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Published by Karl Rademacher on September 29, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 23, Issue 23 Stories, Short Stories, Stories

Sisters

by Nick T. Chan

51646Versus-Doctrinus-PostersIn the still moments before dawn, when all is as dark as the bottom of the sea, I turn my head from my sister and dream. In my dream, we are not conjoined. We are not fused from breast to stomach. I am not destined to cast spells until Isabella dies. Instead, I walk straight. I do not crab-scuttle with her. Alone and proud, I am with the love of my life. When I wake, I can’t remember his face. All that remains is that Isabella was alive, yet I was alone. They say the dreams of mages are prophetic, but that cannot be, because the only way I will ever be alone is if I murder Isabella.

This morning the dream ends early. I am woken by something warm in my right hand that wasn’t there before. I open my eyes. It is a parchment scroll. It’s probably from my friend Emily, who has not written to me for months. I wake fully and winter passes through my veins as I realise what the paper’s warmth means. The scroll was created by magic. Emily’s twin Susan was on the verge of death before we fled the Parliament of Mages, so she can’t have had the power to create the letter. It has to be from the Parliament.

I stand, intending to toss the letter into the fireplace. Standing wakes Isabella. She grabs my wrist and my throw falls short. I strive to pick it up as Isabella pulls away. We dance on the spot, revolving spasmodically, and then her greater strength wins. She squats, forcing me to do so too, and picks the letter up.

“It’s magic,” she says. “They must need you to cast a heroic spell.” She pauses and clasps the scroll to her chest. “How many songs will they write about me after I die?”

“None,” I say. A spasm of coughing overtakes me, bright blood flecking my hand, each spot jewel bright. She says the same thing she always does after each one of my fits. “It’s you or me. If you cast a spell like they want, the people will remember my name. If I’m going to die, I want to be remembered.”

And I use my usual retort. “Murder is a sin.”

The coughing intensifies until thick coins of clotted dark red blood coat my hand and darkness claws at the edges of my sight. I cannot breathe or think. Isabella embraces me until it stops.

“Read the letter,” she says. “You keep saying that you’ll find some way to save me, but we both know it’s a lie.” She pauses. “We’re dying. Do we have a week? A day? An hour? Please.”

She is right, but casting a spell will accelerate the rate at which Isabella drains my life, forcing me to cast more and more spells. I cough again, and suddenly I am tired. Isabella believes Parliament is a force for good, while I know better. But it doesn’t matter what I believe, not when my beliefs will lead to both our deaths.

I unfurl the letter. “It’s blank,” Isabella says. “Why would a mage create it?”

I trace my finger across the paper and my fingers tingle. “I have to cast a spell to reveal the words,” I say. “It’s a small spell. It won’t give us much more time.”

“Do it.”

The words flow easily though it is a year since I have cast one. Isabella pushes a short hiss of air between gritted teeth at each syllable. As soon as the spell is finished, the scuttling tickle within my chest ceases and crow’s feet wrinkles appear on Isabella’s ashen face. Every part of me burns with life.

Flowing script, as black as blood in the moonlight, fills the page. Each letter twitches in a way that makes me uncertain whether it has really moved at all. I read aloud. “The Ever-dying King’s life is ending and the Worm Nil will soon awaken. I have a plan to stop it. Parliament does not know. I arrive in three hours. Draven.”

My hand shakes as I lower the letter. When the Ever-dying King dies, then there will be chaos. Without him, spells cost the weaker twin exponentially more. The Parliament will be powerless. As corrupt as they are, the alternative is anarchy. And worse, during the time between the death of the King’s current body and the re-birth of his new one, the Worm is unleashed.

Draven. Emily’s letters wrote of him. All I know is that she fell in love with him. He was going to save her twin Susan, but he failed and broke her heart. “It’s a trap. He can’t destroy the Worm,” I say.

“They’ll remember us forever if we do it,” she says. “I could have a statue in the grand square. Children will be praised for being like me.” She claps my hands and forces me into a spin around the room, false gaiety in her eyes. “The selfless Isabella, who sacrificed her life for all mankind.”

“No, it can’t be done.” I look away from her. She grabs me by the chin and forces my face back to its natural position, facing her.

“Can’t or won’t?” she says. “And does it matter?”

“It will kill you,” I say. “Take how much that spell hurt and multiply it by a thousand.”

“It will be worth it to be remembered forever,” she says. She snatches the letter away and reads it out loud behind my back, rolling each word around in her mouth as if they were hard-boiled lollies. “Why did you say Draven can’t kill the Worm?” she says. “I don’t remember him.”

“He was Emily’s lover,” I say. “He joined Parliament after we left. She said they discovered him in some small village. He wouldn’t have had enough time to learn how to cast spells.”

“How can he kill the Worm then?”

“He lies. Parliament is trying to catch us again.”

Isabella is silent. We watch each other go to the toilet, bathe and menstruate. But Isabella’s head is a locked box. She cares about clothes and makeup and dancing and men and a thousand other irrelevant things. Yet if I think about her death, my heart feels like a pebble dropped down an endless well.

I toss the letter into the fire, half-expecting it to resist the flames and hiss like a snake. It catches fire. Isabella picks up the poker lying in the grate and pushes the letter further into the flames. It is a strange pleasure to watch her flawless face, though she stole her beauty from me. If we do the impossible and kill the Worm Nil, this is how the painters and sculptors will depict her. When we were children, she had a mournful shrunken frog-face. Now men stare at her despite our freakishness. Every day I become more haggard, my skin as tight as papier-mâché over my skull, and my hair falls out in fist-sized clumps.

Isabella pushes the last log onto its side so that the fire dies, leaving parchment fragments interposed amongst the ashes. “We’re not going to run,” she says. “Parliament is still scared of you.” I try to move so I can pack our meagre belongings. She doesn’t budge. The join between our bodies stretches and I gasp. It must hurt Isabella as well, but her face is stone-still. I strain until the pain becomes too great. She never flinches.

“Don’t you trust me to make the right decision?” she says. No, I do not. Her head is filled with glory, but the dead care not for adulation. They are dust and worms and a statue is no substitute for my sister. I strain again.

The coughs overtake me without warning. When they stop, the front of our dress is covered with thick, gritty blood.

“Do you want to become oathbound if Parliament catches us?” I say.

“There’s no time to run anymore Mary,” she says. “I can feel our heart slowing.” The wind whistles through the gaps in our stone shack and the fire grows cold. I cough and the blood is fresh and bright. Dust eddies in rays of sunlight through the window as the sun rises. She looks at the angle of the sun. “He must be here soon.” She drags me outside and scans the sky.

A vast Zeppelin descends from the sky behind Isabella’s back. There is a woman nailed to the front and oh gods, its Emily. What happened to her? Then I realize my mistake. She is the globe. They have made her oathbound. Emily’s body spreads into a great puffer-fish of pale white flesh, making her the figurehead of a living Zeppelin. One of the reasons I left the Parliament was because of the cruelty of their punishments against those who defied them and now it has happened to Emily.

I sob and the sound alerts Isabella to Emily’s descent. “She’s hollow inside,” she says. “I can see a shadow.” She uses her palm to shade her eyes. “Two people standing side by side. Did Emily ever tell you how Draven and his twin were joined?”

“What has he done to her?” I say, my voice cracking.

“He can’t have,” Isabella says. “Only the senior members of Parliament can make someone oathbound.”

Tears blind my eyes. “No. Draven must have done it. Emily never defied them.”

I watch Emily’s face as she comes closer, hoping for a smile when she recognizes me. Her face remains blank. Oh, my poor Emily. She lands on the grass with a soft thud. She shudders and then she splits like a quartered orange, granting entry to her insides.

Draven steps out of Emily. Recognition spears through me. He is the literal man of my dreams. Ever since puberty, I have dreamed of him. I never remembered his face after waking, but now he is in front of me. High cheekbones, deep blue eyes and a mouth made to whisper sweet promises. My cheeks flush and our heart beats faster as I meet his gaze. Gods, he is beautiful and there is no other word for him.

A thin band of skin attaches Draven to his twin at the hip. The ash-colored twin is so thin sunlight almost passes through it and it is so withered that it could be either man or woman. Its eyes are closed.

Draven approaches us. His twin mirrors his walk, but it does not open its eyes. When twins are on the verge of dying, they retreat deep inside themselves, clinging onto life before the final spell. How could Draven know spells well enough to drain his twin to this degree?

“What have you done to her?” I say, putting contempt into my voice, but at the same time unable to tear my eyes away from him.

He holds his hands up. “I am no friend of Parliament. Like you, she tried to leave, but they weren’t scared of her. Their punishment sent her insane.” He strokes her cheek, but she doesn’t react. “I couldn’t save her. They didn’t know we were lovers, so when they asked for a mage to take charge of her, I volunteered.” Isabella nods, too eager to believe. It is plausible. I want to believe him. Gods, I want to.

The shock of seeing my dream lover in the flesh has kept me upright, but the adrenaline leaches and I stumble. Draven and his twin spring forward and catch us. The arm that catches me is strong. His other arm supports Isabella. His twin holds us too and its skin is like dried autumn leaves, brittle and ready to crack. I look into his perfect face, but he is looking at Isabella and when I turn my head back to its natural position, she has locked gazes with him.

Draven draws us back to our feet, his hands changing position. His hand stays over Isabella’s waist. The twin holds me upright. After a long, frozen, moment, he lets go and enters Emily.

“The Worm Nil will wake within days,” he says. “We have to return to Firewater now.”

“The Ever-dying King was healthy when we left. I can cast small spells to keep us both alive.”

“You are a long way from Firewater and do not know the news,” he says. “He is dying. He has been dying for months.”

“But he is not dead.”

“Before he lapsed into the sleep before death, he asked the Traders of Sorrows to exchange his pain for another’s sorrow,” he says. “They told him that he could not swap death.”

My last hope disappears. If the current King is dying, then Isabella must supply all the power for the spell. We do not have long to live if I do not cast spells and the new King will not be born for weeks. Isabella follows Draven and I do not resist.

The entrance seals behind us. Inside is cramped and Draven almost stands on top of us. Emily’s insides are deep red and waxy at first, but then her walls glow white and became transparent. She rises and my insides churn as our shack and the garden vanish into the distance. Isabella squeezes my hand. She had no fear of heights, but she knows my discomfort. I close my eyes, but I still see Draven in my mind’s eye. Better to open them again and I do so.

“What happened the last time a mage thought they could kill the Worm? How many people died?” I say.

Draven flicks a glance my way and then looks at Isabella. “Maybe three thousand died twenty years ago,” he says, his voice almost lost in the wind’s noise. “But that is not what will happen this time.”

Isabella leans sideways to hear better and I must follow. He smells of soap and rose water, but beneath is the odor of his dying twin. Its eyes open for a second, salt-white and blind, and then they close again.

“What spell will kill the Worm?” Isabella says.

Draven raises his hand and for a moment I fear he is about to run his fingers through Isabella’s hair. I hold my breath. “I have looked into the histories,” he says. “There have been four attempts to destroy the Worm Nil.” At the word destroy, he clenches his hand and then he opens it, waggling his fingers with a smile. I exhale. “Each attempt has angered the Worm, worsening its destruction. Thousands more die than is necessary.”

We float through the air at tremendous speed, passing over the mountain-graveyards formed from Worldstalker bones. Our shadow darkens the Forest of Silence where the trees eat those foolish enough to speak. And then we are following the Firewater River which flows to the Burning Sea, upon which the city of Firewater sits. In the shadows of the mountains, the Sea gutters with a low blue flame and the hellfish burn as they leap from the surface. By mid-morning, the shadows will have passed, the flames will have died and the hellfish will be edible.

Draven continues to speak. “No one has thought about when the Worm stops its destruction.”

“You are going to induce the new Ever-dying King as soon as the old one dies,” Isabella says.

Draven smiles, genuine delight in his grin, and he locks gazes with Isabella. “As soon as the new King is born, the Worm vanishes. If we bring the New King forth from the ground early, then the Worm’s damage will be limited. It took no skill to write a modified inducement spell, only skill to say it.”

“Cast it yourself,” I say.

“Any mage who approaches your skill has already drained their twin.”

“The first person who touches the new Ever-dying King will be the regent until the new King comes of age won’t they?” I say.

He talks again, too fast and too smooth. “My father died fighting the Worm Nil. I’ve always dreamed of stopping it.”

“So you’ll be regent to honor his memory?”

“Emily said you were a hypocrite,” he says. “You didn’t leave Parliament to save your sister. You left because they didn’t agree with you how to use spells. You spout fine words about the tyranny of Parliament, but if the chance to do good comes about, you run the other way.”

“Don’t lie,” I say. “This is for your own glory.”

“Mary,” Isabella says. “You must cast the spell.”

“So he can gain the throne for the next eighteen years?”

Before I can continue, Draven interrupts me. “Emily was your friend, but she lied about me. I am a good man. Love turned sour breeds lies and she lied.”

She never wrote about him at all except to say she had a new lover. He was going to somehow save her twin Susan. And he didn’t and then she wrote: I hate him and nothing more. He was less important to Emily than she thought it seems. I decide to bait him. “She told the truth.”

“If you cast the spell, you will be there when the new King is born,” he says. “You can be the first one to lay your hands upon him.”

This catches me so off-guard that I can do nothing but stutter. He has offered me the regency. “I…cannot.”

“She told me you hated how Parliament casts spells due to greed rather than where they’d do the greatest good,” he says. His eyes flick up to look at Isabella, back to me and then into space again. “Parliament would have to obey you. You could ensure that spells are only cast for good.”

“You would throw away such power?” I say. His hand hovers above Isabella’s knee, but does not touch. I want him to put his hand on my thigh and slide it beneath our dress. I want him to kiss me. How can I be so weak?

“I will have done more good than any mage in history if the Worm Nil sleeps,” he says. “What is the regency compared to that?” His eyes shine and I want to believe him. The Worm will be stopped and I will be the regent. Thousands of lives will be saved and the entire Parliament under my control. The tyranny of my fellow mages could be finally undone. Yet it would cost Isabella her life.

“I want to speak to The Ever-dying King before he passes,” I say.

“You can see him, but he won’t speak to you,” he says. “He is in so much pain that his mind is broken.”

There is nothing to say and we sit in silence as we fly closer to the city. Draven and his twin sit on the other side of Emily’s interior. His twin doesn’t open its eyes. All three of us slide glances past one another.

Emily catches a gale and quickens her flight. We fly over the sprawling city of Firewater. The noon sunlight has killed the flames and fishermen on shore are pushing out their boats. The city buildings have not changed since we left. In ancient times, our nation was nothing but sand and heat and burning water until enough mages murdered their twins to change the weather and then the land. The buildings are still those of a desert city, bricks as white as vulture-picked bones and the rippling curves of red tiled-roofs as far as the eye can see.

We descend, scraping the top of the city’s walls. They are made from the black diamond bones of Worldstalkers and their impervious ramparts have repelled numerous hordes over the centuries.

“We will give you my decision tomorrow,” I say. Isabella opens her mouth to protest, but I raise my hand to stop her. “Isabella and I will talk alone and then I will decide.”

We land. The milling crowds in the street glance at us for a second and then return to what they were doing. There are no cries of horror at Emily’s appearance. Isabella says what I have been thinking. “They didn’t look at her. How many oathbound are there in the city now?”

“Parliament has conducted many trials lately.” He pauses. “They have been suppressing opposition before the Worm wakes. There will be chaos and they take no chances.”

Emily splits and we exit onto the road. I look at her, hoping to see some semblance of recognition in her eyes, but there is nothing. Because I’m not watching where I’m going, I stumble and look down. A soft curse escapes my lips. We are upon the Road of Tears. Once it was known as the King’s Road until the last time the Worm Nil traveled upon it.

The road is the widest in the city and bisects Firewater in half. What was rock is now fused glass six feet deep. We stand above a young man. His face is unburned, but rest of him is charcoal-black. His eyes are blue and his mouth is ajar, as if he was lost in thought. The dead soldier is both handsome and familiar. I look from the soldier’s face to Draven’s.

“This is your father isn’t it?” I say.

Draven and his twin squat onto the road. Draven touches the glass above his father’s face. “I never knew him. I was conceived before the Worm woke.” The sweat on his fingers leaves streaks on the glass as he withdraws his hand. “He was a peasant, but Parliament conscripted him. My mother was pregnant.”

He stands. “Walk the road and then tell me casting the spell isn’t the right thing to do. I will meet back here at dawn with a modified inducement spell.”

“What is your twin’s name?” Isabella says.

His face hardens and he strides inside Emily. The exit seals. For a moment I imagine there is suffering in her eyes, but I am fooling myself. They are as blank as the eyes of dead fish. Isabella calls out, but Emily elevates.

We both watch until she is a distant spot in the sky and then I have to rub my stinging eyes. Isabella watches longer, her eyes watering.

I press my fingers into my temples. I cannot think. The pain is too much. “We don’t know what his damn spell is going to do until we say it do we?” I say. “Parliament hasn’t lured us back to punish us. They want us to do their dirty work.”

Isabella snorts. “That’s ludicrous.” She leads the way off the glass road and down the side streets.

“Where are you going?” I say, but she does not respond. We crab-scuttle and she watches for potholes. She is steady-footed while my feet skitter on the glass. The life drained from Isabella by my last spell has already dissipated and now she is draining me faster than ever. My limbs move a fraction of a second behind my thoughts and Isabella is a little glossier of eye and hair.

People keep their heads down and scurry off the road as we approach. “They’re scared of us,” Isabella says. “Remember when we were mobbed for favors? Parliament was always scared of you. You made them look bad, the way you talked about what good your spells would bring when you finally cast them.”

“You miss being the centre of attention,” I say. My tone is harsher than I intended, but Isabella remains serene.

“Yes,” she says. “I miss thinking that when you finally caved in, I’d be famous.”

“Where are we going?”

We round a corner. She has brought us to the marketplace where the Traders of Sorrows ply their wares. The marketplace is empty except for the Traders. They sit in enormous steaming glass tubs filled to the brim with water, their girth filling the tubs from centre to rim. Their eyes are black slits and the rest of their bodies are salt-white. Nostrils are two upwards-curved slashes, mouths lipless holes. They have no fingernails on their stubby fingers, no hair on their heads, nor ears or wrinkles. Nobody knows how the Traders work their magic without twins or why they trade sorrows for no apparent benefit to themselves. The Traders have been here since before Firewater was founded. They might have been here before mankind.

The nearest one focuses its black eyes upon us. Isabella forces me to walk and stand in front of it.

