Chapter 142: 142: The New Path XIX
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"You do not eat people," John said. He rubbed his forehead with two fingers as if the name there was a stain he could wash off. "I am only John. They banished me at fifteen. I walked out. The road raised me. The forge taught me. The rest I learned the hard way. I do not belong to White House. White name does not belong to me."
Fizz floated a little closer, small face serious for once. "I know," he said. "I know you are only John. But sometimes the world uses names like sticks. I do not like sticks. I like fire. I will burn the sticks."
John huffed a breath that almost smiled and then did not. "Just finish your food," he said. "We will sleep. We will meet Sera in the morning."
Fizz nodded and lowered himself back to the bowl, eating with neat little bites as if to prove he could behave at least on Tuesdays. He could not resist one more poke. "If you marry Sera, will you be John Black-White. Or John Gray. I vote for John Pancake. It sounds strong and yummy."
"Eat," John said.
"I am eating," Fizz said, and put the whole pickle in his mouth at once. His eyes watered. He suffered in silence for two seconds. Then he had to tell someone. "It is spicy," he whispered to the spoon.
Penny came again with a cloth and a small stack of plates. She cleared the bowls, set two cups of water without asking, and gave John a look that had six messages in it: I heard. I did not hear. You are safe. You are not safe. Sleep. Do not worry about crumbs.
"Thank you," John said.
"Tomorrow," Penny said. "Be early for breakfast."
"We will," John said.
Pim’s bare feet pattered on the stair. He appeared halfway down, hair sticking straight up on one side, eyes wide, mouth ready. "Did she fight you," he asked Elara’s empty space. "No? Okay." He saw the empty bowls, calculated the loss of leftovers, and let out a slow groan like an old door. "I was going to lick those."
"Bed," Penny said from nowhere. Pim vanished like a rabbit who had married a magician.
They banked the lamps. John checked the latch. He checked it again because his hands needed to do something quiet. He and Fizz climbed the narrow stairs. The hallway smelled of soap and old wood and a day that had been worked well.
In room three, the window showed a slice of night and one stubborn star that refused to hide behind city lights. Fizz floated to his bed and flopped onto the pillow face-first. He kicked his back paws twice like a tired dog and then rolled to stare at the ceiling.
"Tomorrow," he said into the quiet. "Temple. Sera Black. Not seeing the cabbage knight face would be better."
"Mm," John said. He sat on the edge of his bed. He unlaced his boots partway, enough to be able to move fast if the night tried teeth again. He set the communication stone on the table, palm on it, then let it cool.
Fizz peered at him. "You are quiet," he said.
"I am thinking," John said.
"About what," Fizz asked, then held both paws up. "No. Do not tell me. You think in long lines. It will take a year. I am small. I will die."
John lay down. "Sleep," he said. "We go early."
"Fine," Fizz said, and pulled the blanket up to his chin though he did not need blankets in the way humans do. "If you dream of cabbages, or the cabbage knight, wake me. I will stab them."
John did not answer. The quiet of the room wrapped around them. The tavern below creaked in friendly ways. Someone sang half a line in the lane and forgot the rest. The night settled like a cloak that had covered many good men and some bad and had learned not to judge either too quickly.
Fizz turned on his side and watched John’s face for a while the way small guardians watch large ones when the world is asleep and the awake job is theirs. He whispered, not to be heard, "You are only John. That is enough for me."
He closed his eyes. He tried not to snore. He failed a little. It was a cute fail.
John lay on his back and looked at the beam over the window where a carpenter long ago had made a tiny mistake and covered it with pride. He breathed slowly. The line inside his chest thrummed once, low and calm. Images tried to push in — water whipping, a coat smoking, a face going still on stone. They did not stick. The new quiet in him held. He did not bless it. He did not curse it. He accepted it like a tool: not good, not bad, only what it was when you picked it up.
He closed his eyes. A few hours later... Morning walked toward the city on soft feet.
He woke before dawn, as he always did, and watched the dark lift its hand from the window inch by inch. When the first pale strip touched the sill, he sat up. Fizz sat up at the same time as if tied to the light by a string. He yawned a big round yawn and then snapped his mouth shut like a coin purse.
"Today," Fizz said. "We met the priestess."
"Today," John said.
They washed their faces in the cool water in the bowl. Fizz flicked droplets at the cat on the shed roof through the open window. The cat squinted like an old priest who had decided to forgive you, but not quickly.
John picked up the token. He checked the communication stone. He pressed his palms together once. "Ready," he said.
Fizz puffed his chest. "Majestic," he said, which in his language meant ready.
They went downstairs. Penny was already up, because Penny is always up. She handed them each a heel of bread with butter and salt without asking if they wanted bread with butter and salt. They always did. Pim stumbled out behind her with hair that looked like a small explosion. He saw Fizz, woke three degrees, and tried to look like he had not.
"Going to the temple," Pim said around a yawn.
"Yes," John said.
"Bring me a story," Pim said.
"We will bring you a very small one," Fizz promised, and pinched his fingers together to show tiny. "Maybe about a cat who learned to pray."
Pim snorted. "Cats do not pray. They just get what they want. Which is mostly fish."
"Same thing," Fizz said.
Penny smacked Pim’s shoulder with the cloth, soft. "Do not eat the sugar jar while I’m in the cellar," she told him.
"I would never," Pim said, already planning how.
John and Fizz stepped into the cool lane. The sky was the color of a washed cup. The city had not yet decided which voice to use. I will choose soon. For now, it hummed.
They walked. The road knew them now. The turns were old news. The temple towers found them as soon as they looked up. The morning tasted like iron and bread. Fizz floated low and quiet. John’s steps were even. He did not rush. He did not dawdle. He did not think about counts or dukes or names. He thought about a friend who had written a letter and a promise he had made to be on time.
They passed the square where the boy juggled apples. He wasn’t there yet. They passed the seamstress’s window; the cream dress waited, pretending it had no opinion about who should wear it. They passed the fountain; pigeons washed like old men at a bath, splashing and complaining.
At the temple gate a new guard stood, a woman with a scar under one eye that said she had been hit hard once and had not loved it. She saw Fizz. Her eyebrows went up. She saw John’s token and Sera’s seal on the folded letter in his bag. Her eyebrows went down in respect.
"Morning," she said.
"Morning," John said. "I am here to meet priestess Sera."
Fizz added, "We are guests. She invited us. Show us the way."
"Priestess Sera asked for you," the guard said. "You are early."
"I try to be," John said.
"Good habit," she said, and stepped aside.
Fizz leaned close to John’s ear as they walked in. "If she gives you cookies and not me," he whispered, "I will become a terrible person."
"You already are," John whispered back, and the corner of his mouth moved.
They crossed the garden where the path was clean and the leaves were washed and the air felt like a song that had not yet picked words. The main door opened. The light inside was soft.
But that is tomorrow’s story. More specifically the next Chapter’s story.
The Chapter ends where a lady soldier told a boy he was early and a small bright thing decided not to be terrible for at least one more hour.
(Chapter eight: The New Path ends here. From now on the story pace will go up. John’s new academy life will start.)