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Published by Associate Editor on March 15, 2016. This item is listed in Issue 29, Issue 29 Stories, Stories

Damsel in Distress

By Lauren Triola

One day my prince will come, and on that day…I’ll throttle him within an inch of his life! I’m the damsel in distress, damn it! I’m the curvaceous blonde who’s in trouble and needs rescuing! I’m trapped in a tower by a madman, the clock is ticking, and there’s a tear in my dress. He should have showed up hours ago! Where the hell is he?

◊ ◊ ◊

meadmugs“See, the way I figure it, you got a hero complex. You don’t need to go saving her just because she wants you to. She’s the one who’s gotten herself kidnapped. It’s her own fault, you know, let her figure it out!”

Davey certainly did make a lot of sense, especially after two mugs of mead. Why should Randolf go save her? Just because he was the prince and she was the princess didn’t mean he was her keeper. She could take care of herself. Who made up these rules about saving the damsel in distress anyway? If she was distressed, she should really learn to control herself; calm down a bit, do some yoga. He can’t go off and save her butt every time she gets in a little scrape. What about his needs?

“Davey,” Randolf slurred, “you’re right. She got herself into it, she can get herself out. More mead, barmaid!”

◊ ◊ ◊

Within the wicked depths of the Forest of Darkness, inside his iniquitous Castle of Dread, the dark wizard Lord Evilman drummed his fingers on his armrest.

Where was Randolf? Evilman had told him where the princess was, had practically given him a map because god knows that moron would never have gotten here on his own. He had given Randolf until midnight to show or he’d kill her, slowly, painfully.

Evilman looked up at the clock.

Where was he?

◊ ◊ ◊

Queen Moreen stared out her chamber window, biting her thumbnail. The door opened behind her, and she turned to see her husband, King Straus, enter the room.

She rushed to him. “Any news?”

Straus sadly shook his head and Moreen gave a silent sob. She had been pacing her room off and on ever since hearing the news of her daughter’s kidnapping. She was weary with worry but quite glad about the two pounds she had lost.

“There’s still time,” Straus assured her.

Moreen nodded. “I know, I know. But…Randolf will save her, won’t he?”

Straus wrapped Moreen in his arms. “Of course he will. It’s his princely duty. She’ll be just fine.” As long as that drunk got off his ass and sobered up long enough to know what was going on, the King thought but, wisely, did not tell his wife.

◊ ◊ ◊

“I love you, man,” Randolf said thickly, trying very hard to figure out why there were five Davey’s floating in front of him.

“You gotta lay off the mead, man,” Davey said as he grappled with what turned out to be his own leg. “I think we’re trashed, Randy. Better go home.”

“I can’t go home,” Randolf shouted, having lost control of the volume of his voice. “They think I’m saving the prinis—prancess—prinkass—whatever, you know, what’s-her-name.”

“The bar’s ’bout ta close, though,” Davey said.

“Yeah, well, I know a place,” Randolf yelled in what he thought was a conspiratorial whisper.

◊ ◊ ◊

I’ll boil him in oil, chop off his head, and display his body parts throughout the kingdom. That’ll show Prince Stupid. I bet he’s getting wasted right now.

Other lovely thoughts such as those went through the princess’s head as she paced her cell in the tallest tower of Lord Evilman’s castle. Occasionally she would add a rather violent gesture. At this point, she wasn’t even concerned with whatever dark destiny Evilman had in store for her. His role in all this felt secondary, really, despite him being the one who’d kidnapped her. He had always been nothing more than a distant figure of legend she had ignored in school, and honestly, he went down easy when kicked.

It was Randolf’s fault in her mind. He had mouthed off, said Evilman was all talk—a nonsense speech he often gave at random, usually followed by several sustained minutes of belching. So no, she didn’t really blame Evilman, or even fear him.

As for Randolf…

Her pink and frilly gown flowed out behind her as she practiced coming down on Randolf with a blunt and rusty ax.

◊ ◊ ◊

darkcastleEvilman paced his study, thinking. What if Randolf didn’t show? All the planning, the kidnapping, the rather nasty kick to the shins by a pair of pink and frilly shoes would all be for naught.

Then again, wouldn’t that mean he had won? But if there was no showdown between villain and hero, then he’s winning by default. That doesn’t prove Evilman’s superior to Randolf; that just proves Randolf was incompetent, which was hardly any news.

If Randolf didn’t show up, then what was the point? Why show his superiority to Randolf anyway? A shoe covered in horse manure was superior to Randolf. Why does Evilman need to challenge him? Why, because Randolf’s the prince? Big freaking deal! Why did Evilman even do this in the first place? What was there to be gained by kidnapping the princess?

Evilman rubbed his temples, a headache forming as panicky bubbles of anxiety boiled beneath his breastbone. Chewing his lip, Evilman strode toward the back wall of his study and pulled open a set of black curtains. Behind them was not a window but an oval mirror. It did not reflect Evilman’s ageless face. Instead, it showed a different man’s head: bald, strong-jawed, slightly transparent, and suspended among black swirling mist.

“Hi, Jeremy, nice to see you again. What’s on your mind?” the mirror asked in a calm, kind voice.

Evilman hugged himself, filled with guilt, rubbing his hands over his arms. “I’m having doubts about the plan.”

The mirror gave a kind smile. “Are you doubting the plan, or are you doubting yourself?”

“I don’t know. I’m so confused. People expect this kind of thing from me, because of my name, you know. But all I want to do is work in my garden and do interior decorating. What should I do, Mirror?”

“You shouldn’t search for answers from outside voices but from your own, inner voice. What is your inner voice telling you, Jeremy?”

“That I should take a bubble bath.”

“Good. Then that is what you should do. And if you ever doubt yourself again, I want you to say to yourself ‘I am Jeremy, and I am in control of my own life’.”

◊ ◊ ◊

“More mead, barmaid!” cried the prince as he entered the bar.

Randolf and Davey staggered over to a table and collapsed onto some chairs. About five, actually.

“See…this bar…stays open…later,” explained Randolf, trying very hard to recall the English language. “Mead more, barmaid!”

◊ ◊ ◊

“Randolf is a moron, a drunk, a cad, and he will never save the princess unless she’s being held prisoner in a wine cellar!”

“Come now, King Jonas,” said King Straus. “You’re talking about your son.”

“That’s how he knows,” remarked Jonas’s wife, Queen Rubella, as she adjusted her lipstick in a hand mirror.

Queen Moreen paused her pacing of the chamber. “But, Rubella—”

“Queen Rubella.”

Moreen rolled her eyes. Oh, yes, now she remembered why they never invited Randolf’s family over for dinner anymore. If he hadn’t been the only prince within reasonable traveling distance… “My apologies, Queen Rubella. But as I was saying, it is your son’s duty as prince to respond to any and all damsel in distress situations involving his betrothed. It is his role. Are you saying he will ignore all that? Will he not fulfill his rightful responsibility and save my daughter?”

Queen Rubella finished applying a fresh coat of lipstick and popped her lips, eyes on her reflection. “Not a chance in hell, dearie.”

◊ ◊ ◊

Does he really expect me to sit and wait for him? I’ve gotten into trouble, that’s my job, now where is he to do his? Don’t those bimbos from the fairy tales ever get annoyed with their princes swaggering in at the last minute? Can’t he ever come before she’s just about to die? Or how about preventing the whole thing altogether? Why can’t the damsel ever save herself? And then maybe get a job as an interior decorator…

Stuck in a tower? Seriously? She never thought she’d be one of those princesses. Yet here she was. The cliché to end all clichés. All that was missing was a Prince Charming.

Too bad she didn’t know one.

Randolf was a betrothal of convenience, though at the moment it didn’t feel particularly convenient. She was a princess and so it was her role to be married to a prince. It didn’t matter that she cared less about him than for the bugs she fed her pet tarantula (she had demanded an exotic pet for her eighth birthday, like a unicorn or tiger or something—her father had misunderstood). And she had far better things to do than eat apples, prick her finger, sell her voice, or go to balls in vermin-assisted coaches like what all the other princesses were doing. Not that there was anything wrong with those life choices, of course. Princesses could do whatever they wanted, whether it involved wielding swords or singing songs. She just wasn’t the sort to do either. All she wanted was to have a night in, maybe artfully arrange the rushes or invent the valance, all without having to find a true love or some such ridiculous thing. Where was the harm in that? She didn’t need, nor want, the adventure or near-death experiences.

Also, did she smell potpourri?

◊ ◊ ◊

Lord Evilman looked toward the clock then took a deep breath. “This is it. You told Randolf that if he didn’t come you would kill the princess. If you don’t carry out that threat then no one will ever believe you again. They’ll think you’ve gone soft. You can do this. I am Jeremy, and I am in control of my own life.”

“That’s the ticket,” the mirror said with an encouraging smile.

Evilman hesitated only a moment before heading toward the stairs to his tallest tower. Torches lined the dark winding staircase, the flames flickering as he passed. And flickering again when he briefly turned back. And then once more after he gave himself a pep talk and determinedly strode to the highest room, with only occasional pauses to hyperventilate.

He was outside the princess’s door now. He could hear her pacing the stone floor. Fumbling only slightly, he pulled out the key and unlocked the door.

◊ ◊ ◊

Queen Moreen stared, mouth slightly open, as Queen Rubella continued to reapply her lipstick. Despite the fact that red looked especially good on her and matched the highlights in her perfectly coiffed bouffant, Moreen very much wanted to jab it into Rubella’s eye socket.

“Excuse me, but did you just say there was ‘no chance in hell’ Prince Randolf—your son and leader of your army—will save my daughter from certain death?” Moreen asked.

Rubella rolled her eyes. “Oh, the army thing is just an honorary position. Jonas’s father did the same thing when he was a boy. I mean, come on, can you honestly see either one of them wielding a sword without chopping off their head or, god forbid, something important?”

“I’m right here,” Jonas said through clenched teeth.

Rubella adjusted her eyeliner. “Yes, so you are.”

“Let me get this straight,” Moreen said, resuming her pacing (if she kept at it, she might go down a whole size). “Your son, who promised to love and protect our daughter even in the face of the darkest evil, who swore in front of the Fairy Godmothers themselves that he would fight an actual fire-breathing dragon if need be to save her, is not going to rescue her from Lord Evilman, the most dreaded sorcerer this side of the Great Mountains? And he’s forgoing his duty because…?”

“Because he lied his ass off so he could get the free wine at the reception. And if your precious Fairy Godmothers hadn’t been three sheets to the wind themselves, they would have noticed.”

“But—but—but Rubella—”

“Queen Rubella.”

Moreen clenched her fists, itching to cram Rubella’s hand mirror the same place as her lipstick. “Come now, can’t we drop the royal titles? We’re going to be in-laws pretty soon.”

King Jonas snorted, slouching in his chair. “Pretty soon your daughter’s going to be the key ingredient in one of Lord Evilman’s potions. We just told you, Randolf will never save Princess What’s-Her-Face.”

Moreen turned her glare to Jonas. “My daughter is not Princess What’s-Her-Face! Her name is—”

“It doesn’t matter. Randolf won’t save her unless her name’s Guinness.”

“So my daughter is going to die?” Moreen cried.

“Nonsense,” King Straus piped up. “Evil guys are always kidnapping damsels, but killing them is always an empty threat.”

“We don’t know that. The prince always saves the princess.”

“Oh, right.” Straus tapped a finger to his lip in thought. “Then yes, yes she is going to die.”

◊ ◊ ◊

“More mead, barmaid!”

Ginny had had just about enough of the two drunks in the corner of the tavern. They’d come in sloshed and now they were thoroughly plastered. Despite her frustration, she shuffled off behind the bar to retrieve their requested refreshment then served them with a smile.

Five minutes later, she did the same.

And another five after that. And another.

“Maid more, barmead!”

This time, Ginny slammed the two flagons onto the table.

“Here’s your damn mead! When you finish it, get out! We’re closing!” Ginny turned to leave but a hand clutched her arm.

“Wha’ did you say?” slurred the more nicely dressed of the two boozehounds.

“I said this is your last round, get out!”

“Tha’s not wha’ you said before,” the second one said.

Ginny sighed. “It’s the gist. And I mean it, too. If you don’t leave in five minutes, I’ll get the bartender to toss you out.” Ginny wrenched her arm free of the rummy’s grasp. “And don’t touch me again, you pig!”

“Hey!” The nicer dressed one got shakily to his feet. “You can’ talk dat way to me! Do you know who I am?”

“No, so if you forgot, I can’t help you.”

“I’m the prince!”

Ginny paused. She looked him up and down. “Prince Randolf, eh? Who cares?”

“Who cares? You should! I could make things very diff’cult for you—”

“You already are making things difficult for me! Those taxes you’ve proposed to institute after you marry the princess and become king are just ridiculous. I can barely get by with the current ones, and now you want to take more?”

“I’m the prince—”

“Yes, we’ve established that. But just because you’re the prince doesn’t mean I have to like you. I’m not gonna curtsey to the Ass Who Would Be King. Now, get out!”

“No!”

“Then I’ll get the bartender to kick you out!”

“I’d like to see him try!”

◊ ◊ ◊

As Randolf and Davey struggled, both nursing black eyes and strained wrists, to pull themselves off the ground, Davey slurred, “Maybe we should’ve left when she told us to.”

Randolf, too drunk for this, rolled over several times in the dirt before remembering how legs worked. “I thought I could take him, but he was bigger than expected.”

Davey dragged himself upright with the help of someone’s horse. Or at least he thought it was a horse. “So, where to now?”

Randolf shrugged then noticed a building across the street. “Hey, look, a bar! I could use a drink.”

◊ ◊ ◊

It’s almost midnight, and hark! What’s that galloping away over yonder? Could it be? Yes! It’s the last of my fucks!

The princess stared out the tower window. Evilman could throw his worst spells at her right now and she wouldn’t care, not with the wrath boiling beneath her skin. And she would boil Randolf if she could. At this point, she didn’t even care where he was. She wasn’t going to wait for him anymore. She was done playing this part. He wasn’t coming and she didn’t feel the least bit sad or disappointed.

She was in control of her own life for once, gods damn it.

Let Evilman come for her. She could face him. It couldn’t be worse than the awkward conversations she’d endured during dinners with Randolf’s parents. Now those were painful.

How bad could it be? What was the worst Evilman could do? And where did he get those curtains? That lace was just lovely…

A lock clicked behind her. The princess turned to see the door creak open.

◊ ◊ ◊

Evilman strode determinedly into the darkened room atop his tallest tower, conjuring a circle of fire to line the walls as he moved and shifting the lighting to a vivid green (for mood). The princess, arms crossed, stood in the middle of the room and watched as he stalked toward her.

“It is time for your end, my dear,” Evilman said, throwing out his arms in a grandly sinister gesture and putting on the dramatic voice that he’d learned at theater camp. “Your prince is not coming to save you. You will tremble with fear at what death I have in store for you.”

The princess continued to stare at Evilman. “No.”

There was a pause as Evilman tried to process what just happened. “No?”

“No,” the princess repeated.

“No to what?”

“To everything. I’m not going to tremble with fear, I’m not going to wait for my prince to come, and I’m not going to die.”

“You’re not?”

“No.”

Evilman, arms still held out in what was quickly becoming a not-so-grand gesture, blinked. “Uh…”

Maybe he needed more fire. Igniting the very ceiling with black-gold flames, he put on the maniacal grin he’d practiced in the mirror all morning and growled, “But you will.”

The princess yawned and pulled her dress away from the flames. “Nope.”

Spiders? People were scared of spiders, right? Or bats…? Thinking fast, Evilman conjured an army of spider-bat hybrids that crawled across the floor, carpeting it in a writhing black mass of eight-legged, winged beasts, all crawling straight toward the princess.

“Prepare for your doom!”

The princess, instead of cowering in fear, picked up one of the spider-bats and scratched it behind the ear. It purred.

“Ah, geez, don’t pet the monsters,” Evilman sighed, running a hand down his face. “I mean, DOOM—”

“Look, I see what you’re doing here, but none of this is actually lethal, so if all you’ve got are fancy parlor tricks, then I’m going to head out. I’ve got a prince to maim.”

“But—”

“But nothing, pal.”

I am Jeremy, and I am in control of my own life. “I will kill you…?” Evilman said, but even to him it sounded like a question.

“Hmmm, no.”

“But—”

“No.”

Evilman glared at the princess then burst into tears.

◊ ◊ ◊

The clock struck half an hour to midnight. Queen Moreen was showing the utmost restraint by not beating Rubella and Jonas to death with their own arms.

“We are running out of time!” she screamed, stomping her foot. “Where the hell is your son?”

“Moreen, please!” King Straus said, shifting awkwardly in his chair. “Don’t yell at our guests.”

“How can you stand by and let our daughter be murdered by a madman?” Moreen demanded of her husband.

“I don’t want Evilman to kill our daughter, but that doesn’t mean we should be rude.”

Moreen stormed across the room and grabbed him by his shoulders. “If you don’t want her to die then do something!”

“Come now, you know perfectly well that as king it’s my obligation to be ineffectual. It’s Prince Randolf’s job—”

“How many times do we have to tell you?” King Jonas said, picking lint off his velvet doublet. “Randolf isn’t going to save her. I bet he’s drunk right now, probably at some bar with that friend of his, Davey.”

Moreen jabbed her finger at Jonas. “See! Randolf has broken his vow and refuses to play his part. It is up to us now to fix this. Bring me a horse!” Moreen shouted to the servant bringing more wine to Jonas and Rubella. “I’ll save her myself.”

“Whoa, whoa.” Straus stood up, brow furrowed. “The queen and the princess in the hands of Lord Evilman? That certainly won’t end well. No, no, that just won’t do.” Straus straightened his purple robes and cleared his throat. “I will save my daughter.”

“Thank you,” Moreen sighed.

“And when I come back, I’ll hunt Randolf down and shove my foot up his—”

“Excuse me,” Rubella snapped. “My son might be a useless, drunken idiot, but he is not yours to punish.”

“Let King Straus kill him, I don’t care,” Jonas said, waving his hand vaguely as if pushing the issue aside and increasing his slouch.

Rubella’s jaw dropped. “Jonas! Don’t you care about our son?”

“Weren’t you just saying he’s a useless, drunken idiot?”

“Yes, but he’s my son and I’m supposed to forgive him for those things.”

Jonas suddenly leapt up from his chair, pointing violently at Rubella. “That’s why I didn’t want to marry you! You always overlook things like that. If you ran the kingdom, you would have handed it over to the barbarians after they sent you that severed head as a gift!”

“It’s the thought that counts!” Rubella cried, jumping to her feet too. “And that’s why I didn’t want to marry you! You’re completely insensitive and haven’t a care for anyone besides yourself! If you hadn’t knocked me up then our parents would never had made us marry and I would be better off!”

“So would I!”

Moreen shifted uncomfortably. “Do you think we should leave?” she whispered to Straus.

“No, no, this is good stuff,” Straus whispered back. “No wonder Randolf’s so screwed up.”

◊ ◊ ◊

The princess awkwardly patted the somewhat greasy hair of Lord Evilman as he cried into her shoulder. Of all the scenarios she had considered during her waiting, this one had never occurred.

“Don’t cry,” she said. “It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not! I can’t do anything right!” Evilman howled in despair and continued to cry on the princess’s shoulder.

“No, that’s—that’s not true. The fire was quite, um, impressive… You’re very, uh, terrifying—”

“I don’t want to be terrifying! I never wanted that, but I’ve never been able to do what I’ve wanted. I always have to be ‘the bad guy’.”

“You don’t have to be the bad guy,” the princess said.

“Yes, I do. My parents made me. They never listened. They never loved me. And all I wanted was to be loved!” Evilman wailed again and sobbed even louder.

◊ ◊ ◊

“Horses! Get the horses!”

“We have to save my daughter!”

“Magenta doesn’t go with everything, Rubella!”

The servants rushed about the castle courtyard, trying to make sense of the shouting, deciphering what was an order and what was an insult.

Waiting for his horse, King Straus strode toward the guards standing at the gate. “Gather the men! We ride to Evilman’s castle immediately.”

Queen Moreen nodded behind him. “Bring our daughter home, men.”

“How can you call our dinner conversations communicating?” Queen Rubella demanded of King Jonas as they trailed behind. “All you ever say to me is ‘Pass the mead’! No wonder Randolf is a drunk!”

“Where the hell is the damn messenger?” Jonas said, staring anywhere but at his wife. “I refuse to listen to this defamation another minute without my lawyer.”

“Yes, god forbid you hear something that hurts your feelings—oh wait, you don’t have any!”

Moreen side-eyed Rubella and Jonas. She leaned in close to the captain of the guard. “If they accidentally get hit by a stray arrow, I won’t be upset.”

◊ ◊ ◊

The princess’s shoulder was now thoroughly soaked.

“And then when I joined the ballet,” Evilman said, sniffing, “the other kids made fun of me!” Another wave of tears started to fall. “I never got to make my own choices after that. My dad told me I had to act like a man, and my mom said I should become a sorcerer, but all I ever wanted to do was interior decorating!”

“Interior decorating?” the princess said.

“Yes,” sobbed Evilman. “Why, are you going to make fun of me, too?”

“No, I love interior decorating.”

Suddenly, the crying stopped. Evilman looked up at her and wiped away his tears on his black velvet sleeve. He sniffed and said, “Princess, would you like to look at fabric swatches with me?”

◊ ◊ ◊

“More mead, barmaid!”

Randolf tried to steady himself in his chair. By the time the mead arrived, he had established that it was in fact the room that was spinning, not him.

“This isn’t the nicest bar,” he commented.

“It’s too dark,” Davey said.

Randolf pulled Davey’s head off the table.

“That’s better,” Davey said.

Randolf let go and Davey fell forward once more.

Something hazy entered the spinning vortex off to Randolf’s right. “Are you boys feeling well?”

“WHAT DID YOU CALL ME?” Randolf demanded.

“Uh…I asked if you were well…?”

“Oh, yes, we’re fine,” Randolf slurred toward the spinning haziness. “Why’d you ask?”

“Well,” said the haziness, “it’s just that you’re covered in dirt and you called me a barmaid.”

Randolf tried very hard to focus on the haze speaking to him, but too many people swam before him. It took awhile before Randolf realized they were all the same person.

“What’s wrong with calling you barmaid? You did bring us our mead.”

“Yes,” said the haze-person slowly, “and that is my job, it’s just that I’m a man.”

Randolf squinted hard but the haze-person spun too rapidly to focus. “Oh.”

“Good for you,” Davey told the floor.

The haze shifted its round thing into an arch. “Who are you guys, anyway?”

Randolf puffed out his chest importantly. “I’m Prince Randolf, and this is my associate, Davey.”

“Your associate?”

“He accompanies me on important excursions and offers counsel.”

“So, your drinking buddy.”

“Exactly.”

The speaking haze swirled slightly to the left. “Aren’t you supposed to be saving the princess? News of her kidnapping is all over the kingdom.”

Randolf leaned back in his chair, affronted, but almost fell backwards. Gripping the table, he glared at the swirling haze, which had just grown a beard. “I’m the prince! You can’t tell me what to do!”

“Sorry.” The haze put up the largest hands in the universe. “It’s just that it’s your job, and I think you should do what is expected of you. I always do my job, even if I don’t like it.”

“What, you think you’re better than me?”

“No, I’m just giving my opinion.”

“Damn straight!” Randolf shouted and passed out onto the table.

◊ ◊ ◊

The castle courtyard bustled with activity as horses were prepared to ride and soldiers were prepared to fight.

“You have to hurry!” Queen Moreen said. “It may already be too late.”

“Don’t worry, my dear, we’re almost ready,” King Straus assured her as he settled onto his horse. Moments later, the rest of the rescue party had mounted their steeds. Straus signaled his men to follow him, waved good-bye to his wife, kicked his horse into a canter, and rode off. The rescue party waved good-bye to Moreen, kicked their horses, and sped after Straus.

“Bring her home safe!” cried Moreen, feeling somewhat empty at not being able to go as well.

“Oh, shut up, Moreen,” Queen Rubella snapped.

Moreen’s back went ramrod straight. She turned coldly to where Rubella was slouching against a pillar, awaiting the return of the messenger with news from her lawyers. “Queen Moreen.”

Rubella returned Moreen’s look. “What happened to ‘can’t we drop the royal titles’?” she sneered.

“I’ve changed my mind about that,” Moreen said. “And about you. You are no longer welcome here. And I don’t just mean this castle—the whole kingdom! Collect your husband and son and leave!”

“Oh, we were just about to!” snapped Rubella. “By the way, you aren’t welcome in my kingdom either!”

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

Rubella stormed off, King Jonas following behind saying, “Technically it’s my kingdom,” to which Rubella replied, “We’ll see what the lawyers have to say.”

◊ ◊ ◊

Evilman had led the princess to the deepest, darkest recesses of his castle, aka his sewing room. It was actually rather bright and airy ever since he’d put in that skylight to the Eternal-Sun realm, and it had the best light for needlepoint.

Evilman dug through one of his fabric trunks and held up a heavily used bolt of material for the princess to see. “Am I crazy or does paisley go with everything?”

“Jeremy, if you’re crazy, then I’m completely insane.”

Evilman and the princess giggled.

“Oh, Princess, I just bought a new fabric I want to show you, be right back.”

Evilman scurried off to his study, humming.

He opened an antique wooden trunk by the fireplace and pulled out a bolt of deep purple velvet. He was about to go back to his sewing room when a voice said, “So, did you do it?”

Evilman jumped. “Wha—oh, Mirror, hi. I almost forgot about you.”

The mirror smiled slightly, like he was being kind and understanding, but it came off more as a wince.

“Well, Jeremy, did you go through with it?”

Evilman shifted awkwardly, hugging the bolt of velvet closer. “Oh…well…no. But that doesn’t matter anymore. The diabolical madman who kidnaps and kills princesses isn’t me, and I know that now. The princess and I are friends, and a friend is all I ever really wanted. I’m so happy now, Mirror, and I’d like to thank you for all your help.”

The mirror frowned and sighed. “Jeremy, Jeremy, did you let her talk you out of it?”

“What? No, Mirror, that’s not it at all—”

“Jeremy, you always do this, you never stay your ground. You have to stand up for yourself and not let anyone get in your way.”

“But, Mirror, I don’t want to kill the princess. And it’s not because I’ve lost my nerve, but because I’ve realized I don’t need to live up to my parents’ dream of me being an evil overlord. I need to live my life the way I want to. And the princess helped me see that.”

The mirror shook his head. “You’re letting her control you. She’s become like your mother, always telling you what to do, and you’re letting her.”

“No, I’m not!” cried Evilman. “She’s my friend—”

“Jeremy, listen, I’m only worried about you—”

“No! She’s my friend, and that’s that! I don’t have to listen to you anymore! And don’t expect to be paid for saying those—those things!”

Evilman stormed out the room, clutching his purple velvet.

The mirror stared after him, unnerved. “I can’t believe, after all these years, after all I’ve done for him…he’s not going to pay me. All my hard work, helping him through his pain, and nothing, not a cent! Glass cleaner isn’t free, you know!”

◊ ◊ ◊

The horses galloped through the village, kicking up dirt along the main road. King Straus kept his lead and tried to push his horse harder. Up ahead, the door of a thatched building opened, and two limp figures were thrown into the king’s path. He reared his horse and shouted for his men to halt.

Straus turned to the man standing in the doorway. “What are you doing? Don’t you realize those men could have been trampled?”

“Yes,” the man in the doorway replied, looking disappointed, and retreated back inside.

Confused, Straus stared down at the two prone figures. His eyes widened.

“RANDOLF!”

One of the bodies stirred slightly and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “I don’t wanna go to school today, Mom.”

“Randolf, you imbecile, I wish I hadn’t slowed down!”

“Wha-wha—” Randolf tried to focus on Straus. “Daddy?”

“I’m not your father! The wedding’s been called off!”

“Wha—?” Randolf blinked slowly, head tilted like a dog baffled by where his ball went. “Bu-but why?”

“Because you didn’t do your duty!”

The other figure on the ground giggled, muttering, “Doodie.”

“So?” Randolf slurred. “I can safe da prisness anuhder day.”

“No, you can’t!” King Straus roared. “Because I’m going to save her, and then I’m going to throw you out of my kingdom for good!” With that, Straus signaled to his men and galloped onward with even greater speed than before.

After the dust settled, Randolf and Davey got shakily to their feet.

“Well, that was rude,” Randolf remarked.

“How did we get out here?” Davey asked, looking around.

“We can worry about that later, Davey man, ’cause we got a job to do.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m gonna save the prin’is before they can. That’ll show King Rod-Up-His-Butt. C’mon, Davey.”

◊ ◊ ◊

With King Straus now on his way toward a no doubt dangerous showdown with Lord Evilman, Queen Moreen had resumed pacing her room with worry for her family and periodical admiration of her slimmer figure in the mirror as she passed. Close to tears with thoughts of her precious daughter and dear husband, she was about to try modeling an old dress she hadn’t fit in for years when the door opened.

Moreen glanced over to see who it was then turned stiffly back to her mirror. “Knock, please.”

“Moreen—”

“Queen Moreen.”

Rubella sighed. “I just need someone to talk to.”

“I thought you were talking to your lawyers.”

“They haven’t arrived yet.” Rubella crossed her arms, wrinkling her nose at the décor. “Is that a pink ottoman? Yikes. Anyway, I’ve been thinking—”

“Amazing,” Moreen muttered, gaze firmly on the mirror as she tried not to glance at Rubella’s reflection in the corner.

“—is divorce the right thing to do? I mean, I don’t care for Jonas, and I’d love to be rid of him, but what kind of effect will it have on Randolf?”

“Randolf’s a grown boy, he can take care of himself.”

Rubella raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really. What about right now?”

“I said he can take care of himself, not others.”

Rubella sighed more harshly, almost a growl. “Come on, Moreen! You’ve stuck with Straus despite that awful beard he grew, so you know how it is. Seriously, what should I do?”

“Seriously? Well, seriously, I think you should leave my kingdom, and then I seriously don’t care what you do afterwards.”

Rubella’s eyes flashed with anger. “Fine!”

“Fine!”

Rubella stormed out of the chamber and slammed the door behind her. Moreen breathed heavily, trying to calm down so as not to order Rubella’s execution. After a moment, she began her pacing, worrying, and modeling again.

◊ ◊ ◊

“‘Cuse me, you know where da rinses is?”

“Get out of my yard.”

The inn door slammed rather painfully into Randolf’s face. He fell over backwards and stayed there for a moment, wondering how he got there. Eventually, he staggered to his feet and leaned heavily against Davey, who leaned heavily against the wall of the inn to which they had stumbled.

“No one knows where the prince is,” Randolf mumbled.

“You’re the prince, man,” Davey slurred.

“Oh, thanks Davey, now let’s go to the bar.”

“No, Randy, we weren’t looking for you, we were looking for the princess.”

“That’s me.”

“No, you’re the male princess, we’re looking for the one with boobs.”

“Oh. Let’s see if anyone at this inn’s seen her.”

◊ ◊ ◊

This is so much fun! With all the evil-lord-you-will-tremble-before-me-and-despair stuff, I never imagined that Jeremy could be such a nice guy. I’m glad Randolf didn’t save me. I just hope that jackass doesn’t show up now—who knows what drunken, idiotic thing he might do.

The princess shuddered at the thought but went back to humming happily and sifting through Lord Evilman’s exquisite fabric collection.

◊ ◊ ◊

Evilman was still a little huffy when he reentered his sewing room with the purple velvet. He sat down on a chintz pouf, clutching the bolt of fabric to him, staring at the opposite wall.

The princess glanced up and frowned. “Jeremy, are you all right?”

“Yes,” he replied in an unnaturally high voice, his gaze not even shifting toward her.

The princess furrowed her brow. “Jeremy, please, you can trust me. What’s the matter?”

Evilman chewed his lip. “My mirror wants me to kill you.”

“Your…mirror?”

“Yes, it says I’m not standing up for myself and I’m allowing you to control me.”

“Your mirror?”

“It told me that you’ve become like my mother—”

“Your mirror?”

“Yes, my magic mirror.”

“Oooooh,” the princess said. “Magic mirror. That makes more sense.” She scratched her head. “At least, I think. So, your mirror says that you should kill me to prove that you are independent and in control of your own life.”

Evilman nodded sadly, like a reprimanded child. “Yes, exactly.”

“But you don’t want to kill me.”

“Of course not!” He finally turned to look at her, eyes wide. “You’re my best friend.”

“Awww.” She grinned, flattered. “But anyway, so you don’t want to kill me, but he—it—whatever—wants you to in order to prove independence. Well, it sounds to me like doing what you don’t want to do just because someone told you to isn’t very independent at all.”

Evilman paused for a moment in thought. “You’re right!” He put down the purple velvet, stood up, and opened the door. “Princess, follow me, please. I have some business to attend to.”

◊ ◊ ◊

King Straus looked around the Forest of Darkness for some recognizable landmark.

“I’ve never been this far into the forest before,” he said. “Have any of you?”

The men in the search party shook their heads.

“Well,” Straus said slowly, trying to think. “If I remember correctly…” He trailed off, not entirely sure what he was saying. He’d been told long ago about how the forest was laid out, but since he never used it, just like with algebra, the knowledge had long slipped away.

“Damn, why didn’t I bring a map?” he muttered. Then he said, more loudly, “Let us press onward, men! Evilman’s in here somewhere.” Or at least, he really, really hoped so. Wasn’t there a magic tree or something…?

◊ ◊ ◊

Queen Moreen wandered the halls morosely, hoping to fit into a size six she had seen at a boutique in the village. She fretted about her daughter, prayed for her husband to find her, and considered fun and painful ways to torture Prince Randolf.

A sudden outburst of voices in the courtyard distracted her from her musings. Moreen ran outside to see what the fuss was all about.

King Jonas was fuming, yelling at no one in particular. “WHERE ARE THE DAMN LAWYERS?”

“Stop shouting!” Queen Rubella snapped, her carefully arranged hair coming loose.

“Quit telling me what to do, woman!”

“Don’t talk to me like that!”

“Don’t talk to me at all!”

“Jonas! Rubella!” Moreen cried. “Calm yourselves!”

Jonas rounded on her. “This is none of your business!”

Moreen crossed her arms. Oh, she was so done with them. “I thought I told you two to get out.”

“We’re waiting for our lawyers,” Rubella said, chin high in the air.

“Wait for them in your own kingdom. I’ve had enough of you two sniping at each other.”

Rubella breathed slowly and loudly through her nose, nostrils flaring like an angry bull’s, while Jonas turned from red to purple and looked as if he were about to have an aneurysm.

“It’s your fault!” he suddenly screamed.

“What?” Moreen asked, taken aback.

“You!” He jabbed his finger at her “You and your husband made us get a divorce. It’s your fault!”

“Oh, please.” Moreen waved her hand in exasperation. “Don’t try to blame this on us. You two have obviously had marital problems for a long time—”

“I’m suing!” Jonas shouted, pointing at Moreen ever more emphatically.

“Suing?”

“Yes, suing you and your husband. And your daughter!”

Moreen gaped. “My daughter? What does she have to do with any of this?”

“If she hadn’t gotten herself kidnapped then none of this would have happened, and we would never have broken up!”

“Don’t you dare blame my daughter! She isn’t responsible for any of this—”

“Suing!” Jonas yelled again.

Rubella rolled her eyes. “Good luck with that. The princess is probably dead anyway.”

Now Moreen turned on Rubella. “My daughter is not dead!”

“You don’t know that,” Rubella said, smirking.

Moreen shook so hard she thought she might explode. “That’s it! I’ve had enough of this waiting and tension and you! I’ll save my daughter myself! Bring me a horse!”

◊ ◊ ◊

“Knock, knock!”

“Who’s there?”

Randolf and Davey collapsed laughing at their joke and completely forgot that they had actually knocked on someone’s door.

The door opened. “Hello—oh god, it’s you two.”

“Hi, I’m Prince Dandalf and this is Ravey—”

“Get off my lawn before I shove a fire poker up your ass.”

Randolf tried and failed to focus properly on the person before him.

Davey, however, pointed, slack jawed. “Beermead!”

Ginny knocked her head against the doorjamb in annoyance. “That’s not even a word! How many bars did you go to after the bartender threw you out?”

“Hey,” Randolf slurred, realization dawning finally, “you’re that lady—”

“And you’re Drunktard and Associate.”

Davey grinned, eyes unfocused. “I’m an associate,” he said proudly.

“Ginny, is everything all right? Who’s at the door?” asked someone from within the cottage. A large and handsome man appeared in the doorway, staring down at Randolf and Davey, who shrunk away in recognition.

“It’s big guy,” Randolf squeaked.

“Oh, did I forget to mention?” Ginny said, faking realization. “The bartender is also my husband, Daniel. We own that bar, which you will never ever be allowed back into. Unless you want to get thrown out on your asses again,” Ginny added in gleeful remembrance.

“They don’t need to be at the bar for me to knock them on their asses again,” Daniel said, rolling up his sleeves.

Davey held up his hands. “Hey, hey, man, we didn’t know you two lived here. We’re jus’ lookin’ fer the princess—”

“About time,” Ginny muttered.

“But we don’t know how to get to Evilman’s castle.”

“Hmm…” Ginny put a finger to her lip in thought. “Well, since helping you will get you away from me, I could give you directions. I’ve passed by there on a delivery before. The dark elves sure love their spritzer. It’s all right, Daniel, you can go back in.”

Daniel the bartender walked away, eyeing Randolf and Davey.

Ginny eyed Randolf and Davey too, but then she got down to business. “I’ll tell you a shortcut so you might possibly get there in time. Now, you head straight into the creepy Forest of Darkness on the Black Path and take a turn by the evil-looking dead tree…”

After Ginny had sent the two drunktards on their way, she headed back inside. Daniel sat in a chair, reading a book.

“So, do you think they’ll save her?” he asked.

“I doubt it,” Ginny said. “But I told them the shortcut so they may have a chance, if they don’t pass out before they get there.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow. “The shortcut?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Did you tell them about the troll?”

Ginny thought back a moment. “No…”

“But you know how angry he gets when people trespass on his bridge… Murderously angry.”

“You’re right,” Ginny said slowly. “I forgot to tell them about that… Well, I’m gonna go take a bath.”

◊ ◊ ◊

Queen Moreen tucked a map to Lord Evilman’s castle into her pocket then swung herself onto her horse.

King Jonas stormed out of the castle and ran toward her. “I’m not finished with you!”

Moreen tossed her hair out of her face. “You want to sue me, fine. But I’m saving my daughter first.”

“Fine, go! But then I’m suing.”

“Fine. Then I’m suing you!”

“Fine—no. Wait!” Jonas grabbed hold of Moreen’s bridle before she could gallop off. “You can’t sue me.”

“Yes, I can,” Moreen said. “Your son failed to come through with his end of the deal, so I have the right to sue him. But since his money is your money, I’ll just sue you.”

Jonas mouthed noiselessly at her for a moment. “Very well,” he said finally, slowly, as if it pained him. “I’ll save her.”

Moreen burst out laughing. “You’re not going to save her.”

“Yes, I will,” Jonas said stiffly. “If I save her and complete Randolf’s end of the deal, then you can’t sue.”

“Yes I can, because I’ll get there first.”

“No, I will.”

“You idiot, why do you want to save the bimbo?” Rubella asked Jonas.

“My daughter is not a bimbo!” Furious, Moreen broke free from Jonas’ grip and galloped into the distance.

“Rubella!” Jonas whipped around to glare at his wife. “She’s going to sue me!”

Rubella rolled her eyes. “And I should care?”

Jonas gritted his teeth. “If she takes all my money, there won’t be much left for you.”

Rubella went as white as snow. “Bring the horses! We have to save the princess!”

◊ ◊ ◊

Evilman led the princess out of the sewing room and through the entrance hall, which acted as the main thoroughfare to the many rooms on the ground floor. He opened one of the doors lining the hall and entered another room—his study.

He showed her to the back wall, where the black curtains still lay open, and nervously cleared his throat. “Princess, this is the mirror. Mirror, this is the princess.”

The face in the mirror put on a small but kind smile. “Nice to meet you, Princess.”

“Likewise,” she said, staring in awe. “I’ve never seen a magic mirror before.”

“And I’ve never seen a princess before.” His smile grew strained. “So, Jeremy, have you calmed down?”

“Yes, I have.”

“And have you thought about…what we discussed earlier?”

“Yes, I have,” Evilman said, nodding. “You’re fired.”

“Good—what?”

“I’m sorry,” Evilman said, twisting his hands. “You’ve been a great help through a dark time, but you’re right, I need to think for myself and not let anyone control me. I’m afraid I have to let you go. You can remain here until you’ve found a new place to stay—”

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing.” The mirror was no longer smiling. “Jeremy, you need me. There are still so many things you need help with—”

“I know, Mirror, but I need to be on my own to think for myself. I’m grateful for your help, though, I want you to remember that.”

“What about her?” The mirror jutted his chin toward the princess. “Are you her getting rid of her?”

“No, she’s my friend—”

“I’m your friend. I’m trying to help you. You’re letting her control—”

“No, I’m finally doing what I want to do, I’m finally who I want to be—”

“But Jeremy—”

“I’m sorry, Mirror. It’s over.”

◊ ◊ ◊

Randolf tripped over a tree root. Or what he thought was a tree root. “Man, it’s dark in here.”

“Yeah,” Davey said, or the black shadow stumbling along beside him that he was pretty sure was Davey. “I wonder if that’s why they call it the Forest of Darkness.”

Randolf thought about this for a moment and then forgot what he was trying to think about.

“Hey, is that the bridge she mentioned?” Davey asked, pointing a wavering finger at something dark and evil up ahead.

“Yeah, I think that’s it.”

The two of them lumbered up to the bridge, knocking into each other and overturning stones as they tripped their way along the path. After a minute of falling, crawling, and standing up again out of shear spite toward King Straus and confused ideas about gravity, they finally made it. Randolf stepped onto the first plank of the bridge.

Suddenly, a dark figure leapt out of nowhere and in a deep, threatening voice said, “None shall—whoa! Did you two buy out a whole bar?” The dark figure waved a hand in front of his nose. “Gods damn.”

Davey flailed wildly and ineffectually in place. “What the hell is that?”

“I dunno,” Randolf said quietly. He turned to the figure. “What the hell are you?”

“I’m a troll, duh,” he said, his voice becoming higher as if realizing a deep, scary one meant nothing to people as plastered as the two before him. In the dark of the forest, the troll’s green mottled skin and tall mohawk could only vaguely be seen. “And this is my bridge. None shall pass without paying a toll.”

“Yeah, well I’m da rinse and I gotta save the one with boobs.”

The troll eyed them weirdly. “Uhhhhhhhh, sure.”

“He means the him with boobs,” Davey said in “clarification.”

The troll just kept staring at them. “Riiiiiiight. So, how much did you two drink?”

Randolf and Davey gazed into space for a moment, which then became five minutes.

The troll shook his head. “Wow, you guys are gone. But, anyway, I still have to ask for a toll. Money doesn’t come out of my nose, you know.”

“Where does it come from?” Davey asked reflectively.

The troll blinked at him. “So—do you two have money or not?”

“I spent the last of it at that bar that kept moving,” Randolf said, feeling in his pockets futilely.

“Do you have anything of value?” the troll asked.

“Does this count?” Davey pulled a flask out of his pocket.

The troll rolled his eyes. “Human drinks are worthless. Too weak. I make my own brew. I bet it’d kill you.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. One drop would probably do it, especially in your current state.”

Davey grinned woozily. “I’ll take that bet.”

The troll smiled too, but it was all teeth. “All right. If you can drink it and survive, I’ll let you cross my bridge.”

“Deal!” He held out his hand. “My name’s Davey by the way.”

The troll shook Davey’s hand. “I’m Rodney.”

“That’s my name!” Randolf shouted indignantly.

“No, man, you’re Randolf,” Davey informed him.

“I thought he said Rodney.”

“That’s his name.”

“Oh.”

Rodney covered his face with his hand, embarrassed to be even near this conversation.

“Wait!” Randolf cried suddenly, making Rodney jump. “I have to get to Evilman’s castle. Is Davey’s death gonna take long?”

“It shouldn’t,” Rodney said. “But in case he lives, I can show you a portal that leads right into Evilman’s linen closet. But if you want to use my portal, you’ll both have to drink.”

“Deal,” Randolf said, putting his hand out like Davey had, but he overbalanced and fell into the creek under the bridge.
Rodney just shook his head.

◊ ◊ ◊

“You can’t do this to me!”

“Mirror, stop shouting!”

“No, Jeremy, you have to listen!”

“Look, Mirror,” the princess said, trying to reason with him—it—whatever. “Jeremy needs some time to think for himself. Like he said, you helped him a lot and he appreciates that but—”

“Look!” the mirror cried. “She’s doing it already!”

“Doing what?” Evilman asked.

“Talking for you. I told you, you’re letting her control you. You always do this. It’s a pattern of behavior I was trying to wean you off of—”

“But then I began to let you control me,” Evilman said. “I was no better off. Now, however, I have broken free from that. The princess and I are equals, we’re friends, we listen to each other—”

“No, no, you are depending on her, using her as crutch, you have to get rid of her!”

“I’m not going to kill her—”

“But that was your plan!”

“Plans change—”

“She made you—”

“No!” Evilman stomped his foot on the floor, holding his hands out to stop the mirror from talking. “I created the plan because I thought that was what I had to do. But I changed the plan because I knew that’s what I had to do. I’m not an evil dark lord. I’m a snazzy interior decorator!”

The mirror scrunched his nose, like he was in physical pain, despite being a mirror and not able to feel anything. “You can be whatever you want to be, but without therapy you will fall back into your old patterns. You need me to stay and help you through this.”

Evilman shook his head, face sad. “I was using you as a crutch, Mirror. I thank you for your help, but I need to break free. The princess and I are going into business together—”

“She will control you—”

“Excuse me!” the princess said, hand on hip. “I’m not going to control him. We are friends, and we will be equal business partners—”

“Just kill her!”

The princess threw her head back and gaped. “Kill me? KILL ME? What kind of a sadistic bastard are you?”
The mirror curled his upper lip. “One who cares for his clients.”
“More likely a financially sound one. That’s all it is, isn’t it? You just don’t want to lose your job, your money, this house!”

The mirror mouthed wordlessly at the princess for a moment before sputtering, “No-no-no, that’s-that’s not it at all.”

Evilman narrowed his gaze. “Mirror,” he said slowly, “are you only trying to stay for the money?”

“No! You know that’s not true. Look! She’s already trying to influence you—”

“That’s it, I’ve had enough!”

In one swift movement, Evilman ripped the mirror off the wall. He walked determinedly to the nearest window, opened it (“You can’t throw me out!”), and quite unceremoniously threw the mirror outside.

The mirror soared through the air then landed in the surrounding forest, shouting at Evilman.

“You can’t do this to me! I’ll be back, you’ll see! I’ll—”

CRACK!

◊ ◊ ◊

“Uh-oh.”

King Straus pulled his horse off the mirror it had just stepped on. Large cracks stretched across its surface, starting at a gaping hole the size and shape of a horse’s hoof. It was completely destroyed.

“I hope that wasn’t important. Oh, well,” Straus said, and urged his horse on. “We’re almost there, men. Let’s go save my daughter.”

◊ ◊ ◊

The princess stared at Evilman, impressed. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

“I know, neither can—” He broke off as a loud noise sounded from outside the study. “What was that?”

They left the room and glanced around the entrance hall.

“Where did that racket come from?” the princess asked.

“I don’t know…”

Suddenly, a door burst open and from amid a shower of fluffy purple towels and silk sheets, Prince Randolf strode into the hall, Davey at his side. Randolf stopped before Evilman and the princess, standing tall and proud, like a true prince, legs apart and fists on hips. He held his head high, face serious and noble, and said triumphantly, “I’m not wearing any pants.”

The princess and Evilman looked down as one then stared back at Randolf’s face.

“No, you’re not,” the princess said slowly. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Randolf said, so noble, so proud.

Evilman eyed him with a mix of caution, confusion, and a little bit of worry at what possibly happened to remove the poor prince’s trousers. “How do you not know—”

A bang echoed through the castle and the front doors burst open with great force. A dozen men, led by King Straus, charged down the hall.

“Evilman!” Straus thundered. “Give me back my daughter! You will not win today!”

“Daddy, please!” the princess huffed. “Be nice.”

Straus took a step back in confusion, as if he’d been hit in the face. “‘Be nice’? What do you mean—” Suddenly he noticed Randolf. “You’re not wearing any pants.”

“I know,” Randolf said, still in the same position, still so noble.

Straus furrowed his brow. “I left you nearly incapacitated in the village. How did you get here before me?”

“‘Cause trolls are awesome when they’re drunk,” Davey explained, wagging an emphatic finger.

Before Straus could even start on that response, the back door flew open and in walked a bickering trio.

“Moreen?” Straus cried, astounded. “Why are you here?”

“To prevent this moron from suing us,” Queen Moreen replied, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at King Jonas. She turned to look at her husband, but on the way, her gaze paused. “You’re…without pants.”

“Yes, I am,” Randolf said, oh so noble.

Queen Rubella’s eyes bulged, her eyeliner smudged from galloping through the forest. “Where are they?” she demanded.

“The troll took them,” Davey slurred. “He didn’t think it was fair that we didn’t die.”

Everyone just blinked at that.

Moreen opened her mouth several times to comment, but eventually she shook her head—he wasn’t her problem anymore (good luck marrying him off, Rubella)—and turned back to the situation at hand.

“Evilman!” she shouted, making him jump. “Release my daughter this instant!”

The princess crossed her arms. “Will you please stop making demands of him, he just went through a terrible experience and lost a good friend,” she snapped.

There was silence followed by a chorus of “What?” asked by everyone in the room, except for the sloshed Davey and practically frozen yet noble Randolf.

“Honey, you’re not making any sense,” Moreen said. “We’ve come to rescue you and take you home.”

“I don’t want to go home,” the princess said. “Didn’t you bother to think about my feelings? Or were you just going to take me away against my will?”

Another pause followed by another room full of “What?”

“But he’s trying to kill you!” Straus cried.

“No, I’m not,” Evilman piped up. “We’re going into business together as interior decorators.”

Once again, the chorus: “What?”

“That’s right,” the princess said, head held high. “I’m staying here. I have a potentially lucrative career on my hands and an excellent and willing partner.”

“But-but-but—he’s evil,” Straus said, voice and expression turning uncertain.

The princess rolled her eyes. “No, he’s not.”

“But—”

“Dad, I thank you for this whole rescue attempt thing—you too, Mom—but I’m quite happy here.”

“Oh,” Straus said, somewhat deflated. “Well, then…I guess…we’ll be going.”

“Yes,” Moreen agreed vaguely, eyes wandering in confusion.

“You can stop by whenever you’d like,” Evilman said with a bright smile. “You’re always welcome. You can even stay the night.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Straus said as vaguely as his wife while they moved awkwardly toward the door.

“Does that mean they can’t sue?” Jonas murmured to Rubella.

But Rubella ignored him. “Come along, Randolf,” she commanded. “We have to get you home and into some pants for god’s sake.”

“Coming mother,” Randolf said, the noblest, and followed her, head held so high and proud.

“Now, Randolf, I have some good news,” Rubella began as she, Jonas, Randolf, and Davey walked down the hall and out of the castle. “Your father and I are getting a divorce…”

Moreen and Straus followed them out, the rescue party in their wake, looking disappointed there had been no need for a bloodbath.

When the last person had left, closing the door behind him, the princess turned to Evilman. She scrunched her nose in apology. “I’m so sorry about all of that.”

Evilman waved it off, chuckling slightly. “Oh, it’s all right! They did think I was going to mercilessly kill you just to reaffirm my evilness.”

“Well, they still shouldn’t have been so rude.”

“It’s no problem, Princess…um, by the way…what’s your name?”

End

Lauren Triola

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Published by Associate Editor on November 28, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 28, Issue 28 Stories, Novellas, Short Stories

Perfect Beauty

by Richard W Black

pink-dressShe woke. Looking around, she realized that she was naked and in a strange bed of a luxury hotel. But then, she had no idea where there was a bed that was familiar. The clothes laid out on the dresser said glamorous. She put them on and checked her appearance, she was perfect beauty. She was also late, so she hurried out.

For a month, the woman known as Mia Nettles had performed her task with her usual thorough adherence to detail and expertise. The subject was not too difficult since he was not a social person and did not often venture from his living quarters in the evening. His routines were habitual and rarely varied. If she were one to care, she would have felt pity for him as a lonely person with not much of a life. Yet, she was a professional doing a professional’s job professionally. Regardless, what human could not feel compassion for him?

Walking to her appointment, she felt the back of her left hand, there was a bump from the identity chip for Mia Nettles. With a deep breath, she got into character.

In the bar, she chose a table where she could see the entrance and ordered a drink from the robot waitress that transmitted it to the robotic bartender. Two minutes and thirty seconds later, her comet-tail, a vodka and juice concoction was delivered and the robot held out the electronic pad with the bill.

The robotic voice, mechanical and indifferent, said, “Fourteen-fifty.”

Avoiding the robot’s eyes, she presented the back of her hand. The name and photo of Mia Nettles appeared on the screen. “Add twelve percent,” she said. It was a foolish custom to her organized mind. Logically, the bar should charge the ideal amount for the beverage and service that included a profit margin and adequate salaries for the human employees who operated the establishment. Her tip was calculated to not draw attention to her from the other customers.

The robotic voice thanked her and moved on to other customers. Now she waited.

He entered, took his customary seat at the end of the bar and ordered where he chatted with the robot bartender as it made his drink. She frowned; most people ignored robots unless they required something from them, even the ones that were allowed to legally appear in a human form. The technology had advanced to the level of making completely human androids, humanoids they were called. But they were completely illegal and the penalties were quite severe for violating them. Through observation, she determined this guy preferred robotic interaction to that of the human kind.

steampunk-barTime to work, she took her drink and headed in his direction. The bartender filled his order and scanned the back of his hand as Mia slid onto the stool beside him. Predictably, the bartender’s protocol program prompted it to move away discreetly when two humans were about to interact.

“Friend of yours?” she asked jokingly.

“We need them to do the jobs humans won’t,” he replied. “Might as well treat them with respect.” Justin Cane was annoyed when people criticized robots considering the human behavior he had witnessed in his life…

When he turned his head, his thoughts were immediately cut short by the sight of the woman. If there was a definition of the ideal woman for him, she was it. This gorgeous creature had a shapely figure but not supermodel skinny, dark smooth skin, buxom in the chest, cushion in her buttocks and character to her pretty face. Her scent lingered in the air and he took it in. However, in the back of his brain, he wondered what would bring her into his world, given his foul disposition toward the human race?

“I hear that,” she responded with a grin.

“I love mankind…” he said, quoting an ancient philosopher who once used a cartoon character named Linus in a comic strip series entitled Peanuts to espouse his wisdom.

“It’s people I can’t stand,” she finished.

They tapped the rims of their glasses together in a toast to similar thoughts and took a sip, sealing their comradeship to an idea. There was a moment of silence as each sought a subject given that they were complete strangers. They settled on politics, an odd choice, and the despicable nature of the Federation president. Both considered politics a necessary evil but looked forward to the day when humanity would outgrow the need. They moved on to the sorry state of entertainment and music. It was amazing on their shared opinions. They switched to shots and trashing the latest celebrity couple. Musicians were next.

Then Justin’s com-link buzzed and he cursed under his breath when he saw it was the director. A text message, he was required in the director’s office in five minutes. How he hated the fact that his boss thought he would be doing nothing of importance on his day off. Fine, Justin did not have a social life or hobbies but it was still his time to do with as he pleased. For a moment he considered defiance but his personality refused that option over obedience. But what was he doing? Nothing but drinking in a bar.

Without thinking, he slid from the stool and rushed toward the door. When Director Newman said five minutes, he meant that his agent had better be there in five minutes. He was almost outside when he realized the stupidity of what he had just done.

Mia sat confused at the bar abrupt nature of the man. Looking up, she noticed that the robotic bartender was regarding her in a manner she thought was a bit strange. Did the machine comprehend in its electronic circuitry what the man was unable to in his organic brain? Briefly, there was the possibility that she might have to terminate the robot.

Then Justin was beside her.

“JCane12151954,” he said, smiled weakly then rushed for the door.

She grinned and his com-link number was already committed to memory. The mechanical bartender stiffly slid over and offered her a refill. She hated how functionally perfect robots were but nudged her drink glass toward him through the empty shot glasses like a plow pushing them aside. She might as well; she had a few hours to kill.

Across the city, Justin was in the office of the Director of the Federation Special Security.

Unbelievable, thought Justin. The assignment was ridiculous. It was his brother’s doing, he knew it. Justin had ignored Jason’s calls for weeks and the agent assumed his brother was creating a reason to make Justin contact him.

“Just how credible is the informant?” Justin asked Director Newman.

Newman considered the question for a moment then replied, “Very credible.”

Suppressing the desire to swear, Justin could only nod. He was stuck with the assignment. Nevertheless, he was not about to go anywhere near the Diamond Office on New Hope if he could absolutely avoid it.

“The informant was not identified,” continued the director, reading Justin’s thoughts. “But the information about the payment was correct and completely accurate in every detail.”

The informant suggested that there was someone on the inside of the president’s entourage who was an assassin. With nothing else to go on, when the president was informed, he insisted that the Director of the Security Service call on his best agent to take on the challenge and report directly to the president. Yeah, thought Justin, that report to the president part had his brother’s finger prints all over it.

“What precautions are being taken to protect the president?” Justin asked.

“We ran all the scenarios through the computer and it recommended that we completely replace the security teams and assign Hugh Koenig to take over leadership of the president’s personal security detail,” the director said.

“Where do I start?” he asked, but the director was no longer listening to him. The meeting was over. The president had accepted responsibility for the mission and the Director of the Security Service was all too happy to give it to him. Should there be any screw-up that resulted in the death or injury of the president, the director was theoretically off the hook, his political career safe.

The special agent went to his office to think. He had one and only one lead to follow. He reviewed the data.

The payment was a large one and flushed through several banks from Earth to the Moon and through Mars until it reached its destination. From there it went to Spike. Security Service experts in computer hacking found the payment but could not trace it back to the source. Still, Spike was a shady character who solved people’s problems for a hefty fee and often not legally.

Justin Cane’s position as a common field agent for the Security Service was a puzzle to all his colleagues up to and including the director. A man from a wealthy family with a famous brother should be running the security agency if not some multi-trillion credit company. Or he should be living the life of a spoiled rich brat with wild parties, women, and all the pleasures available to the wealthy and powerful. One popular rumor was that he was a spy for the president sent to report on those in the Security Service who were disloyal. Complicating the situation was his lack of social skills and he was not talkative and therefore had no one who could explain who he was to those around him. In fact, he was so isolated from human contact that his fellow agents often referred to him as Robot.