“Swap your guilt,” she says. “Swap your bloody guilt, so you can do what needs to be done.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She slaps me hard across the face. “Wake up Mary,” she says. “You love being a martyr so much you’ve destroyed all my dreams.”

I rub my stinging cheek. “You hurt me.”

“You can’t put it off any longer,” she says.

“What if he’s a liar?”

Her eyes are flat. “I’ve never believed in your Gods or your heaven. When I die, there will be nothing. My death will mean nothing unless you do this, but your bloody pride means more than my dreams, doesn’t it?” Her tone softens. “Trade your guilt. Please.” And then she is crying, her face crumpled, Isabella who is always so serene and perfect. “Please.”

I choke out the words. “If I could die for you…”

Her face steels. “But you can’t.” She turns her head to the Trader. “How much sorrow is the King’s dying pain worth?”

The Trader almost looks surprised. “To take his pain is to take his life.”

“I propose trading his pain for my broken dreams,” she says and extends her hand to the Trader.

“Your proposal is acceptable,” it says and it moves to kiss her hand, sealing the bargain. I try to stop her, but she brushes my hand aside without difficulty. The Trader kisses her hand and then it shudders and its eyes roll back in its head.

Isabella gasps, but the King was an old man and she handles his dying pain with a grit of her teeth. Bells start to peal, signifying the death of the Ever-dying King and the Worm Nil’s coming. Within minutes crowds rumble through the marketplace. None stop for the Traders; they are fleeing the city.

“What have you done?”

Isabella closes her eyes. “You have no guilt now. I’ve forced your hand. We find Draven and then you cast the spell.”

There will be a way out. There has to be. Isabella heads back to where Emily landed. My lungs burn but we cannot slow down. The crowds buffet us. The Worm Nil will kill them all. I know it in my bones. Thousands of ordinary people. They are not cursed with deciding whether to murder their twin, but neither do they have the power to save themselves. The gods have placed them as pawns, but I am a queen upon the board. I could save them all.

There are so many of them and I realize that Draven will never see us if he’s in the air. “The King’s tower,” I say. “I’ll cast a beacon spell.” Isabella sets her jaw and nods. The quickest way to the King’s Tower is to pass through the slums. We scuttle through the twisting and narrow streets as quickly as we can. Shouts and cries ring out. The stink of tears, fear and sweat is overwhelming.

We are stop to let the crowd pass. The front of our dress is covered with blood, though I do not remember coughing. It does not matter. After the beacon spell, Isabella might be dead. The crowd thins for a moment and then we are scuttling down less crowded streets until we have reached the Grand Square, where the statues of heroes (twin and un-twinned alike) ring the King’s Tower.

The tower is a pillar of flesh, topped by a vein-streaked heart as wide as a house. While the King lives, the heart beats. When he dies, the heart is still until the new King is born. Around the tower’s stem winds a wooden staircase. It leads to a platform encircling the heart.

“There’s no one on the platform,” Isabella says. “Where are the members of Parliament?”

“Too scared of the Worm,” I say. “It likes eating mages.”

“Draven could be telling the truth,” Isabella says. “You and he will be the only ones in position to touch the new King.”

Yes. Isabella will be dead. It will be Draven and I. And then I realize. “No,” I say. “Draven’s twin will still be there.” Isabella is blank-faced. “You’ll be dead,” I say. “I’ll be un-twinned.”

It takes Isabella a moment to understand. “You won’t be able to cast spells. And he will.”

“Maybe not. His twin must be close to dying.”

“But not dead yet.”

“It doesn’t take much power to kill someone, not if they can’t cast spells,” I say. “There are no witnesses.”

“He’s not a murderer,” she says. “Don’t ask me how I know, but he isn’t. I feel it. ”

I feel it too. He is not a murderer. He is a liar, but everyone lies. The elders of Parliament claim virtue, but they are tyrants. I remember when I was still a member. Our fellow mages proclaimed their plans for the final spell and their twins smiled and nodded. Great spells that would bring glory upon their dead twins. They lied. The spells were always for themselves. But I was the only one who fled. I was the only one who did something about the lies. And Isabella is right. I lie to myself and I always have.

I try to lead the way across the square, but my legs will not move. There is no burning in my chest and the scuttling spider in my lungs is gone. I try to tell Isabella I am no longer in pain. My head will not move. Why is everything so quiet? It is like I am underwater and it takes me a moment to realize Isabella is screaming something.

I focus and her words become a little clearer. She is screaming my name. “The tower,” I gasp. It takes a couple of attempts for her to hear me, though I shout back.

Isabella starts across the square and the band of flesh between our bodies stretches as my feet drag across the cobblestones. I feel nothing. A third of the way across the square, I blink, and when I open my eyes, we are halfway across. Isabella has stopped. She is slapping my face. The world is silent and the slaps are happening to someone else. I am behind a glass shield, an ant in an ant farm, watching the world burn. I want to sleep. If I sleep, I don’t have to murder her.

No. We must find Draven. No matter how brightly the beacon burns, he will not see us at ground level. If he isn’t flying inside Emily, it doesn’t matter what happens. We will die before he can find us.

I don’t know if Isabella has enough life for me to cast anything more than the beacon spell. It might kill her and I will be left alone and powerless on the tower with the Worm rampaging through the city. Gods, a spell now might kill her. But there is no choice. Most of the spells I learned at Parliament are too powerful. I need something small.

I blink and then we’re lying on the ground, my face numb against the cobblestones. Isabella grits her teeth and we stand. I feel no pain. Her muscles bulge as she sucks my life. Even so, there is no way she will be able to climb to the top or walk more than a few more steps before I die. I have to cast something.

My face is an inch from hers. I can’t think of what spell to cast. The damage to her face from the last spell has disappeared. Her beauty is like seeing the ocean or a mountain for the first time. It makes me feel insignificant. As children, we were identically plain. Now she is a Goddess and I am a hag.

Childhood. There was a rhyming spell all twins learn as children, a small, stupid spell. A spell to make vegetables taste like boiled sweets. The words were simple, but it was a song-spell, needing the rhythm and notes to be correct.

I almost remember the cadences, but it is like catching soap bubbles on the wind. As soon as a word of the lyrics is at the tip of my tongue, I lose it again.

I blink and when I open my eyes, everything is grey as the inside of a cloud. “Isabella!” I cry out, but I don’t know if my lips move. I have to cast the spell. I close my eyes and sing.

Isabella’s scream echoes around the square. I open my eyes. Everything is watery and blurred, but it is no longer grey. A half-animal moan of agony keens and then dies in Isabella’s throat. The spell has drained her, but it seems to have failed. Is that possible? And then I catch the taste of something on the air. It is the flavor of the sky just before a lightning storm, sharp and dangerous. “The Worm Nil,” I say. “I can taste it coming.” The Worm’s flavor changes. Its taste changes according to its intentions. In a way, I can read its mind and I know it hungers for magic.

The prickling on my tongue intensifies. “It’s coming for us,” I say. “Magic is a beacon. We need to climb.” Another spell might enable it to find us.

My eyes sting and I wipe them with the back of my arm. Isabella comes into focus. I stifle a gasp. The spell didn’t take much power, but Isabella is an old woman. Her skin as wrinkled as an unmade bed, her hair grey and lank.

“You have to carry me,” Isabella says, her voice weak. I gather her in my arms. She is kindling and twigs in my arm. Oh gods, she can’t support the beacon spell, let alone the inducement spell. I freeze. Maybe if we hide, the Worm will miss us.

Isabella digs her fingers into my forearm. “Go,” she hisses. I scuttle across the square, Isabella’s feet hitting the stones at irregular intervals.

The Worm’s ozone intensifies. It is hunting, not sure of where the magic is coming from, only knowing someone was stupid enough to cast when the King is dead.

I reach the stairs. Isabella’s eyes are open and fierce, but the rest of her looks so fragile that I worry she will blow into dust if the wind blows the wrong way.

I am strong, stronger than I’ve been for years. I’d forgotten what it is like to be able to breathe unencumbered. It is glorious to move without pain.

I climb the stairs, supporting Isabella’s weight. It is laborious, but part of me sings at the exertion.

We reach the top and Isabella slumps against the platform. People fill the streets, but few travel along the Road of Tears. Instead they flock to the Eastern gate or to the shore, fighting to board fishing boats. They are frightened the Worm will travel along the glass road again. But the Eastern Gate is too small to accommodate the vast crowds pouring in its direction. Thousands will be crushed to death.

And those on the boats will be no better. There is only an hour or so until Firewater Sea bursts into flame again. By the time they hijack the boats, the water will be on fire. The only safe passage is the Southern Gate via the Road of Tears but I can taste the Worm outside the gate.

“Is Emily in the sky?” Isabella says.

There are many oathbound flying through the sky. Most are travelling beyond the city walls, but there are still enough remaining above the city to make it impossible to know which one is Emily. None are close enough for Draven to see us.

A ghost of a smile traces Isabella’s lips. “Do you think I will get a statue for powering a beacon?”

“Maybe he’ll come close enough to see us,” I say. I can’t keep the desperation out of my voice.

She touches my face, the motion slow and pained. “You’re so beautiful. Is this what I looked like?”

No oathbound fly close. I scream Draven’s name, but my words are lost into the sky. The sun sinks and little fires gutter and die on the Sea’s surface. Soon the flames will roar waist-high. The hijacked boats will burn.

A great grinding sound sets my teeth on edge. The Southern Gate is trembling from the Worm battering the wall, searching for the source of magic. The walls are indestructible, but the gate is iron.

A single oathbound floats above the Road of Tears. It must be Draven, searching at our last location. Why doesn’t he think? Up here, no sound reaches up except for the whoosh of wind and the Worm’s battering against the wall. The crowd on the western gate is a boiling mass. There will be screams and the crack of bones as the weak are trampled underfoot. And on the lake, the launched boats are already catching fire. If we were close to the lake, we’d smell the roasting flesh.

“I love you,” I say and cast the beacon spell. Isabella screams and screams and screams. I force myself to keep staring at her as she ages and withers in front of my eyes. Her eyes sink deep into her sockets, two black stones dabbed in water, and then she closes her eyes. Her face wrinkles until deep cracks traverse her cheeks. She is utterly still and the only way I know she is alive is the faintest stir of breath against my cheeks. Every part of my body crackles with joy.

At the spell’s final word, light emanates from my fingers and I hold a tiny star in my hand. It is cold, clear and brilliant. And useless. Draven may find us, but Isabella doesn’t have enough power to cast much more. At least the beacon might lead Emily and Draven out of danger.

The Southern Gate glows cherry-red. The sky over the Gate darkens as Worm-brought storm clouds gather and then black fog leaks through the gate. The darkness thickens until the glowing gate vanishes.

I pray to the Gods Isabella doesn’t believe in, but Emily vanishes into the darkness. “Look up,” I scream, but of course he cannot hear me. In-between blinks, Isabella’s eyes film over with white cataracts. I look back into the blackness. “I dreamed of him,” she says.

I am staring so intently that it takes a second for her words to register. “What?”

“Every night, there has been a man in my dreams,” she says. “I didn’t know it was him until he stepped out of Emily. I dreamed he was the love of my life.”

A chill run through me. Mage dreams are prophetic, but the dream cannot be true. I have never heard of a twin having the same dream as a mage. “I have it too,” I say. “You dream of him and then you’re alone. But I’m still alive.”

She coughs wetly. “No,” she says. “I am alone, but with Draven. You’re dead.”

As the star’s light gutters and dies, Emily shoots out from the blackness. Behind her, the black fog dissipates as a howling wind washes it away.

The Worm has melted the Southern Gate and hot iron slag coats the road. It passes through where the gate used to exist. It should not fit. It coils above the city like a brewing storm, yet its head slides through the gates, its width endlessly narrowing as the body slides through. When I look at it directly, it is not there. I can only see it out of the corner of my eye, a featureless tube of night and nothing and air.

Emily rises until she is clear of the buildings and the street. But they travel towards the Burning Sea, not towards us, and the Worm follows them. I can taste its frustration. The beacon has attracted its attention, but Emily’s presence has confused matters. She is a creature of magic. The Worm turns its impossible head and chases her.

I start to recite the beacon spell again. Isabella barely has enough life left, but there is no time to ask for her permission. Her hair falls out in soft, grey clumps and when she screams, I see she has no teeth. When her scream dies, her eyes close and she is a genderless mummy. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, but she does not respond.

The star burns in my hand again. The Worm shifts from its pursuit of Emily and turns down the Road of Tears. Its howl increases in volume until it is the only sound in the world. Tin roofs flutter through the air and whole buildings roll down the street. Further down the road, people flee, but the wind pushes them off their feet. The road’s fused glass softens ahead of the Worm and the people burst into flame. The Worm rolls over them, leaving charred bodies pressed into the cooling glass.

It knows where we are now. The Worm is starting to taste me. As I become used to the gradients of its flavor, I understand it more. I have a taste of its thoughts, which is more than I can say about Isabella. The irony forces a sob from my guts.

The Worm howls down the road and there is a hint of terrible sadness in its flavor. The Worm is full of sorrow. And its flavor gives me a strange insight. It is driven to destroy magic and its drive is the source of its sorrow. I try to taste more, but the wind shifts too much.

Isabella whispers something. I look away from the unfolding horror and press my ears to her lips. It takes two or three attempts before I understand.

Let me die. Her voice is agonized. This is not her desire for glory. This is agony. Even in the moments before I cast the last spell, I didn’t want to die, but she is much closer to dying than I was then. I am not a murderer; I am a torturer.

Emily flies away from the Worm, travelling fast enough that she will be past the city walls within seconds. She is on fire, flames trailing as she streaks through the sky. But the Worm stops and extends its impossible neck to swallow them.

It looms over them, vaster than mountains yet too small to be seen. Its mouth opens, a storm cloud, a hurricane, the abyss at the end of the world. Leave them alone. Please God, miss them.

And miraculously, the Worm retreats. It returns to the Road of Tears and starts travelling towards the Tower. No, it wasn’t a miracle. The Worm understood my thoughts. As much as I can taste it, it can taste me. I open my mouth and poke out my tongue. The taste of sorrow is almost overwhelming. It is the taste of ashes, the taste of cakes at a wake, the taste of wine after long years of loneliness and regret. The Worm consumes magic users and magical things. All other destruction is incidental. It must do what it does and its sorrow at its own nature flavors the wind.

A cough rattles in Isabella’s chest like dice in a cup. She hangs limp and cold from my front. “Isabella,” I yell. “Draven is coming for us. He’s seen the star.” I hold the glittering star high until its temporary flame dies.

The Worm rolls down the road. Its burning wind pushes Emily ahead of it.

Isabella forces a whisper out. “Lead it out of the city,” she says. “Get inside Emily and use another spell to make it chase her away.”

“No.” If she dies inside Emily, no one will ever know what happened. I promised her glory. She is my sister and she deserves glory.

Emily traces a wobbly path to above the tower, her underside brushing the platform and then she lands. Her body is terribly burned, but her face shows no more animation than before.

She splits and Draven steps out. My heart leaps despite the circumstances. He clenches a scroll in his hands.

“I thought we had more time,” he says. He looks at Emily and touches the burning flesh on her hindquarters. Tears fill his eyes and he will not look at us as he holds the scroll in an outstretched hand.

Most of the scroll is covered in the runes in the language of spells, the Tongue. But some of it is common script.

Mary, it says. I have drained Susan too much to cast this. I know you won’t have drained Isabella. She is strong enough to bear the spell. We can rule Parliament together.

Beneath is the spell. It is Emily’s work. If Isabella was strong and the King still alive, the spell would not kill her, but she will die for certain if I do cast it.

Draven bows his head. His twin does the same. And in the gesture, there is something familiar. “Emily?” I say, looking closely at Draven’s twin. I had assumed his twin was male, but the withered creature is female.

Draven shakes his head. “No, Susan.” I touch his twin on its jaw. Emily’s dead twin?

“I don’t understand.”

The Worm curls around the tower’s base. Draven grips the platform, his knuckles whitening. “Emily made me oathbound. Her carriage drove past and splattered me with mud. I called her a whore.”

He opens his eyes, staring down at the Worm as it curls up the stairs. It takes its time now, knowing its prey is trapped. “She made me oathbound to punish me and then when I was her slave, she fell in love with me.” He pauses to choke back a sob. “I told her I loved her too, but I lied,” he says. “When it came time to cast the final spell, she could not do it. I told her to ask the Traders to swap my suffering for the pain of her twin. All I had thought to do was end my own slavery.”

Isabella opens her eyes and speaks. Her voice is clear and strong. She has more life in her than I imagined, maybe enough to cast the inducement spell. “Why doesn’t she speak?” I say.

“She could bear the guilt of hurting Susan, but she could not bear being oathbound,” he says. “It broke her mind. She saved Susan’s life at the expense of her own. Susan is my sorrow now.”

The Worm is at the top of the stairs. It is too large to fit, but it does. I can taste its despair, its need to destroy magic and its self-hatred for doing so.

“Cast the spell,” Isabella says, trying to scream her words. “Kill me. Kill me and save yourself.”

The Worm rears above us and it fills the sky. The scroll is unfurled in my hand. But I am no murderer. I am a liar and a hypocrite, but that is all. I throw the scroll towards the Worm. It catches fire before it hits.

I recite my schoolyard spell, the one that changes tastes. Isabella screams, but she lives. The Worm’s flavor intensifies and overwhelms me. And then the Worm and I are linked. We are twins. I taste it and it tastes me. It knows what I think and feel and say through tasting me and I understand it.

“You consume mages to make the new King”, I tell it, no words passing my lips. “If the New King is not born, the world will die. More than spells, he sustains life.” I taste it waiting, wary of what I have to say. “But you take no pleasure in murder. Your sorrows are heavy.” The taste of sadness and relief floods my mouth. It has spent eternity nursing its guilt, never sharing it. “Go to the Traders of Sorrows,” I tell it. “I will take on your grief and you will take on mine. Leave them all alive and I will be the Worm Nil.”

And it asks, “What grief will you have when your sister is still alive?”

“I love him. He is my true love. He is also Isabella’s true love. My grief is that I give her to him. I give them each other and that is my sorrow.”

The Worm Nil swallows me.

 

#

 

Isabella is un-twinned. I restore her to full health. I am the Worm Nil and the Worm Nil is me. We are one being, carrying the guilt of the other, and we are almost Gods.

Emily left Susan so drained that only a shell remains. There is nothing left to save, so I let her die and leave Draven un-twinned. I cannot restore Emily’s mind. There are some things beyond my powers. One day she may regain her sanity and then Draven’s guilt will be heavier.

