Sigrid Hall stared at the envelope, one silvery brow raised in surprise and confusion. It wasn’t that she had received mail, that did still happen even in this day and age, it was that this mail was addressed to her in artful calligraphy and sealed with wax; something more than a little unusual. She paused to consider the symbol imprinted in the wax, a simple lit torch; it didn’t mean anything to her, but she was sure all would be made clear when she opened the message.

Carefully cracking the wax she unfolded the old fashioned envelope and extracted the sheets of yellowed vellum therein, undoing their tri-fold as well she revealed the top letter written in stunning golden text that almost seemed to glint with inner light.

Congratulations!

You have been selected to interview for a prestigious position with the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History, Comparative Mythology Department.

Please see the enclosed instructions for arrival time and location!

“Nnnnnnooooo I don’t think I’ll be answering the mysterious, possibly magical, letter written on ominously black paper from a prestigious organization that may or may not be a front for some kind of world spanning hidden cabal,” she said, tossing the envelope and its now frantically shining contents into the recycling bin. Selecting the next letter in the pile, a much more sensible white business envelope with her address printed in block letters, she opened it.

To whom it is about to concern,

-

She immediately tore the letter in half, then quarters, and threw the pieces into the bin after the smithsonian missive. “Never finish a letter that starts with ‘to whom it is about to concern’. Do they think I’m stupid?” She then rifled through the remainder of the pile. “Junk, junk, junk, birthday card, late christmas card. AH! Grandchildren!”

She clutched a half-dozen envelopes addressed to her in different shades of crayon with varying levels of penmanship.

Sitting down at the small dining table she spread the letters out before her and opened them each carefully in turn.

The first letter was from Suzy, the youngest of her six grandchildren, and probably the sweetest. It consisted of a short message about how she missed her grandma and wanted her to come visit more. Enclosed was a drawing of five stick figure people standing in front of a house on a purple lawn under a green sun. Sigrid was fairly certain that one of the figures was supposed to be her, that made the two other large stick figures Suzy’s parents, John (Sigrid’s son) and his wife Ellie, and the final small figure would be Suzy’s brother Jonathan; or just John to everyone close to him.

Smiling, she put the picture off to the side, it’d go on her fridge with the others that she was no doubt about to discover.

Ten minutes later and five more letters had divulged more poorly spelled distance spawned sentiments and youngling masterpieces. Smiling to herself, she placed the picture of a bright orange dog (or, perhaps it was a beaver?) on the pile and then turned her attention to the final envelope.

“Wait,” she said, as she looked at the smeared crayon address and the gears turned in her elderly but still sound mind. Her vivid blue eyes flicked back to the pile of opened letters, doing a quick count; yes, there were six of them. One for each Suzy, John, Earnest, Jole, Amy, and Emily. Which meant that this one wasn’t from one of her grandchildren.

“Sneaky,” she muttered with narrowed eyes. “Almost as sneaky as that letter delivering owl I shot when I was eleven. But you can’t fool me! No Hall has stepped foot in the supernatural for eight generations and I’m not going to break that streak!”

She stood, carrying the letter over to the recycling bin (which was now practically strobing golden light) and moved to throw the offending article away. However, she hesitated and looked at it once more. Something about that crayon scribble looked… genuine; like it’d been written by an actual child, or someone childlike at least.

With a sigh, and against her better judgment, she carefully opened the envelope and extracted the three pieces of paper contained within. Unfolding them, she found herself looking at a badly written letter in dark green crayon.

Deer grammy hall,

I never have grammy beefor gobeelins not have grammys so I no no what say. I is skree of no clan I live in small house with mammy and sister anx we eat berrys and sometimes fish. Mean men came yesterday and mammy crid she think I not see but I does. I no like when mammy cri, make me hurt two in heart. I no u cant fix but like to think maybe grammy could make better.

wish i no u,

skree

Sigrid shifted the letter slightly to the side, exposing a drawing. It wasn’t a child’s drawing, or maybe it was for it too was in crayon; however the child would have to be incredibly gifted given the steady hand it would have required and the detail that had gone into it. The picture was of three people, each had large heads, bat wing ears, green skin, long, crooked noses, and brown eyes. They stood together outside what could generously be called a small shack, the larger of the three, a thin, almost waifish woman in threadbare dress and apron holding two smaller, nearly naked children near her. The children were also thin, but not as clearly malnourished as the mother, and the old woman felt her steely resolve being sorely tested.