Justin the Robot sighed. Where to begin?

Spike was a cautious type. He kept himself invisible and had others do his dirty work. As such, he had never been arrested or charged with a crime. But the shady businessman had to use the data net to transfer payments like anyone else in the Terran System whether on the deepest space station or in a cabin in some isolated woods on Earth. The use of a common currency and a mechanized banking system prevented many credit transactions for illegal activities but the criminal class was intelligent and innovative. Funds were washed through a myriad of schemes to throw off enforcement agencies. However, there was always a name at the end of every trail.

With so little to go on and the clock ticking, Special Agent Cane had few options but to flush the man out of the shadows. He sought a court order by throwing around the president’s name, which irritated him. He had Spike’s accounts frozen. The collateral effect was to make it impossible for the sleazy character to do business. He hoped that Spike would have to come into the light and seek out the source of the injunction. Perhaps he could force Spike into a mistake that might lead the agent to the one plotting the assassination.

woman1Then he brought up the thin file on the informant and tried to concentrate but his mind drifted to the woman in the bar, so beautiful and sensual, her scent still seemed real in his nose. It was ridiculous; he had never met a woman who interested him. No, that was not completely true. He had never met a woman with whom his socially awkward temperament did not repel. All his life he lived under the shadow of his personable brother. The guy could walk into a room of strangers and leave with a new friends, acquaintances, possible business associates and com-link numbers for a dozen or more women. Justin entered a room filled with people and gravitated to the peripherals where he observed dispassionately without anyone taking notice or initiating contact. His thoughts continued to return to her while his investigation went nowhere.

Agent Cane waited all day but nothing happened, just a clock that ticked off the minutes. His brain could not focus on the file so nothing new came to mind. Finally, to his relief, his com-link notified him of a call. But not the one he was anticipating, most unexpected.

“Hey, it’s me,” said the familiar female voice, and the photo on his com-link confirmed that it was the woman from the bar.

She was at a café a block away and he had given her his number… She left the perceived invitation slide out there waiting for him to accept.

Special Agent Justin Cane considered the file on his electronic pad and frowned. The sound of her voice enticing him away from tedium was irresistible. Why not, his one and only lead was leading nowhere.

Leaving the Federation Special Security building with his guard down, Justin was surprised by the approach of two very big and very well armed thugs. One growled something about the agent’s presence being requested. The next moment, a hover van the size of a small room sped to a stop and Justin was politely shoved inside. The blaster at his side was not much of a comfort. If he tried to draw the weapon, he would be dead before it cleared his holster.

“Agent Cane,” snarled Spike from an overstuffed chair that had difficulty supporting his obese body. “I am called Spike.”

“I have been expecting you,” replied Justin, attempting to sound authoritative. Nevertheless, he felt like a dead man standing, flanked by the two thugs and with two more behind the grotesque person. He had passed the classification of fat several kilos ago.

Spike

Spike was a disgusting man who gave off a horrible smell with a mouthful of food and the appearance of someone not accustomed to cleansing cylinders. “You Moonie scum, what do you think you’re doing?” he demanded then washed down whatever was in his mouth with Martian red beer.

Justin had an immediate dislike of the overweight slob. Like most of the seven billion born on Earth, Spike had the culturally popular concept that his birth gave him a supremacy over the ten billion born on the thousands of space stations, on the Moon cities or among the Martian colonies. It infuriated Justin that this fat turd considered himself superior—worse, he knew the agent’s birthplace and therefore had already researched him.

“We got word that a hitman has been hired to take out the Federation President,” said Justin with all the bravado he could muster. He had expected this confrontation in an interrogation room, not on the adversary’s turf. “Your name was linked to it through a very substantial payment.”

“Do you really think that I am so stupid as to let someone trace me back to a hired killer?” sniped Spike. The rapid response suggested that he already knew why his accounts were under scrutiny.

Justin winced. He had spent the day studying Spike as he waited for his subject to contact him. The thuggish businessman was right; it did not make sense from what the agent knew of him.

“What was the purpose of the payment?” Justin asked.

Spike shrugged and a candy bar appeared in his hand, Belgian chocolate from the looks of it. “I hired a hacker.”

Justin waited while the fat man chewed. It was illegal to hire hackers but tough to link the client to the hacker so they were rarely prosecuted. Yet he was not going to let his only lead off so easily. A good interrogator knew how to use silence as a weapon against the guilty.

Finally Spike surrendered, “He was to hack into the computer system of…an important entity.” Before the agent could ask, he quickly added, “And I have no idea why. I just did the hiring.”

“What entity?”

“Client privilege.”

“You tell me and I’ll release your accounts without charges,” Justin said in a bluff. If he was unable to dig up any evidence of wrongdoing by Spike, a judge would soon do so anyway. “Otherwise…”

Spike considered his options then said, “The Security Service data base.”

“I also want the hacker’s name.”

“You’ll never locate him.”

“I’ll trace the credits you paid him,” said Justin confidently.

The condescending Spike laughed and Justin seethed with anger but was in no position to threaten the other man. “This guy does not need credits,” scoffed the overweight thug. “He could drain a bank in an hour. No, he works for information. I gave him what he wanted, he did the job then severed communication.”

The agent mulled it over. What was the connection between a hacked Federation Security Service computer system and an assassin?

“I want my accounts unfrozen,” Spike demanded.

“I’ll take care of it,” Justin replied, his word was his bond.

“You know,” remarked the fat man between bites, “they said you looked like him. I don’t see the resemblance.”

It was nothing more than a parting shot, Justin knew, but he tried not to breathe a sigh of relief as he stepped from the van, or was thrown depending on the semantics, and walked away with his back to the two thugs who escorted him out. A blaster round in the back was still a possibility. Anyway, his mind was on the new puzzle of how to track the hacker and he forgot that he was originally headed to meet the woman from the bar.

Across the street, Mia watched Justin stumble from the hover van while sitting at an outdoor café. He was walking like a man unaware of his surroundings and that was not good. Though she appeared to be just another patron, her brain was taking in the entire scene. The streets were crowded with pedestrians. Nevertheless, she knew that five of them were armed and had their sights on Justin Cane. There was movement slightly behind her. A woman in a long coat stepped from the café and stopped beside her. Mia sipped her coffee with its cloud of whipped cream floating on the top and allowed her head to swivel nonchalantly to the side. There was the distinct outline of a plasma rifle under the coat.

Meanwhile, Justin was barely out of the blast range when Spike’s van exploded behind him and knocked him off his feet. Chaos ensued on the street.

“Are you all right, agent?” asked a man hurrying up to help Justin who was on his hands and knees.

In his scrambled head, he realized he did not know the man so how did the guy know Justin was an agent? Instinct told him to act.

Twisting to the side, he balanced on his hands and kicked the man in the vitals. The half-raised blaster in the attacker’s hand fired into the sidewalk where the agent had been a second before, threw up chunks of concrete and left a black scorched hole. There was screaming and people who suddenly found their quiet day turned into terror fled in every direction. Though his training told him to draw his weapon, Justin fought the impulse, chose instead to leap to his feet and grab his attacker as a shield. The poor man with the smashed genitals immediately took two blaster hits in the chest, putting him out of his misery. Justin knew instantly that he was outnumbered and out-gunned.

That was Mia’s evaluation of the situation as well from her vantage point at the café. To her trained eye, she saw the entire ambush progress and end with the target dead along with two more of the attackers and a third one wounded. It was time to make her move; as the woman with the plasma rifle took a step forward and brought the weapon out from under her coat. Mia stood up behind her and, in one motion twisted her head, snapping the neck. Then she snatched the rifle from the woman’s dead hands. Flicking off the safety and activating the electronic sight, she prepared to fire.

At the same time, Justin had four blasters firing at him from every direction. Two more shots struck the dead man he was propping up as he worked a few steps closer to a doorway where he hoped to find some cover. A blaster round zinged past his shoulder and he felt a sting. Suddenly, a plasma rifle fired with its distinctive sound and the green energy balls it propelled exploded into human flesh. Two of the attackers were blown to pieces. The odds were now even.

“This way,” Mia yelled and Justin saw who had saved him.

The other two attackers were scrambling to find cover but they still had the edge if Justin stayed put. So he let the dead man drop and sprinted in the direction of the woman with the plasma rifle. It made no sense. He had no idea who she was; she might even have set him up, but in the seconds he had to decide, it was the only course of action that gave him a chance to live.

The attackers were taken by surprise and two shots from the plasma rifle kept their heads down.

Together, Justin and Mia sprinted down an alley ahead of blaster fire after his remaining assailants recovered. The rounds blew off pieces of red brick but were ineffective.

A block away, Mia tossed the weapon in a trash container. They kept running.

They paused to catch their breaths several blocks away where pedestrians and vehicle operators were unaware of the madness happening not far away.

Justin was about to make a call on his com-link when Mia covered it with her hand. “What are you doing?”

“Calling for backup,” he responded, annoyed by her tone. He was a Security Service agent for the Federation of Nations and Colonies, how dare she question his judgment?

“Then you just give me a few minutes to get clear of the potential fire zone before you do,” she snapped back.

She was going to walk away and he was going to let her when sanity hit. What was she talking about?

She hated to be the one to tell him, but someone just tried to ambush him. Did he know who they were or why? She was not that confident that those he considered friends were friends but she was sure he had some very organized enemies.

“Alright,” he said and held his com-link up so she could see him switch it off. “No contact with anyone until we figure out who I can safely call.”

Justin had to admit that she had a point. As far as he knew, only the director knew about his assignment. Someone powerful enough to want to take out the president could also corrupt the director or those around him. It bothered him that, when he reached the conclusion that he had to think and plan before he did something stupid, he looked up and there was her smiling face. Okay, it was a beautiful smiling face. However, if he could not use his com-link, he also could not use his ID chip and it was a good bet his apartment was not the safest place to go. He was screwed.

“I’ll hide you,” she said simply.

The lack of emotion stunned him. She was offering to risk her life for a man she barely knew aside from a cartoon quote. He felt an emotional twinge even if the gorgeous woman did not.

They walked the city for several hours making sure they were not being tailed. Eventually, they were in the hotel room registered to Mia Nettles. Night was falling outside and the news on the viewer screen reported the incident.

Justin grimaced in pain.

“Maybe we should get that shirt off and see what damage has been done,” Mia suggested.

Removing it was an excruciating experience. The wound was a bloody mess but not serious. She did her best to clean and bandage it with the travel first aid kit she purchased in the hotel gift shop. Her touch was tender and she made every effort not to make it too painful. It still hurt like a blazing comet.

“Nice work,” he said as he admired her patch job. “Where did you learn to do that?”

He felt somewhat exposed; he was half naked and forced to take the pain while she was completely dressed and in control. The vulnerability aroused a desire in him and he hoped she would not notice.

“Space…” He waited for more as she collected the blood-soaked towels and empty bandage wrappers. She was action oriented and not much on small talk. Tearing the towels into manageable strips, she fed everything into the hotel’s waste disposal. She re-examined the bandage more as a way of covering over the uncomfortable silence until she saw that he expected her to contribute the details.

“I was part of a terrorist assault team on the Rim,” she said.

Abruptly she moved away from him for the view out the windows to hide her face.

There were a dozen or so space stations on the outer orbit of the Terran System. Located far from Earth, they were often targets of one terrorist faction or another, mostly those fanatics who were against humans moving beyond their solar system and poisoning the rest of the galaxy.

“I’ve never been to Earth,” she continued in her rehearsed story. “So when I rotated out, I thought I would see it before deciding what to do with my life.”

“Welcome to Earth,” he remarked.

legsBut what he was thinking was that she was one beautiful and desirable woman. Even more so now that she had laid bare a part of her inner self. They had a brush with death and barely escaped the kill zone which had established a mutual reliance. It was implied that they might be the only ones they could currently trust. The air was filled with a tension, a sexual tension created by their situation.

She was speaking again while he was lost in his thoughts. “What?”

“Room service,” she repeated. “I thought I had better order room service. Best if you—we don’t go out.”

“Good thought.”

An hour later, the robot brought in the tray, Mia swiped her left hand over the bill and added twelve percent for a tip.

Justin emerged from hiding in the bathroom suddenly starved.

She arranged the food on the table. He munched on the fries that came with his steak while he popped the cork on the Bordeaux. He sampled the wine and poured two healthy glasses then saw the amusement in her face. “Best wine in the galaxy,” he said.

She sat across from him. “So how does a guy who was born and raised on the Moon have Bordeaux as a favorite wine?”

Digging into the steak, Justin did not hesitate to talk about his personal life with a complete stranger. It seemed to him so natural to tell this particular woman all about his life of woe. After a long drink of the soothing wine, the story spilled from him.

Justin and Jason were identical twins, born to the fourth wife of Sherman Cane. The Cane family settled on the Moon when the primary economy for the satellite body revolved around mining minerals and they made a fortune. Several generations later, the Canes had their fingers in all sorts of business enterprises, legal and illegal. There were three space stations mining the asteroid belt carrying the Cane name. A young Sherman, as happened with wealthy and powerful men, wanted more wealth and power.

There were ten children from his first three wives but the sons born to his fourth wife were his favorites from the moment he walked into the nursery. Partly, it was because he loved her more than the other three women and more than any other person in the Terran System except Sherman Cane. But as the boys grew to young adults, he particularly loved Jason. Of the two boys, Jason was the most like his father with an ambition that even exceeded Sherman’s. Had Sherman not given his sons unlimited wealth, he might have feared that Jason would murder him for the inheritance. Nevertheless, the father watched his back. Blazing Suns of Orion, he loved that boy.

Justin, however, was quite a different story. He was the good son, obedient, faithful and trustworthy. All the characteristics Sherman hated in a man. Such men never amounted to more than upstanding citizens. So pitiful.

The boys were identical in appearance; no one who did not know them intimately could tell the difference. In fact, when they chose to impersonate each other, only their man servant, Reginald, could tell them apart. Sherman wanted to raise gentlemen so he entrusted them to a man with education, refinement and a family history of domestic service. What he had not anticipated was that Reginald had become their surrogate father as the boys found in him the affection they did not receive from their biological father.

The unique traits of the twins emerged with their choices of careers. Neither cared for making more credits, they had more wealth than they could spend in a hundred lifetimes. Jason wanted power, much to Sherman’s approval, and went into politics. With unlimited financing, he could buy any office he desired and he wanted nothing more than to take the presidency of the Federation of Nations and Colonies. Absolute power appealed to him. Justin wanted to bring criminals to justice.

Mia pointed her knife at Justin with one hand and hid the amused expression with the other as she chewed. “You’re the brother to the President of the Federation. That’s why you look familiar.”

Spread out across the solar system, Earthlings had colonized the Moon and Mars. There were bases on the two Martian moons thousands of space stations from Earth to the asteroid belt and a dozen in orbit with Pluto. Robot missions had gone out beyond the Terran System and were sending back data in preparation for combined manned and robotic exploration of Orion. Though Earth was united under one planetary government, there were still political movements battling for control. As well, wherever humans established bases and colonies, there were factions among the residents and hostility toward Earth since most of the political power was gathered on the planet. To keep order, there was the military which patrolled space and the Security Service that was charged with keeping the law in the cities, bases and colonies. There were local police forces but the Security Service had jurisdiction wherever it chose to have jurisdiction.

“Wait a minute,” she interrupted. “You’re brother is president and yet you have some lowly job as a cop?”

In fact, Justin was such an unknown that only a few of his fellow agents remembered that the president had a twin brother. So unremarkable had been his career crime fighting that no one knew he was doing it.

“I am more than a cop,” he retorted, just a little annoyed by the description. Secretly, he had imagined his life as this superhero agent racing around the solar system fighting crime and destroying terrorists. Instead, he had amassed an unremarkable career as a steady agent who was always at the office or out on an investigation. He was reliable, efficient and boring but with a solid record of putting away petty criminals and terrorist nobodies.

Much to his father’s disdain, Justin joined the Service as a common agent. Sherman could have bought him a mid-level role but the boy insisted on making it on his own merits because he detested the wealth and power of the Canes. How Sherman hated him for that. It was the last tear that ripped father and son apart.

The brothers were never close but always in competition with each other and in constant conflict. The end of their relationship came earlier over a woman. Justin met her at one of Sherman’s dreadful parties he threw to allow Jason to network. It was for Justin love at first sight. He thought she was the perfect woman for him, his perfect beauty. He did everything right, exactly as Reginald taught him to treat a woman.

For Jason, it was lust at first sight. He saw that his brother wanted the woman and determined that he would take her away. When he saw that she did not want him but his brother instead, he pretended to be Justin and seduced her physically and emotionally. But the revelation after he took her was too much for the woman to deal with psychologically. She fell apart, then destroyed herself.

The scandal was covered up by massive amounts of credits but the rift between brothers was too deep to heal. The moment Justin realized that his brother was going to get away with murder, he determined to become a Security Service agent.

“So you live with the guilt of your brother’s crime,” summarized Mia. “You’re trying to punish others for what he got away with.” The woman read him so well after only knowing him a few hours.

“Jason Cane caused the death of a woman, then purchased the silence of everyone involved and yet no one seemed disturbed by it,” pouted Justin. He offered her a refill on the wine then emptied the last of the bottle in his glass. “Then he bought the presidency. A man, not even 30, is the leader of the entire solar system.”

He had not noticed that he consumed a majority of the bottle and was slightly inebriated.

“I need a shower,” Mia announced abruptly. That summed it up nicely for Justin.

She ignored the desserts she had ordered but he could not resist the ice cream while he listened to the water running and thought about what was happening in the next room. He felt the throbbing in his arm and decided to mix a healthy measure of vodka from the mini bar with the frozen confection. A warmth flooded over him as the alcohol did its job and he laid back on the bed and listen to the news with his eyes closed.

In telling his story, he realized how much Mia reminded him of the lost love of his life. He had not exactly been an outgoing person before the tragic death but he had to admit that he turned in on himself after he learned of it. There was a certain profound justice that a woman who reminded him of the one he lost would so resemble her.

When Mia walked from the bathroom in a bathrobe while drying her hair, his imagination took over his fogged brain. Her smooth bare legs and arms and a hint of her full breasts sparked a desire within him. Then she noticed him watching her. For a moment, they both froze in place as each decided what to do about what they were feeling.

Before he could stop his mouth, he blurted out, “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

Inside, he cursed his stupidity, thinking he had ruined the moment with such dribble, such a cliché.

But then she approached the bed, climbed on top and straddled him with her legs.

“Yes,” she said, almost in a whisper, bending down and lightly kissing him.

After another pause to consider their situation, he reached up for the belt of the robe, untied it and slowly pulled it open. She was as beautiful naked as he had imagined. She remained still and let his hands explore her smooth flesh, almost purring with pleasure. He took in her scent. When she kissed him again, it was soft and gentle. Suddenly, their desires exploded into passionate sex and they brought each other to sweet release.

With only the light of the Moon, they were together, naked under a single sheet, his arm around her and her head on his chest. The world outside would have been forgotten were it not for the news channel playing in the background.

She broke the silence, “What just happened?”

“Two people in love just expressed it?” he offered, though he immediately regretted using the L-word?

“Love?” She paused for a moment in thought. He was about to apologize for saying it when she asked, “That is how you describe love?”

“Two people with mutual feelings for each other, yes, I would call that love.”

“I’m sorry,” she explained, “I have little experience with the emotion.”

“If love were an emotion, the human race would have died out generations ago,” he said. “Love is an action, a choice. Since the moment we met, we’ve made choices that have brought us closer together.”

Mia blinked. He could not see that a question appeared in her eyes. Events might have been different had he noticed and asked what she was thinking.

Instead, she touched the wounded arm, “You’re seeping. I should change the bandages.”

He abruptly sat up. “What did they say?” The agent in Justin was alert.

She realized his attention was on the viewing screen.

The news anchor was doing voice-over while the images were of Special Agent Hugh Koenig shaking hands with President Jason Cane and the photo of the outgoing security head who was retiring. It was a public relations attempt to explain why the president had a new head of his security. The old security chief was expected to fall on his sword and pretend that he had submitted his resignation voluntarily.

“So, the president is getting a new head of security,” shrugged Mia. “How news-worthy is that?”

“Spike, he hired a hacker.” Justin concentrated, an idea was brewing.

He looked at Mia but she just shook her head in confusion.

“The Service uses an intricate computer program to select the protection teams for the president,” said Justin. “It takes human error out of the process.”

The two stared at each other, both considering the implications.

He leapt from bed and paced nakedly back and forth then slapped his forehead with his palm, moaning, “Why would someone hack the system?” Then he stopped. “Oh no!”

He was in a rush, now. Quickly snatching up his clothes, he dressed.

“What are you doing?” Mia demanded. “What do you know?”

“It’s all so simple,” Justin explained. “Spike’s hacker broke into the computer system and changed the programming so that it picked the candidate for the president’s security that the plotter wanted. He knew the director would take the computer’s recommendations so that, if anything went wrong, he could say that he followed protocol.”

“Who wanted?”

Justin stopped with one leg in his pants and one leg out. He considered the question for a moment then shook his head, “I don’t know. It could be one of a hundred groups with a grudge or cause.”

Mia glanced at the viewing screen. “You think that the new security head is going to kill the president?”

“It’s the only answer that fits the data.”

“So what’s your plan?”

Justin froze. Reality hit.

If he activated his com-link, he could be tracked. That would be bad.

She jumped from bed and started to put on her clothes.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“I’m going with you.” And before he could refuse her help, she quickly added, “You need my ID to move around.”

It made sense and he nodded his approval. She grinned but she had no intention of being left behind in any case.

“Um…” He stopped at the door and turned to her. “We can pick up on the other thing later…?”

She kissed him. “A choice,” she said then checked the hallway, all clear.

They slipped out the service entrance of the hotel, their goal was New Hope.

New Hope was a city island which did not have a specific location. When the Federation of Nations and Colonies was established, many would not accept the capital being in the former nation of an old enemy. Therefore, finding a diplomatic place to locate the central government was an impossible task. Then the first Federation president proposed an island, a floating city that was not connected to any continent. There were only two ways to visit the 1000 square mile city, by air to one of the many hover pads or by sea where naval ships docked in one of the three massive ports connected to the islands by long bridges. Security for the city was the tightest anywhere in the solar system.

The problem was that Special Agent Justin Cane could not just fly to the island and walk into the Presidential Palace. After the shootout, the assassin or assassins would be on the alert for him, especially if they controlled the security team around the president. He had to get close to his brother and verbally warn him without being detected.

“Reginald,” Justin said. But he saw that Mia did not understand. “Reginald McDougal raised us. If I can get to him, he might be able to get us inside.”

With Mia’s ID chip, they rented a hovercraft and flew it into a hover pad several blocks from the Palace. Penetrating beyond would expose Justin’s presence on the island city and Mia would require a reason for entering, which she did not have. Getting a message to Reginald was equally as difficult without giving themselves away. Fortunately, Justin knew the man better than he knew anyone else in the solar system.

The tea bar was in the same district as the Presidential Palace. It offered tea made in the traditional style with water heated to an ideal temperature that allowed the leaves to steep for the optimum amount of time. Tea was Reginald McDougal’s only vice in life and Justin knew it.

As he sat in his booth and savored the brew, Justin slid in across from Reginald and Mia nudged him over to prevent the older man from leaving. Justin thought the move was unnecessary but was surprised at how the former servant had aged.

When the brothers had their falling-out, Reginald was forced to choose between them. Justin had no use for a man servant but as an aspiring politician, Jason needed of a personal assistant to provide a multitude of services. The choice was obvious for Reginald and he thrived in his role. Still, he missed having both his boys.

“Justin…!?” Reginald exclaimed.

“Shhhhht,” Justin quickly cautioned him. “I need your help.”

Reginald’s eyes widened as Justin told him the story. He met Hugh Koenig and the other members of the security team; they were competent people. They had all been very busy dealing with the president’s hectic schedule. In fact, President Cane had requested a few days of solitude and seclusion to recharge.

“What?” reacted Justin. “When?”

“Oh well, he flies in from the Montreal speech to the space mining unions tonight…”

Justin cut him off, speaking to Mia, “That’s when they’ll act. With him out of the public eye, they can escape before anyone is alerted. We have to get into the Palace.”

“As soon as the security scanners register your ID, they’ll be on to us,” she responded.

Justin glanced down at the back of his left hand then his eyes drifted to Reginald’s hand and he followed his gaze.

The former caregiver was indeed committed to his two boys. In the restroom of the tea bar, he allowed Justin to make a slit into his skin and remove the ID chip. Justin made a similar slit and removed his identity chip. They switched chips and sealed the slits with liquid skin.

While Mia paid the tab, Reginald took Justin aside. “Do me one favor?”

“Anything.”

“When this is over, reconcile with your brother. For me, if no one else.”

He started to respond with a list of grievances that all originated with Jason and protest that he was not the bad guy in their personal war but he could see the blind love for both of them in his eyes.

“I’ll try, Reginald,” he said, instead of what he wanted to say. “I’ll do my best.”

Strangely, he actually meant it. Neither brother would ever, could ever lie to Reginald.

The plan was simple; Reginald would remain at the tea bar while Justin used his ID to enter the Presidential Palace with Mia Nettles as his guest. As Justin and Mia walked across the city toward the Palace, she had something on her mind.

“Reginald loves you,” she said finally.

The statement took Justin by surprise. “Um, yeah I guess he does.”

The Palace entrance for high-level aides and staffers was unmonitored by human guards. So long as the ID chip was on the list of those with access and their guests were not on any alert list, the doors automatically opened. Reginald McDougal then had clearance into the most secure parts of the family quarters so the trackers following people around the palace would record nothing out of the ordinary. As an added precaution, Justin dressed in a suit to appear exactly like his brother and Mia wore a dress to show off her attributes that would distract anyone from looking at the president. The computer would record Reginald walking the hallways but all human eyes would see was President Jason Cane and his latest female friend. Their one concern was that they could not smuggle weapons in with them, the security sensors which scanned for them would set off alarms.

They made their way down the private corridor to the Diamond Office where the president greeted dignitaries. Justin put his ear to the door; someone was in the next room.

Calming his spirit, Justin carefully turned the door handle, eased the door open and entered with Mia right behind him.

President Jason Cane stood at his desk with Hugh Koenig. There were four other members of the security team with him, two on either side of the door where Justin and Mia stood and two others at the main entrance. Everyone froze.

“Gun!”

Who…? Justin thought the voice was his brother’s.

Hugh Koenig drew his blaster. Jason dove over the desk. Justin threw an elbow into the throat of the agent nearest him while Mia kneed the other one in the genitals, grabbed his weapon and tossed him aside in one fluid motion. There was the muffled sound of a weapon firing and a round passed between Justin and Mia. Justin pulled the blaster from the holster of the agent with the crushed windpipe. He blew a hole in Hugh’s chest then fired at one of the agents at the main door but they were already dead and Mia had the blaster pistol against the head of the agent from whom she had taken it.

“Mia…!”

The blaster kicked in her hand and the agent’s head blew apart.

Before Justin could stop her, she shot the agent clutching his throat.

Clap, clap, clap. As he sarcastically applauded, Jason stood to his feet.

“Well done, brother dear,” he said mockingly. Then to Justin’s surprise, his brother looked at Mia, “Finish it.”

Confusion overwhelmed Justin. But as he turned to look at Mia, her foot shot out, kicked the weapon from his hand and it went flying. He grabbed for the blaster in her hand but felt a blow to his shoulder that threw him into the wall and made his wound hurt. Knowing he would not be able to disarm her, he leapt over a couch, expecting it to blow apart in a foam and fabric mess, but it did not happen.

“Oh Justin,” said Jason’s extremely irritating voice, “I can’t have you damaged.”

Justin peeked over the couch. Mia was advancing slowly on him with the weapon in hand but not pointing it at him.

“You should be honored, brother,” continued the president. “I knew you would figure out the assassination plot against me. Although, there was a three percent chance that you would be injured in the street ambush. Still, it was a risk worth taking to ingratiate Mia with you.” He shrugged in answer to the questioning expression, “You wouldn’t come willingly. I called and called and called. You ignored me.”

“There was never a plot,” stated Justin.

Jason laughed, “I was the plot. I was the informant and the hacker that poor buffoon Spike hired.”

Mia slowly circled around the furniture and Justin backed away.

Jason was casual, showed no concern for the other man’s fate. “I have Radium Cancer.”

“You’re a drug addict?” demanded Justin, all the while trying to maneuver to avoid Mia.

“That’s harsh. Anyway, they create these marvelous drugs that blow your mind but then they do have side effects.”

Radium was the newest drug to make the rounds of the underground society. Despite the warning that six in ten users would develop an incurable disease that consumed the vital organs, millions tried it and became addicted to the lifestyle. In his arrogance, Jason Cane thought he was different and had nothing to worry about. Consequently, he was dying and there was nothing medically which could be done to save him, except…

Synthetic organ transplants extended life for millions and were common place as the law prohibited living organ transplants. Unfortunately for the young president, Radium Cancer quickly corrupted any new organs even synthetic ones and death soon followed.

And, while the technology did exist, cranial transplants were especially made illegal with stiff penalties. Early exploitation by body snatchers brought about a host of laws to prevent people from being killed so that those willing and able to pay extraordinary sums could take over their bodies.

“I need your body,” stated Jason nonchalantly as though there was nothing unusual in it.

Mia cautiously worked in closer.

“You wouldn’t begrudge your brother a longer life, would you?”

Justin realized what was supposed to happen and Jason smiled, “Yes, you always were the more logical thinker. Mia will be gentle. She’ll just deprive you of oxygen until you expire. I have a team of surgeons two floors down ready to make the switch. The story, and you’ll like this part, will be that you died while saving me from assassins.”

“How can you do this?” Justin asked Mia.

“You’re going to be quite the hero,” Jason continued. “Posthumously, of course.”

But Justin was still in disbelief that Mia would betray him. “After what we felt for each other?”

“It won’t work. She’s not who you think,” chided Jason. “There is no emotion in her.”

perfectbeauty_robotJustin’s foot struck out and the blaster in Mia’s hand smacked into the wall. But then she was in close to him with martial arts skills he had difficulty countering. Her reflexes were faster than his so he jumped and rolled away from her.

“She’s a humandroid,” Jason said. He remained at his desk, his arms cross over his chest. “I’m here to tell you that there are very few limits to fabulous wealth.”

Unable to believe what he was hearing, Justin looked at Mia. “You’re a robot?”

“You don’t listen well. She’s the most sophisticated humandroid credits can buy. And, she was programmed to be your perfect woman. They said that you would be so infatuated with her that it would never occur to you that she could be a plant.” He laughed, “And you would especially not suspect that she was a humandroid. Think about it, brother, this is your ideal companion. Oh, such perfect beauty.”

Jason shifted to try to look his brother in the face, “Admit it, you prefer a cold hard machine to human contact.”

Mia was on Justin again, her face lacked any emotion, and he was barely able to disengage from her by wedging his legs in her stomach and hurling her into the air. His momentum threw him on his back. He was tiring. She would soon wear him down.

“I’m even thinking of keeping her around,” remarked Jason. He leaned back against his desk, merely a spectator. “I want to experience what you think is the perfect woman. I even have research into how I can get my own android body. I could live forever. My thinking is that the solar system needs for me to never die. I’m indispensable.”

While his brother rambled on, Justin spotted a discarded blaster. It was almost impossible to reach it and fire an accurate shot but it was at least a chance. Diving past Mia, he scooped up the weapon and somersaulted away. Unfortunately, Mia was too fast. She was on top of him, they rolled and tumbled into a wall. The two ended with Mia’s back against the wall holding Justin in front of her, one hand around his neck and the other gripping his hand with the blaster.

Jason was no longer amused but impatient and his voice turned hard, “Finish this now, Mia.”

For a moment, Justin wondered what death would be like. Then Mia whispered into his ear, “I choose to love you.”

Unexpectedly, he felt the hand with the blaster pistol raise up. There was the shock in Jason’s face as he realized it was pointed at him. The weapon recoiled slightly as the small energy beam rocketed across the room and struck the president in the chest before he could react.

Staggering slightly, Jason ripped open his suit coat to expose the black and red blotch on his white shirt. His face revealed his last thoughts of confusion with the way the events had transpired. He was dead before he slumped onto the floor.

Released from Mia’s grasp, Justin jumped to his feet and trained the blaster she left in his possession on her with two shaking hands. She made no effort to evade him. He gripped the pistol tighter and willed his finger to pull the trigger. Looking into that beautiful face, he could not do it.

“I love you, too,” he said softly.

He did not ask and would never ask but sometime within her processing unit, she had developed the capacity to make choices based upon logical precepts. And she made the remarkable choice to love the man for whom she was created as his perfect beauty. To the humandroid, the logic was that he was therefore her perfect match. Remarkably, his twin brother was the antithesis.

The Terran System was shocked by the assassination attempt on the President of the Federation of Nations and Colonies and saddened by the loss of his twin Justin Cane, the Security Service agent killed defending his brother. Five traitorous assassins were killed in the attack along with the arrest of several doctors implicated in the plot. Jason Cane cremated the body of his brother and scattered his ashes outside the family lunar compound surrounded by his family. Only Reginald McDougal knew which brother had really been murdered by the assassins but he would never tell anyone. Secretly, he applauded Justin’s efforts to save his brother then carry on Jason’s work and would do all he could to help the surviving twin.

Jason Cane and Mia Nettles were married and many owed the greater success of the presidency after his marriage to the chieperfectbeauty_eyef executive’s choice of such a capable woman. When the president’s term ended, there was a call for Mia Cane to run for office but she graciously refused. The two retired to the family estates on the Moon where they appeared to live quietly, though rumors for years after persisted that the couple shared many secret adventures under assumed identities. Wealth could buy much and that included anonymity when desired. After a long life, Justin, aka Jason Cane, died. Mia cremated his body and scattered the ashes around the lunar compound. The fate of Mia Cane was never known. Though old at the time of her husband’s death, she appeared younger than her years. Some claimed that she rode beyond the Rim with the first manned missions to Orion. Others said she ended her days on an isolated space station grieving for her lost love. But there were those who maintained that such a woman of perfect beauty would live forever.

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Published by Associate Editor on November 17, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 28, Issue 28 Stories, Novellas, Stories

Swallow the Moon

red-moon

Swallow the Moon
by Lisa Langeland

…born under red moon
and marked in blood
shall the wolf swallow the moon
and seize the sun

Loosed in grim dissolution
will winter descend
and ungird the winds
issuing ruin and darkness

So begins the age of the wolf…

(translated excerpt from the Nökkvimál)

 

Haldis hummed an old lullaby as she rubbed down the draft horse—much as she had done almost every night for the past five months—and paused to contemplate the growing dusk. The trees just beyond their camp wavered in the firelight, and crickets chirped the end of summer. The horse shift skittishly under her brush as a howl pierced the stillness. Another answered the call none too distant.

“Curse those wolves,” said Leiden as he took hold of the horse’s bridle. “These last few winters have starved the fear out of them. They grow too bold for my liking.”

“They do what they do to survive, as we all do,” replied Haldis, glancing up at him. His tousled blond hair needed a good trim. Not that he’d notice, she thought.

His hand strayed over hers. “How can you say that after what one did to you?”

The scars on her left shoulder and upper back hid far deeper secrets. “I have no memory of the attack. You know that.”

“And yet you always insist the wolf was black,” said Leiden.

His brown eyes searched her face for answers, but Haldis knew he would find none. Of that one detail, she was certain yet her mind refused to share any others. Like where I’ve been for the past year, she thought.

The fire behind them flared as Leiden’s younger brother, Reid, threw more wood on it. He stared intently at her. “Surely, you’d have them all wiped out if you could have your way.”

“They fear us more than we do them,” said Haldis, gently brushing the gelding’s flank.

“And yet they seem to be trailing us these last few days,” said Leiden, “perhaps hoping to take down one of the horses.”

Haldis doubted it. She had grown up near the Ironwood, the very woods beside which they now camped. Eight armed guards and the encampment’s fires would dissuade all but the most curious or desperate of wolves from straying too close.

“You can finish this,” said Leiden to his brother. “I need to speak with Haldis.”

“Like that’s all you want to do,” mumbled Reid as Haldis handed him the currycomb.

Leiden slipped his hand around hers and led her past the guards taking their evening meal. He gently drew Haldis behind the last wagon as he leaned back against its rear door.

“I thought you wanted to talk,” said Haldis, poking him teasingly in the chest.

“I guess I did…do,” he sighed reluctantly. “Your village—it isn’t far from here. It’s no bother to make a slight detour.”

Haldis dropped her eyes and began tracing circles on his forearms. “There’s no one left, you know that.”

Leiden was giving her the option to lay her nightmares to rest, but the wounds were too fresh. For her, it was as if the massacre had happened only months earlier, instead of more than a year ago when she had returned from an early morning of herb collecting in the Ironwood to find a scene as eerily quiet was it was grisly. Those unfortunate enough to rise early had been bled out in the road with their throats slit, their wares scattered about, and the doors to their homes and shops left ajar. Her home was no different, and her father’s unlit forge silently heralded what she found inside: her father barely visible under a table and pots strewed on the floor around the bodies of her four younger brothers. The memory constantly teased at the edge of consciousness. Haldis inhaled slowly and deeply to calm the familiar anxiety.

Leiden brushed back several honey-colored strands of hair that had fallen across her face. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Haldis smiled weakly at him. “If you hadn’t found me…”

“I couldn’t leave you to die,” said Leiden.

He had found her—unconscious and barefooted—five months earlier while gathering firewood in the Ironwood. She had been garbed in an ornate black-laced gown. The eyes and hooklets that travelled the length of the bodice, and its elegant flared sleeves had led them to mistake initially her for a woman of status.

“Most people would have,” said Haldis, but she had quickly learned that was not his family’s way. “Instead you took me in.”

Leiden leaned in closer to her. “Haldis, I…”

She clasped his arms as an unshaven man suddenly emerged from the night. He carried a dead wolf across his shoulders. Leiden pushed her behind him as the guards, swords in hand, converged on the visitor. Reid ran up to join them.

“Didn’t mean to give you all a fright,” their visitor said.

“And who might you be?” inquired Leiden.

“Siarl, the earl’s forester,” he said. He lowered the wolf’s scraggy body to the ground and then pushed back the edge of his cloak to reveal the earl’s livery.

“Did he attack you?” asked Reid as he nudged the carcass with his foot.

“Hardly,” said the forester. “It’s rare for wolves to attack anything other than livestock. Still, I was tasked with seeing to those that to stray too close to Brynmoor. There are a right many people coming for the festival, not unlike you I suspect.”

Leiden nodded. “We’ve been on the western trade route since spring. The festival is our last stop on our way back to Westerfeld before winter sets in. We’ve heard rumor of some attacks here about.”

“Haldis was attacked by a wolf,” blurted Reid with a nod at her.

Leiden gave him a withering look.

“Well, she was,” said Reid sheepishly, “just not so recently.”

The forester eyed Haldis. “Then you know the beast all too well.”

Haldis sensed there was a question in his statement, but she shrugged. She was tired of talk of the past and of wolves. Leiden’s grandmother came up and put an arm around her shoulder.

“Surely you men can find kindlier subjects to speak on,” said Ora, “like the harvest festival.”

“Ay, ma’am,” said the forester with a broad smile. “With our young Lord Cerrin now Earl of Highmont, we have much to celebrate this year. There are some superstitious folks in these parts who feared he would be struck down unexpectedly, like his father, before this day came.”

“Superstitious of what?” asked Reid.

“An old prophecy from long before even I was born,” said his grandmother. “It’s nonsense.”

“Ay, but Lord Cerrin was born during the eclipse,” said the forester. “To those who believe, it lends credence to their unease.”

Reid poked Haldis in the side.

“Weren’t you born then too?” he whispered.

Haldis gave no reply, but the forester’s furrowed brow told her that he had heard the question, yet he said nothing.

“You’re welcome to stay the night and join us on the last leg to Brynmoor tomorrow,” said Leiden, breaking the uneasy silence.

The forester nodded his thanks and joined the guards at their fire. Haldis retired to the caravan wagon with Ora, but found sleep elusive. Her mind kept ruminating on the wolf. Do I remember it as a wolf attack simply because of the scars? she wondered. Her only memory was of the darkness springing at her. Frustrated, she sat up in the dim wagon. Ora slept soundly in the bed beside her. Haldis wrapped a shawl around her and slipped outside, keeping to the dark side of the wagons to return to where the wolf still lay. She knelt next to it.

“Not so mean and fierce like this,” said the forester as he rounded the wagon. He crouched beside her, seemingly unsurprised by her arrival.

Haldis placed her hand on the animal’s side, almost expecting it to rise with breath. She was acutely aware of the forester studying her.

“This wolf that attacked you, have you seen it since?”

“I think it’s dead,” said Haldis.

His gray eyes held a bemused look. “Either the beast is dead or it isn’t, miss.”

Haldis stared at the wolf in silence.

The forester tried again. “Where was it that the wolf attacked you?”

“What does it matter now?”

“To me, not so much,” said the forester, “but for the earl, I would know where you met it.”

“In Prynton,” replied Haldis softly.

The forester’s expression softened. “No survivors, I heard.”

Haldis ran her fingers through the wolf’s gray pelt. “I was in the Ironwood when it happened.”

The forester nodded understandingly. “It might be best if you went in, miss. The wild ones are afoot tonight.”

◊ ◊ ◊

romancitygatesThe caravan passed through Brynmoor’s city gates at midday, after which the forester took his leave. Leiden pulled up the team of horses when they reached the commons.

“It looks like we’re the first to arrive,” said Leiden to Haldis who sat on the bench beside him.

“That’s a good thing, right?” she asked.

“Very good.”

Having their pick of prime locations, the last leg of their journey would likely be as profitable as
the ones that preceded it—no small feat since it was his first time leading the caravan. At only twenty, it was a responsibility he had not expected to assume for several years, but the unexpected death of his grandfather had shifted procurement to him while his father took on the day-to-day management at home. His father had groomed him for the role his entire life, yet he still felt unprepared.

Leiden roped off the reins and hopped to the ground, helping Haldis descend after him. She had grown increasingly melancholy as they neared the city. It can’t be easy for her to be back, he thought, especially since she used to attend the festival every year with her father and brothers. He squeezed her hand as his grandmother approached and his brother began to unhitch the horses to stable them.

“Haldis can help us set up while you get the trade permit from the bailiff,” said his grandmother. “And don’t let him give you any grief. He liked to banter with your father. I think it was a game between the two of them, silly men.”

Leiden chuckled. Having accompanied his father on many occasions, he easily tracked down the bailiff. While he questioned Leiden exhaustively, he was reasonable and fair. Permit in hand, Leiden called on several of their regular trade partners to renegotiate terms for their goods, an act made more lucrative since they were unable to use competing offers to work the price higher. By the time he returned to the wagons, Reid had just finished securing the tarpaulin over their booth, and the commons had filled up considerably in his absence.

“No troubles, I presume,” said his grandmother.

“None,” replied Leiden, “and I’ve already made this stop profitable.”

“Your father will be pleased to hear that,” she replied. “Since there’s nothing left to be done, I suggest we take our evening meal and turn in. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

Her assessment proved accurate. Leiden spent the day making the rounds with the local merchants while the others manned the stall. It was late in the evening before he headed back, but throngs of jovial people still crowded the commons for the festivities. He spied his brother dancing badly to a jig.

“He’s really quite awful,” said Haldis as she came up behind him.

“Just don’t tell him that.”

Haldis laughed and entwined her fingers with his as she leaned her head against his shoulder.

“Pardon me, but are you the merchant from Westerfeld?” inquired a short, slightly hunched man. The man’s dress, though simple, reflected a house of wealth.

“I am,” replied Leiden.

“Excellent,” said the man. “Lord Alban, my master, directed me to collect you both.”

“At this hour?” asked Haldis.

“It is late, I know,” apologized the man. “Alas, he was quite insistent.”

Leiden stifled a groan, wanting to simply spend what was left of the evening with Haldis. Father would never pass up a business opportunity, he reminded himself, least of all with the former regent of Highmont.

Haldis answered by hooking her arm through his. They strolled away from the revelries, soon leaving the crowds behind for the peace of a secluded avenue framed on one side by the high boundary wall of the earl’s estate. She skimmed her fingertips against its surface.

Lord Alban’s man abruptly stopped near a gate in the wall. Several guards emerged from the darkness and surrounded them.

“What is this?” asked Leiden.

“You are free to leave,” said Lord Alban’s man, “but she stays.”

“Haldis is a free woman,” said Leiden, barely able to contain his disgust that this lord thought privilege meant could take any woman he wanted. “Our business here is finished.”

“If you elect to withhold her, then your family’s business will indeed be finished.”

“What do you mean?” ask Haldis.

The man stepped in closer to her. “Lord Alban can see to it that his family is banned from trading in this region.”

Leiden’s breath hitched in his throat. “Why would he do that?”

“That is Lord Alban’s business,” said the man. “Would choose this woman over your family?”

Leiden glowered at the man, unable to stomach either option.

Sensing Leiden’s hesitation, the older man gave a nod to the guards. One suddenly seized Haldis while, at the same time, his compatriots shoved and held Leiden back.

“Leiden!” shouted Haldis.

He watched helplessly as the guard dragged Haldis through a gate in the wall.

“You would do well to forget about her,” instructed Lord Alban’s man. “She is no longer your concern.”

“You have no right,” asserted Leiden.

“But we do,” declared the man. “No good will come from associating with her ilk, and do not attempt to seek recourse. My master does not make petty threats.”

The guards waited until Lord Alban’s man departed before depositing Leiden near the festivities, laughing at some merriment to which only they were privy. He found their brazen indifference antagonizing, but he knew better than to take the bait even though he was seething—at the former regent’s presumption as much at his own reticence to contest it more vigorously. Still, he knew a petition to dispute the lord’s will were limited—more so since Haldis was born within the earl’s domain and unrelated— and would find few advocates.

Torn between his familial duties and Haldis, Leiden wandered back in the direction of the caravan, hoping some option would present itself along the way that would allow him to safeguard both.

◊ ◊ ◊

The guard pulled Haldis deeper into the grounds, binding her wrists and ignoring her repeated inquiries. They soon came to a terraced area that, in turn, led to a walled garden built into a natural depression in the terrain. The lower garden was lit by a solitary lantern, allowing Haldis to discern arched colonnades with gated doorways at either end of the garden. Two pikemen were posted at each. The guard tugged her down a staircase into the sunken garden and thrust her into its center where a well-groomed, gray-haired man paced the paving stones. The man halted in front of her.

“Who are you?” asked Haldis as she straightened up. “Why have I been brought here?”

“I am Lord Alban,” he said. “I have but a few questions I would put to you.”

“About what?” asked Haldis.

“You were born seventeen years ago during the eclipse, correct?”

“That’s what I was always told.”

“And you are from Prynton,” said Lord Alban.

“Yes.”

“How is it that you alone were spared the fate of the others?”

Haldis was tired of being asked that question. “Does it even matter?”

“I don’t suppose it does.” Lord Alban played with the rings on his fingers as he hovered over her. “Tell me, have you been attacked by a wolf?”

Haldis flinched. How could he even know that? she wondered.

“Yes or no?”

Haldis nodded.

“Then it left its mark on you?” asked Lord Alban.

Haldis remained silent.

“Did it?” demanded Lord Alban.

“Yes!” exclaimed Haldis. “Why are you asking me this?”

“Show me.”

Haldis shivered despite the unseasonable warmth. Does he really expect me to undress?

“Your cooperation is convenient, not necessary,” he whispered as he nodded to the guard that had brought her.

Horrified by the insinuation, Haldis loosened her bodice and shrugged her dress and chemise from her shoulders. She clasped the front with her bound hands as it dropped down her back.

“So the wolf has finally shown itself.”

“I don’t understand.”

He touched the crown of her head gently. “I am truly sorry, but it must be done.”

◊ ◊ ◊

swallowthemoon_redmoonDael stretched out his legs as he perched atop the balcony railing with his back to the manor’s outer wall. The festivities in Brynmoor proper will continue well into the night, he thought, and Cerrin will disappear half way through them. It was one of his cousin’s most annoying habits, one picked up after witnessing his father’s gruesome death at the age of ten—leaving him withdrawn, as well as parentless for his mother had died in childbirth. Shortly before his death, their grandfather, the previous earl, requested that Dael be sent to keep Cerrin company.

After nearly three years, I’m still not sure where he goes, thought Dael, but he won’t be able to indulge in such behavior now that he’s earl; better him than me. He considered it a blessing to learn the duties of leadership without being compelled to assume it—the benefit of being the spare son.

“There you are.” Cerrin strode purposely toward him, his movements as deliberate as his attire and his demeanor as dark as his neatly combed hair, which always curled disobediently at his temples. “Come with me.”

Dael slid off the railing and fell into step beside his younger cousin. “What’s happened?”

“I believe Lord Alban may do something unfortunate,” said Cerrin, “in the name of the prophecy.”

Not that again, thought Dael. “How so?”

“My forester mentioned to Lord Alban that he met a survivor of the Prynton massacre,” said Cerrin, “a girl by the name of Haldis, who was born during the eclipse as I was.”

“That no doubt caught his attention,” said Dael.

“I fear what he might do with that knowledge.”

“You think he intends to kill her?” asked Dael. Would Lord Alban truly be so brash?

“He hired a band of mercenaries to slaughter an entire village,” replied Cerrin, “clearly because he feared this girl would fulfill the prophecy. I believe him capable of anything.”

Dael suddenly wished he had consumed less alcohol. “Where would he take her?”

“The one place he always goes to be alone with his thoughts.”

Aunt Elyn’s garden, thought Dael. Given its proximity to the lake, Lord Alban could dispose of the girl’s body easily—definitely not what their grandfather had in mind when he built it as a wedding present for Cerrin’s mother.

Despite the late hour, they had no difficulty finding their way to the garden due to the bright moon. Lord Alban’s voice emanated from below, but Dael was unable to make out more than a few words. They circled around to one of the lower entrances to approach unseen. Dael gently nudged open the outer gate, grateful that its hinges refrained from rasping. Cerrin slipped in ahead of him and crept along the wall to the inner gate where their position provided them an unobstructed view. Lord Alban bent to whisper something to a slender young woman. She blanched and then loosened her dress, letting the back slip free of her shoulders.

“So the wolf has finally shown itself,” said Lord Alban.

The woman frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Lord Alban laid a hand on her head. “I am truly sorry, but it must be done.”

“What must be done?” challenged Cerrin, barging through the gate.

Dael had little choice but to follow, but two spears came down to halt their entrance. Cerrin glared at the guards and then Lord Alban.

“I would remind you,” said Dael as he stepped in front of his cousin, “that Lord Cerrin is now earl and will not be hindered on his own lands by his own guards.”

Realizing their error, the guards quickly withdrew their weapons and let them pass.

Dael strode up to Lord Alban and stared the older man squarely in the eyes. “I believe my cousin asked you a question.”

“My lords…Cerrin, please,” begged Lord Alban as he tried to block access to the woman.

Dael grasped his arm to hold him still.

“For your safety, I beg you leave now,” pleaded Lord Alban.

“I doubt this girl is a threat to anything but my virtue,” replied Cerrin smugly.

Lord Alban pulled free of Dael’s grip. “You do not understand.”

“You’re right, I don’t,” said Cerrin, his humor evaporating as quickly as it had come, “not your actions of last year and certainly not now.”

“The prophecy…” began Lord Alban, but a disdainful glare from Cerrin stopped him short.

Cerrin and Dael circled behind him. The young woman slouched, hugging her loose dress to her chest. Her long hair fell forward, obscuring her face but revealing healed puncture marks on her left shoulder. Jagged scars etched several inches down her back from them.

“I see no harbinger of doom,” stated Cerrin.

Lord Alban swung to face him. “Then you are blind, my lord. She bears the mark of the wolf.”

“That proves nothing,” said Cerrin. “Would you punish her for her misfortune?”

Lord Alban refused to meet Cerrin’s gaze. “She is from Prynton.”

“We come back to that,” stated Cerrin. “Do you fear your own creation?”

Lord Alban sputtered.

“Yes, you,” snarled Cerrin. “Would you take her life as you did those in her village?”

The woman suddenly straightened and glared at Lord Alban in a mixture of rage and anguish.

“If it would protect you, then yes. The prophecy…”

“You made these events happen,” snapped Cerrin.

“She was born during the eclipse just as you were, and it is she who bears the mark,” insisted Lord Alban. “It cannot be simple coincidence that she alone survived the massacre and is here now, just as you take your grandfather’s place as the Earl of Highmont.”

Cerrin shook his head is disbelief. “Leave us. All of you.”

“Surely you do not intend to be alone with the object of your destruction,” exclaimed Lord Alban.

“If that is my fate, then I have little power to avoid it,” responded Cerrin. “Now leave.”

As Lord Alban did so, Dael cut the ropes that bound the woman’s wrists. “It’s Haldis, yes?”

She nodded as she pulled her clothing back up over her shoulders and retied the laces of her bodice.

“What if he’s right?” she whispered.

“Intentions are not the same as deeds,” said Cerrin, “especially those you clearly have no desire to commit.”

Lord Alban won’t be so easily deterred, thought Dael. He eyed his cousin, who scowled in deliberation. Cerrin abruptly turned to him.

“Meet me in the northeast corner of the grounds at midnight,” ordered Cerrin.

“Cousin?” asked Dael.

“It’s time we put the prophecy to rest,” he replied. “We need to go back to where this started.”

Dael didn’t understand, but Haldis evidently did.

“I can’t go back there,” she stated.

“Don’t you want to know the truth?” asked Cerrin.

“Do you?” she countered.

Dael admired her pluckiness. A sideways glance at Cerrin told him that his cousin appreciated her candor far less.

Cerrin’s intense stare shifted to him. “Midnight, northeast corner.”

He turned on his heel and walked from the garden.

“Where are we going?” called Dael at his cousin’s back.

“My village,” answered Haldis.

“What can he possibly hope to find there?”

She rubbed her wrists. “I don’t know.”

Dael cursed his cousin’s impulsiveness, but retrieved the abandoned lantern and led Haldis to the manor’s kitchen, which was unoccupied due to the late hour. He put her to work helping him gather a day’s provisions.

“Can’t you see how foolish this is?” she asked.

Dael regarded her, noticing that light freckles dotted her cheeks beneath her amber eyes.

“You have to understand,” he said. “When my cousin gets an idea in his head, there’s no changing his mind. He’s determined to see it through to the end, no matter the price.”

“But that price may be his life.”

Dael knew she was right. He also knew better than to argue with his cousin in such instances. The best he could do was to protect Cerrin from himself.

“Was it truly a wolf that attacked you?” he asked.

“Five months ago, I woke up with no memory of the past year—not where I’ve been, not what I’ve done,” she replied as she bundled up the supplies. She lifted her gaze to his. “I don’t remember being attacked, and yet the scars are there. What other explanation can there be?”

What indeed, thought Dael. He took the bundle from her hands and swung it over his shoulder. “It’s time to go.”

She followed him silently as they left to rendezvous with Cerrin. Their lantern brightened a neglected hedge that lined the eastern boundary of the estate. It was the only side not replaced with masonry. Dael lifted the light to chase away the shadows cast by the overgrown bushes, but Cerrin was nowhere in sight.

“Over here,” came a whisper from the corner where the hedge met the wall.

Dael squinted into the shadowed intersection.

The hedge’s boughs shifted outward, and his cousin emerged from the murk like a specter.

“There’s an opening through here,” said Cerrin. “We’ll be able to leave unnoticed.”

Dael held the branches as his cousin slipped back into the darkness. The lantern revealed a well-hidden gap between the hedge and wall. He entered the passage with Haldis close behind. On the other side, two horses already waited.

“Handy that,” commented Dael.

“My father showed me,” said Cerrin. “Cover for me while we’re gone.”

Dael was stunned. “I’m coming with you.”

“I need you here.”

“You need someone to watch your back,” contended Dael. “If not me, then someone else.”

“Fine,” spat Cerrin, obviously annoyed at having to change his plans. “I guess we’ll need another horse then.”

“I don’t know how to ride,” confessed Haldis.

Her admission seemed to irritate Cerrin further. He clenched his teeth.

“She can ride with me,” offered Dael.

“Fine,” repeated Cerrin as he mounted his horse. His tight rein forced the horse to dance in a circle before moving off.

Dael gave Haldis a resigned shrug. He stashed their provisions in the saddlebag on the other horse and then mounted, helping Haldis up behind him and motioning the horse after Cerrin’s. They made good progress until clouds obscured the moon and forced them to decrease their pace lest the horses misstep.

His cousin said little during the journey nor was Haldis particularly talkative, although her silence he could understand. Dael was relieved when Prynton finally came into sight as dawn tinged the horizon behind them. He maneuvered the horse between the burned out buildings. He felt Haldis trembling.

“Just breathe,” said Dael, placing his hand on hers. It was cruel to bring her back here, he thought as he dismounted and tied his horse beside Cerrin’s near the village center. Dael helped Haldis down from the horse. “Better?”

She nodded, but was clearly unnerved by her last memories and the remnants of her home. She strayed to the town well where she absently traced the well’s mortar with a fingertip.

“This is where the wolf attacked me,” she said, “and where my memory ends.”

“Then it began here,” said Cerrin.

“What began?” asked Dael.

wolf-headdressHe glanced at Cerrin when he gave no response, but his cousin’s attention was focused elsewhere. Dael followed his line of sight. Men garbed in wolf headdresses and animal furs converged on their location.

Dael propelled Haldis toward their horses. They were quickly cut off, and a masked man grabbed Haldis from behind. Dael moved to intervene, but fell to his knees, momentarily dazed, as he was struck in the back of the head. His assailants held him as they poured a bitter liquid down his throat, shoving a cloth into his month to prevent him from spitting it out. An unnatural lethargy quickly seeped through him. Dael lost consciousness as his leaden body pulled him to the ground.

◊ ◊ ◊

By the time Leiden reached the wagons, everyone had turned in save two guards standing watch over their stall. He sat down on the steps at the wagon’s rear and remained there as dawn rose. He heard the door open behind him.

“Leiden?” asked his grandmother. “Why are you sitting out here? Is Haldis with you?”

“I think made a mistake.”

“We all make them, dear,” said his grandmother. She placed a hand on his shoulder as she eased herself down on the step next to him. “The question is whether it’s the kind you can live with.”

It was one to which he already knew the answer.

His grandmother patted his leg. “Then why are you still sitting here?”