I uncoil from the Tower. Parliament’s mages have fled the city in their oathbound. Some are criminals and they should die. I am not a murderer, but I will be. I leave my sister behind, knowing I will never see her again and that is my sorrow, but I am the Worm Nil and I will bear my sorrows for eternity.

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Published by Associate Editor on September 29, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 23, Issue 23 Stories, Stories

Let Me Fly Away

by  Ada Ludenow

They whispered in the doorways and they held their voices low so the words could move along the ground like smoke. The words flowed quickly over the small town’s square. Even the voice of the forest carried the news in the creaking speech of beech and oak. The ravens considered and remarked upon the news in scathing polyphonies. But it was the teamsters in the square who Mina heard:

“The Lord of the Mountain has been caught!”seclusion

Mina paused and listened. The words tip-toed like clumsy children and these children of the mind first gathered in supposition, then in declaration, and finally waited on the open window sill. As the bringers of gifts, gossip and hearsay, they enjoyed their borrowed magnanimity, and in that moment, a transubstantiation occurred and flesh and rumor became a captured god.

He was not just any Lord. There were plenty of lords in the world, but they were men. The town had never seen the Lord of the Mountain, but they were all certain of his effects upon them and this indefinite power authorized the use of the definite article. The Lord of the Mountain was said to be fond of children and often took them in sickness and in health. Those that passed away beneath his fever were said to haunt the forest. Other children simply disappeared. The town left gifts of food for him in the old grove of oaks, oaks so old and thick, torched and twisted from the hand of Thunder that they were holy and no axe touched them. Few would venture beyond them, for they were the silent sentinels of the greater forest that crept down the slopes of the mountain and the realm of its Lord.

Mina cocked her head and turned away from the distaff. The winding wool and linen stopped their itching dance and seemed to listen with her. As one who had very little magic in her life, Mina supposed the man they held in jail was nothing more than some traveler whose luck and ride had turned and flung him to the ground. She knew the town was often quick and cruel in its judgments.

Mina then turned the distaff again. Her father was the stablemaster of the town’s chief inn, though he was not the landlord, and since the inn lay across the small square from the town hall and its jail, her father was the janitor and jailor of both; she often took meals to prisoners there and so figured she could decide for herself who this person was. Until her older brother had married and started his family, and her younger sister Freda had disappeared into the forest, Mina had been overlooked and left alone. Chores were done, but seldom did anyone think of who did them. Left alone, she found her own pleasures. She liked it when the year began to turn and fires burned brighter, their smoke upon the air. Mina could feel the nuance of the fall; she marked the cant of light that carved memories from leaves, conjured long shadows on the timbers of the town and made the sky a vaster shade of blue. Mina liked the days of the equinox best, for the warmth of days allowed bare feet, yet in the night there were woolen shawls and apples bathed in honey on the hearth: honey from a year ago—hard and brown. How much can change within a year she wondered. In the year her sister had disappeared and Mina’s time for womanhood had come instead, the honey had changed and she wondered: how many threads had passed through her hands and how many eggs had she gathered, cracked and cooked?

Much later, as evening came, her mother crashed in through the door, and with great excitement ran to Mina, shaking the distaff from her hands. Its wooden end clattered on the floor just as her mother’s speech clattered in Mina’s ears.

“They have caught the Lord of the Mountain!”

“The teamsters were saying as much outside. What does he look like?”

“Oh he is very handsome: a tall dark man, with strong and hard cheeks. How like a wolf he seems, if wolves had black hair and walked around on two feet.”

“It seems strange, Mother. Who caught him?”

“The Korder sons. They were on their way to the wars, you know, and cut through the south arm of the forest on the old Roman road. They found him standing next to his great black horse.”

“If he is so powerful, as you have often told me, how could the Korder sons have caught him? You said he can come in the night upon the wind, or that he sometimes appears as a black butterfly that lures the children into the wood beyond the oaks.”

“Why must you question everything I say? I have seen him in his cell, with bars of iron ‘round him and you know his kind cannot pass iron.”

“Nor can ordinary men.”

“What would you know of ordinary men? The way you shrink from them or turn away that big nose of yours. You’ll die with an empty womb, like an old puffball or a leather bag left along the road.”

How many times? Mina thought. Her mother had never been a happy person, and she was set in her ways so that her remonstrations always took the same form. Listening to her harangue was like milking cows or spinning threads. Just as chores placed Mina in the world, so too did her mother’s regard. She did not need her mother to remind her of her scrawny body, or her nose, for she could always see it in front of her own face. In fact, her nose looked like her mother’s, and Mina often had the shivering fear, common to most young women, that she would someday become her mother.

“You shall take him his evening meal later.”

“We are feeding him?”

“Of course we are. He shall stand trial. The godmen from the City have been summoned and the Emperor’s judge shall accompany them.”

Later, after the sun had set, Mina fried two sausages and cut slices of bread for the prisoner. It was the best thing she could think of; she suspected the exaggerations of those around her for they were often given to exaggeration if not outright fabrication. She placed the meal upon a simple board and moved to the door. Her mother walked into the kitchen and up to Mina. She opened the door and then leaned close:

“Oh, you must find out what he did to Freda. How he raped her. He probably made a child upon her and then ripped it from her body and ate it in front of her.” Her mother clutched at her breasts and stomach.

“The lurid way you say that, Mother, makes me not wish to ask him. If you are so certain…” but Mina could say no more for her mother slapped Mina hard across the cheek, leaving the five red prints of fingers and thumb. “I’ll leave that as a warning to that rapist killer. He will know how we deal with his kind and you will keep your mouth shut in respect to your mother.”

The sausage was still warm and Mina could smell the mustard on the bread as it sat upon the board. It remained a warm and curious burden to bear across the square to the jail. The jail was nothing more than a large cabin without windows, made of strong timbers. Walking in, Mina saw only a large beeswax candle burning on a table which suffered to collect the spoils of prisoners, writs and other detritus. The timbered walls retreated into the night as though they were not there. The bars of the two cells seemed like thin bones of the night descending from a starless sky and sinking to the dark beaten earth. One of the cells contained a man in a private booth of shadows. Mina cleared her throat.

“Yes?” the voice called from the dark. She could see his form in the faint yellow light. He did not seem monstrous, and not even very tall.

“I have brought you supper.”

“A kindness I did not expect, and one carried by one so fair.”

“Sir, whatever you are, your flattery will not work on me.”

“I can tell by your tone that is true. Come closer.” The man’s voice was rich as crimson and stronger than the blacksmith’s work that separated him from Mina. The voice passed easily through the bars and blanketed the room.

“What have you brought me? It smells like sausage: pepper and mace from the other side of the world, and there is also familiar caraway. That is also in the rye bread, and there is some friendly mustard, though I do not need so sharp a condiment in this prison.”

Mina said nothing but set the board upon the ground within reaching distance of the bars.

“Bring us some light. Both the candle and your conversation,” he asked and Mina thought this was fair enough. She set one of the candles on the floor near the cell and then she sat upon a wooden stool at a prudent distance. The man huddled closer but Mina could not see his face. His clothes were black, but richly made, although almost too big for him. In the faint light she caught a glimpse of a fancy collar, perhaps silk. There was a glint of silver in his hair, and the hands that reached for the food were deeply knotted, spotted, and possessed of thick horny nails.

“You do not look like the Lord of the Mountain,” she said.

“Really?”

“My mother said you were a tall, dark haired man and handsome, of middle age perhaps.”

He looked up at her then. He was old, with strong cheekbones and clefting wrinkles lining his face as though he were an aged tree. His long silver beard was well-trimmed and his nose was somewhat large from age but neither hooked with sinister experience, nor blossomed from alcoholic habit. Yet he summoned enough light from the candle to set a twinkle in his eyes and he smiled. He is a handsome old man, she thought.

“You are wondering why I am here?” he asked. She nodded. “That makes two of us then. I was having a fine ride upon my horse through the forest when I was surprised by those two soldiers-to-be. And now I am manacled and imprisoned.” He held up the thick cuffs and chains Mina had seen before, but the jailor rarely placed them on prisoners.

“They said you are the Lord of the Mountain. You look like an old traveler. I mean no disrespect.”

“I hear no disrespect in your voice, child, and remember that even Our Father often traveled in this guise, so you can never be too sure. What is your name?”

“I fear to tell it to you.”

“Why? Because I would put a spell on you?”

“Perhaps, but also you will either be set free when the Emperor’s judge comes or they will put you to death.” There was more she could say, but she felt it was best to keep quiet around the man.

“And so a connection of names would be unnecessary, perhaps even a dare to the Gods who would so quickly sunder us? I do not care. I am old and I will tell you my name is Friduric.”

“That sounds like my brother’s name, Friedrich.”

“Then he is a good and trusty brother, and friend for you, which is even more important,” the man said and then he ate in silence for a while. Though he ate with his hands, he did so with an elegance that Mina could only guess came from courtly life. She thought the Lord of the Mountain, if he existed, would eat more like a ravening wolfman whom her mother often glamorized. He simply seemed like a hungry old man, but one who retained his manners no matter what life threw upon him. This conclusion brought a certain bravery to her.

“My name is Mina,” she said.

“And that is a pleasant name. This is good sausage and bread. Did you make them?” She nodded and he continued: “then you will make someone quite happy one day, for I can tell that you are an attentive and intelligent young woman. Somewhere in you is a whole secret world.”

“You are flattering me again.”

“Perhaps. You are pretty, though I doubt many here can see it. They would not choose to leave such marks upon your face if they did.”

Mina had forgotten her mother’s slap and the mark it left. “I am not beautiful. My sister Freda was beautiful.”

“Oh but you must learn that treasures hard-won change people, and what is beautiful on the inside may rise and mingle with the outside and make the whole more beautiful. A hundred knights of the Emperor would clamor and fight to kiss that nose of yours if it can smell the way to future and peace. At least it is a wonderful nose for cooking and this is very good.”

Mina smiled at him, but then straightened herself on her stool. “I am not going to let you out.”

“I should hope not. Inconstancy would mar your inner treasures. My only advice to you is that change is often a welcome visitor, though many curse and spit upon it.”

“I will not let you out, but somehow I do not think you will come to ruin, sir.”

“And why is that? Legal counsel is woefully underrepresented in these parts, I fear.”

“I think I know who you are now. You are a traveler, a wise old man, but from your speech and your clothes I can see that you are rich. This whole nonsense about the Lord of the Mountain is some sort of ruse for the Korders, the innkeeper, and my father to make money off a ransom. I doubt very much that neither godmen, nor the Emperor’s judge are coming. More likely they sent a summons to your estate beyond the Roman road. When your messengers arrive with some gold, you will be freed.”

He sat silently and considered this. “As I said, you are intelligent and know your people well.” He laughed a little and then sat away from the remains of his meal.

“I will say nothing of this,” Mina said.

“And what is the price of your silence?”

“I do not wish for gold. They would just take it away from me. Be kind to me if our paths ever cross again.”

“That I shall do, Mina. But let me add a story. Old men are full of them you know and it would cheer me to tell an old tale, and maybe you can then pass it along as well. It is about two brothers. One was rich and the other, as you can guess, is poor…” He continued on and as such tales usually go, the poor brother made out well in the end.

“The important part is the last part. The rich brother, whose mind was so cloaked with gold and jewels, forgot the rest of the verse to get in and out of the mountain. When the trolls came back, they ate him. Mina, are you falling asleep?”

“I heard you. I remember: ‘Simeli, Simeli, let me in, and when I’m done, let me out again.’”

“Good. Treasure and magic words are no use if you cannot keep your wits about you when you enter. Now tomorrow will be a very busy day for both of us, I think, so you should go to your bed and sleep well. Thank you for your kindness and attention.”

Although he was a prisoner, Mina still curtsied to him, for he did seem noble. She returned to her house and was soon asleep on her thin straw mattress.

Harlot!” Her mother screamed. Mina awoke under fists, scratchings, and shrieking words. “How could you!? That man had raped and killed your sister and you sure as much bend over for him. How much you hated Freda, and me!”

“Quiet!” Her father roared in the darkness. “Mina, get out of bed now and get dressed.” He pulled her from the bed by her hair and threw her to the floor. “How could you?” was all she heard for minutes upon years as she pulled her old brown dress over her threadbare shift.

Outside some men and women were gathered in a circle before the jail.

“Out of the way, she’s coming through.”

“Slut.”

“We do not know she did it.”

“What else can you expect?”

Mina moved through this gauntlet of curses. She stumbled under their pushing, the gobbings of their spit lit upon her face and hair and she cried, “why why, why!?? I did nothing. Why?”

Through the early light and past the blurry angry faces she fell into the old jail. In the prisoner’s cell was the town’s chief guardsman waiting for her.

“That is enough!” he yelled. “That won’t do any good. Where is he, Mina?” Pushing the spit-upon hair out of her face, Mina realized the cell was empty save for the guardsman. A mass of clothes lay upon the floor. “You were the last to see him. What did he do to you child? Speak.”

Mina looked at the fine clothes in their heap along with the unopened irons. The old man was gone. “Your mother said you were late in returning. What did he do to you? Tell me. You may escape no worse than branding if you tell me what happened here. The door of this cell was shut, so if you let him out, he shut the door behind him like a gentleman. Or you did. Tell me.”

Mina was unaware she was speechless. The blows of her mother stung, and the smell of the town around her was strong and fetid with anger. But what really took her tongue and hid it very far away was the empty cell. Finally, after she felt the dig of a fingernail in her back, so hard it drew blood, she spoke.

“He was here when I left last night. He was only an old man.”

Mina’s mother was given permission to cuff and beat her while the men decided what to do. In the end, Mina was shoved out of the town past the oaks and onto an old path the charcoal burners had used.

“Go and find him,” the guardsman said. “If you wish to redeem yourself, you will lead him back here with whatever charms you used in league with him. If not, you will die or he will kill you and justice will be served on you at the very least.” Mina’s tears and sobs were so loud she barely heard him, but she put one foot before the other, slowly, and touched the swelling of the eye her mother had blackened. A hank of hair was missing and her scalp was bloody. She was bruised and exiled unto death and she would have given nothing more to return to cracking eggs and spinning her boring wool for the rest of her life. She walked slowly for an hour or so, and then stepped off the path to sit in a clearing. She washed her face in the brook that ran through the clearing and tried to smooth down the hurts. Her name hissed out from the woods.

“Mina!”

“Who is there? Can’t you see? I’m already gone. Please.”

“It’s me. Stop it,” her brother said. He stepped from behind a tree and looked around. She wept again in the mingled strains of hope and joy.

“Here, I brought you this. You’ll die otherwise. There is some cheese and water. Here is a blanket, a knife and a flint. And a Thaler. I don’t have much else. What happened? Did you really sleep with the Lord of the Mountain and let him go?”

“No! Don’t you even believe me?”

“I don’t know what to believe, but I find it hard to believe Mother, of course.” He smiled at her and while she did not return the smile, her frown grew less stern, her eyes less red.

“I suppose that is wise. You must not be seen. What will I do?”

“You could go find the man.”

“But he is gone. I have no idea what happened to him or why his clothes were there. I took him his supper and he was simply an old man. He couldn’t have done any of those things. He seemed so wise and sweet.”

“An old man?” Her brother looked askance at her. “Perhaps he did put some sort of spell on you. You did not aid him?”

“No, he seemed very tired and resigned to whatever would happen.”

“Well, if you go up this pathway a little more, I think there is another pathway that leads to the left. Go on that and you’ll reach the Roman road. Maybe you’ll meet your old man or maybe not, but you can maybe start life over again. I don’t know any other way.”

They sat in silence for a while longer. The birds were singing and the fall sun seemed fresh and bright for Mina, but this contrast only made her more bitter and sad.

“I must go. No one must know you helped me. Thank you, Friedrich.”

“You’re my only sister now. I cannot let you just die out here. Go the way I said, and if things turn out well, have a scrivener write a letter to me, from wherever you are.”

“I will.”

Friedrich stole back into the forest. And having nothing else to do, Mina walked upon the path until she found another leading to the left, and did not notice it climbed up a gentle slope.

Unlike the threads upon her loom, there were no straight lines to follow in the forest. Even her hair, which was usually straight and unremarkable, seemed to bend and curl like the creek. It did not take long to know she was lost. The path had run out and seemed to turn right whenever she wished to go left. The trees had grown thicker and darker so that she could not see the sun and did not know where it was in the sky. She found another path and followed it for a while but the forest grew darker. Just as the sun was setting, the large trees gave way into a glade and Mina could mark the sky and early stars. There were trees though. They were gangly and small, but she could smell sweet russet fruits. Apples! Beneath a particularly welcoming apple tree, Mina sat down and drew Friedrich’s blanket around her and ate some apples and cheese.

The dusk grew deeper and deer came and passed through the little apple meadow. Their grace and silence comforted Mina as did her simple meal. She lay down and tried to count the stars shine within the profound sky.

“Thank you, apple trees and deer, for welcoming me. I think this is the most pleasant place I’ve seen in all the forest.” Mina closed her eyes to listen to the wind in the trees and they lulled her deeper into a dream in which she had become an apple tree. She sent down her feet and her veins into the ground. Near the surface, she could yet hear the careful steps of deer, rabbits and bears, and below them the deep groan of stone.

In the morning, something on her face tickled her awake. Mina opened her eyes and saw a single white petal on her nose. In surprise she sat upright, bespeckled and dazzled with apple blossoms.

How had they blossomed all at once, and in the night? And on the doorstep of fall? Mina quickly rose and left the strange glade although she took pockets full of apples with her. She followed a path back into the forest, but the ground continued to rise with a subtle grade.

“A mischievous place,” Mina said to no one, she thought. Yet there was a croak and popping sound. Then another. She turned and looked at her new companion in the forest.

“Hello and good morning, father raven,” she said. Mina knew that is was never a good idea to ignore a raven in the woods, and a worse idea not to greet him.

“Tell me, father raven, this is your land, which way shall I go?”

The raven bobbed his head. Mina smiled, for she had not really expected an answer but her jaw fell open and her eyes grew wide and fearful for she would never have dreamed he would speak.

“This is not my land. I am flying through. You may follow me and seek what you’re looking for. Why are you looking at me like that? Have you never heard one of my brothers or sisters speak? We do it all the time. Oh, I see, never in your own mushy language. It’s true, your terrible grammars and worse euphony are somewhat limiting in expression. To be honest, we don’t speak to you much anymore because none of you has anything interesting to say in return. It wasn’t always so, and there are virtually none of you who understand our tongue any more. Caw-haw! At times you even confuse us with those low-born criminals the crows. But I put no truck by that. You all look alike to us as well. Follow me!”

