the traveller (incomplete)
Sep. 22nd, 2012 04:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sidewaysTitle: The Traveller
Rating: G
Series: His Dark Materials / According to Plan
Wordcount: 1563
Warnings: Totally lacking in accurate knowledge of American colonial history?
Summary: In which Andrew is a perpetual hitchhiker.
Remarks: I recently re-read - in fact just finished re-reading as of this morning - Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy, and it gave me a bee in my bonnet that ended with me turning to my favourite cast of characters for gratuitous crossovers. Not quite completed, but not likely to get any more so. Andrew/Jester is mine; Nigel/Secateur is Quixote's. The dæmons are a kittiwake and an addax.
A soft squawk from his dæmon drew Andrew’s head off his chest, and he leaned forward to squint down the dusty path of the road. Heat-shimmers rose steadily under the urging of the midday sun, making it hard to see more than a few yards ahead, but there was no mistaking what had caught her attention—a small pony-trap was clattering its way towards them, with two horses at the front and a single rider perched at the top, and it was the most welcome sight today had yet to offer.
Andrew took a moment to stretch, loosening tired muscles, and then rolled to his feet easily. A quick pat at his knees brushed off some of the dirt and dried grass before he stepped out of the meagre shadow of his tree. Though it was too far away to see the driver’s expression, he thought he saw the head lift and look in their direction at the movement, and he raised his hand to hail them more clearly.
“Here we go,” he said over his shoulder. “D’you think he does something that doesn’t involve cattle?”
“Don’t ask,” Seiker replied.
When the trap drew closer he realised with sudden surprise that he’d misjudged the set-up; it was a single-drawn cart, simple but sturdy, and the second creature that trotted free as its side was no horse at all. What it was precisely he couldn’t say. More deer-like than anything, but a pale sandy-white save the darker brown wrapped around her muzzle and forehead, and the horns that rose from her head were several feet long and gently twisted.
Her human—because of course she was a dæmon—tugged at the reins and the cart slowed, rattling to a stop just next to where Andrew stood. The broad hat was tilted up as the driver turned his head, and Andrew caught his first glimpse of a young man’s face pulled into an expression of polite inquisitiveness.
“Howdy,” Andrew said, without a hint of irony, grinning up at the driver. Somewhere behind him, Seiker fluffed her feathers.
His attempt at speaking the native dialect earned him a steady stare from eyes so lightly brown they seemed to slide into gold where they caught the sun, but the man made no comment on the effort, just turned and dipped his head towards the long stretch of the road. “You headin’ to town?”
“With great haste,” he said, “though not so great a pace. It’s a very fine afternoon, wouldn’t you say?”
He wasn’t trying to be subtle, and thankfully the other man didn’t seem to mind; he nodded and shifted himself along the narrow seat towards his dæmon to make a space. “Post office is near the centre. You should be able to find your way wherever you’re needin’ from there.”
“Cheers,” Andrew said brightly, and stooped to swing his swag over one shoulder before pulling himself up into the trap. There still wasn’t a lot of room, but he wedged the bag between his knees as he took his place on the seat, and Seiker fluttered up to perch behind him on the backrest, broad gull-feet gripping the painted wood firmly.
As soon as he saw his passengers were settled, the man clicked his tongue and the horse began moving again, with the dæmon clopping steadily alongside. It wasn’t a particularly brisk pace they were setting, but it was enough to get a bit of wind flowing by his face, and Andrew counted it a vast improvement to the past few days of trudging by on foot. All it would take was a properly cooked meal and a bed for the night, and he’d be living in the lap of luxury.
“Where’re you from?” the man said.
“Down south,” he said easily, unoffended; he knew there was no chance of passing as a local.
The phrasing earned him a sceptical sidelong glance, and then the driver snorted. “Yeah, you sound Mejican,” he said in a way that made it clear that Andrew did not.
Andrew just grinned. “Further south than that,” he conceded. As far as he knew Texas had no quarrel with the Austral Empire, but people were likely to think queerly of a fellow who had travelled so far with so little. He leaned out from the bulk of his swag to offer his hand to his new companion. “Andrew Barton. No relation to the poet fella.”
