The Artless Beauty

sheaf of tattered parchment

The Artless Beauty

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Book ID	TheArtlessBeauty

<span style="color:

cfc041;"> The Artless Beauty

An unadorned codex of goatskin vellum.

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The Artless Beauty is a book.

Translator's note: At a trashmoot in Taggamrod, piled under a mound of crushed and sticky glass, I found a pamphlet full of stories from the Shale Labyrinth. This one -- despite the mystifying absurdity of what it claims (or, perhaps, because of it) -- was the most extraordinary to me. Reader, do you agree?

She perched atop the branches of a blighted tree, staring up at the faint light of the spindle. When I spotted her, I caught myself mid-step, mid-breath, mid-thought. Have you ever known the misfortune of allowing your eyes to settle upon the divine vision of an apple farmer's daughter? If so, you understand how I felt in that moment.

Understand: I had done all I could, before now. I would have loved to stay elsewhere, but I'd traveled six parasangs with no rest, no discoveries but for a ruin occupied by an unfriendly cult. Too busy dodging arrows to ask about empty beds or compensation, I chose the apple farm instead. I took pains to avoid her when the salt sun shone, and so too did she avoid me, remaining a slight and swathed figure shying away in the periphery of my vision. I kept my focus on the farmer's craggy visage, on his wild and prominent whiskers, on his sweetly-rotting cider breath as we arranged the terms of my lodging.

It was not until the beetle moon passed overhead that I dared stand and wander, and it was then that I saw her, and the feeling of bone-deep infatuation at once seized me. I caught myself mid-step, mid-breath, mid-thought, and I stumbled onto a fallen twig. It snapped loudly. I stood still.

The beautiful creature atop the tree did not lift a finger or turn her head, but she did address me. "Moon and sun, traveler."

"Wisdom and will," I replied, gritting my teeth. It was a rare thing to hear the voice of an apple farmer's daughter, and it only seemed to increase the pressure on my racing hearts. I would not allow this all-encompassing feeling to overtake me. I longed for her to say something. I dreaded it.

A tense silence crawled by, until I gathered myself and broke it. "You're restless too?"

She turned her head the barest degree toward mine. I still couldn't see her eyes. "Always," she replied, and I could hear the wry smirk in her voice.
"Does your father know you walk the orchard of a night?" I asked her.
"If you mean the apple farmer," she said, "he is not my father. We are family by choice. We always are, the farmers and the children."
I stared, gaping.
"I really ought not to have told you that," she continued, "but you seemed special, to resist the lure the way you're trying to do."
My jaw worked, but it took a few tries for my voice to catch up. "If what you say is true, then... what are you?" I managed at last.
"Already too candid." She kicked off the tree and landed gracefully with a flurry of her skirts. "I must take my leave."

"Wait!" My muscles clenched as she paused, considering. I pressed on. "Answer me this, at least: why apple farmers?"
She laughed, the beautiful tinkling crystal blade of her voice slicing my heart to ribbons. The last thing I heard before my faint consciousness surrendered its grasp on my mind was her trailing reply, receding with distance.
"Why, it's because we love starapples!"

The Artless Beauty

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