With two great beats of his wings, he flew forward and Mina, who was very understandably shaken, found herself stumbling along after him along a wide pathway. The raven stopped and alit upon a branch.

“This is the road, yes this is the road. Follow this and you will leave the forest,” the raven said. He seemed correct, for Mina could see the lines of ruts of what was once a road, although now grass grew thickly in it.

“But it has no stones. Does this lead to the Roman road?” she asked.

“You wished to find a way out of the forest, a road, and insofar as this being a Roman road, of course it is, for all roads lead to Rome!”

The joke was lost on Mina, who had never heard the proverb in her isolated town, but the raven found it most hilarious and laughed as he disappeared upon his black wings into the canopy of the forest. Mina walked over to the tree where he had perched and found it strange. She looked around her and noticed that the oaks and beeches no longer surrounded her: in their place stood tall fir trees. A single feather from the raven had fallen to the ground and Mina picked it up. She thought it would be good to keep the feather of such a wise bird, and she wove it into her now very tangled hair still flecked with apple blossoms.

But where could she be? She followed the road as the raven had advised, but again it seemed to gently climb the slopes of the mountain.

“Perhaps it goes over the shoulder of the mountain and then down to the Roman road,” she said to give herself confidence and she continued on.

As before, the sun was hidden behind the tops of the trees, and so in addition to not knowing where she was, she had no idea when she was. The forest sighed in different measures for these trees and their needles had different concerns and there seemed to be other voices among the trees, like to her own, but highly pitched and soft, as though they were singing from very far away. She listened as she walked and heard one voice grow clearer and louder, although it giggled and babbled in words beyond her understanding. It sounded as though it came from the trees, and as she gazed upwards, Mina walked straight into a small ford and so found the voice all around her bare feet.

A stream, she thought, and unless this was truly an enchanted forest, which it probably was, Mina knew that streams ran downhill.Then she said aloud,“but for all of that, I am very thirsty and very thankful to whomever set it here.” Mina knelt and scooped up the clear cold water, drinking until her thirst had disappeared. It was certainly not wine, but it did not taste like any water she had drunk before and she felt very sleepy.

“What was it? What is it? Oh yes, this is probably enchanted too, and I’ll forget everything, but I do not really care,” she said, sitting down on a soft mossy bank near the stream. Mina thought that perhaps forgetfulness would be a boon and closed her eyes. The water flowed into every vein of her body and she waited to sleep and forget. However, as in many turns of Mina’s life, she was somewhat disappointed.

The stream did not speak of forgetfulness, but rather filled her soul with memories. There was the first spring day she could remember, and then she saw her grandmother’s hands sending the shuttle back and forth. Even further back, she looked and saw her grandmother as a beautiful girl dancing around a fire and she danced with all Mina’s mothers. The circle of women widened further until their count was beyond Mina’s sight, and the fire burned higher. In the evening of this everywhen, Mina heard the voices above her again. They sang of pick-up-sticks and the corn-doll parade song. They sang of wicker baskets full of eggs and cherry-stone throwing, and Mina fell asleep. She passed into the dark purple realms of sleep below the ocean of dreams, but eventually Mina heard a voice singing. She didn’t like what the voice said; she was certain she had heard this before. It sounded like something her mother would sing.

“The turner turns his lathe,

The miller turns her stone,

And Mina in her father’s house

Turns her distaff all alone.”

Mina awoke to only the sound of the brook, yet she was aware that she was not alone. Someone was watching her carefully, and she could hear breaths along with laughter so like the giggling of the stream she first thought she had not left her dreams. When she opened her eyes, the voice said very clearly and politely, “I am sorry to wake you. Are you lost?”

She rose and turned to see a young boy above her on the rocks. He was as naked as a baby and sat kicking at the air. He could have been no more than seven years old and no younger than five. He had a healthy shock of golden brown hair and a tough wiry body with sun-browned skin. He smiled at her and leaned forward with obvious anticipation of her answer.

“Yes, I am lost. I have tried to find my way, but all I seem to do is get further lost.”

“I was lost for a while. But I’ve found my way.”

“Who are you?”

“I live here.”

“That is not a name, but perhaps I will call you that. Do your parents live nearby, I Live Here?”

“They are everywhere, but not here right now. I am alone. But my home is not too far. Are you hungry?”

“Yes.”

“Well, come along then. I have not met a pretty lady with flowers and a raven feather in her hair before. Come. It isn’t far,” he said.

Before Mina could question him further, he bolted up and began to run. Mina sighed, for he ran up the mountain and it was not a direction she wished to travel any further. But she was hungry and wanted something more than apples and the rind of cheese.

He moved quickly through the fir trees and bracken, but Mina found it easier to follow him for the trees thinned as they went up the mountain. The sun was easier to see as well, and the air was fresh and clear. In time, they came to where the trees stopped and wide meadows stretched out and up the mountain. There was still no snow upon it; it was not yet winter, but the thought of fall upon the mountain unnerved her. The boy ran ahead until he descended into what appeared a small dale at the end of which was an old stone edifice and some sheep milling about. The boy disappeared into a wide open door and Mina stopped. She realized he was only an orphaned shepherd boy and how strange it would be if he was the Lord of the Mountain. How stupid her people could be!

“Are you coming?” The boy had put on a ragged tunic and stood on the threshold of his cave. “There are berries and milk!”

Mina shrugged and walked down the dale, past the ordinary looking sheep and crossed the threshold. She saw a sheepskin and a crook on the wall by the door. She expected to see the rest of the low and primitive cave that the boy’s parents had scraped out of the hill. They were probably dead and left him alone,she thought. The sun had begun to set in the west, and she turned again to see the vast slopes go down away from her. She could mark the fir forest and where the green beneath the setting sun changed into the vague browns of distant oaks and beech. It was hazy, but she was sure she made out the flat lands where her home was. To the north, she could see a distant line lead out from an arm of the forest into vague fields: the Roman road she had sought. Her stomach, unimpressed with the view, growled wanting berries and milk. She turned to look into the darkness and felt his small hand.

“Simeli, Simeli, let me in, and when I’m done, shut yourself again,” she whispered. The boy did not seem to notice.

“Come, it’s this way, and it’s still far, but we can see the moon rise from there.” They walked into a vaster darkness than Mina could imagine. This was no small cave, but a deep tunnel, and Mina gasped as its length stretched before her. Yet as her eyes wrestled with the darkness and they walked deeper into the mountain, she saw a faint light grew stronger. Eventually they came to the first of the silver lamps shining along the walls. She and the boy ventured on past glittering lodes of quartz filled with ore so rich Mina could only guess it contained gold, silver and perhaps metals undiscovered. A window cut high above them poured down the sapphire color of the early evening and it mixed with the silver lamplight. The songs of birds filled her ears though she could not see them. They sang in rich modes and the notes made light in Mina’s mind: like blue silk and yellow daffodils, sweet pine air and smooth glass upon her cheek and breast. It was then, still holding the boy’s hand tightly, that Mina gave herself up to the wonder and delight of the mountain.

After a time, though Mina had no idea if it was a moment or a year, they walked out into the clear air. The rising moon scattered the purpling light of the coming night and Mina looked to the east. They were on a terrace, and upon a simple stone table was a bowl full of dark berries and a ewer of milk. They sat upon some logs near the table, but they could have been the richest chairs in the Emperor’s palace, for all Mina cared. The berries and milk were sweet and she soon felt something she could not identify, such an odd feeling, like a ball of gold amongst others of dirt or stone. The boy ate and spoke of the adventures of his sheep and how the bears were growing sleepy. They watched the moon rise further and it cast the shadows of enterprise for those who lived at night within the forest. It was then Mina recognized the feeling: she was very happy.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“I was sent to look for someone,” Mina said. She then paused and thought about whom it was she had been sent to find. Perhaps it was not the old man after all.

“Tell me, I Live Here, have you seen my sister?”

“Does she look like you?”

“No, she is pretty, with golden brown hair and blue eyes. She is a little younger than I am, but I suppose that could be a lot of girls.”

“I have seen some girls down below, like you say. But I can’t remember. I am feeling sleepy like the bears. Will you tell me a story? We can then go to sleep.”

Mina cautiously followed him back into the wondrous mountain, but this time they walked up spiraling courses of stairs until they reached a very great room. Bronze sconces glowed as though iron fires burned behind their thick forms. The walls were hung with tapestries of many colors and fabrics, with strange people and animals rendered in different forms and styles. The bedroom, more of a bed-hall, looked to the West and in the middle was a great wide bed spread with more fine fabrics.

“Where did all of this come from? You cannot live alone here.”

“Yes it’s strange. It was long ago I came here and it is as it is. The bed is very soft, but it is lonely sometimes. Can you tell me a story? What is your name? I forgot to ask. I’m sorry.”

“Mina, my name is Mina,” she said, looking out the wide window cut into the stone of the mountain. She wondered why it was not cold, and then turned to look at him. “I should think you can tell me a story.”

“Well, I’m storied out, Mina. I’m young. You know more.”

“Hardly. But very well, I Live Here.”

They curled up in the bed together as the sconces somehow dimmed, though Mina did not notice it, so natural was the fading of their light. She could think of no other story save the one the old man told her and so she began.

“Oh, I like that story. The mountain in it is like this one, but don’t worry. I’d like to hear you tell it. You can make it different.”

Mina breathed deeply the next morning. She was very comfortable but still dreamy and half-asleep. The songs of the birds gradually became stronger, one voice at a time and she knew that the whole of her being was not in some dream but in the mysterious bed-hall. She sat up and looked around, but the boy was gone. A very fine shift lay on the foot of the bed and Mina realized she was still in her old brown dress. The smell of rain suffused the room. Mina arose from the fine bed and wandered to the window. Rain indeed came from the west and the mountain seemed to sleep beneath it. She then heard a cataract of water nearby. It grew louder, from a trickle to a splashing as the rain increased. She sought out the sound and found in a clever folding of the stone walls, a chamber. It was open to the sky, but it sloped away from the central hole like a great funnel. The water came down in streams, played upon the stone floor and ran away into dark channels. Holding her hand in the water, she found it neither warm nor cold. She looked back into the bed chamber. Still alone and feeling somewhat soiled and bedraggled from her strange adventure through the forest, she shyly removed her dress and shift and stood under the water.

It flowed like all the rains of the world and spoke the secrets of oceans and lands upon her naked body and she remembered the apple tree and how she had sent her own dream roots into the earth. She imagined herself a tree in the rain until the rain ceased and the sun returned, but she spun and danced like a girl-top. Time moved either very quickly, or perhaps not at all, for she suddenly found herself dry once more in the rain and sun chamber.

Time is moving, for she was very hungry. “Thank you, I Live Here, or Whoever Lives Here,” she called out loud, but only the chorus of birds resounded in the mountain.

The shift was dark green, or perhaps a light green like lily pads. Mina could not tell because in putting it on, it seemed to reflect all the shades of green she had ever known. Smooth on her skin, like curds on her tongue or lamb’s ears on her fingertips, the shift clung to her and she noticed it bore no seams. Perhaps it is silk, she thought. Except for the collar of the rich man in the jail, Mina had never seen silk, much less felt it. Silk had only been a fabric of stories. Only empresses and hierophants wore it, and they were always so far away.

But she was hungry. Of that she was sure.

Mina wandered back down the stairs. There seemed to be hundreds of passages, some smooth-cut and level as snow on windless nights, and others rough-hewn with gleaming crystals and fountains of rock caught like water in somersaults and dives. Everywhere she found gold and silver cages containing the warblers, finches, thrushes and nightingales that filled the mountain with song. Peahens and peacocks even followed her in an iridescent parade. At last she came to a room carved from stone but filled with books. Mina frowned. She could not read but surely such a place held all the books she would ever read, if she only could. A small doorway stood between two great pillars made of gilded folios, and light from outside spread across the floor. She peeped outside into a small garden. There was another table made of stone and the handsome old traveler sat at it, eating ewe’s cheese and apples and drinking milk.

“Oh, you are awake, my child. Good morning, or perhaps afternoon by this time.”

Mina curtsied and looked down, “Good morning my lord, I, um…” and she stood on one leg and could think of nothing to say. Fortunately for their conversation, this did not seem to be a problem for the old man.

“Come sit, child. Your name is Mina and you are welcome in my home. I hope that this humble food can return the favor of your sausage.” Mina did as he asked and sat down. “You may eat. Please do, but before you do, ask your first question.”

“Do I only get three?”

“Three? No, you can ask as many as you wish, only not with your mouth full. So ask, and then eat and listen.”

“Where is the young boy?”

“Oh, him. I don’t know. I suppose he is off wandering somewhere upon the mountain with the sheep. He is a wild spirit of the hills. You may find this strange, but I never see him. I see his footprints around here but he is always gone in the morning as you have discovered.”

The old man told her of the mountain and its history, of how the Eldest Miners cut tunnels through it, and how the sun could find her way down distant shafts to the bottom galleries and the moon would follow with his own light.

“That is the best light for thinking,” he said. “When I read too much and my eyes grow tired, I sometimes come here and watch him carry out his wandering course over the sky. We have many good talks, although I am the one who seems to do most of the talking.”

“And who are you?”

“I am the Lord of the Mountain, Mina. You blanch at that, yet you must have some idea why you were watched. And you were always so polite: to my apple trees and deer, and you were polite about the water as well. However, the greatest kindness you showed to me was not asking for gold, but only kindness itself. Yes, the cheese is very good. I think the young boy makes it. You must stay awhile. You have nowhere else to go at the moment, do you?”

He leaned forward and Mina shrank back from him. He was right, of course, but somehow staying on the mountain had not entered her thoughts. She assumed that the fairy-feast would disappear at any time and she would be left upon a bare and windswept hill.

“And so it is for many who venture here,” he said, as though he heard her thoughts. “But they don’t know the magic words, do they?”

They went inside once Mina was finished eating, and she listened to him as he pointed at books and told her stories: of how the Romans came and cut roads across the lands, and then further back to when the Northern people came across the wide lands from the mountains in the east. As the evening deepened, he led her to an old disused kitchen. Sacks of flour and mushrooms, a keg of butter, dry cakes, and all manner of spices and herbs were there, but left in an abandoned mess.

“The boy brings them. Your people have been giving me these gifts for quite a long time, although I don’t have much of a hand for cooking.”

“I would very much like to return the favor of your hospitality, sir.”

“Would you? That is kind of you, and I cannot help but admit I hoped you would say that. It has been many years since a pretty girl cooked for me. It was in Russia. She was a skinny, pretty thing like you with black hair and she lived in a house that sat on giant eagle legs…” Mina cast her eyes about her, and then held up her hair. The raven feather was gone, but now her hair was as black as it had been.

She made him an omelet from peacock eggs with cheese and mushrooms and they drank elderberry wine that tickled her nose and feet. He never made a move to eat her, and yet she peered at the birds who had softly, quietly nested themselves, save for the nightingales. Later they returned to the bed-hall and Mina sat on the bed near him as he reclined and continued telling stories. She then lay down as the night came and the bronze scones dimmed again until at last, she felt her eyelids grow heavy. I will close them for a moment so he thinks I’m asleep and then I’ll leave when he snores,she thought.

The next day she awoke alone again and events occurred much the same. The old man was nowhere, and so she took her bath beneath the rain that came again. The only difference was a black shift had been left on the bed, yet with her eyes closed, it felt the same as the other. She even retraced her steps to the bookroom porch, but he was not there. She found only a pitcher of milk and some blushing pears. She had eaten enough of this weird food to bind her there, she realized, and so she decided to eat some more. The boy never appeared, and so she wandered out to the bed-chamber looking over the west. Perhaps she should go, she though, but she looked down into the dark forest that separated her from her old home. It filled her with fear and dismay. How would she ever know the way?

As she watched, she saw that mare’s tails began to stream over the sky and a dark cowl of clouds gathered over the horizon, shutting out the sun. The grass stirred in the wind and Mina watched the storm come, raining perhaps over her town. The forest moved under the great heave of the storm and then a rhythm could be heard, pulsing up from the firs. She then saw a horse and rider break out upon the meadows and they thundered up the mountain toward her. Someone to save her,she first thought? But her doubts seemed to freeze her on the porch. Mina could hear their breaths, distant at first, then louder as they came toward her, horse and man. They plunged into the dale and the horse’s hooves struck fire and sparks as they careened to a stop on the stones before the entrance below her. At that moment, the storm struck the summit of the mountain. The man dismounted and went inside, but it was not his presence that frightened her. Her fear came with uncanny, certainty, and it fluttered upon her hand: a single snowflake. It did not melt upon her hand, but remained, and she wondered if it was a tear of glass or a strange, six-sided feather. No, it was a snowflake. But what plunged Mina’s heart, what sunk her insides after it was not the first snowflake, but the second, then third, and fourth and flurry of identical snowflakes that swiftly caked the ground and her arms. She turned and ran back into the mountain.

She ran straight into him.

He stood tall and strong, with a great mane of black hair. His skin as brown as the earth of the forest: his beard was black and long. The cold fire of his green eyes perceived her, studied her and the black shift she wore felt oppressive as though it bound her breasts and clung too tightly between her legs. He came to her, and with delicacy and anticipation, removed his gloves. He ran his long muscled hands up her body. He said nothing but put his hand on her forehead and then ran his fingers down over her face, taking special care to caress her long nose. He paused and traced her lips, then her chin.

“You are yet here, Mina. In the Hall of the Lord of the Mountain. Why did you remain?”

“I am afraid, I…” but her words were caught in her mind.

“Good, Fear is but the first quickening of power, but power is made of other things beyond that. Come. I shall show you. Do not look for the others. They are not here. Not now. Come.”

And he led her swiftly down the twisting stairwells, tumbling in the darkness until her legs felt scrambled and separate from her body, like flailing mistakes upon the stones until they passed out into the dale. The horse stood by, its mane fluttering in the uncold snow. In moments faster than the night or death, the man pulled her upon the horse.

“Who are you?”

“Do you not know by now? I am the Lord of the Mountain.” He spurred the great horse and they thundered down over the meadows and crashed into the forest. The branches tore at her skin and shift until it was nothing but pennants streaming after them and the pain of the piercing branches gripped her, like iron nails in her flesh. They rode through the snow and into a clearing, but as she held him tightly and looked down, Mina saw that it was a lake they rode across. But then she saw it was not a lake but a mirror of the clouds and they were up above them suddenly, to where the moon touched them. They crossed over a beach of onyx and over mountains and Mina felt a building pressure, like the ocean swimming within her, and she saw the Great Serpent in the darkest of the waters, turning and coiling in his scales. She wept and gasped at the thin air, so thin it never could seem to fill her lungs. Her legs were weak from the holding the horse, whose sweat was thick upon her legs and belly like honey, but she felt comfort and surety in the strong course of the Lord of the Mountain and in her own arms around his body. She closed her eyes tightly and became the movement of the ride.

