This is the first of a series of vignettes in which I explore the world of Never. These are written as stream of consciousness, so forgive any awkward phrases and spelling errors.
*
The room is dim, the walls hung with jewel-bright silks, the air thick with incense and the breath of forgotten places.
Within, a small table, its edges worn by the touch of many hands. Seated there is a woman. She is small, her bones draped with a thin fall of flesh. Her hair is a wild tangle, curls twisting at her nape and temples. There is fire in those strands, along with gold and silver.
She looks up, and her eyes catch what small light filters into the room. A multitude of colours reside there: green shifting to grey, then topaz and amethyst. Chameleon eyes. Knowing eyes.
She stands, her movements fluid, and yet holding a strange, hesitant edge. Her skirts are long, but their volume is not quite sufficient to conceal the crookedness of her left hip and knee, the slow drag of that leg as she crosses the polished floor.
Those eyes slide over you once, twice, thrice. On the third pass, her lips curve into the shadow of a smile.
“First time in Never?” she asks. Her voice is coloured by strange accents, every syllable darkened with a different note. She doesn’t wait for you to answer, just steps back and gestures at the table. “Sit. Let me sing your path.”
You sit at the table. The wood of your seat feels cold to the touch, like stone or ice. The chill seeps into your bones, sets your teeth on edge. Here, it feels like winter, like the stillness at the heart of the waiting world.
The woman resumes her seat, her skirts billowing to conceal the awkwardness of the movement. Again those eyes sweep over you.
“Been through the city yet?” she asks. Again, she doesn’t wait for an answer. “Of course not. I can see it in you: you think that this is a dream. That I’m not real.” She slides her hands down her skirts, her lip twisting. “You’re a one-timer. Found your way here by pure chance, and you can’t open your eyes for long enough to see the place you’re in. “
She stands again and shuffles to one of the silks: crimson threaded through with peacock hues. With a swift motion, she draws it back to reveal a window.
Beyond: the city.
Twisted spires in the distance, roads meandering through hills and valleys, their surfaces shining like mercury. Above, the sky arches pure white. And though you cannot hear it, you know that the city is singing. Calling.
The woman lets the silk fall, and the city is hidden once more. The song goes to silence.
“You do not belong in Never,” the woman says, shifting her skirts once more. “Go. Enjoy your single night. You will not walk these streets again.”
She shakes her head as you leave, the echoes of the city’s song following you. And you know, even as it fades, that it will haunt you for the rest of your days, that you will search every song you hear for that music and that you will never again find it.
