A Theoretical Novelty || Huba Huba
It had been three days since he’d found himself locked in Yubaba’s inn– the only thing separating him from the wicked woman a handful of walls and doors. She’d been oh so kind after she’d doused him–showed him to “his room” which was, of course, just another suite attached to her own. He couldn’t go out into the hallway. It was her quarters or his quarters. Her quarters. Or his quarters. And so he’d locked his door and hadn’t emerged. Not for three days.
She’d tried to woo him out. Servants came by with carts of food, wheeled in every morning, afternoon and evening. He knew when they were coming, and so like clock work, he was always seated as far from the door and the cart as possible, looking out the window, refusing to turn around. He heard Yubaba’s voice cooing his direction when she visited. Heard the sharp notes of that voice when she got impatient. But he had to give the witch credit– she always breathed deep and left him with whatever she’d brought, containing the temper he knew that she had– a temper that rivaled his own.
He hadn’t talked in three days either.
He didn’t touch the books in the room or anything else. He wandered in the space, slept, searched for solutions and for ghosts, but this place was more silent than the dead. It was an enchantment, keeping them out, keeping Hades in the world of the living. He was truly trapped. For three days, he thought the word and let it sink in. Trapped. Trapped. Trapped.
Then on the fourth day, as the afternoon peaked, he rang the stupid bell she’d given him and eyed the servant that came scampering in. “Tell Yubaba we’ll eat together tonight,” he commanded. “And that this– it’s a formal dinner,” he added.
So Yubaba wanted to talk contracts– then they’d talk contracts, as business people did. In suits. Over wine. He doled out his menu requests then opened the wardrobe, which had been decked out with some of the most ridiculous, expensive clothes he had ever seen. It made his lip curl to look at them, but he’d been wearing nothing but loungewear for three days (his sopping wet clothes had been taken from him when he’d left them to shower– a fucking calculated move. His phone had been fried clean too and was gone), and he wasn’t going to go to dinner in a robe. So he picked the cleanest suit–all black. It felt good to be in regular clothes again. He hated that it felt good.
He left ‘his quarters’ and watched the servants prepare the table. He looked calm, even bored. Composed. Strong. He had his plan, which was tenuous at best, but at least a plan.
And he wouldn’t show Yubaba how terrified he was.