Mina did not know when the moonlight returned and lit the tunnels around her, but she felt him carrying her through the mountain and into the chamber of rain. It fell upon them both, neither cold nor hot as always, but she felt his skin close against her and the gentle caress of his hands upon her hair. She did not feel the bed so much as she became a dream-sand woman upon the beach of onyx. The ocean came drawn by the moon and washed her beneath blankets of waves until she and the sand became one.

Mina awoke, but this time it was still dark. Her body hurt in strange ways, but stranger still was the arm draped over her body. She did not notice that this was the first time she awoke with someone. She was only happy for a long time until the dim dawn came and awoke the first bird. She then shifted in the bed and looked beside her. Curled against her and as naked as she was, lay the beautiful boy. His hair glowed, even in the faint rose-light of the dawn and his eyes searched through thick forests of dreams beneath his lids.

And then Mina understood.

In time, Mina learned the Lord of the Mountain was mercurial in the temporal progression of his ages. One day he was the little boy, then the old man, and then the old man again, and then the next day he was her black-haired lover. Habit was a word not suited to him, at least as human beings were wont to use it, for it suggested a certain constancy. And Mina began to change. First it was her hair, but after many nights, she could see her veins. When she looked closely, her skin was as tawny as ever, but the vessels of her blood began to stand out in clearer definition, as though blood no longer flowed through them, but rather the precious stones of the earth. “Porphyry and chalcedony, ruby and Tyrian sapphire,” were the pretty names the old man said as he ran his fingers over her arms and legs, tracing them. They would study the books and he began to teach her to read. The boy would take her over the meadows and into the forest to hunt for mushrooms and berries. The man would come and surprise her and they found other ways to spend the days and nights.

Save for the Lord of the Mountain and herself, almost everything seemed the same from day to day. The rain fell in the morning for Mina, and there were always apples and pears along with strawberries and milk. The Sun continued much as it always did in its course from east to west, but even Mina noticed it moved further south. Yet while the day seemed shorter, she could never count the passing of it or the night and the air did not grow colder upon the mountain.

But the Lord of the Mountain became sluggish and tired. The old man would often not stir from the bed. The boy no longer walked out upon the mountain. Often, she would often lie upon the man, for he could only hold onto her hips and smile.

One day she asked the boy, “Where did the birds come from? Who brought them here?”

“I did.”

“You did?”

“Yes, I hear them in the forest down below and I sing to them, and then they come to me and sit upon my hand. I bring them here because they are so pretty.”

“But birds must fly free.”

“Must they?”

“Yes. But I have noticed there are no ravens here.”

“Oh no, Father would never let me keep ravens. They are unto themselves. But one does come by. Mostly he speaks about old times beyond the forest.”

Beyond the forest? she asked herself. She had grown used to the lack of change, save in the Lord of the Mountain and the course of the sun, but her language had changed in describing where she lived. Beyond the forest. It was a there, and therefore, no longer home.

On the shortest day, the old man lay in bed watching Mina feed the birds. He began to sing:

The turner turns his lathe,

The miller turns her stone,

And Mina in her father’s house

Turns her distaff all alone.

“I used to not care for that song, but I somehow miss that world,” Mina said.

“Tell me Mina, the why of things that change. Your pretty map of Tyrian time shows the courses of roots, the sap-blood ways of lives.”

“When I lived below, I did not notice things that changed. I did not know them. I thought I would always live in the same place. Now I miss the smoke of fires. They were different every night, but I did not see it. The birds themselves would come and go with the spring and the fall. You do not notice it, but these birds sing the same song: variations on a theme of ‘let me fly away.’” Mina then opened one cage, and the warbler flew into the room.

“No,” the old man wheezed.

“I’m going to change something here.”

“But they are so pretty”

Mina did not mind him. She opened every cage. The birds flew around and around her in gyres until the last were freed, and then they flew up through a shaft toward the waning sun.

The old man sadly fell asleep, and Mina walked past him to the open window and porch. The cloud of birds descended toward the Town, until they disappeared amongst the oaks. But there was one bird who remained upon the mountain; he came of his own free will. Mina heard a familiar croak next to her. The raven eyed her.

“That was very well done. I’m sure the old boy wasn’t expecting it. Shall you stay?”

“How can I remain here? Where nothing really changes? I cannot enjoy the smoke upon the air in fall. The strawberries are always in season. When will they lose their taste? The cold has even lost the allure and thrill of death.”

“Ah but you have changed. Look at yourself. You are barely recognizable as that silly girl I found in the forest, but now your skin is rich with veins of memory. You are always free to go, the Lord of the Mountain said as much when he gave you the verse out of the mountain. That is a great gift, for you have given him change. In you I think he has finally found a spirit that can walk out upon the world and bring its news to him, in the smallest of things. The creaking chirp of a cricket, and yes, apples and honey cooked in the turn of fall. And in winter you can hear the crunching feet of your brother’s children upon the snow. Come, do you wish to hear them?”

“But it is far, and look at me. I fear the snow will grow cold below and kill me.”

“Then fly.”

“Fly?”

“Yes, it’s the easiest thing to do. Come, just stand here and say…” and the raven whispered to her.

“Simeli, Simeli, let me fly away, and I’ll return another day,”Mina said and her hair grew wild and spun around her as her mind swam above the high mountain. “One step,” the raven said and Mina walked out upon the air and flew.

Together, they flew down the mountain, over the snow covered firs and over the bare branches of the oak trees. They flew toward the few lights of the town. When they alit upon a window sill, they looked in at children playing with wooden toys upon the floor. Freda sat nearby with Friedrich’s wife, turning a fine ham on the spit.

“Where is Friedrich?” Mina asked.

“There, over in the corner asleep in his chair.”

Mina peered closer but struck her face sharply against the pane. “As your nose is long, so is your beak. You’ll have to learn that.” They flew through the town, and saw everyone Mina had known. There was singing and there were tears. These her mother did not shed, she simply sat alone and angry in a stiff chair, glaring into a lonely fire.

“There she will be, and there she would be glaring at me,” Mina said.

“And I imagine you had no idea you’ve been speaking to me in my own language. It sounds crackled and beautifully bent, as it should be on your tongue. Make your decision. Leave him now at the weakest point of his year, the strongest of yours, or else…”

“Or else what?”

“You’ll figure it out. You’re a smart girl.” He beat his wings and left Mina perched upon the sill. She looked at her mother for a long time. It was the darkest night of the year, and so the sun would be long in returning to the sky above the wide and secret world. Mina then made up her mind and flew away into the darkness.

The End

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Published by Karl Rademacher on September 22, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 23, Issue 23 Stories, Stories

Spirit of the Forest Cold

I

BreadRolf had been threatened with a beating for giving a loaf of bread to the condemned woman. They had brought her in a cage and put her in the city square that morning. Frail, thin, dressed in a short smock, she sat in the cage and endured the torments of the children in the settlement. They threw stones and poked at her with sticks. Someone mentioned she had not been given food during the week’s imprisonment prior to her execution. After breakfast, the children (boys mostly) brought bread and held it out in front of her. She reached to try to grab it with her thin arms and skinny hands, but the boys adroitly pulled it away, laughed, and ate it front of her, smacking their lips and chewing with their mouths open. She wailed in despair and beat her fists on the wooden floor of her cage.

Something about how they were treating her angered Rolf. He never thought of himself as particularly kind, but he remembered when his mother died. He was six. She had born a child but died of the fever women often get after childbearing. He remembered her anguish. She was in pain, but the greater agony was that she would leave her family and her children—and her newborn daughter, Gretchen. He had understood as much even at six years old. As he stood in the cold mud of early spring, his heart ached for the wretched woman who would hang in only a couple of hours. The day his mother died he had vowed he would always care for Gretchen, his sister. The woman in the barred cage somehow reminded him of her.

When the boys he had grown up with tired of tormenting her and went away, calling him to join them, he came up to the cage.

She lay on the filthy wooden floor crying. She looked as if she might break if you even touched her. Her knees were bloody from her being on all fours (she did not have room to stand up in the cage). He smelled filth and urine and knew she had to do her functions there then lie in and smell her own filth. He came closer.

She saw him, made a noise that was half a gasp and half a scream, and pushed herself back to a corner of the cage. Perhaps, he thought, she was afraid he would poke her with a stick. He held out the remainder of his morning bread—half of a substantial loaf, fresh-baked, its fragrance wonderful amid the smells of discharge, mud, and her unwashed body. He held it up.

Her eyes, hollow and terrified, fell on the bread. He had never thought a person’s eyes could look like they wanted to eat, but hers did. She looked up at him, thinking he meant to torment her. He pushed the loaf between the bars.

“No,” he said, “I’m not tormenting you. This is yours. I want you to have it.”

She still looked doubtful. Suddenly she lurched forward and made to snatch the loaf away but then slowed and took it in one easy, even movement. Rolf backed up a step. She opened her mouth to devour the food, but, again, stopped. She leveled her washed-out, exhausted gaze at him.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice small. “You are a kind young man.”

He only nodded. She began to eat the bread, taking small bites and chewing them well. She had just finished it when a strong, rough hand camped on Rolf’s shoulder. He looked up. Towering over him was Vorthr.

“You little shit,” he growled. “You gave her food!” He let go of Rolf’s shoulder and drew back his arm to strike him. Rolf adroitly dodged the blow and sprinted away. Vorthr, who was burly and slow-footed, tried to catch him but gave up after a short sprint. “You’ll answer for this,” he said, shaking his fist. “I’ll tell Horst and he’ll beat you to within an inch of your life!”

Rolf ran home. His father and two uncles were there as well as Gretchen, his three half-brothers, and one half-sister—and his step-mother. He wondered why they were here and not out hunting or tending the garden and fields. Then he remembered the execution.

“Rolf, you’re dirty as a pig,” his step-mother said. “Go wash. The hanging is in an hour and I will not have you parading before the whole village looking like a mud puppy.” She gave him a cloth and a basin of warm water. “Shout when you’re finished and I’ll bring you clean clothes.”

He went out behind the house. Rolf liked his step-mother, Helg. She was nice—a little nicer, he had to admit, than his birth mother had been. He took the water and the cloth, which had a cake of soap wrapped in it, stripped down, and washed. When he had finished and dried himself, he called her. She brought him trousers, a shirt, and boots.

“Do I have to wear boots?” he grumbled.

“The whole of our clan will be there. Your feet could be stepped on a hundred times. Put them on.”

“Why are they going to kill the woman, Mother?” he asked.

“She did a vile deed.”

“What?”

scarletletter_Large“She joined her body to the body of a man who was not her husband. That is a sin. They fled. His family caught them. The man was killed, the woman will die today.”

“She seems”—he did not want to say “nice”—instead he said, “young.”

“She is hardly more than a child. It is a great pity, but she must suffer what the law requires.”

“They didn’t give her any food.”

She caught the look in his eyes, knelt, and took his hands.

“I think that was cruel, but the deed she did was vile. When she did it, she banished herself from the kinship of our tribe. I feel pity for her, but justice must be served. Now get your other boot on and come into the house. It’s almost time to go.”

Inside, his father and uncles had gotten out cudgels. He wondered what they were for. When a blast from the ram’s horn came, his sizeable family walked to the village square.

The whole community—all six villages that made up their extended clan—were there. He had never seen so many people in his life. They stood in a double line up and down the square that served on other days as a market. The men carried clubs. Two of his friends ran up to him and handled him pebbles.

“These are to throw at the whore when she walks the gauntlet,” one of them said. He rolled the small stones in his hand. “The chieftains say we can’t use stones bigger than this. Come on.”

He and the others slipped through the crowd and found a niche in front of a group of men. The crowd murmured ominously. After a moment, they brought out the cage and opened it.

The woman staggered out, took a few steps, and fell. She could hardly walk for being closed up in a small space for so long. The two men guarding her, Beorn and Alric, pulled her roughly to standing. She walked forward with a wobbly motion and then, seeing the crowd, stopped, her eyes wide with fear, mouth open, the fingers of her hands spread wide. Beorn poked her with a spear. She winced and began to walk unsteadily forward.

She went perhaps twenty feet before the crowd began to inflict harms on her. Boys and girls threw stones and mud. She covered her head. Some of the men hit her with sticks or cudgels. She screamed as she tried to dodge the blows. Twice she fell and was pulled to her feet. Once she staggered sideways and received vicious blows from some of the young men there to watch her die. She stumbled on until she came to the end where the noose waited her. Blood ran from her mouth and nose. Her thin arms were covered with welts and bruises. Her knees bled. Her feet were black with mud. Rolf wondered if she even knew what was happening. She stared out with blank eyes and then coughed up clots of blood that splattered on the front of her filthy smock. She could hardly stand. Alric tied her hands. Horst held her up as Alric tightened the noose. They both pulled on the rope and hoisted her. She died instantly. She did not even “dance,” Rolf remembered. He heard her neck snap like a dry twig.

bogLaw required she hang till sunset. When the shadows were long, the people gathered outside of town. The magistrates had cut the rope but not removed it from around her neck. They left her hands tied and carried her body to the peat bog where murderers, thieves, and blasphemers were thrown. It was an unclean place, but to bury the body of a sinner would befoul the land, so she was not given a place amid the graves of the clan. Horst tied a heavy stone around her neck and four men tossed her, and the stone, into the dark brown water of the bog. That was the end of it.

At home that evening all of them were quiet. His mother and sisters knitted by the light of the hearth. His father and uncles drank but did not speak or sing; the uncles left when the moon appeared. He and his brothers played draughts but no one slapped the stones or cried out at a win. Finally his father rose and called the family together. They stood and recited a prayer to Odin and Freya and then went to their spots in the house to sleep. He and his step-brothers whispered about the execution until their father growled at them.

Rolf drifted to sleep. In his dreams, he saw her, but not as she had been at the execution. He saw her in a white dress and barefoot in the snow. She looked beautiful—no marks, wounds, or blood. She appeared cheerful and merry, like one of the maidens who served in Odin’s house and were solemn when he was near but smiled and made jests when their master was away. She put out her hands to him. He took them. They were cold.

“You are a very kind young man,” she said—the same thing she had said to him when he gave her the bread, but it was different. She was not abject and broken. Her eyes radiated joy and life. “Thank you.”

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Mathilda,” she replied.

As he held her hands, his body grew cold, yet it was unlike any he had known growing up in the northern lands with their long winters. It invigorated him and sharpened his senses. Finally she smiled and kissed him. Her lips, unlike her hand, were warm. He woke up to the stirrings of the house. His step-mother was cooking. His sisters were saying the benedictions to Freya. His father had just gone out to relieve himself. Rolf lay there, thinking of the lovely vision he had seen while sleeping.

 

II

 

As they sat down to supper the next night, Gundren said, “I think they should have given Mathilda a decent burial.”

Silence came. All eyes turned to the parents, who sat together on the west side of the war as custom dictated.”

“Eat your supper,” Helg said.

“No,” their father put in. “She is right. Throwing her in the peat bog was not a good thing to do. What she did was not a crime that called for defilement of her body. She was not a criminal—not a murderer or traitor. She was a foolish girl who let her buns get hot. That isn’t a crime that deserves defilement. They should have at least given her a proper resting place, even if it was away from the graves of our ancestors. She will return as a troll or a malicious spirit to punish us.”

“Her name was Mathilda?” Rolf asked.

“Yes,” Helg said evenly. “She was a very distant relative of my family; from another village. I only met her once in my life. The magistrates made an error, perhaps by throwing her in the bog, but we must not question their decision. If it was wrong, they will suffer for it.”

His father grunted. That settled the matter. The conversation went elsewhere. Rolf hardly tasted his food. It had not been a dream. It had been a visitation by her spirit. She had come to him through the corridors of sleep. How else could he have known her name? Some said dreams were only memories left from the day before, but he had no memory of ever hearing her name. She had not told it to him and no one else had mentioned it. He wondered what the visitation might mean.

He did not see her in his dreams again. Spring turned to summer. The gods blessed them. Their fields and gardens produced abundantly, as did their pigs and barnyard fowl. They hunted and killed deer, dried the meat and stored it, dried fruit, put away vegetables. Rolf’s father trained him in the art of war and complimented him on his progress. In the fall there was an abundant grain harvest, and feasting and rejoicing for the entire clan. As it turned out, they would sorely need the abundance they had stored away.

The snows came early that year and did not abate. By the yuletide season it had accumulated so it was half as tall as their house. By solstice it was even with the roof. The elders said they had never seen snow so deep. The weather was cold. Wolves prowled the forest in packs and killed the deer. Families ran out of food. The other families in the village shared with them. And as the tribesmen and their families huddled in their dwellings, news came that the Franks planned to launch a new campaign to conquer territory and convert the Saxon peoples to the Christian faith. Rolf and his father put on furs and practiced swordsmanship outside in the cold.

And people said they had seen the woman.

Several different people had been frightened by her and had seen her in different forms. Two women had encountered her near the peat bog. The waters of the bog had turned her flesh a murky brown, though her hair was still bright gold. She wore the smock she had worn to her hanging. Though stained with the tannic hue of the bog, they could see on its front the blood she had vomited. She had not menaced them, howled or threatened. She only walked toward the women, her smile ghostly, her eyes glowing with evil light. Others had seen different manifestations. Two men—hard-bitten warriors and family men not given to fantasy—saw her walking barefoot and bareheaded through the deep snow. She wore only the undergarment in which she died. Smiling, singing an ancient hymn, oblivious to the cold, she passed within a few feet of where they stood but did not seem to notice them at all.

The Village Council met. They considered searching the bog for the woman’s corpse so she could be given a proper burial. To do so, though, would disturb the spirits of the sinners who had been dumped there. The woman’s ghost had not seemed hostile. So far, it had brought no harm to the village. They decided to wait.

Two weeks after their decision, Rolf saw her.

He had been splitting wood. The snows were still deep even in mid-March. Food supplies had shrunk to dangerous levels. After finishing his chore, he spied a deer, quickly put down the ax, took up the bow he had brought to use against wolves if any appeared, and began to stalk the creature.

deerIt was a grey deer, a doe, large and, he thought, well-fed. It did not run but sauntered through the forest at a slow enough pace that he could keep up with it. Rolf followed, bow tucked under his arm so he could keep his hands in his mittens until time to take his shot. The deer rambled for a mile or so and then stopped to graze by what looked like a hot spring. Through the cloud of steam rising from its surface, he saw green grass around the edges. The deer lowered her head and began to munch. He stared a moment, thinking he should take off his mittens, nock an arrow, and kill the animal, but, absurdly, he thought this would be wrong. It looked peaceful and innocent. He heard snow crunch and turned. Three feet away stood Mathilda.