“This is emotional manipulation bullshit,” she muttered even as one hand flickered to an eye. Somehow a stray drop of water had found its way onto her cheek.

She carefully tucked the first two pages behind the third, revealing a page that was mostly blank except for one word.

And?

“And it’s not Fair,” Sigrid fumed, she couldn’t believe she was about to have an argument with a piece of paper. Sure enough, after she spoke, the words on the page morphed and changed, becoming new lines of text.

Life is rarely fair Sigrid Hall.

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

What are you going to do about it?

She clenched her jaw; what was she going to do? No, what could she do? “I’m just a grandmother,” she muttered quietly.

You could have been a Sorceress raised in one of the finest schools of magery. But you killed the messenger.

You could have been The Curator, capturing magical pieces of history and locking them away where they could do no harm. But you threw out the letter.

You Could have been Ieskaid to a world of magic and wonder as a Heroine destined to Destroy Darkness and Return the Light. But you tore that up as soon as it was offered.

Those are just the three options I learned about today, shall I go on?

“Halls don’t meddle in the supernatural,” she waspishly repeated her own grandmother’s mantra.

They did once!

The name Hall used to ring throughout the universe!

Even now it echos, the HALLway, named for the narrow corridors of space the Halls created between worlds. The Grand HALL, the space at the center of creation where the Halls dictated their will to the Titans of old.

The blood of GODS is in your veins Sigrid Hall.

WHAT. WILL. YOU. DO.

“I WILL BE A GRANDMOTHER!” She shouted at the damned, infuriating, infernal piece of paper in her hands.

TO WHOM?!

“ANYONE WHO NEEDS IT!” she regretted the words the moment they were out of her mouth; knew she had been goaded into making a mistake.

Good answer.

The paper wrote back, the reply almost mocking in its simplicity.

The world around Sigrid took on an unnatural stillness. The air had a heaviness to it, like that of an impending storm and she could feel a near electrical charge setting her silvery-gray hairs on end. Quickly her eyes darted around the room, looking for an out, a way to avoid whatever was coming. Seeing none she looked back down to the paper.

By your blood you are called.

She lifted her hands to tear the offending note, but her strength was suddenly insufficient for the task.

By your word you are bound.

“No!” She yelled in frustration, throwing the paper away from her; somehow it floated gently up to eye level, where she could easily see it continue.

To take up the Mantle.

“I take it back!” Sigrid cried to the uncaring magic.

That the Lost may be found.

Arise and Go Forth, Sigrid of Clan Hall

Grandmother Goddess.

It was like being struck by lightning, or rather what she assumed a lightning strike would feel like. Her entire body tensed, back arching as muscles spasmed and tightened, mouth opened in a silent scream while energy poured through her, scouring away her very being and leaving nothing more than a Sigrid shaped imprint where a woman used to be.

She was alive, she was dead, she was small as an atom yet incomprehensibly vast. Her mind could see the flows of time and fate, yet she was, at the same time, blind to all things. For a few moments in time her very being was a contradiction, a paradox pretending to be a person. Then whatever force had grabbed her packaged Sigrid Hall back down into her once mortal form and withdrew, leaving a much changed woman in its wake.

Physically she was the same. Six-foot five frame, slender from years of dance and gymnastics combined with good eating, though she had put on some weight in the last few years; it was hard to keep up at seventy. Silvery-gray hair, vivid blue eyes, a patrician nose that was slightly too long, and a face that had held up surprisingly well over the years.

