The flame is gone
Brae's meteorite
The night around me continued on, ignorant of emotions and stupidity. Insects twitched and chittered, clouds passed overhead, a sporadic moon emerging to mock the boy below.
Another entry from Renn’s diary has been translated. This one took time. Renn had renumbered several pages and so to restore what I hope is the correct order took a not insignificant amount of messy, messy work1.
If you’re new, dear reader, then this is my novella, Brae’s meteorite. Each entry is from Renn, wherein he recounts his bumbling journey with Brae and reveals—I hope!—an ever-unfolding mystery. It’s a big ask for you to jump in, but I hope you do.
I’m going to do something new here, too. I’m attaching all previous entries as a single PDF2. If you are new, or you’d just like a re-read without having to go through the journey of clicking posts (the Table of Contents hopefully makes life somewhat easier), then maybe this is worthwhile. Do let me know.
So with that, I give you: Brae’s meteorite, entry VI.
Feshen, 16-on-Rye, 568
I spent my teenage years finding the ways and courage to talk to Brae, doing so with all the pace of a glacier and the charm of a fool.
Where once I was ignored, awkward nods began to emerge. From wry smiles I caught flashes of eye contact, the first glimpses of those wonderful creases. And from a series of hellos there eventually came a full conversation one cold morning. A loose definition of conversation, perhaps—I was in her way and could I please move aside—but it was conversation enough for young Renn. It opened something within. Each day thereafter carried the excitement and promise of snatching another increment of time, another moment, another anything with her. With Brae.
I was in love. Utterly lost.
In some impossible way, I still am.
I thought of no one else during those years. Well, perhaps a little of Havish’s daughter Tiana. And Rica, beautiful Rica. And the smith’s twins Mayen and Iyla. Somehow, Toör maintained a steady supply of pretty girls. You have the forest to thank for that, my father once said as Rica bent a cute curtsy in our direction, a small inferno erupting across my cheeks that her smile only fuelled further. Father meant the deepwood, the great mass of trees that fringe Toör’s southwestern border. Love the forest and it will love you back, keep you fed and put girls in your heart. I never quite understood what he meant by that, not then. Of course, he knew for whom my heart beat, and though it made sense for him to send me to Kareth with Brae as guide, deep down I’m certain some part of him had simply grown tired of my foolish inaction.
Of Brae’s own father, I knew nothing. Nearly nothing. He’d abandoned her; he was gone. These were facts mother once told me as she picked apples from our orchard, all whilst I nursed the latent sting of a glove-slapped cheek, the result of a remark that was anything but witty.
With no father, Brae was an orphan. Her mother had died during childbirth, years before I was born.
So I never asked of her father and Brae never spoke of him. Except for one time. On a night I remember well.
It was evening and I had gone in wishful search of Brae. I didn’t have to look far. She was as I hoped, alone at a table in The Owl, her common resting place between days of ranging. By then I needed no real ale of confidence, though I took swift care of a full tankard at the bar. To be safe.
As I made to approach, another man was doing the same. It was Kerrick, a farmer from the fields just north. He was drunk, one hand grasping a jug of mead. He swayed his way towards Brae like he was caught in some unseen wind. Jealousy welled within my stomach as he neared her.
Tucked into the far corner, Brae was an island of copper in a sea of muddy brown. She seemed oblivious to Kerrick’s advance, the table’s sole candle flickering light against a book held open in her hands.
As I faltered, Kerrick slumped onto the stool next to her. She closed the book in a delicate, deliberate action. Perhaps Kerrick had done me a favour—I would become the welcome visitor. I edged my way in their direction, sipping at the second tankard I realised I now held. Brae looked at Kerrick, saying nothing, drumming her fingers on the book. It was tattered and old, pages half-torn from its spine.
“S’nay, too shweht for ush, f’al Brae.” That Kerrick managed to finish his mumbled nonsense with her actual name was nothing short of miracle. I shook my head, a silent vow to never get so drunk, knowing full well it was a waste and that I'd break it within a week. (I did.)
Kerrick made to reach for Brae’s hair, but he slipped and fell forward, banging his forehead on his jug of mead.
“Wassit?” Kerrick stammered, rubbing his head and staring at the jug.
I remained in place, watching. Though my pangs simmered, I wished him gone.
“Do you see this flame?” Brae held Kerrick’s gaze before looking to the candle on the table. The wick was long, the candle fat. The flame licked and danced. She looked back up. “The flame is you, drunkard.”
Kerrick’s eyes screwed up within their sockets. “Fleghm?”
“If you like.” Brae shrugged. By now I was enjoying this. “Watch again,” she said, shifting her eyes back to the table. Kerrick’s eyes somehow followed.
With a swift blow, Brae snuffed out the candle. Wisps of smoke snaked their way towards the ceiling.
“Flame is gone,” Brae said, her words cutting through the room’s clamour. “Flame is gone. You are gone.”
But even this explanation seemed lost on Kerrick. He continued to squint. “Fleghm gone?” he managed, confused.
By now, several people had turned to look. I was covering my smirks with the ale at my lips
“Let me make it easier for you to understand,” Brae added. Then she kicked her boot into Kerrick’s stool. It rocked back, sending him clattering to the floor, his legs flying up and hitting the underside of the table, knocking the jug. It fell and smashed, mead seeping between the boards.