Leiden kissed her cheek. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

He retraced his steps to the gate in the wall. No guards remained, but he hesitated. Would they think him trespassing? Surely, the new earl would be lenient, thought Leiden. Even so, he slipped cautiously through to the earl’s grounds which were expansive. He headed toward the only buildings he could see and soon found himself at the edge of a stable area where he saw ten men readying horses. The forester was among them. He saw Leiden and came over.

“What are you doing here, lad?” he asked.

“I was hoping I might get an audience with the new earl,” said Leiden. “It’s about Haldis.”

Siarl the forester’s stance turned rigid.

“What’s happened?” ask Leiden.

“The earl and his cousin have gone missing,” said Siarl. “The main guard is searching the grounds, but a sentry thought he might have seen them leaving with a young woman.”

“Haldis?”

“I believe so, given the description. The captain of the guard doesn’t put much stock in it, but two horses are also missing,” said Siarl. “Why do you want to see Lord Cerrin?”

Leiden explained the situation.

“Lord Alban is missing as well,” said Siarl. “Somehow your girl is the key. Where might they have gone?”

Leiden knew of only one place. “I’ll tell you if you take me with you.”

“You aren’t really in a position to bargain,” said Siarl.

“All I want is Haldis back. I need to make this right.”

Siarl regarded him. “Meet us at the main gate.”

Leiden hurried back to the wagons, retrieving his bow and quiver, and then headed to the stable to saddle one of the guard’s horses. His task was interrupted by Erling, who began saddling another horse.

“What are you doing?” asked Leiden.

“My job isn’t just to protect the caravan, sir. And even if it was, I’d still go with you.”

Leiden clamped the other man’s shoulder in gratitude. “I’ll fill you in on the way.”

They met up with the earl’s men and set out toward Prynton, arriving by late morning. Only the burned out husks of the buildings stood. Leiden pulled up his horse as they passed what had obviously been the blacksmith’s shop based on the forge that had withstood the conflagration. Haldis was right not to return, he thought.

“Someone was here not long ago,” said Siarl, pointing to the fresh indentations in the soil.

“Those came from a lot more than three people,” said Erling.

Siarl nodded and began tracking them from the village.

“So they met up with another group?” asked Leiden.

“That’s one possibility,” said Erling.

The implication was not lost on Leiden. But to what end? he wondered.

Siarl called them over to the edge of the Ironwood. “The tracks head in.”

“Can you follow them?” asked Erling.

“They’ve made no attempt to hide them,” said Siarl. “And even if they had, I’ve yet to find a beast I can’t track.”

◊ ◊ ◊

Haldis blinked away the blurriness in her vision, bringing into focus several roughly hewn openings near the ceiling and through which cool air and dim light seeped. Dael lay unconscious a few feet from her. She crawled over to him and gently turned his head to examine where she had seen him struck. No blood matted his brown hair.

That’s something at least, thought Haldis as she climbed to her feet and tried the windowless door that blocked their exit. Unsurprisingly, it was locked. She sat back down next to Dael. After a time, she noticed a slight twitch in his fingers. He groaned groggily and his eyelids gradually fluttered open. Dael squinted at her, his pupils nearly engulfing the blue irises.

“It’ll pass,” said Haldis, helping him sit up. “Just give it a few minutes.”

He grimaced as he tenderly felt the back of his head. “How long have I been out?”

“Given the weak light, I’d say it’s probably near sunset,” said Haldis.

“And Cerrin?”

“You were the only one here when I woke up.”

“But you’re okay?”

“They didn’t hurt me.”

Dael let loose a sardonic laugh. “No, they just drugged and kidnapped us. Who knows what they’ve done to Cerrin. If they believe in that ridiculous prophecy, he might already be dead.”

“Then why keep us alive?”

“Good question,” considered Dael, pulling up a leg onto which to rest his forearms. “They must have followed us from Brynmoor.”

Haldis was less certain. There were too many of them, she thought, to have remained hidden during the entire journey. Somehow, they knew we would be in Prynton.

Before Haldis could give it further thought, she heard the door tumblers click free. Several men flooded into their small cell and pulled her and Dael to their feet. They were led down a long corridor of cells and through a fortified door into an open-aired amphitheater encircled by sheer cliffs save for a single narrow fissure. Scattered doorways and windows penetrated the towering walls. At its center, a series of raised platforms had been carved from the bedrock. Their captors brought them to the uppermost level where a stone altar rested and a man clad in furs and a wolf-mask waited. He pulled a large object from a sack and casually tossed it at their feet. Haldis recoiled. It was Lord Alban’s head. The man chuckled as he removed the mask. It was Cerrin.

“I would think you’d be pleased, Haldis,” said Cerrin. “He did intend to kill you.”

“Are you bloody mad?” exclaimed Dael, aghast. “What have you done?”

“Many, many things,” replied Cerrin, “most of which I’m sure you wouldn’t approve.”

Dael strained against the hands imprisoning him. “Why are you with these people?”

“They’re believers.”

“In what?” asked Haldis, trying to squelch her growing unease.

“The prophecy and our place in it.”

“Then why kill Lord Alban?” asked Dael. “He was its most ardent believer.”

“He feared the prophecy,” corrected Cerrin. “We fed his paranoia to draw attention away from us, but his actions revealed—quite unexpectedly—that there was another player essential to its fruition.”

His hazel eyes shifted to Haldis. He reached out to touch her face, but his fingers paused just above her cheek. “This is where we made you.”

“Meaning what?” she asked curtly.

“We marked you with a wolf’s teeth and then anointed you with its blood.”

Dael glared as his cousin, incredulous. “The scars, you did that to her?”

“She has her place in the prophecy,” replied Cerrin, “as do I. Certain sacrifices must be made.”

“Like my family and everyone in my village?” asked Haldis horrified. Her blood drummed fervently in her ears.

“Lord Alban was responsible for that, although my men did set it ablaze after taking custody of you to ensure no one noted your absence among the dead,” explained Cerrin. “Fate spared you to bring forth the wolf age.”

“And how many are you willing to sacrifice to achieve that?” asked Dael.

“As many as required,” replied Cerrin. “I too have sacrificed those closest to me— my father, our grandfather.”

Haldis saw Dael’s face whiten.

“Father was an accident,” confessed Cerrin, fidgeting with the gold clasps of his vest, “but grandfather grew suspicious of my absences and the company I kept. If he had just let it be, he could have died a natural death.”

“What happened to you, cousin?” asked Dael.

“I was born,” said Cerrin, “as were other things.”

He gestured to a man to bring over a basket draped with a cloth. Cerrin lifted back the cloth to reveal a baby. “This is your son, Haldis.”

Haldis felt as if the stone beneath her feet meant to swallow her. That’s where the year went, she thought.

“The drugs effected your memory,” said Cerrin. “You wandered off in your…delirium.”

“Escaped, more like it,” muttered Dael.

Cerrin cast a disapproving scowl at his cousin before brushing back some hair that had fallen into her face. Haldis tried not to flinch.

“Fate brought you back to your son,” said Cerrin. “Our son.”

“No!” exclaimed Haldis. She yanked herself free of the man holding onto her, but Cerrin seized one of her arms possessively.

“You bastard,” snarled Dael.

Cerrin backhanded Dael in the face, knocking him to the ground. “Why is he even still here?”

His man nodded, and then he and another man proceeded to half drag, half carry Dael away.

“Don’t do this,” begged Haldis. “He’s your cousin, your own blood.”

“The only blood that matters is what runs through your veins.”

◊ ◊ ◊

dark_forestStill dazed, Dael staggered as his captors guided him through a dim, unfortified passage barely wide enough for three men to walk abreast. They soon broke from the stone crevice into the moonlit forest outside and halted in a small clearing not far from Cerrin’s stronghold.

“This is as good as place as any,” said the bigger of the two. The man freed a long knife.

The other man pushed Dael to his knees and tied his wrists behind him.

And to think I came along to protect that bastard, he thought as the knife-wielding man circled around behind him. From the corner of his eye, he saw the knife begin to move toward his neck, but his executioner suddenly groaned and lurched into Dael before sliding to the ground. Two arrows protruded from his back. His associate called out in alarm, but was similarly silenced. Stunned, Dael staggered to his feet as a group of men emerged from the trees. All but two wore the earl’s livery. In the lead was his cousin’s forester, bow in hand. He freed Dael’s wrists.

“How did you find me?” asked Dael.

“We tracked you from Prynton,” replied Siarl. “My lord, where is the earl?”

“He ordered this,” hissed Dael.

Several of the men exchanged confused looks.

“My lord?” said Siarl.

“He’s deranged,” declared Dael. “He confessed to murdering our grandfather and causing his own father’s death. He also returned to me the head of Lord Alban.”

“And Haldis?” asked a blond man about the same age as him. He held a long bow, but was not one of the earl’s men. “What of her?”

“She’s important to Leiden,” said Siarl without elaborating. “He can be trusted.”

“She was alive when I last saw her,” said Dael. “They’ve probably drugged her again.”

“Again?” asked Leiden. “That’s why she can’t remember?”

Dael nodded, unable to meet Leiden’s gaze. “It’s probably better she never does.”

“My lord?” asked Siarl.

“They’re the ones who kidnapped and scarred her, so she would fit into that ridiculous prophecy,” explained Dael, silently wishing that was all they had done. “And Cerrin…he forced her to bear his child.”

Leiden’s hand tightened around the grip of the bow, leaving his knuckles white and the muscles in his forearm taut. It was the only outward sign of his ire and a restraint Dael knew he himself lacked.

“Cerrin has some plans for her,” said Dael as he picked up a sword from one of the fallen men. “I don’t know what, but we have to stop him.”

“We are not much of a militia,” stated Siarl, “and you’re injured, my lord.”

“We just need to buy enough time for reinforcements to arrive,” said Dael. “Who here is the fastest rider?”

A man stepped forward.

“Head back to Brynmoor and tell the captain of the guard what’s happened,” said Dael. He pulled off his signet ring and handed it to the man as proof of the message. “Go with speed.”

◊ ◊ ◊

Haldis studied the windowless room into which she had been confined. She searched the room for the chamber pot and forced herself to vomit up the acrid liquor they had made her drink—one she suspected was tainted by whatever they had used on her before. She hid the pot under the bed as muffled voices came from the other side of the heavy wood door. Wiping her mouth, she quickly threw herself down on the bed and feigned stupor as a girl about her age entered with an elderly woman.

“Why did they drug her?” asked the girl. She laid out a wine-red beaded gown beside Haldis. “Do they want her to miscarry again?”

Haldis struggled to keep her expression vacant.

“It’s only for the ceremony,” said the older as she spread out combs, brushes, and hairpins on a dressing table.

“They should have married when they first brought her here,” said the girl as she helped Haldis to her feet.

Together, the two women stripped Haldis down to her chemise and dressed her in the gown. As they walked her to the dressing table, Haldis deliberately stumbled forward to scatter the hair accessories across the floor. She slipped a large hairpin inside the cuff of the gown as the older woman righted her into a chair and the girl retrieved the items. None the wiser, they proceeded to comb and elaborately braid her hair down her back with another that encircled the crown of her head. Smaller braids draping around both like rope.

They slipped a silver filigree knuckle ring onto the center finger of her right hand before giving her over to a burly man. He hooked his hand firmly around her elbow and brought her back to the amphitheater, its precipices embracing the hunter’s moon above them. Cerrin stood beside the bonfire-illuminated altar while at least twenty of his followers loitered in front of him. A man Haldis presumed was a priest gestured to her escort to bring her up to the dais, but on the side opposite Cerrin. The man released her and positioned himself a few arm spans away.

Haldis fingered the head of the pin hidden in her sleeve as the priest addressed the assemblage. She tuned it out and took in her surroundings as surreptitiously as she could. She spied a doorway she might be able to reach before being intercepted. If I cause a sufficient distraction, thought Haldis. She caressed the hairpin again and fixed her gaze on the priest. He raised his hand to quiet Cerrin’s cheering followers and placed the other on her shoulder.

“Under this moon, we shall bind this woman to our lord and herald in the age of the wolf,” he announced as he smiled down at her.

Haldis slipped the hairpin into her palm and moved swiftly, plunging it into his chest. Stunned silence gripped the onlookers, but it lasted only a moment as Haldis dashed from the platform. Fingers snatched at the back of her dress, but abruptly fell away just as she made it to the doorway. She ran down the ill-lit passage, but was tackled from behind as she came to a broad chamber. Haldis slid hard into the floor, scraping her palms bloody. Cerrin grappled with her legs in an effort to pull her toward him, but Haldis kicked him in the chest and scrambled to her feet and into the nearest hallway.

“You were born to this,” bellowed Cerrin as he pursued her, “and you will play your part!”

Haldis pulled up short as she found herself in a kitchen, startling a scullery girl stoking the fire. Cerrin dug his fingers into the braid at the nape of her neck and yanked her backward to the floor. Her head banged into the edge of the hearth, spared only by thick braiding. The girl fled.

“You should be honored,” declared Cerrin as he straddled her and tried to snare her arms. “Fate chose you to be more than the lot you were born into. In time, you’ll see things my way.”

“You’re mad,” spat Haldis.

She blindly reached into the hearth to scoop up a handful of ash and flung it at him. The gray powder exploded in his face. Haldis knocked him off of her and clambered to her feet.

Coughing, Cerrin wiped it from his eyes with his sleeve and tried to blink away the soot. “There is nowhere you can run that fate won’t return you to me and no one who can help you that I can’t kill.”

Haldis snatched the girl’s abandoned wrought-iron poker from the hearth. The ragged-wrapped handle bit into the abrasions on her palm, and heat radiated from the opposite end where the tip flushed amber. It might not be as hot as one from my father’s forge, thought Haldis, but it will still do the job.

◊ ◊ ◊

Leiden loosed an arrow into the man chasing Haldis, but Cerrin slipped into the doorway before he could let fly another. The remaining assemblage stirred and began to move on their position.

“Go after him, Lord Dael,” said Siarl, “but take Leiden and his man with you. We’ll deal with these others.”

The three nodded wordlessly and split off from the main group. Two of Cerrin’s followers broke from their fellows to intercept them.

“Behind you!” yelled Erling.

Leiden felled both in quick succession.

“Your aim is impeccable,” said Dael when they reached the doorway into which Cerrin had disappeared.

“I had a good teacher,” replied Leiden with a nod to their companion. He had never used his bow on anything other than game, and the realization that he had likely taken the lives of several men weighed on him.

Erling turned to Dael. “Perhaps it might be best if I take the lead, my lord.”

Dael gestured down the hallway in assent.

“Keep your bow at ready, Leiden,” said Erling. “Swords are ill-suited for this narrow passage.”

Leiden reached back to count the arrows in his quiver. Only five remained. Not good, he thought as they came to a large chamber from which three other passageways branched off.

“You know Haldis better than anyone, Leiden. Which one would she take?” asked Erling.

Leiden contemplated each passage in turn. If I pick the wrong one, he thought, it might cost Haldis her life. So might indecisiveness.

A light footfall scraped against the stone from the passage to his left. He swung around, nocking an arrow in his bowstring as he did so. A young girl stopped in her tracks with a squeak when she saw the arrow aimed at her. Leiden slowly eased the tension on the string, pointing the arrow downward.

“You’re here for that woman,” stated the girl, almost sobbing. “You have to help her.”

Leiden approached the girl warily. “Where is she?”

“They’ll kill me if I tell you.”

“Then show us,” ordered Dael.

Leiden knew that approach would do nothing to allay the girl’s fears. He gently put a hand on her shoulder. “We can keep you safe. Please.”

The girl hesitated, but then nodded and warily led them into the hallway she had exited. They passed several bisecting corridors when a pained shriek suddenly reverberated through the passage from just up ahead of them. The girl froze.

“Stay here,” whispered Leiden as he moved past her to follow Erling and Dael.

They rushed into a chamber where they discovered Cerrin thrashing on the floor holding the left side his face. Haldis stood behind him, a poker in her hands. Her hair was a disheveled halo around her head. At seeing them, her surprise was replaced by relief.

“Leiden?” The poker slid from her fingers and clanged against the stone floor.

He quickly closed the distance between them and embraced her, watching as Dael and Erling dragged Cerrin to his feet and doubled him over a table. Elongated burn marks tracked from his brow to the collar of his jacket.

“I’ll find something to bind him,” said Erling, calling for the girl to help him.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” gasped Cerrin to his cousin. “You still could serve me.”

“There are people in this room I would trust with my life,” said Dael. “Sadly, you’re no longer one of them. I can’t believe I ever trusted you.”

“And you shouldn’t,” stated Haldis.

Leiden reluctantly let her draw away from him.

Dael pushed Cerrin into the table. “What is she talking about?”

Cerrin remained stubbornly mute.

“He lied,” said Haldis. “That baby isn’t mine.”

Dael twisted his cousin’s arm. “Is this true?”

“I figured she’d be more compliant if she thought it was,” said Cerrin. “We wouldn’t need to drug her then.”

“Because you knew it would cause me to miscarry,” said Haldis. “Again.”

Leiden came up beside her. “You really were pregnant then?”

She averted her eyes. “Apparently.”

It took every measure of discipline for Leiden to squelch the urge to throttle Cerrin, but it did nothing to assuage his guilt. Dael was not so disposed. He clamped Cerrin’s arms behind his back and slammed him down into the table.

“You’re a sick bastard, you know that?” hissed Dael as Erling returned with some salvaged cord.

Cerrin smirked despite the burns. Dael secured his hands, pulled him upright, and prodded his cousin behind Erling and the girl as they took point again while Leiden and Haldis brought up the rear. They met no resistance as they retraced their steps, but Erling halted the group just inside the doorway to the amphitheater to scout ahead. He quickly returned.

“It would appear that our unexpected arrival worked in our favor,” said Erling.

When Leiden emerged from the passage behind the others, he saw Siarl and his men rounding up the handful of Cerrin’s followers that still lived. Siarl waved them over.

“I see you were successful as well, my lord,” said Siarl with an askance look at Cerrin.

“That credit goes to Haldis,” said Dael with an approving nod, “and I know just where we can lock up my cousin and his cohorts.”

◊ ◊ ◊

amphitheaterHaldis shivered as the first chill air of autumn descended into the walled amphitheater. Daybreak had already begun to hide the moon as she studied the gap that led out to the Ironwood. It would be so easy just to disappear, she thought. She could stay and face the constant shame of having been raped—even though she had no memory of it—or try her chances in another village. With no family, she knew either option likely led to bleak prospects.

“You’ll catch cold standing there,” said Leiden as he hugged a blanket around her.

Haldis said nothing, unsure how to broach the uncertainty of their relationship.

“Haldis…”

“It’s alright,” whispered Haldis. She steeled herself for the inevitable rejection.

“It’s not,” replied Leiden. “Lord Alban’s ultimatum—you or my family—I wasn’t prepared for that kind of decision.”

“Your family should come first, not me.”

He turned her around and tenderly stroked her cheek. “I would very much like them to be one and the same.”

Haldis frowned and pulled away. “How can you still want me after all this?”

“It doesn’t change how I feel.”

“But I have nothing, Leiden,” professed Haldis. “I’m just a blacksmith’s daughter.”

Leiden caught her bandaged hands. “And my grandfather was the illegitimate son of a priest, but he refused to let that define him. My family’s business is his legacy.”

“Your parents..,” began Haldis.

“Will understand,” he finished. “The choice is mine, and I would call you my wife—that is, if you’ll have me.”

Speechless, Haldis studied Leiden, silently wishing her father could have met him.

“You don’t have to decide here, in this place,” he said.

“You already know my answer.”

“Yes?”

Haldis nodded.

Leiden bent to kiss her, but a shout from a guard spoiled the moment.

“What now?” groaned Leiden.

The forester’s men were congregating in the prison area. Haldis and Leiden pushed their way through to the front where Dael and Siarl stood. The cause for the alarm was obvious: everyone in the cell was dead.

Haldis pointed to several white objects beside one of the bodies. “Mistletoe berries.”

“It’s the same here,” called Erling from the neighboring cell.

Dael rushed to his cousin’s cell. Haldis and Leiden caught up with him as he threw open the door. Cerrin sat against the wall and greeted them with a condescending smile confined solely to the uninjured side of this face. On the other, the burns had already begun to seep and blister.

“Do you really think I’d take my own life like some common dog?” he taunted. “You should know better, cousin.”

Dael yanked Cerrin to his feet and shoved him violently into the wall. Leiden seized Dael’s cocked arm, using it to pivot him away, and then placed himself between Dael and the object of his rage.

“How can you protect him after what he’s done?” growled Dael gesturing at Haldis. He surged forward, but Leiden held him back.

“He’s goading you, my lord,” hissed Leiden. “He wants his blood on your hands.”

“Because he’s too much of a coward to end his own life,” stated Haldis from the threshold.

Cerrin’s smugness waned.

Dael shoved off Leiden’s hands and stormed past Haldis, his rage palpable as he brushed past. Leiden rejoined her at the door and leveled a pitiless gaze on Cerrin.

“You will die,” he stated, “but not today and not by our hands.”

Haldis hooked her hand around the door handle. “Pray the king’s tribunal is merciful.”

With that, she closed the door on Dael’s cousin.

◊ ◊ ◊

A company of reinforcements arrived shortly after sunrise and helped flush out a few remaining holdouts hiding in the stronghold. Once the prisoners had been chained together, Cerrin was bound atop a horse’s saddle. Dael mounted his own horse and took the other’s reins, but Cerrin’s attention was fixated on Haldis. His cousin’s upper lip quivered unconsciously as she climbed up behind Leiden on his mount and tenderly wrapped her arms around him.

Dael shook his head in disbelief as they moved out. Cerrin’s current predicament had done little to lessen his obsession, he thought. No doubt he’ll grace us with his incessant taunts all the way back to Brynmoor.

His cousin, however, said not a word, and they arrived without incident. Dael immediately sent a messenger to the king’s court, but it still took over two weeks for the three lords of the tribunal to arrive. Their deliberations, in contrast, took less than a day, for Cerrin denied nothing. They found him guilty of every offense to which he was accused and sentenced him to hang with his followers. Dael was far more surprised by their intent to recommend that he succeed Cerrin.

On the eve of the execution, Dael found himself drawn to his cousin’s cell. Cerrin lay on the straw pallet, staring at the ceiling, seemingly indifferent to Dael’s presence and unconcerned by his impending punishment. The burns mottled his face, their leathery edges pinching taut against the undamaged skin.

Dael leaned against the metal bars. “Haldis married Leiden.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Cerrin. “She will always belong to me.”

“She was never yours.”

“We were bound the day we were born.”

Dael held back his angry retort, trying to emulate Leiden’s self-control. “The prophecy is a farce spouted by some heathen cleric centuries ago. It’s meaningless, and it was all for nothing.”

Cerrin scoffed. “Its meaning can’t be comprehended by one such as you.”

“You’ll be dead by this time tomorrow. The prophecy won’t save you.”

Cerrin laughed at him. “I don’t need to be saved. The prophecy is already in motion.”

Dael shook his head, dumbfounded by his cousin’s unyielding refusal to renounce the ancient prediction of ruin. It was then that he realized Cerrin had been lost long ago.

◊ ◊ ◊

“You’re sure you don’t want to be there?” ask Leiden.

Haldis glanced back at Brynmoor as the three caravan wagons passed through the city gate. A sudden cheer out rang out from behind them, no doubt from the crowd gathered for the execution—the same crowd that had only weeks earlier celebrated Cerrin as its young earl. Their exuberance sickened her.

Too many had already died to venerate the prophecy, thought Haldis as she settled back onto the bench beside Leiden. “It won’t change anything.”

“It might give you closure,” replied Leiden.

“I’ve seen enough death,” said Haldis, quietly adding, “and caused enough.”

Leiden reached over to take her hand. “It’s not your fault.”

“How is it not?” asked Haldis. “Everyone is my village is dead simply because I lived there.”

“Cerrin manipulated Lord Alban to feed his fear—with no regard for the outcome—and then killed those who got in the way of what he wanted.”

“He wanted me,” whispered Haldis, “needed me to give validity to the prophecy.”

“And yet you resisted his influence over you, even when it was near absolute,” said Leiden. “You were no willing participant.”

“Then why do I feel so guilty?” asked Haldis.

“Because you care,” said Leiden. “You wouldn’t feel the weight of it otherwise, but it’s not your burden to shoulder.”

Haldis knew he had taken several lives to come to her aid and was struggling with that knowledge. “It’s not yours either.”

“I know.”

swallowthemoon_wolfHe hooked his arm around her waist and slid her closer to him on the bench. Haldis leaned into him as the wagon skimmed the Ironwood. Something caught her eye in the dim understory. She stiffened as it resolved into a distinct form of a wolf. A black wolf.

“Haldis?” asked Leiden.

The beast’s yellow eyes captured hers as the wagon came even with it. Her mind insisted it meant nothing, but an unsettling sense of kindred clutched her—as if the wolf sought to rouse what Cerrin believed slumbered within her. The question is, thought Haldis, do I?

The wolf then yawned and trotted back between the trees. Their crowded silhouettes quickly swallowed it.

“Just a shadow,” replied Haldis as she turned to Leiden. “Nothing more.”

 

Lisa Langeland lives in Minnesota, but spent her youth in various locales in eastern South Dakota and, as a young child, in a central Ontario mining town. She has an insatiable curiosity and a laid-back, self-depreciating sensor of humor. She is also an amateur nature photographer. Her fiction has appeared in “New Myths” and “The Colored Lens.”

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Published by Associate Editor on November 17, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 28, Issue 28 Poetry, Stories

The Flight of Dragons

sparkThe Flight of Dragons
by D. M. Recktenwalt

Introducing the realm of true magic to an apprentice is not an easy thing, and must be done with extreme care. Excitement in a young mind can be all too boundless, temptation all too great, and dangerous lapses of responsibility or attention all too easy in those with insufficient discipline, as more than one mage has found out through bitter experience.

With Mason Alderson I had no qualms. I began his education as a mage a few days after he was forced into, and won, a confrontation in our bathhouse with the bully, Pruyn. Pruyn had already been warned once. Soon I sent the bully home for good, his training ended. It was an action for which he never completely forgave me.

But that had little to do with Mason’s immediate needs. Few boys ever become mages, but all have some ability or aptitude which can be fostered, and which can then support them comfortably in life—as clerks or scribes, perhaps, or priests or healers or minor shamen. Seeing a child started on his way is gratifying to any teacher, but mages always search and hope to find someone like Mason, a boy to mentor, a lad who has the elusive, true spark of magic in him. When we find him, we nurture him carefully and with a great deal of hope.

As he grew into manhood and his skills matured, I gradually reduced the number of my students, and it wasn’t long before the loft quarters over the kitchen stood forlorn and all but empty.

Summer swung down toward autumn and the nights grew cooler. In the trees groups of birds gathered and chattered, flocking and swooping in precise unison in the sky. Soon they would depart for warmer climes, leaving the snows of Kendorn far behind. The warmth of the fire was welcome in our cottage of an evening.

I was half Seeing, disturbed by a change in the Power, its memory now lost. In its wake, I was now lost myself in my own hollow memories, wandering among dreams of my childhood with friends long dead. The sorrow of outliving most of one’s contemporaries, of seeing those one most cherishes returned to Mother Earth before him, is one burden a mage bears in exchange for the knowledge he carries, for the long life he lives, for his Power. Nature and life itself have scales with a complex, delicate balance. To have, you must give; to take, you must provide. Tip the balance too far and chaos results. But my loneliness gnawed at me these days, worried my bones with needle teeth that would not leave be. For once I almost cursed my Gift, wished myself an ordinary man, long since turned to dust with all those whose passings I had mourned.

But then I would think of Mason…there was so much yet to teach him!

He was sorting through stacks of documents that lay in jumbled piles, all but covering the surface of the wooden table. Some he organized, some he consigned to the fire, some he made notes on; occasionally he asked a question, or read a document aloud to me. I admit to paying little real attention.

“A chief in a village to the north,” he said for the second time, “has seen dragons.”

Slowly, I looked up. I was far away in a sunny meadow where Carolee and Tow and Adrielle and I, all children fostered to the mage Tanqui de Laqline, happily gathered armfuls of flowers to braid daisy chains. That had been a long time ago, a long lost time of innocence.

“I believe we should investigate,” Mason said, holding my brief span of coherent thought with his gaze, bringing me back to the present with his voice. I suddenly realized that he was now a man grown, no longer a lad, but a young man clear sighted and strong in his own power. “Your help is needed.”

“How can I help someone track a myth?” I asked dully. I was in a glum mood. I was, after all, no more than a village teaching mage.

“Master, you have never been a fool,” Mason replied. “Don’t be one now.”

I turned my bleak gaze on him and only then recognized that he bore marks of worry and concern nearly equal to my own. He, too, had heard the Power strain and cry; it had worried his days, woken him in the night. A man now looked steadily back at me and into my soul, not a boy; a man strong and confident, if not yet seasoned. “Did you say dragons?”

He nodded, a carefully masked twinkle in his eye. “Dragons have been seen in the high passes near Tavla, decimating the flocks.”

Dragons. There hadn’t been dragons in the land since time past remembering. It was generally accepted by learned men that there was no such thing as dragons, and probably never had been, that they were, in fact, no more than myth. But myths often have at their hearts some kernel of truth.

“How could I help this…Aktonat…” I began, and stopped.  I had not read the letter, nor had Mason mentioned a name, yet it came clear to me. Mason suppressed a flicker of a smile. “Odd name.” I rolled it, and the idea of dragons, around in my brain for a bit. The corners were sharp, and didn’t quite properly fit, but they were enticingly close…

“Near Tavla?” I asked. “That’s your home country, isn’t it lad?”

Mason nodded. “Aye, master. And Aktonat is my father’s father.”

Tavla, a land amid a range of high mountains, where nomad sh’ypherds followed their sh’yp from pasture to pasture, and miners dug into the Mother’s breasts for minerals and gems.

Aktonat…and Tavla…and dragons. It was the first thing to have captured my interest in weeks. Behind his quiet half smile, Mason’s eyes were sparkling.

There was certainly little enough to hold us here. A village lad could tend the place for a time, and there were always willing friends who would adopt a cow or a goat and be glad for the additional milk. The garden could do without tending ‘til spring, if necessary.

“We’ll  go,” I said, making my mind up with a speed that surprised me by its very recklessness, “Let your family know we’re coming; use a swift flier.”

The young man bent his head to hide his grin as he drafted the message.

◊ ◊ ◊

At dawn two days later, our affairs properly in order, we departed. There had been cries of dismay from some of the village elders, who claimed constant need of my advice. I didn’t bother to point out that a mage is his own law, and I was in no mood to use tact. The less tractable among them backed down soon enough, although there was the usual amount of grumbling from the usual quarters.

orchard-in-bloomThe journey took us over broad, rolling meadows, following the network of dirt roads that connected the agricultural villages. We passed fields of maize and beans, pastures with sleek cattle and horses beside which our mules looked ragpicker’s steeds, all of it broken occasionally by copses of aged trees or wild meadows, or the carefully tended orchard of a fruitman, neat and trim and heavy with ripening fruit. Up the lowland escarpments we climbed, toward the low foothills, where fields gave way to rolling prairie with wind-blown grasses tall as a man. Birds chattered there, and insects flicked the ears of the mules and darted about our own faces.

As we went higher, the prairie gathered in the occasional tree, the bright, shining kind that can tolerate the thinner soil and the colder winds, and pines that drape over the steep shouldered slopes like a  grandmother’s shawl. The nights grew colder. One morning, camped in a pine circled clearing where the dense bed of needles cushioned our beds and silenced our footfalls, we woke to find frost on our blankets and a rim of ice on the nearby pond. The mules were frisky, their small hooves fairly dancing on the rocky ground. The clear air revived us; the early sun was warm on our shoulders.

Aktonat’s nomadic camp lay in a high, remote valley well above the tree line, ringed by the tall peaks that stood sentinel over one of the highest mountain passes, a pass that linked this rugged moorland into which we climbed with the bleak and barren lands beyond. For centuries, the people of these precipitous moors had guarded that pass against invaders, their tough warriors on wiry ponies fiercely swooping down on any enemies who were able to successfully cross the steep and treacherous Tavlan Pass. Many had died in defense of their traditional grazing lands; many more would undoubtedly die in their defense again.

Word of our coming preceded us, and riders came out to meet us, although Mason knew the way. The trail led us up and across a rugged ridge exposed to the full fury of wind and mountain cold. We descended then into calm and the tiny village of felt-sided huts thatched with moorgrass. Evening fires were being lit and beyond the huts, men were picketing ponies and corralling cattle for the night. “It never changes,” Mason observed contentedly. This  nomad encampment had been his home once; now his home was the stone cottage of Hagen Templeborn, Mage.

We slept well in the guest hut that awaited us; and the heat of our morning coffee penetrated to our very bones, helping to dispel the stiffness and heavy lids of sleep.

Sitting cross-legged around the small fire in his hut, Mason’s grandfather told his tale.

“We saw them first in the high meadows,” he said, cradling his pottery cup in knotted hands, “feeding. We didn’t know whether the beast had made a kill, or merely scavenged the dying. It fed for a time, then flew away to the southeast.

“Since then, we have seen more, but never more than a few at one time—probably a dozen different ones in all. If approached too closely, they’ll defend their kill, hissing and striking and pummeling with their wings. One of our men was bitten. The wound remains to this day open and purulent; it will not heal.

“Bait and fire have proven ineffective against them; they ignore our weapons like so many gnats.”

“Grandfather, describe them,” Mason respectfully requested.

Aktonat looked up in remembrance, his eyes slitted in concentration. “Long, the length of three ponies or more. At the shoulder they stand as tall as a bull, and easily as broad. A long body that tapers back to a slender tail. The neck rises slender and fine to a long, wedge-shaped head with a narrow muzzle and long, tooth-filled jaws. Their legs are short, flexible and strong, with sharp claws on five toes, opposed like hawks’ feet. And there are wings, broad, strong, flexible wings.”

“Lizards?” Mason hazarded in an aside to me in Trace.

“Perhaps,” I answered back in the same wizard’s language, “but unusually large ones.”

◊ ◊ ◊

While we waited for another sighting, Mason and I went to see the  injured man.

It was an ugly wound. The creature had grabbed the man’s thigh between the knee and the groin, leaving a deep set of puncture marks before and behind. The wounds were now purple and festering ovals, separated by spans of skin as white as snow and as bloodless. As a healer and as a mage, I had never before seen the like, nor felt it. The wound seemed to ooze some dark, viscous miasma that clouded my mind, dulled my senses. More sensitive than I, Mason simply commented that he felt a great evil in the injury.

We treated the man as best we could, but I had doubts that our efforts were of much use, other than to make him feel more comfortable with his fate.

We made use of the time of waiting to gather herbs and other supplies, but when a rider came galloping into camp one afternoon to report a sighting we were astride and following almost as fast as I can tell of it.

The country here was flowing moorland, broken by rugged cliffs and ridges of bedrock that protruded like broken bones. One moment Mardat, Mason’s uncle and our guide, would be right in front of us, the next moment hidden by raw rock, then in sight again, his pony bobbing through the knee deep, ripening forage grasses. He finally drew rein and waited for us just below the crest of yet another anonymous ridge. The wind smelt of snow. Beneath us in the grassy defile, the scents were of moist earth and living, growing things. And dragons. Although neither Mason nor I had ever encountered the beasts before, we were very much aware of their musty, acerbic scent.

“Below us, and to the left,” Mardat told us, flattening himself against the ground and leading the way up the last few feet to the top of the ridge. Mason, Aktonat and I followed, leaving the ponies behind. I focused my viewing glasses carefully where Mardat indicated; in the frame, long-stemmed meadow grain swayed gently, its rippling motion at odds with the direction of the wind. Grasses were bent back, too, and trampled as though a great weight had lain there.

“There,” Mason whispered, pointing, and I turned to see. Bare-eyed, Mason had seen the dragons before I had. Gradually, a nose came into view—a flattened, narrow nose, pale grayish blue with tiny flaring nostrils—a nose that sniffed the wind. Through the shimmering dark distortions of magic, I was able to define the top of a head, tiny ears, the black arc of a claw. The creature lay stretched out along the course of a dry creek bed, almost entirely masked by the waist-high, shimmering grass.

“Do you see?” Aktonat asked.

“Oh, yes,” I murmured. “I see indeed.” But my vision was clouded; I was not certain what I saw.

“Master,” Mason whispered, “there are two. One large, one quite small.” He had Seen.

Moving slowly, I rose and began a careful descent into the hollow below, Mason behind me. Mardat and Aktonat followed less closely, concerned, but firm in their resolution. I had no idea, leading our little parade, exactly what these dragons might be, or what kind of temperaments they might have. I could be leading us into bloody death.

The first dragon blinked slowly and raised its head, staring in our direction. Its eyes may have seemed small and weak, but it could smell us, even though Mardat had taken care to place us downwind. I continued walking slowly, softly chanting a protective spell. Mason, at my side, had already begun to weave his own; a fine mist was gathering and spreading about his feet.

dragoneyeIt was as well we had protection. The beast roused fully. In one smooth, swift motion it rose to its full height, spread its wings and launched into direct attack. I had time only to notice black eyes flecked with gold and sharp, in-curving teeth before being bowled over as the leading edge of one wing sent me sprawling.

Instinctively, I curled and rolled. I came to a shaken stop and looked around for my companions as the beast swung away for another approach. Mardat lay on his stomach under an overhanging ledge, his eyes wide in fear. Aktonat had squeezed into a narrow cleft nearby; and Mason was rolling smoothly back to his feet, quite unhurt. Above us the dragon hovered, its long scaly tail switching angrily, its red tongue visible through opened jaws. Its full attention was on me.

During what seemed an eternity we stared at each other, the hovering creature and I. Meanwhile, Mason was moving quietly at the very edge of my peripheral vision. He counter attacked with consummate skill. The rock he threw struck the beast just below the left eye and drew blood. The dragon bellowed, although more from surprise than from injury, and swung to face its attacker. The diversion gave me the chance I needed: I was on my feet and running even as that massive head swung back toward Mason. I launched myself at the dragon, and caught it just behind the ears, where the head joins the slender neck, wrapped my arms about its neck and my legs about its scaled body, and hung on for my life.

Considering its strength, size, and the rank whiff of its breath, it had an excellent chance of dislodging, and then killing me. Certainly it did its best. Riding that writhing, bucking muscular mass was an exercise in determination; the creature was all muscle and surprises, strong and flexible and without finesse. The earth and the sky became a rotating kaleidoscope of color; sound was limited to the heave and surge of the creature’s breathing and the ragged bellows that were my own lungs.

But I hung on through the dizzying battle, even when my arms weakened, my brain tired from the dizzy battering. By pure will I forced myself to retain my grip on that whipping, steely scaled neck, to stay atop the beast and out of reach of its lethal claws, which could rip a man apart with ease.

I had a brief, arcing glimpse of Mason, standing rock still, his eyes half closed, his hands stretched before him as if he gently cupped a living thing in his palms—and perhaps he did, for he was working magic. There was no chance to warn him, for this dragon’s desperate flight just above the grass was far from over, and that leathery head and whipping tail demanded all my attention. There was no doubt that there was magic in the beast. I could feel it in my hands and fingers, feel it seeping into my bones.

Mason’s spell worked—in a fashion.

The dragon’s movements ponderously slowed. It shook its reptilian head, and finally, exhausted, settled into a watchful stance on the ground, half coiled and panting, its leathery wings half spread.

Helpless as a newborn, I simply slid off. I lay, then, staring up at a swirling blue sky dotted with clouds, and that wedge-shaped head. I could not have moved if my life had depended on it.

Finally I sat up, senses still reeling. Mason bent to lend me his strong arm. I looked up and reached for his hand, saw what lay curled in his other arm, and stopped cold, for in his arm lay another, much smaller, dragon.

“It’s all right,” he said. “The mother has settled down; she won’t harm us.” The dragonling blinked great gray-blue eyes at me and tipped its head in curiosity. I looked to the adult dragon, then back at the baby, which lay coiled around Mason’s arm and shoulder, watchful and content.

Mason stood back, satisfied, after checking me over carefully. Nothing broken, but my vision would take some time to clear. Mason and the baby dragon were ringed in an iridescent bluish haze that bore no relationship to that of magic. They glimmered softly, shifting colors and angles without notice. I shook my head to clear it, too late wished I had not.

“She was only protecting her young,” Mason explained, rubbing gently at the base of the youngster’s still damp wings. “She knows that we mean her no harm.”

“We don’t?” I murmured absently, fingering a lump on the back of my head. It hurt, and would be a nasty bruise later.

“Of course not,” Mason replied, giving me a sharp look. Whatever the circumstances, I was far from easy around two dragons.

But the afternoon had more surprises in store.

Walking toward us across the moor, graceful as a hill deer, came a woman. She caught Mardat and Aktonat totally by surprise, and I could see little more than a darkness in my vision, but all of Mason’s senses were alert.

“You have found my pet, I see,” she said as she came within earshot.

“Your pet?” Mason asked mildly, caressing the young one gently.

“Do you have a better term, bantling?” the woman asked, taking Mason for no more than the hill lad he seemed.

“Hatha,” she ordered firmly, “home.” The dragon only turned its head in her direction and blinked those great gold-flecked eyes. “Home, I  said.” When the beast failed to move she shrugged, and aimed a look of pure malevolence in its direction. “They’re such dull-witted beasts,” she muttered, looking around her. She dismissed the two village nomads at a glance as of no importance, then paused at sight of the burden Mason carried. “Ah, so that’s why she won’t obey.”

She reached for the dragonling with proprietary hands. At that, the beast called Hatha raised her head, hissed, and threateningly spread her magnificent wings, but it was the little fellow who spat and fastened needle-like baby teeth into the woman’s outstretched hand, striking too fast for her to react.

She snatched back her wounded hand with a violent curse—and in her half turn away from the attacker both revealed her fertile, swollen belly, and saw me. For only a moment those beautiful, passionless eyes, so well remembered, registered a single, naked emotion. “You!” she said, perhaps also remembering a day long ago, and another child, one that was not destined to live.

“Adrielle,” I acknowledged. Despite my mage blindness and the distortion of my vision, I had recognized the raven black hair that nearly swept the rocky ground, the wide-spaced violet eyes in a milk white face. Adrielle was a woman unmistakable; her presence explained the darkness in my vision. I did not attempt to rise; the ground beneath me still moved, and was only now beginning to subside.

“I suppose, then, that this one is yours?” Adrielle commented, sucking at the blood that welled redly from her too white, injured hand, and gesturing toward Mason. The lad watched, bemused, masking his thoughts well. Idly he stroked the baby dragon.

“In a manner of speaking.” I had not knowingly sought him; he had, in fact, sought me.

“A stray? As I recall, you always were a good one for picking up strays.”

“Did you consider yourself a stray?” I asked mildly. I had once, long ago, taken Adrielle under my wing, offering friendship and kindness.

“Never.”

I nodded, watching the lovely face as she deliberately ignored Mason, baiting her hook as surely as any fisherman. I too had been taken in by that fragile beauty, more than once. We had a long history, did Adrielle and I. She had changed very little. The hair was longer, but the skin was as smooth, the face as lovely as ever. I hoped Mason’s good sense remained intact; there was no way to warn him of what lay behind the mask.

“But then, I never actually took you in, did I?” The ground was steadying now; I took the chance of carefully standing up.

Adrielle tossed her head sharply, her stare icy; neither of us had forgotten. “I never allowed you to,” she corrected me acidly. I made no reply.

“You’ve changed,” she finally said, having studied me intently for several moments. She didn’t see much—just a tall, fairly lean, hardly noteworthy man of middle years, his hair and beard going from brown to grey. Only the eyes hadn’t changed; they were still the clear turquoise blue of a summer sky.

“And you have not,” I replied. “What magic keeps you young, Addy? What magic has made dragons real?”

enchantress“No magic,” Adrielle replied with a dry, private smile, and I knew she lied. “Why are you here, Hagen Templeborn?”

“We were asked to help,” I told her simply, nodding toward Hatha. “Apparently your pets are causing a problem.”

“A problem? To whom? There’s naught in these sere hills but eagles.”

“To these good men,” I replied. “And to their families. Your pets deprive them of their livelihood. You owe them reparation.”

“Reparation,” she repeated dismissively. “Dragons hunt where and when they will.”

“Dragons would not be here,” Mason reminded her, “but for you.” Adrielle shot him a poisonous glance.

“Your puppy grows bold,” Adrielle observed tersely, watching as Mason murmured softly to the adult dragon, reached to gently stroke that great scaled head. The dragonling was now curled contentedly between its mother’s wings, dozing.

“What,” I asked her, “made you choose dragons?” My head was now quite clear, my vision sharpening. The slanting sunlight painted bright shadows and gilded highlights on the moor, a pattern bringing pleasure to the eye and premonition of the complete dark that would soon follow. We needed to soon return to the village, or camp here for the night.

“Hagen, you grow too bold,” Adrielle said abruptly, swirling away from me to beckon to a man just cresting the ridge behind us. I recognized him, too—Arcas, who had been her hostler for all those years, a muscular and swarthy man, solid and sullen. At his heels followed a pair of long, lean hounds, much scarred. “Take them back and pen them well,” she ordered him. “I will follow.”

So Mason and I, with his uncle and his grandfather behind us, stood in silence as Arcas and his dogs herded the two dragons away.  Adrielle followed, her skirts swinging, her long hair swaying in an arc across her back. Even through the distortions of my senses, I could read some of the fury that lay there. She turned briefly as she crested the next ridge.

“Mind not my business, Hagen Templeborn,” she warned, then crested the ridge and was altogether lost from sight.

◊ ◊ ◊

After sending Mardat and Aktonat back to the village, we made camp and shared a traveller’s supper, leaving our wiry ponies to graze peacefully outside the small dry cave where we had settled for the night.

“Tell me of the Lady Adrielle,” Mason said.

“The Lady,” I said, “is no lady, but one of the few female mages. Even as a child she was ravishingly beautiful, the stuff of a young man’s yearnings. She learned early of her effect on men. Once, she even set her wiles on Tanqui himself—until he made it firmly clear that he was completely, totally disinterested. My foster brother Tow was a target too, but he was far more world-wise than I, and saw what she was about even before she began to pursue her course. In private, he laughed at her. When she learned of his scorn her fury was absolute and her revenge swift. And I…well, I had a confrontation with her, too. I have few fond memories of the woman, but those I have are…exquisite.

“Tanqui finally dismissed his student and foster daughter. Where she received the balance of her training I do not know, but she has become a skilled, subtle, and dangerous mage.”

Mason heard me out in silence, staring deep into the remains of the fire in that vacant manner that is common to those deep in thought or reverie, or to those who See. “Is she truly so dangerous, then?” he asked, looking up.

“Use great care,” I cautioned him. “She is indeed. Although variable, the female’s power can be even greater than our own.”

◊ ◊ ◊

I must have dozed, for I was next aware of Mason’s voice at the cave mouth, low and urgent; in silence I joined him. On the silvered moorland the ponies stood silhouetted against a rising moon, their heads up. Below them, far down the slope, a double shadow moved, a man only half visible in the darkness, toiling up the slope toward us, a saddled beast behind him. He made no effort to conceal his progress.

“Who comes?” Mason hailed him softly. The stranger paused to look in our direction, then came straight on.

“A friend, in need of shelter.” Something in the tone of the rich voice triggered a spark of memory, but I could not track it, had to let it go.

“There is shelter enough,” Mason said. “Join us, in peace.”

The steady, sure footfalls approached through the shadows, then a tall, broad-shouldered man with a cowl covering his head and shielding his face was standing before us, unsaddling his beast and settling himself for the night. He managed to keep his face in shadow, but once settled across the remains of the fire, he turned to face me directly.

“When rumor reached me of a mage in these hills,” he said, “I was compelled to seek him out. But I hardly expected you, Hagen Templeborn. I could not have asked for a better ally.” His voice was familiar, as was his easy stance, and yet…

Then he pushed back the cowl to reveal his face.

It was Talbor Greenglade, my own foster brother.

Finally I found my addled wits. Grinning like two fools, we embraced in delight. It had been many years; there was much to be said between us. We caught up, briefly, on family news, then more urgent matters took precedence. We were, it seemed, following the same trail.

Adrielle…and dragons.

Later Talbor Greenglade, travelling now as the minstrel Gairgus, shifted position, stretching tired muscles slowly. “She came to Hellebar at the time of Council, some say to enchant the King, and stayed on until after the death of the Lady Queen. When Karl wasn’t amenable to her plans, she tried for the younger brother, Landros, but that, too, failed. She was last seen in these hills with one of the ‘Rondi warlords, and with her was a dragon, a fine red dragon. Now there are easily a hundred of them, located in a valley not far from here, tended by a group of ‘Rondi troops.”

“Now I understand,” Mason said quietly. “Why one of the King’s own circle travels alone in the high country, under a name not his own.” He looked up to find Tow studying him carefully, his clear-eyed gaze boring deep. Mason met the appraisal squarely. I watched, the outsider, while those two Saw into each other’s souls. “What did Adrielle do to you?” Mason finally asked softly. I was surprised at the boldness of the question, but Tow took no offence. He smiled a bit sadly.

“Briefly, we were lovers,” he answered. “Adrielle had been experimenting—against all the rules of the Teaching—with transformation spells and shape-changing.”

“Which is why Tanqui banished her.”

“Yes. When I finally spurned her, she changed me into a draft horse, a fine sorrel gelding. It was nearly a year before the spell wore off, a year during which I could do nothing of my own will. I slept in a dark stable, none too clean, with fowl roosting on my rump; I bore heavy loads, or pulled a rackety cart with a harness none too clean. I had galls on my withers and burrs in my mane. I still suffer an incorrigible fondness for oatmeal.” Tow laughed softly at himself; Mason digested the news in silence.

“Hagen, she conspires with the warlord Jaimoza to weaken Hellebar and break through the mountain defenses. One must suppose that she offers Jaimoza power, in return for position and power of her own once the realm is defeated.”

“But will she succeed? And having succeeded, will she honor her word?” It was a dismal thought; I shuddered, too easily able to imagine life under ‘Rondi barbarism and Adrielle’s evil.

◊ ◊ ◊

dawnDays later, at dawn, just below the wind- and snow-carved razor edge of a ridge we looked down into a broad bowl-like valley ringed by sheer cliffs on three sides. In the valley lay a green meadow, and scattered across it were cattle in pastures bounded by well-built fences. At one end was a stockyard; beyond it lay the dragons. Big and small, fancifully patterned and plain, they lay relaxed, their scales gleaming, their wings folded. Their heads were bloody with recent feeding; near their feet lay the stripped bones of their prey. They had fed well; now they rested and preened.

“I don’t see Hatha,” Mason said, scanning the sea of scaly heads, sinuous backs, leathern wings.

“I can’t see clearly,” Tow sighed, handing over the viewing glass and rubbing at his eyes after taking a long, careful look. “Have a try, lad.”

After one despairing glance in my direction, Mason settled to his task, adjusting the glass and focusing not on the shapes of the living forms below, but on what only he could see.

“They’re not,” he said after a few moments, “what you think they are. They may look and behave like kine—and that’s how the butchers see them, too. They’ve no idea they’re slaughtering beings like themselves for use as dragon food.”

“Like themselves?” Tow blurted. “Like us?”

“Just like us, like the ‘Rondi. Adrielle must have great skill, to transform so many—cobblers, soldiers, husbands, fathers, nomads roaming the hills—into dragon form.” Mason spoke with utter despair.

“Could our once foster sister perform such  travesty?” Tow asked. I glanced over at my foster brother, saw his deep pain, could not bear to meet his eyes..

“There’s no panic among them,” Mason continued. “No fear. They seem devoid of thought, their minds  empty. Even those facing the knife are placid. Most are male, only a few are females, and there are some calves. ‘Children’,” he corrected himself. His voice caught, tears ran unheeded down his cheeks.

“The dragons lie waiting,” he finally managed to say. “All bewitched, turned into dragons by Adrielle’s hand.” I reached toward the lad, but Tow stopped my hand.

“Mason,” he said gently, “I know it’s painful, but can you look for one more thing? It’s important.” The lad was slow to acknowledge the request, but finally nodded.

bluedragon“The big blue male dragon off to the right. Describe him to me.”

Mason took a deep, steadying breath, squared his shoulders, and precisely described the complex and beautiful wing pattern of gold and blue and black, the neck design and leg marks of the handsome dragon that preened languidly below.

“Prince Landros of Hellebar,” Tow murmured. “Taken in battle these weeks past. She could not win him as a man; so she took him for dragon, to fight against his own. Never should he have come to these hills…” We sat in silence for some time. Human cattle, to feed a flight of dragons, dragons that had once been human. A proud prince, turned to weapon against those whom he most loved. Dragons, mythological creatures unseen for centuries, creatures who never had existed, creatures of dreams, creatures of nightmares, creatures of no substance. To help bring down an honorable man, an honorable country.

“Why?” I finally asked.

“Because King Karl of Hellebar is an honorable man and immune to Adrielle’s charms,” Tow answered, an edge to his voice. “Because Landros has no desire for the crown and could not be manipulated.”

“He’s rising,” Mason said. The blue dragon stretched lazily, then gathered himself and was airborne, a smooth graceful expression of power in motion, elegance in the air. He climbed steadily, a shaft of metallic blue cutting clearly through the sky.

“A leader among dragons,” I murmured in admiration despite myself.

“What,” Mason asked practically, “will happen to those bewitched?”

Tow’s voice was kind, if his words could not be. “If we cannot defeat her, they will continue as they are until they die, or until she releases them; there is no other way. If we can defeat her, those who yet live may be free.”

A long silence, then Mason’s thoughtful voice. “There are three of us,” he said, “against one.”

“Three males,” Tow said, “against one pregnant and powerful female, a flight of dragons, and Jaimoza’s massed troops. They lie just beyond the far cliff-tops. But her power does still wax and wane. We must take advantage of that, and strike when she is weakest.”

“But how do we know when that is?”

“You will tell us,” Tow said calmly.

Mason gave me an imploring look filled with misery. “I can’t.” He sagged visibly, dropped his head onto his arms.

“One is never truly certain of Sight, lad,” Tow soothed. “You have already done more than I ever could have done, or Hagen.”

“But involvement clouds Sight,” Mason persisted. “I can’t be certain of what I See…because of Hatha.” I hadn’t picked up on the clue, being clouded myself and temporarily all but Sightless; but Tow did. He sighed deeply, then looked up in complete understanding. “Hatha is your sister, isn’t she?”

Mason nodded miserably, then squared his shoulders. “But I can’t just leave all those innocent people to die, or to kill, for evil,” he said firmly, raising his head. “They are honest folk who deserve a better end.” His eyes were wet and ancient beyond their years; all too soon he was suffering part of the continuing price of being a mage.

Gently, I pulled him to a seat on the sun-warmed stone. Perhaps it would help to ease some of the ice that wrapped his heart.

“Then I will aid you,” I said. “Adrielle can do little without her dragons; you can do little without our help.”

Partway up that now-shadowed slope, my mind searching for a way to overpower Adrielle’s inhuman spells, I found myself thinking about the rich power of the Mother Goddess. Was there a way for a mage, a man, to tap into that strength, to gain the Goddess herself as an ally against the evil of our mage sister?

Something tugged at my memory, something Carolee had told me years before. The Goddess, she said, was part of the living earth itself, her body golden as the sun, solid as the warm-colored stone on which all foundations were laid…

Could I, with my Sight and my mage’s powers, link to that great power?

At the time, I had thought Carolee referred to the great golden topaz, the gemstone worn by all Her priestesses, including Carolee. But I had been busy that day and Carolee’s words had simply drifted through my head and out again without recognition or a chance to properly take root.

Now I paused to look more closely at these steep hillsides. I saw a rocky moorland, cut by boulders and scarps, stripped by the wind and the weathering of the seasons, burnished by rain and snow, glowing golden with the sun. I saw towering cliffs, their faces cracked and scored, and streams amid green grass, all surrounded, supported, underlain, by this same warm golden stone. Was this, then, the golden body of the Goddess of which Carolee had spoken so many years ago? Was this the Mother Goddess herself? This bedrock, upthrust and exposed to the elements, split and cracking, rugged as eternity?

I bent and picked up a chunk of the stone in my hand; it was creamy yellow, and felt warm to the touch.

And I knew.

I smiled then, knowing that I had at last come to terms with my searching, and with myself.

I turned to share my discovery with my companions—and stopped in mid-gesture. Far above us where he soared, the blue dragon had seen us. He had turned in his flight, and now dove straight at us, claws extended and jaws spread wide in attack, screaming.

“Down!” I yelled, flattening myself and tumbling Mason from his seat in one frantic motion. Tow was slower, reeling backward from the assault of wings and teeth and claws, his cheek sliced neatly open from eye to chin. The dragon swept up and on by, preparing to attack again and calling his fellows to his side. I had thought to position ourselves and attempt to call the Goddess—how, I had no idea. But suddenly there was no time. So much for good plans.

The dragons rose and gathered, they struck from above in a tumbling wave of wings and claws and teeth, screaming violence. I ducked instinctively as the first wave reached us; Mason rolled away just as claws snatched at the air where he had been. I did not see Tow. Even as the first of them were swooping up and away, others were rising from below to join the fray, launching themselves into flight until the sky all around us was filled with their writhing bodies and beating wings. Only the rocky scree and our own reflexes stood between us and bloody death.

Then, with the flicker of time between one eye-blink and the next—my Sight returned.

I rejoiced. I exulted. I delighted at its return, even as I fought for my life. And I yelled, hoping Mason and Tow could hear me above the hissing, screaming din.

“Adrielle is here!” I screamed to them. “This is her power we fight, and it is failing!” I might just as well have been talking to the roaring waters of a mountain river, or discussing philosophy with the sky, for all the good it did.

Below us Adrielle stood in the meadow, her head uplifted and her loosened hair flying in the air currents from the dragons’ wings. She was crying, chanting, ordering their flight with all of the power  at her command. Above and behind me stood Mason, his head tilted back. He was rising slowly to his full height, fully exposed to those battering wings and ravaging teeth, rising to confront the full fury of that attacking horde. Around him slowly rose the weaving mists of enchantment. On his face was an expression of certainty, of calm joy. And he was singing!

Among that attacking horde, a single gray-blue dragon checked its flight and cocked its head in curiosity. It was Hatha, slowing to swing in toward the hillside. Just below Mason’s feet she landed gracefully, then very deliberately raised her head in song. They made a strangely beautiful duet, those two unlike voices.

Slowly the other dragons followed Hatha’s lead, slowing and descending, breaking off from their attack and hovering nearby or sailing in to land, curious about the strange music.

I was astonished.

Adrielle’s frustration was plain. In a matter of minutes only the single azure male remained in the sky, while on the slope three men stood clustered together, below them on the scree a mass of dragons bright as a living crazy quilt.

