Three Word Wednesday: Knowing

Grace Jitter Thin

Once upon a time there was a small child. He was smaller than most of the boys his age, and certainly smaller than the children of the giants that had been brought in from over the mountain. He was shorter than the satyr-children and slimmer than the dryadlings. His voice was higher than that of Aeolus’ daughter and thinner than the songs of the merchildren when they sang in concert.

He was called Thomas and everyone knew his name.

His teacher, a centaur who wore a turban and not much else, called it in anger when Thomas insisted that he had turned in his assignments, how could he be doubted?

His mother, a quiet woman who stared often at the sea with a longing matched only by those who were born there, called his name with a quiet authority that rang through the house like the peal of a bell.

The trees that lined the pathways he walked each day to the schoolhouse sang it in unison, a rustle of leaves and branches that spelled “Thomas” in the crisp morning air.

His father called it through the wireless radio each night before Thomas went to sleep, his tone sibilant and crackling across the broad wave.

Everyone knew Thomas and Thomas knew everyone. Even Adrien, who listened to the plants and did not speak, knew of Thomas, moving his fingers in the forms that meant his name whenever Thomas passed him.

Thomas was graced with the gift of knowledge. And while this allowed him to see things and Know them, it also meant that those who saw him would Know him, too.

When he moved his leg up and down under his desk, the astronomy teacher noticed, and Knew it was because he was too full of fruit punch. Thomas did not even have to ask for the hall pass, it was already on the desk at the front of the classroom.

This also meant that when Thomas was fourteen years old, Maya the warlock’s daughter Knew all about his dream from the night before and laughed in his face before he could even ask her to the Halloween Ball.

When Thomas was seventeen years old, he stomped home beneath an avenue of trees that rustled his name and turned into his house, pushing past the garden gate that squealed a high-pitched thomas as he forced it open. His mother, more grey in her hair than selkie black, stood on the front porch and Knew that Thomas was frustrated.

“Thomas,” she said, her voice sonorous and as soothing as the rush of waves along the shore, “It will all turn out alright.” 

Thomas sighed and ran his hand through hair that was long and unruly and cut in the latest fashion.

“I’m tired of being Known, Mama,” he said. Thomas’ mother smiled softly and put her hand on his shoulder as he sat on the steps with his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry, my son,” she said. “When you were born we Knew that your gift would be seen as a curse.”

“That’s ‘cause it is a curse, Ma!” he said, a sob hanging at the far edges of his phrasing. His mother saw it and Knew that Thomas was reaching a tipping point.

“I’m just so tired of this town and everyone Knowing me before I can even figure it out for myself,” Thomas said. “I’m all jittery when I sit in class, I can’t make eye contact, I can’t even really speak because they all Know what I’m really saying.”  With his head in his hands Thomas muttered, “And today Maya broke up with me because she said she Knew something bad was going to happen.” Thomas groaned and stood up. “I haven’t even done anything yet!”

Thomas’ mother smiled sadly and reached behind her to open the front door. Sitting innocuously in the hallway were a full backpack and supplies for a journey she Knew Thomas would be taking.

Thomas wasn’t finished with his tirade. “I just need to…”

“Go somewhere else for a while?” his mother finished. She smiled a genuine smile, and motioned to the packed travel supplies.

“Mom…” Thomas said, his face sliding into lines of genuine happiness for the first time in weeks. He slung the bag over his shoulder and fastened the sword at his side, slipping his father’s hat onto his head and his mother’s scarf around his neck.  Thomas’ mother gave her son a kiss on the forehead that lingered in salty lines until he scrubbed his hand against it.

Thomas set off down the path that whispered his name and did not look back.

His mother Knew he would not return for years.