Conversation halted. Heads turned. Then, as though necessary to fill the void of silence, laughter erupted. Kerrick seemed oblivious, the force of the impact having knocked him clean from consciousness.
Brae stood, ignoring cheers and applause, and made to leave. On her way out, she tossed a coin at Alwick. “For the mess,” she said. Alwick caught and pocketed the coin in one nimble motion, nodding to Brae as she left. Surely Kerrick should pay, I thought, before realising that Brae was already at the door and leaving, slipping away. But then I saw something, my perfect guarantee: in her haste, Brae had forgotten her book.
I grabbed it, then bolted after her, pushing my way through the crowd and stepping over Kerrick still splayed on the floor.
Outside, I saw Brae making her way towards her home, her every movement sylphlike in the twilight.
“Brae! Wait.” I ran, slowing to a jog as I neared her.
She stopped, huffing as she turned.
“What?” Her eyes warmed as she saw me, the hint of a crease. “Oh. Renn. I’m sorry if you saw that.”
“With Kerrick?” I smiled. “Don’t apologise. I loved it. I loved you.” I paused, incredulous to my own words. “Doing it, I mean. The kicking. I loved the kicking.” In my mind, I assembled a series of signposts that read Idiot. I proffered the book. “You forgot this.”
She put her hands to her mouth, then snatched it from me. “I left it?” She held the book close to her chest, shaking her head. “I left it. Thank you, Renn.”
I shrugged. Behind, I heard the door of The Owl open, people spilling out and full of jeer and all the rowdiness of ale. I made a silent prayer that none would be walking our way, and, as though sensing this, Brae flicked her head and turned to start walking. I took this as a definite sign to follow.
We walked, Brae holding the book tight to her chest. I tried to relish this little walk, grasping at each moment, the way the night air tasted, the comforting warmth of the harvest season, the musky scent of the stables, the very real sensation of Brae beside me.
“What is it?” I ventured, worried that if I didn’t say anything at all then we would reach the inevitable fork where I would turn left and Brae right, and we would part without ever having said a word. “Your book.”
Brae’s pace slowed. She looked to me, then began chewing her lip.
“It was my father’s,” she managed, her voice coarse.
“He gave it to you?”
Brae held the book in front of her, inspecting it. It was thick, old and well read, the pages curled at the corners. She turned it over, leafed through it—I caught glimpse of drawings, maps, constellations and phases of the moon, sketches of plants—before clutching it back against her chest.
“No,” she said. “I found it. Only recently. He had hidden it. Though I think—” Brae bit her lip again, this time to stop her words. I found it just as wonderful as the creases in her eyes.
I nodded, despite the uncertainty as to what Brae had intended to say, then scratched behind my ear, unsure of what to do with my hands. “What is it about?” I asked in whisper.
Brae came to a stop, inspecting my face, as though it held some answer. I sensed words on her lips, and for a long time she said nothing. “I’m still working that out,” she managed finally, shaking her head.
Brae started walking again, looking ahead along the darkened path.
And then I spoke, emitting four stupid words.
“Did he leave because—”
—and that was when Brae turned and glared stop with her eyes. A look that signalled a sure end to our friendship if I were to continue. So I did stop, but so in turn did our time, ruined by my words.
“I have to go,” she said, turning, making her way towards the fork where I saw her go in the direction of her house. Soon she was swallowed up by the full dark.
I kicked the ground, sending up a small and pathetic plume of dirt. I kicked it again, a little harder this time, hurting my foot. Then I slapped myself for good measure, all before slumping to the ground.
The night around me continued on, ignorant of emotions and stupidity. Insects twitched and chittered, clouds passed overhead, a sporadic moon emerging to mock the boy below. Voices drifted through the air, but it was a long time before anyone came by, and by then I had picked myself up and trudged my way home.
Had I asked something else, perhaps our walk together would have lasted that bit longer. Perhaps the fork would have been time, branching off in another direction, setting course for a different future.
Had I simply asked “What was your father’s name?” then I would have received an answer. A name. One that would be spoken again, all those years later upon that oracle-lit hill. Not by Brae, but by another.
That name.
Alistair.
All of which is to say that this thing went through rounds and rounds of edits and rewrites. Sentences litter my floor. Phrases lie cut in half, lifeless word-corpses. A whole paragraph burns in the fiery furnace of adverb hell. And all whilst Renn sits there, scowling at my ineptitude.
I was going to do an .epub file, too, but I seem to be failing at that. I also haven’t spent long on the formatting, sorry. So it’ll be a next time, or I’ll come back and update this. You can email a PDF to a Kindle, but I’m not sure how well the conversion will work.
Glad to see Brae's bit of warmth toward Renn, was starting to think it was an utterly hopeless case and just completely embarrassing for him (he needs no help in that department🤣) - AND at last we start to suspect where Brae's secrets originated... Well done Nathan!
"Perhaps Kerrick had done me a favour—I would become the welcome visitor. I edged my way in their direction, sipping at the second tankard I realised I now held."
Lots to chuckle about in this marvellous continuation of Brae's Meteorite. That passage above is proof! So much said in so few words. Excellent, Nathan, excellent. Renn may call himself a fool but he is not, I suspect. The reveal of the name at the end leaves us hanging, of course! Cliffhanger is well-placed. I also like the idea of providing the PDF, very helpful and an easy option for new readers. I did not count the adverbs because I was too distracted by the tankards! ;)