Mason stood on an outcrop of that warm golden stone, in full sight and totally unprotected from attack, wreathed in the pale mist of magic. He was singing, accompanied by a chorus of not altogether musical dragon voices. The air around us fairly vibrated with their song. I, too, slowly stood and stepped out into the open, chanting softly and calling my own power.

The blue dragon Landros dropped down into the shadowed bowl of the cirque and landed near Adrielle, returning moments later with her on his broad back. He flew straight to where I stood and hovered there, just clear of the ground. Adrielle’s hair whipped in the wind, her eyes glittered in fury.

“Hagen Templeborn,” she shouted over the noise of his wings and the lullaby that was now weaving quiet peace all around us, “You cannot do this!”

Through the light cloud of my expanding power, I laughed at her.

“And how shall you stop me, sister? Even now your child moves within, fighting to be born. He saps your strength, your power, and he will not be denied.

“May your bones wander in eternal despair, Hagen Templeborn!” Abruptly, Landros shifted beneath her, rippled and slithered out from under her, leaving her scrabbling for her feet on the rocky hillside. Landros soared up and away, then sailed gracefully back to roost just down the slope with the other dragons.

“By the Goddess Herself,” I challenged back, “and by the blood of the mage-child you bore, I call you to answer.”  Adrielle faltered, for it was a strong injunction. She hadn’t known that I knew she’d murdered our newborn son so long ago. That gave me a slight advantage.

The singing stopped, so smoothly and suddenly that its echoes rose into the air long after the voices themselves had ceased.

Mason turned slowly toward Adrielle, drawing on the strength that would later make him great. “By the powers of the earth and the voices of the trees,” he intoned in a voice compelling and rich with power. “By the whisper of the winds and the roar of the rivers, release these souls.” His outspread arms gravely indicated the sinuous forms that lay all around us, and the kine that stood below in the green meadow. “They belong not to you. They are themselves, and human, each with his purpose, each with this reason. They are free men, not slaves. Release them.”

Disbelieving, Adrielle stood staring at Mason’s mist-wrapped form. Then she turned her fury from an unknown, unacknowledged foe, to one she knew.

“What right have you, Hagen Templeborn, to command me?” She faced me boldly, those violet eyes smoldering with hate. Behind them I could read passing pain as the child moved within, and fury that he would not let her be.

“The right of the Teachings,” I answered. “The right of the Word; the right of the Law. You have broken the first rule of the Teachings, have flaunted the power of dark magic before those who are innocent of wrong. I call on the right of the Mage-born!” My words fell into a hushed, expectant silence that included the very air we breathed, the rocks on which we all stood.

A rich, rolling thunder gathered along the hillside, rose from the valley floor, became a voice that broke the silence.

“Be gone,” it intoned. It was the voice of my brother Tow, standing now beside me, tall and straight as a mighty oak, wreathed in clouds. He was as immovable as the golden rock upon which we stood, and oblivious to the blood that ran from his cheek and dripped from his chin. “Be gone. Share no more these hills, this sunlight. Be gone until you have learned to live within the Law. Be cursed until the day you renounce the powers of evil for the powers of good.”

Nearby, Mason was chanting again, but too softly for me to hear. He stood relaxed, his eyes closed, and he wore a soft, bemused golden smile.

“But—”

“Silence, mage-woman!” Tow’s command cracked through the near silence.

Then Mason’s unheard words were in me, singing through my mind, words that I did not know, words that the Teachings said could only be used by the priestesses of the Goddess, words of such power and beauty and strength that the very mountains heard them with joy—words to call the Goddess. They flowed through my mind like a rippling stream in sunlight and issued from my mouth—and from the mouth of Tow, behind me, as well—and rose to touch the very sky.

The chant never faltered as we three men together called the Mother Goddess.

Adrielle, standing before us, wore an expression of absolute disbelief, which shortly turned to absolute horror.

ceridwenFor the Mother Goddess came.

◊ ◊ ◊

She came in glory, she came in fire.

The grasses of the meadow turned silvery, then disappeared beneath a rising layer of fog. Wispy tendrils of smoke and steam arose along the cliff edges and joined with it to form a milky, evanescent haze that climbed higher, a slowly turning, twisting column graceful as a dance.

I felt the hair rising along the back of my neck. The growing Power resonated along the fibers of my body, echoed in my bones. I closed my eyes and welcomed it.

Beside me, Mason’s song continued unbroken, sweet and true and strong.

The mountains muttered and trembled. A section of weathered cliff ponderously sheared from its place, paused for a heartbeat, then fell away and shattered in a cloud of dust. The dragons skittered nervously, sending stones rattling down the cliff-sides, a bright glissando of sound.

The column of cloud, the column of light, climbed higher. It wrapped Adrielle in its embrace, wreathed her in pale luminescence before it coiled in drifts and eddies about her dragons, and our own feet.

“The spiral dance,” Talbor Greenglade murmured, unaware even that he spoke. “The sacred pattern made real.”

Gradually the luminous cloud slowed. It coalesced, solidified, took on shape and form and substance—and became a woman of light, light so bright it dazzled. A frozen waterfall was Her hair, gleaming silk Her gown. Her face was old, weathered, serene and loving; Her eyes sparkling blue, the color of the ocean on a sunlit day, bluer than the mighty arc of sky.

“The Mother Herself,” I whispered, looking full upon Her face. Never in my wildest dreams had I expected our plea to be so clearly heard, so powerfully answered. She had come, regal and powerful, all wise and all knowing. I felt Tow’s flicking glance in my direction, saw Adrielle cringe; Mason’s song never wavered.

I breathed deeply, of snow and dragons and power beyond dream, thoughts potent as a prayer.

History lay in the making, and I, Hagen Templeborn, stood at its heart.

◊ ◊ ◊

Although I was there, I remember few details of what happened next. When at last awareness returned, I was sitting alone on the sharp stones of the hillside, arms around my knees, head down, too exhausted to move. But once again I could see and hear.

“She did it, you know,” came a quiet voice at my side. I lifted my head and saw Mason Alderson, then my gaze drifted away. The mists were gone. Clear sunlight bathed the hills and the valley below.

“She came. She read the charges—they were writ in fire, Hagen!” Mason continued, his voice catching. “Adrielle has been punished. She Who is Mother to All promises that most all will be right again. Look…” He pointed across the valley floor, where even now the King’s Hellebaran troops were pouring through a breach in the valley wall, all but unimpeded by the few ‘Rondi who remained to oppose them. Directly below us, troops were establishing a command center.

All around them the enchanted were wandering aimlessly, small groups forming and reforming; some were already beginning to return to their human forms. Hellebaran healers would soon be gently gathering them in, offering succor and support.

“The Mother said those longest under her enchantment would take longest to recover,” Mason said. “She also said…” he took a deep breath, as though having to prepare himself for what he had next to say, “She said there was yet much that we must do. That they will need tending, those who have been under Adrielle’s spell.”

“I suppose so,” I replied. My voice was a croak, as though dusty, long-unused, my mind drifting with memories of a woman of light, a woman in white—who had spoken to me?

I cleared my mind, my throat, with better success tried again. “How?”

“You’ll have to ask King’s General Jarus for the military explanation. As for Adrielle, the charges were many, and grave. In the end—well, you can see for yourself.” He pointed toward the green-black smudge of a copse of pines across the valley. I looked, and there, just visible, saw Adrielle’s two hounds. They appeared to be in playful pursuit of what appeared to be a bird. Closer examination revealed their prey as a quite ordinary, black and white hen. Both dogs had feathers raffishly stuck to their faces, giving them comical expressions. To the hen, the game was far more serious. She dashed and darted, fluttered and fussed, keeping her coal-black wings and tail just out of their reach.

“A hen?” I asked. “Why a hen?”

“The Mother’s punishment, and curse,” Mason replied. “‘You would have power,’ she said. ‘I leave you powerless. You would be proud; I grant you humility. You would be beautiful; I make you plain. You would live among the greatest; I leave you among the very least.’”

“A powerful injunction.” But a hen?

And what of the Adrielle’s unborn babe? Presumably it was fathered by Jaimoza, but at least once before, Adrielle had conjured up a child. Was this another devious ploy? Had she lost control of the life she now bore? The thought was chilling…

Across the valley, the hen made a sudden fluttering dash for the lower branches of a tree, her wings flashing. She was quick, but one of the hounds was quicker. With surprising agility he jumped and caught her in flight, even as she rose from the ground. Once back on his feet, he dropped to the ground, then pinned her with his paws. His brother soon joined him, and together they began to softly mouth and play with their prize, turning and pulling her this way and that. Soon the hen was frantic, a damp mass of rumpled feathers with bright, terrified eyes.

In a brief moment when she was right side up on the rocky ground, she gave a single brief squawk and in abject terror laid a single, glistening white egg.

What was this new toy laid before their noses? The hounds broke off from their play to sniff at it. A moment’s inattention was all their prey needed; the hen broke frantically away from their clutches, darted into the trees, and was gone.

But the hounds seemed disinclined to pursue her. Instead, they began to nose the egg, sending it rolling and bumping erratically along the ground. With a solid thump, it finally bumped up against an exposed root and cracked partially open. Now the hounds gave it their full attention, wagging their tails, pushing at it and pawing. When it finally broke fully open, they eagerly lapped up its contents until the shell fragments were sparkling clean..

Once done, they lay down happily together in the sunshine and, like two cats, began to wash each others’ faces.

I sighed. Rather an ignoble end to them both, even if they were Adrielle and her child. But what was, was. This was the Mother’s work, and there was nothing I could do to change it, even had I so desired. “What of Tow?”

“Down the hillside, looking for Hatha among the dragons.”

“Ah…” My mind made the connection I had not seen before. “Hatha is your sister,” I said. “And…?”

“Tow’s wife.”

“His wife.” The dragonling, then, was not only Mason’s niece, but also Talbot Greenglade’s daughter. No wonder he had not been able to See clearly, and had asked for Mason’s aid.

I sighed, for connections missed, for eyes that had not seen, and focused on the future.

As always, the Mother was right. She had acted as She saw fit; now it was left to others to finish the task where she had left it off. There remained a great deal of work to do; now that I was thinking again, I could see it clearly.

The King’s General would need advice.

Those enchanted would have need of a mage to aid them through what for some could be a very difficult time of readjustment. Perhaps additional enchantments would be needed to help them on their way…

I began, awkwardly, an attempt to rise, but my legs had been too long still and were reluctant to move. It took Mason’s strong arm to help me to my feet.

“What now?” he asked, studying my face.

“We find King’s General Jarus,” I replied. “There is much yet for us to do.”

— End —

D. M. Recktenwalt is a retired graphic artist, writer/editor who’s addicted to chocolate and popcorn (not necessarily in that order) and to the written word in most of its forms. Her short fiction has appeared in a number of small press publications; her non-fiction work in several specialty magazines. She gardens; spins; knits, crochets and quilts—often “helped” by her two cats.

 

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Published by Associate Editor on November 17, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 28, Issue 28 Stories

The Raven and the Forest Girl

ravenby David Landrum

The Raven and the Forest Girl
I

Noelani still had nightmares.
“I’m sorry,” she would say, crying. “I still have dreams about it.”
He reached up and brushed away her tears.
“I was at the pond,” she wept. “Except in the dream, they threw me in and the stone was around my neck. I was drowning.”
He held her. She squeezed him, pressing her body against his and soon fell asleep. He remembered the first time he had seen her.

 

He had been with Elisedd. It was the last day they were together before the Druids selected him for sacrifice. They had returned from hunting, riding through fields guarded by scarecrows, and dismounted at the King’s house. Wanting wine, and wanting to avoid the crowd of sycophants who would waylay Prince Elisedd with petitions the moment he stepped in the door to the Great Hall, the two of them cut through the kitchen.

Squatting by one of the hearth fires, a young woman—she might have been eighteen—fed kindling sticks into the small flame glowing there. Rian thought she was the most beautiful girl he had ever laid eyes on, though her loose hair and the blue bracelet on her arm told him she was pledged and not eligible for marriage. Still, he gazed at her, his heart charmed. She had delicate features: a long, straight nose, big eyes, and a high forehead. Her stance made her shapely buttocks strain against the simple buckskin dress she wore. Her brown locks cascaded over her back. A light fuzz of hair covered her shins. She was barefoot. She built the fire with a look of intense concentration.

They went into the next room.

“Who was the girl by the fire?” Rian asked. “And, yes, I saw that she’s pledged.”

“Her name is Noelani—daughter of Garth. The Druids are training her.”

“For what? Religion?”

“Sort of.”

“She’s pretty.”

“She is,” Elisedd agreed. “Too bad.”

Rian and Elisedd drank wine and went into the Great Hall. They stopped cold. The King, a grave look on his face, stood by his judgment chair. Four Druid priests stood about him. Grave expressions covered their faces as well. The priests made Rian leave. He waited outside. After an hour, he and several others were admitted to the hall. A herald proclaimed the news that shocked everyone in the kingdom. Elisedd would die to open a path of divination.

Rian managed to gain an audience with Cathasach, the King, Elisedd’s father.

“This is barbaric,” he said. “Mother told me no one has died this way in hundreds of years, and you know she served seven winters of pledge before she married father.”

“The situation is grave,” Cathasach said.

The Romans had won several victories last spring. Now that cold weather had ended they were on the march again.

“The Romans have offered us a treaty,” Rian said. “The other tribes who accepted their terms have been treated well. If we defy them, we’ll be enslaved.”

“The sacrifice will tell us how to defeat them.”

“Sacrifice!” Rian shouted. “This is your son!”

“Mind your tongue, boy,” one of the King’s advisers warned, putting a hand on the hilt of his sword.

“You’re Elisedd’s best friend,” Cathasach said, motioning for his adviser to stand down. “If you truly love him, you’ll accept what he has accepted. In the past, the duties of a prince sometimes required sacrifice. We look to the past customs as a hope of freedom. Think of his death as the equivalent of death in battle.”

Rian understood from Cathasach’s tone of voice that his audience was ended. He bowed and left. When he got outside, he began to curse, swear, and throw stones. Afraid someone would see him, he mounted his horse and rode at a wild gallop toward the woodland that separated the territory Cathasach ruled from the lands the Romans had settled. After a time, he slowed his horse and led it to a pool to drink and rest. It was there that he saw her.

The girl—was her name Noelani?—stood at the edge of the forest. Rian stepped into a thicket of linden trees and watched her. Once more, he marveled at her beauty. She stood a moment, reached up to grasp the shoulders of her garment, and pulled it over her head.

His blood jumped at sight of her nakedness. Her slender body glowed in the greenish forest light. She had full, round breasts, hips as shapely has he had imagined them when he saw her by the hearth, a gentle tuft of red hair at her juncture of her thighs, long legs and delicate feet.

She lifted her hands and began to sing. Her song, in a language he could not speak, sounded as if it was a hymn from paradise or a song the gods had written. Its beauty and power captured him. He thought the loveliness of her body expressed itself in her song and that she had just sung out herself—her soul, her essence. He remembered his mother had told him the ancient paeans were not mere tunes, but whispers of heaven and earth in their power and harmony.

As she sang, animals appeared: four deer, a small lynx, and two wild dogs. Rian wondered if he should protect her, but remembered she was a pledged woman—and her being clothed with the wind complicated the matter. Also, she evinced no fear at the appearance of the predatory beasts in the menagerie. She smiled as she stroked the coats of the dogs, which were large and ferocious. Birds appeared then. A raven lit on her shoulder. Linnets landed on the ground about her feet. She held out her hand and a white bird of a type he had never seen perched on her index finger.

After a moment, she lifted her hand. The white bird flew into the wood. The lynx, the dogs, and all the deer but one followed it. The other birds flew off, though he noticed that the raven lit on a branch and watched her. The deer waited patiently as she clothed herself with the garment she had taken off. She patted the deer’s neck. The creature licked her hand. She turned and began walking away from the wood. The doe followed her. Rian watched until she and the animal disappeared down the path.

He lingered, contemplating what he had just seen. Again, he recalled what his mother had told him about her time as an acolyte to the Druids. There were women who had the power to draw animals to their side. They were called Gatherers because the animals that followed them were used as sacrifices. So this was Noelani’s role as a pledged woman. He wondered if the deer would be sacrificed as a part of ceremony for Elisedd.

He rode aimlessly at first, but then, on a whim, followed the raven the girl had summoned as it went from tree to tree, allowing Rian to get closer to him than such birds usually allowed, then flying off but perching in sight, as if it were leading him. He rode a long way along a woodland path and came out of the forest into a land of wide meadows and grain fields swaying in the breeze. Scarecrows with bells tied to their lifeless limbs made a ringing noise to frighten off birds. He saw houses here and there. He suspected he had ridden into Roman-controlled territory. If it was the kingdom of Ghynath, though, which it probably was, he would be in no danger. They had signed treaty with the Romans and lived alongside them in peace. Rian’s family owned land in this kingdom. The Romans had allowed them to retain it. His family rented it out to tenants who farmed it.

He rode on, following the raven until he came to the edge of a town. Roman banners flew on some of the buildings. He stopped to rest in a grove of trees by a pond. His horse drank as he rested. A group of men walked by. One of them greeted him in Latin. He replied in the same language. A man following the group stopped, regarded Rian, and came over to him.

“Greetings, young man. I am Orev. I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before.”

“I’m not from around here.”

“A stranger then. You’re a Celt. I can tell that from your accent and appearance. You speak Latin very well.”

“My mother spoke Latin. She taught me the language. My father had me speak it to the merchants he did business with. Later—well, the king’s son employed me as interpreter.”

“That would be Prince Elisedd. Pity what befell him.”

“You know about that? How?”

“Informers, shall we say? Many in your kingdom don’t agree with what your king plans to do.”

“Neither do I. We should make a treaty with the Roman like the Ghynath have done. And what the King plans to do with his own son is a barbaric practice our people abandoned generations ago. The King has fallen under the sway of the Druids.”

“They’re desperate to preserve themselves,” Orev answered. “The Romans don’t treat them very well when they conquer an area where the Druids hold power.”

“The Romans? You speak of them as if they were a people separate from you. Aren’t you a Roman?”

He was dressed like one. Rian could tell from his speech that his Latin was his native tongue.

“I am a Roman Citizen, but I come from the Provinces and don’t exactly give my loyalty to them. So the answer to your question is yes—and no.

Rian suddenly felt glum.

“Do Romans approve of human sacrifice?”

“They abhor it, as everyone should.”

“I wish they would launch an invasion of our land before Elisedd dies. They might rescue him.”

“He won’t be rescued, but the Romans will gain your kingdom.”

Rian looked at him. “Are you a prophet?”

He laughed. “Prophecy is from God,” he said, sounding almost as if he were quoting rather than just making a statement. “I only observe and judge like anyone else.”

“Do you have a prophetic word for me?”

Orev looked straight at him. “You will thrive, but someday you will become a man—and not a man. You will live a life that is not a life, but you will be restored to life and be full man once more.”

Rian blinked. “What does that mean?”

Orev gestured and laughed. “I don’t know. If it made sense, it wouldn’t be a prophecy. But it will make sense to you one day.”

With that, Orev took his leave.

His horse finished drinking and trotted over to him. He patted its neck. Rian remembered how long he had been riding and thought he needed to return to his own land He returned, arriving back in the kingdom near dusk. Because he was an employee of the king, he had an apartment in the royal compound, but he did not want to go there. He did not want to be near the place. He hoped Cathasach would come to his senses. He ate at a tavern and heard that the Prince had died. The Druids stabbed him the stomach and interpreted his writhing and the blood that flowed from his wounds. The sacrifice was auspicious, the people in the tavern said. Cathasach would defeat the Romans. The kingdom of Voltanda would remain free.

Rian went home. His mother and father tried offer words of comfort over Elisedd’s loss, but he was sullenly inconsolable. That night when he went to bed he dreamed a raven flew into the bedroom. After that, Rian found himself at the edge of Brendályn’s pond and saw a group of men dragging Noelani, hands bound, screaming and pleading, to the water to drown her. He woke with a start. Dawn had come. He smelled porridge cooking, got up, washed and dressed. After a trip to the privy, he came into the kitchen. Fenella, his sister, who was visiting with her husband, stirred a pot of oatmeal hanging in the fireplace. Barran, her husband, sat at the table with Rian’s father. He took his place with them. His mother came in. Her feet and the hem of her dress were wet with dew.

“Our neighbor Ahern has brought me distressing news,” she said. “The Romans have assembled a force and are coming this way. Cathasach has called us all to arms and they’re going to kill the girl who is their Gatherer.”

All three men in the room stood, alarmed.

“Kill her?” Rian repeated. “Why?”

“She defiled the ceremony.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, Rian. But she’s to die at noon today.”

“Are they going to drown her?” he asked, afraid of her affirmation.

“She is a virgin, so they will not shed her blood,” his father said. “We need to report to our units. Rian, the King will probably need you to stand at his side as an interpreter. Go to him immediately.”

Rian’s father and Barran went outside, saddled horses, and galloped off to join their home guard units. Rian lingered behind. Though he knew it was his duty to report for service to the King, he decided he would not go. By his brutality toward his own son, and Rian’s best friend, Cathasach had forfeited his right to Rian’s loyalty. He would rescue the girl and take the consequences. They had killed Elisedd and lied about his death throes being auspicious. Now they were going to kill a young virgin woman. Surely, he thought, the gods did not approve the murder of innocent people. The King, on the advice of his Druid Priest, had slain a young man who was brave, dutiful, and obedient to his father. Now they planned to kill an innocent girl who had denied her own desires in the service of religion.

His mother, who must have caught the look in his eyes at the table, ran out of the door to their house, arms extended.

“Rian, don’t try to interfere,” she cried.

He looked down at her. “Why not, Mother?”

“They’ll kill you.”

“They seem very keen on killing people these days—people who have done harm to no one.”

“We mustn’t ask questions.”

“I question when a brave young man and innocent maiden are murdered.”

“Don’t say that! You’ll bring the wrath of the gods upon us.”

“I like to think the gods are as offended at this as I am. If the gods are higher than we, it would seem their compassion and sense of justice would exceed our own and so they would aid me in what I plan to do.”

“Rian, please,” she wept.

“I’m sorry, Mother. I have to go.” He rode off.

He galloped to Brendályn’s pond. He wore a sword and dagger, but as he neared the place he remembered it was sacred to the Goddess Ardwinna. Carrying a weapon into a place sacred to her would constitute sacrilege. As he rode, the impossible questions of right and wrong, the sacred and the profane, the holy and the common ran through his mind. A sacred place was a place of peace; hence, weapons were forbidden in its precincts. Did such a space sanctify murder? The Goddess Ardwinna, a chaste goddess who had never known a man, exuded gentleness, love, kind, and purity. Would she approve the brutal killing of a virgin in her own sacred territory? And what had Noelani done? Surely she would not have deliberately blasphemed. He had only glimpsed her twice, but in those moments he read devotion in her gaze.

Girls who were pledged as she had been pledged agreed to their vows and did not enter service at the direction of their families, as many girls did; they entered service at an age when their reason could discern choices and when their bodies were developed to the point that they understood desire and had some idea of what their vows would demand of them. Noelani had agreed to the pledge and, when he saw her, looked like a determined woman who had embraced a solitary life willingly and with absolute commitment.

Would she even want to be rescued? In his dream, she had begged and pleaded. Had he only dreamed what he wanted to see?

Rian tethered his horse in a brake of birch trees. Their white and black trunks stood, slender and lovely, in the light of noon. Their bright leaves fluttered in the breeze. A moment later, he heard chanting. Near a calm pond surrounded by willow trees, he saw a group of mannequins—four of them, better-made then what you might see in a farmer’s field, but unendurably grotesque. The Druids had set them up in connection with the ceremony about to take place. Amid the chanting he heard a woman sobbing.

He sneaked close to the noises. Coming to a stand of massive cottonwoods where chattering leaves concealed the noise of his approach, he drew closer.

Four men armed with swords and javelins went past him followed by a procession of Druids—eight of them. Two led Noelani. She wore a white smock, just like she had worn in his dream. A rope encircled her wrists. Another rope looped about her neck. A Druid carried a stone to which the rope around her neck was attached.

“Please,” she wept. Rian tensed. He put his hand on the hilt of his dagger. “For the love of the chaste Ardwinna, be merciful to me! I tried not to. I didn’t mean to.”

Rian undid his sword belt and cast it aside. Even if the men escorting Noelani to her death were armed, he would not bring a weapon into a sacred place. He would save her by the force of his body, though he did retain his dagger to cut the rope they had put around her hands and neck. After uttering a quick prayer to Ardwinna, he bolted out of the thicket.

CS00634POPAs he did so, a number of things happened simultaneously. The Druids and their guards halted and faced him. At the same moment, he heard twanging, the whistling of what sounded like arrows, and saw one of the Druids and two of the guards fall to the ground. Taking advantage of the confusion, Rian sprang, sliced the rope that tethered Noelani to the stone, and cut the cord binding her hands. At the same moment, ten armed men in red uniforms—Romans—broke through the underbrush. Acting instinctively, Rian seized Noelani’s arms and leaped with her into the pond.

The two of them splashed, went under, and came up. A melee had developed on the shore just a few feet from them.

“Can you swim?” he asked Noelani.

She nodded, water streaming from her hair on to her face.

“Let’s make for the shore.” He pointed. “Maybe we can escape.”

They swam to the side of the pond opposite the battle. When they emerged, dripping wet from the deep, bushes shook and they heard the clattering weapons and armor and the creak of leather harness. Eight Roman soldiers, swords drawn, formed a semi-circle in front of them.

Rian produced his dagger. A solider stepped forward.

“Give me the knife, boy,” he said in Brythonic, the Celtic tongue. When Rian did not respond, he added, “Be sensible. You don’t have a chance against us.”

Rian sighed and gave him the dagger. The man looked like an auxiliary—a local who functioned as a scout and translator for the Romans. The thin smock Noelani wore was soaked and her nakedness showed through its sodden fabric. One of the Romans gave her his red cape to wear. This was a good sign, Rian supposed. Also, they did not bind him. The auxiliary, named Dolan, gestured for them to follow. Rian glanced to the other side of the pond. The Romans had captured the four guards. They had killed all eight Druids. Rian and Noelani followed Dolan and the Romans.

They led them to a staging area. A squad of cavalry and probably 300 foot soldiers lolled in ranks under Roman banners. Dolan led them to a man who wore gold-inlaid armor. Rian knew this meant he was an officer—probably the unit commander. After a short conference, Dolan gestured. The soldiers pointed. Rian and Noelani found themselves in the presence of a Roman official.

“I am Arius Nebridius,” he said, “Commander of Hispana, Legion IX of the Imperial Roman Army. Who are you?”

He spoke the Brythonic language fluently. He had probably been born here. The Romans had occupied parts of Britain for hundreds of years. They gave their names.

“Maiden,” he said, fixing his eyes Noelani, “what is your association with the Druids?”

“I am a pledged woman who serves their needs.”

“In what way?”

“I cook for them. I clean up after their sacrifices. I obey them and act as their servant.”

“Dolan tells me they were going to kill you—drown you in the pond. Why was that?”

“I committed sacrilege.”

“Can you explain?”

“I”—she breathed in to steady herself. “I vomited at the sacrifice of Prince Elisedd. The sight of him crying out, and writhing in a pool of his own blood sickened me. What I did made the sacrifice inauspicious, and they sentenced me to death.”

“Such barbarity should sicken anyone. I am sorry your eyes had to look upon such a sight.” He turned to Rian. “You, boy—you saved her life. Are you a relative?”

“No, sir.” He hesitated and then said, “I’m in love with her.”

The commander laughed. “Well, now. This is getting interesting.”

“He was Elisedd’s best friend,” Noelani put in.

Everyone reacted to her words. Custom dictated that women—especially virgin women—spoke to men only when spoken to first.

“Indeed,” Nebridius said. “I’m told the action of the Druids was unpopular and has alienated the people of this kingdom.”

“I don’t know about that, sir,” Rian put in, “but it certainly alienated me. As you said, it was a barbarity. Our people are disgraced by such an action. And then they were going to murder her—a virgin and a pledged woman—because she reacted as any human being with a tender heart would react when beholding such a cruel and bloody act.”

“You speak well, young man.”

“Ego narro vestri lingua, Dux. Ego servo ut a reddo pro nostrum rex regis.” (I speak your language, Commander. I served as a translator to our king.)

“That’s even better. Would you be willing to deliver a message to the leader of your people? If you do, we will reward you. And you can have the girl.”

“She is under vow,” Rian began.

“No,” Noelani said. “The Druids took the status of holiness from me. My vows are nullified. I am nothing but a lost soul.”

“If you deliver the message,” the commander told Rian, speaking loudly to indicate he was making an official promise, “you can have the girl. Otherwise, we’ll sell her as a slave, and I think you know what that will mean for her. I don’t want war. I want a treaty. The terms will be generous. There is no reason for bloodshed. Will you agree to this?”

Rian said he would.

The Romans took Noelani. She told him later they housed her with the Vestals at a temple just inside their territory. Rian’s tribe, the Voltandi, had gathered for war. He brought Nebridius’ terms. The chieftains and clan leaders thought them reasonable. The King, though, led by the Druids, refused them. That night, the leaders of the tribe deposed him. Celtic kings did not rule by right but were subject to the Council’s decrees. Cathasach’s nobles felt outrage that he had sacrificed his own son and groveled at the beck and call of the Druids. Many Celts had become Christians; even those who worshipped the old gods did not trust the Druids. They also censured them for what they had intended to do Noelani.

Things developed rapidly after this. A parley was arranged. The nobility elected a new ruler and signed a treaty with the Romans, who demanded a sum of gold each year, which the leaders deemed not a burdensome amount, and permission to build settlements and military bases on Voltandi land. To Rian, though, the finest moment came when he rode to the Temple of Vesta and to Noelani, who had received manumission—freedom from her vow and transfer to his authority.

The two of them rode off together as the sun set over the forest of their homeland.

They came to the farmland the chieftains of his people had given him as a reward for his service. He looked over at her when their horses came to a halt.

“This is where I live. I”—

“I am your wife,” she said. “I must be. The only other thing I could do is return to my relatives—my mother and father are dead. My brothers and sisters are loyal to the Druids. They’ll make me a slave and a whore if I seek refuge with them.”

The shadows lengthened. When he glanced at her, her beauty made him tremble.

“What do you want, Noelani?”

“I want you to take me into your home. We’ll consummate our marriage. I am your wife.”

“Should we go to the temple first?”

“Ardwinna will bless our union. We can declare our pledge before her later.”

He took her as his bride.

Things went their normal course. The leaders of his people had given him a fair tract of land near the Forest of Cistonion. They soon had children—three boys and two girls. The Voltandi lived equitably with the Romans. Rian and Noelani’s farm prospered. Their children grew and married. Two of his sons married into the ruling clans of the Voltandi. One of his daughters, Seana, had a bent toward religion and thought to pledge herself to the service of Ardwinna, but then fell in love with a young man and decided to marry rather than vow herself to chastity and service. She had the gift of prophecy and knew gods spoke through her. She learned the prophetic songs of the people. Even as a wife and mother, she spoke as an oracle and a bard who knew the ancient hymns sacred to their people. After their children were grown to adulthood, the Romans withdrew from Britain.

The Roman army had maintained security for the Celtic Britons. Their withdrawal led the Picts, the Irish, and the Anglo-Saxons, to invade the land. It was at this time that Rian’s people sought the help of the goddess Morrigan.

It was also at this time that Rian received the gift of prophecy.

One night he dreamed the former King’s life was in danger. That morning he left Noelani with the children and went to Cathasach’s estate.

“You are in danger,” he told him. “You need to flee.”

Cathasach sneered. Rian could see how much his behavior—sacrificing his son, condemning Noelani—had filled him with guilt and remorse. His deposition had also filled him anger. And he was not well-disposed toward Rian, who had rescued Noelani and rebuked him for his design to kill Elisedd.

“How do you know this?”

“I dreamed it.”

“You can interpret dreams? Since when are you a prophet?”

“Prophecy belongs to God,” he said, almost before he thought of it, remembering when Orev, whom he had not seen in all these years, had said the same thing. “My daughter has the gift of prophecy. Perhaps a bit of it lies in my soul as well.”

“From ‘God,’ you say? You’re a Christian now?”

“I am a follower of Ardwinna, as I have always been.”

“The girl? Is she well?”

“She’s well.”

“I don’t think someone who has defied the gods like you did in rescuing her has any spiritual authority. You’re not qualified to tell me anything.”

Rian thought to mount a scathing rebuke of Cathasach. Here was a man who had been suborned by religious fanatics, a thing that led to crime and his deposition. Rian restrained himself.

“I’m obligated to tell you your life is in danger and you should flee this place. I came here out of affection to you, my Lord—and out of loyalty. You were my sovereign. For many years you led our kingdom well. I respected you, served you, and stood as a loyal retainer in your wars, poor though I was. The Divine Power sent me to deliver a warning to you. Do with it as you chose.”

Having said that, he left.

He thought Cathasach would reject his counsel, but the old man retired that morning to a stronghold one of his relatives owned. He also summoned several loyal kinfolk who rallied to defend him. Sure enough, a group of hired killers from another tribe attacked his home the day he left. When they found out where he had fled, they moved on the fortress only to be attacked by his kinsman.

Cathasach rewarded Rian with money and an apology. The incident bolstered his fame as a prophet. He sought Orev but could not find him and assumed he left in the Roman evacuation.

Over the next few years, his prophetic gift protected the kingdom. His people defended themselves against the raiding parties—Picts, Irish, Vikings—when they raided Voltandi territory, With his guidance, they were able to defeat the Anglo-Saxons. Rian knew their plans and movements. Each time they attacked, the Voltandi would be waiting for them. Rian’s words never fell to the ground.

He knew prophecy was not a ladder to wealth or power. It was a gift, and he functioned as steward of it. Noelani’s understanding of the limitations spiritual roles imposed helped him exercise discipline and not use his gifts from personal gain. The years passed. They grew older, saw their grandchildren and managed their prosperous farm. When he reached age 45, Noelani died from an infection brought on by a broken leg.

Grief darkened his life. His mother, past sixty, wise and beautiful in her age, told him how all who live will die and that he had shared many years with Noelani. Her children were her legacy and carried her life and blood. He tried to be consoled.

It was also at this time that the rulers of his people began to seek the face of Morrigan.

He had warned them twice to avoid her. “She is treacherous and seeks to enslave all who cross her threshold. No good will come from an alliance with her.” But the rulers were uneasy. Rian’s prophecies enabled them to remain free and to intercept raiders and know the plans of enemy armies—but his wife had died. What if Rian died too? He was as vulnerable as any human being. Morrigan demonstrated her power and supposed good will by aiding the Voltandi in a battle against the Anglo-Saxons. It ended in a notable victory for the Celts.

Rian again warned them.

“Morrigan is the Goddess of Discord. It is not in her nature to bring good.”

“She is the Goddess of Battle,” Badden, their king said. “She gave us victory. How could you doubt her good will?”

Rian returned to his farm. His hired men harvested grain. Their wives worked at various tasks. Their children played or did chores. He walked to Noelani’s grave. As he stood there, he knew what would happen and waited patiently, eventually hearing hoof beats. A group of armed riders approached, Badden among them. They circled him.

“Don’t kill my retainers,” he said. “And spare my daughter and son-in-law. They’ve done no despite to you. Of course, I haven’t either.”

“You have my word no harm will come to your people, though they will have to find work elsewhere,” Badden replied. Rian knew he was a man of his word. “Your daughter is a prophetess and married to one of the ruling clans. We would never do despite to a servant of the goddess or to the families of our rulers. As for your last point, we’ll let Morrigan decide that one.”

MorriganThe sky darkened as in an eclipse. Silence fell. Birds ceased to sing and the wind grew still. It was as if the land held its breath. A swirl of purple smoke rose inside the circle of horses. And Morrigan appeared.

She wore a long purple garment. Her pale skin and red lips made him shudder. Her hair fell in a black wave to the small of her back. She was barefoot. She leveled a look of absolute contempt at Rian.

“Foolish, hollow man,” she sneered. “Did you think that through some puny gift of magic you could stand against me?”

He did not reply. He turned to Seana who had seen the riders and rushed over with her husband and some of his hired men. “The hymn of Laoise,” he told her. She nodded.

“Do you assume there is magic in an old hymn to the gods that could overcome me?” Morrigan laughed. “I’ll show you whose power is the greater. You are nothing. I will make you a man and not a man.”

“You will,” he replied, and he knew he spoke with the voice of prophecy, “but you will be underdone by the scarecrow you plan to make of me, and by a raven, your totem animal. In the end you will lose all you have gained.”

Her face showed dark thunder. He felt the transformation.

On the ground he beheld the limp, lifeless shadow of a mannequin—a scarecrow, a man and yet not a man—hung on a cross piece. He could see and could feel the dry wind of autumn and the sunshine on his head. But he did not feel his heartbeat, did not feel the flow of his blood, the warmth of his bowels, nor the rush of air into his lungs. Morrigan smiled at her enchantment.

“Let this be a warning to anyone who would defy me,” she said, with emphasis on the word me. Your kingdom will grow in power as long as I am obeyed. This farm will be abandoned. The wood adjacent to it will become mine. I will make it a sacred place, and you will supply me with chaste girls to serve as my acolytes and attend my altar here.”

With that, she vanished.

Orev’s prophecy came true. Rian was a mannequin. But the story was not over. As the sun set, he watched Badden and his soldiers ride off. He wondered at the years that lay ahead.

II

The Demetae could have defended Wells Fortress easily except that Morrigan lent the Voltandi her evil magic. The goddess would not lower her dignity by standing in their ranks, but she sent her flock. After the besieging army approached with ladders and siege towers ready, the sky darkened. A mass of black birds came like a storm wind, diving at the soldiers, flying in their faces, pecking at their eyes and tearing at their skin. Men fell from the parapets; the birds flew hard enough to upset vats of boiling oil and molten lead, setting the upper walkways afire. The creatures clawed and tore at the flesh of the defenders, while the assaulting members of Voltandi clan hoisted their ladders and rolled their siege towers forward. The Demetae were unable to regroup and fight back. In minutes their enemies had surmounted the walls and swarmed inside. The flock of Morrigan rose into the sky and disappeared, a black cloud moving off toward the eastern forests.

Gowan fought his way out of the scene of slaughter. He hoped to find Kennis amid the crowds of terrified women running about, but he did not lay eyes on her. He and five other men formed a squad and managed to escape through the livestock gate. Pursuers came after them. They scattered in five directions. Gowan fled into the forest running until he could not go on.

Too cautious and too afraid to sleep, he rested until some of his strength returned and pushed on until he found a brook. He drank and dunked his head in the icy water. Looking up, he saw black smoke rising a good distance away. Wells Fortress—burned, its people slaughtered and enslaved. Kennis—he didn’t want to think what had probably happened to her. He realized how close he was and that the Voltandi would eventually scour the area of fugitives. Gowan drank more water and headed deep into the forest, where he would be more difficult to track.

He moved steadily into the woods north of his conquered homeland. The massive trees blotted out the light of day. An eerie green glow was his only illumination as he moved steadily, putting as much distance as he could between him and the battle site.

The wood abounded in dangers. He saw two massive bears and a wolf. Where a solitary wolf stood, the pack was not far away. For the next two weeks, he hid—climbing trees when search parties appeared, sleeping in caves and hollow oaks, surviving by eating nuts and fruit he found, drinking water from clear streams, once or twice catching fish with his hands and eating them raw. On the afternoon of his fourteenth day in the wood, head throbbing, stomach empty, Gowan spotted a clearing and made for it.

He saw a small house in the middle of a field. Several more structures, collapsed or sagging, stood off in the distance. He saw no people, no animals, no smoke coming from the chimney on the one building still standing in the midst of what appeared to have once been a fairly good-sized farm. He made his way toward the house.

It sat empty. The shutters stood open. No door separated it from the elements. It was empty of furniture. Gowan looked around, stepped inside, and turned to once again scan the area around the house. He saw outlines of what had once been plots of cultivated fields. Stalks of grain grew in clumps here and there. He hurried over to them, stripped the heads from the stalks, rubbed the chaff from them, and chewed them. An overgrown patch to one side of the house suggested a neglected garden. There he found pumpkins and turnips amid the weeds. The farm orchard still bore fruit. He cut up one of the small pumpkins and ate it. He also found some carrots.

The food made him sleepy. Even though the sun still shown, he settled into one corner of the empty house, took off his tunic and boots, rolled up in the tunic, and immediately fell asleep.

common-raven-3aHe woke in the morning, sore and hungry. After relieving himself and putting on his tunic, he headed for the garden. Gowan stopped in his tracks when he saw a raven perched on the tumble-down garden fence, staring at him.
He looked around. Seeing no other birds, he relaxed. Morrigan’s flock did her bidding, but not all ravens were evil—though most people considered them birds of ill omen. He opened the sagging gate and walked into the area enclosed by a lopsided fence. The raven flew over to a roost a few feet away, staying closer than such birds usually stayed to a human presence.

Going back to the garden, he found five more pumpkins, several turnips, and some onions. He would not starve. He harvested the produce and stored it in the house, found firewood, and kindled it with the flint he carried at all times. He spitted the vegetables and searched for water. Not far from the house, a spring flowed. He took a drink of the icy water and felt his spirits rally. He might survive. All he had known had been taken by his clan’s enemies. Still, not everything was lost. The Voltandi would subjugate his people, not massacre them. Kennis’ beauty would mean she would be raped—or possibly taken as a prize for one of their high-ranking chieftains to marry or make a whore. He sighed and felt a surge of anger, but what was the point of anger? He could not alter what had happened. Perhaps she had escaped—not likely, but he could not rule out the possibility. Kennis was a brave, strong, crafty young woman. As he knelt to turn the garden fruits on the spit, he heard the raven scream. Looking up, he saw it posed above the door of the house.

His fears returned. Why was it following him? Birds avoided people. Could it be one of Morrigan’s flock coming to spy him out? He gazed at the creature and sighed with resignation. If Morrigan had sent it here, he could do little to prevent it from revealing his presence. Gowan doubted he was important enough to merit the goddess’s attention. The Voltandi had probably agreed to worship Morrigan or provide her with young women to serve at her shrine. It crossed his mind that Kennis, if captured, might have been forced to be one of Morrigan’s forest girls. When he thought this, the bird on the lintel squawked and flapped its wings.

Its behavior startled him so much he stood. The bird did not fly but continued to cry out in its high-pitched, grating voice and to flutter its wings.

“Trying to tell me something, bird?” he scoffed. The sound of his own voice startled him. The bird quieted. Its shiny round eyes seemed to meet his and then it lifted off and flew over the fields and outbuildings toward the tree line.

Silence fell. Gowan checked the vegetables. They had softened. He ate ravenously and then set out to explore the limits of the abandoned farm that had become his refuge.

The outbuildings had sagged or fallen down completely. He found nothing useful in them, though he could burn the boards for firewood. The privy had collapsed on itself. The scent of hog manure told him a broken-up fence had once enclosed a pig sty. If the pigs had gone feral, he thought, they might be living in the wood nearby and he could hunt them. He noticed more patches of grain, nearly ripe. He could harvest it over the next few days.

He thought of his own holdings, his bachelor house, his forge, and the few possessions he had owned. All of it would have been taken by a Voltandi soldier. Possibly he could build a new life here.

Going further out, he came to the place where the scarecrow he had noticed yesterday stood. It had held up remarkably well, given the length of time the farm must have been abandoned. The straw stuffing and the old coat and pants had not turned to dust in the sun, rain, and winter snow. A dried gourd formed the head. The painted eyes, nose, and mouth shone dark and clear in spite of exposure to weather. The scarecrow stood at the limit of the property. As Gowan surveyed the ground past it, the raven lit on the scarecrow’s shoulder. Gowan laughed.

“One hell of a scarecrow you are,” he chuckled. The bird gaped at him. It appeared to be the same one that had fluttered on his doorstop. Maybe it had a nest around here. Or it might be the previous owners had befriended it—made a pet of it. He had known people to do this. One of his friends—now dead or enslaved, he thought—had taught a jackdaw to mimic words. As this remembrance crossed his mind, the raven cackled, “Forest girl.”

He gaped. The bird fixed its eyes on him as if to confirm what it uttered constituted a genuine communication, not mimicking or stock and store. Gowan shook his head. His grief over Kennis coupled with hunger and exhaustion had made him think mad thoughts. He turned and headed back to the house.

Once inside, he dug a pit for his food, lined it with stones, and covered it with old planks so animals would not plunder his store. He tried to dismiss what the raven had uttered, but he could not stop thinking that the very phrase—and it was not a phrase used in everyday speech—had crossed his mind only an hour before.

He stepped to the door and wondered if the sacred wood of Morrigan lay nearby. If the bird had a connection to her, it might have come from there. He remembered rumors that her forest was somewhere in this area. Her altar and the forest girls who brought a daily sacrifice to the stones sacred to the goddess lay within her sacred wood.

As the day wore on, his curiosity burned. Just past noon, he made his way toward the tree line and into the dark of the ancient forest.

Gowan fought through the underbrush and eventually found well-defined trails. They did not lead to the edge of the forest where the trees ended and cultivated land began. They picked up about thirty feet from the forest’s edge. Yet they were wide and well-worn, as if people walked them frequently. He followed a half mile or so and stopped cold. A few feet ahead of him, he saw Kennis.

No mistaking it and no hallucination. She wore a coarse, threadbare dress—sleeveless and shorter than modesty allowed (it came above her knees). Her hair fell about her shoulder in tangles. Her feet, legs, hands, and arms were dirty. She held a double handful of acorns.

At first he could not speak but the recovered his voice.

“Kennis! Kennis!”

She looked at him. He thought he glimpsed a flash of recognition on her eyes, but then her expression went hostile and ugly, her stance belligerent. She opened her mouth, hissed, spat at him, and, clutching the acorns to her breasts, sprinted down the path into the woodland darkness.

Gowan followed. Kennis ran with bare feet down the forest path. He gained on her, calling after her, but she did not turn about or respond to his voice. Gowan had almost caught her when he slowed to a stop.

In front of him two more women stood. They wore garments identical to what Kennis had on, but they were filthy dirty, their hair long, matted and tangled. Long curly nails protruded from their fingers and toes. Their wild eyes challenged him. They opened their mouths wide, tongues extended, and hissed at him.

He looked up saw two of them posed in tree branches above him. One was naked, the other wrapped in a smock full of rends. He heard more hissing a saw a trio of the women off to one side of the path. Hatred and murder shone in their eyes. They moved toward him. Kennis had disappeared.

Gowan put his hand on his dagger and backed up. He did not want to kill women, even wild women of the forest who looked to be possessed. As he backed away, the wild females stayed put. He walked backwards until he was a good distance from them, turned, hurried to where the path ended, and returned to the fields and open land.

He paused, trying to get his breath and tame the crazy thoughts going through his head. It had been Kennis. No doubt of that. She had even briefly recognized him. But what had happened to her? How could she have transformed in such a short time? And who were the other women? What had he just seen?

Glancing up, he saw the raven sitting on in a tree branch looking down at him.

He remembered what it had uttered earlier in the day. He wondered for a moment if it would say “forest girl” again, but as it stared at him he knew such a repetition would not be necessary. Kennis had been changed to one of Morrigan’s savage acolytes. She had been captured and given to the Goddess of War and Discord. Morrigan had enchanted her and consigned her to serve her altar in her sacred grove. He looked up at the raven.

“Are you an enchanted creature? Are you one of Morrigan’s flock? Do you mean me evil or good?”

It did not answer nor move. He fancied it listened and understood but did not have voice to reply. After a time, he turned and went back to his house. He stirred the ashes of the fire, threw on more wood, and watched as it blazed up. He decided not to eat anything more, though hunger gnawed at his insides. Darkness fell. Gowan stared into the fire and remembered.

A wise woman had told him about Morrigan’s forest girls. She had called them “forest maidens,” but everyone else called them “forest girls.”

“They are captives delivered as tribute to the evil goddess. They attend the altar in her sacred wood and live their lives as wild, virgin acolytes. They are under some sort of enchantment. Living under the spell of the goddess makes them like animals. They are extremely dangerous and will destroy anyone who comes into their realm.”

Weariness came upon him. He started, though, when he heard chanting. He listened, stepping away from the fire so its crackling would not interfere with the song that wafted through the dark. It rose in a solemn, eerie, melancholic strain—like a threnody, like a lament, though softer; not a lamentation exactly, but a song sung so sadly it broke his heart. Kennis’ voice was part of the choir. She was there, in the wood, not very far from him. He could rescue her—or could he? Gowan covered the ashes to his fire, went into the house, rolled up in his tunic, and fell asleep.

The Raven spoke to him.

He dreamed of it. It spoke, but not in words. Still, he understood. Kennis, it told him, had been taken captive and delivered to the goddess, who had made her a forest maiden to serve to her altar. The bird was not one of Morrigan’s flock. He would reveal who he was later on. There was a way to rescue Kennis. He, the raven, could not reveal it, though.

“Who can?” Gowan demanded in his dream.

“The oracle,” the bird told him.

“Who is the oracle?”

No answer. He only saw the raven perched on the shoulder of the scarecrow.

“Who are you?” he asked the raven.

“Orev.”

Gowan woke. He ate turnips and found a blackberry brake by the abandoned outhouse. After cleaning up by the spring and washing and drying his clothes, he spent the rest of the morning gleaning grain from the patches of volunteer stalks growing in clumps about the field. At the end of his labor, two bushels of wheat filled the ceramic storage urns he found in one of the outbuildings. He roasted a portion of it. When he carried it inside the house to eat, the raven lit on the table, gazed up at him with its dark, round eyes, and squawked.

“Orev,” Gowan said.

The bird stared. Gowan remembered more of the dream. The thought of Kennis hissing at him, her eyes exuding the look of a madwoman, her hair—which he had thought so beautiful—matted and tangled, her body filthy dirty, bare feet, clothed in an immodest garment—the memory sent surges of pain though him. He fought down his anger, sat in the rickety chair he had dragged from an outbuilding to the main house, and glumly ate. Though he knew ravens were carrion birds, he threw a handful of wheat kernels on the tabletop. To his surprise, the bird snapped them up. The two of them finished eating. Gowan went to the spring to drink. The raven followed him. After slaking his thirst, he heard Orev squawk. The creature flapped its wings and flew into the air. He rose in a high arc, descended, and landed on the shoulder of the scarecrow.

Gowan once more remembered his dream.

He walked to where the mannequin hung on its pole.

“This is the oracle?”

The raven made no sound. Gowan smiled to think of an oracle with no ability to speak. But as he thought this, he felt something buffet him. He felt no pain, but some kind of force hit him like a gust of wind strikes one on a blustery day. He seemed to see the sun, the stubbly fields of grain, his own face, and the ruins of a building all at the same time. After only a moment, everything reverted to normalcy.

His heart pounded and he felt short of breath. As he contemplated the origin of the spell that had overcome him, the raven rose into the air, screeched, circled him, and flew to a berry bush. Gowan puzzled. The raven screamed. He understood that he was to follow it.

He walked the long distance. Orev the raven would perch and, when Gowan drew close, would fly to a new mark. This continued until he crested a hill and came to the ruins of an ancient structure. It was the ruin he had seen in his confusing vision when he stood in front of the scarecrow.

He followed the raven inside. It settled on the ground and pecked.

Gowan stared in puzzlement. The raven drove its beak down furiously in one spot. Gowan drew his dagger and tapped with its hilt where the bird had pecked with such determination. The stone floor seemed hollow beneath that area. Elsewhere, it sounded solid.

He looked about him. It was a Roman ruin. They had abandoned Britain many years ago, but the structures they had built dotted the countryside, some still in use, others crumbling and uninhabited. On one wall of the structure he saw a six-pointed star. Racking his memory, Gowan finally recognized it as the symbol of the Jews. They had come here with Romans. This must have been a temple to their god, he thought. The raven screeched and fluttered. Gowan looked around for a heavy stone (he would not risk breaking the blade of his dagger), found a round granite boulder, and began to hammer at the hollow spot. After seven or eight hits, the space in the floor shattered.

sword-LGReaching into the hollow spot beneath the floor, Gowan felt something cool and metallic. His fingers encountered a sharp edge. He realized it was a sword, grasped the hilt, and drew it into the bright light that filled the roofless building.

He held it up. It was a magnificent blade, richer than any he had ever seen. Jewels adorned its hilt. Its long steel blade glistened. He marveled at its balance and its workmanship.

“My sword,” a voice said.

Gowan cried out in fear and turned to face a man in a purple tunic. He wore a black braided beard. His hair fell in ringlets to his shoulders. A gold torq encircled his neck. Rings adorned each of his fingers. He chuckled.

“I’m sorry I frightened you, Gowan. I’m Orev—Prefect of Midian. That is my sword you’re holding. Your grasp of it enabled me to break the enchantment in which I have lived for 2000 years. Prior to this I could assume human form for short periods of time. Now I can assume my human form and remain in it as long as I desire.”

Gowan gaped. The man smiled.

“It feels very good to be human again.”

“You were imprisoned in the body of bird?” Gowan said, not knowing how to even speak of what he was seeing.

“In a manner of speaking. I was killed when Gideon’s Hebrew army overcame our forces at Orev—the place came to be named after me. Of course, it’s a good idea to protect yourself with an enchantment. My spirit passed into the body of my totem animal, the creature after which I was named, and remained there, more or less, until now. One of the Hebrews took my sword as a prize of war and passed it on to his heirs. So it was for thousands of year until it arrived here. The last heir to it departed hastily when the Romans left Britain. I’ve nested around that sword for more than twenty centuries.”

Gowan blinked in amazement and, after a moment, offered the blade to Orev. He backed off.

“No. I can’t touch it until it draws blood once more. The sword is enchanted with powerful magic—the magic that transformed me and has kept me alive for so very long. It will serve both you and me well—me to gain full life once more, you to recover the woman you love.”

“Its magic can help me get Kennis back?”

“Most certainly. But I’ve been a raven for 2000 years or so. I’d really like to eat something other than carrion and dry seeds.”

They returned to the abandoned farm. Gowan listened, astonished, to the story Orev told him. “I arranged for an enchantment. I paid a huge sum of money to a sorcerer. Zeeb, my co-commander, laughed at me, saying I’d been taken in by a charlatan. He’s dead. I’ve been alive all these centuries—and now I’m human again.”

Gowan vaguely remembered the story of Gideon from when a Christian priest had read it from their sacred scriptures. Some of his family had converted to that faith. Kennis seemed favorably disposed toward it. Gowan remained a worshipper of the ancient gods and goddesses, though he remained persistently skeptical of religion.

“The sword is enchanted?”

“The magic that carried my soul to the body of a raven and has now changed me to human form once more draws on ancient magic from when the world began. One stipulation, though—why do sorcerers always set down conditions?—is that I may not touch the sword until it draws blood. If I do, I will revert to being a bird. Once the sword has drawn blood, though, I can take it up and resume the life torn from me so long ago. The blood of Morrigan will serve the spell superbly.”

Gowan shot a startled look at Orev.

“The sword is more powerful than Morrigan?”

“The magic in it is. She is a young goddess. Her strength is formidable, but it is as a child’s understanding compared to this.”

They ate. Orev enjoyed roast grain and vegetables. After eating, they made their way into the wood of Morrigan.

Almost immediately they spotted the forest girls peering from behind tree trunks, perched in overhanging branches, lurking in thickets of underbrush. They hissed and mewed, glaring with hatred at the two intruders. Gowan and Orev moved down the path toward where they assumed the altar might be. The hissing and threatening noises increased. Gowan gripped Orev’s sword. Orev had taken Gowan’s dagger to defend himself if need be. As they continued on, darkness began to fall.

It was not the darkness of coming night. The sun stood at noon. Yet the green light that filtered through the trees dimmed. The daylight dulled and the dark grew profound. Gowan knew they had encountered the darkness of Morrigan’s anger. The hissing and cursing of the forest girls sounded through the gloom.

They heard another voice speaking.

“Fools. Blasphemers.” The voice was female. “How dare you tread into my sacred grove? I’ll kill you both with my bare hands.”

“Hold up the sword,” Gowan heard Orev say. They stood in total darkness now.

Gowan raised the sword. Immediately the sounds of the forest girls stopped. The darkness disappeared. A few feet from stood a woman he knew had to be Morrigan.

morrigan2He saw the goddess he had heard so much about. She might have been beautiful, but malice and hatred had distorted the lines of her face so much that he could hardly look upon her. Her countenance radiated evil and murder. Yet he saw fear in her expression as well. After a moment, she sank to her knees and then dropped more, falling forward, supporting herself with one hand. Behind her, as many of thirty forest girls stood. They only stared—not at Gowan and Orev, but at their stricken mistress. Their eyes conveyed bewilderment, fear, and grief.

Morrigan managed to lift her head and look at Gowan and Orev.

“You—goddess,” Orev said. “You are overcome by the conquering power of Baal-Peor. Yield or we will cut your guts out.”

She tried to stand but dropped down. Raising her eyes, which still radiated murder, she said, “I yield. What do you want?”

“This young man bears the grievance, not I. He will speak to you.”

Morrigan’s gaze rested on Gowan. He could see her searching his face for a hint of weakness, for some way to break the enchantment that had enthralled her.

“I want several things from you. First, you will free the maiden Kennis, who was given to you as tribute by the Voltandi and serves as one of your altar maidens.”

“It shall be done.”

Gowan felt his boldness grow.

“Further:  you will abandon this wood, lift all enchantments from it, and give it to my control forever. You will relinquish all claim to it and you will set free all the women who serve as your acolytes. Further, you will disassociate yourself forever from the Voltandi.”

Anger boiled in Morrigan’s eyes, but she said. “These things shall be done.”

“One thing more. Rise to your feet.”

The goddess struggled to her feet. She swayed and trembled as she did so. Gowan raised the blade and, in a lightning quick motion, flicked it across her cheek.

Morrigan let out a harsh cry of pain. A trickle of blood ran down to her jaw. Gowan had not cut a large swath on her face, though he had cut deeply.

“You will bear a scar on your face as testimony that not all fear your evil doing. I have no further demands. You are a goddess and must keep your word. Your divine nature is your oath. I release you to go.”

A flash of black light exploded. It lasted only a second, and when it dissipated Morrigan had vanished. Absolute silence fell over the wood, which now glowed with the green light of sun shining through the thick trees. Gowan could tell the enchantment was gone. The grip of Morrigan’s evil magic had been released.

After a moment, he heard screaming and weeping.

The forest girls. They wept and gasped at their appearance—that they were unwashed, their hair tangled and matted, fingernails uncut, dressed in coarse, dirty smocks. The ones who were naked put hands over their breasts and intimate parts and rushed to hide in thickets and behind trees. After a moment, Kennis broke out of a tangle of vines, came running, and threw her arms around Gowan.

