Anger Management II

Do you ever get SO mad because life is SO unfair? Then perhaps you'll understand poor Urchine Toadmint's plight. Poor Urchine, youngest daughter of the Marquess of Toadmint, betrothed since before her birth to a prince of the neighboring Blackbottom tribe. I was there the day the godmother delivered her gift. I often made that pilgrimage deep into the heart of Acadia. I heard it from the crone's mouth herself. Perhaps you will be surprised to learn that fey royalty place so much stock in godmothers, but they originated the tradition, after all. The Toadmint pixies were especially known for their faith in the old magic. The birth of a seventh daughter under a total lunar eclipse was a cause for celebration and concern. All who came to bless the child with offerings of spices and tea, hunks of salted beef, gobs of the glittery trinkets coveted by elder pixie tribes yet unspoiled by Serin's influence, held their collective breath as they awaited the arrival of Urchine's godmother. The parade of tributes faded to a trickle and then to a halt, and then, finally, at the back of the line, an old woman approached the babe's dais. The royal hangers-on and assembled onlookers tittered at the crone's ingress, for they served little other purpose in this world than providing context for a witch. I should know. I was among them, craning on the tips of my toes to see what kind of prophesy or blessing the godmother would deliver. The old woman reached into the bassinet, her beringed fingers glittering in candlelight. She touched the child with great care, for the godmother herself was not a pixie, and Urchine was nearly the size of the woman's thumbnail. "Hmm," the crone said, half to herself, as the entire room strained to hear her. "Spirited little thing, arent you? Well ..." The crone looked around as if questing for something. "Urchine," the Marchioness Toadmint provided helpfully. "Well, Urchine," the crone continued, savoring the young pixie's name in her mouth as if it were a fine wine. The lights in the royal chamber flickered, "I brought something special for you." The old woman rummaged in a pouch at her waist, producing two nearly identical scrolls. She unwound the first and began reciting, "Do not go gentle, my little one. Your rage burns hotter than the Sun. Take it with you, leave this place. What compels you is not disgrace. A sword, a mace, an axe to grind. Perfect anger, Urchine defined!" The old woman cackled as the air cracked with the force of her words. Even I cannot say what happened next. Did the Marchioness faint? Was she pushed? Did the godmother confuse the scrolls? Rumor had it that she'd planned to leave Acadia soon after the Toadmint blessing to attend a tribe of stone giants. Perhaps ... No. No perhaps. Typically superstition and good manners would prevent an esteemed clan such as the Toadmints from retaliating against a godmother for an unfavorable blessing. But then the Marchioness hit her head, and there was so much blood ... A surprising amount of blood, I remember thinking, for such a tiny creature. Someone struck the godmother down where she stood, the twin scrolls slipping from her fingers. An ill omen. I cowered on the floor, discreetly palming the scrolls into my satchel in the pandemonium that followed. I unrolled the second only much later--something about a happy life and many children. Kid stuff. I could hear screaming coming from the dais. Steam shot out of the little pixie babe's ears, her face scrunched up like a rotten tomato and redder than hell. I've heard many babies cry, dear reader, but I've only ever heard one scream like that. Poor Urchine Toadmint. Poor Urchine.