Jonis - Rowan Erlking (web based ebook reader .TXT) 📗

Chapter Three: From the Kitchen

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“A herbalist is a magic user that employs the natural elements of the world in his spell casting.”

 

 

 

 

The month had gone way too slowly for Jonis. With his extended memory, Jonis now found all the tasks he had to do in the class hour were nothing but busy work. But he played along, humoring the teacher and keeping his hands to himself.

Jonis wore gloves all the time now. He also wore long sleeves and stockings under his knickers, even when it grew warm. The other boys ran around barefoot and in sleeveless shirts in their free hours, and they often mocked him for dressing so stiffly. But Jonis kept his word, never resorting to using is Cordril abilities to fight back, even to the point of getting a bloody nose. When he came home, bleeding down his lip and chin but grinning because he held true, Mr. Farren shook his head and gave him permission to fight back—with his gloved fists. The next time, the other boy went home with a bloody nose.

Of course the magistrate heard complaints for Jonis’s cheeky behavior. Jonis had gotten comfortable in Mr. Farren’s home. And he often fought others with words rather than fists anyway. He talked less like someone who was thirteen and more like someone who had lived a great deal longer than that. Because of this, frequently his teacher sent home notes ordering Jonis to do extra work as punishment for being disrespectful—and Mr. Farren made sure he did it. But for Jonis the work took a couple of minutes to complete, so it really wasn’t much punishment at all.

As the weeks continued Mr. Farren continued with Jonis’s magisterial education, digging out his scrolls with an unhidden excitement. There were times that he was impatient to see Jonis, meeting him outside his schoolhouse with a test question on his lips to drill Jonis on, grinning and walking with a spring in his step. It grew even more apparent that Mr. Farren could not wait for Jonis’s graduation advancement once Jonis finally admitted that he could read the ancient texts himself. From there, Jonis was teaching the magistrate.

“And what about this spell. The letters are smudged. I have inspected it for hours, but you know how difficult the writing is to read—unless you have grown up with it of course.” Mr. Farren’s hair stuck up from scratching his scalp.

Jonis peered over the smudge. “It looks like it says: heather and ash mixed together with dried mint leaves, garlic, and onion should be boiled and set on a rash or poison sting. It will draw out the toxins.”

“Heather and ash, huh? Those H’s are so hard to decipher. I thought it said Leatler and asl, which, of course, means nothing.” Mr. Farren looked up at him. “My boy, your skills are beyond what I expected. How far back does that memory of yours go?”

“About three thousand years, give or take,” Jonis said with a shrug. “I’m not sure really. There is more, here and there, but not enough to really piece together an established history.”

“You already know so much about demon hunting though,” Mr. Farren murmured with a drawn sigh. “There is little I can teach you now.”

Bashfully shrugging, Jonis glanced back at the scroll. “I can’t help what has been stuck into my head. It is strange for me to recall memories that aren’t my own. Besides, I didn’t know this. I bet there are spells that my ancestors never bothered to learn. That sealing spell you taught me was one. This one is another.”

Mr. Farren smiled and rolled up the scroll. “You don’t have to try and spare my feelings, son. I know this is all old memory to you.”

Jonis frowned, looking uncomfortable. “It isn’t. I was telling you the truth. There is so much that you could still teach me.”

His guardian laughed as he rose from his desk. “Thank you for humoring me. But I think now we ought to head for bed. I’ll ring Mrs. Dayes to turn your covers.”

He walked over to the banister, reaching for the bell they used to summon the maid.

“Oh, don’t bother her,” Jonis said, cringing as he looked up the stairs. “I can do it myself.”

“It is what she is paid to do,” Mr. Farren replied. “Never deprive a person of their job. They would not appreciate the sudden unemployment.”

Walking to the stairs, Jonis frowned. “But she is afraid of me. I don’t like watching her run from my room as if I’m a disease.”

Mr. Farren rang the bell anyway, giving him a tired glance. “Mrs. Dayes will have to learn sometime not to be so skittish.”

Jonis grimaced, waiting for the maid to come down.

She reacted exactly as he had predicted, skirting away from him but obeying the master of the house. Mr. Farren bade Jonis to follow her back to his room, watching the boy with a reserved smile that let Jonis know he had no choice in the matter.

Mrs. Dayes did her duty and left Jonis’s room as quickly as she could. Jonis climbed onto bed and grabbed hold of the top edge of the blankets, thinking about the past month and all that had occurred. Mr. Farren was kinder to him than anyone had ever been. It was warm and safe in his home—truly shelter from the outside. The magistrate treated him like person rather than a plague. Because of it, Jonis started to feel like a part of the village—just as long as he stayed at the side of the elderly man. While attached to Mr. Farren, Jonis Macoy was spoken of well. Of course Jonis knew that most of the townspeople were still terrified of him. They were just pretending to be nice.