He gaped. She smiled brightly. She looked different from the only time he had seen her (aside from in the dream). Her face, not emaciated, radiated humor and intelligence. Her eyes, bright blue, communicated wisdom—not the stern wisdom he knew so well from his encounters with the old and the venerable, but wisdom that was humorous and self-effacing. She had gained weight, though her body was marvelously slender and trim. Her golden hair fell in abundance over her shoulders and down her back. She did not have on the smock others had seen her in. She wore a long white dress embroidered with gold at the hem, the neck and the sleeves. She was barefoot and wore no gloves, no cloak, and no boots. Rolf did not know whether to flee or kneel and worship her. She did not look like a spirit or specter. Her body was solid. She blinked. He could see the shape of her breasts rise and fall as she breathed.

“Greetings, Rolf,” she said.

He fought to speak. “Greetings, Mathilda. I am honored”—

“You are astonished,” she interrupted merrily. “Come in. You’ll catch your death out here. Since I’ve already caught mine, I don’t have to worry about such things, but you do. And thank you for not killing my pet deer. Come.”
She turned. He followed her. In a moment they came upon something he had not noticed, though now it was impossible to miss. A stone house with a slate roof, large, built of stacked grey rock stood maybe twenty yards away. The door was open, the windows not shuttered, but once inside he felt warmth and saw light. A table sat in the middle of the room. Two mugs sat there and a loaf of bread. She motioned for him to sit and then gestured to the food.

“Eat and drink. I know you’re hungry. And the food is not enchanted. In fact, once you taste of it, I have extended hospitality to you and am under obligation to care for you always.”

“Are you a ghost?”

“Do I look like a ghost?”

“No—though, I’ll admit I’ve never seen one before.”

She laughed. “I’ve been reborn.”

“But you died. I saw it.”

“The faerie folk revived my soul. They can do that for those who have died unjustly.”

“Did you die unjustly? I mean, I don’t know.” He was afraid he had made her angry but she showed no signs of anger.

“Yes. I’ll admit I did sleep with Hengist. But I was only one in a procession of women he had. And my father sold me to him, so I had no choice in the matter. It was his sister who revealed our liaison and caused both of us to perish.”

“Why did she reveal you and bring about your death and her brother’s death?”

“You don’t need to know that—at least not yet. Eat. You look famished.”

He had been skipping breakfast so there would be more bread in the larder. He took a slice from the loaf she had provided, which was warm and full of nuts and cherries. The wine, sweet, spiced, tasted as if it derived from the vineyards of paradise.

“Will you tell me more?” he asked. “More about you?”

“I told you: the elven folk brought me back to life.”

“People have seen your ghost.”

“She has an existence, yes. Some of my spirit lies there in the burning fluids of the bog. You can expect her to emerge from time to time. She is angry and vindictive.”

“You aren’t?”

“No,” she said thoughtfully. She interlocked her fingers on the table and looked thoughtful. “I guess I’m not angry. After all, I came out better off than I was in my mortal life. I’m not angry with your people, though they were cruel to me. They thought they were doing the right thing and I will at least grant that they were obeying the laws. But there was no reason to starve me for ten days and make me lie in a cage in my own filth and urine and be tormented day and night by taunting children and villagers. Is it not enough that a person condemned will suffer loss of life? That in itself is a fitting torment without all the other cruel devices to which I was subjected.”

Rolf looked around him. “Is this your house?”

“I live here and it is also a temple. I am the Spirit of the Forest Cold.”

He blinked in amazement. “You are a goddess?”

“Goddesses sometime go on to rule of other realms and other demesnes. So it was with the goddess of this site. She has relinquished the governance of it to me. I assume her title now. It is I who control the snow for this forest—when it falls and ceases to fall, how dense and cold it is, how deep and thick it will cover the land.”

“Have you sent this deep snow to punish us for what we did to you?”

“I suppose so. When I came to this duty I was angry over the torment and cruelty the villagers inflicted on me. But I see now that it is also cruel and pointless to cause people not directly responsible to suffer for the sins of those who are directly responsible. That is what I want to do now. I want to punish the woman who is directly responsible for my torment. Will you help me, Rolf?”

“Of course,” he said, fear rising in his chest. “I’ll help you as much as I am able.”

“It may be a painful journey.”

“Whatever pain I might feel, it will not be half of what you’ve known.”

She smiled kindly. They finished their wine. She saw him to the door. “I will send three deer to your door. It’s admirable that your family is willing to share what they have with those who were not wise enough to store the abundance that came in the warm months. I’ll send a wind to melt the snow. I feel like an immature child who is tired of throwing a tantrum. My vindictiveness against your people will end. I will focus on the one truly responsible for my torment.”

“Who, Mathilda?”

“His sister—Bertina. She sold herself to the Franks and is in a Christian haven for virgins. She’s taken their vows.”

The Franks had been hammering the Saxons for years, taking their territory and forcibly converting theme to the Christian religion. They had never penetrated the dense forest land where Rolf lived. It protected his tribe so they were free from Frankish control. But some of their own people are now allies of the Franks and some had converted to their faith by their own free will.

“It would be hard to get her out of such a place.”

weavers of fate“Time will weave her fate upon its loom. You will have a part of it. Wait and see.”

Silence came. Both of them stood awkwardly on the threshold of her dwelling.

“I’ll see you again?”

“Of course you will. How could I not love you and desire to see you after the kindness you showed to me?” She put her arms around him and kissed him. Her lips were warm and he felt the warmth of her breath, the warm wet of her mouth, the heat of her tongue as she briefly touched the tip of it to his. And, amazingly, he felt cold fill him—sharp, hard cold that enhanced what he felt for her and that drew his senses of a point. It suffused his body and then faded as his own warmth returned. “Remember, cold is not an evil thing,” she said.

They lingered, sharing several more kisses. He finally took his leave and walked out the door. When he turned to say good-bye again, the stone house had disappeared. In its place stood massive snow-covered trees. He saw the deer still feeding at the hot spring. Rolf approached it cautiously. It eyed him and jerked as if to run away but stood its ground. He reached out, moving his arm slowly, and scratched its face. Like a hound, it closed its eyes and moved its face around to enjoy the scratching. He smiled, turned, and set out toward his house.

When he came near his family’s dwelling, he spotted the three deer and brought them down with three shots. Not wanting to leave them for fear of predators, he yodeled. After a moment, a response came. His father and one of his step-brothers appeared. They rejoiced and marveled at what he had done.

“I’ve never known anyone who could bring down three deer on one spot.” He slapped his son on the back. Rolf only grinned. When they came back to the house, he saw his sisters kneeling by the wood pile. One held a wooden cup of what might be ale above her head. His mother watched solemnly. He came up to her.

“What is this?”

“They are pouring out a drink offering to Freya. The weather has turned. A warm wind blows. We will be able to plant on time. Breathe in and feel the fingers of spring knead the air, Rolf.”

He took a deep breath and did feel it. Warmth tinged the air—warmth he had not felt when he set out this morning. Mathilda had been true to her word. He watched his half-sisters. Drink offerings had to be poured out by virgins, so his step-mother could not participate.

 

III

They butchered the deer, stored their hides for tanning later on, and fed the entrails to their dogs. Rolf was thankful they had not had to eat any of the dogs, though they had lost one to a neighbor who was later caught. In the justice system of the village the offended party pronounced the damages. His father said the neighbor must replace the dog when he was able. Times were hard and forbearance in order. His father made certain the family of the offender got an ample supply of deer meat.

“He’s an honest man,” he told Rolf. “He would never have stolen if necessity had not compelled him.”

The warm winds blew. Snow melted. By the end of March it was gone. The steady breezes had also dried the soil so it was not saturated with melt. They could plant early crops. Mathilda had once more showed her truthfulness and good will. He wondered when he would see her again.

It would not be for another two years.

During that time, the village prospered. Crops were abundant. Many children were born and most were healthy. All was not good, however. The Franks had defeated the southern tribes, invading and setting their eyes on the lands further north. The priests and holy women established houses of worship and tried to convert the tribes and clans at the edge of their realm. War was inevitable. Though the Saxons were fierce fighters, the Franks were a formidable foe and had weapons and tactics the Saxons found it difficult to overcome.

Still, all of that seemed far away. As he entered his seventeenth year, he began to notice women more and more. He had noticed them before, but now he desired them and kept alert to those who seemed friendly. The Saxons valued chastity, but there were always young women who were willing to break the rules and young men more than eager to assist them in doing so. It happened for Rolf at the house of a girl his age named Steora. She invited him in and he lost his virginity to her. After that she became his regular lover.

“Don’t let Father find out,” she warned. “He’ll cut your balls off. I hate to think what he would do to me. He wants to pledge me as a temple maiden at the shrine of Odin in Geestendorf. I’ll be damned to hell if I’m going to do that. It’s a city on an island and there are hardly any trees. I don’t think I can live there, Rolf. I’d go crazy out of the forest.”

“If you tell him you can’t be a temple maiden, will he beat you?”

“He might kill me. If he does, fine. At least I’ve had it a few times, which is more than what I would have got if I were pledged to some temple on a stinking, dirty island in the North Sea.”

He and Steora were lovers through the spring, summer, and fall. Her father never confronted the issue of her virginity or lack of it because that summer the soldiers of Charlemagne made a foray into the forest. They captured Steora and carried her away in the raid. By that time Rolf had established relationships with three other women.

The other villagers recognized him as a leader. He was conscripted to fight in a campaign against the Franks in the southern marches. Though the youngest member of his unit, he fought with distinction, killing the champion of the Frankish contingent, a thing that disheartened them and caused them to withdraw. Rather than celebrating with the others, he and his squad pursued the retreating enemy troops and overran their camp by night. Though superior in numbers, the Frankish soldiers fled, thinking a larger force had attacked them. They abandoned their baggage and Rolf’s squad captured one of their commanders, whom the community ransomed for a sizeable sum of money. He also was able to find out where Steora was being held.

When the snows began, he and his village, and the Franks, settled down for the winter. Armies seldom fought in cold weather. Harvest had been good again, the villages were well-supplied, and Rolf knew the snows would come at the usual time this year. When they did, he saw Mathilda once again.

She came to him one night as he was slopping the hogs. He had poured the table scraps, grain, and milk into the pen. The hogs, who were and fat, and who would mostly be slaughtered in a week or two, grunted happily as they ate. Snow had started to fall softly. He heard a noise and saw Mathilda behind him. He put down the slop bucket.

“I remember doing that in my mortal days. When my brothers were gone I had to slop the hogs. I hated it because the bucket was always so heavy.”

youngeritheHe gaped at her. Her beauty, and its contrast to the wasted, half-starved girl he had seen when she lived her mortal life, still amazed him. And, now that he was older, and experienced from sharing the bed with Steora and his other lovers, he saw her as an object of desire.

She smiled at him. “Cat got your tongue?”

“I don’t know what to say to a goddess.”

“Come with me.”

“I have chores to finish.”

“Come. Someone else will do your chores and no one will know you are gone. I promise you. Come with me now. Come on.”

She reached out his hand. Once more, he felt the peculiar cold she imparted.

“Where will you take me?”

“I want you to come to my house again.”

He nodded. She turned and walked into the woods, her embroidered dress white with highlights of red and gold woven into it. The snow fell more heavily. He noticed she was barefoot and wore no cloak. He followed. Soon he saw the hot spring and her house. They went inside. She turned to face him.

All through the walk he had felt his passion for her increase. He had felt it so strongly the night he dreamed of her. He was experienced now. He had slept with Steora, Ingrid, Edina, and Steffi. This and battle had sent him across the line into young manhood. Somehow he realized her summons had something to do with this. She turned to face him.

“You know why I’ve brought you here.”

He nodded.

“You know the passion of the goddesses Freya and of Aine and Clíodhna. There are goddesses of chastity; my own name means battle maiden, woman and strength and power. But there are goddesses of love and of childbirth and lust. My lust for you has grown since you showed me a simple kindness, Rolf. Now you’ve crossed the line from a boy to a man.”

She came forward and put her arms around his neck. For the second time he felt her kiss. Her lips, warm, moved against his. He knew the strangeness once more: cold, more stark and absolute than he had ever known in the winters of his life, filled him. Yet his strength increased as the cold filled him. He suddenly felt more powerful than Mathilda, goddess or no goddess. He picked her up and carried her into a back chamber of her house that he somehow knew was her bedchamber.

A low bed filled the center of it. Colorfully woven quilts and deer and bearskins covered it. He lay her down, kissing her all the while. He pulled her white dress up around her waist. She sat up so he could pull it over her head. He saw now her breasts, lovely and round, with dark nipples, the reddish hair under her arms, between her legs, and on her legs. Strong but gentle, her body shone in the dim lamplight. He wondered if they needed cream, like Ingrid and Steffi used, but when he felt her she was wet with her own fluid. She laid back down, one leg bent up, and her hands extended above her head. He lowered himself, kissed her breasts, stoked the hair beneath her arms, and ran his hands down her sides, over her stomach and beneath her to the soft flesh of her buttocks. She gasped in delight. He took her in his arms.

As he began to move, she gently embraced him, putting her arms around him and wrapping her legs over his. They moved in a rhythmic dance. Delightful confusion came over him. He felt warm and cold and simultaneously in a cloud of fog and in the stark light of a winter morning when the sky is frosty and the sun comes up clear and pure to light the world. He felt the power of wolves and bears in his body and the swift beauty of deer and fox in her. He felt as if he were tumbling through space but, at the same time, felt rooted to the earth like an oak is rooted or like a gigantic rock that thrusts upward through the soil, the bulk of it deep in soil. She seemed earth, sun, and frost. He felt her body buckle and heard her cry out. He followed shortly after. Silence came—so quiet he would testify that he could hear the snow falling, flake by flake, and piling up amid the trees of the vast forest of which she was now the genius and deity.

She opened her eyes and puffed out a breath of air.

“I’m not used to being a goddess,” she smiled. She looked at his questioning eyes, her smile broadening. “I’m not use to the . . . strength with which love comes to me. It comes with such power, with the power of nature and of the forest roots, the power of spring and of the winter wind.” She stroked his face. “You are my lover. You’re the first for me since I was granted to be a goddess. Before, I had many men. I will admit that. I started pretty young.”
“How old were you when they killed you?”

“Twenty three.”

He looked surprised. “I thought you were younger.”

“I always looked younger. My lovers liked that. Hengist liked it. And when you saw me I hadn’t had anything to eat and I’d lost weight. I looked like a waif.”

He laid his head against her breasts. He was in the arms of a goddess. When mortals fell in love with goddesses, the result was usually not good. But she had been mortal once. He let it drift out of her mind.

“I brought you here,” she said, “to share my love with you. Now you must go on a quest. You must rescue Steora. She has escaped. The Franks are pursuing her. If they find her, she will die a cruel death.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know, but your soul will know. You simply need to go. I’ll bring a horse to you. Trust your instincts. They will guide you.”

“Can’t you come with me?”

“I must stay here. I need to direct the snow to cover your tracks when you find her. You will go in my protection.”

He did not want to leave her. She sensed this and touched him gently. “You need to go. She is in danger.”

She washed him. He dressed and stepped outside. When he turned, the house was gone.

He stood in the falling snow. Out of the woods a white horse ambled toward him. It had a bridle and saddles and saddlebags. It came up, sniffed him, and whinnied. He patted its nose. A gentle-looking beast, he thought, a stallion, but it seemed more peaceful than most stallions he had ridden. Rolf looked at the scrim of trees and the snow coming down in the spaces between them. He should go home and tell his parents he was leaving, but Mathilda had said to follow his instinct, and instinct told him he needed to leave now. He mounted the horse. It reared just slightly and snorted. He patted its neck. “Easy,” he whispered in its ear. “We’ve got a long ride ahead of us. I’m Rolf. I don’t know your name, but let’s call you Aarn. Probably that is your name and Mathilda told me by her magic. I don’t know how we’ll survive or how I’ll feed you, Aarn, but let’s go.”

He flicked the reigns. The horse took off of at a good pace, its feet sure on the snowy forest floor. A mile or so on, he met Vorthr and told him to let his family know he had gone a quest to the south and would return in a in a week or two.

They rode through the snow, taking the southern road. Aarn trotted along obediently. They stopped at a hot spring like the one near Mathilda’s place with grass growing around the edge. Aarn grazed. Rolf stretched and looked in the saddle bags. He found wine, bread, and dried pork. He ate and drank. In the bag on the other side of Aarn he found socks, pliable boots, a cloak, and small stone jar sealed with a thick layer of black wax. For Steora, he guessed. He replaced the items, mounted up again, and continued on. Snow coated the trees. It covered the ground in a thin layer. Ferns and shrubs poked through. He saw deer tracks and scats, rabbit trails, and, more ominously, formations of tracks that indicated wolves. He rode on. His hands began to ache from cold. The light diminished. As the darkness began to gather to such a degree he could hardly see the road he came upon a house. The family offered him hospitality, an ancient custom of his people.

hearth-300x225The family was like his—three boys and three girls. The patriarch and his wife were younger than Rolf’s parents and seemed prosperous. He washed, warmed himself by the fire, and dined with them. The onset of winter always meant slaughtering animals that had little chance of surviving the cold weather. He ate roast pork in abundance. The ale they had begun fermenting at the beginning of the summer was rich and full by now. They sat with cups in front of the hearth. He told them he was going south to seek the release of a woman from the Franks.

They were troubled when he said this. He looked at the mantle above their hearth and saw Christian symbols there: the crossed pieces of wood and two clay statuettes he took to be icons of that faith. They had converted.

“She is being kept in a house of Christian holy women. I hope to negotiate her release so she can be released.”

“That is unlikely. They pressure our people to convert. We ourselves were baptized. There consequences of apostasy are dire.”

They all knew how dire apostasy could be. At Verdun, Charlemagne had executed 4500 Germans who had reverted to the worship of the old gods. He felt sympathy for the family. Fear would keep them in the Christian fold. He wondered if the entire area had been converted.

“Religion doesn’t mean much to me,” he said, “but I do not think the young woman I am seeking should be held against her will.”

“If you pay them enough they may let her go.”

Of course, she was an escapee. He had to be careful.

“How far is their territory from here?”

