Scribbled

The story meme

By Phil Barron ⋅ January 7, 2008 ⋅  ⋅   ⋅  Post a comment ⋅ 

My portion of the story thread:

The sound brought me up short. “Fenrir?” I whispered. Then, louder: “Digby?”

“Yes, and freezing on your threshold,” came the gruff reply from the other side of the door.

Forgetting the spectacles, I hobbled to the door, threw back the seven bolts and flung the door open. The apparition on my step was not one often seen in civilized places - tall and unkempt, pale as frost, bristling with particles of ice in his hair and beard and furs. But then, we were far removed from civilization. “Salutations,” he said with stiff formality.

Before I could answer, I was accosted by a great bulk of sinew and fur. My vision was obscured by gray fur and one wild rolling eye. Hot breath blasted my face. “Hello, Fenrir,” I said. A long red tongue gave answer, wetly.

“Fenrir!” snapped Digby. “Compose yourself!”

The canis growled but complied at once, settling onto its haunches and fixing Digby with a reproachful stare. “Unmannered brute,” Digby muttered as he advanced into the room, slamming the door shut behind him. “One would think he had never been trained.”

“Understandable, given the company he keeps,” I said, smiling.

Digby glanced around the room, taking in the disheveled papers and volumes. “Late American Scholar, as I expected,” he remarked. “And still impulsive. You should know better than to open your door to strangers. Without your glasses, even.”

“I’m a trusting soul. How did you find me?”

“Simple enough when one knows well the person one seeks.” He turned to appraise me. “Exile becomes you, Lydia,” he said, more softly. “You look well.” He glanced down at my foot. “Though your sock is bleeding.”

“My slipper,” I corrected him. “I dropped something.”

“Ever graceful,” Digby said. “Off with it.”

I sat without argument on the armchair nearest the unlit fireplace, then pulled off the sodden slipper. Digby knelt before me, still wearing his ice-glittered furs. He took my foot in his right hand, then rummaged in a hidden pocket and produced a battered gray device with three lights. He pressed a button and the device began to hum, lights glaring red. He held the device over my damaged toe. “This will sting a bit,” he said dryly.