The man juggled the reins into one hand so he could return the gesture; his grip was firm and his fingers rough, and Andrew darkly suspected cattle were involved somehow. “Nigel Albert,” he said, and then, a touch sarcastically, “Some relation.”
“To the poet?” Andrew said.
Nigel raised an eyebrow, genuine surprise on his features. “You ain’t heard of Orion Enterprises?”
“I only wandered up this way about a week ago. Mostly heard a lot of names, few directions, bit of cursing…”
“Huh,” was all Nigel said, and his deer-dæmon flicked her ears.
Andrew’s curiosity was rearing its head, but Seiker snapped her beak next to his ear in a reminder not to go getting them tossed off the cart before they were at least out of sight of the tree; and besides, the man’s surprise said that it wasn’t a mystery that would take long to solve on his own. He slouched down a little further instead, hooking one elbow over the back of the seat. “Don’t suppose you’d know a place a traveller could kip for the night? Nothing too fancy.”
There was a considering pause, presumably as Nigel weighed up ‘not too fancy’ against the scruffy and weatherworn state of Andrew’s attire, and then he tilted his head in agreement. “There’s a little bed’n’breakfast off of Mitchelton St, has a pig on the sign. Friend of mine works there.”
“Sign of the pig,” Andrew repeated. “Do they specialise in pork?”
Nigel just snorted again, but there was a hint of amusement to the sound. “You could say it’s a representation of the ownership.”
He could think of at least two things that might mean, and both of them were appealing. Brimming with yet more satisfaction at how neatly his luck was turning, Andrew turned his gaze to the road ahead just in time to catch a flick of movement out of the corner his eye, and twisted further to chase it. A slender grey bird had been startled from the twisted branches of its tree by the passing cart, and it winged its way swiftly to quieter grounds as he watched. He was certain he’d seen a few of its kind before, though he still couldn’t put a name to them; they seemed to be confined to this side of the ocean, which might have been for the best. Disappointingly drab as they were in appearance, they chattered loudly enough to put the magpies out of business.
It brought to mind other things he had no words for, and as he re-settled himself, he found his gaze drawn again to the deer-dæmon. She made a handsome companion, there was no denying it, and the longer he looked at the spiralling horns the harder it was not to wonder how many wall paintings she’d brought down over the years. Half to stop himself from letting that question out of his head, he said, “What do you call her form?”
Nigel didn’t do much more than slide his eyes sideways, but the dæmon huffed sharply and lifted her head higher, giving Andrew a square look at her long pupils.
“Is that offensive here?” he said. “It’s a little offensive where I come from but, well, generally a scowling offense at best so if I’ve broken a law that’s more offense than I was meaning.”
No scowls were produced, let alone a warrant, but Nigel’s voice was a little cooler than it had been when he said, “You a natural philosopher?”
“Nothing so official as that,” he said cheerfully. “Just more curious than is in my best interests, or so I’ve been told. I can say ‘mind your own business’ in three languages.” When this was met with silence, he added, “Pardon my offensive nature. I just haven’t been able to recognise anything but seagulls since I got here and I’ve seen enough of them to last me a lifetime, which is a shame because that’s about how long I’ve got left to have one in my face.”
He had to take a moment to fend off Seiker’s stabbing beak, and nearly missed Nigel’s less reticent response: “Don’t rightly know the name.”
Andrew straightened, dropping his hands back down on top of his bag. “No?”
“Not something from around here, and I’ve yet to meet anyone from wherever there is.” His tone soured as he continued, “Some place with white dirt, mebbe.”
It was true that the dæmon’s beautiful pale coat was marred somewhat by the dusty red socks that had streaked up her legs, and Andrew propped his chin thoughtfully on one hand. “By the seaside, on the nice white sand?” he guessed. “That would practically make us cousins.”
“Really.”
“Of a sort.”
He was pleased to see the tolerant glint back in Nigel’s eye as the young man twitched the reins, easing the cart into a bend. “Well, from family to family, welcome to Black’s Hill; and learn t’ mind your own business, cousin.”