“Perhaps ten leagues. Many have fled further into the forest lands. You’ll have trouble finding people to stay with as you approach their marches. Most have gone to the northlands.”

He slept and departed in the morning. The snow had stopped. Aarn, rested and fed, bore Rolf through a deep, powdery covering. Silence filled the forest. Now and then snow slid from the tree branches. He saw more deer and two lynx.

Riding on, he passed abandoned homes—walls falling in, thatched roofs sagging, fences of what were animal stalls and rotted garden plots. He rode until he came to a structure that was more intact. The roof was made of boards, not thatch. He went inside. Looking around, he saw no animals had broken in. The walls and doors were all intact. A stack of dry wood lay beside the hearth. Rolf scooped the snow out of it and kindled a fire. He walked back and found some clean hay in the barn out back for Aarn, who munched it thankfully. When he went out back he noticed a spot on the snow.

It was yellow and melted. Someone had urinated here. The spot was directly under the two footprints in the snow, which meant it had been made by a woman who squatted rather than stood. He looked around. There were no tracks. Whoever it was had covered them. He followed the uneven mounds of snow until he found bloody footprints. He knew it had to be her.

Rolf followed the tracks into the wood. He had only gone about a hundred yards when he saw her.

Steora was moving at a slow pace, staggering. He rushed up behind her and shouted out her name. She turned suddenly, lost her balance, and fell.

He rushed over and scooped her up. Her lips were blue, her limbs thin, and her feet oozing blood. She wore a dress and had wrapped herself in a blanket.

“Steora,” he said, shaking her. “Can you hear me?” She moved her lips but no words came out of her mouth. “It’s Rolf. You’re safe with me. No, don’t go to sleep.” Holding her in his arms, he ran back to the house.

Inside, he sat her down by the fire. Looking at her feet, he shuddered. She wore thin shoes that had soaked through. He pulled them off. She screamed. Her feet were raw and bleeding, though it did not look like her flesh had frozen. He gave her wine to warm her. She still did not seem sensible enough to know who he was. She drank the wine. He had brought the saddlebags inside, took the cloak from it, and threw it over her, leaving her feet protruding. After cleaning them with melted snow, he poured wine over them. They were bad and would require days to heal. He wondered how far they were from Frankish territory and if she were being pursued.

Rolf went out to check on Aarn. He had settled in the barn. He took down more hay, got Aarn up, and scattered some for him to lie on. He settled into it and whinnied appreciatively. Rolf went back into the house. Looking down at Steora, he checked her feet again. He could see no red streaks indicating poison spreading through her blood. She stirred and smacked her lips. He knelt down to be close to her. Her face look grey, her lips blue. He kissed her softly, took off his outer garments, climbed under the cloak, put his arms around her and his body next to her.

She was cold. He snuggled against her. Then he remembered Mathilda’s touch. If he could not import his warmth into her body, he could draw her cold into his own. He relaxed, not certain how to recover the feeling he had known when he had kissed Matilda and lain in her embrace. Eventually, though, he felt the chill and sharpness. It drew the cold out of Steora, as a dry cloth will draw moisture when it comes near water. He felt it course into his body and combine with the cold he felt inside him. His hands and arms sensed warmth return to her body. In the flickering light of the fire, he saw color come to her face, the red of blood return to her lips and to her cheeks. He touched her breasts and felt the spreading warmth move downward to her stomach, her opening, and her thighs. When he was certain the cold had gone out of her body, he let it go out of his. He sat up, making certain it had not returned to her. It had not.

Then he remembered the ceramic jar in the saddle bag.

He dug it out and cut the wax seal with his knife. A fragrance of apple blossoms filled the room. He put his fingers into the jar and, as he had thought, it was ointment—healing balm. Mathilda had known the sort of shape Steora might be in; or had foreseen it through some prophetic power she possessed. He gently spread a layer of it on the raw flesh of her feet. She shuddered when his hands first touched her but then seemed to settle into a deeper sleep, as if the balm had soothed her. He wondered if it were a medicine people knew or some enchanted substance. It could be both. He climbed under the covers against and put his arms around her. She was warm now. He knew she would live.

As he lay there he remembered the first time he had made love to her—his first time, her third (or so she said). He was awkward and afraid, but she combined understanding and the passion she felt for him, and the time was sweet and magical. Steora was a strong girl and had stretched and contracted her body beneath his. The grip of her arms around his back was powerful. She had big breasts (Mathilda’s breasts were smaller and more delicate) and the body of a farm girl who had worked in the gardens and the fields all her life. She had a body for love, for work, for childbearing. It would have been a pity, Rolf mused, for her to have been consigned to virginity, either as a temple maiden dedicated to Odin or a Christian holy woman. He would return her to her father.

He slept. In the morning, he went outside to relieve himself. More snow had fallen. A good three inches covered the ground and it continued to fall steadily. Her tracks would be erased, he thought, and the snow would discourage anyone pursuing her. He went back inside. Steora was awake.

She looked up at him. “Am I dreaming, mad, or awake?”

He knelt beside her. “You’re awake. I was told you had escaped and came to find you. The Spirit of the Forest Cold has brought us together.”

“Blessed be her name,” she muttered piously—a reflection of how religious her family was.

“How are your feet?”

She wiggled them. “I can feel them. They hurt a little.” Rolf examined them. They had begun to heal. They were scabbed, and the scabs were thin and would break if she tried to walk just yet, but he could see no streaks. They would be whole in a few days if properly cared for. He stretched out beside her.

“How long ago did you escape?”

“Three days ago. I’ve been hiding and running through the snow all this time.” She paused and then added, “I killed a woman. I killed one of the women in the maiden house. If the Franks catch me, the gods alone know what they’ll do to me. I must get back home.”

“I’ll get you home. First, you have to heal—your feet. Lie here. It’s snowing. I think we’re safe here, at least for now. Let me get breakfast and then you can tell me about what happened to you.”

He got out bread and dried meat. Steora sat up and ate.

“How did you escape?” he asked.

“For all this time they tried to convert me to their faith. They deprived me of food and frightened me with stories of torment in the afterlife for all who do not bow to their gods. I would not consent to enter their faith. Finally they told me I would be burned alive because I persisted in my trust of the old gods. They set a day. I escaped two days before. I tore two planks out of the door to my chamber and managed to get out. The woman who had been the cruelest of all to me met me at the door. I knew she would alert the others, so I strangled her with a piece of rope I found hanging on the wall. I didn’t want to kill any of them, as they are pledged women and are holy, but it was her or me.”

He went out and checked on Aarn, who seemed to be in good spirits. He gave him more hay and, finding an old brush, groomed him and let him trot through the snow. He cleaned his stall and came back to the house to find Steora trying to walk.

“Damn it, no,” he said to her, rushing over and helping her sit down. “Your feet are healing, but they are still tender. Give yourself a couple of days more. We can wait here. We have food enough for a week there is hay in the barn for my horse. Be patient. You must be patient with a wound.”

“They may come here looking for me.”

“The snow will keep them away.”

“It will trap us here too.”

“I don’t think so.”

They had long hours to pass, and, as Rolf suspected she would, Steora began to come on to him. She had been isolated from men for months. He knew Mathilda would not be offended and made love to Steora. She moaned and writhed, moving her limbs in a slow rhythm, taking his love as a man who has not eaten days but is disciplined and self-controlled takes food: savoring it, extracting every bit of satisfaction he can from it. When they were finished, they lay next to each other. She took out a packet of dried green leaves.

“Above all else, I guarded these,” she said. I wrapped them in cloth and stuffed them into my opening—an irony, because they are the herbs that keep me from getting pregnant. I chewed the juice out of them last night. Just thinking about you got me so worked up I could hardly sleep.”

By the fourth day her feet had almost healed. He took Aarn for a ride and managed to shoot a small boar and bring it back to the house. They butchered it and feasted on the meat, smoking some of it to take on their ride back. Rolf found some withered apples hanging on the breaches of an abandoned orchard by one of the empty houses and picked them for Aarn. He rode south and came to a swath of the road that had been cleared out. He saw oxen tracks, the tracks of horses, scats, and a wide, compressed path of snow. The Saxons were clearing the road. Only they had the assets to do something like this. He turned Aarn about and headed back to the house. Steora was by the hearth, naked, washing herself with warm water.

“How are your feet?” he asked.

She turned. He saw the muscles in her back ripple beneath the cascade of dark blonde hair.

“My feet are fine, Rolf.” She saw the concern in his face. “Why?”

“We need to go.” Then a strange feeling overtook him. He knelt down. “You have to go. The Saxons are clearing the road. They’re coming here. We can’t risk you getting caught.” He got the socks and boots out of the pack. She got dressed, put on the socks and supple fur-lined boots, and threw the cloak on. He told her to mount the horse.

“What about you?” she asked. “You can’t stay here. They’ll kill you—or enslave you.”

“I feel I need to stay. Aarn is a good snow horse, and you know how to ride. You’ll find forest-dwellers who will show you hospitality. Some of them are converts to the Frankish religion, but they are our people and will care for you. Go now.”

“I won’t leave you here.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll head through the forest and find my way back. It would be too tricky for the horse to make his way through the snow with two people on his back. Go on, Steora. When you get back, tell your father he needs to get you out of Saxony. You said you had relatives in England.” She nodded. “You need to go there. Leave now.”

“I love you.”

lady-on-horseHe could only nod. Atop a strong horse, the wearing the boots and cloak, her hair shining in the winter light, she looked like a queen. After a moment, she lightly spurred Aarn. He trotted off. Rolf watched her until she disappeared into the distance.

Quiet settled. Rolf went inside and threw more wood on the fire. He did know where he planned to go, but he felt Mathilda had impressed on him to stay. He ate more food even though he was not hungry. He spent the day drying meat and trying to decide which way to strike out. If he could get to a friendly village, they would care for him. He could eventually get back home. Walking the road would be too dangerous. He would have to strike out through the trees. At this time a year, with the snow deep, the wolves and other predators hungry, and the enemies of his tribe possibly lurking about, trekking would be fraught with danger. It was his only choice and he felt that Mathilda had instructed him in this. He would leave at first light.

He expected Mathilda to appear to him in a dream, but she did not. He woke and looked into the embers of the fire, packed up his belongings and food, and set out, walking through the trees, following the same path he had seen Steora take five days ago.

The ancient forest towered above him. Wind or the settling of a bird on a branch shook snow down now and then. The drifts were not deep. The cover of trees absorbed some of snowfall, so walking was not difficult. He had a sword, dagger, and bow. The listened carefully for sounds that might indicate wolves, wild dogs, or boar. In cold weather even lynx would occasionally attack humans. Rolf walked steadily in the silence of the cold and the stark beauty of the massive trees, the rocks jutting out of the ground, and the swell and fall of the land beneath his feet.

He walked until he came to a hill devoid of trees. It looked vaguely familiar to him. He stopped and puzzled a moment. It was still relatively early in the morning. He found stone steps covered by the snow. He walked up three of them and stopped. He remembered.

The snow filtered down, though the sky looked to be clearing off and the light increasing. Looking about, he noted the land, the trees and the rock formations. He had been here. He had come here twice—once right after his mother died and once again five years ago when his step-brother, Eric, was ill and near death. It was a shrine. There had been priests and a prophetess. He stepped back and stood a little distance from the sacred stones. He saw no buildings now. The area around the stones was overgrown with brush. The shrine had been abandoned. The Franks had destroyed the building and killed or dispersed the clergy. They had not, though, destroyed the standing stones. As he puzzled over this, the clouds cleared and the light of the sun broke out.

The ground around him glittered. Rolf’s pulse quickened as he remembered. He had not been able to see the moon or the stars, but he knew it must be near, if not the very day of solstice. Now the sky had cleared. The cold blue of dawn rose over him. Mouth dry, he mounted the steps. The stones, five of them, formed a circle. They were granite. No one remembered the day they were place here. Some said the gods themselves had arranged them in this formation. Four stood taller than a man—probably eight feet tall. One was shortened, about three feet, and its top curved gently. Straight across from it a flat stone sat on the ground. The light in the sky increased.

He hurried up the steps that led to the top where the sacred circle stood. Kneeling on the lowest stone, he waited. The granite felt cold against his knees. A breeze stirred blowing wisps of snow from the trees around the shrine. A moment later, the sun appeared. He had been right. Today was solstice. He had come, a lone worshipper, to the abandoned shrine.

Rolf unbuckled his sword and laid his dagger and bow aside, wrapping both in his cloak. The sharp cold made his blood flow and focused his senses. After a few minutes, the sun, a bowl of white light, appeared above the stone that marked its ascent. He watched as it moved upward, its light glinting on the stones’ ice crystals and glimmering on the snow, driving the shadows back, warming Rolf’s face. It rose steadily until it stood above the curve of the stone, which cradled it in the half-circle. It hovered in the sacred space, conjunction of the world and the candle that lit it by day in winter and warmed it like a lover in summer. It hung there, perfectly framed. Too stunned to pray or speak, Rolf knelt—but only a short while. The sun moved to the side. The moment had passed. He stood, stepped off the altar stone, and walked down the steps.

He strapped on his sword and threw on his cloak, stuck his dagger into his left boot, and slung on his bow and quiver. He had worshipped. He had felt the power of the sacred moment that came once a year. The gods would bless him. The gods would speak to him.

After his mother died, his father had come as a pilgrim to the shrine. Rolf accompanied him. He was seeking guidance on whether he should marry Helg. They had made an offering of gold, seen the sacred moment (many other worshippers were there), and then gone to the house of the prophetess.

She was a tall woman with dark braided hair, sacred to the gods, never married and a virgin (just the same as Steora’s father had planned for her to be). She sat on the floor in prophetic trance. The priest stood by. The woman looked up at them—a stream of quiet glossolalia issued from her throat. The priest nodded and told them to step outside. He said the gods would bless the marriage—and, Rolf mused, they had. The same thing when Eric was ill; the prophetess, older and going grey by then, said he would live, and he did.

The sun rose higher in the sky Squirrels skittered in the trees. He stepped over to the area where the buildings had been, finding the ruins of the prophetess’ house. The charred brick told him the Franks had burned it. He recognized the suppliant’s door, where those seeking oracular answers came. Walking through it, he stood in the limits of the gutted structure. Snow began to fall again. Mathilda stood beside him.

“Why did not pull down the stones?” Rolf asked.

“Their men are afraid to. They burned the buildings but the left the stones in place.”

He looked at her. She smiled and extended her arms. He took her in an embrace and kissed her. He felt her cold fill him and felt the paradox that her cold made him feel warm.

“What do I do now?” he asked.

“In most prophetic lore there are no answers, only choices. You can continue west where you will find people who will return you to your home; you can walk back to the road where the Franks will capture you.”

“Will they kill me?”

“No. They will take you as a captive.”

“Will I find Bertina?”

“The prophecy is dark at this point. I can only say there is a good chance of it, but I can’t say for certain that you will find her.”

“I don’t suppose I came here and knew the sacred moment just so I could return home.”

“You did not come here for no reason. You freed Steora.”

He kissed her again. “Is it wrong to kiss you in a sacred space?”

“The space is no longer an active site of prophecy. And things change. They have to change. I must go now. Remember, the choice is yours and one path is not better than the other.” With that she was gone.

Rolf looked around for traces of her. The wind blew snow from the trees. No flakes fell. He saw no tracks. Walking down the hill from the shrine—carefully so as not to slip from the light layer of frost Mathilda had brought with her—he followed his faint tracks through the trees and out to the road. He stood there a moment, heard the dint of horse’s hooves, and saw four riders approaching—three soldiers and a man who dressed and wore his hair like a Christian priest. They slowed their horses and circled him. The priest hung back.

“Who are you, traveler?” one of them asked.

“I am Rolf, son of Fredyk, from the forests of the north.”

“This is Frankish territory. What are you doing here?”

He pointed back. “I just came from the shrine. This is the day of solstice and I witnessed the sacred moment of the sun’s rise on the shortest day of the year.”

Their eyes filled with rage. They leaped from their horses. Rolf drew his sword. They reached for theirs but could not extract them from their sheaths.

“You must be southerners,” he said. “The ice crystals here bind metal to metal and your swords stick in their hangars. You should always keep them under your cloak in winter.” As they frantically tried to get the swords free, Rolf slashed their cloaks where their hearts lay. “That was to show you I could have easily killed all three of you if I had wanted to. But today is a sacred day and a day of peace, not a day for conflict and violence.” Having said this, he sheathed his sword. The Franks gaped. The man on the horse spoke.

“Thank God you encountered a virtuous man,” he said to the soldiers. “Rolf, son of Fredyk, thank you. You will come with us as our guest. By the faith I represent, I swear no treachery will befall you.”

“I’m lost,” he lied. “Someone stole my horse. I will gladly accept an offer of hospitality.”

At that moment, snow filtered down, light at first but soon transforming to clumps. Rolf could see only a few feet beyond where he stood.”

“John,” the priest ordered, “ride ahead and fetch a horse. Hopefully, we can find our way back to the compound before the road snows over.” John bolted to his horse and rode off at a gallop. The priest dismounted and joined the others in walking to whatever was their destination.

They made their way through the storm. Clouds had been thin that morning and had cleared long enough for Rolf to see the sun at the sacred moment of solstice. Now, a thick, heavy mass of grey had rolled in. The clouds looked so close to earth he felt he might reach up and touch them.

“You worshipped at the shrine?” the priest asked.

“I witnessed the wonder of a sacred moment.” He paused and then added, “I’m surprised you did not pull down the sacred stones.”

“Our people still have regard for them. And sacred objects are to be venerated. They represent an awareness of the sacred. God has arranged the world as a witness to him—‘that men should seek after him and perchance find him.’” He seemed to be quoting. Rolf wondered if he was reciting their sacred book—a thing the Frankish holy men were fond of doing. “We opted to leave them standing.”

“A wise and compassionate decision,” Rolf said.

“I’m glad you think so. False religion can point the way to the truth. In the fortress to which we are going there is a small convent of women who have dedicated themselves to God and live as his pure, sacred devotees. One of your people is among them. Normally, they are hidden from the view of men, but I think Bertina might get permission from the Mother Superior to speak with you. She might persuade you to follow the Way of Life.”

His mind tingled when he heard the name. He remembered what Mathilda had told him. “I’ll be happy to meet her and hear her story.”

“You will need to keep quiet, though. Our people are angry. One of your women murdered one of our pledged virgins a few days back. She might have been the one who stole your horse. We know she is at large in this area.”