She wept and wailed. He comforted her, telling her the curse had lifted and she was safe. After she calmed down, he sent her to the other women. Morrigan had 30 acolytes who brought sacrifices to her altar. Kennis spoke to them. They shyly emerged from the wood, except for the five or six who were naked. Even these spoke to Kennis from their places of concealment. While all of this happened, Gowan heard birds singing, a thing he realized he had not heard until now in these woods. Only evil things had lived in Morrigan’s sacred grove. Her spell lifted, it had already begun to populate with benevolent and beautiful creatures.

Though he did not know how they would care for the forest girls, Gowan thought they should leave the wood. Orev and Kennis agreed. They led the women down the path leading out of the trees. Like Eve of old, the women with no clothing wove coverings of vines and leaves. Led by Orev, Gowan, and Kennis, all thirty of the women—some young, some a little older, but none past thirty—walked in a long line to the abandoned farm where Gowan had found refuge.

Even as they walked along, Gowan noticed the beautiful fruit brought by the breaking of Morrigan’s spell. The women, their initial shock gone, chattered, volubly rejoicing that they were free. They laughed and sometimes broke into spontaneous dance. They leaped for joy. Some wept quietly, but the tears were tears of happiness, not of anguish. Kennis held Gowan’s hand and as they walked along.

muddy“Almighty God, I stink!” she lamented. “My hair is filthy! This garment is shameful.”

“At least you have a garment,” he said.

When they arrived at the farmhouse, the women washed, enduring the icy water from the spring. Orev and Gowan donated their tunics to the women bereft of garments. The other women cut strips of cloth from the hems of their smocks and were able to make skimpy dresses for the six women still unclothed. They laughed, saying they were dressed immodestly but would think of themselves as Artemis of old, whose skirts revealed her thighs. Gowan and some of the women scoured the abandoned farm for more food and found grain and vegetables.

“There is a storehouse filled with food in Morrigan’s wood,” Kennis told Gowan and Orev, “but we were so joyous at being free of her spell we didn’t think to carry any of it with us. We can go in tomorrow and see if it’s still there.”

The sun set. The moon rose and the river of stars appeared. The women, including Kennis, wept. “We didn’t see the stars or the moon all through our enthrallment. Mine was only a few days, but some of the women have been captive for years.” Weeping, almost all of them circled the fire Gowan built and fell on their knees. Prayers to the Lord, to Ardwinna, Eostre, and Odin sounded in warm dark.

“The god you worship is powerful,” Gowan said to Orev.

“He isn’t worshipped anymore.”

“Where will you go? Know that my roof is yours. What little I had I lost in the war, but any service I might give in thanks for you setting Kennis and the others free, I will give.”

Gowan and Orev slept in the farmhouse. Kennis went to sleep with the other women, who had bedded down in pairs to keep warm and covered themselves with reeds or taken refuge in the outbuildings.

In the morning, Gowan looked for Kennis but couldn’t find her. She was not among the women and none of them had seen her that morning. As he feared the worst, he heard someone approaching and turned to see Kennis, and a woman a little older than she, walking toward him. The woman, blonde, very tall—a head taller than Kennis, who was not short—wore one of the cloth-sparse dresses the other women had fastened together for her. She moved with dignity and sadness.

“Gowan,” Kennis said, “This is Drendala, Princess of the Voltani clan.”

He gaped. The war that had destroyed the stronghold at Wells and enslaved his people began when the Voltandi had accused the Demetae of abducting Drendala. As he gazed at the woman, his anger showed, despite his efforts to restrain it.

“You have reason to be angry, I know,” the woman said, her voice even. “Believe me when I say I am a victim of treachery, as your people are. It was Morrigan who abducted me long ago and has kept me a prisoner in her wood. She also spread the rumor that your tribe had abducted me and made me a whore. Morrigan is the goddess of discord and war. She was able to poison the minds of my people because the gift of prophecy has gone from us—a thing also done by her evil.”

Gowan puzzled a moment but then connected oracle and prophecy. He blinked.

“We did have a final prophetic word,” Drendala continued. “I knew of it because the ruling women in our family were taught it and preserved it through the generations. Now the curse has been lifted, I know the time of its fulfillment has come. The spell I memorized can summon prophecy once more. My song is all that is lacking. I must ask your permission, though, to sing it, since you broke the evil enchantment that enthralled the prophecy that guided our people since we became a tribe.”

“I don’t understand all of this,” Gowan replied, “but I trust your word. Please sing.”

Drendala lifted her hands and sang.

The song, in a tongue Gowan did not know, rose to the new day’s sky. It rang with beauty, but its melody also expressed power and wonderment—as if the woman singing it spoke ancient truth she knew well but truth which still amazed her. When the song ended, Gowan felt empty—the way he felt at the loss of a thing he cherished. Drendala drooped as if the recitation had taken her strength. Kennis gripped her arm. As Drendala said this, her eyes lit up.

Coming over the ridge—as if he were walking out of the sun—a tall man strode toward them. Gowan noticed that the scarecrow he had been so used to seeing had disappeared.

As the figure drew closer, Gowan guessed his age at perhaps forty. He looked about him as he walked, his head turning to take in the sights all around, the light in his eyes and the look on his face indicating pleasure at what he saw. When he came near to them, Drendala sank on one knee.

“Grandfather,” she said, her voice quavering.

“He smiled widely, taking her hand so she stood.

“I’m surprised you still remember me.”

“How could forget you? I’ve thought of you ever day of my life, all these years. After Mother taught me the Hymn of Laoise, I sang it every day in your memory.” She gestured. “These are my companions—Kennis and Gowan of the Demetae.”

The man glanced over at a raven sitting in the branch of a near-by tree. Apparently, Gowan though, he could still take on his raven form when he desired.

“And Orev,” the man said. “From him I know something of Gowan. Kennis, I am charmed.”

Kennis bowed to him. Gowan stared in amazement.

“You’re Rian?” he stammered.

“It seems I am—once more.” Rian took the weeping Drendala in his arms. “Peace, child,” he said. “All is restored. Norland is well, though his heart is broken over losing you. You and he will be wed before the moon is new.”

“I only wish Mother was alive to see you restored,” Drendala wept.

Rian suggested they return to the farmhouse. Gowan looked to see if Orev still occupied his perch on the crossbar in his raven form, but he was nowhere to be seen.

◊ ◊ ◊

Things happened quickly after this. When Gowan, Kennis, Drendala, and Rian returned to the main part of the farm, the women were preparing food in the cooking utensils they had carried out of the storehouse in Morrigan’s forest. The smell of baking bread wafted through the air. At Rian’s suggestion, he and Gowan went into the grove and hunted down two feral swine. The women skinned the animals and dressed the meat. They had found more smocks in Morrigan’s storage barn. All of them could be properly clad now, though the dresses were still deplorably revealing for maidens to be wearing. They gave one to Drendala, who was thankful for it, though she was so tall it left what she considered far too much of her legs uncovered.

A number of the girls were Voltandi. When they heard the new man who had appeared just now was Rian, they knelt in reverence. One told Kennis how Rian had disappeared long ago. His renown as a warrior and a prophet remained to this day. They interpreted his return as a portent of blessing.

Gowan told him of the war.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “for the losses your people sustained. I can only say on behalf of my people that all of this was the doing of Morrigan, Goddess of Discord and Strife. She began by enthralling and imprisoning me many years ago. Then she abducted my belovéd granddaughter—all to bring war and discord—and so my people would seek her help and thus come under her control. Her scheme is at an end. It only remains for us to see that our tribes reconcile.

“Us?”

“You’re a good man, Gowan. The young maiden who loves you is a worthy woman.”

Gowan realized what Rian meant. “I’m a yeoman—a blacksmith who served in the King’s army. Neither Kennis and I are remotely related to the royal family.”

“Most of your rulers died in the war. It’s time for that to stop, and it will stop. Your bravery and has been noted by your superiors.”

“We’re a conquered people.”

“Your clan won a major battle to the north just yesterday. Our losses were heavy. Your people are far from defeated. It’s time to end the bloodshed that we all know was Morrigan’s doing. I think you would do well as a ruler. And you have a sword charged with powerful magic.”

He had left it at the farmhouse.

“It doesn’t belong to me. You would know that. It’s Orev’s.”

“Does he want it back?”

“I don’t know.”

“He will let you know tonight.”

That night, Gowan slept with Kennis.

“You proposed to me, but Father gave his permission when my family was at breakfast the morning of the attack on Wells. I was going to tell you at noon. Then the alarm sounded and you went to your place as defender. My family hid me in a cellar, but a house across the street caught on fire and the smoke filled up the place I was hiding. When I ran from there, the Voltandi took me captive and delivered me to Morrigan that very day. By Father’s permission, we’re married, even if haven’t stood before a priestess. I want to begin our life together.”

She yielded her virginity to him. In the morning, a squad of Voltandi rode into the farm. When they saw Rian and Drendala, they dismounted and did obeisance.

Orev did not speak to Gowan in a dream, but when he returned from relieving himself in the woods (the women had claimed the old outhouse as their privy), he ran into him in human form.

“Your sword is in the house,” Gowan said. “I’ll get it for you.”

“Keep it. You need its magic more than I do.”

“I don’t even know how to use its magic.”

“You’ll know how when the time to use it comes.”

“Don’t you need the sword?”

“I’ve decided to return to my homeland, though I know after two millennia nothing from my time will remain. But I like the climate. It will be a long flight, and if I’m going to take the body of a raven, a sword will be a bit of hindrance.”

“Thank you,” Gowan said, feeling stupid that he had given so simplistic a reply to such a gracious gesture. Orev smiled, transformed, and, in a flutter of ebony feathers, flew, rising into the sky, diminishing to a black dot, and finally disappearing from the range of Gowan’s sight.

The End

 

David Landrum’s speculative fiction has appeared widely, and his fantasy stories in Non-Binary Review, Black Denim Review, Mystic Nebula, Dance Macbre–and in Silver Blade. His novellas, The Last Minstrel, The Prophetess, and Shadow City, and my full-length fantasy novel, The Sorceress of the Northern Seas, are available through Amazon.

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Published by Associate Editor on August 26, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 27, Issue 27 Stories

Sampson’s Moon

By Preston Dennett

Nobody likes surprises, not really.   So there are alien bases on the moon. Sorry we forgot to mention that. Alien bases, artifacts, ships, other stuff we don’t understand yet. Why did we cover it up? We decided you couldn’t handle the truth. Hah! Is it any surprise that people reacted the way they did, and that NASA was doomed? Perhaps things would have been different if we weren’t so long in learning the truth.  In some ways it’s the same situation with Sampson Thornton. He admitted himself that he covered up certain events. But you have to understand Sampson to understand his story, why he remained quiet about what happened. He liked the mystery; he didn’t want to destroy it. Sampson’s moon was filled with mystery.

Mysteries are funny. They make people nervous. The moon’s most persistent mystery, transient lunar phenomena—tulips—is the perfect example. Thousands of reports of lights on the moon, lights that appear in strange patterns, coming from a wide variety of credible sources (including astronomers) for more than two centuries. We finally go to the moon and see them close-up. Then we establish moon colonies, and we still see them. We photograph them. And yet, be the one to report seeing a tulip yourself and you are ridiculed.  Say you make contact…well, ask Sampson.

Like I said, nobody likes surprises. And of all the surprises Luna sprung on us, none was greater than the one discovered by Sampson Thaddeus Thornton. No wonder he was ridiculed and attacked. I maintain, however, that this reputation is unjustified. In fact, Sampson only agreed to tell me his story to correct the many lies that have been told about him. And there have been many.
                            —from Sampson’s Moon
                            (by Claudia Wu)

 

sunriseI absolutely love sunrise on the moon. Love it! It’s always different, the way the sun peeks over the horizon, turning the blackness to a dazzling array of grays, silvers and whites. And best of all, it’s the time we scavvies get to suit up and go hunting. You can feel the excitement pulse through the city, the crowds gathering to see us off, the expectation of success electrifying the air. I especially love getting Sally (my rig) ready.  I love packing up the foodstuffs, tightening the treads, juicing up the batteries, polishing the solar panels, flushing out the air scrubbers, checking the seals, cleaning the filters…and the countless other things that need to be pulled, pushed, tightened, loosened, glued, filled, emptied, squeezed, tested, repaired and, of course, hidden.

Sally’s not much to look at, and she’s older than space and broken in twenty places, but she’s dependable as a dog, and has gotten me through more scrapes than I can count.  Most important—she’s all mine. Not many scavvies can say that. I work for myself.

Of course, that explained why I was fresh out of funds. With my last two outings both dismal failures, this trip would make it or break it for me. And with Elliot missing, the stakes for him were life and death. We scavvies have to stick together, and let’s face it, this was Elliott. Any one of us would have given our right arm to find him.

Sally and I showed up early at the inspection station. I wasn’t shocked to see the crowds.  But my stomach turned at the look of some of the rigs, all expensive and shiny and new.  I cued Sally into the growing line and found Maddy Wu in the waiting room. Like me, she was independent and answered to nobody but herself. For that reason, I respected her. I liked her because she was a damn good scavvie, one of the best, and an old-timer like me. Needless to say, we’ve come to know each quite well. She waved and flashed her crooked teeth.

“What took so long? Surprised you’re not already out there.” She waved toward the window at the moonscape.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head. I’ll find our man.”

“Not if I find him first.”

“Even if you find him, where will you put him?”

Maddy narrowed her eyes. “I’ll find a spot. My rig will out-perform yours anytime! You just say when!”

I raised my hands. “Just kidding. This isn’t a race.”

“Of course it is,” she said. “Besides, you know it’s true. Zebediah the Great may be old, and he may be small, but he’ll lay out Sally like a track. And you know as well as I, the first to find Elliott will find whatever it is he supposedly found. Do you know when his message actually came in?”

“No, I haven’t been able to find out. It’s the message that’s important anyway. It’s them!  Of course! That’s it. What the hell do you suppose he meant by that? You’ve got to admit it’s an odd last message. Could mean anything.”

“Ten to one, he got the moon sickness. I bet we’ll find him outside his rig, without his helmet, like the others. I don’t know. What do you think he was trying to say?” She closed her eyes and tilted her head oddly toward me.

I wagged my finger at her. “Don’t go trying that medium stuff on me.”

“Why, you’ve got something to hide?”

“Maybe,” I said.

She was silent a moment, and she became still. I knew the look. She was telepathing me, conversing with my spirit guide—whatever the heck she called it. Suddenly, her eyes snapped open and she smiled. “The tulips, huh?  You really think there’s a connection?”

The oxygen went right out of my tanks. There went my secret weapon. May as well let her know; she knew anyway. Damn woman! You couldn’t hide a thing from her. “Could be.”

She pursed her lips. “Interesting. So I guess that means you’re heading to Erasmus.”

Damn her!  I tried to play innocent. “No,” I said, an obvious lie.

She threw her head back and laughed loudly. The other scavvies looked down at us, dressed in their expensive spacesuits. Bet not a one of them worked for themselves. Most of them were kids, in their fifties or younger, probably not an original find among the lot. They didn’t know what it was like before the lunar surface had been tracked and re-tracked, before it had been picked clean of every damn alien artifact that could be found.

The station door opened and a man said, “Madeline Wu?”

She stood up.

“Your rig failed inspection.”

Maddy put her arms on her hips and stared at the young man with livid anger. “What is this? My rig is fine! Show me! And you better be right or else I’ll have your job. In fact, where is your manager?”

I laughed, and felt sorry for the poor technician. By the time Maddy was done with him, he would wish that he’d just passed her. Why the Luna government insisted on inspection was beyond me. It’s not like they would try to rescue us if we got in trouble. We scavvies were on our own. The discoveries on the moon had given Earth a ticket to the stars, and what did we moonies get? Nothing! All the money was going to the new worlds. Nobody cared much about Luna anymore. And to think it was the original scavengers who found the alien ships. It didn’t seem fair. But then again, there wasn’t much about the moon that was fair.

As I waited impatiently for Sally to impress the judges, Chuck “the Slime” Guzman oozed into the room and stank next to me.

“Well, if it isn’t old man Sampson Thornton. Thorny. Wasn’t sure if you’d show up. Are you still driving that old hunk of junk? I don’t know how you can stand it. It’s so small.  I’m surprised it’s still working. You know, it’s not safe out there for you. I have to hand it to you for keeping on trying, though. I mean, considering your last two outings.”

Chuck went on, bragging about his new expensive rig, and looking for other ways to insult me. I hated him. I hated him, and his expensive ultralight pressure-suit with its radiation-protected super-clear faceplate, and the way he stood, the way he looked down on me—me, who had paved the way for the likes of him. It made me sick.

I did my best to ignore him, but he really ripped my pressure-suit when he kept insulting Sally. Insult me, fine. But I won’t tolerate anyone saying those kinds of things about my Sally. I was about to tell Chuck to go follow my tracks when Inspection called my name.

“Sampson Thornton? Your vehicle has failed.” The inspector pointed to a list of items.

“What?” I roared, tearing the red ticket out of his hand. “What the hell is wrong with my tanks? You’ve got to be kidding! Let me see your manager!”

Six hours, an eight hundred dollar repair, and a two hundred dollar bribe later, I was set to go. I looked around for Maddy, but she had already left, as had nearly all the others. So I was late, oh well. At least I was out.

I breathed a sigh of relief as the buildings of Aldrin City faded into the moonscape. My rig clogged the traffic behind me, and I cursed the damn regulations that kept me on the roadways for at least five miles outside of the city. Too many complaints about tracks. As far as I was concerned, they could follow my tracks!

No matter. I was in a good mood. Sally was humming along, the green panel lights casting a merry glow. My batteries were charged, my tanks full, and my secret cache of rum remained undiscovered by the inspectors. It felt good to be out again, on the hunt. I may be an old man, but when the hunt starts, I feel as young as when I first started, all those years ago, when I was just a moonpup.

I put Sally on auto while I turned on the screen to view my secret weapon: a map of recent tulip activity. I admit it, I believed in tulips. Most of us old moonies knew that the tulips were real, but nobody seemed to think much about them. Earthworms, of course, just laughed at the stories. We learned to keep quiet.

The map was my own crude creation, put together from the accounts of scavvies, maintenance workers, travelers, and other people who had reported an encounter, as well as the reports from Earth made in the last three centuries. I had been quietly collecting reports for years. Looking at the map, the connection between the tulips and discoveries of the artifacts was clear. The area also had an unusually high number of accidents or disappearances, like Elliot’s. It was the Bermuda Triangle of the moon, and most scavvies learned to stay away from it.

I was not surprised to find that Erasmus was thick with reports of tulips. Hell, I had seen one myself there many years ago. Damnedest thing I ever saw. Scared the hell out of me, and I don’t scare easy. Bright as the sun…in fact, I thought it was the sun.  And tall, I’m estimating ten meters. It was off in the distance, moving away, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say it was avoiding me. Which meant it was intelligent. But as everyone knows, TLP is supposed to be a natural phenomenon. Or so the officials say. Me, I wasn’t so sure.

The map said it all. The correlation between disappearances and tulip reports was obvious. There had been a few recent sightings, all in the heart of Erasmus. Well, that’s where I would search for Elliot. If I knew Elliot, that’s where he would go. Hell, it was pretty much the only place left that hadn’t been tracked, re-tracked and picked clean of artifacts. I thought of the other scavvies who were now undoubtedly searching Elliot’s official route that he had reported to Inspection, and chuckled to myself. They were newbies. They’d learn soon enough that scavvies don’t tell anyone—especially Inspection—where they are going. Not if they wanted to be successful in this business.

I examined my route. I would take the long way around Mount Icarus, skirt the edge of Crater Curie, traveling the edge of Gable Canyon until it ended and finally moving into the heart of the vast Erasmus lowlands. A longer route than I wanted to take, but at least I would get a good look at the Shard.

And no matter, I was in a good mood. After an hour I turned off the main road and into the wilderness. I was finally out! I dug out my secret cache of rum. It was still early in the trip, but what the hell? Time to celebrate, and take in every moment. If things didn’t go well, this could be my last time out. I drove the thought from my mind and enjoyed the moonscape, taking a sip now and then to warm my stomach.

The view of the sun reflecting silver off the slopes of Curie was rivaled only by the sweeping majesty of Gable Canyon, with its fantastically sculptured walls. I passed dozens of old tracks, and kept on moving, letting the hours pass. I thought about Elliot; I studied my map, watched more scenery, sipped my rum, but not too much; I still needed to remain clear-headed.

Gable Canyon finally smoothed out and disappeared. Then the Shard finally came into view, a smallish-looking gray protuberance off on the horizon. Two hours later, its true size became obvious as it towered overhead.

I pressed my face to the windshield and peered up at its magnificence. Of all the alien structures found on the moon, the Shard was—in my opinion—the most beautiful. Nearly four miles high and razor-thin, only eight meters in diameter at its thickest point, which wasn’t the base. It reflected a dazzling silver light, and looked like a thin shard of diamond glass. No wonder it was the number one tourist spot on Luna. I was glad that the scientists couldn’t identify or duplicate the material. Nobody still had any idea what the Shard was, and I preferred it that way. The moon needed a little mystery. It had been stripped of so much. Let it at least keep that.

A warning buzzer blared. Sally was angry! I read the panel with dismay. Overheating already, and I just got out. She needed shade. A half-kilometer to the right, a tiny outcropping provided enough cover. Sally was lugging when she finally pulled in. I shut off the engine and instead of getting angry, took another sip of rum, studied my map some more, and waited.

Sally was just cooling off when I saw a glint of light in the distance. Tulip? I punched up the scope. No, it was a rig. I zoomed in and laughed. It was Maddy, following my tracks!

She suddenly slowed and stopped where I had turned off to find shade. She paused for only seconds before she went moving ahead, following my secret pre-planned route and leaving me behind. Her rig was lighter than mine, and faster. Damn her, and damn this heat! Sally still wasn’t ready to go. Nothing to do but wait. Maddy obviously recognized my tracks. Why didn’t she stop? What if I was in trouble? Of course, I could try to distract her. I dialed her number.

Her face appeared on the screen. She flashed an innocent smile, clearly expecting my call. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” She sent a feed of the Shard, and then came back to the screen.

“Stunning,” I said. “What’s the deal with following my tracks? Run out of your own ideas already? And why didn’t you stop? Or at least call? You knew it was me.”

She peered at me, eyeing me up and down. “Is that rum? Don’t you think it’s a little premature to start celebrating?”

I snorted. “What? That’s not a beer behind you?”

She smoothly pushed the bottle out of view. “Pardon me?”

“You’ve been following me. Maddy, I thought you were better than that.”

“I’m not following you. You just happen to be going the same way I am going. And besides, if I’m not mistaken, now you’re following me.”

“Ah, but there’s a difference. You don’t know where you’re going.”

“What, you mean your secret tulip map? Don’t look so surprised. I may be pretty,”—she batted her eyelashes—“but I’m also smart. I’ve known about your map since you started it. Do you know how many people have asked me if you’re okay, you know, in the head? People think your obsession with the tulips might be a sign that your tanks are getting low, that’s all I’m saying. Next you’ll be telling me you think they’re intelligent, and that they are the aliens.”

“And what if they are?”

“Damn it! I knew it!  ou do believe it. Maybe your tanks are already empty.”

“Then why are you here? If you weren’t following me? You believe it too. These tulips are not natural.”

She shrugged. “Let’s just say I have a hunch, a feeling. You know me, I’m a lucky girl.”

At that instant, her rig hit a large bump, sending her sailing out of her seat up to the ceiling. She crashed roughly down, and tried quickly to regain a graceful composure as she scrambled for her bottle.

“Maybe you should wear a seatbelt,” I said.

“Maybe you should follow my tracks,” she retorted. She smoothed out her hair. “You are okay, aren’t you? You don’t need help?”

“No, I’m fine,” I said. “Thanks for asking.”

She shrugged.

“I’m just a little hot. I can’t believe you followed my tracks. I’m going to catch up to you.”

“Not if I can help it. And I didn’t follow your tracks! As I was saying, I have a feeling about this place. Where else would Elliot go? This is where all the action is. And like you say, there have been a lot of disappearances here.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No? Oh, sorry. Well, listen Sammy boy, the trail is roughing up, so I’m going to switch you off and blaze on. Catch me if you can!” She flashed me a moon sign and switched off.

I took a last swig of rum and seeing that Sally was feeling better, took off after Maddy. As I followed her tracks, I could see her rig ahead of me, bouncing along, shining in the sun. She slowly increased her lead, becoming smaller and smaller until finally disappearing from view.

I patted Sally and told her not to worry, that I still loved her. Whatever method Maddy used to guide her, it was right on. She took exactly the route I would have taken. Where I had gotten there with reasoning and my secret map, she used her intuition, I guess. Unless she was reading my mind. Women! Never could figure them.

I followed her tracks, vowing to catch up with her and show her who was boss around here. Meanwhile, I watched the Shard disappear into the background, and wondered for the millionth time, what was it for? Perhaps a monument to memorialize an ancient war. Or maybe a communication device to reach distant galaxies.

I daydreamed along on auto when Maddy called. Her face looked frightened.

“Sampson! Where the hell are you? You’ve got to see this.” She fed me an image. At first I couldn’t see anything unusual, just your average moonscape, a rolling field of rocks and boulders. Then, right before she switched back, I saw it. A shape, a rig. Could it be Elliot’s? I couldn’t make out the call numbers.

“See it?” she asked.

“Not really. A rig?”

“Come on, Sammy. You know I owe you. Let’s do this. It’s Elliot’s. I’m sure of it.”

“How do you know?”

She narrowed her eyes, smiled slyly. “You question my judgment?”

“I’m just asking.”

“I don’t know, I just know. Just hurry up. The trail gets a little sketchy up ahead. We’re getting pretty far out, you know.”

“Fine, just don’t start without me. And while I should know better by now, I don’t believe you.  If that’s Elliot’s rig, I’ll…I’ll…”

“You’ll what? What? What the hell is that? Sampson,” she said, her face forming an expression of shock, “You’ll want to see this. You owe me for this one!”

“What the hell is going on?”

“Just watch!” she snapped, and fed me a live image of the rig that was allegedly Elliot’s.

I watched. It was a tulip, blazing white-hot, huge, and hovering directly over the rig. And then it began to lower, lighting up the ground brighter than sunlight. Lower and then it was behind the rig, circling it. A few seconds later, it darted away towards a rock outcropping, where it disappeared.

Maddy’s face appeared on the screen. “Consider this my official apology. You were right. Those damn things are intelligent. I can’t believe I saw one! Did you see the way that thing moved?”

“I told you,” I said.

“And I apologized. Now get your damn rig over here so we can get down there. I need your help to find a way around these cliffs.”

“Cliffs?”

“Are you guys talking about the tulip?”

“Who is this?” I asked.

“Is that you?” Maddy asked.

“It’s me, guys.” Chuck’s face appeared on the screen. Maddy instantly hung up.

“This is a private call!” I barked. “How did you find our channel?”

“Sorry, I didn’t know. Where are you guys?”

“Never mind,” I said. “What the hell do you want?”

“Nothing, I just was looking at Madeleine’s footage there of the tulip. Not bad, best I’ve seen in awhile. Not good enough to convince any skeptics, of course, but still… You’re at the north end of Gable, aren’t you?”

“Good-bye, Chuck,” I said, hanging up. Great! He had heard everything. He was probably already following our tracks. I called Maddy and gave her a new frequency, encrypted this time. It cost more, but I’d be spaced if I let the likes of Chuck listen in.

I put the throttle on high and took Sally as fast as she could go. Maddy was right, the trail soon began to get rough, and before long, I had to slow down or risk snapping a tread, or worse. The landscape steepened the farther I went.

Finally, I came up to Maddy’s rig. It was perched along the trail, which suddenly swept sharply down into the flatlands below. Off in the distance was the area of the missing rig.

While I had explored a good portion of the moon, this was not an area I knew. Call me superstitious. Maybe I was just being careful. Maybe I thought some places on the moon should remain unexplored. For whatever reason, like most scavvies, I stayed mostly out of the Erasmus regions.

My screen buzzed to life. “What do you think?” Maddy asked. “Should I chance it?”

“Are you crazy?  No. We’ll find a way around. Any sign of Chuck?”

“No. The nerve of that creep. Listening in on our conversation. There ought to be a law!”

“You tried hailing Elliot?”

“Of course!” she snapped. “No answer.”

I activated the map and zoomed to the area. The only way was to backtrack and go the long way around. The escarpment was less shallow there.

I sent the route to Maddy.

“That’s what I thought,” she said. “Well, let’s go. You first.”

I turned the rig around and headed down towards the flatlands. Maddy stayed close behind.

It was slow going because of the rough terrain. We were about halfway down when I saw them—tracks—moving at a diagonal down the ridge, exactly toward the missing rig. I felt the air leave my lungs. I knew those tracks, they were Elliot’s. Maddy was right! It was Elliot’s rig. I turned to follow the tracks, covering them with my own.

I didn’t alert Maddy. She’d figure it out soon enough and I wanted to delay her I-told-you-so’s as long as possible. She came on-line anyway. “This way? What are you thinking? But you said—”

“I found tracks,” I interrupted. “I’m following them.”

She didn’t reply, but she started to hang back, lag behind. She knew.

I kept up my speed and followed the tracks. I was kind of surprised that anybody would go this way. The slope was still too steep for easy travel. Elliot would never normally take this route. He must’ve seen something. The tulips? I wondered.

The slope continued downward and it looked like everything would be fine. Then suddenly, near the bottom, I had to stop. It was too steep. I could still see Elliot’s tracks; they were all slides and scrapes and skips. It looked like he barely made it down.

Maddy chimed in. “Why are you stopping? Let’s keep going. What, are you afraid?”

I surveyed the slope one more time. I don’t know why, but I had a bad feeling. And, yes, I was afraid.

“Are you going?” Maddy asked impatiently.

I couldn’t do it. It was too steep. “I think we should go back.”

“Are you crazy?” Maddy said.

Seconds later, her rig zoomed silently passed mine, hesitating only momentarily before zooming recklessly down the slope. I cursed my lack of courage. I should’ve known Maddy wouldn’t listen. I held my breath as she careened downward. Her rig hit a few bumps, actually took flight and slammed back down, at one point balancing on edge. She was a pro, though, and handled her rig with finesse. After I saw that she was okay, I followed, though perhaps more slowly.

I did my best to keep up with her. She was a natural at picking the best route down. Definitely didn’t need my help. She came across Elliot’s tracks, stopped for exactly one second, then resumed her reckless plunge, following Elliot’s tracks at a significantly higher speed.

What the hell was I so afraid of? Perhaps it was all the stories that had come out of this area. And why not? Hell, I was scared. I had seen that tulip descend on that rig. A natural phenomenon does not behave that way. Whatever that thing was, it was alive.

Which meant, they probably were the aliens. Probably? They had to be. All this time, everybody was wondering where the aliens went. Who built all these alien structures—all the ships, the moonballs, the sculptures, and especially the Shard—and then just left? Well, maybe they didn’t leave. Perhaps they’ve been here the whole time, only we didn’t know it.

One thing was for sure, TLP weren’t caused by moonquakes, which was the most popular theory for two centuries. Hell, most earthworms still believed that, assuming they even knew about TLP.

Maddy led the way valiantly, and I continued to keep up best I could. I kept getting distracted by the view of the vast valley floor opening up below. While it looked smooth and inviting from up high, I knew it was covered with dust pits, deadly cliffs, knife-edged rocks that could snap a tread instantly, and all kinds of hidden dangers. In other words, it was beautiful.

Still, considering the hazards, I wanted to be extra careful. Maddy graciously waited for me when I fell too far behind. We then continued down the slope.

She sent me a zoomed image of the rig.

Her face appeared. “See, I told you!” she said. “It’s Elliot’s! Look.”

It was Elliot’s rig. The call numbers were clear as day. Unfortunately, there was no sign of activity. No sign of life.

“I hate to say it, Maddy, but he’s probably dead. I mean, he would have called responded by now. Whatever he found…”

“We don’t know that. He might be fine. He might.”

Maddy. Always the optimist, but I knew better. We both did. He was dead, and probably because of what he found. What had he found? And where was he? And what was that tulip doing? Were these things dangerous? I had always thought so, but somehow I never considered them deadly.

It took another hour. When we started getting close, Maddy sped up so that by the time I arrived, she was already suited-up and walking around Elliot’s rig, peering in the windows.

I suited up in fifty seconds sharp, jumped outside and joined her. “Let’s get inside,” I said.

“No need. He’s not here.”

“What are you talking about? You haven’t even been inside?”

“The door to the airlock is open. His rig is empty. Look down.” Maddy said flatly.

“What?”

“Look. Down.” She pointed.

There were footprints—Elliot’s—leading away from his rig toward a rocky outcropping a few hundred meters away.

“Well, shall we follow them?” I asked. “You saw that tulip. It could be dangerous.”

“Are you kidding?”

She didn’t wait for my answer, but turned and began loping alongside the tracks. Not to be left behind, I leapt up beside her, and we bounded across the moonscape together with the tracks between us.

The trail led behind the rocky outcropping and down into a hidden rille, curving around, then suddenly becoming deeper and narrower.

All at once it ended, or seemed to. But as we followed Elliot’s footprints, we saw that the mini-canyon led to a dark overhang, which suddenly revealed itself to be a hidden cave.

Elliot’s tracks led directly inside. We stopped and looked at each other on our helmet screens. Maddy’s expression looked like a kid before Christmas morning. She had good reason. Caves were a prime location for finding alien artifacts.

I saw her eyes turn and look at her screen—at me. She laughed. “Scared?” she asked. “Don’t worry. I have a good feeling about this.”

“I don’t.” I said. “I think I figured it out. One of those tulip things killed Elliot. He came in this cave and didn’t come out. The tulip we saw probably killed him.”

“All the more reason to hurry. He could still be alive.”

“Are you sure you want to go inside?” I asked.

“Yes, and so do you. This is it, Sammy! Whatever Elliot found, all my oxygen says it’s in here. We’ve finally hit the big one!”

“We’ll be out of radio contact,” I said.

“What’s wrong with you?” Maddy asked. “We’re going in.”

What was wrong with me? More than likely, Maddy was right. Just a few steps away could be a treasure trove of undiscovered alien artifacts, the big find I had always wanted.

“This is where the tulip went,” I said.

“Yeah, well…we still have to go. Elliot could still be alive. He might need us.”

We went inside the cave.

The darkness lasted only seconds before our suit lights blazed forth, lighting up the cave before us in stark relief.

I saw rock walls, obviously naturally formed. But then it took one sharp turn to the right and the walls widened out. The cave floor sloped down and smoothed. The walls also smoothed.

We crept out together along what now appeared to be an artificially constructed corridor, down a ramp toward an opening. Looking at the walls, I could see that they glistened like the Shard. Maddy stopped and grabbed by arm lightly.

“You see the walls?”

“Yes,” I said. “You were right, this is big.”

“No, you were right. I was following you. Your mind, that is. You found this place.”

“You ready?” I asked. This was no time for confessions.

She gulped. “Let’s do it.”

We stepped forward through the opening.

The cave opened to an open rounded chamber a hundred meters wide. Our lights cast a bright circle of light on the floor, which sparkled wildly, casting chaotic rainbow reflections around the room. At first the room appeared to be empty, but then I saw something at the far end…round spheres? I cast a beam toward them. It was a haphazard pile of round balls, each smooth and white, about fifty centimeters in diameters. Moonballs. I knew them well. As I cast the light beam around the room, I saw several other piles. I estimated there were at least fifty total.

“More spheres?” Maddy asked, disappointed.

“It doesn’t look like there’s much else,” I said. “But these are still worth something.”

Like all moonies, we were familiar with most of the alien artifacts that had been found on our home. These strange spheres had been found in many places. As souvenirs, they were considered quite valuable, certainly worth more than either of us had ever seen. But it wasn’t anything new. There didn’t seem to be anything else in the room.

“There must be nearly a hundred of them,” Maddy said. “Sammy, this could be the biggest collection of moonballs ever found. Let’s grab some, get out of here and stake our claim!”

“Wait,” I said, seeing something behind one of the piles of moonballs. I cast my flashlight at it. It was Elliot, or what was left of him. It looked like he had taken off his helmet. I had seen decompression before. Moon sickness.

Maddy’s scream cut through my speaker like a siren.   glanced to my right and saw that she had walked toward the closest pile of spheres. She was now standing up and falling backwards, while one sphere that she had apparently just inspected lit up brilliantly and began to rise upward and expand.

Maddy scrambled backward crablike then jumped to her feet and stood by my side.  Together we watched the glowing sphere expand larger and larger. It shot down a brilliant pillar of light and then blossomed outward at the top. It was a tulip. The damn moonball had transformed into a damn tulip!

We both stepped backward, stopping only when our feet hit an obstruction. I glanced down quickly. More spheres.

Meanwhile, the tulip was growing, brightening, illuminating the chamber completely. I saw Elliot clearly now. He was very dead.

The tulip flared and moved toward us.

I lurched backward toward the exit.

“One more step and you’re dead!”

Maddy’s voice was stern, authoritative. I stopped in my tracks.

“Look over there!” I screamed. “Elliot’s dead! They k-killed him!”

“Will you shut up?!” Maddy hissed. “It’s trying to communicate!”

“What?” I tried to stop hyperventilating.

“Sshh!” Maddy gestured to keep still, which I did.

Maddy, however, stepped forward, knelt, and looked directly into the blazing light. I recognized her stance. She was telepathing it. The tulip moved closer until they nearly touched.

I eyed the exit, wondered how long it would take me to reach it. I certainly didn’t want to end up like Elliot. I saw enough vacuum-packed bodies in the decom of ’98 to last a lifetime.

What was Maddy doing? She now sat before the deadly flower, motionless. I grew impatient. Couldn’t Maddy see that these tulips were dangerous? The evidence was right in front of us. Elliot was dead.

I noticed the light in the room dimming. Maddy stepped up, backward. The tulip moved back and began to fade. Suddenly it collapsed, shrinking into a sphere, which lowered to the ground, became dull. As the room became dark I noticed that my suit-lights were still on.

“Jesus Christ!” I said.

“It was an accident,” Maddy said. “They didn’t mean to do it.”

“What? No, you’ve got it wrong this time, Maddy. They’re killers. Elliot’s dead. He’s right there, his body.”

“It was an accident. They were trying to communicate.”

“How can you be so gullible? It’s not just Elliot! This exact thing has happened to a dozen scavvies, Maddy! This could have been us!”

She was shaking her head. “Shavi explained it to me. It was an accident. They were just trying to communicate.”

“Shavi? Shavi?”

“Her name,” Maddy said calmly. “At least I think it’s a she.”

“Shavi? You’re serious?”

“Can’t you see? You were right, Sammy. These are the aliens. Or rather…they were. Shavi explained everything.”

“What? Come on, Maddy. You’re not making sense.”

“Just calm down for a second and let me explain.  hey were trying to communicate in the manner that their species communicates. The best way I can think of to explain it is possession. They were trying to ah…move inside us, and not so much possess us, but to commune, to communicate.”

“Wait,” I said. “Something’s not adding up here. These can’t be the aliens. How could aliens like this build ships? They don’t even have hands. They’re just pure energy.”

“Don’t you get it? Sometimes, Sammy…,” she sighed, patient. “Yes, these are the aliens, but they’re no longer alive.”

“Alien ghosts?” I croaked, disbelieving.

“Sorry, Sammy. I can you see you don’t like it, but that’s it. You’ve got your aliens. But they’re dead. They died long ago. These are their spirits.”

“Ghosts?”

“What’s so hard to believe? Humans have ghosts. Animals have ghosts.”

“And they look like that?”

“Like the tulip? When they’re alive, no, actually. They’re like us in many ways. Two arms and legs, a head, but the similarity ends there. They are taller, more slender, more flexible. They’re not from here, the moon. They came from somewhere else. They were refugees. They fled here, and found our planet occupied.”

“They told you this?”

“Shavi. She told me. Sammy, it was incredible. I could feel her inside me. It was like I became her.”

“What else did she tell you? Are they going to kill any more people?”

“No, they were about to commune with us when we came inside here. They knew there was a danger, but they were desperate. That’s why I told you to stop moving. And then I communicated with them. See, that’s how they communicate with the living members of their own species. They were just trying to talk.”

“And all these?” I waved my flashlight at the spheres. “These are all tulips?”

She nodded. “The Seekers? No…the Finders, something like that. That’s what they call themselves. We can’t take them, you know. We have to leave them here.”

“Maddy, you know how this sounds?”

“You know I don’t lie, Sammy.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you. But everyone else…”

“I don’t care,” Maddy said. “It’s all true. You know, she told me something else. It’s important.”

“What?” I asked.

“They need us to do something for them.”

“Us? What?” I asked. “And why do I have the feeling I’m not going to like this?”

“Well, okay, me. But I assumed you’d want to help me. It’s not a bad thing. They just need my help.”

“How?”

“They want me to activate the Shard.”

“Activate the Shard?” I laughed, perhaps a little too rudely. “What the hell does that mean? Activate the Shard? You mean, our Shard?”

“Well, maybe they meant repair the Shard. Or complete. Hard to say; they don’t really use words.”

“Well, did they say how you’re supposed to do this?”

“No, not really.”

“Did you ask why?”

Suddenly Maddy began to cry, which is so unlike her. “Sammy, they were left behind. I don’t understand it…not exactly, but they need me to activate the Shard.”

“What are you saying? The Shard actually has a purpose? It’s not just art? It’s an antenna to communicate with their home world?”

“I don’t know, they didn’t say. I just know they need the Shard. Sammy, I don’t understand it. I don’t. Give me a break. I’ve never communicated with an alien ghost before. But I know that they’re desperate. They need a living being, somebody physical—me apparently—to activate the Shard. We have to go. Now.”

“What? You’re actually going to try and do this? Maddy, think of what you’re trying to do. You don’t even know what actuate the Shard means.”

“Activate.”

“It’s a public park, Maddy. There’ll be people everywhere.”

“I know,” she said. “But I have to try. Come on, Sammy. Don’t let me down. This is the adventure of your life. Let’s go!”

“Now? These tulips hang around for a quarter-million years, and they need our help now?”

“I’m serious, Sammy. It’s not that they suddenly need our help. They’ve needed it for a very, very long time. Their opportunity to activate the Shard may already be lost. We have to hurry. Come on, Sammy, cheer up! This is what we’ve always wanted. It’s going to be huge!”

“If you say so,” I said.

But I wasn’t as optimistic as Maddy. How could we sell the spheres now that we knew what they were? You can’t sell an entity. And if Maddy was right, and the tulips actually were the spirits of deceased intelligent aliens—alien ghosts—it would be wrong not to help them. And call me crazy, but I was beginning to think Maddy was right. Still, there had to be a way to pull in some money with all this.

Maybe Maddy could activate the Shard, whatever that meant! Maybe then we could finally learn the reason for it. Maybe it would have some fantastic purpose: like an endless power source. Something that big, that impressive, couldn’t be there for no reason. It had to be something big. Of course, there was really no question. Whatever the consequences, I would go with Maddy.  She was right; I couldn’t miss something like this.

We returned back to our rigs. We decided not to call in Elliot’s rig yet. Or rather, Maddy decided. She was afraid to attract any attention until we had at least gotten to the Shard. I disagreed, saying that finding Elliot was huge news, not to mention the spheres, and that we should call it in and lay claim to our find. We compromised on leaving a note attached to Elliot’s ship claiming scavenging rights, and enigmatically hinting that we had gone on an important mission and would be back shortly. I crossed my fingers and hoped that the honor among scavvies would be enough for the claim to hold. Certainly it would have in the old days, but times on the moon were changing.

We headed off, going the long way around as it would have been nearly impossible to go up the slope the same way we came down. I had to stop twice during the climb because Sally kept overheating.

I did my best to keep up with Maddy, and she did her best to wait for me. Neither of us found it easy.

We were going much too fast. The cliff came up with almost no warning. Maddy’s rig went over first, and mine followed.

It was not a cliff, thankfully, just a very steep slope. But it was too steep. Maddy was able to keep control for a few seconds. Like an expert, she aimed straight down, didn’t try to brake her treads which would have sent her tumbling. Her rig shot down like an arrow, hit a small rise and flew several meters upwards, then crashed down as if in slow motion. I held my breath as it started to swivel back and forth, threatening to tumble. Incredibly, Maddy maintained control and wrestled her rig the rest of the way down.

I, of course, wasn’t far behind. Luckily Sally was a little heavier and more forgiving than Maddy’s lighter rig. Still, Sally hit the same rise, flew upwards, and crashed down. It felt like an explosion. The seat-straps seared into my flesh. Warning buzzers flashed around me. Like Maddy’s, my rig started to swivel. It took all my will power not to slam on the brakes. Instead, I steered straight down the slope. In seconds, the roar subsided, and we were at the base.

I heard a loud hissing sound and grabbed frantically for my helmet. By the time I strapped it on, my oxy-gauge showed the cabin at half-pressure. I reached to the back, whipped out the emergency patching foam, and began spraying it anywhere I thought there might be a leak.

One terrifying minute later, the leaks were sealed and the oxy-gauge started to rise. Maddy was already on-line trying to call me. Incredibly, it still worked. “Jesus, Sammy, I’m sorry! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “A few leaks, but I’m good.  you okay?”

“I’m good. I’m sorry, Sammy. I didn’t see it.”

“Don’t worry. I’m fine. Sally’s fine. But maybe we should slow down a little. And Maddy?” I paused. “Maybe we should stop and think about what we’re doing.”

Maddy stared at me blankly on the screen. “I’m doing this, Sammy. With or without you.”

“Doing what? We don’t even know what we’re doing. This could be dangerous. We’ll have to trespass to get close to the Shard. And if we do, we could get fined, or worse, arrested. That’s assuming we even know what we’re doing. We’ve got Elliot’s body back there. His rig. The cave. Isn’t that enough?  e should turn around.”

“I’m not turning around. You can turn around. I’m going on.”

“It’s not only about you,” I said. I regretted it as soon as I said it, but even then, I couldn’t stop. “You’re being selfish. Scavvies have a bad enough reputation as it is. And you’re going to…what? What are you going to do Maddy? You don’t even know. One thing’s certain, if we get caught trespassing to touch the Shard and meditate around it, trying to touch it,” I sneered, “Well, I guess we deserve our reputation.”

Maddy, to her credit, dignified my comment with a disdainful snort. “This is important.  Sammy, this is big. You can see that, right? We’re doing this.” Her mind was made up.

I sighed, resigned. I learned long ago, when Maddy’s mind is made up, there’s no changing it. And besides, she was right. If she wasn’t totally crazy and just imagining the whole thing, this was big. Maybe that’s what worried me.

“What are we going to do when we get there?” I asked. “I mean, assuming our rigs hold out.”

“I don’t know. I’ll make those tracks when I get there.” She narrowed her eyes. “We?  Aha! Good for you Sammy. We’re going to be famous.”

“You talk like that’s a good thing.”

“What, you don’t want fame and fortune?”

“Fortune? Sure. Fame, no. We scavvies are an endangered species, Maddy, and I prefer it that way. We don’t need any more Chucks on the moon. And if this story gets out, you can bet all your oxy that every damn earthworm with a dollar to their name will think they can make the next great discovery on the moon and be rich and famous. Don’t you think it’s better that we leave some things a mystery? You’re talking about the Shard here, Maddy. If you figure out what it really is…I mean, after that, what else is there? It’s all we’ve got left.”

“I’m not looking for fame either, Sammy. We can keep this part secret if you want. Is that what you’re saying? I don’t have a problem with that. In fact, I think I prefer it that way.  I agree with you, the last thing we need here is more people. We’ll just reveal that we found Elliott and the moonballs. We’ll leave the tulips out of it. We’ll keep Shavi and my communication with the Seekers a secret. Okay?”

I rolled my eyes. What could I tell her? We both knew that there was no way something this big—if true—could remain a secret. But then again, NASA had hid the existence of the alien artifacts on the moon for decades. “We’re good,” I said.

She smiled, nodded, and clicked off her screen. Her rig peeled out quickly, then instantly slowed and assumed a more leisurely pace. I figured she must still be rattled from the near miss, but after two hour of slow crawling, I couldn’t take it anymore. I radioed her to speed it up.

She moved a little faster, but kept stopping suddenly at imagined threats. Finally I took the lead and took us out of the flatlands toward the Shard.

As soon as the Shard came into view, I headed directly toward it. It first appeared as a little white spike. But as we got closer, it gradually revealed its immense height. No matter how many times I’d seen it, it never failed to impress. We were still hours out, and it already appeared to bend over our heads. It looked so thin and delicate that the slightest shock would shatter it into countless diamond pieces.

So Maddy wanted to activate the Shard. Or rather the aliens wanted her to do it. Call me a softy; I felt an Honest-to-God thrill at what we were doing. Even though I had no expectation of succeeding, and part of me suspected Maddy had become delusional, I still felt good, better than I had in years. It was like the old days, when there were still discoveries to be made, treasures to find. The days of the moon-scavengers were numbered. Soon there would be nothing left. But this proved that my home still contained a few undiscovered mysteries.

One thing was undeniable; this would be my biggest find ever. I would have been satisfied just finding Elliot, not to mention the cave of moonballs. But things were different now. Now I knew the truth. The tulips were the long lost aliens, or rather the ghosts of the aliens. And they needed our help.

I stared again at the Shard, now appearing like a shining crystal tower, reaching up towards the stars. The tracks of vehicles became more numerous and the terrain leveled. We were getting close.

Sure enough, other vehicles began to appear around us, heading in the same direction. The Shard grew slowly taller.

Three hours later, Maddy and I stood side-by-side at the fence, five kilometers from the base of the Shard, though it looked much closer. The dome of the new Shard museum stood behind us, in my opinion, an ugly scar upon the moonscape. A crowd of people thronged around us. Everyone was eager to get as close as they could to the moon’s biggest alien artifact. The last time I had been here, there were no parking lots or buildings or paved walkways, and people could walk up directly to the base.

The Earthworm tourists were easy to spot, shuffling along nervously, clinging to each other. Only a few of the visitors showed the easy natural gate of born moonies. We moonies, I knew, don’t feel the need to visit the Shard. Perhaps we’re just spoiled.

Maddy was pacing. I knew what that meant. She had an idea.

“We’ll have to approach from the other side. Come on,” she said, bounding over to her rig.

I knew better than to argue, and just followed her. We left the parking lot and I followed her as she led us around the base. There was no fence on the far side, which was largely blocked by rough landscape. Maddy, however, spied some tracks, and used them to guide her through an opening in the crags and close to the base.

I was not surprised to find that it was not guarded. Everyone wanted to visit the moon, but nobody wanted to stay. The new worlds were a much more attractive prospect for most people. As a result, the moon’s population was steadily declining. If trends continued, I thought, soon the moon would be empty of humans again. I shuddered at the thought, and turned my attention to Maddy.

She had already walked around the entire tower twice. She was getting frustrated. I asked her if she was okay, but she ignored me. It was exactly what I had feared—nothing. Nothing was happening. She didn’t know what to do.

I waited for her to come to me, which she finally did. “Maybe it is just a monument,” she said. “I’m sorry, Sammy. I’m trying to communicate with the tulips, but I’m getting nothing. It’s like they’re not even listening. I don’t get it. I really thought they would come. Honestly, I thought they would be here waiting.”

“I’m sorry too.”

“You didn’t think they would come,” she said.

It wasn’t a question, but I shook my head.

“It’s okay. I should’ve known better. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“We had an encounter. You were shocked. Hell, I’m still in shock.”

“They did communicate with me,” she said softly. She looked up at the Shard. “I really thought they would be here.”

“They should have explained better what they wanted you to do.”

“They’re ghosts, Sampson. I was the first person who has ever understood them. You can’t imagine how lonely they have been. How long they have been here, trapped, unable to communicate…”  Her voice trailed.

She stared up again at the Shard, turned back to me. “I’m leaving,” she said.

“That’s it? You’re just giving up?”

“That’s not fair. I’m here, aren’t I? I fulfilled my part of the bargain.”

“But aren’t you supposed to activate the…?” I waved my hand at the alien monument.

“Activate, activate! What does that even mean? I tried, Sammy. I meditated, I tried to telepath with them. They didn’t come.”

“Well,” I said. “Have you tried telepathing the Shard?”

“What?” she said, looking at me sharply. “No, I didn’t. I just tried to contact them. The Shard, it’s just an object. Unless…you think?”

I raised my eyebrows at her. “Worth a try.”

She asked me to guard her while she went into trance, which I did.

I didn’t think anything would happen, so I wasn’t really prepared when it did.

I had my back to Maddy and was watching the other tourists ambling around in the distance. I wondered if they could see us.

Apparently, unknown to me, Maddy had activated the Shard.

First I noticed a strange glittery light dancing across the moonscape, illuminating the ground around me. Suddenly it was bright enough so that I could see my shadow.

I turned around and gasped. Light! Light, like I’ve never seen. It looked like a bolt of frozen lightning. A jagged silver laser beam. The Shard had become like a living creature, pulsing, radiating.

I heard a squeak. It was me trying to call Maddy. I saw that she knelt down and remained motionless with her head down, mere meters from the now brilliant Shard.

Balls of light appeared, swirling around the Shard. Looking behind me, they came from every direction. The spheres, the tulips, hundreds of them…thousands.

Looking back, the balls of light swirled around and then, zzzzt! disappeared into the Shard, which was now transforming, growing in brilliance, becoming brighter and brighter.

In seconds, Maddy would become engulfed.

I lunged forward and looping my arms around her arms, grabbed her from behind, lifting and dragging her back.

She didn’t react at first, and seemed to still be in a trance. I was about to lay her down on the ground when she kicked her feet, quickly stood and shook free of my grasp.

She tilted her head up and gazed at the Shard.

“It’s not a monument,” she said. Her face looked incredibly calm. Her cheeks shined with tears. “It’s something much better.”

She finally tore her gaze from the Shard and looked at me. “Sammy, you’re not going to believe it. It’s not what we thought it was. It’s not a monument. It’s not a communication tower. Sammy, it’s their ticket home. It’s…ah…a transporter. It’s taking them home. And Sammy, I’m going with them.”

“What?” I croaked.

“They invited me. They explained everything.”

“You talked with it?” I said, waving my arm at the Shard, which was now looking almost translucent as the balls of light impacted it from every side.

“Not with it, with them.”

“With the aliens?”

“Sort of, yes.  But not with their ghosts.  Sammy, they were alive!  At the other end of wherever this thing goes.  I spoke with the living ones.  They showed me their world.  Sammy, it’s beautiful.  They invited me to go with them.  I’m going.”

“What? How?” I managed to say.

“You’re not going to like it,” she warned. “But don’t worry, I’m going to be okay.” She hesitated.

“They’re going to possess you? You’re going to let one of those things possess you?”  She didn’t need to say the words. They were written all over her.

“Now you’re telepathing me,” she grinned. “You’re more like me than you know, Sammy boy. Now, step back. Shavi is coming. She has been chosen to take me. I can’t pass up this opportunity. You know I can’t.”

“Maddy, what about Claudia?” It was a low blow, asking about her daughter. I was just being selfish, but I didn’t care. Losing Maddy would be the end of an era. There were so few of us old-timers left.

“She’ll understand. Just tell her I love her.”

“Maddy?”

“Yes?”

“You’d better turn around.”

One of the tulips had just swooped down and was now taking full form. By now, only a few of the glowing white spheres were left, the rest having been absorbed by the Shard.

Shavi, I presumed, floated forward. Maddy stepped closer towards it. They faced each other for a timeless moment.

Finally Maddy turned, lifted her hand and waved at me.

I waved back, but she had already turned and stepped into the damn thing. The tulip blazed red, then a pearly white.

It flew upwards into the Shard.

 

She was gone. And the Shard…well, everybody knows what happened next. I don’t see any reason to continue with this. I’m aware that many people consider it a significant event.  It was important for me to tell it. Now everybody knows the truth. But for me, it was very personal, and I’m not so sure that it’s anybody’s business but my own. So, if you don’t mind, I will end my story here. You know the rest anyway.

And that was it. I was never able to get Sampson to reveal anything more about what he did after Shavi took my mother and the Shard disintegrated. I’ve collected the stories of many eyewitnesses, and have personally interviewed several of them. Despite the news accounts, there is no evidence that Sampson had any part in destroying the Shard or killing my mother. The only reason he never spoke publicly about what happened was to honor the agreement between him and my mother. He never wanted to talk about the aliens from the beginning. And I’m not convinced that if he had, he would have been well received. I suspect he told a cover-story not because he didn’t think people would believe him, but because he was afraid they might. Again, you have to understand Sampson. I think he was ashamed about what happened. I think he felt like he had destroyed the last mystery left on the moon. He never said that, but that was the impression he gave me.

Either way, he has now revealed what happened, and how the Shard was destroyed. Whether or not you believe his account is up to you.

And I think it’s important to re-iterate that it was he and my mother who found Elliot, not Chuck Guzman, whose account of the Shard’s destruction varies widely with Sampson’s in so many ways, and is, in my opinion, pure fiction. As I said, Sampson agreed to tell his story only to correct the many lies that have been told about him, and because, as he said, it was an important event, which I think you’ll agree, it was.
                        —from Sampson’s Moon
                        (by Claudia Wu)

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Published by Associate Editor on August 24, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 27, Issue 27 Stories, Novellas, Short Stories

Mesmis

by Robert Meyer

Caged MouseVideo of the mouse had been plastered onto every available screen in the office, and a throng of people, their immaculate clothing at odds with the fluorescent lights and dingy ceiling tiles, crowded around the televisions on the walls. Christopher, a stocky scientist whose work was implicated in the day’s proceedings, was not among them. Instead, he had been given a seat of honor by the mouse’s plastic habitat in the middle of the room. His seat gave him ready access to the refreshments, and currently he was shuttling a bamboo boat of curried shrimp puffs over to his red-headed colleague. His colleague’s name was Susan. She wore the same customary lab coat, and occupied herself with a podium wreathed in wires and byzantine controls.

“Hey!” He said. “Look what I got!”

Susan looked up from the podium with hawk-like attention, but her hands stayed down at the controls. She opened her mouth, “Ahhhhhh,” and Christopher stuffed it with a shrimp puff. Crumbs of breading rained down over the priceless array of experimental technology at her fingertips.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Sure,” said Christopher. “You can’ control on an empty stomach.” Christopher fed her the rest of the shrimp puffs as she finished preparing the machine, and looked out over the crowd. “I’m surprised so many people showed up. I think I see actual generals out there. I knew we’d be big, but it’s nice to see everyone in person.”

