't want you. You don't belong here."

With her words floating in the air, the first tear slipped down the newborn's cheek.

At the same time, almost as if it knew, the pencil ceased to write. The words drained away. The magic was gone. The oracles, in all their wisdom, did not understand, they could not understand. For the Netherian's do not understand kindness or happiness, or anything good in nature. Now they are left wordless, magic-less. For the sake of a child's tears their future was lost.

It wrote by itself, the pencil made from jade with an agate lead in its middle. Or so they say...



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