Pulling the blankets off the bed and onto the floor, Jonis lay down, letting his thoughts drift into sleep—or at least he tried to. The memories in his brain still spun around like a vortex. His mind never really rested. If he closed his eyes, a memory from somewhere would come up and keep him awake. If he managed to actually sleep, a memory would make its way into his dreams. Every morning Jonis would rise from sleep, his thoughts buzzing, never feeling fully rested no matter how warm the blankets were.

That night his brain spun around events hundreds of years past when his great, great, great, many-times grandfather was with a community of Cordrils. There were only five families, all related in some way. His ancestor was a baker. He made tender rolls and frosted sweetbreads that caused Jonis’s mouth salivate just thinking about them.

Jonis rolled over, trying not to think about them. The cook would never let him into the kitchen to make them—and he didn’t think Mr. Farren would approve of him taking away her job, no matter what was stuffed in his memory.

He attempted to sleep, but the thoughts about the Cordril community washed over him more heavily. He saw women Cordrils, a rarity in the days after this memory. Jonis longed to meet one in real life. The horrible memories about his own mother still haunted him. His father had been desperate, and in doing so, caused more harm than good. If there had been Cordril women, it would not have been like that at all. Today, Jonis was not so sure there were any Cordril women left. But, he vowed silently in his mind that he would never repeat his father’s crime, even if it meant that the Macoys died out.

Tossing around in his bed, Jonis moaned. The memories would not leave him alone.

He got up, throwing off his blankets, and crossed to his door. Carefully twisting the doorknob, making sure it made no noise, Jonis stuck his head out into the hall.

The hall stood empty and dark.

Stepping one foot out onto the carpet, Jonis tiptoed down the passageway to the stairs. He peered over the banister, listening to the air. Only the ticking of the clocks made noise below. Taking one step on the stair, he walked close to the banister, trying to avoid creaking boards. One by one, he went down each step until he could safely stand on the bottom floor. On the hard wood, Jonis stealthily placed his steps, passing through the dining room. There was no noise but the whirring hands to the clock and the swinging pendulum.

The kitchen door was locked.

Stifling a moan, Jonis felt over the door handle and looked around for a way in. Glancing just above, he saw a key on the ledge on top of the doorframe. Picking it off, he stuck it into the lock. Inside, it clicked, sounding too loud in the still house. He turned the key. Metal scraped inside.

Jonis peeked back over his shoulder. Behind him, nothing stirred. He finished turning the lock and opened the door.

The kitchen was sparkling clean with a strong vinegar smell. Jonis shut the door behind him, snapping the light switch on.

The spinning fan above started to rotate, sending goose bumps up his arms. He reached up and pulled the cord to shut it off. Looking around, he peered into the cupboards. Then he opened the icebox.

 

The cook arrived early in the morning before the sun came up. Mr. Farren was fond of a hot meal as soon as he got out of bed. Jonis ate pretty much anything. Though she did not mind Mr. Farren’s particular tastes, the idea of feeding a demon always filled her with indignation. The boy often lingered near the kitchen door in his spare time when he was not reading a book. She had to frequently shoo him away, stuffing a sandwich into his hands to keep him sated. She had no idea at the time that Jonis was entirely fond of her sandwiches and lingered by just so he could get one.

Using her servant’s key, she entered through the side door. She had to pass the laundry room where Mrs. Dayes was starting another load of wash in the new electric machine. This one had a centrifuge that spun out the water, saving her time. Mrs. Dayes was muttering under her breath about the state of Jonis’s clothes, which he wore through rather rapidly in the knees, forcing her to patch them. The cook smirked to herself, passing by to the servant’s corridor.

From there she walked into the kitchen, unlocking the door with her key. She took one step and stared. “Mrs. Dayes! Come and look!”

The maid groaned, walking over with Jonis’s shirt in hand, examining the new hole under his arm where the seam had pulled loose. “What is it Yani?”

“Did you do that?” The cook pointed into the kitchen.

Mrs. Dayes peered in then stared. She blinked, walking towards the counter where a stack of sugar-glazed pastries sat on a tray next to five loaves of bread and a rack full of sweet buns. Shaking her head, she stepped back. “No. I would never tamper in your kitchen.”

The cook marched in, sniffed at the pastries and bread, then breathed out. “Do you think the master ordered this bread from the bakery? Is he expecting guests?”

The maid continued to shake her head. “He never said anything to me. The master is still in bed as far as I know. Who could have taken the