“Eh,” said Susan. “These people give me the creeps. Look at that guy over there. He showed up in uniform and he’s wearing more metal than his wife. He’s even got a holster.”

Christopher looked at the couple in question and shrugged. AriaCorp—the company that he worked for—sold equipment for ‘nonlethal pacification’, which meant that it tended to attract an officious, super-powered kind of customer. Everybody here was somebody, and they dressed to look the part. Besides, if it wasn’t for the lab coat that the occasion demanded, Christopher probably would have joined them.

“It’s just appearances,” he said. “They have to act like people expect them to, you know?”

“I know that,” said Susan, “but I think that’s what bothers me. Maybe it’d be nice if someone would show up and be like, ‘I’ve got ten thousand people that I need to bludgeon out of rioting and I can’t kill any more today. What’s the biggest thing you’ve got?’”

Christopher laughed. “That’d be nice, but the way I see it it’s already so much easier for these people to just buy guns or tear-gas or something. The fact that they’re coming to us means that fewer and fewer people are going to die, and that’s nothing but good.

Susan looked out over the crowd of starched collars and dark dresses, and Christopher watched her lip as she bit it. Something about the way her teeth showed over the curve always made his stomach flutter. “It’s better,” Susan agreed, “but somehow, I don’t think that it’s ever really their idea.”

Susan gave a signal over a radio and microphone static filled the air as a PA system went live. All of a sudden the amicable chatter of the room was overthrown by the bright, syrupy voice of a man. “Good evening, everyone!” said the man. “I hope you’re all having a wonderful time. Before we begin, I’d just like to thank everyone for being a part of tonight’s special demonstration. Confrontation, as all of you know, can be a terrible thing. It can be ghastly and violent, but in our imperfect world it has also become increasingly and tragically necessary. That’s why we at AriaCorp salute you, our loyal customers, for your continued support of our mission to soften the inevitable blows. Tonight, however, we would like to share with you the demonstration of a device that promises to cushion them entirely. It is called the Mesmis, and finally offers us what we’ve all been wishing for: a means of resolution without confrontation. If you would all direct your attention to the screens, you will be able to watch our brave volunteer, Hansen, as the demonstration begins. I’d like to thank you again for of your time, and hope you see the same potential here that we do.”

There was a brief applause from the crowd followed by an attentive silence. “Here we go,” Susan murmured, and she flipped a lime-green activation switch. A thin, mechanical noise perforated the quiet and a small antenna rose from the podium until, swiveling like the tail of a scorpion, it was leveled at the mouse’s habitat. A soft track of incongruously peaceful new-age music started playing over the intercom and then, almost imperceptibly, the mouse stiffened.

The Mesmis, as the name implied, was a mind-control device, and Susan proved it with a throw of a few more switches. There was a low murmur of delight from the audience as Hansen, in response to some unseen stimulus, began a slow trot around the inside of his habitat.  He moved like a tiny horse, utterly un-mouselike, as a recorded woman on the intercom narrated his orders in a serene monotone.

“Let’s go forward, Hansen. Now, how about backwards? Let’s give those hurdles a try.”
The horse motif was Christopher’s idea. He figured it made the show more impressive if it looked unnatural, and he was pleased to see the wonderment and curiosity stamped on the faces of the audience. A glance at Susan, however, dulled his enthusiasm. She was focused on the machine, but as she took the show through the expected paces she punctuated her work with sour glances at the crowd.

Hansen trotted placidly on. With Susan’s guidance he ran on exercise wheels, flipped levers, and navigated an intricate three-dimensional maze. He did all of this with an unhurried serenity, and each feat was met with mounting excitement. Finally he came to a large platform whose only feature was a smooth red box at the opposite end and it was here, as Hansen came to a stop, that Christopher began to feel uneasy. It wasn’t that he was squeamish about mind control. He and Susan had, after all, spent the last year of their lives developing exactly that, but for some reason the way this demonstration ended always made something inside of him go cold.

“Unfortunately,” said the woman on the intercom, “real-world people aren’t as cooperative as Hansen here, so what we’d like to do is show you how the Mesmis deals with conflicting stimuli. First, let’s turn it off.”

The walls of the small box in the habitat fell outwards to reveal an apple, and whatever compulsive force had been applied to Hansen seemed to evaporate. He scurried towards the apple, sniffed it, and after a few moments of perfunctory investigation, began to gnaw.

“After not eating today, Hansen has quite the appetite. He’s going right after the apple and I think we can all see that, left to his own devices, he’s not stopping any time soon. Now, watch what happens when we flip the machine back on.”

Hansen convulsed and froze. It was a brief movement, but the violence of it made Christopher sweat. Running circles and navigating mazes were meaningless compulsions to mice and they accepted them easily, but when their appetites got involved there was always, before the Mesmis cudgeled them back into serenity, a flash of wild rejection. A crumb of glistening fruit dropped from Hansen’s paralyzed mouth, and the narrator continued.

“Observe how, despite the proximity and strength of the external stimulus, the Mesmis is able to keep Hansen in a state of peaceful stasis. Unless we tell him otherwise, he is incapable of moving.”

A round of soft applause came up from the customers and the space filled with ambitious murmurs. As he continued watching, however, Christopher saw that something was amiss. Hansen wasn’t eating, but neither had he fallen into the expected stupor, and in the magnified resolution of the televisions his muscles flexed against an invisible restraint. His paws trembled, curled and uncurled, and a hint of red crept into his dark, unfocused eyes.

The narrator chimed up again. “The Mesmis can even get him to leave the fruit behind. Come on, Hansen. Let’s walk to the other side of the cage; there’ll be plenty of food for you after you’re done.”

Hansen stooped onto all fours and then recoiled back onto his hind legs as if he’d been burned. His muscles knotted, swelled and shuddered against his skin as they tried to move, simultaneously, towards the fruit and away. Christopher saw a strange look on Susan’s face. “What’s going on?” he whispered.

“He’s fighting it,” she said. “Some of the mice can do that, but it never ends well. If he doesn’t come around it’s about to get nasty.”

“Shouldn’t we turn it off?” asked Christopher.

Susan shook her head. “In front of all these people? Not a chance. Besides,” she sighed. “They’re probably going to enjoy this anyway.”

mouse1Susan fiddled with the controls as the intercom narrator droned on about the Geneva Convention and “humane pacification,” but Hansen’s contortions only intensified. His legs slipped out from under him, his head snapped one way and then another, and sinuous undulations ran down his spine. Confusion, pain and fear pulled his lips into a snarl and then, suddenly, his teeth began to chatter. It began as a sort of tremor, but soon the tempo increased until his teeth flashed like the blades of a woodchipper. Faster and faster they came together until flecks of red lined his habitat and the sound, through plastic and space, reached Christopher’s ears like the growl of a locust. There was a flash of pink as Hansen’s tongue slipped between his incisors, and then there was a bloom of deep, wet scarlet.

A quick-thinking attendant threw his lab coat over the habitat and the televisions went abruptly dark, but it was too late for Christopher. The image had already burned itself into his mind, and as the soft thumping of the mouse quieted under the cover, visions of its death played behind his scrunched-up eyes. He saw a white and twisted body, wild eyes and streams of vivid blood. A ringing silence invaded his ears, and a mounting pressure in his stomach pushed bile up into his throat. He was nearly sick in his seat, but the sound of Susan’s sigh beside him cleared his mind and filled it with the memory of her deep, red hair.

◊ ◊ ◊

The atmosphere outside of the demonstration room was almost oppressively cheerful. A company representative apologized for offending the clients’ sensibilities, but when Susan and Christopher met in the hallway they were met with a departing woman’s tasteless imitation of the mouse’s seizures. Her pearls rattled musically.

“You’re right,” sighed Christopher. “These people are terrible.”

Susan took off her lab coat and slung it over her arm. She was wearing a superhero tee-shirt that made Christopher feel, in addition to clammy and nauseous, painfully overdressed. “At least the project nets us serious money,” she said. “It’s hard to argue with a penthouse.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

Susan sighed. “I worry sometimes. I like it here, but then I think about what we’re making and what people will do with it once it’s out there. I’m going to be responsible for that someday.” She bit her lip, but Christopher shook his head.

“If it wasn’t for us,” he said, “it’d be somebody else. The Mesmis is going to exist regardless of whether or not we make it happen. At least the science is good, you know?” He smiled. “The things we get to work with, well, on the outside they’re not even theories. In here we get to be pioneers.” It was true, too, and Christopher always imagined this was the bond they shared. They were born experimenters. It flowed in their veins. If you cut them, it would only be a matter of time before they grew a pair of clones.

“Scary, scary pioneers,” laughed Susan. She ran her hand through her hair and took a deep breath. “You’re right, though. And it’s not even forever. In a few months this project’ll be over, and then I’m going to ride into the sunset with a mountain of cash.”

“Where do you want to go?” Christopher asked.

“I have no idea. But then again I’m going to be rich, so I don’t think it matters, right? Maybe I’ll go cure Alzheimer’s to make up for everything.” Susan looked wistfully up at the fluorescent lights. “Cure it somewhere with palm trees.” She never took herself out of the picture. It was, among dozens of other things, something that Christopher liked about her. Suddenly she looked back at him; her expression was strangely intent.

“Listen,” she said. “There’s something I want to show you. Can you meet me after work tomorrow?”

Christopher tried to smile, but there was something in her voice that stopped him. He shrugged instead. “What’ve you got in mind?”

“There’s a place I like to eat. I’ll text it to you tonight. There’s something—” She looked away, then she shook her head. “Can you come?”

“Sure,” he said.

“Cool,” said Susan, and then she nodded, apparently to herself. “I’m going to try to get home early today, but I’ll see you there tomorrow.”

She turned to leave, but something swept through Christopher’s mind. He spoke before he had time to think about it.

“Susan?” he asked. “How often does the demonstration kill the mouse?”

Susan turned back and shrugged. “Every once in a while. The truth is that while we can tell a set of muscles what to do, and even calm the stress response, we can’t make the mice stop fighting us if they really want to.”

“I think I would have had to turn it off,” said Christopher. “I mean, the customers seemed to like it, but…I don’t know, part of me wants to sympathize. They just want to eat, you know?”

“It’s rough,” she admitted, “but the truth is that it gives us a ton of good data when they go like that. When we can finally keep them still even when they’re starving, that’s when we’ll know we’re done.” She smiled a little sadly. “Don’t worry about it too much. After all, we’re scientists and they’re mice. The odds were against them from the start.”

◊ ◊ ◊

dinerSusan’s restaurant, in the end, was a shabby-looking retro diner in a desolate plaza filled with evening glare and shadows. Christopher pushed open a protesting door, shouldered through a forest of white-haired patrons, and found Susan sitting in a sticky booth. She grinned as he sat down across from her; his sharp clothing stood out in the gloom.

“Nice blazer,” she laughed.

“Nice restaurant,” he replied. “I didn’t know you were the nostalgic type.”

“It’s a weakness. Eating here feels like I’m doing something nice, like visiting my grandpa. Besides, they make me a mean burger.”

They chatted for a while as the sun slipped towards the horizon, and when a waiter brought them coffee the steam curled around shafts of melancholy light. Then there came the burgers, huge and utterly unsentimental.

“So,” said Christopher. “What’ve you got for me? You looked like you had something on your mind last night. Other than the obvious, I mean.”

“Obvious?” said Susan. “Oh, you mean the mouse.” She furrowed her brow, wiped her hands clean of burger-grease, and produced a sheaf of paper from a bag beside her. She handed it to Christopher. “I wanted to show you this. I found it in my email. I figured whoever sent it had made a mistake, so I printed out a copy before it vanished. And it did.”

Christopher flipped through the papers of what looked like a medical report. Mostly it was full of obtuse codes, but he recognized graphs of certain variables, of blood-pressure, heart-rate, and brain-activity. Most of the values were unremarkable for a person, but they were punctuated by spikes of spectacular activity and ended in an erratic plateau that never quite returned to the baseline. “Whose is this?” he asked. “I don’t see a name anywhere.”

“That’s the thing. It came right from the mail server with no sender, and there’s nothing indicating who this data’s about. But look at this.” She handed him another report. It was almost identical in appearance, and the graphs traced the same contours. The only real difference, to Christopher’s eye, was the header that ran across the tops of the pages, “Hansen 37.”

“Hansen 37 was our longest-running mouse,” Susan explained. “We only used the Mesmis in short bursts with him, and he held out a whole three weeks. To see his charts recreated with human numbers is…suspicious.”

“But isn’t human use the whole point?” Christopher said.

“That’s true, but it’s not cleared for trials at all. We can’t even keep a mouse alive with it. Who knows what it does to a person.”

Christopher scratched his chin. AriaCorp was a secretive company by design, so the idea of preliminary human testing didn’t surprise him. But while he—whose job was concerned only with technical design—expected to be in the dark, it was strange to see Susan there with him. She was head of the biology team, and he heard she was the only person that could run the Mesmis and keep the mouse alive afterwards. “If they’re actually testing it on people,” he said, “wouldn’t they tell you? I thought you were the only decent operator.”

Susan made a noncommittal gesture. “That’s what I thought too, but here we are. And it really shouldn’t be used on people yet. Even volunteers. We all know it’s dangerous, and we don’t know what it does in the long term. If you even get a long term.” Susan punctuated her words with a bite of her burger, and Christopher watched her lips glisten with fat and late sunshine. Something occurred to him.

“It could be,” he said carefully, “that whoever’s using it isn’t supposed to be. All of the measurements tell us that we’re looking at a scientist, but what if they’re doing the tests for someone else? Like a competitor. I’m sure that’s something corporate would like to know.”

Susan smirked. “How loyal,” she said. “But I think you’re right. It makes more sense than the company keeping it from me. There has to be two of them, too. One of them has to be volunteering.”

A conspiratorial spirit welled up inside of Christopher. Mostly he didn’t concern himself with his co-worker’s doings. But here, in a seedy booth striped with lengthening shadows and Susan sitting sun-lit and across from him, the promise of a mystery seemed enticing. “I suppose we’d better check it out,” he said. “And I think I know how to do it. The Mesmis puts out a pretty unique sort of radiation, so I say I just build an antenna and wait. If it picks up signs of the Mesmis when nobody’s supposed to be using it, we go ahead and tell the company.”

Susan shook her head. “It’s better if we see it with our own eyes first. I like your plan, but we need to rule out a fluke. Besides,” she said. “I think I want to know exactly what’s going on before I talk to someone about it.”

“You still don’t trust the company,” said Christopher.

“I guess I don’t. You’ve always been easier on them, I suppose. I like their money, but on the off chance these tests aren’t a mistake…” She shook her head again, and began to pick over the last of her fries. “Honestly,” she said. “I’m just glad you’ll help me. I was worried you’d blow it off.”

Christopher watched as the sun slipped into her eyes. They were a bright, beautiful, green, and he noticed she was smiling at him. “Well,” he said, “we’ve worked together for a long time, you know? Of course I’d do it for you.” And then, in the last glimmers of daylight, he was surprised to see her wince.

◊ ◊ ◊

A week later Christopher was in his office, proudly brandishing something that looked like a metal wishbone strapped to a screen. The screen read ‘400 feet’ in a cheerful green font, and a pixelated compass pointed swiveled towards the door. Susan was grinning over his shoulder.

“Not bad,” she said. “And it’s always at the same time?”

“Yeah,” said Christopher. “I’ve been getting Mesmis radiation around seven-thirty for the last three nights, and the rangefinder’s always around four hundred feet. Wherever they’re at, they don’t move.”

The readings on the screen suddenly vanished. “That keeps happening too. It goes down for a minute, then comes back.”

“That makes sense,” said Susan. “Whoever’s doing this must know the procedure we used on Hansen 37. At least they’re being responsible.”

“Even spies have to have standards, right?” Christopher grinned as the measurements on his device came back. “Speaking of spying, I guess we should probably figure out where ‘four hundred feet’ actually is. I’m not sure how you want to do that.”

Susan looked pensive for a few moments. “I suppose we could…start walking?”

officeThere was a long silence as the two looked at one another, and then they burst out laughing. Neither of them had the faintest idea about what espionage looked like nor how to conduct it, and the prospect of skulking around a building after hours—even a building where they were gainfully employed and welcome—seemed strangely childish. It was, nevertheless, exciting, and the potential seriousness of their investigation seemed far, far away. They gathered their usual possessions with more-than-usual care, and stepped out into the hallway.

The offices of AriaCorp were, at first glance, completely innocuous, but there were details that gave up the game. The fire alarms, if you looked closely, came printed with instructions on how to deploy bulletproof barricades from the ceiling. The hallways, in the dim after-hour lights, glowed with rows of retinal scanners. The staff lounge, when they passed it, was dominated by an enormous espresso machine that one of their co-workers imported from Italy. It was four feet high and emblazoned with angels of solid gold. Most days Susan and Christopher ignored these details but now, as they followed Christopher’s device like a dowsing rod through the abandoned halls, they formed a looming reminder of the wealth and power that surrounded them.

Christopher angled the device down a hallway as the number on the rangefinder fell. He couldn’t stop himself from grinning. “It feels like we’re secret agents,” he whispered, and Susan stifled a chuckle. By unspoken agreement they moved with as much stealth as they could muster. The halls were electrifyingly quiet, and even as they pantomimed the movements of burglars and super-spies, some instinct within them dared not break the silence.

Finally, as they came to the corner of a new hallway, the rangefinder dropped to forty feet while the tiny compass sprite pointed encouragingly around the corner. Susan and Christopher grinned at one another, and then Christopher flattened himself dramatically against the wall. He made a show of putting on a straight face, pretended to brace himself, and ducked his head around the corner. He snapped back so fast that he almost hit the wall.

At the end of the hall was a thin man in a jumpsuit. He could have been a custodian, but his cart of cleaning supplies was drawn across the door behind him like a barricade, and there was something tense in the way he was standing. Christopher had been lucky; the man had been adjusting his starched—starched?—uniform, and he hadn’t seen Christopher looking around the corner. Christopher led Susan back the way they’d come, and only spoke when he was sure they were out of earshot.

“There’s a guard,” he hissed. “Just standing there, blocking the door with a cart.”

Susan scowled. “We should have guessed. We’ll have to wait him out. If we wait in the staff lounge I bet we’ll hear him leave.

“What’re we going to do? Chat about movies until we see him leave? He’ll see us for sure.”

“People work late all the time. Don’t chicken out on me. We’re just going to wait until he leaves and see what’s left, right?”

It was Christopher’s turn to scowl, but finally he consented, and the two of them settled into an awkward silence just two short halls from the guard. They sat on stools and drew huge cups of frothy cappuccino from the ostentatious machine on the counter. More than a few times they tried to strike up a conversation, but each effort floundered in the silence. Their ears, as they strained to make out the movements of the distant guard, had little left for talk.

Ten minutes passed, then thirty, and that dragged out into nearly an hour before Christopher’s device finally stopped giving him readings. “I guess they’re done,” he said. “Do you hear anything?”

Susan shook her head and closed her eyes as she continued to listen.

“Do you think he has a gun?” asked Christopher.

“Shh!” said Susan. “I mean, yes, probably, but— Shh!”

Christopher gulped down his third cappuccino and stared intently at the door. In the end, neither he nor Susan actually heard the guard coming. He was simply there in the doorway, wheeling a pristine janitorial cart that had been oiled into total silence. He smiled at them, and it was everything they could do not to gape. He was muscular, handsome, and his bright brown eyes watched them more intently than either of them were comfortable with. “Having a nice evening?” he asked them. His voice was warm and rich, and his smile was oddly luminous in the dim lights.

“Um…” said Christopher. “Yes. We’re having a great night. Thank you.” He tried not to glance back at Susan.

“That’s great,” said the man. “I’m having a good evening too. But I’m afraid I can’t chat.” He gestured at his cart. It was covered with orderly rows of cleaning supplies and accented with a bright-orange biohazard bag. “I have lots of work to do. I’m sure that you do too.”

Christopher swallowed. “Yes, that’s right. Always…working late, you know? But we’ll have a good night. If you do, I mean.” The custodian gave him a look that was almost apologetic, and Christopher decided to stop talking. He told Christopher that he would, in fact, have a wonderful evening, and passed through the staff lounge with an attitude that was both militant and strangely funereal.

“Holy shit,” hissed Susan. “What a weirdo. Was he the guard?”

Christopher nodded.

“Well then, this looks like our chance.”

The two of them abandoned their drinks at the counter and sped back down the halls in a half-run. Meeting the guard in person solidified the prospect of discovery, but it also filled them with new anxiety. When they arrived at the door they were looking for, its retinal scanner glittered with the suggestion of the taboo, and a sign on the door read, “BIOLOGY STORAGE, C-2.”

Christopher eyed the retinal scanner. “How are we going to get in?” he asked.

“It looks like we’re in my department,” said Susan. “So really, this should do the trick…” She stooped in front of a retinal scanner and propped open her eyelid with her fingers. There was a metal ‘click,’ and the door popped open. “Being team leader has perks. Are you ready?”

Christopher squared his shoulders and said that he was, and when Susan pushed open the door he was blinded by fluorescence. It was a long time until his eyes adjusted, but once they did he was surprised to see that the room beyond was almost completely bare. To the side there was a table with a few things on it, and in the middle of the room there was a chair. It was the chair that caught Christopher’s attention. It was made of metal and bolted to the floor, and its polished surface seemed to burn in the hot radiance of the room. There were stirrups at the legs and clamps at the arms.

Christopher let out a low whistle, then remembered where he was. “We’re definitely looking at people here. This chair must be to control seizures, right?”

Susan approached the chair slowly. She ran her hand along the back but recoiled from the warmth. “Probably,” she said. “Except I don’t know why they made it out of metal. I actually didn’t even know we had this room, a room with nothing but a chair stuck to the floor. And these…” Susan pointed out the other two doors in the room. They were locked not only with the typical retinal scanners, but with padlocks. “What’re those about? Why don’t I know about this?”

Christopher could see her suspicion mounting and looked to assuage it. “Relax,” he said. “Human tests have always been part of the plan, so of course we’ve got a room for it. The real question is finding out who’s been using it without permission.”

“It just looks so sinister, you know? I mean, we’re inventing mind control, and then you see these super-bright lights, and metal chairs and guards dressed like janitors. You start to wonder, right?”

Christopher put his hand on Susan’s shoulder. “Whoever’s using this space isn’t supposed to be here. We know that. You’d be the first to know when the human trials start. That’s why we’re here. We just need to figure out what’s going on and tell the company, and it’ll be alright.” He made a motion over to the table. It was bare except for a slender black notebook and what looked like a clunky kind of pistol. “Let’s figure out what we can.”

The ‘pistol’ confounded them for a moment. It had a trigger but no barrel to speak of, and its heavy frame was amateurishly constructed. Squares of cheap aluminum had been soldered together to make its casing and it wasn’t until Christopher, with an experimental press of a button, released an antenna from the front of the device that he realized what it was: a miniature Mesmis. He had to swallow his offense. He’d built the model they’d used in the demonstration and worked long nights to get it as small as he had. To see it reduced even further, compacted by means beyond his understanding, felt vaguely like betrayal.

“This must be the model they’re using,” Christopher said carefully. “Our spy must have enough information to build their own. Or maybe this is just a prototype that I…haven’t heard of yet.” He picked up the device and looked over at Susan, but it was obvious that she wasn’t listening. She was hunched over the notebook on the table, her long hair obscuring her face. Finally she picked up the book and glanced over at him with a strangely flat expression.

“Listen to this,” she said. “Session One: Subject uncooperative, as expected. Denies connection to White Cobra Gang despite evidence to the contrary. Experimental linguistic module was added to Mesmis, but failed to produce confessions. Session ended due to health concerns. Sedatives administered and data on the linguistic module’s performance was submitted.”

damher53_1_“Session Four: A breakthrough. While the linguistic module is still in development, we were able to use the Mesmis to acquire the subject’s signature on a statement professing involvement in the gang. The statement was drafted based on our speculation, but is legally binding and, more importantly, the subject no longer denies his own involvement. He remains uncooperative regarding other members and gang properties.”

“Session Seven: Subject refuses to identify other members or assets of the gang. Through use of the prolongation data retrieved from the Hansen-37 experiments, we were able to use the Mesmis to recreate traditional interrogation methods. Despite this, the subject did not disclose any information, and the relaxed parameters led to a brief altercation between the subject and Lieutenant Wagner. Session ended due to noise and injuries.”

“Session Eleven: Used new linguistic module to extract confessions regarding the involvement of other suspected gang members. Complete notes attached next page. Despite success of the module, encourage Aria to continue the motor-control route pursued by Dr. Susan Smith. The linguistic module seems much more stressful, and nearly fatal levels of sedative were necessary to end this session safely. The company assures us that the data we have provided will make it safer to use in the future.”

“Session Fourteen: Subject is no longer uncooperative. Shared locations of several gang members and properties along the southern Arizona border. Full notes attached next page. The company is willing to house the subject for a few more days while his arrest and delivery to court are organized.”

Susan flipped the page and then slowly closed the notebook. She stared at it in her hands for a long time. “Christopher,” she whispered. “We can’t be part of this. This isn’t safe. This isn’t legal.”

Christopher pinched the bridge of his nose and wiped away the sheen of sweat that he found there. He was cold and nauseous, and when he closed his eyes he was assaulted with visions of dead mice. He tried to focus on the light and silence of the room. “You’re right,” he said at last. “I don’t want you to be, but you’re right. We can’t be here. But who can we tell? The company already knows.”

“The police,” said Susan firmly. “They’ll be able to stop this.”

But Christopher only shook his head in irritation. “You read the report. The police already know. Companies don’t go after gang-members, and you can’t just ‘organize’ an arrest without having an idea of what’s happening here.”

“Who’s above the police, then?” Susan asked. She threw up her hands. “The FBI. We’ll go to them. Somebody has to know!”

Christopher started to pace. “The FBI could work. But we’ll have to be careful.  We can… We can leave an anonymous tip when we get back. Tell them how to find the room. Then they can check it out.”

“An anonymous tip? You think they’re going to believe you like that? Mind control doesn’t even exist yet! We need evidence. We need… We need the notebook, and that!”  Susan pointed at the miniature Mesmis in Christopher’s hand.

“What? We can’t take these with us! Then they’ll know what we’ve done!”

“So?”

Christopher made a gesture to their terrible surroundings. “They did all of this for a gang member. A regular criminal. What do you think they’d do if they found us running away with experimental gear? We need to be careful, Susan. Besides, we can’t be public about this. What about our careers?” Arguing had warmed Christopher’s blood, but the silence that followed his words chilled him. Susan stared at him in disbelief.

“Did you really just say that?” she said.

“I only mean…” Christopher began.

Susan shook her head. “No, listen. You’re great, Christopher. I’m glad you helped me get here, but you’re wrong about this. There might be an actual person behind one of those locked doors. Do you get that? An actual person that our company is ‘housing’. We need to get the FBI to help us out, and that’s not going to happen without evidence. I hope you’re with me, but…I’ve got to do this regardless.” Susan pulled the notebook to her chest and started walking towards the door.

“Wait!” called Christopher. “This is just going to make problems. We can find another way to get the authorities involved, just—Wait!” Susan stopped in the doorway and looked at him. She waited a moment, but when he didn’t follow she made a small gesture like a wave goodbye and Christopher saw her start to leave. It was then that he remembered the device in his hand. It was strange and heavy and it frightened him, but as Susan stood on the brink of the unknown it seemed to radiate certainty. Almost without thinking he lifted the device, pointed it at her, and pulled the trigger. “Susan,” he found himself whispering. “Come back here.”

Christopher’s heart fell into his stomach as he spoke, and as he watched Susan stand immobile in the door the silence of the room seemed to swallow him. Cold sweat soaked his shirt, but his knuckles whitened around the trigger. “Susan,” he said again, louder this time. “I’m asking you, please come back here.” And then Susan moved, turning around and marching towards him. She knew better than to fight the device; her movements were smooth and efficient, but in her face Christopher saw the truth. Her brilliant eyes were slitted in contempt, and her lips twisted with anger and disgust. She advanced until she was nearly on top of him, and when he recoiled from her snarling face she followed him with implacable intent.

“Stop!” cried Christopher, and with a shudder Susan obeyed. She loomed over the table in the middle of the room, her eyes burning as she stared at him. She still clutched the notebook against her chest, and now her fingers flexed along its spine. Christopher took a long, unsteady breath, and spoke as if into a vacuum. “I’m sorry, Susan. I don’t want to do this, I just can’t let you leave with that thing. We’d risk our whole careers if you did. Do you understand? Please, I don’t want…” Susan watched him in baleful silence as he took another breath. There was a terrible pressure on his chest. “Put the notebook on the table,” he said weakly, and he winced at the sound of her slamming it down. Already he could see her fingers reddening with the force of the blow.

“I know this isn’t right,” continued Christopher. “But I hope that one day you’ll forgive me. Until then, I just want you to know that I’m with you on this. I’ll help you report it and everything. We just have to be more careful.”  He looked away from Susan and a sudden feeling like bravery swept over him. The blood crept back into his finger as he relaxed, ever so slightly, his grip on the trigger. “It’s going to be okay,” he said. “But right now we’ve got to go. I’m going to take you down the hall, and then—” Christopher was interrupted by the sound of a man clearing his throat, and the budding confidence withered in his chest. The custodian was standing in the doorway. His cart was absent, but in his hand and pointing almost politely at the ground was a matte pistol capped with a silencer. He smiled, and his teeth seemed to glitter in the light.

“Excuse me,” said the custodian gently. “But I’m afraid this room is only for people attached to the project. I’d appreciate it if you’d put the equipment back on the table.” He spoke to Christopher as though he were a child, and as panic tightened around his lungs it was mingled with a sense of creeping shame. He looked at Susan as if suddenly remembering who she was, but there was nothing familiar in the paralyzed contortions of her face. She was like a stranger to him, alien and distant, and the heavy reality of Christopher’s situation seemed to press in around him. Eventually he lowered the Mesmis onto the table, and was guiltily relieved when Susan returned to motion not all at once, but with a long and trembling sigh.

“There,” said the custodian. “Much better. Really, this is all my fault. Neither of you should have been able to come in here. Please, accept my apologies for the oversight and any…” he paused, “trouble that it’s caused.”

Christopher watched Susan stretch the life back into her limbs. Her face had relaxed, but as she massaged her muscles it became no more familiar than it had been moments ago. The custodian looked on with strange concern as Susan straightened, and in the uncompromising light of the room Christopher felt suddenly alone, like a small and embarrassed stranger.

“What now?” asked Susan. Her voice was cool and measured.

“Now,” said the custodian, “it’s time for me to close up the building.”

“And all of this?”

He made a dismissive gesture. “In the morning this will all be gone and it won’t be a bother to anyone. Beyond that? I’m sure we’ll get back to business as usual.” He slipped the pistol into his uniform. “If you’re ready, I’d be happy to escort you to the door.”

Susan finally glanced at Christopher, and the look in her eyes made him want to squirm. There was anger in that look, but more unsettling was the careful judgment that was being carried out behind it. She looked at him like he was an insect or a particularly frustrating specimen. She was evaluating him.

“Thanks,” said Susan at length. “I think I’d like that.” She stepped towards the door and allowed the custodian to lead her into the dim hall beyond. For a moment Christopher feared that they would leave him alone, leave him to broil in the uncompromising whiteness of the room, but the custodian cast an expectant look over his shoulder and with a strange flood of relief Christopher trotted after him. The custodian terrified him, but his eyes were knowing and the pistol tucked into his uniform stifled the threat of any further confrontation.

◊ ◊ ◊

doorThat night Christopher and Susan parted without words, and when Christopher arrived at work the next morning he found a piece of paper taped to his office door. A message printed in tiny type hung over a field of blank white space. Christopher, read the memo, please report to room 983 on the ninth floor. Christopher had never been up to the ninth floor of his building, and he wondered leadenly if he was going to be fired. He was, at any rate, ready for it. The evening left him sleepless, and now the world around him seemed dreamlike and unfamiliar. He passed his coworkers in a quiet haze and allowed the elevator to shuttle him upwards.

He emerged onto a floor that seemed identical to all of the others. It had been ‘decorated’ with the same utilitarian spirit, but when he finally arrived at room 983 and lowered his eye in front of the retinal scanner he was surprised to find the door open onto his office. At least, it looked like his office. And it had all of his possessions in it, arranged precisely the way he’d left them. His diplomas were plastered over the south wall, his desk was properly facing the window, and all of his disheveled papers were sitting in their respective heaps. It was an uncanny reconstruction. The only things out of place were on his desk: an officious-looking letter and the detector that Christopher had built. Christopher brought the memo slowly up to his eyes.

Dear Christopher,
In light of recent events and as a result of your stunning personal initiative and loyalty to the company mission, management has reassigned you from the research team of Dr. Susan Smith. While Dr. Smith’s team will continue researching the direct manipulation of motor neurons, your abundant talents will be assisting us with a new and exciting direction for the Mesmis project: the development of a linguistic module that allows for the communication of abstract commands. You have thus been assigned to the research team of Dr. Philip Wagner as an Assistant Developer. A full description of your duties has been emailed to you, but one of your first duties will be to help stage the first public demonstration of this module. We have scheduled the demonstration for two weeks from today, and advise that you speak with Dr. Wagner to hammer out the details.

We hope you enjoy your new position, and thank you again for your invaluable service and dedication to our cause. If you ever need anything as you settle into this new department, please remember that we are always here.
Sincerely,
AriaCorp.

Christopher set the memo back onto his desk and stepped over to the window. The only thing different about his office was that it was five stories higher, and the whole of the company parking lot sprawled beneath him. Susan told him once that she wanted her car to match her eyes, and so she’d had it painted a lurid green. It was a frankly hideous color but it was impossible to miss, and now, as Christopher looked down over the glittering rows, it was conspicuously absent.

He hoped she was safe. He sincerely did, but as he stood there in the window he also found himself hoping that her mission failed. He pictured what would happen if the FBI got involved, and images flashed through his mind of stern-faced investigators tearing apart his office, of sweating alone and trembling beneath an over-bright lamp. The prospect of more confrontation, of dredging up yesterday’s events, sounded all at once terrible, futile, and exhausting. It was better if she failed, he realized. He just hoped that she was safe.

mouseIn time, Christopher returned to his desk, and as he sat he relished the familiar creak of his leather chair. It was strangely refreshing to be back in his office, even if it was technically a reconstruction, even if someone must have studied precisely everything about it. There was a soothing realness to it, and the uncertain fog that had swallowed his morning began to evaporate. He set his hand down over the mouse of his computer and for a while he just sat there, flexing and flexing his fingers, soaking in the promise of the day ahead. There was work to do: brilliant, tantalizing, and rewarding work. What happened after that work was finished was out of his hands. As his confused memory of yesterday faded, what else could he do? Christopher reached down to power on his computer, and prayed that nothing else would change.

End

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Published by Associate Editor on June 1, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 26, Issue 26 Stories

The Hounds of Zegna

By Arthur Davis

Of course, I knew they were coming, though I refused to believe I was the only one who possessed such knowledge. Had I made an adequate effort instead of my typical halfhearted attempt, the earth might have been spared. Maybe it was simply too late by the time I accepted what was happening.

dogAnyway, here we are under the thumb of Dremlins, ungainly creatures who look like giant golden retrievers standing erect on their hind legs. Except for the absence of a tail and a considerably shortened snout, the resemblance was uncanny. Their long, glistening reddish coat and small toy-like animal heads gave them an air of innocence, of childlike vulnerability.

And that’s how they first presented themselves. As space travelers who had gotten lost, had “taken the wrong turn at Mars,” as a west coast reporter smugly described their arrival eight months ago. First, came the small patrol ship, supposedly off course, filled with a dozen scrawny, fragile adolescent creatures, then, as we were seduced by our collective need to believe the best instead of being cautious about the worst, larger transports filled with yapping, affectionate Dremlins arrived in mass. But a lot can happen in eight months, like the end of civilization, as we know it.

I’ll tell you more later, but right now, I’m late for my appointed rounds. My name is Michael Joseph Denner. If you want, you can call me Mickey. I like that nickname, although I was never successful at getting even my best friends to use it. I used to be a high school history teacher. Not a good one mind you, but adequate enough to get the facts straight, though not much for inspiring young minds. I was never challenged as a child and left that legacy to each adolescent who passed through my eleven tenured years of teaching. Now, laser lamp in hand, I walk the barren streets of my city making sure that they are cleared by sunset like other Walkers, as we are called, do in every other hamlet and great city on earth, by order of the Council of Supreme Dremlins.

For that meager effort, I am rewarded with certain gifts, such as continued sight and breath. Trivial as it may sound, most other humans fared much worse by comparison. By the end of the fifth month, with dozens of battle cruisers hovering like dark clouds over every major metropolis, we should have known. But there really wasn’t any warning. So when the death knell tolled, it was a terrible surprise. Whole villages were consumed by violent plumed bursts of laser light. People and produce were incinerated in the millions like so much fried chicken. We thought they were trying to make an example of us for some yet untold reason until a pattern arose. But there was no rational reason, unless you wanted to accept the destruction of our race as the unadorned focus of their ambition.

The first wave of Dremlin dogs, as they were once referred to, quickly aged into mature adults whose only need was procreation. To perform that function successfully, we learned later, required all their bodily efforts and toward that end they reached out to signal others with the most hideous high-pitched howl imaginable. That searing, biting, ear-wrenching cry did not abate for days and only reached its peak during the darkest hours of their sexual compulsion. That should have been our first warning. Those who approached them to question this process were attacked on the spot. There were no regrets or apprehension on their part. When a Dremlin was in the process of mating, as more and more were, even coming close to them was reason enough for them to fire on you. Those closest to a Dremlin pair at the height of copulation were driven mad from the sound. First thousands, then tens of thousands, took their own lives in order to avert the wracking auditory pain their howl caused.

In defense of our kind, it should be mentioned that the governments and scientists of all nations did their best, but it all happened too fast. Within a period of a few months, the first wave of adolescent Dremlins had matured into ten-foot tall creatures with rapier-like talons and highly evolved ability to sense when they were in danger, if even by strangers hundreds of yards away. By then others had arrived with weapons powerful enough to begin the subjugation. They shot down fighters and missiles, as you would swat a fly from your shirtsleeve. They were impervious to our nuclear weapons, our strength, or interest in unity. We behaved as if we had a choice. They behaved as if we were born to be captives.

Hundreds of millions died in the sixth month alone. It was estimated that four billion vanished in the seventh month under the bright yellow rays their ships flooded the earth with from high in the darkened heavens. We were unable to negotiate or protect ourselves. Still, from what I heard, ten or fifteen million of us remain. For what purpose and to what end I do not know.

“How are you?”

It was my counterpart, Sam Levin. Sam was about seventy years old. He walked his ten square block patrol every night as I did. I walked my route, which bordered his for three blocks of greater Charleston, North Carolina. We spoke twice a night, cautious not to spend too much time together, lest we be detected and relieved of more than our responsibilities. There was no possibility of insurrection. We possessed no weapons except our own imagination, no interest except in our own pitiful survival. The Dremlins routinely purged towns and let us know of the decimation as if we needed any more convincing of the limitations of our capacity or future.

I flicked on the beam from what looked like an ordinary flashlight, except the bright red beam that shot out of the front could be projected a thousand yards or more. I traced the light up against some apartment buildings and down an alleyway just to make it look like I was securing the neighborhood. “I’m tired every day. I can hardly get out of bed anymore.”

“That’s the way I feel too,” Sam acknowledged.

“But you’re pushing seventy.”

“And look at what it’s gotten me,” he said standing up and scanning his laser beam along a row of second floor windows to make sure they were closed. “I think they’re watching us.”

Defiantly I said, “So what?”

As he walked into the night I heard his response, “So maybe I want to live another day, even if there is nothing left to live for.”

“You think this is living?”

“It is until I find something better.”

“I’ll see you at the meeting,” I said, though I doubted that he heard me.

We were fed our food, left to our own meanderings; those few hundred or so desperate souls within earshot of each other. Every week a representative gathered us up, measured our resistance, proffered directives, and reminded us of our precarious position. I sat through these meetings numb with disbelief and sadness. Why us? What made earth the perfect breeding ground for these beasts?

When the mating howls inflamed an already indignant world, there was an outcry that fell upon dogs all over the world, especially golden retrievers. They were hunted down, killed on sight by citizens with guns who needed to take out their frustration on somebody or something. When the slaughter escalated, people went around and broke into homes and apartments where they knew dogs lived and killed them, and then their owner if there was any interference. Of course, this displaced aggression meant nothing to the Dremlins. They went on copulating in halls, on streets, in public spaces, and especially near restaurants where food was plentiful.

The sight of a Dremlin pair having sex sickened most, if the howl didn’t quickly immobilize them with pain. One frightened legislator in China claimed the Dremlin howl was their most potent weapon. It was the highest sign of their evolutionary power and, at the same time, subjugated all those who would interfere with their design for domination. As they populated the world and long before the dimension of their aggression became evident, those sounds became a normal, if not arresting, part of our everyday lives. After a while, if you were fortunate enough not to come too close, you shut out the sounds as you would grating street noise late into the night.

I had married early and divorced later than was sensible. My wife had been a woman devoid of sentiment and possessed of seriousness so profound that to this day I wonder why I asked for her hand, and why she accepted my initial overtures. Our sex life was uninspired as was our fervor for each other. We never made much noise when having sex. At first, there were muffled groans and some spasms of excitement. In some strange way, I envied the Dremlins their exultation. To be so exuberant, so unabashed in their lovemaking was a true work of wonder. I had never known such sexual glee. I believe few had. I now realize few of us would ever again.

One friend, and I heard this only after my divorce, said my wife and I were “suitable” for each other. Suitable. I thought about that word for years. Now, nothing matters but working myself through the next day. The capacity for survival in humans is quite remarkable. I never thought of this until I saw dozens of newspaper pages filled with pictures of the most notable cities on earth flash up in a cauldron of red and yellow dust. First Geneva, London, Moscow, and Washington vanished. Before the shrieks of international outrage were broadcast, New York, Chicago, Paris, Rome, and San Paulo Brazil were incinerated.

Their laser weapons surgically dissected each city so as not to disturb utilities, transportation networks, and all forms of communication. These weapons systems were far beyond our military’s grasp as were their defensive screening network. They never resorted to nuclear weapons, which surprised most of the military experts. Outside major metropolitan areas, there were no sensitive targets that could benefit them in their conquest. The human devastation was complete. Of course, the slaughter of millions was no longer a topic of conversation for the survivors. We accepted the wanton destruction, always believing that sometime in the future we would coalesce into a lethal fighting force and overthrow our captors. What most found impossible to accept was being cut off from one another. The weekly meetings helped, if only to see the faces of those who had survived.

“Don’t turn around,” the voice directed during the last town meeting. “I’ve been watching you. My name is Sara McKinney,” she continued from behind me.

My imagination flared, but only momentarily. In the last few months since the destruction rained down upon the earth, I was purged of not only my past, but also my need for a future. However, as Sara’s voice filled my ears with words, her spirit filled my chest with possibilities. I nodded slowly to indicate that I had heard her words, though there was no way to communicate to her how desperate I already was for making human contact.

“Ask old Sam Jennings about me. I am not one of them. Please. We need to stick together.”

That was all I heard. That was all I needed to hear. “You know a woman named Sara?” I asked Sam when we next made our rounds, not fully appreciating how dangerous even that question was.

Sam dropped his flashlight, wiped his brow, and then bent down to tie his shoes. He went through the motions, but I knew he was simply tired and needed an excuse to stop walking. I had no idea if he would respond, or even if he could be trusted. If he hadn’t first engaged me a month ago, I would never have allowed myself this one temptation.

“McKinney?” he asked.

“Her first name is Sara.”

“She lives over on Townsend?”

“Sam, I don’t know anything more than her name.”

“How do you know her?”
“I don’t really. I just thought you did,” I said and walked away quickly. I was stricken with fear. How many Sara’s could he know? How could he put me through that? We were standing in an open space. Patrol ships glided overhead. The night was bathed in moonlight.

Was I mad? Why couldn’t I have waited until the moon was less radiant? When the sky was completely overcast. No, I had to know immediately. I was never going to make it to Sam’s age. However, I didn’t consider that an onerous limitation.

I slept poorly that night. In the morning, I ate breakfast and called into central control. The ritual was the same every day. I was asked to repeat everything I saw and did the day before. The voice interrogating me was different every day, though it always sounded feminine. When I said I was done, the connection was broken. The phone was in limited service and was only to be used by the Dremlins or to contact them.

Was Sara a Dremlin plant? I suspected those were around, though it never made much sense. If they considered us a threat, why keep any of us alive? Of course, I had no answer to this. I didn’t believe anyone had. Moreover, if so, it was too late to save ourselves or our dying planet.

But Sara was a voice. A Spring voice imparting possibilities that I had long ago given up. I waited eagerly for the next town meeting. I sat down and waited until the regional director read through his report. But all I heard that night was his rasping, biting voice, and a film of what had been done to those in other villages who did not heed their code. I allowed myself the opportunity to glance around, but only with my eyes. They knew when you turned your head. Guards positioned on either side of the church aisles in which we were housed for our weekly meetings came over and struck down anyone who turned or nodded off. Some were pulled from the crowd and never returned.

“You will do what you are told or you will be purged. We have made that clear to you and every other member of your mongrel race,” the regional director said in his strange English. The hideous animal was an old Dremlin. His coat was shaggy and unkempt. His talons were horribly long and less aligned with the others than we had seen on younger ones. He stood on the dais, as had an ordained priest only a month before. Only this messenger spoke of destruction and damnation as though he was the representative of the underworld. All vestiges of the church had been stripped from the walls, all signs of God or holiness or religion had been purged from sight. I imagined others believed as I did that those closest to religion and God were on a select list to be extinguished first lest they foment unrest and defiance.

The audience of two hundred or so looked on in muted bewilderment. It was only a year ago that we lived in peace and innocence, unaware of the plot being hatched against our towns and villages, against cities swarming with humanity, against the survival of the planet. Then, in only months since first landing and being welcomed by most of humanity, these small endearing visitors from space, from a planet our scientist called Zegna, for want of a better word, and from a galaxy that we thought devoid of life, as though we possessed the powers of such infinite knowledge or insight, descended from the sky in untold hordes.

The first animals looked like fairy tale-like gremlins one scientist observed. Except when he wrote a real-time internet article about the most important event ever to have impacted humanity, he pressed the wrong letter on his keyboard. Instead of hitting a “g” he struck a “d, “and in one stroke these once cute animals were transformed, and shortly thereafter became the hideous raptors they are today.

“We will be conducting experiments in this town and in nearby towns. No one will be hurt, but there will be some changes in members of your friends and family.”

No one will be hurt. What choice was there? We are all doomed, I thought, no longer searching the crowd for Sara. There probably was no such woman. Sam must have been thinking of someone else. If he knew of her, if she told him she was going to speak to me, to take such a risk in the first place, he would have known.

What does it matter? Tomorrow we will be melted down as the Nazis did the gold teeth of six million Jews a hundred years ago or wind up in a test tube on planet Zegna. I couldn’t recall where the astrophysicists told us the galaxy was that harbored such a malevolent race. We still didn’t know what they wanted from us. Those who were curious enough to ask were now dead. There was no rhyme or reason to their viciousness. There just was, or was not, depending on your point of view. As for myself, I saw no future in my future. Sooner or later, I will do or say something and disappear with the pull of a trigger. I will not be missed. I will simply not be.

I settled into my bed that night no longer thinking about Sara, just the bleakness of our world, of my puny existence. I suspected there was some sort of resistance forming out there. Younger men with more motivation and skills were cloistered in barns and caves around the world. First, they would have to secure themselves then find a way to communicate with others in nearby towns and villages. They would be bold and brave and, I believe, doomed. The Dremlins would have already anticipated this reaction. If they had the ability to sense danger or clandestine activity from across the town center, they might be able to extend it miles and miles from their headquarters. No, we were lichen compared to their intellect and creative superiority. We were no match for their ambition no matter what it was and in what form it was manifested. I glanced outside my window. There was a full moon again. The last time it had appeared, I had asked Sam about Sara.

“Hey Michael, you want another?” a voice barked against a background of music and scrambled words.

I spun around on a tall stool slamming my right elbow into the edge of the bar as my wrist struck the glass of beer I was nursing. A bolt of pain shot up into my shoulder, a splash of beer landed against my right sleeve. I gasped. I must have struck a nerve. The pain was so sharp I felt a tingling in my fingertips. I immediately recognized the bar and most of the patrons staring up in shock at the pictures on the television behind the bartender’s stooped shoulders. It was the afternoon news. The date indicated on the giant television monitor was September 16, 2037. Cameras panned in stony silence as scientists from the Army surrounded what looked like a flying saucer the size of a city block that seemingly had crash-landed in the desert outside of Tempe, Arizona.

“I knew it would happen sooner or later,” the bartender noted.

“I wonder what they’re going to look like?” someone behind me questioned.

“Like small dogs standing on their hind legs,” I offered without thinking.

A smattering of laughter was heard all around followed by some even more bizarre conjecture about what the aliens from outer space would look like. I cleaned off my sleeve and massaged my elbow. I studied my shoes as though I needed more evidence of who I was and where I was. I knew the bar and bartender. I recognized faces in the crowd though none seemed to acknowledge me. I paid my tab and removed myself from the crowded bar, walked into the street, and looked up at the bright blue heavens. It had finally happened. We were not alone. In all our collective arrogance, we were not alone. I had not dreamt it for nothing. I must have known. A police squad car was parked at the curbside near a fire hydrant. I walked over to the blue and white car. Their radio was tuned into the local news. Both officers were listening intently, though not so engrossed so as to ignore my approach. I noticed their bodies stiffened defensively.

“Maybe you can help me officer,” I said. They nodded politely. “I’ve been watching the news about the spaceship and I know what’s going to happen. I saw it all before. I want to tell somebody about it.”

“You just come out of there?” one of them asked.

I turned to the bar. “Yes, but I’m not drunk.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I’m not a crackpot and I’m not drunk. And I can tell you what they’re going to look like. I can tell you what they’re going to do. That might have some value, even if I came out of a bar.”

“With all due respect sir, I’m sure a million other people can also speculate on what they look like.”

“I’m not like a million other people. I saw into the future and I know what they’re going to do.”

“And what’s that?” the same one asked, only this time he was less threatened by me and obviously not taking a word I had to say seriously.

“You know,” I said standing up against the car. “I think I’ll try the newspapers. Maybe they’ll be more receptive.”

They watched me cross the street in front of their car before focusing their attention back to the news. Within an hour all the Dremlins will have emerged from the saucer. Their small demeanor and unstable gait will be instantly endearing to billions worldwide. They would be perceived as unthreatening, an accident from outer space that would change our world forever. Scientists would be ecstatic to have these live samples of other life forms who could communicate with us if even in a rudimentary manner. The fact that they will need our care will throw us off guard. How dangerous could these little creatures be? And their voices, their little squeaky utterances, would sound so much like a human infant, mothers all over the world would feel a maternal instinct towards the furry dog-like misfits. How deviously cunning and manipulative.

I walked six blocks to the offices to the Charleston Times. The usually silent building on the corner of Decatur and Mitchell Streets was a hotbed of nervous fervor. Every window in the building was lit. Camera crews and reporters milled about outside. I had seen this before, or at least been aware of all the commotion when the saucer first landed in what now appeared to be my dream. One of our satellites picked it up coming in from beyond our galaxy. Hundreds of telescopes and sophisticated space probes picked up the incoming ship. Some scientists speculated that it might be something far more ominous, such as an asteroid hurtling towards earth. I thought about that while two reporters rushed from the building and sped away in their car. What could be so important? Didn’t they know what was coming? Didn’t anybody else know what I knew?            All this was for nothing. We were doomed from the beginning. There were no defenses and what made it worse, we wanted so desperately to believe these aliens were friendly and not the kind we’d been exposed to in the movies and television for a hundred years. It just couldn’t be those kind one Hollywood reporter mentioned when he first caught sight of the immature Dremlins. However, if they were so callow how could they pilot their ship halfway across our galaxy?

I made my way past the throng to the city desk on the third floor. Phones were ringing on every desk. Everybody was screaming directions and vital information at each other. Every desk and tabletop was occupied. Every ounce of energy was being expended to cover the most important story since the creation of the earth itself. I looked about as though I was a spectator to my own death. Who would listen to me?

“Have you ever heard of the planet Zegna?” I asked one of the reporters who rushed by so quickly he couldn’t possibly have heard my inquiry. Three police officers were huddled around one of the dozen television sets mounted around the room which looked more like one of the late twentieth century commodities trading pits. There was an unmatched excitement in the air. The world as we knew it, the entire universe, and most importantly the religious leaders of the world were going to have to rethink their history. Apparently, God was hard at work in other planets too.

A young man with a fist full of papers bumped up behind me. He apologized and was courteous enough to ask if he could help me even though it was apparent that he had no real interest in being that patient.

“I want to talk to the editor about the space ship.”

“Right now I don’t think the president himself could get through to the editor,” he said with some pride.

“I have some information about who they are that might be valuable.”

“Who they are?”

I caught myself here, lest I sound as energetic and vested as I believed I was to the two police officers. “Yes.”

“But we haven’t even seen them yet. In fact, we don’t even know if anybody is alive on that ship.”

He was right. “I see your point.”

“You know, why don’t you come back tomorrow? Maybe things will settle down around here so you can find someone you can talk to.”

I took a sudden liking to this young man. He was showing more patience and respect than I had seen or would have expected under these conditions. I also finally realized no one was going to listen to me today, or if I came back tomorrow.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” he said and quickly loped away.

I walked out of the newsroom. I was also too uneasy with what I knew to expose myself to potential ridicule. This incident was going to bring out every crackpot and lunatic on the planet. From evangelists, who would chastise us with the “I told you so’s” to those who believed this marked the end of the world. How was I going to tell them they were right? How could one man warn the world? Moreover, did I really care to? I struggled with this question as the elevator let me off on the ground floor and I wandered into the pandemonium on Decatur, which was taking place in every village and hamlet on earth.

A crowd ten deep surrounded a giant television monitor in one of the windows of the news building. An Army general was approaching the downed saucer. Slowly, a hatch opened at the other side of the gleaming gray spacecraft. Minutes passed until there was discernible movement. Everyone had an idea who or what was going to fill the screen and change our lives. When a small dog-like creature wobbled out into the daylight and fell to its knees a cheer rang out, with women oohing and aahing as the general’s aids rushed to help right the creature.

I knew the rest of the tale. I wandered into a small park and found myself a bench. Across the park, I could see the tall, ornate steeple of the Confederate Army clock tower—a landmark in Charleston. I was born not far from here thirty-eight years ago in a hospital that has long ago been converted into a major office building. Charleston was South Carolina’s oldest city, a major Atlantic coast port and the first city to adopt a historic preservation-zoning ordinance in the country. We had a major military college, internationally renowned arts fair in the Spoleto Festival and one of the East’s most visited tourist attractions. Seven months from now, like a thousand other cities, it would lay in ruins.

We were so desperate to believe, especially the politicians and scientists. After an extensive medical examination, the original group of young Dremlins toured most major capitals of the world. Every politician and important head of state wanted to be photographed with these lovable, if noisy creatures. Even as the animals grew, only the most astute behaviorist noticed that they became less friendly, less forgiving of being petted like tame pets. The scientists, especially the physicists and the Pentagon’s highest-ranking weapon’s wonks, wanted to know everything. The heads of the major religious groups waited patiently. Some suspected they wanted to prolong any interaction with the Dremlins for as long as possible. Official statements were handed out to the press that these denominations were glad no one was actually injured in the landing. Other than that, there was a notable silence from the religious leaders.

A panel of international astronomers and doctors was organized by the United Nations to pose questions to the Dremlins. What was so unusual was that the panel was organized, convened, and ready for their first presentation within six weeks of the landing. What was equally unexpected was that the Dremlins were open and responsive to every question from the location of their planet to the propulsion system of their ship. They invited inspection of their craft to any number of engineers and aeronautical experts. The scientific bounty from these early interactions was heralded as a quantum leap for humanity. A body of knowledge was being amassed at a startling rate, though not as quickly as the Dremlins were growing.

Then of course, there were the cynics who, in this case, were right from the beginning. They urged prudence, but in the face of how the first ship of Dremlins was embraced, their cause was drowned out by the international carnival atmosphere that swept the planet.

“If it hadn’t been for a slight navigational error we would have remained alone in our world, possibly forever,” the chairman of the Latin American Treaty Organization lamented. The most enthusiastic supporters hoped other Dremlins would follow to rescue the survivors of the Tempe Landing, as it was often referred to. They got their wish.

A strange peace settled over me. I stretched out my legs as far as they would go and shook myself like a dog working the muscle spasms out of his awakened body. There was really nothing to do. Nothing for me or anybody that would change the course upon which we were headed. Unless I had some kind of first-hand evidence and could convince someone in authority, we were all going to die. But of course there was none. There was no way to prove what I knew sitting here this bright Fall day. Even I came to question myself. Was it all a dream? No, of course not. Clearly, I had already experienced something that had not yet happened. The memories were too vivid and omnipresent, the facts and circumstances of the past months I had just lived through were all too pure and unwelcoming to be the byproduct of a twisted and corrupt mind.

In my reverie I could easily conjure up images of the earliest Greek wars with Epaminondas, Philip, and Alexander; the great Roman wars with Hannibal, Scipio, and Caesar; the Byzantine and Medieval wars and the French revolution with Napoleon Bonaparte; the European conflicts of the 19th century along with the American Civil War followed by the “War-to-End-All-Wars” and the most horrible Second World War. I can easily recall the wars that infected the Mideast a quarter century ago.

And in every one of these conflicts there was the same strategic territorial or xenophobic rationale. Why was this invasion and subjugation so different? The answer was as obvious as it was opaque.

What would have happened if Hitler had the weapons these monsters possessed? What if Stalin—whose dictates were reportedly responsible for the death of 20,000,000 people—had these weapons at his disposal? The difference here is that there was no one Dremlin leader, no general or politician to which we could forward an appeal for leniency. What they had done, what they intended to do, was so far and away more calamitous, it made two of the most vicious murderers of the twentieth century seem tame by comparison.

“You don’t seem very excited,” the woman said as her dog dragged her to the side of my bench.

I was startled at the sight of the German Shepherd. She had a sweetness about her. I wanted to reach out and pet her head but decided against it. The woman looked familiar, though I was in no condition to press my memory for details. “About what?”

“The space people. The aliens,” she clarified. Her Shepherd sniffed about the tips of my shoes then looked up at me. Her soft bright brown eyes and active expression was so compelling, and yet all I could think was that she was somehow related to those who were going to destroy us. “A spaceship landed outside of Tempe, Arizona.”

“Yes, I’ve heard.”

