When I have a new character for a future writing (in this case a short story), I feel compelled to have a conversation with them. To interrogate them, as it were.
I walk into the cafe, looking around for the young man I’ll meet for coffee. One of the great things about being a writer at age 60 is that you can have imaginary coffee with good looking young men.
My coffee date sits in the back corner. Not tall, and not big, he leans back in the chair reading a book. His black hair falls just past his shoulders.
He looks up and smiles as if it’s a habit of his. I know his father and his mother; it tracks. Deep brown eyes and a short nose, an oval face, the face of the Siberian aboriginals, the face of the Bering Strait Archetype’s Nephilim son.
“I was wondering when you would catch up with me.” Forrest put down the book, which I noted was on natural dyeing techniques. I had heard Forrest had apprenticed himself to Elaine and her fiber arts at the collective.
“Elaine has just forgiven me for how much fermenting Chinese indigo smells.” Forrest raises his eyebrows; he has his father’s charm and his mother’s gift with words. “Luckily, I’m not dyeing at her space; Janice found a spare corner of her barn space she’s letting me use.”
“Aasha hasn’t needed you at the infirmary lately, has she?” Forrest’s talent was the knitting of bones, of skin, and oddly the knitting of wool.
“No, but Baird had a kid — a baby goat — who had broken his toe. We fixed that up for him. Cute little kid. I’ll be honest, I don’t like using my gift, but it’s better that we have it for emergencies.”
“I’m curious,” I said. “Are you planning on staying at Barn Swallows’ Dance?”
He brushed back his hair. “I think so. I couldn’t use my talents outside, you know. I don’t know what an ordinary doctor would make of me, although I’m told we are within tolerances of human. And my mother’s here, still trying to figure out how I grew up so quickly.”
“You were born grown-up!” I grimaced at him.
“She knows that, of course. She knows she didn’t sign up for an ordinary family.”
“Does your dad still visit?” I asked cautiously.
“All the time. He’s become fascinated with Barn Swallows’ Dance, particularly in the dinner menu. And he still courts my mother, who considers him ‘not bad for a man’.” Forrest laughed. “I think they’re quite the couple despite that.”
“What do you do at the collective when you’re not fixing bones?”
“A little of everything. I’m on sheep-shearing duty, and I’m trying to figure out the alpacas. I work with Jeanne, particularly in grafting trees; we’re working on better apricots in the food forest right now. I’m trying to take over the coffee roasting from Jeanne, but she caught onto that pretty quick.”
I ask my last question, wondering how Forrest will answer. “What are you looking for?”
“I don’t know. I am looking for something, or maybe something is looking for me. My father was never a mystic; an Archetype’s relationship with the Maker is rather prosaic. My mother, on the other hand, believes in things. Probably because she’s from Barn Swallows’ Dance. I’m just waiting, though, for it to show its face.”
Words Like Me 