Mentally though, she could feel herself connected to so much more. She could feel billions of threads of love connecting people all across the globe she’d grown up on as her new power manifested. There were over eight billion people on planet Earth, and so many of them were, or had, grandmothers. She knew, without a doubt that she could reach out and touch any one of those connections, learning all she needed or wanted to about them.

And now Sigrid, the time draws near.

Her eyes, which had become unfocused with wonder, snapped back to the changing parchment. There was a catch of course, there was always a catch.

You said “Anyone who needs it!” and I will hold you to that.

My people, the Goblins of Venitia, have long languished without the love and support one like you could supply. So I charge you, Grandmother Goddess. Be the Patron of Goblins. Save my people.

Sigrid let out a small sigh, and felt herself nod unwillingly. Whatever power had changed her still maintained its grip. She had claimed those who needed grandmothers as her own, and she had to abide by that claim. The sheet of paper glowed with a dark, silver-blue radiance and began to expand, its surface becoming dark and speckled with innumerable lights. Soon she was looking at a doorway into a starry night sky, one she felt compelled to step towards and into.

Unwillingly one foot moved forward, and then the other, and soon she was walking through the pane of altered reality, stepping into a narrow corridor of bent space. She continued to move forward, each step covering lightyears and piercing between dimensions. Step, step, step, until she was standing above a blue-green marble that swirled with patches of white. One more step and she found herself standing oh a hard dirt road before a small, run down shack.

It looked worse than the picture she’d received, and some time had obviously passed. The blackberry bushes that had been encroaching on it had begun to grow up its sides, and the roof had seen better years. A young goblin sat outside on a rickety stool, he was thin, enough so that she could see ribs, and his only concession to modesty was a pair of ratty pants that’d been hacked off at the knees. He scowled at her as one hand played with some form of bone charm he wore on a string around his neck.

“We ain’t got nothin for ya,” he said in a surprisingly low voice. “Gave it all to the last ‘tax’ collector who came. Not that I spect you need it, what with whatever fancy magic brought ya here.”

Sigrid opened her mouth to speak, then paused, there was something between the two of them, she could feel it. A thin line etched in the magic of the world; so frail and fragile she had almost missed it. She reached out to it instinctively, touching the gossamer cord. “Dear grammy Hall…” the words echoed off it.

“Skree,” she breathed out softly, in surprise. She had expected someone younger, the picture had been of a child. How much time had passed since that letter had been sent?

The goblin sat up straight, suspicion in his eyes. “Do I know ya lady? Think I’d remember some old bint who magicks herself everywhere.”

“No,” she responded. “We’ve never met.”

“Then I ask again, watcha doin here?” he said.

“But you did send me a letter once,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken.

“What are you babbling about I aint sent anyone any lett-” he cut off abruptly, eyes going slightly wide, then narrowing. “I sent that letter over ten years ago, you’re more than a little late,” he said accusatory.

“It was a long journey,” Sigrid said, unsure how else to reply.

“Whatever, it doesn’t matter, the kid who sent that letter grew up. Ya didn’t have to come all the way out here, and I guarantee you won’t find whatever you’re looking for. Just go back wherever ya came from, yeah? I hear grammies are nice and all, and I’m waitin on some not very nice men,” Skree explained with a dismissive wave.

As if on cue, the sound of footsteps could be heard on the hard packed dirt of the path that led to the small shack that, now that she turned around, she could see lay on the edge of a shanty town. There were three men approaching. Two very large, hulking, twins, with red hair, green eyes, and bluff faces, and a smaller, balding man who was less muscled and slightly plump. They paused as they saw Sigrid standing in the road and the pudgy man tipped an imaginary hat.

“‘Scuse me miss, we’ve got some business with Mister Skree there, iffn you wouldn’t mind standing aside?”

Sigrid blinked slowly and then stepped out of their way, she didn’t like where this was going, but didn’t see what she could do to stop the impending train wreck that was about to happen.

“Much obliged,” the pudgy person prattled. He then walked forward, taking the place Sigrid had occupied not long ago.