“My goodness, you seem so detached.”

There was a freedom about my attitude that even I was aware of. I was also aware of the number of dogs in the park. It gave me a terribly unsettled feeling. “I guess I am.”

“How can you not be excited?” she said tightening the leash around her hand and falling onto the bench. “The president was on television trying to reassure the nation.”

Thank goodness he wasn’t trying to get through to the editors at the Charleston Times. “I guess I missed it.” I began to massage my right elbow. It was quite sore and a little stiff. Tomorrow it was going to be a lot more tender. By next Spring, I will look back on this bruise as a very temporary and inconsequential inconvenience. By next Summer, who knows?

“He was so confident. It’ll be on again. You’ll catch it.”

“Was he reassuring?”

“Yes. Very.”

“That’s important.”

She straightened her hair. She was wearing baggy jeans overalls over a baggy white sweater. She was an inch or two taller than I was. Her face had an open sharpness about it as though she would listen but would not be easily convinced. “I’ll catch him later.”

“Well, Jillian here is really interested in the spaceship, aren’t you honey?” she said bending down to nuzzle her cheek against her dog.

“That’s a beautiful animal you have there.”

“That’s my best friend. She’s been with me for three years. She’s my lucky charm.”

“Have you ever heard of the planet Zegna?”

“No. Can’t say as I have. But you should know, I’m not one for science.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a fitness instructor. I have my own gym in North Charleston. I’m just visiting my sister over on McMurtree.”

The young woman was thin, athletic, the very personification of health, and if I may say so, a beauty. She was pretty in a soft, mellow way. Her looks weren’t as flagrant as so many young women’s were these days. From her style and grace, I imagined her to be somewhat of a throwback to a kinder, gentler era. “My name is Michael Denner.”

“I’m Jennifer Winslow. Friends call me Jenny. And of course, you already know Jillian here.”

If I told her what I knew she would nod politely and run for the bushes with her dog yelping at her heels. I would expect that of anybody. “Pretty name.”

“Why thank you. No one ever said that to me, not in just that way.”

“I can assure you, it was meant as a compliment.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Isn’t McMurtree behind the Confederate clock tower?”

“Yes. It’s one of my sister’s favorite places.”

“I love that memorial too.” The Confederate tower held out more than just the momentary flicker of time to me. It was a destination. The symbol of what I perceived could be my resting place if I decided to change my history.

“How come you’re not glued to a television set?”

“How come you aren’t?”

“If you’ve ever had a pet, you know their needs come first.” Jillian looked around the park with a curious eagerness.

I tried to assemble the details of my day before being shocked out of my reverie in the bar. How did I get there in the middle of the afternoon? The last time I was in a bar, I was watching the opening game of pre-season professional football in August with friends. I couldn’t recall anything before slamming my elbow. Hard as I tried, I seemed to have no past and if that was correct, no future either.

“Jennifer, did you ever share a secret with a stranger?”

She glanced around the park. Nearly everybody was listening to a pocket radio or collecting in small clumps discussing the news that had rocked the world. “What do you have in mind Michael Denner?”

“Well Jennifer, I’ll tell you. Firstly, the game works best when played by total strangers.”

“Even those who have shared a park bench together?”

“Those are the best kind.”

“Oh, this sounds really exciting, and please, it’s Jenny.”

“It’s simple Jenny. You tell me something that you’ve been dying to confess to someone, knowing that it will mean nothing in particular to me, but it will relieve you of the burden of holding onto it by yourself.”

“Strangers meeting on a train share a little part of themselves and then move on. No strings. No consequences.” She patted Jillian who quickly became less obstreperous. She continued to stroke her forehead until the dog’s energy was calmed. “Sounds mysterious.”

“You’re free to walk away anytime you feel so inclined. And I can do the same.”

“But you wouldn’t, because I think you want to tell me something really important to you. Am I right?”

“You’re much more than a gym teacher, Jenny.”

“And you look like you’re about to burst unless you don’t get something off your chest.”

“That obvious, is it?”

“Sorry, but it is to me.”

“It’s important to me that you trust what I say and there is no way for me to say what I have to say without possibly frightening you.”

“Me in particular or to anybody you want to tell your secret?”

“Oh, anybody.”

“Good. I just don’t want to be the object of a stranger’s secret.”

The use of the word “stranger” bothered me, then again so did the word “suitable.” “That’s not what this is about.”

“Well, if you ever wanted to get my curiosity going, you’ve succeeded.”

“I will ask you for one thing.”

“Which is?”

I pulled back from her. “That you give me enough time for me to finish my story even if you want to leave before it’s over.”

“I don’t know if I can do that.” She sounded guarded now. Her light, frothy manner had dissolved into a heightened hesitation.

“I know. It’s something that I shouldn’t have asked of you,” I said crossing my arms across my chest. “Well, if you’re game, so am I.”

“I’ll let you know when I’ve had enough.”

“Fair enough,” I said and began. The tale of the hounds of Zegna was told as I had witnessed it. I left out no detail, no unpleasantry bound to frighten or sicken. I spoke over the course of an hour with clarity of detail that had eluded me all my life. I spoke from the heart and when I was finished there was a period of time when all that moved were Jillian’s attentive ears. If Jennifer had been one of my pupils she would have never walked out of class when the bell rang.

“How would you feel Michael, if a stranger told you that story?”

“As disbelieving as you probably are,” I answered.

“I don’t know what to say to you.”

“I think you would have been better served if I had said nothing.”

“I don’t know,” she said and, with a gush of air that surely emptied her lungs, added, “My God, if you’re right!”

“There is no doubt in my mind.”

“I can see that,” she said staring down at Jillian.

“But you know, what does it all matter?”

“If someone told you that you had less than half a year before your life would change for the worse and forever; well, that would certainly matter.”

“I never thought of it like that.”

“It’s like being told by a doctor that you only have four or five months to live and after that everything you’ve known and come to rely upon will start to collapse all around you. Now what do I do?”

She was right. “I told you something that might help you.”

“But what if I believe you and don’t want to be helped?”

“Then I have done you a terrible disservice.” I had told her more than my secret. I had given her the power to adjust her life before it ended, but she would have preferred to be kept in the dark. I had given her a chance to prepare. And in saying what I had said, gave myself the same gift. Except that it seemed to mean more to her than to me. “You know if you tell anybody else they’re going to think you’re crazy and you might suspect I am.”

“I’ve been thinking about my mother in Pittsburgh. I have other relatives there and so many friends. My God. Every city is going to perish?”

“Every large city on the face of this planet is going to be incinerated in the first week. There is no defense. Thousands of smaller villages and the remnants of smaller communities like this are going to be kept alive but I don’t know why.”

“Just like that?”

“Nearly six billion people gone in less than two months. Most of modern civilization lost in a vapor. I lived through it Jennifer. I know what it’s like.”

A shadow descended upon this pretty young girl. I was overtaken by pangs of guilt. I didn’t have to say what I said, and yet I desperately needed to talk to somebody. I had friends, but in this case, unusual as it was, I really was more comfortable with a complete stranger. I thought a moment about the possibility of her and I meeting again, but it was apparent that what I had told her needed to be digested, and not in the company of the messenger. We both had to prepare for what was about to descend upon us.

“Jennifer?” I asked bringing her back from wherever it was that she had spent the last few moments.

“Yes. I’m sorry. I was just thinking about my baby brother. He just finished up his residency in medical school in California. We’re all so proud of him. He worked so hard to get what he has, and now it’s all for nothing.”

At that moment, I didn’t want this girl to believe me. Maybe not one word of what I had said. “He should know too.”

“I don’t feel well, Michael,” she said getting to her feet. “I think I should go now. I don’t mean to dispute what you’ve said but, you know it’s very hard to believe.”

“Impossible actually. I really didn’t expect you to believe me, and I’m not going to share my story with anybody else. I don’t need to wind up in some sanitarium and miss out on the death of civilization.”

“That sounds sick.”

“What else is there left but to be a credible witness to the destruction? What would you do?”
“Kill myself. Maybe.”

“I thought of that. And it may come to that. But for now I have time. Not a lot. You have time too. If you have loved ones go to them.”

“Then I would have to leave Charleston. Maybe go to the countryside where it is safer?”

“Just don’t forget to take Jillian with you.”

She came to my side and softly kissed my cheek. “Thank you. I mean it. If I didn’t believe you before, I do now.”

“Why?”

“If you had any intentions other than honorable you wouldn’t have wanted me to leave. You’re a good man, Michael Denner.”

I thought about asking her to call me Mickey, just once, but it was really too late for that. “Sometimes I am.”

“Did you ever think of contacting Sam Levin?” she asked and got up.

“No. No, in fact I hadn’t.”

“You might try.”

“You know, that’s a great idea. I have the time and he probably lives somewhere around here.”

“Good luck.”

“You too,” I said. Jennifer loosened the dog leash. Jillian turned and gave me one last playful glance before they disappeared around a thicket of bushes.

I spent the rest of the day in the park, more relaxed and renewed than I could recall. The pulse of people around me picked up with each new interaction with the aliens. By the time I got home, every channel was carrying the same story.

ALIEN CRAFT CRASH-LANDS IN THE UNITED STATES. AMERICA AND REST OF WORLD REACHES OUT TO EMBRACE INHABITANTS OF ANOTHER PLANET LOST IN SPACE.

How naive. How completely typical of our race, I thought. They would soon learn. They would witness the spectacle on television as reports came in from a smattering of cities. Ships landing, supposedly to locate the first one that had fallen off course. By the time their search was completed two dozen ships would have canvassed most of the earth’s surface. Satellites picked up their movement in our atmosphere but since we could not communicate with them, we could only wait. And we did. And as we did, we became more comfortable with those first dozen Dremlins. It all seemed so innocent, so much of what we all wanted to happen.

They would learn. First about the howling in the night, then all day long. They would learn not to look or hear and most importantly not to listen to the rumors of what these creatures were living off of. Smaller animals, some said. Rats and mice, others said with a note of appreciation. Dogs and cats was the most common speculation. And through it all, no one recognized a flesh eater for what it was.

I watched attentively on my television until I could no longer keep my eyes open. I recalled every event that took place from the first encounter to the first military interaction when the first warning was given and the first human life was taken.

I turned to the calendar on my kitchen wall. I had five months, maybe a little more before the purge began. I would live my life to the fullest in that time. I would take deep breaths, walk up to strangers, and tell them how important it was to live life to the fullest.

I would play in the park. I would divest myself of all my savings and travel and when my meager wealth was gone, go into debt until the very end. I would sing and dance and try to find someone who believed me and in our closeness share the need to wring every ounce of life out of the time remaining.

I would live as if there were no tomorrow, if only because I knew that there wasn’t.

 

– end –

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Published by Associate Editor on June 1, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 26, Issue 26 Stories

Bluebeard

By Molly Lazer

bluebeardIf you were to turn the hourglass back eighty years, long before you and I walked the forest paths of the Vale, when King Philip’s grandfather ruled over Colandaria, you would find the stream in the woods running in the same direction it does now, slow enough that children could chase after their wooden boats as the current took them away. The mists still sat low to the ground, snaking around the trees and hiding small forest creatures from predators overhead. And on most days, you would find Anelle sitting at her loom in her mother’s small house, hands flying across the frame as she pushed her shuttle through the warp.

By the time Anelle was twenty-one, she had woven thirty-six tapestries taller than her father. One, which showed knights battling a large dragon, hung in Lord Briadach’s front hall. She didn’t know where the others were displayed, but she hoped they gave pleasure to their owners.

Anelle watched her two older sisters marry at sixteen. Now she waited for her turn to stand with gold and silver threads twining her hands together with her husband’s. Summers passed, but her turn never came.

* * *

She heard about him first from Kira.

“They call him Bluebeard. He’s not handsome, but he’s rich. He spent five hundred lil on a fortepiano and another hundred to have the shop boys carry it to his cart for him. And he’s from the Vale! He’s young, too. Young enough, anyway.”

With her delicate, bird-like features, Kira flitted from suitor to suitor. She had already turned twenty, and her mother worried that if she didn’t settle, she would grow old alone.

“Did you speak with this Bluebeard?” Anelle asked, taking the scarlet threads that her friend brought from the Market and winding them around her shuttle

“No. There was something cold about him. I was afraid to.”

“But you think he’d be right for me?” Anelle poked Kira in the ribs so she laughed. “You think I’d be happy with the ugly, cold, rich man? We could spend evenings sitting by the fire so he could warm up, not saying a word. He sounds perfect!”

Kira stopped laughing. “It would be better than nothing, wouldn’t it?”

* * *

She saw him a week later at Lord Briadach’s ball. Kira pointed him out as the girls gazed into the crowd of whirling dancers. There were faces Anelle recognized—sons and daughters of the lords and ladies her mother would visit, girls she played with when she was a child. Lord Briadach stood on the other side of the room, one hand on his large belly as he spoke to a tall stranger in a midnight blue tunic. Kira leaned her head on Anelle’s shoulder. “It’s him.”

“Look at you!” Anelle exclaimed, “Lovesick over the cold, ugly man!”

As if her words had been carried over the crowd, the stranger turned and met her gaze. Anelle’s breath caught in her throat. His face was long and thin, and his hair and beard were so black they shone blue in the glow of the candles on the walls. His eyes were pale and frozen. She shivered.

The stranger bid farewell to Lord Briadach and crossed towards the girls. Briadach followed, making his own way through the crowd.

“I’m going to talk to him. How do I look?” Kira twirled. Her golden skirt spread out around her.

“Fine,” Anelle said, distracted as the man wove between the waltzing couples.

“Here I go.” Kira squeezed Anelle’s hand for luck and set off to meet the stranger halfway across the ballroom. Anelle called out, but her friend had already disappeared into the throng. The man wasn’t coming for Kira. Anelle could feel it deep in her chest. He was coming for her.

“Enjoying yourself?” Lord Briadach’s deep voice made Anelle jump.

“It’s a lovely ball,” she said. “The musicians are wonderful.”

Briadach chuckled. “They are, aren’t they? They can’t hold a candle to my boy, though. I almost have him convinced to take a turn at the crwth tonight.”

“Aidan is here?” Anelle asked. She played with Amena, Lord Briadach’s daughter, when they were younger. But Aidan had been older, wanting nothing to do with girls and their games.

“He came home in the spring,” Briadach said. “He’d been studying for so long I barely remembered what he looked like. When I was his age, I had a wife and family, but Aidan has his books and music.” Briadach scratched his moustache. “There have been ladies, but‒”

Lady Rowena appeared behind her husband. “Is Briadach boring you?” she asked, giving him a playful kiss on the cheek. “You’re scaring off all of this lovely young woman’s suitors. How is your mother, Anelle?”

“She’s well, thank you. She’s sorry that she couldn’t come tonight. She’s on her way to the Summit. My sister is due to give birth in a few weeks.”

“Wonderful news,” Rowena said. “Goddess bless the mother and child.”

Another childhood friend passed by and asked Anelle to dance. With a nod of encouragement from the Lord and Lady, she took his hand. As he led her out to the floor, she glimpsed Kira’s gold dress shining as she danced with the dark stranger. He was surprisingly graceful given his long, reedy limbs, and he twirled Kira with practiced ease. After one turn around the floor, Anelle decided that she was wrong. There was some color in his cheeks after all.

Later in the evening, Lord Briadach climbed onto the musicians’ platform and spread his arms to his guests. “My friends,” he said. “We invited you tonight to celebrate our son’s homecoming. He’s been gone five years, and we’re overjoyed to have him back in the Vale. Aidan, come up here.” With reluctance in his step, the young man came out of the crowd. Candlelight glinted off his blue-black hair.

“Bluebeard?” Anelle said. Kira blushed next to her.

Aidan shook his father’s hand and took a seat next to the musicians. The lead player handed him a crwth. The pale wood glowed against his dark tunic as he leaned the bridge against his shoulder. Anelle drew in a breath as his bow touched the strings. As the music washed over her, she pictured rain falling on the gently rolling hills of the Vale, the water bubbling out of the ground, making an ocean of the grass.

The crowd remained silent after Aidan finished. Anelle wiped away a tear. The only one who seemed unaffected by the song was Aidan himself, who gazed out at the crowd with a numb expression. Lady Rowena started to clap, and the mood broke. Aidan smiled and embraced his mother. It was a strange, slow smile, as though he were just learning how to turn the corners of his mouth up and show happiness.

Briadach nodded to the musicians, and they began to play again, a jolly reel this time. By the end of the night, Anelle battled exhaustion. She pulled Kira out of the crowd and told her it was time to go.

“Aidan asked me to stay. He’s going to play the fortepiano.” Kira glanced back at where Aidan stood, speaking with his parents.

Anelle could see the delight in her friend’s eyes.

“All right. Send word in the morning that you got home safely.”

“I will.” Kira bounded off with a skip and a wave, leaving Anelle to search out someone with whom she could ride the dark forest paths home.

* * *

Kira sent word that Aidan invited her to his estate, a quarter-day’s journey from Lord Briadach’s home at the Vale proper. Anelle knew the house; she passed it when she took the northeastern path on her long walks through the woods to find the plants she used to dye her threads.

She heard from her friend infrequently after that, as Kira spent more time with Aidan and bare winter branches sprouted spring buds. Anelle filled her days sitting in front of her loom. Her mind, most of the time, was elsewhere.

When she finished her weaving, she took the tapestries to the Market. She made the day-and-a-half-long trip once each season, loading her cart and setting out hours before dawn. When she was young, her father took her to the Market, hoisting her up to sit beside him on the wagon seat. Now, she made the journey down the shady paths of the Vale, along the border of the Runes, and past the Castle alone.

Anelle arrived at the Market in the evening and set up camp with the other wagons at the edge of the forest. She made small talk with the people around her and joined a family from the Ken at their fire for supper. Before going to sleep, she tied a string of bells around her wagon so that she would wake up if thieves came during the night. She slept with her head on a sack of yarn.

In the morning, Anelle found Madylen setting up her table. Madylen came to the Market twice each month to sell hides that she and her sisters tanned. Once each season—just before the Solstices and just after the Equinoxes—Madylen cleared off half her stand so Anelle could lay out her tapestries.

The Market was jammed with customers. Anelle’s stomach rumbled as the scent of the breads, meats, and spices being sold a few aisles away wafted over the crowd. She regretted only eating a slice of bread and a piece of cheese for breakfast. Music sounded from the gold entertainment tent, and when no one browsed their wares, Anelle and Madelyn danced to the bright rhythms, twirling each other around and laughing. They ducked under the table when explosions sounded from the other side of the Market and glittering smoke blew up into the air. Anelle had been down that strange, mystical aisle where casual Market-goers did not venture. The magics were beautiful, but Anelle always went home empty-handed.

After the midday meal, the mood among the vendors shifted. Anelle had to shout to be heard over the vendor across from her, who was selling cloth that he loudly advertised as the smoothest satin in all Colandaria.

Madylen haggled with a servant from the Summit over the price of an elk hide.

“My lord said I should only spend thirty.”

“It’s worth at least sixty.”

“I won’t pay a lil over thirty-five.”

Anelle leaned over Madylen’s side of the stand. “Make it sixty, and she’ll throw in one of the horns. Or take the hide and both horns for seventy-five.”

The servant dug into his sack for the coins.

“That hide was worth forty, at best,” Anelle said once he left.

Madylen shrugged. “He didn’t know that. You have a customer.”

Anelle turned and was ensnared by pale eyes and blue-black hair. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“Anelle!” Kira, who Anelle hadn’t noticed hanging on Aidan’s arm, bounded around the stand to give her a hug.

“You look beautiful!” Anelle said. Kira stood back so Anelle could admire her dress, an expensive blue satin affair. Everything about her seemed more refined.

“Thanks,” Kira said, taking Aidan’s arm again. “We’ve been well.” He smiled at her, and Anelle was ashamed of her jealousy. “Aidan,” Kira said, “this is Anelle, one of my oldest friends.”

“I remember you from the ball,” he said. “It’s nice to see you again.” His voice sounded like the music of the crwth, textured and melodious, if slightly harsh. Anelle thought that if she closed her eyes and covered her ears, she would still be able to feel his words prickling at her skin.

Aidan ran his hand over one of the tapestries on the table. “Ah, yes,” he murmured. “The weaver. My father has one of your pieces in his hall.”

“It was one of the first ones I ever finished,” Anelle said.

“You’ve improved since then. How much do you charge for the large ones?”

Anelle glanced at the tapestry hanging behind her, which showed lords and ladies at a ball. She was proud of the way the ladies’ skirts twirled off the threads. But her pride changed to horror as she noticed for the first time the tall, lanky man playing the fortepiano behind the dancers. She vaguely remembered winding the inky black threads for his hair around the shuttle. If Aidan noticed his image, he didn’t show it.

“A hundred and fifty lil,” Anelle stammered.

“I’ll give you seventy-five,” Aidan said, and they began the usual dance between customer and vendor.

“A hundred thirty.”

“Eighty.”

“A hundred twenty.”

“Eighty-five,” Aidan said. “I won’t go any higher.”

“She’ll take it.”

Anelle tore herself away from Aidan’s gaze to look at Madylen. “What?”

“Eighty-five. She’ll take it.”

Aidan pulled the coins out of his pocket. Madylen took the tapestry down, rolled it up, and shoved it at Kira as Aidan poured his payment into her outstretched hand.

“Thank you,” he said. “It’s lovely.”

Madylen said, “Have a good day,” and waved Aidan and Kira away. As they left, Kira said she would visit Anelle soon. Aidan smiled at Anelle over his shoulder, and they disappeared back into the crowd.

“What was that for?” she asked Madylen, trying to mask her disappointment at Aidan’s departure. “You were rude to my customers, and you cost me fifteen lil! You know I don’t go lower than a hundred on the big ones.”

Madylen grumbled as she pulled three five-lil pieces from a box under the stand. “Here,” she said. “I couldn’t have that man standing here any longer.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s something wrong with him. I didn’t recognize him right away, but he courted my cousin a few years ago.”

“What happened?”

Madylen shook her head. “My aunt and uncle won’t talk about it. Tell your friend to stay away.”

Anelle caught a glimpse of the Aidan and Kira a few aisles away, arms intertwined, her head resting on his shoulder.

“Are you sure it’s the same man?”

Hatred shone in Madylen’s eyes. “Bluebeard? Oh, yes.” She got up as a customer approached the stand. “Excuse me,” she said and began to bargain.

* * *

Kira didn’t visit that week. When a fortnight had gone by with no message, Anelle began to worry. She shrugged off her unease—Kira was probably off somewhere with Aidan—and threw herself into weaving. But Madylen’s warning weighed on her. When a month passed, Anelle rode to Kira’s house.

Bronwyn, Kira’s mother, always kept the windows of their house open whenever the sun was out. Now, they were closed, and dark cloth hung over the glass. Anelle knocked three times before the door opened.

Bronwyn stood in the doorway. She looked thinner than Anelle remembered.

“Good day,” Anelle stammered.

“Is it?” Bronwyn asked. Anelle didn’t know how to answer.

“Is Kira home?”

“She’s taken ill.”

Anelle tried to look past Bronwyn’s shoulder. “Can I see her?”

Bronwyn shook her head. “You have to leave. I’m sorry.”

“But I—”

Bronwyn’s shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry.” She shut the door.

Three successive visits to Kira’s house met with the same result. Bronwyn looked more haggard each time she came to the door.

Desperate, Anelle turned to the northeastern path. Forest mist rose up from the ground, disturbed by her horse’s swift gallop. Aidan’s estate was set off from the path behind a grove of ash trees. She imagined that the mica in its stone walls might sparkle if the sun were out, but in the dull light of the grey sky, the house was foreboding.

She brought her horse to the stable and tied him to a post inside. The stallion in the first stall kicked over its water bucket, angry at the intrusion. Anelle stroked her horse’s mane and whispered reassurance. He looked at her as if he knew that her words were as much for herself as they were for him.

The grey estate was dark, eerily similar to Kira’s house. Anelle knocked on the large oak door.

The skies opened up as she waited for an answer.

“Aidan?” she called, trying to shield herself from the rain. “It’s Anelle, Kira’s friend.”

The house was silent. The door swung open when Anelle pushed at it.

She held her hands in front of her so that she wouldn’t bump into anything as she stepped into the dark house and called Aidan’s name. Just as she was about return to the stable to wait for the rain to let up, a soft glow caught her eye. She passed through a library, and, ducking under a thick drape, she stepped into the next room. Candles flickered in sconces on the walls. Aidan sat in front of the fortepiano with his fingers resting on the keys. His face was drawn and pale.

“Aidan?” Anelle said. He didn’t look up. “Do you know where Kira is? I haven’t seen her in a month. Her mother says she’s sick, but she won’t let me see her.”

Aidan didn’t respond. Anelle wanted to shake him.

“Where is Kira?” she repeated, more forcefully this time.

He looked up at her. His eyes were lifeless, his face slack and grey, completely devoid of emotion.

“Who?”

Anelle’s knees buckled. She reached for something to hold onto, and her hand brushed against a hanging on the wall. Without turning around, she recognized the careful pattern of the threads as her own.

“Kira,” she said. Aidan looked at her blankly. “My friend. The girl you’re courting.”

A memory flickered in his eye.

“She’s gone,” he said in a scratched monotone.

“Gone where?”

“She ended things with me.” Aidan pressed his index finger down on one of the fortepiano keys, and the note resonated through the room. He stared at the instrument, amazed.

Anelle rubbed her temples, trying to suppress her frustration. “Did you know she’s sick?”

He shook his head, but Anelle couldn’t tell whether he was saying yes or no. The candlelight created dark hollows under his eyes.

Anelle pressed her hand to his forehead. Her fingers froze, and he shrunk away. She imagined Kira at home, covered in boils, her skin turned black and flaking off, or laying in bed, unresponsive, with hollows under her unfeeling eyes, cold to the touch. Maybe Bronwyn had sent for a healer. Maybe she had given up and was sitting by Kira’s bed, waiting for the inevitable. Anelle wondered if the same thoughts were running through Aidan’s mind, or if he was even thinking at all.

Bronwyn wouldn’t let Anelle into her house, but Aidan had left his front door open.

All she could do was focus on what was in front of her.

“Come on,” she said, putting her arm around Aidan’s waist and standing him up. “You’re freezing.” He leaned heavily against her, and his head fell sideways to rest against hers. Anelle flushed at the softness of his hair on her cheek and was overcome with the feeling that, even if their relationship really was over, she was betraying Kira simply by being in Aidan’s house. His legs wobbled as she walked him out of the music room, and she forced her focus on keeping him balanced.

She wondered where the servants were as she fumbled through dirty pots until she found one clean enough to make soup with the meager ingredients Aidan had in his kitchen. The barley and yellowseed broth did little to warm him up, but Anelle thought she saw a bit of color return to his cheeks after he ate.

As night fell, Anelle curled up on the lyre chair across from the divan on which Aidan lay in the parlor. His shoulders and hips cut sharp angles under his blanket. Anelle was sure that she could hurt him with just a touch.

She asked, “How do you feel?”

His eyes were closed. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“It’s okay.”

“Sorry,” he whispered, and Anelle thought she saw a smile flicker onto his face as he fell asleep. “…I’m feeling…”

* * *

The sun cast bright rectangles on the stone floor. Anelle’s back twinged with pain from sleeping on the lyre chair. Aidan was still asleep. His resting form reminded Anelle of her empty loom; if she picked the right color and texture of yarn, she could weave him into whomever she wanted. But when he opened his eyes, Anelle knew that his pattern was already woven with a stubborn attention to detail.

She made sure that the candles were lit in the evening and the windows opened during the day. Without her weaving, her hands ached for something to do. She spent mornings tending to the garden behind the estate, mining its rows for potatoes, onions, and sweet maplemoss that she could make into a hearty stew. Afternoons were spent paging through the books in Aidan’s library. She slept in an extra bedchamber with a painting of Lord Briadach and Lady Rowena on the wall.

As the lord and lady stared at her, their smiling faces unchanged from morning to morning, Anelle wondered what she was doing at Aidan’s estate. What would her sisters think of her waking up in a bed that was not her own? What would her mother think of the fact that she was alone with a strange man? What would Kira—Anelle pushed away thoughts of her friend. When Kira was well, she would send word. Until then, Anelle could not help her.

Anelle’s sisters were busy with husbands and travels and babies. Her mother was too wrapped up in the arrival of her first grandchild to return home until after the Summer Solstice. Anelle was alone but for the man for whom Madelyn had shown such distain.

After a fortnight, Anelle came in from the garden to discover Aidan missing from his place on the divan. Her nervous search ended in the stable, where she found him bent over, cleaning the stalls. He stood up, cheeks flushed, brushed the hair out of his eyes, and nodded to her before returning to his task. Later in the evening, she found him collapsed on the divan, overwhelmed by his own determination.

The servants, two men and a woman, returned with the new moon. When Anelle asked where they were, the woman told her Aidan sent them to the Summit to find books for his library.

“All of you?” Anelle asked.

The woman shrugged, and Anelle sensed that this was not an uncommon occurrence.

“Aidan can fend for himself,” she said and went back to cleaning. Anelle pictured him weak and unresponsive and was sure the truth was otherwise. The servants never asked her to explain her presence at the house.

Without housekeeping to do, there was no need for Anelle to remain at the estate, but she could not bring herself to leave. The servants left her to garden, and the plot flourished under her care. On a cool morning, as she dug in the dirt, Anelle heard the glassy sound of the crwth floating from the window. That night, she sat in the dining room instead of taking her supper in her bedroom. Aidan sat across from her with the barest hint of a smile on his face.

“I heard you playing,” she said. Aidan’s pale eyes met hers. “It was lovely.”

He looked back down at his food. “Thank you.”

The next day, dark clouds threatened, erasing Anelle’s thoughts of returning home. Aidan mentioned at dinner that he’d noticed Anelle’s horse limping when he was in the stable. She wouldn’t be able to ride for at least a week. They looked at each other across the table, not saying anything else as they ate.

She became aware of Aidan watching her as she moved around the house. One evening, she found him sitting in the drawing room with a chessboard in front of him. She sat down and picked up a white pawn to make her first move. He asked about her family, and she told him about her mother, who couldn’t contain her excitement at the birth of her first grandchild, and about her oldest sister, who had traveled past the Farlands with her husband and returned with stories of deep canyons, purple sunsets, and people who could shoot sparks from their fingertips. “And your father?” Aidan asked.

Anelle rolled her rook between her fingers. “He passed last summer. He fell from the roof.” She brushed her cheek with the back of her hand. Even though it had been some time, the hurt at her father’s passing still seemed new. Aidan stared at her, and silence thickened the room.

Anelle slid the rook across the board to capture one of Aidan’s knights. “Papa loved the roof. He would go up there just to watch the clouds go by.”

“He sounds like a good man.”

“He was. What about your family?”

“You know them.”

“Not like you do.”

“My father is a loon, but he means well. He’s much smarter than people give him credit for. My mother is his oldest friend. They never tire of each other. I envy them.” He seemed surprised at this admission. It was the most she’d heard him say at one time.

“And Amena?”

Aidan took her rook with his other knight. “She’s married and living by the water in the Ken. I visited her while I was studying. She’s very happy. You knew her, didn’t you?”

“We played when we were girls.”

He looked up at the ceiling, eyes half-closed, a smile creeping onto his face. “Yes,” he said, “I knew it when I saw you at the ball. You were familiar, but I couldn’t place you. I remember the two of you playing by the river at my parents’ house. You’d always play at—what was it?”

“Being sailors,” Anelle said. “We had grand adventures. We even found some treasure. But as I recall, you never wanted to join.”

“No. You and Amena always ended up covered in mud. I didn’t want to get my books dirty.” He laughed, a strange guttural sound that caused Anelle to erupt in giggles.

“That’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh,” she choked out.

“I forgot what it felt like.” He studied her face until she had to turn away. “I remember you with your hair plaited all the way down your back. There was one strand in the front that would always break free.” He reached over the chessboard and tucked the stray lock behind her ear. “Some things don’t change.”

Anelle looked down at the game, blushing. She moved her queen to his side of the board.

“Checkmate.”

* * *

They talked about the books Anelle read and the flowers and vegetables in the garden. When it rained, Aidan taught her melodies on the fortepiano. She watched as he leaned into the instrument, his fingers dancing across the keys, reminding Anelle of her surprise at how gracefully he’d moved at the ball. On sunny days, she showed him how to make dyes from flowers in the woods. Their hands were stained ochre for days.

He rode with her back to her house to fetch clothing and her loom. There was a moment of hesitation before they returned to his estate, as if they both realized the absurdity of her staying at his house when her own was so close by. This time, there was no storm, no fog, no coming night or lame horse to keep her. The pieces of her loom were wrapped up in a cloth under his arm.

“Are you ready?” he asked. She nodded.

They did not talk about Kira.

When a thunderstorm shook his house, they sat on the divan, knees touching, using their laps as a table for the chessboard. The next evening, Aidan took Anelle up to the top floor of the house, cracked open a window in the roof, and hoisted himself outside.

He extended his hand into back the room. Anelle balked, unable to decide if he was being callous.

“My father–” Tears stung at the corners of her eyes.

“You said he loved going on the roof.”

“Yes, but–”

A wonderful, innocent smile played on his mouth, but not in his eyes. There was an emptiness in him that she couldn’t grasp. Sometimes she thought she had it, had him, but then whatever was lacking fell further away. He hadn’t thought that going on the roof would cause her pain. But it did. And she went anyway.

She took his hand, letting him help her up. The Vale spread out before them, the mists on the ground making the forest floor glow blue. The sky burned crimson. Aidan lay on his back, staring up at the purple clouds streaking the horizon.

“I can see why your father liked this,” he said.

Anelle pointed out constellations and told stories she learned from her father of how foolish birds, wise kings, and lithe fairies came to be hung in the heavens.

Aidan propped himself up on one elbow. “You’re always doing that. Weaving. Tapestries or stories, it doesn’t matter.”

Anelle brushed her hair back behind her ears. “Tapestries and stories have minds of their own. I just bring them to life. Each color or texture says something different, and even if I choose the wrong one, it’s a happy accident. I end up with something that’s different from what I intended, but whatever comes out is right. It’s like your music.”

Aidan watched a sparrow fly overhead, silhouetted on the moon. “Not exactly. The wrong notes are the ones people will remember. I can’t unplay a mistake. I have to get it right the first time.”

“Aidan,” Anelle said, “how is it that you’re almost thirty and you’re not married?”

He didn’t answer. She rolled over to look at him. He lay on his back, his face a mixture of tension and confusion.

“Why is it,” he asked in return, “that I’ve been well for more than a month and you’re still here?”

The questions hung between them, thickening the air.

 

 

With the Summer Solstice and another trip to the Market approaching, Anelle focused on her tapestries and thought about going home. Her threads wove a turbulent ocean with a ship rolling in the waves. She had only seen the sea in pictures, so she let her imagination fill in the gaps. She made a point to show clear sky in the distance to give her sailors hope.

The evening before she left for the Market, Aidan sat next to her as she tied off the fringe at the bottom of her loom.

“I was married,” he said. “You asked why I wasn’t married. I was, once. She ended it.”

“I’m sorry,” Anelle said.

Aidan’s voice was strangely emotionless, as though he were talking about something that had happened to someone else. “We were young. She was lovely in her wedding dress.”

When he didn’t continue, she began to remove the completed tapestry from her loom.

“And you?” he asked, inflection returning to his voice. “I answered your question. You answer mine. Why are you still here?”

Anelle folded the tapestry, avoiding his eyes for fear he’d see how nervous she had become. She was overcome with the sensation that something significant was about to happen. “I’m not,” she said. “I’m going to the Market tomorrow.”

“Are you coming back?”

Anelle traced the line of one of the waves crashing across the tapestry. “Do you want me to?”

He covered her hand with his.

“Yes.”

“Yes,” she repeated. She reached up and placed her hand on his cheek. He shuddered for a moment, and his eyes gleamed with something that might have been wonder. He leaned into her.

His beard tickled her chin.

* * *

At the Market, Madylen remarked upon Anelle’s good mood. Anelle only said that things were going well as she sold another tapestry.

“Your friend who was with Bluebeard. How is she?” Madylen asked as the girls sat around Anelle’s fire at the end of the day. She unbraided her long, red hair and began to comb through the snarls. “Say she left him.”

Anelle tore a piece of bread off of the loaf she bought as the Market closed. “She left him.”

“She got out in one piece?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“She’s sick. I haven’t seen her since the Equinox. Her mother wouldn’t let me. But I think she did something to Aidan. He was strange after she left.”

“You saw him?”

Anelle nodded, and Madylen read the guilt on her face.

“You’re not‒?” She took Anelle’s hand. “Please, don’t.”

Anelle was silent.

 

 

Aidan was in the music room when she returned to the Vale. They sat side-by-side at the fortepiano.

“Play with me?” he asked. She began to tap out one of the melodies he’d taught her in counterpoint to his more complex song. She thought about the fear in Madelyn’s eyes when she said goodbye that morning and hit a series of wrong notes.

Aidan stopped playing. “Were those ‘happy accidents?’” he laughed.

Anelle looked at him. She thought about the two months she spent in his house and made the decision once more to focus on what was in front of her, what she could see, and what she felt.

“Very happy.”

But a seed of doubt had been planted in the back of her mind. Before the new moon, she would try to see Kira.

* * *

“I have to go.” Aidan walked into his bedchamber. “My father invited me to the Vale proper.”

Anelle looked up from her book. Aidan sat on the bed and put on his boots.

“Do you want me to come with you?” she asked. He lay back so that his head rested on her lap. She combed her fingers through his hair.

“It’s going to be a group of old men. My mother won’t even be there. You’d be bored. I think I’m going to be bored.”

“Fine.” Anelle pushed him off her. “I’ll stay here, all by my lonesome.”

Aidan pulled a key ring out of his pocket. “So you can lock the door if you go anywhere. The house key is the big one.”

Anelle twirled the ring around her finger. “And the little gold one?”

Aidan stood and turned towards the door. “You don’t need it.”

“What does it open?”

He didn’t look at her when he answered, so quietly that she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right.

“My heart.”

“What?”

“You don’t need to use that key, I said.”

“No.” Anelle got out of the bed. “You said it opened your—”

He pulled her towards him, pressing her hands to his chest. “So don’t use it,” he said forcefully, then, softening, “because you’re already here.”

After he left, Anelle dressed and set about her chores in the garden. She kept the keys on a chain around her neck. She threaded her loom, finished her book, and went for a walk in the forest, locking the front door behind her. By evening, she found herself pacing back and forth in the drawing room. She glanced her loom, but it held no interest. The forbidden key pulsed against her chest.

She counted rooms in her head: the drawing room, music room, library, kitchen, two bedchambers, the servants’ quarters. None of these had doors that locked. She grabbed a candle off of the wall. Guilt burrowed into her heart as she searched for a hidden door. She found it on the top floor in the corner where the moonlight from the window in the roof would never reach.

She fit the key into the lock.

She thought about Madylen and her cousin and about Kira. Even though she didn’t want to, she thought about Aidan’s wife, lovely in her wedding dress. Finally, she thought of Aidan. He asked her not to, trusted her not to. But that part of him that was missing–whatever it was–lay behind the door. She couldn’t do without it anymore.

Anelle turned the key.

Her candle had almost burned out. She winced as wax dripped onto her skin. The dark room stank of fetid, old metal. A broken, twisted form covered by a sheet rested on a low platform in the center of the room. As Anelle approached, what she had thought to be a shroud revealed itself as a long, white dress, stained dark red. The woman’s blonde hair, caked with gore, covered her face. Gold and silver wedding threads sliced into her wrists.

Anelle stumbled backwards as bile rose in her throat. She dropped the keys, which splashed into a pool of viscous liquid. Cold fingers brushed her neck. She wheeled around to face another form leaning up against the wall, head tilted at an unnatural angle and red hair cascading onto the floor. A jagged stump of bone protruded from the shoulder where an arm should have been. Anelle tripped over the missing limb as she went for the door, falling and landing hard against the ground. Her candle flew out of her hands and rolled into the center of the room.

There were nine bodies, bloody and mangled. Light shone on a figure in a blue dress slumped in the corner with a single gash across her cheek. Kira’s cold eyes stared back at Anelle as the candle shuddered and went out.

Anelle felt along the floor. Her fingers brushed against fabric, hard and crusted with dried blood, against hair and cold, waxy flesh, and, finally, against the doorway as she crawled back into the attic. She ran down the stairs and out of the house, gasping to fill herself with sweet evening air. The image of Kira, cold and alone but for her eight silent sisters, floated in front of her.

Anelle’s horse perked up as she ran into the stable and threw a saddle on his back. Wind tossed her hair as they galloped down the forest path. As soon as she could see Kira’s house, she leapt off her mount, ran across the clearing, and pounded on the door.

“Bronwyn!” she shouted. “Open up!”

Anelle heard soft voices as someone approached from inside. Bronwyn threw the door open.

“Goddess, girl, it’s the dead of night!”

Anelle’s hand flew to her chest to stop her heart from fluttering out.

“You said Kira was sick! She’s dead and locked up in a closet in the attic!”

“What are you blathering on about? Kira is here.”

“No,” Anelle stammered, “She was dead and there was a gash on her cheek and—”

“Kira is here.” Bronwyn placed a gentle hand on Anelle’s shoulder. “See for yourself.”

“Anelle?” A weak voice came from inside. Bronwyn stood aside as Anelle rushed by. Kira sat in bed, hair ringed by moonlight from the window behind her.

“Kira! But I just saw you‒”

Kira’s arms were pale and thin, covered with the fresh scars of pox marks. Her shoulders jutted out under her nightdress as she leaned forward to take Anelle’s hands.

“What are you doing here so late?” she asked.

“I thought you were dead,” Anelle said as a mixture of relief and confusion flooded through her. “I saw your body.”

“I’m not. I had the pox. I don’t remember much of it. But Mama took care of me. She said you came by a few times. I’m sorry she wouldn’t let you in. She was afraid you’d get sick, too. What happened? Did you have a dream?”

“No!” Anelle said, much louder than she’d intended. Bronwyn came into the room with a cup of tea and encouraged Anelle to sit.

“At Aidan’s house,” Anelle said, gritting her teeth. “There’s a room in the attic, and you’re in it. You’re dead.”

“Well, I’m not.” Kira laughed nervously. “I haven’t been at Aidan’s since a fortnight after we saw you at the Market. I was starting to feel sick, and he never noticed. I told him I wouldn’t be coming back.” Kira gazed at Anelle with amused suspicion. “Why were you there?”

Anelle’s hands trembled, and she fought not to spill her tea.

“I sent a message to your house when Mama said I could have visitors. Did you get it?”

“No,” Anelle said. “I haven’t been at home.” She ran her thumb around the edge of the cup. “Did you ever go up to Aidan’s attic?”

“Why would I?”

Hot tea splashed onto Anelle’s hand as she placed the cup next to the bed.

“I have to go.” She leaned over and kissed Kira’s forehead. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. And I’m sorry that I didn’t come around for so long. I’ve been—” She closed her eyes and Aidan smiled his wonderful, unreachable smile before the image decayed into something horrific. “I have to go. I’ll come again soon, I promise.”

She bid farewell to Bronwyn and guided her horse away with her hands locked around the reins. The horse trotted instinctually down the path back to Aidan’s estate, and Anelle turned him away.

Her mother’s house was almost unfamiliar as she put her horse back in his old stall. He whinnied, unhappy about the stale oats that had been in his bucket for the last two months. Anelle stroked his neck, promising she’d get him something fresh in the morning.

Rainwater streaked the windows. Anelle imagined her mother’s words of chastisement at how neglectful she had been. She picked up a paper stuck under the door. Was sick, the note said in Kira’s careful handwriting. Am getting better. Come by. ~K. Anelle folded the parchment and went inside. She walked through the rooms, brushing her hands over dusty tables. Leaving her dress on the floor beside her, she crawled into bed, pulled the blanket up to her chin, and stared up at the ceiling. For the first time that night, she cried.

* * *

It was all Anelle could do not to think about the hidden room as she spent the next day cleaning her mother’s house. She had come to think of Aidan’s estate as her home, comfortable and warm. Now, her memory made the structure dark and dismal. She had discovered what the house had secreted away and feared that there was worse yet to find within its master.

The dress that she wore the day before lay at the foot of her bed; the hem was caked with blood. A sob caught in her throat. She ran to the river that cut across her family’s land. No matter how much she pounded it against the rocks, the stain would not come out. As the sun set, she realized how much time had passed since she came down to the water. Her fingers were wrinkled, and the hem of the tainted dress was in tatters. She stared at the stream rushing below her and felt terribly alone.

Anelle hooked her hair behind her ears and turned towards the northeastern path.

* * *

The stairs creaked as she walked up to the attic, carrying a candle from the drawing room. Her shadow loomed in the narrow stairway. The door to the hidden room was still wide open. Decaying scents permeated the attic.

Kira’s body slumped against the far wall, wearing the same dress that she had worn when Anelle had seen her with Aidan at the Market. Anelle crouched on the floor before the corpse and touched its face. The skin was solid, waxy, and cold, but the body bore no signs of harm other than the gash across its cheek. Kira may have been alive and well, but this body was undeniably hers. As Anelle looked around the room, she tried to remember if Madylen said if her cousin was alive; the red-haired corpse on the opposite wall bore too strong a resemblance not to be her relation.

“Anelle?”

The voice came from downstairs. Aidan was home.

He called again, this time from the second floor. The stairs creaked as he ascended. Snuffing her candle, Anelle pressed herself into the shadows in the corner of the crypt.

Aidan stopped in front of the open door. His candle illuminated his hands and face, which crumpled as he looked into the room. “No…” he whispered. His breath blew out the flame for a moment before it caught again. He picked something up from the ground. Anelle saw the keys he had given her two days before, sticky with blood. He clutched the ring to his chest, streaking his tunic with the blood that covered the house key. From her hidden corner, Anelle could see that, just like her ruined dress, the key to the crypt remained tarnished no matter how much he rubbed at it.

Aidan’s motions became frantic, and he cried out as the metal ripped through the fabric and bit into his skin. With an anguished yell, he threw the keys against the wall, where they bounced off the stone and landed in the lap of a raven-haired corpse.

He walked with leaden steps towards the platform in the center of the room. Anelle shrank back against the wall to stay in the shadows. Aidan sat, regarding his wife’s bloodied body with indifference, and buried his face in his hands. He murmured Anelle’s name, sending a shiver down her back.

Aidan wiped at the tears that streaked his cheeks and spoke in what sounded like a foreign tongue, repeating the incantation with a rising cadence. The candlelight intensified as he spoke.

Thunder sounded inside the room, and Aidan’s body arced violently backwards. His candle fell to the floor. His eyes froze to the ceiling, and his arms spread wide as light shot forth from his chest. As the glow shifted above him, a female form swam in the air, made of light, dust, and starstuff. Aidan shook as the figure solidified. The form’s hair, which darkened to a reddish brown, waved about as though it were underwater. Her hands clutched at his chest.

Aidan’s face twisted as he contorted his torso in an effort to make the spectre relinquish her hold. A scarlet stain crept down the front of her dress. Blood sprayed across the floor as violent slashes appeared on her cheeks, but her expression remained loving. Her face floated down to brush against his cheek with a ghostly kiss. Aidan tried to pull away. His movement bent the spirit’s hands in an impossible angle. With a terrible snap, one of her fingers broke off, flying across the room to land next to Anelle.

She stared in horror at the broken digit. Without realizing what she was doing, she picked it up. The finger was warm and soft, like it was made of real flesh and bone. Blood dripped from the severed end onto her palm. She shoved it into the pocket of her dress as Aidan screamed again and panic rose inside her.

With a final cry, Aidan broke free, the spirit expelled. They both dropped to the floor. Aidan’s face smashed into the stone, and his nose gushed blood. The spectre, now solid, thudded to the ground with her neck bent at an odd angle. Anelle rushed over and rolled Aidan onto his side. His face was cold as she brushed his cheek with her fingers. He moaned. Anelle crawled back to the corner of the room, wrapped her arms around her knees, and rocked back and forth. Aidan’s body shook as he raised himself up, mechanically wiping away the blood that dripped from his nose. He stumbled out of the room with all the grace of a marionette with half its strings cut.

When she was sure he was gone, Anelle went to the new corpse. Her front was covered in crimson blood that was warm on Anelle’s fingers. She wore a gown the color of new grass, edged in cream-colored lace. Anelle recognized it as the one she had worn at Lord Briadach’s ball. She smoothed back the corpse’s thick, brown-red hair and found herself staring into her own lifeless green eyes.

She wanted to scream. She was staring into a mirror of what could be, where how she felt on the inside matched what she looked like on the outside, and for a moment, she wasn’t sure which body she belonged in. Her mind flashed back to Aidan’s exit, his indifference to what he had birthed, and everything came together. “His heart,” she murmured. “He said the key unlocked his heart.” She ran out of the room.

Aidan stood in the attic, staring at the wall. Anelle yelled at his back.

“Coward!”

He turned around, cocking his head as his blank eyes tried to decide what to make of her.

“On your wedding day,” she demanded, “how did you feel? Were you scared? Happy? Nervous? What were you?”

Aidan’s cheek twitched.

“And when she left you? How much did it hurt? You don’t know because it’s all locked up in that room. What about when you kissed me? How did that make you feel?” Aidan’s focus turned inward as he searched for an answer that she knew wasn’t there. “What about right now? What do you feel, Aidan? Tell me!”

“I don’t know,” he whispered in the dry monotone that Anelle hadn’t heard since she first entered his house. She rushed at him, pushing against his shoulders. He crumpled to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

“Did you feel that?” she yelled. “Is this some kind of test that you give all the women you court? You tempt them with the key and then see if they’ll look in your little room and find your secret? And when they fail, they end up—” Anelle grabbed the finger out of her pocket and shoved it in his face. “This is wrong!”

His eyes followed the finger with muted interest. Anelle hurled it at him. The finger hit him in the chest, where it vanished in a flash of blue light. Anelle took a few steps back in surprise. Aidan gasped, taking short, pained breaths. When he looked at Anelle, it was with the dim light of a far-away memory.

“What do you feel towards me right now?” she asked.

Panic sliced across Aidan’s face. He shrank towards the wall. “I don’t know,” he croaked. A bit of emotion returned to his voice. “It hurts.” He clutched at his chest where the finger disappeared.

Anelle sank down against the opposite wall, next to the door to Aidan’s heart, unlocked, its gruesome contents open for everyone to see.

“All those women,” she struggled to say what she was almost unable to fathom. “They’re not women. They’re you. Your feelings.”

“My wife.” The effort of recalling the memory showed on his face. “We were married three months. She said she loved me, but she just wanted status. And I—I wasn’t enough. I wasn’t right. So she left. I remember what happened, but it’s like a story that someone told me. It hurt, I think. I think it hurt like it does now. It’s like there’s just a little bit of feeling inside me, but it’s blown up to fill the whole space, and it—” He closed his eyes. “It’s too much.”

“And what is that feeling?” Anelle spat. “I hope it hurts. Because then you might understand how I feel.” Her cruelty shocked her. Tears sprang to her eyes. “But you can’t understand that. How could you think about anyone else when you keep having to learn how to feel again yourself?”

Aidan looked past her into the hidden room, breathing in ragged gasps. Fresh blood pooled on the floor near the entrance, mixing with the dried gore.

“It was so hard. She didn’t want to go,” he said. “Or maybe I didn’t want to let her. And she ended up like that. Some of them…are harder to let go.”

Anelle followed his gaze back to the room, where her figure stared at the ceiling with lifeless eyes. She felt a sick comfort at the idea that she had been one of the difficult ones.

“You can’t just magic away your feelings and put them in a room every time you get hurt.” She leaned back against the wall. “Those women—your wife, the others—what did they do when they found themselves in the room?”

“The ones who saw the room never came back. And the ones who didn’t—they never came back either. It was only when they were gone that I—”

Anelle felt heaviness in her chest as the last piece fit into the puzzle. “You thought I’d left for good,” she murmured. “So you got rid of me. And now you feel nothing.”

They sat in silence but for Aidan’s gasping breaths. Dust hovered in the shaft of moonlight above his head.

“I didn’t say you could do that,” Anelle said. “Put it back.”

Fear rose on Aidan’s face. “What?”

“All of it. The finger went back. Everything else can too.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t, or you’re afraid to?”

He covered his heart with his hands. “Just putting that little bit back, it’s almost unbearable. All of it? I can’t—”

“You don’t know what you can do,” Anelle said. “You’re just a shell of who you’re supposed to be.”

“It hurts.”

“I’m sure it does. But you learn to manage it. That’s what we do when we lose someone. You got rid of everything, even the good parts, and you’re left with nothing at all.”

Aidan’s tears mixed with the blood from his nose. It seemed to Anelle that he’d actually become the empty loom she’d once imagined him to be.

“If I took it all back,” he said, “I don’t know who I’d be. All those feelings could make me into someone else, and…”

He looked down at his hands.

“…you might not want me.”

Anelle closed her eyes. Warmth flooded through her. Even now, when he was so incomplete, part of Aidan—the small part of his feelings he’d taken back already or maybe something even deeper—still cared for her. But he was right: if he emptied the room, took that grotesque menagerie back into himself, he could become someone else. His fear cooled her senses.

“You’re right,” she said. “I might not.”

She turned towards the staircase that would lead her downstairs and out of the house.

“But I might.”

She felt him reaching for her, but he stayed, tethered to the shaft of moonlight. She stopped, one hand on the wall, and turned back to him.

“You might not want me, either,” she said. “But I can’t love just part of you.”

As she started down the stairs, the bands that held Anelle’s heart together snapped in two. For a moment, she wished she could forget. But she reveled in the hurt, its strength almost making her smile.

* * *

In the week that followed, Anelle visited Kira every day but kept what happened in Aidan’s attic to herself. The girls went for slow walks along the forest paths. Kira leaned on a walking stick for support as Anelle gathered saplings to make a new loom. She furiously cleaned her house, making sure it was tidy for when her mother returned.

The new moon hid in the shadows when Anelle climbed up to the roof. She lay on her back, feeling the breeze tickle her bare feet, and closed her eyes.

A terrible scream from the distant woods jolted her out of her half-sleep, and she sat up, almost losing her balance. Blue light erupted over the tree line, illuminating the forest with starstuff. Anelle drew in a hopeful breath, but the light disappeared as quickly as it came.

* * *

A fortnight passed before there was a knock on the door. Anelle put down her shuttle, wound with thread to begin the first tapestry on her new loom, and ran to answer it, eager to see her mother after her long absence.

“Mama?” she called as she threw the door open.

Aidan stood before her, leaning wearily against the doorframe. Sunlight glinted off his blue-black hair.

“Anelle.” He looked exhausted. His cheeks were hollow, his undereyes puffy and dark. But fire radiated from within him, even as he looked away to fish for something in his pocket. When he met her eyes again, she knew that something was different. He was more present, more solid. His voice sounded with new resonance.

“I have something for you.” A shiver ran up her arm at his touch. He placed something cool and smooth into her palm and folded her fingers back over it, covering her hand with his. “You can do whatever you want with it. Keep it, give it back, throw it away. It’s yours.”

She opened her hand and looked down to see the small gold key, clean and sparkling in the sun.

She asked, “What is it?”

He smiled, and the man Anelle knew bubbled to the surface.

“My heart.”

 

– end –

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Published by Associate Editor on June 1, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 26, Issue 26 Stories

Moss

by Sara Norja

My father thought me beautiful, for he saw my mother in my deep-set eyes, my russet brown skin, in the sharp lines of my face. I hated each feature my half-remembered mother had given me. As the years laid their heavy blessings on my growing body, my father became restless. He repeated with a misplaced devotion the name my mother had given to me: “Tuar, my exquisite Tuar.” His eyes clouded till his widower’s sight couldn’t tell wife from daughter. His breath was a monsoon on my neck.

That’s when I ran.

I ran recklessly into the forest without thought of future, for the past breathed heavy behind me. The past chased after me on the leather-clad, soft-soled feet of my father’s soldiers. He has gone mad in his chase of my mother’s spirit, I told myself. She was not reborn in me: she still lived for some years after my birth. How could my father be so blinded by my resemblance to her?

He is not your father any more, said a quiet voice deep inside me.

Not after what he did.

◊ ◊ ◊

I kept running till my breath burned and the trees were mere blurs on every side. My muscles were shrieking for a reprieve, but I could still hear the distant clank of spear against shield. I had not lost the soldiers yet. I crossed every stream I could, to hide my tracks and get spiritual distance. The forest’s running water, they say, can rise to swallow up past darkness. I prayed it would.

Near twilight, the din of clanking weapons drew closer. Like a cornered animal I panicked and stumbled on a massive tree-root stretching down to a dip in the ground.

The trees in this part of the forest were as wide as houses, their roots clambering over the earth to reach the streams and still waters. Desperate, I scrambled down and found a deep hollow between the great tree’s roots. Ferns covered the swampy ground next to it. I lay hidden there for a long time, till all I could hear was the forest: the trees sighing, birds chattering, and small animals rustling in the undergrowth. The soldiers had passed onwards. A hot rush of relief washed over me like the summer rains. I climbed back onto drier ground. My black hair reeked of swamp water and coiled even tighter from the moisture. My shirt clung to me, wet and heavy. I stank, but they hadn’t found me.

I stumbled on well into the night, away from my father’s palace and away from the soldiers, till the chase was but a patter of feet, a clatter of spears in my dreams. I ran on till I could run no longer. Ragged-throated, feet bleeding where my sandals had chafed them, I slowed down to a walk.

I didn’t know where I was. I breathed in the marshy, stagnant air and listened to the night sounds of the forest. I was lost, tremble-legged, and so hungry my stomach prickled and shouted.

But I had evaded the king’s soldiers for now. I curled up in another tree-hollow, too exhausted to fear jaguars or other beasts. The moss under me felt softer than any sleeping-mat, and I soon fell into a dark, dreamless sleep.

◊ ◊ ◊

On the third morning, I awoke to the chattering of birds and a growing light. When I opened my eyes, I yelped.

Almost transparent in the moist morning air, a small sphere of light bobbed before of me. I stared at it warily. Perhaps it was just an illusion caused by hunger. During the past days I had eaten all the plants I’d been taught were safe; but in my past life I had been lazy with my woodcraft, preferring to concentrate on the smooth movements of the defensive discipline taught by my bodyguards. I had never expected to wander pathless in the wilds in the wake of the monsoon. Perhaps I had eaten something poisonous. Perhaps I would die. My body, too like my dead mother’s, would rot and be devoured by the smallest creatures of the forest.

The vision before me did not fade. I had heard tell of ghost lights, fool-fires my nurse had called them: trickster creatures that lurked in the deepest forest where humans had not set foot in centuries. I had taken them for a tale spun by my nurse. But the sphere hovered in front of me as if curious.