Rating: G
Series: His Dark Materials / According to Plan
Wordcount: 1563
Warnings: Totally lacking in accurate knowledge of American colonial history?
Summary: In which Andrew is a perpetual hitchhiker.
Remarks: I recently re-read - in fact just finished re-reading as of this morning - Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy, and it gave me a bee in my bonnet that ended with me turning to my favourite cast of characters for gratuitous crossovers. Not quite completed, but not likely to get any more so. Andrew/Jester is mine; Nigel/Secateur is Quixote's. The dæmons are a kittiwake and an addax.
A soft squawk from his dæmon drew Andrew’s head off his chest, and he leaned forward to squint down the dusty path of the road. Heat-shimmers rose steadily under the urging of the midday sun, making it hard to see more than a few yards ahead, but there was no mistaking what had caught her attention—a small pony-trap was clattering its way towards them, with two horses at the front and a single rider perched at the top, and it was the most welcome sight today had yet to offer.
Andrew took a moment to stretch, loosening tired muscles, and then rolled to his feet easily. A quick pat at his knees brushed off some of the dirt and dried grass before he stepped out of the meagre shadow of his tree. Though it was too far away to see the driver’s expression, he thought he saw the head lift and look in their direction at the movement, and he raised his hand to hail them more clearly.
“Here we go,” he said over his shoulder. “D’you think he does something that doesn’t involve cattle?”
“Don’t ask,” Seiker replied.
When the trap drew closer he realised with sudden surprise that he’d misjudged the set-up; it was a single-drawn cart, simple but sturdy, and the second creature that trotted free as its side was no horse at all. What it was precisely he couldn’t say. More deer-like than anything, but a pale sandy-white save the darker brown wrapped around her muzzle and forehead, and the horns that rose from her head were several feet long and gently twisted.
Her human—because of course she was a dæmon—tugged at the reins and the cart slowed, rattling to a stop just next to where Andrew stood. The broad hat was tilted up as the driver turned his head, and Andrew caught his first glimpse of a young man’s face pulled into an expression of polite inquisitiveness.
“Howdy,” Andrew said, without a hint of irony, grinning up at the driver. Somewhere behind him, Seiker fluffed her feathers.
His attempt at speaking the native dialect earned him a steady stare from eyes so lightly brown they seemed to slide into gold where they caught the sun, but the man made no comment on the effort, just turned and dipped his head towards the long stretch of the road. “You headin’ to town?”
“With great haste,” he said, “though not so great a pace. It’s a very fine afternoon, wouldn’t you say?”
He wasn’t trying to be subtle, and thankfully the other man didn’t seem to mind; he nodded and shifted himself along the narrow seat towards his dæmon to make a space. “Post office is near the centre. You should be able to find your way wherever you’re needin’ from there.”
“Cheers,” Andrew said brightly, and stooped to swing his swag over one shoulder before pulling himself up into the trap. There still wasn’t a lot of room, but he wedged the bag between his knees as he took his place on the seat, and Seiker fluttered up to perch behind him on the backrest, broad gull-feet gripping the painted wood firmly.
As soon as he saw his passengers were settled, the man clicked his tongue and the horse began moving again, with the dæmon clopping steadily alongside. It wasn’t a particularly brisk pace they were setting, but it was enough to get a bit of wind flowing by his face, and Andrew counted it a vast improvement to the past few days of trudging by on foot. All it would take was a properly cooked meal and a bed for the night, and he’d be living in the lap of luxury.
“Where’re you from?” the man said.
“Down south,” he said easily, unoffended; he knew there was no chance of passing as a local.
The phrasing earned him a sceptical sidelong glance, and then the driver snorted. “Yeah, you sound Mejican,” he said in a way that made it clear that Andrew did not.
Andrew just grinned. “Further south than that,” he conceded. As far as he knew Texas had no quarrel with the Austral Empire, but people were likely to think queerly of a fellow who had travelled so far with so little. He leaned out from the bulk of his swag to offer his hand to his new companion. “Andrew Barton. No relation to the poet fella.”
