The Hand Talkers

Lady Hen had the audacity to ask me if I’d lend my bed to her while she recovered. Instead, Bubbles gave Lady Hen one to be her own. This was before she asked me politely if the baby would ever stop crying. I started to think Count Falcon might not. Most thought he had a difficult temperament, Madame Piff called those accusations absurd. She joked the baby was more rational, to be crying nonstop, than the rest of us.

With another month, the river twisted higher. I avoided the broken bridge if I didn’t specifically need to cross to the rest of the town. For that, I became more acquainted with the homes near the palace. I saw Mack and Daisy less, and only met Madame Piff on business. Most refused to put a single foot on the bridge at all, it was as much a utility as it was a hazard.

When there was water or other things, they wouldn’t always drop in the same place. Sometimes, I had to have somebody carry water across the broken bridge for me. The buckets were heavier than I was comfortable taking myself. The faithful were more than happy to do as I asked them, something I took advantage of whenever I needed. Madame Piff was the only of their ilk not to follow any direction as it was given, but that was as much her role as it was her personality. She kept the faithful loyal, and in return she didn’t have to pretend to be one of them when she was around me.

Their ranks had grown. Now, it seemed half the town had worn their robes at least once. Per Bubbles’ request and Madame Piffs’ eager acceptance, they were given better food. When one of their hovels collapsed, I made Mr. Love abandon his own. I didn’t care if he slept outside or with a friend. One of the faithful had a home instead. When he tried to decline my kind offer, two of the faithful dragged him by the arms. They held him on the riverbank until he apologized to me.

Mr. Gab silently passed two weeks ago. Mr. Sky tried to remove the rest of his arm, but his infection had already spread too far. His fever turned into chills, then delirium. Mack set him on a piece of plywood like a sailor would be. He whispered a eulogy to nobody, and pushed the makeshift raft out onto the river. Bubbles told me he struggled with the words, his voice breaking. I wouldn’t have known otherwise, I didn’t bother going to the funeral.

I walked along the river, now, looking across. There was ever more foam in the acid, looking ravenous, rabid as it grew. It yawned and growled and rumbled, and it was loud enough out my window that I struggled to sleep at night. There was one evening that I walked to the edge of town by the blistering fire gland, and I slept on the floor. The river was slightly quieter there, but the little tributaries had grown into a patchwork of veins. One splashed on me and tore a hole through my clothes while I slept. I only noticed when I felt the tingling burn after waking up. A hot lesion bubbled on the side of my belly. The skin never regained its color.

I whined to Bubbles that she had done this to me, and she simply asked what I had expected sleeping in such a place. She said I was lucky my exposed legs hadn’t also burned, but that she wasn’t against me sleeping outside. Bubbles went on how she liked the feeling of me sleeping on the ground. She tasted anything that touched the walls or the floor.

Beyond the river, the bedhouse had been fully converted into the temple. Cloth from ruined clothing was taken there and draped out the windows to display the acid burns. Even to me, it was a disquieting symbol. I just sat there watching my people from beyond the divide. There were no more scuffles over water. Anyone who tried to steal was seized by the faithful. Through this, they ensured the lion’s share went to themselves. Much of it, they carried over the river for me.

Mack came out of the bakery behind me. It was more stall than building now, its walls crumbling and melting under it save three resilient beams dangling a roof over them. He looked down at me, where I was sitting on the riverbank, “Ah, Princess…” He tucked his stale bread closer to his chest as if he was hiding it.

“I haven’t seen you on this side in some days,” I smiled at him, “how is Daisy?”

He pressed his lips together, “She’s had less of an appetite. I’m worried she’s becoming sick.”

“My own appetite is failing me,” I tried to reassure him, “I think the idea of eating isn’t what it once was.”

“You think?” He snorted, “Princess, I can’t think of any reason why any of us might be uncomfortable around food.”

I reached toward his bread, “Is that the best the bakery is offering? It looks…”

“Your Majesty… Some of the food deliveries fall into the river. The dragon doesn’t replace them, and the faithful refuse to try making anything to catch it. They believe what falls in the river belongs to the dragon. That leaves us with… whatever falls somewhere else.”

“I see…” I muttered, “Bubbles has to eat anything that she is giving us. I suppose it isn’t wrong for her body to want to enjoy its own food.”

He winced, “Princess… You,” he cleared his throat, “I can’t tell you how to feel about things. You won’t listen.” I looked past him as Mr. Brick walked by. It was quite strange to see them both on the same side of the river. Mr. Brick nodded briefly, then flung his hands around in some same pattern.

“Are you well?” I blinked at his gestures.

Mack made some hand symbol back and Mr. Brick went on his way, “He was just asking if I wanted to meet him for some ale this evening. He said something about you, also,” Mack jokingly matched one of the gestures Mr. Brick had made. It looked like two hands gripping a scepter.

“I see…” I shook my head, “Why wouldn’t he just say it out loud?”

“It’s Hand Talking,” Mack looked around, “the dragon can hear regular talking.”

“How unsportsmanlike,” Bubbles huffed, “I don’t do anything to cheat you.”

Mack shook his head, “It’s not cheating, Beast. Cheating implies we have any other way to win.”

“You’ve won already. You’re here.”