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By the end, I was nodding along and willing to launch a crusade against all weak, overbred flocks, prone to scours and fly-strike, crowding out the honest sheep of the world. “Maggots!” he’d said, shaking his finger at me. “Maggots ’n piss in t’ flaps o’ they hides!” I think of him often.
I love this narrator. Endeared immediately.
My ancestors roamed Europe, picking fights and having the tar beaten out of them by virtually every other people they ran across.
Romani perhaps (or this world's equivalent)
My tinnitus chose that moment to strike, a high-pitched whine ringing through my ears and drowning out even the soft lapping of the tarn. I stopped and waited for it to pass. It’s not dangerous, but sometimes my balance becomes a trifle questionable, and I had no desire to stumble into the lake.
They're gonna stumble into the lake
And then there’s ka and kan. I mentioned that we were a fierce warrior people, right? Even though we were bad at it? But we were proud of our warriors. Someone had to be, I guess, and this recognition extends to the linguistic fact that when you’re a warrior, you get to use ka and kan instead of ta and tan. You show up to basic training and they hand you a sword and a new set of pronouns. (It’s extremely rude to address a soldier as ta. It won’t get you labeled as a pervert, but it might get you punched in the mouth.)
This is fucking amazing worldbuilding
“I would have myself, but I’m a dismal shot.” I smiled. “Well, I am terrible at sewing people up after they’ve been shot, so I suppose it all works out.” I pushed away from the table and went to go see what equipment I had to work with.
I want to see them kiss
“Unless it is urgent, officer, I will be with you in a few moments,” she called. “The paint is wet and I do not wish it to dry before I have finished this study.” “Please, take your time,” I said. “There is nothing so urgent that I would interrupt your painting.” She gave a short, occupied nod and bent over her watercolors.
I wanna see them kiss too
“I’m well enough. You should see my niece Beatrix. Twice the talent, and an artist’s eye. And a very gratifying interest in mycology.”
Beatrix Potter! Author of Peter Rabbit!!!
“And where was it going?” I asked. “Don’t know,” said the son. “Got to the lake and fell in. Couldn’t seem to figure out how to swim. Just laid down on the bottom and drowned in three inches of water.”
The lake is parasitic/carnivorous?
How often does anyone really think of the fine hair on a woman’s arms? It hardly ever comes up. I suppose women who have particularly thick or dark hair there may find it troubling, but I was decades removed from such concerns and my sisters certainly never spoke of it. And on very old people, it seems like the hair simply goes away. Madeline’s was bright white, the color of the hair on her head, with the same drifting, floating quality. Her skin looked almost pink by comparison. My hand seemed impossibly tan and the white filaments swirled over it like some kind of pale water weed.
IT'S FUNGIIIII EW
“You were sleepwalking.” “Was I?” She looked around. “I … yes, of course, I must have been dreaming.”
For-sure mind control fungus
The lights seemed to outline multiple flat, irregular sheets standing on edge in the water.
Or maybe futuristic alien stuff?? That would be amazing
I barely dared to touch the skin, but I could feel the fine, dead white hair tickling against my palm. “One,” she said. “Two … thhhhreee…’our…’ive … sixsss…” She paused as if thinking. “Se’en … eight … nnnine … te-uhn.” She looked at me. “Gooood?”
IT'S GAINING SENTIENCE
“No Maddy.” She was clearly trying to enunciate, even though the “M” came out more like “Uh-addy.” She banged her wrist against her sternum and I winced, expecting even that light pressure to leave bruises. “No?” What on earth was she dreaming about? Another flailing nod. “One,” she said. “Maddy one. Meee one. Maddy … Meee … two.”
PARASITIC SENTIENT FUNGUSSSS
“I have.” He glared at his cup of tea. “Not surprising in a severe illness. Now ask me how she still has any hair left to shed.” I paused with my tea halfway to my lips. “I don’t know,” he said, answering the question anyway. “No goddamn idea. If it’s falling out like that, it shouldn’t be regrowing, but it is.” “Coming in stark white, too,” I said.
BC IT'S NOT HAIRRR IT'S FUNGUS GROWIN FROM HER FUCKIN BRAINNNN
“What do you know about hares?” I asked. He blinked at me. “Come again?” “Hares. The animal. Long ears. Hops around. Boxes in springtime.” “You mean rabbits?” Christ save me from Americans.
“No, you blithering idiot,” I growled, shaking his hand off. Damnable English language—more words than anybody can be expected to keep track of, and then they use the same one for about three different things.
“She’s not in the crypt. The slab is empty. We cannot habeas the corpus.
Pls that's so funny
(We did not run. If we ran then we would have to admit there was something to run from. If we ran, then the small child that lives in every soldier’s heart knew that the monsters could get us. So we did not run, but it was a near thing.)
Madeline had said that the tarn meant no harm. Probably neither did rabies. We could not risk humanity on the continued goodwill of an infant monster that could puppet the dead.
