Endi in the Edges

Endi in the Edges

Some characters possess no passion. They entice no-one, interest no-one.

Such was Endi.

To one storyteller, she was the fourth bridesmaid, the friend whose name you will never remember. For others, she was the third nurse in the birthing room, handing the forceps to the doctor. Sometimes, she starred as the big (or little) sister, appearing twice in the narrative. 

When Endi was lucky (or not), she was the Object Lesson or the Precautionary Tale. Never of foolishness or carelessness – no, nothing so interesting. She was the lacklustre lieutenant on a starship who rose to position in a battle-less history, only to die in flames when war returns. 

Because she wasn’t brave or daring. Or particularly interesting.

She was the third choice friend when no-one else would answer. She dealt in platitudes and weak tea. Neither unreliable, nor reliable. She read the books for book clubs, but didn’t always attend. Her mouth was always filled with the most common reactions of the most boring reviewers. Those kind of plain, plodding sort that small newspapers employed because they were the daughter of the publisher’s best friend. Majored in English, didn’t do well.

When she woke in houses with pealing plaster, Endi knew it wouldn’t last. She was too ordinary for the lower classes, or the upper, in any world or any time. She’d revel in thin gruel or spring-less beds until yanked by the story-teller for Endiva or Endisa or Endirra. Someone a little more interesting, more scarred, or more resilient. A tad more here, a tad less there.

She lived in brick houses, behind white-picket fences, on small-holdings and in country homes. From one plumped bed to another. A sister, a cousin, a friend. The boring friend with the boring marriage. No ups, no downs. Few fights, no passion. Listless scripts and weak words, she tolerated them all.

Dragged from pillar to post, dropped in and out by story-tellers, uninterested in her story. Using her for another’s ends. To show another’s strengths, or weaknesses.

A walking piece of background. 

Yanked from story to story, pushed to and fro, Endi grew as tired and listless as her incarnations. She stopped attending yoga or book club when the story-teller wasn’t looking. When left alone, she didn’t practice her guitar or nurse her baby or pet her quarkbeast. Even in space, she grew bored, and her hours on observation decks contracted.

But when she burned up in an apartment-block fire without the storyteller noticing, Endi decided it had to change.

She’d never be a heroine. 

But she didn’t want to be.

She didn’t want adventure. Or even much attention. But she didn’t want to burn for someone else’s story.

She waited and watched. And when she woke in a small cottage in a quiet wood, all alone, she knew her time had come. She explored the cottage with its red brickwork, its manicured garden, its pig and its chickens in the back. Too tidy for her, too pretty as well. Looked like the garden of an ever-pleasant Tracy or a decorative Lumilla. 

But the story-teller didn’t need her for long. (S)he wasn’t paying attention.

Careless. An opportunity. A small one.

A hush hung over the wood – as if every oak and violet and deer held its breath, waiting for the story-teller. 

Endi knew she must die near the beginning. A rampaging bear, or an evil troll. An unexpected attack by marauding minions. Something to get the hero(ine) going. Something mean and nasty, but not too specific. The garden would be the tragedy, not her.

Whatever the plan was, she knew it wouldn’t end well. So, she gathered a basket and sauntered out into the wood. No certain direction, or plan. A walk. A stroll. Not into town. Not anywhere in particular. Nothing for anyone to notice. Nothing interesting for the story-teller to draw on.

Endi wandered, circling round and out, slowly, slowly. Till the wood fell silent, the susurrating leaves ceased, the plants grew imprecise and the path fuzzed. Then, step by slow step, she ventured into the edges, the very edges, to a dark cave or a small grove.

Somewhere dark – yet dull – right at the edges. And there, Endi waited.

If there was one thing she knew, it was waiting. Waiting for the hero(ine) to enter, for the plot to blow past, for the beginning, for the end. And she waited. And waited. And waited. In the Edges.

When, at last, she ventured out, slowly pressing her way in, she noticed that the trees had lost their green and leaves had started to fall in long, autumn circles. There were poplars and firs, and trees she didn’t recognise, swaying in the wind. The wood had taken a deep breath, and now it was expelling it. The story had moved on, leaving them a remnant in its audience’s memories.

Endi picked her way through the wood, the quiet wood. The peaceful wood.

To the cottage. 

To the over-turned garden. And the butchered pig, its blood spattered over the outside wall, and the chickens gone or eaten. And a gaping hole in the porch where someone had fallen through.

Inside the cottage, it was little better. The furniture was scattered and splintered. Petals lay strewn across the floor, linen lay shredded. 

Endi breathed a sigh of relief.

Whatever had happened had happened. It had swept through, leaving her intact and unnoticed. She found a broken chair and dragged it out onto the porch. Sitting down, she drew in a deep breath and breathed out as she surveyed her domain.

It would never be picture-perfect again. She was Endi after all. But she could fix it up, slowly and without anxiety. It would be hers. 

Deep inside, hope stirred and Endi smiled. It wasn’t a big emotion, but it was hers.

THE END