I rubbed the sleep-bleariness from my eyes with my grubby hands. Panic filled me as I gained full consciousness, as it had done every morning. I listened for the chase, but could hear nothing but the birds.

They’re gone, I told myself. You’re all alone in the world, but you will never have to see your father again.

The thought rang like a bell within me. Despite being hungry and lost in the forest, I broke into a smile. I sat up and contemplated the ghost light. As if it had noticed my movement, it bobbed a little higher and retreated.

I didn’t want it to go away. This strange sphere of light didn’t really count as company, but it was the closest thing I had right now. I got up slowly, muscles trembling. I had run longer than ever before over the past days, and my body told me so with every aching movement. I stumbled a few steps towards the ghost light. It retreated yet again, hovering now at head-height beside a small thicket of young shoots. I limped towards it, yearning to get closer.

The ghost light fled before my steps, but never out of sight, even though the undergrowth was dense and wild. I followed. All day I followed it, aching muscles and hunger forgotten in my desire to catch up to the creature. My consciousness faded, and my body became a tool for getting closer to the shining light.

◊ ◊ ◊

I stubbed my toe on a rock and snapped back into full awareness. The sun told me how much I had lost of the day: it was nearing evening already. And there was the ghost light in front of me, shining more faintly now. The trees grew less dense in this part of the forest and there was more sunlight despite the gathering dusk. I stepped forward to touch the ghost light – and it vanished entirely.

Bitter tears sprang to my eyes. It was too cruel, to lose the creature after such a long pursuit. I fell to my knees bruising them on sharp tree-roots.

Through my tears, I looked up and saw I was at the edge of a clearing. Almost I forgot my disappointment as I saw the great stone walls rising to tree-height and beyond. Where had I wandered?

The forest was dense and vast. My people knew little of other lands or peoples apart from wild rumours. A few times, we had encountered strangers in trade, but my father had discouraged such dealings. My people stayed within the lands of our ancestors.

I heard a harsh voice behind me. I scrambled to my feet and turned to see a man clad in the green of the forest. His eyes were dark as the earth, and his skin was like mine, a rich russet brown. He sounded angry. I couldn’t understand a word.

I had known other languages existed, somewhere, far away, but this reality where someone spoke to me and I was as lost as a newborn – it filled my heart with the swamp water of fear.

“I don’t understand,” I said. His face was open with the same incomprehension mine must have been filled with. He frowned.

I noticed the long knife at his belt, and terror clawed at me. Had I run into deeper danger?

My fists clenched, my teeth pressed tightly together. No matter what happened to me here in this strange new place, it could not be worse than the horror of my father’s love.

◊ ◊ ◊

The man with the knife took me into an echoing hall in the sprawling building of stone that lay within the walls. He was eyeing me as though I were a half-wit. He had kept doing so ever since I had spoken my language and he had not understood. I walked as in a dream, accepting that I understood nothing of the words spoken by these strangers. Strangers, to whom I was a stranger.

At the far end of the hall I stood before an old man sitting in a high seat. Gold bands adorned his wrists and neck, and he wore a tunic of soft-spun linen. He was the king; that I could tell even without language. He watched me for a long time, his eyes half-hooded. He looked nothing like my father, but I could not bear his stare. I was clenching my fists so hard it hurt. My breath came only in small gasps, as though someone were pressing on my chest. I could not look at him, but when I focused behind his seat I saw a young man with gold around his wrists. He flashed a crooked smile at me, and I looked away. I did not want smiles.

Eventually the king stopped staring and started speaking to the man who had brought me to him. As if his speech had lifted a spell, suddenly the room was full of murmuring, the courtiers’ voices rising and falling in an unfamiliar lilt. I was drowning in sounds I couldn’t make sense of. It made me feel dizzy. Or perhaps that was just my hunger, which was rising up to engulf my whole self, as if all I was could be reduced to slavering mouth and gaping stomach.

The king bent to speak with a tall, thin man with a shock of hair and deep yellow robes. After a short whispered conversation he proclaimed something to the hall at large, gesturing at me. I wondered what fate I had just been consigned to. If death, I prayed it would be swift.

They took me to the kitchens, where it was so sweltering hot that I was sure I’d drown in the heat. I was shown to a woman who I guessed was the cook. She took a long look at me and sniffed with displeasure. I realised that the stink of the swamp water must linger on me. But she nodded.

Two servants took me to a small courtyard next to the kitchen. They stripped me of my clothes till I stood naked in front of them. They poured water on me from the well in the courtyard then, and I rejoiced in getting clean. I scrubbed away the first layers of shame and fear. I started to realise that I had not been sentenced to death.

They brought me a green calf-length tunic of a strange material like rough-woven linen. It felt like the forest when I drew it over my exhausted head. The moss-like material scratched my skin, but it was clean. And it was nothing at all like the robes I had worn at the palace I had escaped from.

“Dayi,” the servants said and laughed. I stared at them, suspecting that the laughter was malevolent. But they smiled at me, so kind to a languageless stranger pushed into their midst. Almost, something began to melt in my heart.

And they gave me food. Oh, to eat after days of hunger! The simple corn porridge and beans tasted better than any of the festival foods at my father’s house. I ate till my stomach ached. My mouth felt strange; I realised I was smiling.

◊ ◊ ◊

To not share a language, I soon understood, meant isolation. Loneliness despite the constant presence of people. My mind was still clouded, as though I were dazed from the vision of the ghost light, but it eased with every day that passed. I listened to the servants as I worked at whatever simple task I was given in the kitchen or the grounds: stirring pots, grinding corn into meal, carrying deadweight sacks of produce. I listened to the women as we wove baskets together. When my unaccustomed fingers fumbled, they scolded me, and I listened although I didn’t understand.

I didn’t keep track of time passing. What mattered was that the chase was over. I had arrived here at the kingdom of Eri, as its inhabitants called it. It did not matter that my days were dull and repetitive. I worked and listened; I slept. It was enough. I yearned to feel my body straining in the seven movements of the discipline, but safety was a fair trade for movement.

Eventually, I started speaking. Haltingly, I tested out words that I had heard often enough in a certain context that I could make a guess at their meaning. Smiles and cries of “io!” encouraged me. Soon words became sentences. Their strange language was difficult to me, but I had begun to crack the mystery’s shell.

They called me Dayi, Moss-tunic, after the clothes I’d been given, common attire for the poorest people in the kingdom. I was relieved they had not asked for my birth-name, for I could not yet think of Tuar without hearing it in my father’s voice.

◊ ◊ ◊

The season changed; the winter drought came with its rough winds. We huddled close to the fire pits and told stories. The others told stories, that is; I listened, and tried to understand.

There came the day I realised I had been there many moons. And that I could understand almost everything the cook was saying. The story she was embarking on, I gathered, was commonly told in the kingdom.

The cook began, in the low tones she reserved for storytelling. A long time ago, she said, during the heavy summer rains, a strange woman came to this palace. The newcomer was a commoner, they all thought, although she must have lived in a great household as servant, for she was fair of speech.

On the night of the great year’s-end festival, a strange and beautiful woman arrived draped in a robe of thinnest linen, like a waterfall. She was dark and lovely as a summer’s night, and turned everyone’s heads. No one’s head was turned more than the king’s son’s. He sat with her all night, and gave her the golden ring from his hand. When she disappeared with the first rays of the sun, gathering shadows to her, people saw tears in the young man’s eyes.

He pined; to his father’s despair, he vowed that the only woman he would marry was the stranger he’d given his ring to.

The ring turned up in his soup a week later. Our cook took great pleasure in recounting how the cook in the tale first told the king’s son that she had made the soup: she had not wished people to know that she’d been dallying with one of the king’s guards while she left the newcomer to prepare the meal.

But the truth came out, as it will. The newcomer was brought before the king and his son. They wiped the grime from her face and saw shimmering brown; they took the scarf from her head and released a flood of long braids. They searched her room and found a shimmering waterfall of a robe.

She had not done a good job of hiding things. She hadn’t wanted to. And so the newcomer and the king’s son were married.

“‘He can’t marry a commoner!’ people cried,” said the cook. “But it turned out that she was actually the daughter of a noble lord. Why she left her life of comfort to work here, no one knows… But these old stories are full of stranger things by far.”

My skin crawled. I could think of many reasons why someone of noble birth should wish to escape.

◊ ◊ ◊

When the winter drought passed and new warmth rose to engulf us, I retreated from the confines of the kitchen. I had found the gardens within the compound, and I spent what time I had to spare wandering in them, seeking to quiet the memories that still troubled me. My father’s halls had no such thing as a tended garden; we just had fields near the palace. No garden such as this, certainly, this garden with its glory of colours, edible plants and flowers tumbling over each other to fight for life. There, I almost felt that one day I could come to full life again, such as I had not felt since I grew into my mother’s likeness and realised the reason for my father’s maddened gaze.

I breathed deeper in the garden. In the long months that separated me from my origins, I came to realise that although I was free from my father, I was not, in truth, free. I was a foreigner, still treated as a stranger despite my increasing command of the Eri language. I was kept within the walls. They were spacious confines, yes, in this sprawling compound – but it was a cage nonetheless. Sometimes I felt a helpless rage simmering within me.

Yet my mind was free to wander, and my body my own to command.

I liked to go into the gardens at nightfall, when my duties for the day were done. I slipped in through the gate in my bare feet. After the stone floors, the grass felt soft and silky on my soles. I smiled. Like most days, mine had meant sweltering kitchen heat and too many people. The garden was not the forest that breathed around us, its wildness kept out by the high walls. The forest – my protector, my safekeeper. Still, the garden had green, growing things.

A prickling of my fingertips told me I was not alone as I had hoped. Further in the garden, I saw the Magicworker taking the air.

He turned and noticed me. I went cold all over. His eyes were on me, soft as river water.

I had only seen him once before, in the king’s hall on the day I arrived at this prison of service. I had noticed his rich yellow robes, the gold glimmering at his throat. I hadn’t known who he was, but my months of servitude had taught me that he was the king’s Magicworker, a man of arcane knowledge.

He was younger than I had thought at first. No grey was in his dark cloud of hair, no heaviness in his step.

He looked nothing like my father, yet still I felt nervous, alone in the company of a man.

He was standing in front of the fountain in the centre of the gardens, next to a bush of bright flowers. The movement of the water was a soft lilt in the evening air. He said something, clearly directed at me. I felt I was back in that first moment when the guard had caught me in the forest and the kitchen girls had called me the incomprehensible Dayi. I did not understand. There was a familiar structure to his words, but the sounds were strange. I felt I should understand what he was saying, but as he kept talking, the meaning escaped me.

The Magicworker frowned as he realised I did not understand him. He frowned, and then he said: “I am sorry.” The words were inflected differently to what I heard in the kitchens each day; but I wasn’t drowning in a sea of strangeness any more.

In my bafflement, I burst out: “Why did you speak that strange language to me?” It bewildered me, that there should be so many languages. In my past life, I had known only one; and now it turned out that there were many.

“At first I did not realise you don’t understand the noble speech. You are the one they call Dayi, is that right?”

I cast him a suspicious glance. Why should he know the name the other servants called me? But my status did not allow for insubordination. “I am.”

“I heard you knew not a word of our language when you came here.”

“That’s true. But I learned.” And still it burned, that he had spoken to me and I could not understand.

“You have learned the commoners’ language very well,” he said with a smile.

“The commoners’ language?” I stumbled over the words. “Why are there different languages for nobles and commoners?” In my own language, I knew there were words that I used that the servants did not, and in turn they had turns of phrase that I did not know the meaning of. But we could understand each other nonetheless.

The Magicworker shrugged, a strangely common gesture for such a well-clothed man. He glanced at me. “I don’t know the reason, but so it is. I have gathered from old writings that the two languages were once one and the same, but the nobles have lived so separate from the common people that the similarities are obscured. Both can understand the other’s language, but it is forbidden for nobles to speak the commoners’ language and the other way round.”

I strained to understand his strange words. Then something occurred to me. “But my lord, you’re of noble birth. How is it that you speak this language?”

An embarrassed look stole onto his face. “Ah,” he said. “You have stumbled onto my secret.” His inflections seemed more familiar now. “You will not tell anyone,” he continued.

“Of course not, my lord.” I had no idea what it was that I was not allowed to tell.

“The fact is, I am not of noble birth. Yes, I am noble now, with all the trappings thereof at least: but I was born a commoner in a village not far from here.” He fingered the gold chain at his neck. “My lord the king has great plans, and he needs magicworkers for them. My natural skills were such that the previous Magicworker brought me to court when I was a child. That is why I can speak like both the commoners and the nobles.”

I was shocked that he would reveal such personal matters to a servant girl he had only just met. But thinking of my own relationship to my servants in my father’s court, I understood that he was telling me these things because we were not equal. He had nothing to lose by telling me of his origins, which were more than likely no secret despite his order to tell no one.

I could never reveal my origins. Although I had come far, if the king of Eri found out who I was, he would ransom me back to my father. I shuddered.

“Are you cold?” the Magicworker asked.

“No,” I said; and indeed, it was a balmy evening.

“Do you walk here often?”

The question fell like swamp water on my neck, leaving me trembling and uneasy. I didn’t know what to reply, what to do. I was afraid he would touch me. For a moment, I had felt comfortable. Now I was trapped again in the cage of my fear. I worried at the twisted ends of my hair.

“No matter,” he said. “I don’t come here often. Mostly only when the sarag are in bloom.” He pointed at the flowers he had been gazing at. I memorised their name. “But I’ll be glad to see you again if you chance to walk here.”

He left with a swishing of robes and the lingering waft of a scent I couldn’t identify.

He had left me alone. He had talked with me, whom he thought a servant girl. He hadn’t touched me.

The stars winked at me, so high up that they transcended every wall and cage.

◊ ◊ ◊

I didn’t hope to find the Magicworker at the gardens when I next walked there in the gathering dusk. But when day after day passed and I didn’t see him again, I found an odd knot of sadness in my stomach. He needn’t have even bothered to acknowledge my presence in the garden, but he had talked with me. He hadn’t been like the noblemen I’d known in my father’s court, who would treat the servant girls as playthings for their rough amusements. The Magicworker had talked to me as one person to another. Even the servants at the Eri court didn’t do that: they still talked to me as though I were a stranger.

Two weeks later I was busy at work measuring out spices for the king’s midday meal, under the cook’s strict supervision. She was particular about spices.

With a clattering and pattering, the kitchen door banged open. Startled, I spilled powdered cinnamon onto the table and winced at the mess. The cook let out a volley of curses too quick for me to understand. I glanced up, irritated, to see who had rushed in. It was one of the court’s messenger boys, peering into the room with his beady eyes.

“What,” said the cook with a razor edge to her voice, “are you doing in my kitchen, scrapling?”

To my consternation, the scrawny lad pointed at me. “I’ve been sent for her.” Speaking loud and slow, he addressed me: “Dayi, you’re to follow me to the Magicworker’s quarters.”

The cook huffed. “How dare you invent such nonsense! What should the Magicworker want with a foreign kitchen servant?”

The messenger boy professed his innocence and vowed he came from the Magicworker himself. “He asked for the girl in the moss-tunic, Mistress Cook! Honest he did!”

The cook sighed and gave me a long-suffering look. “Go, then,” she said to me. “Make sure you do whatever the Magicworker wants.” Her eyes narrowed on whatever, and I shivered. I did not want to be a vessel into which anything whatever could be poured.

I trotted briskly behind the messenger boy through a maze of courtyards and corridors.

“Here’s Dayi, my lord,” the messenger said when we entered the Magicworker’s lodgings. I gazed around the high-ceilinged room. The tables were full of scrolls, reed pens and ink-bottles scattered among them. Several wax tablets were strewn around, marked with strange symbols that I presumed must be writing in the local language. The walls were lined with shelves laden with all manner of strange objects, ranging from small river stones to cunningly crafted golden goblets.

The Magicworker lifted his gaze from the wax tablet he had been furiously scribbling on with a stylus. “Good. You can go now.”

When the door had closed behind the boy, he turned to me. I quailed before him now, him in his own habitat, and me a lost girl in a foreign land. Me with my dark memories that were shooting up my skin with every look a man gave me.

I steeled myself. I glanced at him, not fully in the eye, aiming for a servant’s humility.

“You are probably wondering why I summoned you.” His noble inflections were still confusing, but his words came slow and steady, seemingly for my benefit. I was baffled by his sympathy.

He cleared his throat. “I am going on an expedition into the forest’s depths, Dayi, and I need you to come with me.”

I stared at him, humility lost. “Me, lord?”

“I have talked with the guard who brought you to the king’s hall. He said he found you in the forest, half-starved and speaking a strange tongue.”

My thoughts reeled back to that day many moons past. How lost I had been. How the ghost light had brought me to this place and vanished before I could reach into its glow.

“You come from a long way away, don’t you.”

My jaw tightened. I didn’t want to answer any questions. No one had made me fabricate a story of my past, and I didn’t wish to tell falsehoods now. But I was not going to tell the truth, either. I would never tell the truth.

The Magicworker’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “Where precisely you come from is not my concern, although I must admit it’s a fascinating mystery. What I am interested in is your knowledge of the forest. You have wandered far in it. You have tasted some of its mystery. And” – he came closer, and I flinched – “you know some of its magic.”

How could he know that I did know a sprinkling about forest magic because of my encounter with the ghost light?

“It’s written in your eyes, Dayi,” he said before I could ask, “for those who have the power to look.”

“I don’t want anyone looking in my eyes,” I said, speech clumsy. I concentrated on the floor beneath my bare feet. A beetle was making its way across one of the stone flags.

With a rustling of robes, the Magicworker went back to his table. In a voice so quiet I could barely hear him, he said: “I mean you no harm.”

I wasn’t sure I could believe him. My father, after all, had said he wished me nothing but good.

“I wish for you to come with me on this expedition,” said the Magicworker. “The king has agreed to grant this wish on the condition that I return you to the court once we are done. He fears you will go back to where you came from and reveal that a rich people live here, and next we will see armies searching for our gold.”

A choked laugh escaped me. “I will never go back.” Then I tightened up again. I feared my bitter tone had revealed something about my past.

“Well then,” said the Magicworker. He was not going to address the issue. “Bring what clothes you own and fix yourself a sleeping-roll. We leave tomorrow.”

◊ ◊ ◊

We set out without ceremony, for the Magicworker said the king’s court had no need to know of his comings and goings. We had gathered in the eastern courtyard, near the small gate at its edge. Dawn’s questing light was reaching over the treetops.

I was still astonished that he had chosen me to join him on this secret expedition: I was a stranger, a lowly kitchen servant. His other companion made far more sense.

“This is Niani, my assistant and bodyguard,” the Magicworker told me in the commoners’ tongue. He turned to Niani and said in an apologetic tone, “She doesn’t understand the nobles’ language, so I must speak in the commoners’ manner although it’s not precisely proper.”

Niani nodded, betraying no signs of censure. She was clearly proficient in both tongues. A tall woman with the bad posture that probably came from constantly bending down to talk to shorter people, she did not seem easily shocked. I hadn’t had reason to speak to her before, for she was of a higher class of servant. My heart beat a nervous pattern in my chest as I considered the fact that I would be travelling together with these new people for almost a moon-cycle. Niani wore a simple travelling tunic and was bowed down to an even more crooked position under the weight of the pack she carried.

“We don’t have a pack animal.” I regretted the words at once, but the Magicworker did not rebuke me for speaking before being spoken to.

“We will be going into parts of the forest where I suspect a mule would only be in the way. Together we’ll carry what we need.” He shouldered his own pack with an effort. I was only a little surprised he would deign to carry a burden himself.

Niani’s dark eyes measured me. I could sense she was dubious of my inclusion among the expedition. But her eyes were not unkind.

“This is Dayi,” the Magicworker introduced me in turn.

“Yes,” said Niani, “she is, is she not?” She eyed my moss-tunic, which had lightened several shades in the sun and was quite worn from use. I had no other clothing apart from my loose pantaloons and a short cloak given to me by the cook. My feet were bare. I didn’t know what had happened to the sandals I had walked into the compound with.

“The sun is rising,” said the Magicworker. “It’s time for us to leave.”

I shouldered my pack with a surprised grunt. It was heavier than I had thought. I gritted my teeth. I was still not used to such burdens, although my work in the kitchens had made me hardier than I had been in my past life.

We went through the gate, where a single guard nodded sleepily at us. Then we were past the grey stone wall that marked the outermost bounds of the court compound – of my cage. A shiver went through me. Even though it was only for a while, I breathed the forest air again. My safeguard, my green hiding-place of roots and hidden streams.

My feet greeted the springy moss bordering the path like an old friend. The burden on my back pressed against my shoulders, but my step was light. The forest, its green smell. How it groaned and muttered around us.

I was not the accursed king’s daughter here, nor was I another king’s slave. I was just Dayi, in my tunic of moss weave. I was Dayi, following the Magicworker in his yellow robe, following Niani in her earth colours.

In truth, I had almost forgotten the name my mother had given me.

◊ ◊ ◊

On the second day of our journey away from the Eri king’s court, we had already passed into strange lands. We travelled north and west; the Magicworker said that the king’s hunters never went north, for the best game was to the south and east. But with a faraway look and a glance at the small wax tablet in his belt pouch, he said that his calculations pointed northwest.

I didn’t know why we were travelling, but I kept my heart calm. These lands were as unfamiliar to me as the Eri king’s court. My father’s lands were many days’ travel in the opposite direction, or so I supposed.

The trees we travelled among dwarfed the trees I had played among as a child. As we walked in single file, they cast us into cool shadow. Patches of sweltering sunlight reached the ground with its ferns and moss, but the trees reared up, green giants. We could hear the creatures of the forest moving around us, but they were wary and hid themselves. Birds were the only creatures we saw with any regularity.

I felt that I came to myself again, as we walked, as the forest grew around me. I had been in servitude for so many moons that I had lost the thread of my life. The thread that my father had frayed. But now, in the wild, the thread was starting to weave itself together again. I didn’t know where we were, but it was a place without walls.

After this expedition, I would be brought back to the kitchens. The Eri king did not want me to escape.

I was fleet-footed. If I ran into the forest, I might find another settlement. More likely, I would run until I starved. The forest was vast; some said it spanned the whole world. In its depths, an untrained refugee could come to great grief.

Such thoughts were with me as we continued our journey. The Magicworker and Niani were both silent. After the chatter in the court’s kitchens, the quiet was like the touch of water on sweaty skin.

We followed no discernible path, and but for the Magicworker, we would have been lost. I never saw him use magic, exactly, but his whole demeanour reminded me of a hunting hound. When we camped at nightfall, he would stand still, eyes closed, breathing deep and steady. Niani muttered something about magic, catching my eye with a wink, and I tried to catch him doing astonishing things. But he just stood and breathed, echoing the trees in their leaf-rustling.

◊ ◊ ◊

I had not asked for our destination, nor had the Magicworker said anything about it. I assumed he knew where we were going. To wander aimless in the forest was madness. I did keep wondering about the reason for this expedition, though. Above all my thoughts circled around why he had wanted me with him, when I had been utterly useless so far.

There came a day when the Magicworker paused mid-step. “I’ve lost it.”

“What is it?” asked Niani.

“I’ve lost the path,” he said. His cloud of hair seemed to loom even darker around his head. “We have to stay here while Niani and I find a solution.”

The path he spoke of must be a path woven of magic; as far as I was concerned, we had lost any clear path soon after we left the Eri compound. But I didn’t know anything of the magic that was so familiar to the Magicworker and his assistant.

They talked among themselves in the nobles’ tongue and sketched strange patterns in the air. The crease between the Magicworker’s eyebrows was a deep furrow. I wanted to smooth the worry away from his face.

Startled by my thoughts, I concentrated on digging a small fire-pit. Earth, my grubby hands; calm, repetitive movements. Once the fire was lit, I made rolls from our supplies of corn flour and boiled water for tea. We settled down to eat. I felt closed inside myself, a door snapped shut that had just begun to creak open. Niani had been the Magicworker’s assistant and bodyguard for years. They shared a bond that I could not partake of, they spoke together in a language I did not understand.

The food stuck in my throat. I realised I liked these people, wanted them to like me. And that was a danger I wasn’t sure I was ready for. Perhaps it was easier to be the outsider.

Niani passed around the dried meat. I accepted some without a word, trying to avoid her eyes. But she caught me in her gaze. “Dayi, what troubles you?”

It had been so long since anyone had asked me such a question. My troubles came unbidden to the surface as they had not for many moons, choking me so I could barely breathe.

The Magicworker and Niani waited for a long, deep moment. Their patience almost undid me. Why did they not order me around like the others at the Eri compound had done? To them, I was just a servant, just a foreigner. They had no reason to treat me with such kindness.

I found my breath again, found my voice. “It’s nothing,” I said. Then I dared look my travelling companions in the eye. “Well, that’s not true. But I don’t wish to speak of it.” I didn’t want to tell them that I felt jealous of the connection they had with each other.

Instead of pressing me for more, they nodded. Then the Magicworker said: “Have you ever wondered what it would be like to travel from one side of the forest to the other in the space of mere moments?”

“I haven’t.” What a fanciful notion! But I was glad he had changed the subject.

“I have,” he said with a grin lighting up his face, “for many years. I’ve wondered, and worked. Did you know the forest has patches where magic runs stronger in the veins of the world, strong enough to harness and weave together?”

“I know nothing of magic.” But a small smile crept into the corner of my mouth. His scholar’s excitement was catching, although I was ignorant of the knowledge he possessed.

“I’ve worked on a great gate in a strong patch of magic many miles south of the king’s court.” The Magicworker sipped the strong tea I had made. “Now we go forth to seek another strong current of magic, where the forest has gathered its power, to build another gate. I have the feeling you’ll be useful.” Yet how I might accomplish such a thing, he did not say.

◊ ◊ ◊

A ghost light hovered by a tree-stump. Returning from passing water a short distance from our camp, I was caught by its glow, piercing in the pre-dawn air. I came to a halt, staring.

“What is it?” Niani asked. She had woken to my footsteps.

I spared a glance away from the ghost light to look at her. She was peering around, utterly oblivious to the gentle light wavering near me. Blessed Hangi! In my past life, I had thought the ghost lights a folk tale; upon first seeing one, I had judged them rare wonders, yet a tangible feature of our mortal world.

Now I wasn’t so sure. Why could I see the creature, when Niani could not?

The ghost light bobbed and wavered. It was as breathtaking as the one that had led me to the Eri court. This time I was not hunger-crazed or running for my life. Still, I felt a pull, slower but inexorable. I wanted to follow the ghost light, as if it could lead me to happiness.

I sensed Niani’s eyes on me, although I was fixated on the ghost light’s erratic movements. I didn’t dare say anything. I didn’t want the light to vanish with the dawn; but I didn’t dare tell her what I saw. She would call me crazy, and I didn’t want that. I wanted her to think well of me.

I kept staring at the ghost light as if watching would make it stay.

“M’lord,” said Niani, “something’s wrong with Dayi.”

I heard her voice as through a mist. No, there was nothing wrong with me, but of course she could not see the ghost light. Surely the Magicworker would, with all his knowledge and power?

The Magicworker was awake and up in a moment. I felt his presence behind me. A part of me screamed threat; but most of me was so concentrated on the ghost light that I could not turn.

“Dayi,” he said softly, his voice a cool stream on a hot day. “What do you see?”

“You can’t see it?” I burst out.

“Oh,” said Niani, “she’s seeing visions already, evil forest-spirits!” Her voice was sharp with concern.

The Magicworker laughed. The ghost light wavered, as if startled by the sharp sound.

“Shhh!”

His laugh died and my stomach plummeted with horror. I had shushed a noble, as if I were still a noble myself. Be too free, and they will find out.

“What do you see?” he repeated quietly. He didn’t seem offended at all.

I gathered my courage. And I realised I had no word for ghost light in this new language. “I see a bright bob of light, my lord. A fire in the air. I don’t know the word for it.”

“Ah!” He sounded pleased. “A gnahali.”

“Is that what you call the bright creatures of the air, who lead travellers astray?”

“Yes. Gnahali, glow-bearer.”

I paused, stomach clenched with nerves. “It wants us to follow.”

He accepted this with not the slightest hesitation.

“We’ll be lost in the forest even worse,” said Niani, voice dark with warning. “Following a vision is foolishness.”

“Niani,” said the Magicworker, “the very purpose of this journey is to follow my vision. Although I cannot see it, I have no doubt Dayi sees a true gnahali. They are not evil, although they are indeed forest-spirits. It’s said they show themselves to few people. Only those who have experienced grievous violence can see them clear.”

His words rang in me like a prayer-bell. I stared at the ghost light till it filled my world. I didn’t want to see his face or Niani’s.

“If the gnahali wants us to follow, we will. This may be the solution I was seeking.” The Magicworker touched my shoulder lightly. A tremor ran through me. “Keep your eyes on it, Dayi. Niani and I will strike camp.”

So it was that I came once more to follow a ghost light through the rooted domains of the forest. But this time, I was not hungry. This time, I had company.

◊ ◊ ◊

I was not as lost in the light as I had been when I’d stumbled starving to the Eri king’s walls. Still, I found it hard to concentrate on what was around me. My feet strode on, my mouth was dry. All I noticed of the forest was a green haze around me. I hoped that the Magicworker and Niani were still following, for I could not look back for fear I’d lose the ghost light. Enchanted, I followed it as it spun and bobbed a few paces in front of me. I followed till I could feel jabs of pain in my feet even through the haze.

Cool water splashed a blessing on my feet. I had stumbled on a shallow stream. I crossed, almost slipping on the mossy stones, focused on following the ghost light. I came into a haze of green dappled with brightness, a brightness so intense that the glowing sphere blended neatly into it. I stumbled forwards and tried to clasp the ghost light – it must not escape, or we would be lost in the forest and all for nothing.

But it was gone, vanished just like the previous one had. Fickle creatures, oh, it had been madness to be so compelled by the light! I sank to my knees in a soft patch of moss. Heat fell on me from the sky like an unwanted gaze.

“Dayi!” said the Magicworker beside me, and there was something in his voice that made me look up. “This is it! I can feel the magic coursing strong in this place.” Joy wavered around him.

Niani was looking around with wonder in her eyes. She sank down next to me and grinned at me. I couldn’t help answering her smile.

We were in a clearing, moss-covered, fern-adorned, and free of the trees and creeping vines that crowded around it. The sun was shining on us at its mid-afternoon slant. It was a clearing like any other, so it seemed to me. The Magicworker had spoken of gates, of travel. I could not see how this place was more full of magic than any other. It was beautiful, though. My heart felt restful, and something of the ghost light’s peace had settled inside me. And true, perhaps there was something strange in the clearing. Although I couldn’t place it, there was a gentle hum in the air, like a drone of honey-bearing bees somewhere in the distance.

The Magicworker wandered up to two trees that stood on the other edge of the clearing. They were old, gnarled, taller than the rest, awake in a riot of leaves. At the midpoint between the boles, their branches were twined with each other as though in greeting. He stared at them, a smile tugging at his lips.

“The forest itself has started the great work. Just like at the southern gate! Truly, we were meant to build these gates. This is where the fruit of years of toil will ripen. This serendipitous…”

In his solemnity, his speech lapsed to resemble the nobles’, and I frowned as I tried to understand. Niani saw my confusion and muttered to me: “He’s happy that you chanced to come to the king’s halls. Without you, we might not have found this place.”

I was but a tool to him, to be used and then put aside. The thought brushed my consciousness. I tried to suppress it, but I was exhausted. So be it. I was a tool. He’d used me in a different way, but he too had used me for his own benefit.

Yet he smiled at me, and I could detect no guile in his face. He spoke the servants’ language again. “Fortune was with us when you came to the king’s hall. I could sense a trace of magic about you, and now it has proven itself.”

“I have no magic,” I muttered. I watched insects buzz around the small bright flowers that grew in the mossy clearing.

“And yet you can see magic,” said the Magicworker. “The gnahali showed itself to you.”

I thought of what he had said, about how gnahali, ghost lights, only showed themselves to those who had experienced grievous violence. I bit my lip. There was no such legend among my people.

We rested on the soft moss, listening to the hum of insects. The creases at the sides of the Magicworker’s mouth spoke of laughter. Niani had removed the wooden forks holding her hair in a knot, and her black curls sprung all around her shoulders.

My own hair was still in the tight twists of many moons past. I did not like to think about it. I touched it as little as I could. Tuar, you have your mother’s tight-coiled black hair, that’s how it had started. You have your mother’s deep brown eyes, your mother’s full lips.

I closed my eyes, took deep, slow breaths until my thoughts slowed. I could not show my past to these two fellow travellers. They’d despise me. They would take me back to my father; and I would turn into my mother’s ghost.

On some level I knew my thoughts were irrational. But such is the way of thoughts. Unbidden, they rise up and can engulf a whole mind. Just like a ghost light can fill a broken soul with wanderlust.

“It was a gnahali that led me to your king’s halls,” I said, in a half-whisper, unthinking. Then I stiffened, realising I had let something out that I hadn’t meant to. A stone sank in my heart.

The Magicworker and Niani shared a glance and looked at me, then. Their silence was careful, fragile. In it was an invitation.

“I had heard tell of such things, but I was sure they were a myth. But a woman running…running for her life in the forest is open to all manner of mind-delusion. The gnahali confused me, compelled me. I don’t know why it led me to your king’s walls. Perhaps they have no purpose except to lead people astray, as they say in the stories of my people. But both these times I’ve seen one, they’ve led me somewhere.” I paused and looked up at the two intertwined trees, carefully avoiding the two pairs of eyes watching me. “Although I will admit this is less of a somewhere than the previous was.”

Niani gave a startled laugh. The web of silence had broken. I dared a glance at her, and found strange comfort in her eyes. A smile crept on my face like a gift.

“It’s a fraught power, to see the spirits of the forest,” said the Magicworker. “Even I can’t summon them, for all that I can coax the invisible forces of the world to follow my vision.” He looked at me. “That’s the essence of what is called magic.”

We began to set up camp. Neither of them asked me why I had run for my life, why I was able to see ghost lights. The past was mine alone, my heavy burden which I did not need to disclose unwillingly. In their silence I felt comforted. The steady hum of the clearing seemed to clear my head, not confuse it. I was safe here.

It was strange that I should feel so alive with two people I had met less than a moon-cycle previously. And yet it was so. I felt no calling to return to the fire-pits of the king’s compound, to the busy kitchens and heat of the cooking-pots. I wished we could stay in the wild forest forever.

◊ ◊ ◊

We spent many days in the clearing with its hum. The Magicworker spent most of his time next to the two trees. He had all manner of implement and scroll, dragged along on our journey by strong Niani. Sometimes he would ask her to help, and she would stand next to him, humming an atonal melody. At other times she would help by crafting various implements out of wood, strange crooked objects that I could make no sense of. Magicworker and assistant alike were distracted by the tree-twins, which had begun to emit a hum of their own, or so I fancied when I walked close to them.

Magic seemed a confusing and complicated discipline. Niani, who had been the Magicworker’s assistant for several years, and bodyguard for even more, was versed in the basic principles of the science, but it was a deep, unfamiliar well for me, especially when explained in a language I still did not speak with ease.

I was not stupid, though. I knew why we were there in the clearing of moss and ferns, why we had spent day upon day there. The Magicworker was working with the strong magical forces of this part of the forest. He was channelling them into the entwined trees.

“This gate,” he said, with a shy smile that hid his pride, “will lead to the southern gate, if all goes well.” His goal was to coax the already existing magical links in the fabric of the world, so that people might one day walk through its seams and travel with ease.

I felt useless, but reminded myself that we wouldn’t have found the clearing if it wasn’t for my spirit-vision and the ghost light. And since there was space, and no one to chastise me, I took to practising the movements my bodyguard Jama had taught me: the beautiful, flowing movements of the fighting technique used among my people. In my mindless panic to flee my father’s hall, in the confines of the Eri king’s compound, I had almost forgotten this skill. But now, under the sun’s blaze, on the soft moss, I went through the seven sets of movement and felt my body rejoicing as I did.

Niani and the Magicworker concentrated on their work and let me alone while I practised. But one day, after I had completed the seventh set in a perfect sweep of arms and placement of feet, the Magicworker came up to me. I was dishevelled and sweaty after my long practice.

“These movements,” he said, “they look like a dance.”

I smiled; it was easier again to smile. “They are a dance,” I said, “a killing dance. I could disarm a man within five movements if I were better trained.”

Curiosity sparked in his dark eyes, but still, he didn’t ask about my past. I felt a swell of gratitude.

Niani had been watching my movements with a professional eye. “Come,” she said, pulling her coiled hair into a twist. “Disarm me.”

My breath was cut short. My practice had made my body feel like my own again. My old nimbleness was returning. Still, to disarm Niani would mean to touch her bare skin, her strong arms. To touch another body.

“Well,” she said, “after such a boast you can’t just stand there.” She flashed me a teasing grin.

I almost froze. The look in my eyes must have startled her, for she relaxed her fighting stance and frowned. “I’m only joking, Dayi. You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Oh, it frustrated me, that a person I liked was asking me for a friendly fight, and yet my body was frozen, soles tingling with the need for flight. My father had taken so much from me! No. He wasn’t going to take all human touch from me. I felt I was jumping headlong into a chasm, but with a shout I broke my spell of fear and moved.

Niani was ready at once. I moved into the fight with the fluidity of the first set and made first contact – arm against arm. She fought so differently from my bodyguards that I was unsettled at first. But my body was ready before my mind was, and before I could be shocked by how she drew me towards her in a wrestling hug, I was feinting, spiralling, pivoting away.

It was not over in five movements. Niani fought well – as indeed she should, to be entrusted as bodyguard for the Magicworker – and I was out of practice. The sun beat down hot and bold, and the Magicworker stood aside and chuckled as he watched us sweat and kick.

In the end, we both tripped over a surprise root that I was sure had not been there earlier. Niani and I fell to the soft ground, breathless, legs entwined. I didn’t flinch from her touch.

“M’lord!” she said to the Magicworker. “You tricked that root into rising!”

How he managed to look devious and utterly innocent at the same time was beyond me. His chuckle gave him away, though. “Your expressions are worth it.”

Niani and I glanced at each other and then at him. Suddenly, all three of us were laughing. We laughed till my belly ached from it. I was caught with happiness, such a fragile happiness that I was afraid I’d break it with a single wrong breath. I could not remember the last time I had laughed so.

Oh, I had grown bold.

“I’m going for a wash,” I said. The sweat was running down my skin.

“I’ll come with you,” said Niani.

I had come far, yes, but I could not bear to have someone near me in nakedness. “I…can I go alone? You can go first if you like.”

Her eyes were soft. She was close, so close next to me. I felt the ghost of her touch on my hot skin like a whiplash.

“You go.” Her voice was gentle.

Without a word, I gathered my things and went to the sluggishly flowing stream nearby. Daring, I went further, up to the pool we had found. There was no one else in this part of the forest. Only the animals, and we had seen no dangerous beasts. I would be safe.

But the pool was a mirror.

I had confronted a fear today. I had touched Niani, and it had been the cleansing touch of the fight. Surely I could confront another fear, too.

The pool’s water was warm, as everything was in this season. I kept my eyes closed at first, concentrated on scrubbing myself clean of sweat and fear, layer by layer. I ran a hand from my jaw down my left arm, shivering at my own touch. And yet it felt good to touch, to gift myself with gentleness as I had not done for a long time.

Carefully, I took my hair down from its knot. It fell in tangled twists to my shoulders. I gritted my teeth and slowly, slowly began to untwist. I glanced at my reflection in the water. My hair was a wild mass. My eyes, wavering in the water, looked startled.

I saw my dead mother in myself. The mother who everyone said I looked like. The mother whom my father had loved too much.

I had hated her memory for so many years. I wasn’t sure I was willing to do that any more. It was not she who had caused me misery, except by dying; and that, of course, was not of her own will. It was my father I should hate. And I did. Hatred spun around me like a dark cloud. But perhaps I could let that hatred go, too. I would never see him again, after all.

All I could do was learn to live in this body.

Untangling my hair took forever, and I cried with frustration while I pulled gently at the knots. But eventually I had freed it enough that I could wash it. I dried myself off and pulled on my mossy tunic again. My hair I let hang on my shoulders, a heavy mass of coils. I would twist it later, but for now, it was my hair, mine, and it would be free. Like I was.

I was lost in my thoughts. Niani’s voice when I entered the clearing brought me back into the world.

“Dayi! Your hair!”

I raised a hand defensively to my coils. No one had ever commented on my hair other than to say that it was just like my mother’s.

Niani looked me in the eyes with a strange smile. “It’s beautiful.”

◊ ◊ ◊

Heavy footsteps rushed through my dreams, thundered through the deep places of the earth. The jingle of armour, the silver bells used by courtsmen. My father’s men! Their calls echoed through the forest as they crashed through the undergrowth.

I came awake sweating in the morning heat, breath unsteady, tears flowing down my cheeks. I was shocked at the tears; I had not cried since before I left my father’s house. I wiped them away quickly before Niani or the Magicworker noticed them. But I needn’t have worried. They were still asleep, although he slept lightly, as if nervous. And no wonder, for it was the day that we were to test the workings of his magic.

I gathered myself. I listened sharply, but there were no sounds apart from the birds and rustling of small forest animals. The clearing hummed steadily beneath it all. I lay down again and pressed my ear against the mossy ground. But it told me nothing. The moss and the bare earth beneath it carried no echo of soldiers.

Still, I was left with an uneasiness that I couldn’t shake even when Niani and the Magicworker awoke and we ate a meagre breakfast. Our supplies were running low. Even if it wasn’t time to test the experiment, soon we would have to set off to the Eri king’s halls. Back to the confines of his walls, to my slavery. For I realised I had not been paid for my work there. It had not occurred to me before, for I had seen myself as paying them back for the kindness they had done me in taking me in, a foreigner in their land.

Defiance rose within me. Surely this world could not be comprised only of this land, and of my father’s land? There had to be other places, other countries in the depths of the forest, perhaps even beyond it.

I would not go back to the life of servitude that I had embraced in order to be free of a life of fear.

◊ ◊ ◊

Everything was ready for the final test. Niani and I stood by the gateway formed by the intertwined trees. The Magicworker was convinced this gateway could be used to transport people to the other side, a place three weeks’ travel away from where we were. Still, it seemed incredible to me. I had witnessed the blooming of his magic when he muttered words and wove his spells. But that he could actually have steered the growth of such a gateway?

The sun blazed bright, yet the shadow of trees lingered deeper in the forest, threatening. My dream had clearly unsettled me more than I’d thought. Yet I felt that the hum in the clearing was also more jagged than it usually was. What was happening? Was it just the magic?

For the Magicworker was standing in front of Niani and myself, weaving the spell that he hoped would bring to life the gate formed of the two gnarled trees. With a gasp, I felt the power gathering like the noon sun beating down.

Before my eyes, the space between the entwined trees began to glow. A mute glow, a gentle glow at first, as the Magicworker muttered. His voice grew in strength; his dark forehead was dripping with sweat.

Something shifted.

Through the arch formed by the trees, I had gazed into the forest that lay beyond. Now, a different forest loomed between the two trunks. I could hardly breathe. A gentle glow still lay on the trees themselves – the gate. But now, we were looking through them into a different view: not a clearing, but a dense mass of ferns and flowering plants.

“It worked,” Niani said in an awed voice. Her hand came to clutch mine. I held on tight, forgetting to be afraid of her touch, unnerved by the strangeness of it all.

The Magicworker turned to us. A huge grin was on his face, and his hair was curling in tighter spirals due to the moisture he had gathered all over his body. But in spite of his triumph, he was careful, had the precautions of a knowledge-seeker.

“The gate won’t be open long,” he said. “I can’t hold it open for more than a few moments. Now is the time to test it.”

His voice echoed into a silence that snapped violently. I heard running, I heard shouts, I heard the hooves of a wild animal nearing the clearing.

“What’s wrong, Dayi?” asked Niani. Her hand was still clasped in mine.

“Do you hear it?” I wished I were dreaming in daylight. I wanted the pounding steps and snapping undergrowth to be a malicious illusion.

“People,” said Niani, and shattered my hopes. For now I could hear the jingling of armour, and I could hear shouts.

Shouts in a language I could understand. Shouts in the language my mother had sung me to sleep with.

The language my father had abused me with.

“We have to hide,” I said, stumbling over my words in the language I had but newly learnt. “Quickly!”

Niani glanced at the Magicworker. Something silent passed between them.

“All right,” said Niani. “It sounds like a dozen or so people. Those ferns over there, near the gate – we’ll lie there until we’ve seen what’s what.”

“Our things!” I was breathless, terrified. Our belongings were strewn around our camp, easy to find, prompting a search over the whole clearing.

The Magicworker frowned. “Gather what you can and hide,” he said. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

Frantically, I gathered up as much as I could carry, and hurried to the tall ferns that stood near the forest edge, by the great roots of the tree-gate. I huddled underneath them. Niani came to join me, several bundles in her hands.

I was shaking. I wanted the Magicworker to do it quickly, whatever he was doing. He hummed, he muttered, and slowly I saw the rest of our belongings fade into the grass. I could see them if I concentrated, but they would not be visible to anyone who didn’t look close.

“Come on!” said Niani in a low, urgent voice. “They’re almost here.”

At the last moment, the Magicworker flung himself into the ferns next to us. We were hidden from prying eyes – as long as those eyes did not think to look too close.

A small white-tailed deer sped into the clearing. Arrows flew from the woods, and moments later, the creature was shot dead. Its hunters came into the clearing.

They were my father’s men.

Terror clung to me like a second skin. I could not understand why they were this far from his court. I had never thought the chase would persist so long, or so far.

Yet a moment later sense caught up to me, and I understood that they could not be searching for me any more. My father must have given me up for dead. These men were but a hunting party for the king, straying far from his lands, so far that they might not have realised they were in another country.

Beside me, Niani had loosened the dagger at her belt; little good that would do her against so many. Silently I cursed our rotten luck: the hunters would surely stop in the clearing to skin their catch at least. I prayed they would not notice the tree-gate’s glow and the strange view through it.

Then my father strode into the clearing, and I came close to heaving up the contents of my breakfast. What was he doing with the hunting party, so far from his lands? Suddenly I felt naked. The ferns could do nothing to hide me. He would sense I was here, somehow. He would take me back home and touch me again.

Niani sensed me shuddering beside her. She could not understand the reason for my terror, of course. But she put a hand around my shoulder as we crouched beneath the ferns. Her touch could have made me skittish. Instead, it felt comforting. I leaned against her. I felt more grounded in my self despite seeing my father there, so close.

He looked the same: the imperious tilt of his mouth, his large, looming frame.

“We shall rest here,” he said to his men, and I gave a soft sigh of horror. They were not going to just skin the deer and ride past.

Niani and the Magicworker had shifted beside me, their faces blank as they listened to the language unfamiliar to them. I noticed the Magicworker give me a shrewd look as he saw my obvious shock at the announcement. But they dared not speak, for the king’s men were now making camp.

“A fire pit, my lord,” said one of the soldiers to my father, “still smoking. Someone else was here just a short while ago.”

“One of the savages of these lands, no doubt,” said my father. “These must be their hunting grounds. This bodes well for us. Perhaps there are bigger creatures to hunt, too.” He spared their catch a brief glance and surveyed the rest of the clearing. I was glad the Magicworker’s spell of concealment on the rest of our items was still working, although he was labouring hard to keep it that way, sweat pushing through his skin.

“Search this place. They may still be close by.”

At my father’s words, I could not suppress a gasp of fear. Niani and the Magicworker gave me furious glances and pulled me down, but I was frantic.

A couple of soldiers came close to the ferns. I could smell the leather and metal of their armour and the reek of days-long sweat. They would find us. The Magicworker could not keep up three spells at once.

When the first soldier gave a cry of “My lord! There are people here!” we were lost. Panicking, I stumbled to my feet, pulling the Magicworker and Niani along with me.

The world halted. The soldiers stood, baffled, staring as their princess and two foreigners emerged from the green ferns. The clearing’s magic hum seemed urgent, as if the very earth sensed my distress.

All I could focus on was my father. I watched him recognise me in a moment that felt like an agonising eternity. The fury grew on his face, coupled with honest surprise.

“You’re alive.” His voice was gentle. It was always gentle when he talked to me. He sounded as if he were happy that I was still alive – oh, and he probably was. If I was alive, he could take me back and keep me forever. He could finish what he had begun.

I couldn’t allow that. I had to grasp at the fraying strands of freedom that I held clutched in my hands.

“Seize her!” said my father.

My head was spinning. I was shaking with fear. But I would rather die than be caught like a rabbit in a trap.

“Follow me!” I yelled in the language of the Eri.

Dumbfounded by this situation whose gravity they couldn’t understand, my two companions nonetheless ran alongside me. My plan was a last desperate struggle for freedom, for I knew that even with magic and Niani’s skills, and my lingering defensive arts, we could not win a fight against my father and his men.

When he understood where we were running, the Magicworker yelled: “We can’t! It isn’t safe!”

He flinched at the look I gave him. “This isn’t safe,” I snapped. And indeed, he and Niani were both embroiled in it now, for my father’s men were coming at us fast. We fought our way from the ferns to the tree-gate. I kicked and punched more fiercely than I had ever done in all my training, for my life and freedom depended on it. Niani used her dagger with cold precision. The Magicworker just ran and dodged, for all his strength was concentrated on keeping the gate open.

I hesitated the smallest moment before the tree-gate. I looked into the other forest, its deeper shades. I glanced back, saw my father running towards us. Niani was grappling with one of his soldiers. I took one last look at the man I had hoped never to see again.

I grabbed Niani and the Magicworker by their arms, and ran through the opening between the trees.

◊ ◊ ◊

A dizzying blur clouded my eyesight, and my stomach lurched.

Then all was still, until the world exploded into movement again. We were no longer in the clearing. We had made it to the other side.

“Close the gate!” yelled Niani. I realised that while we had indeed passed through the gate to somewhere else, the soldiers had noticed that something was going on, and were coming after us. Niani was still fighting the one she’d been grappling with on the other side. One of my father’s personal bodyguards was coming at me. I struggled desperately, trying to go through the seven movements. But the dance was not smooth. I could hear shouts. I could see my father coming closer. Soon he would be through the gate.

The wavering glow disappeared. There was nothing but this new forest, a dark, dense area that I barely had time to notice because I was fighting for my life. I was being crushed by the weight of the soldier who had lunged at me. I hit him hard in the groin with my knee. Not one of the preferred tactics of the discipline, but survival has no room for elegance.

I heard a strangled cry, and then Niani was there, slashing with her knife. The man fighting me was thrown off, and with a sickening thud of metal in flesh, Niani stabbed him in the heart.

The forest was silent around us. It was as if we had entered a ghost realm. Bone-aching, I sat up and looked around me.

Niani was standing there next to me, breath heavy, the bloody knife in her hand. Two dead men lay beside her on the forest floor. My father’s soldiers, caught in this struggle.

The Magicworker was sprawled on the ground a little way from me, staring in wonder at the tree-gate that lay before him. These were strong trees, too, but younger than the ones we had found in the clearing.

“It worked,” he said. “It is possible for humans to travel through the gate.” Then he turned to look at me, sudden steel in his voice. “Why did you do that? Can you even imagine the risk…”

I looked away. “I’m sorry for putting your life and Niani’s into danger,” I said. “But there was no other way. They were attacking us.”

He pursed his lips after a while and nodded.

Niani was staring at the bodies. I got up and went to her, legs still shaking. “I’m sorry you had to do that,” I said. I could not look directly at the dead bodies, for the sight made me feel another lurch of sickness. I was so very sorry. And even sorrier that my father still lived.

“I’m a bodyguard,” Niani said. “It’s what I do.” She gave me a wan smile. “Not that it’s ever fun.”

There was silence. I could feel Niani’s unspoken questions and the Magicworker’s wordless wondering fill up the space between us. I was still undone by having seen my father, heard his voice. But I could gather the shreds of myself again. It was easier now, after my many moons of hard-working safety in the Eri king’s court, after our journey in the forest. I clenched my fists so tight it hurt. My jaw was stiff. I breathed in and out several times, opening my mouth to free the tension.

I had to tell them. They had earned it beyond measure, with their friendship, their willingness to follow my sudden order, their defence against my father’s men.

“Please,” I said. “Let’s sit down.”

The moss here was soft and welcoming. Niani and the Magicworker gathered beside me. The dead men in the thicket of ferns behind us were a gruesome reminder of how barely we had escaped. My eyes were firmly on the moss at my feet. It seemed wondrous to me that the world should contain things so vibrantly green, so fearlessly alive.

I began.

“That man in the clearing, their leader. He’s the king of the land I come from.” I paused. The words of their language felt strange in my mouth again, like stones rounded by river water. “He is my father.”

Strange it felt, and terrifying beyond belief, to be telling the true story of myself to my companions after such a long silence. I didn’t tell them everything; I couldn’t. Perhaps I never would, and the memories would remain locked up in my soul forever. But some things I could tell.

“He went mad in his chase of my mother’s spirit. He…he touched me, as a man touches his wife.”

I closed my eyes, so as not to witness the pity in their faces. But when I opened my eyes, I saw not pity, but horrified understanding. Niani had reached out for me, but her hand sank like a stone in the distance between us.

I raised my head, some pride remaining. “I couldn’t endure it. I escaped, and they chased me. I was lost in the forest when I saw a gnahali for the first time.” That ghost light had truly saved me. “It led me to your king’s walls. The rest you know.”

The silence that followed was heavier than I could bear. But what could they say, after hearing such a tale?

“The forest-spirits must be in your favour, Dayi,” said the Magicworker at last, in a quiet, careful voice. “For this is the first time a tree-gate has fully opened to me.”

“You did things differently this time, though, yes?” I asked. I was relieved to speak of something else.

“I refined my experiments,” he agreed. “But that clearing also bore the most powerful traces of natural magic that I’ve ever encountered. To think we might not have reached it but for you and the gnahali… I’m grateful to you, Dayi.”

The name, Moss-tunic, pricked at me somehow, like an ill-fitting sandal. “And I’m grateful to you, lord Magicworker, and to Niani. I can’t even say how much. You…” I spoke past the lump in my throat. “You saved me.”

“As if we could’ve done anything else!” said Niani. Her eyes on me were dark and worried. It shivered my heart, that neither of them had changed their behaviour now they knew I was the daughter of a king.

The Magicworker gave a cough. “I know you have known me only as the Magicworker,” he said. “It is the custom for Magicworkers to abandon their names when they practise the science of magic in earnest. But to you, Dayi, I will say now that my birth-name is Kagna.”

I bowed my head, mindful of the honour he’d given me. I noted that Niani had marked no surprise at his true name. So she had known it already.

The Magicworker – Kagna – got up and paced towards the trees that formed the gate on this side. He put a hand on the bark and muttered a few words. I felt a soft tremor of magic run through the earth in response.

“There. That was the last of it,” he said, passing a hand over his face. “The gates must be thanked, you see. We’re using the earth’s magic for this, and we must thank the trees that see it done.”

In my heart, I thanked the earth and all the forest-spirits for my second escape. “How far are we from the Eri compound now?”

“A week’s journey or so,” said Kagna. “It will be rough going, with only the few supplies we carried on our backs during our crossing.”

I took a deep breath. I saw the walls closing in on me when I thought of returning with them to the Eri king’s halls. I scrambled to my feet and took a few steps away, peering into the forest. The trees were ancient and towering in this part of the woods.

“I can’t come with you,” I said. “I know the king ordered you to bring me back for fear I’d reveal his secrets. Yet what secrets do I know here? I don’t know where we are. I’m lost. And I want it to stay that way. I’ll go on from here. No one will know I’ve visited the Eri lands. I’ll continue further into the forest. I’ll let the gnahali lead me. I’ll learn new languages when I come across them.”

I turned. Kagna did not look surprised. If anything, he looked pleased. “I thought as much. Yes, Dayi. You should have freedom.”

I’d been prepared to fight if I had to. I was disarmed by the kindness in his voice.

“You can’t go alone into the woods!” said Niani, forehead creased in a frown. “You have little experience of the forest’s dangers.”

“I can protect myself,” I said. My mind pushed moments at me when I had not been able to protect myself, not from my father. The seven movements had not helped me then. But I pushed that back. I was a different person now.

Niani hung her head and looked thoughtful.

“My dears,” said Kagna. He got to his feet and walked to me, drawing Niani close to his side. He raised an arm and met my eyes with a question. Hesitantly, I got up and leaned into his touch. We stood there, all three, encircled by him.

“You two should go into the forest wilds together.”

Niani and I looked up sharply, first at him and then at each other. “You’d let us go, both of us?” said Niani.

“Yes,” said Kagna. “I may be in the Eri king’s employ, but I’m my own master. And so should you two be.”

“But how will you explain it to the king?” I asked. I did not want him to be punished for our sakes.

To my surprise, he laughed. “I’ll spin a story of how the experiment worked, but the dreadful magic currents severed the souls from my servants’ bodies while I was the only one to remain anchored in my self. Such things have been known to happen when magic goes wrong.”

My eyes were wide. “They have?” I had not known what I’d risked when I plunged us through the gate.

He nodded. “So it’s decided. You two will go together, if you wish it.”

I glanced at Niani, suddenly shy. “Will you join me in the wilderness, as long as we wish for each other’s company? Would you leave your life as bodyguard? Would you leave the study of magic?”

She smiled like a fern unfurling. “Yes.”

My heart was filled with a giddiness that frightened me. That these two would take risks for me – that Niani wanted to travel with me.

It was quick work to divide our belongings between us. Kagna would get by with the help of his magic, he said; and Niani was confident in the deep woods, for she had been born in a small village near the Eri compound, and was used to woodsfaring.

Burying the bodies of my father’s men was far slower work, and wretched. But at last they were under the moss. I wished them safe passage in the other worlds and that their next lives might be more peaceful.

At last it was time for the farewell.

“Can’t you come with us?” I asked. I didn’t want to let him go.

Kagna shook his head, eyes shining wet. “I can’t. My life’s work, my science is all at the Eri king’s court. I must go back. But I’ll miss you, Dayi.”

I laid my hand on his shoulder, trembling at the voluntary touch. He leant close to me, and I did not flinch. “I’ll miss you too.” My throat was tight.

As Niani and I stood side by side, ready to leave, I knew there was one final thing I had to tell them. Moss-tunic I was, but a true part of me was in what my mother had given me. Perhaps I could finally be free from the burden laid on me by my father. Perhaps I could own my name without shame.

“There’s something I want to tell you.” I could feel Kagna and Niani’s eyes on me, and did not feel discomfited by their gaze. I took a deep breath.

“My birth-name is Tuar.”

– END –

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