THINGS WERE changing in many different places and the blue-haired girl was more than a little perplexed. Such transformations she had not witnessed before in her young life.
Truancy Mundane sidled down Passing Lane in the great shadow cast by a warehouse that fronted the straggling line of small, unfrequented shops and marvelled at the light and colour that marked the middle building.
She had passed through this lane many times on her way to more curious locations where there were flourishing flower shops and hopeful shops in search of fulfilment, especially along Wonky Lane. Never before had she noticed this flaring intensity.
Remembering a recent past, Truancy recalled a toy shop on that spot, a sad little place devoid of life, its inmates yearning with an intensity too painful to witness. She had felt aggrieved at such despair and sought a pledge to alleviate it. Dolls there were, sat in rows upon shelves, waiting for that miracle day when they might come alive and be a part of some family. Yet they sat on and stared and waited.
So she blessed them with a hidden animation, like souls on the point of inspiration.
Might this gesture have caused all the liveliness she could see through the glass of the shop front?
There were people in there, happy people. A child's shrill cry could be heard and there was laughter that greeted such cries. Truancy moved closer, blending with some aspect of the building so she could investigate more intimately. She was thrilled at the thought of the good she might have done, helping these people find some lightening of their hearts. Feather light they were now.
'This seems as good a time as any to break out some of Granny Plot's Old Sherry,' a man's voice could be heard over the general sense of contentment.
'Should we, though?' a lady's voice replied.
'Won't do you any harm, nor the youngster neither.'
'I'll be the judge of that,' another man's voice said. 'My Deesie's a little young to be imbibing such a concoction,' and there was general laughter.
'I mean,' the earlier female speaker pursued, her voice still edged with a little worry, 'should we be celebrating. I fear the wrath of the Faceless where excess merriment might be noticed.'
'We have a right as much as any to be happy,' the man said and Truancy wanted to pitch in, to tell him he was more right than he knew. As he spoke he was pouring out some ruby liquid into simple tumblers and handing them to a number of others in the shop. Truancy could see another rather well-dressed couple with a little girl in their midst, a man in an apron that gave off the scent of pine varnish and a number of others who looked merely like passersby who for once decided not to pass by but drop in and were mightly pleased they had done so.
'Besides, that girl, blessed if I can remember her name, she was such a self-effacing little body, had such a sureness about her and the way she shaped ideas into words and words into action that no powers above could oppose her.'
'A little blonde thing she was,' the woman explained to an interested audience. 'From that odd school on the mountain. Blessed if I know what they teach them up there, but she was so full of joy she looked fit to burst.'
Joy.
Truancy heard the word with amazement. So full of joy. It could have been only one person.
Vetta Mindal.
There was a slight clattering noise by the door and everyone looked. Only the little girl saw what she thought was a shadow. The adults saw nothing and soon forgot the interruption as Granny Plot's Old Sherry mellowed their hearts even more.