The man juggled the reins into one hand so he could return the gesture; his grip was firm and his fingers rough, and Andrew darkly suspected cattle were involved somehow. “Nigel Albert,” he said, and then, a touch sarcastically, “Some relation.”
“To the poet?” Andrew said.
Nigel raised an eyebrow, genuine surprise on his features. “You ain’t heard of Orion Enterprises?”
“I only wandered up this way about a week ago. Mostly heard a lot of names, few directions, bit of cursing…”
“Huh,” was all Nigel said, and his deer-dæmon flicked her ears.
Andrew’s curiosity was rearing its head, but Seiker snapped her beak next to his ear in a reminder not to go getting them tossed off the cart before they were at least out of sight of the tree; and besides, the man’s surprise said that it wasn’t a mystery that would take long to solve on his own. He slouched down a little further instead, hooking one elbow over the back of the seat. “Don’t suppose you’d know a place a traveller could kip for the night? Nothing too fancy.”
There was a considering pause, presumably as Nigel weighed up ‘not too fancy’ against the scruffy and weatherworn state of Andrew’s attire, and then he tilted his head in agreement. “There’s a little bed’n’breakfast off of Mitchelton St, has a pig on the sign. Friend of mine works there.”
“Sign of the pig,” Andrew repeated. “Do they specialise in pork?”
Nigel just snorted again, but there was a hint of amusement to the sound. “You could say it’s a representation of the ownership.”
He could think of at least two things that might mean, and both of them were appealing. Brimming with yet more satisfaction at how neatly his luck was turning, Andrew turned his gaze to the road ahead just in time to catch a flick of movement out of the corner his eye, and twisted further to chase it. A slender grey bird had been startled from the twisted branches of its tree by the passing cart, and it winged its way swiftly to quieter grounds as he watched. He was certain he’d seen a few of its kind before, though he still couldn’t put a name to them; they seemed to be confined to this side of the ocean, which might have been for the best. Disappointingly drab as they were in appearance, they chattered loudly enough to put the magpies out of business.
It brought to mind other things he had no words for, and as he re-settled himself, he found his gaze drawn again to the deer-dæmon. She made a handsome companion, there was no denying it, and the longer he looked at the spiralling horns the harder it was not to wonder how many wall paintings she’d brought down over the years. Half to stop himself from letting that question out of his head, he said, “What do you call her form?”
Nigel didn’t do much more than slide his eyes sideways, but the dæmon huffed sharply and lifted her head higher, giving Andrew a square look at her long pupils.
“Is that offensive here?” he said. “It’s a little offensive where I come from but, well, generally a scowling offense at best so if I’ve broken a law that’s more offense than I was meaning.”
No scowls were produced, let alone a warrant, but Nigel’s voice was a little cooler than it had been when he said, “You a natural philosopher?”
“Nothing so official as that,” he said cheerfully. “Just more curious than is in my best interests, or so I’ve been told. I can say ‘mind your own business’ in three languages.” When this was met with silence, he added, “Pardon my offensive nature. I just haven’t been able to recognise anything but seagulls since I got here and I’ve seen enough of them to last me a lifetime, which is a shame because that’s about how long I’ve got left to have one in my face.”
He had to take a moment to fend off Seiker’s stabbing beak, and nearly missed Nigel’s less reticent response: “Don’t rightly know the name.”
Andrew straightened, dropping his hands back down on top of his bag. “No?”
“Not something from around here, and I’ve yet to meet anyone from wherever there is.” His tone soured as he continued, “Some place with white dirt, mebbe.”
It was true that the dæmon’s beautiful pale coat was marred somewhat by the dusty red socks that had streaked up her legs, and Andrew propped his chin thoughtfully on one hand. “By the seaside, on the nice white sand?” he guessed. “That would practically make us cousins.”
“Really.”
“Of a sort.”
He was pleased to see the tolerant glint back in Nigel’s eye as the young man twitched the reins, easing the cart into a bend. “Well, from family to family, welcome to Black’s Hill; and learn t’ mind your own business, cousin.”