Rolf kept quiet. After a few minutes, John rode up leading a fine black stallion. Rolf mounted and the five of them rode at a good clip until they came to a cluster of wooden buildings surrounded by a stockade fence. The guards admitted them. They dismounted. Flanked by the three soldiers, Rolf followed the Priest, who had introduced himself as Father Ambrose, into the main building of the compound.

The structure, newly built, smelling of resin and fresh-cut wood, housed tables and chairs. A sacred image of the Franks’ crucified deity hung on the east wall. Three fireplaces warmed the room. A group of warriors eyed Rolf as he entered. Ambrose explained the conditions of Rolf’s capture. The warriors nodded, their eyes surly, their manner suspicious, but they brought him beer, flesh, and bread. He ate thankfully. The priest asked about his family.

“I have my father and my sister. My mother died when I was six. Father remarried to a woman, a widow, who had four children—a girl and three boys.”

“And your livelihood?”

“We farm and hunt, like everyone around us.”

“You fight well. Where did you learn?”

“Father taught me, along with other men in the village.”

Ambrose sipped his beer. “We spread the true faith. To the north we fight the worshippers of Odin. To the south we fight the followers of the false prophet Mohammed. Satan sends his legions against us, but we prevail through the power of God.”

Rolf did not reply. They ate in silence for a time. Noises came. He turned to see two women enter the room. One was a large Frankish woman; the other, small, thin, delicate, was unmistakably Saxon. As they approached him, he marveled that in a moment he would meet Bertina, the woman who had caused Mathilda’s cruel death. The men at the table rose. Rolf stood as well.

“Rolf, son of Fredyk, may I present to you Abbess Celia and Sister Caritas.”

He bowed. “I am honored.”

“Sister Caritas is from your tribe, I believe. She has converted to the true faith and submitted to baptism.”

Rolf drew upon all his self-control to maintain a benevolent demeanor. What had this thin-faced stringy-haired woman done that led to Mathilda’s cruel, abject death and her brother’s too?

“Welcome,” she said in the Saxon dialect.

“Thank you, sister Caritas,” Rolf replied in that tongue. “I am flattered that you have come from your place of sanctity so you may speak to me.”

“All of us are praying you will see the true light.”

His mind worked rapidly. Rolf knew that in battle instinct provided the surest guide. A warrior followed his instinct even if what it suggested seemed too dangerous or risky. Instinct alone saw through the outward conditions to the core of reality that could undo even a formidable enemy. Time to strike, he thought; time to charge through, piercing the superfluous line of her politeness and formality and engage this conflict’s substance.

“You were Bertina of Neiderwald before you entered the convent of the Christian faith and took a sacred name.”

She looked wary when he said this. “Yes.”

“I know your family. I knew Mathilda.” The look he gave her told her he knew everything: Mathilda’s betrayal, Bertina’s role in it, and the terrible consequences. A small tremor ran though Sister Caritas’s face.

“I feel deeply for Mathilda,” she said, “but holiness demanded her sin be found out.”

“We miss her greatly.”

“So do I,” she murmured. “But”—and here her expression changed to one of pious obfuscation—“the peace of Jesus Christ is my comfort. I hope, Rolf, you will rest in it as I have.”

It entered his mind to say that if the result of such a conversion were as horrid as Mathilda’s death, he would have none of it, but he only smiled. “I will listen to the story of your god. At this point I am not persuaded to leave the faith of our people.”

She looked down, which seemed to be a signal she had said all her intended to say. She and the other holy woman said good-bye to those around them and departed the room.

 

III

The next morning he rose with the others and attended their religious service. He had heard of the Christian belief system and did not believe it—did not believe in the significance of the things they called miraculous. Afterwards he talked with the priest, but his talk quickly bored him. You were born into a religion, Rolf thought. Why would anyone want to change their heritage? The Christians talked of dire consequence in the afterlife if one followed the wrong gods. But if the gods were so deceptive and treacherous as to show a false path to some and a true path for others, and then hold them responsible for choosing the wrong path, what did it matter anyway? Who could fight against divine deception?

He breakfasted and went out to watch the Franks train for war. Undoubtedly they planed an incursion into Saxon territory. He wondered what they would do with him. Ambrose had said no harm would come to him, and he seemed a man of his word, but Rolf sensed the hostility of the Franks. All it would take was one outburst from an angry warrior who had lost a kinsman in the fighting. Unarmed and alone, he was vulnerable. He decided that staying near Father Ambrose would be the best course of action.

“I must lead the nuns in worship this morning,” he said. “I am the only man permitted within their lodgings—and then only to say the religious service.”

“Can I wait outside? I am wary of your people. I think it best if I stay near to you.”

He pondered. “I suppose that would be permissible. You must wait outside, though, and not come into the cloister house—unless your life is in danger.”

Rolf nodded. The two of them traversed the compound to a wooden building with a cross on top. Rolf waited on the east side, out of the wind. Snow began to fall. Ambrose went inside to lead the worship service. Rolf stood under the eaves. He watched the heavy flakes descend and add another lay to what had thickly accumulated on the ground. He heard crunching and turned, thinking it might be one of the Saxons come to kill him. He saw Bertina.

She wore a long black cloak and had tucked her hands into the folds of her cloak for warmth. Her white face shone in the dark of her hood. She looked thin and frail.

“Have you come here to murder me?” she asked.

“No. I am not seeking vengeance. I only want to know why you betrayed Mathilda the way you did.”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“My peace of mind, I suppose.”

“Is she dead?”

Image27Rolf hesitated and then decided telling the truth would be best. “She was hanged and her body thrown in the bog near our village. But she has undergone an apotheosis. She has become a goddess. She has become the Spirit of the Forest Cold.”

A tremor ran through Bertina’s white, thin face. She looked down and then up. “I thought so. She comes to me in my dreams.”

“What does she say to you?”

“Nothing. She does not speak a word. But the sight of her torments me. I hardly go through a week without her haunting my sleep.”

“Why did you betray her?”

“Mathilda,” she began, “was a beautiful woman. Many men desired her, and she readily returned their favors. She had more than one lover before she met Hengist. One of them was a man I desired. She took him from me. They parted, but after that he would have nothing to do with me. I had slept with him; given him my maidenhead. Still, he abandoned me.”

“Do your superiors here know you have been intimate with a man?”
“No. I would not be permitted to dwell here if they did.”

“And you betrayed Mathilda, knowing it would mean her death?”

“I didn’t think it would mean her death. I thought the leaders of the village would make her marry my brother. I thought that would make the man I loved return to me. It cost my brother his life . . . and Mathilda as well.”

“Is that why you came here?”

“Yes. Their faith offers forgiveness. But Mathilda torments my soul. Sometimes she comes as I knew her. Sometimes she comes as a hideous troll with hollow eyes and skin turned black and green. Sometimes I see her filthy and bloody and half-starved. Her spirit comes to me in many forms.”

“She is not merely a spirit—though I think part of her spirit walks as the thing you see and call a troll. She is a goddess. A goddess can walk into your soul as you walk into his building. You will never be rid of her.”

“Is there any hope for me?”

“You must seek her out for reconciliation.”

“How could I ever be reconciled with her?”

“I don’t know. If you really want this, however, I imagine she could bring it about. Do your superiors know you are speaking with me?”

“I told them I was ill and had to stay in bed this morning.

“You had better go. It isn’t safe for either of us to be talking this way. If you really want to be reconciled with Mathilda, she will make a way for that to happen. You can see that you’re not safe here and that the religion of the Saxons is not a shield against her. That she is kind and forgiving is clear from the fact that she has not destroyed you. I would be cautious, though, Bertina, and not presume upon her kindness. The part of her spirit who still dwells in the blog might not be so benevolent.”

She looked up at him, turned, and hurried to an entryway in the other side of the building—the maiden place where the holy women lived, he supposed. Rolf turned and watched the snow descend. So he knew why now. He could tell Mathilda if he ever saw her again.

If he ever saw her again, he thought as he sat down for the noon meal. After they had finished and were sipping wine, a hubbub arose in the winter silence outside. Rolf thought for a moment his people might have attacked. Still, he heard the sound of horses and the clatter of arms and armor. Everyone in the room rose, but he soon heard the Franks cheering. He got up and walked out the door alongside Father Ambrose.

An entourage—undoubtedly a military unit—came riding up the road. Twenty to thirty mounted soldiers led the procession. Ranks of infantry, four abreast, stretched out as far as Rolf could see. Shoulders and hats covered with snow, they made stoic progress toward the compound. The commander of the stockade came to greet the man at the head of the column. Rolf’s blood froze. He thought of trying to get away, but where would he go? He stood by Ambrose as the man dismounted. Salutes and greetings ran around. The commander of stockade gestured to Father Ambrose. The commander of the army that had just arrived at the compound strode over. He greeted Ambrose, but already his eyes were dark with rage. No way out, Rolf thought. He wondered if the man would kill him on the spot. He stared for a full minute before speaking.

“I see that God has brought justice at last,” he said. “I’ve lived to see you die. And I get to kill you myself.”

Ambrose looked over at Rolf. “My Lord, I don’t understand. This man has my protection.”

The commander, who had been introduced as Clodion, spat on the ground.

“He will die on the spot.”

“I took him captive in battle,” Rolf said, looking over at Ambrose, “at the skirmish at Wendon Brook. We imprisoned him and held him ransom. During the imprisonment he was honorably treated. We care for his wounds and nursed him back to health.”

Clodion said nothing. Ambrose repeated, a little more loudly, “This man is under my protection.” Clodion gripped the hilt of his sword. To Rolf’s surprise, Ambrose stepped between them. “Leave your sword in its scabbard, Clodion. I swore an oath in the name of God that no harm would come to this man. Do not unsheathe your sword, lest you cut your soul from the Kingdom of Heaven with it. No harm will come to him. Remember who is the King of the kings of the Earth.”

“Not you, Priest.”

“No, not me. And keep your blasphemies to yourself. No harm comes to this man or you break an oath to God and face his wrath—and the wrath of his Church.”

Clodion probably did not fear God, but Rolf could tell from his reaction that he feared the Church. He glared at Rolf and then at Ambrose and walked off. Ambrose watched him go his way. “We probably ought to come in out of the snow,” he said.

They went back into the dining hall, deserted now. They sat down and finished their wine. Rolf told Ambrose more of the details on the fight with Clodion.

“Don’t fear. I’ll see to it that he doesn’t harm you.”

They had just finished their wine when four armed guards came into the room. The men converged on Rolf. Ambrose rose.

“No harm will come to this man,” one of the guards said. “We’re under order, though, to take him into custody and confine him. He will be well-treated. Clodion has ordered us to do this. He will speak to you about his reason, but we’re under orders to restrain him and we have to follow orders, Father. Please don’t oppose us.” He looked over at Rolf, who nodded affirmatively. Ambrose went off to see Clodion. Rolf went with the four armed men.

They crossed the compound. The snow has stopped falling. He could see the soldiers who had just marched in setting up tents and lighting fires for cooking. Hundreds of troops had bivouacked at the fortress. Their presence could only mean an invasion of Saxon territory. His escort marched him to a small house and led him inside.

The house contained a cot. Beneath it was a chamber pot. He noticed the floor was stone. A small fireplace blazed in on the east wall. The soldiers shoved him inside and closed the door. He heard the noise of a bolt thrown across the outside; scuffling, voice, and then the tread of feet. They were guarding him. He stepped up to the fireplace and warmed himself. He looked around. Other than the light from the fire, a small barred window in the door let light in. He noticed there was a sliding panel for him to close or open it.

Rolf sat down on the cot. He wondered what now. His thoughts strayed to Mathilda. Was she all-knowing as a goddess, or limited? The stories were inconsistent. The gods knew all, it was said, yet in the legends they could be deceived and tricked—only by other gods? It seemed that at times mortals fooled them as well. And the gods were not all equal. The highest gods knew what went on upon the earth, but Mathilda seemed more a local deity, a genius of the vast forest his people inhabited. Her power might be limited to that territory. Yet she had appeared to him out of that territory, or at least on the fringes of it. He wondered how he would pass the time during his confinement.

After a few hours Father Ambrose came.

“I’ve talked with Clodion. He will not be persuaded to let you go. He respects the conditions I set, so no one will hurt you. I’ll keep persuading him to give your liberty back, but I’m not sure it will make much of an impression.”

“He is leading a force, and undoubtedly it will go against my people. I can see why he would not want me free. I might escape and alert my people.”

“This is so.”

“I thank you for protecting me, Father.”

Ambrose opened his mouth and then closed it, not saying whatever it was he intended to say. Rolf imagined it was some kind of pious statement about how he should thank the Christian god and the love that founded their religion, but he thought better of it. Rolf respected him as a man, and he could tell as much. It would seem dishonorable to use mutual admiration for purposes of crass proselytization. Ambrose bowed and took his leave.

 

IV

He spent two days in the confines of the room. As promised, he was not harmed. Guards delivered food and firewood to him and emptied the chamber pot. Once Ambrose did come in and outline the tenets of the Christian faith. Otherwise, Rolf passed the time recalling lines from the heroic poems and sacred hymns he had heard often enough to have half-memorized parts of them. On the morning of the second day, two soldiers escorted him out of the cell.

He crossed the snowy grounds the stockade enclosed. The soldiers took him into Clodion’s presence.

He sat at a table. Big, formidable, with the rough face and steely gaze warriors often possess, he looked at Rolf.

“Saxon, your name is Rolf, son of Fredyk?”

“That is my name, yes.”

“Do you know the village of Baldenmarsh?” Rolf did not answer. “I’m told you grew up in a village near to it.” He gazed directly at Rolf. “The woman we’re going to burn this afternoon, Bertilda, told us as much.” He waited for a reaction.

“Why are you going to burn her?”

“She is a blasphemer. She claimed to be a virgin and took vows dedicating herself to our Lord. We have since found out, from two soldiers who are of your people but have been baptized, that the woman is far from being a chaste maiden—that, in fact, she was quite the flaming whore before coming here. She has defiled the holy place where the true maidens live. She admitted as much when the Abbess confronted her. She is being held pending her death this afternoon.”

He rose and lumbered out of the room. Rolf followed him. The two guards trailed behind. They traversed the interior of the stockade. He noticed the soldiers had broken camp. They had pulled up their tents and were loading gear. A smith had brought a grinding wheel. Men were lined up to sharpen swords. Rolf saw the showers of sparks and heard the grating of metal. Pairs of men practiced their swordsmanship. Other tended to bowstring and used flints to sharpen the barbs on their bolts. They were ready to move out for an attack. The village of Baldenmarsh was only ten miles from where he lived.

Clodion came to a door. One of the soldiers rushed up and opened it. He stepped inside and gestured for Rolf to follow.

Even as he came into the room he heard sobbing. His eyes adjusted to see Bertina. They had hung her up by her wrists with her feet off the floor. Like Mathilda at her execution, she wore only a thin smock. Blood ran from below her hands and her face was drawn in agony. Clodion walked over and pushed on her with a finger. She screamed, the slight movement sending a shock of agony through her body.

“Too bad she’ll have to hang here for another three hours,” he said. “She thinks she is in agony. She doesn’t know how much her pain will increase in the remaining time she is here. Then, of course, her execution. The wood is wet and the day windy. It won’t be quick.”

He looked at her in her mute agony. Clodion regarded him.

“My troops plan to support an attack on the center forest of Saxony. If you cooperate with me, I can assure your safety and safety and freedom for the girl. You must agree to lead my troops to Badenmarsh. If you agree to lead us there, we will release you and the girl. Ambrose gave his word that you will not be harmed, and you will not. But her . . . it won’t be a pretty thing to see. I feel for the poor child.”

He looked at her again. His mind raced, covering the things that Clodion had just said. The Franks attacked on horse supported by infantry. If they planned to use the village of Badenmarsh, they would have to assemble in the meadow of Nerthus, a place where both horse and foot could easily maneuver. If the Franks could get the Saxon army into the open and then hit them from the direction of Badenmarsh, it would be a route and possibly destruction for the entire Saxon force. He only hoped they did not know the terrain that well.

“You will give freedom to both of us?”

“We will. We know you came here to free this woman.”

“I love her and want her as my wife. To have that, I will lead you to Badenmarsh.”

He nodded to one of his men, who undid the rope and let her down. He untied the knot enveloping her wrist. She wept and writhed, licking the raw places on her arms and sobbing.

“Fetch some healing balm for her wrists,” he said.

Clodion nodded. One of the two men left. Bertina began to wail and sob. Rolf knelt by her side.

“We’ll send a physician to bind her wounds. I’ll leave it to you to tell her she will not be burned. We march before the morning light.”

He departed. The door closed. He stroked Bertina’s long, thin hair and touched her face.

“It’s over,” he whispered. “No one is going to hurt you.”

“Burn me,” she sobbed. “They’re going to burn me.”

“No. Not now. You’re coming with me. I can’t guarantee that we’ll live through this, but they’re not going to burn you.”

She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Why?” she asked after a long moment.

“I couldn’t bear to see you suffer like that. And I need you to help me save my village and my people from Saxon conquest.”

She seemed to want to ask more but pain overcame her. She fell to quiet weeping once more. A physician came in, cleaned her wounds, rubbed healing balm on, bandaged them, and departed. Rolf knelt for a time and then, unable to kneel any longer, stretched out beside her. She cried and shook. He reached over and massaged her shoulders, which he knew were more a source of pain than her wrists. Eventually she fell asleep.

Rolf got up and walked outside. Two guards were posted outside the building, but they did not hinder him. The tents were gone. He saw Frankish troops carrying bedrolls into the various buildings of the compound. They were sleeping inside this morning so they could start out before dawn. The sky had cleared. Stars shown in an arch above him: Orion huge over the horizon, the Bear, the Sisters, and all the others gleaming around a gibbous waning moon. He asked one of the guards for a blanket. He flagged a soldier who brought them two. Rolf went back inside. Bertilda sat on the floor, examining the dressings on her wrists. She looked up when he came in.

“It’s going to be cold tonight. It will be better if we strip and sleep together. We can keep warm that way.”

She looked as if she meant to object but then nodded and pulled off the smock. He undressed and laid his clothing in a pile, putting one of the blankets over it. They stretched out and pulled the other blanket over their bodies.

Her flesh felt cold, but they warmed. She was a small woman but strong and shapely. As they clung to each other, the inevitable happened. Rolf felt coupling with Bertina would be a betrayal of Mathilda, but he did nothing when she pushed him so he was flat on his back and climbed on top of him. She reached down to guide his member into her and pushed to enfold him. She had been in the maiden house for months, he thought, and she had been a promiscuous woman in past days; so had Mathilda. Bertina began to move up and down in a slow, even pace, her breasts brushing his chest, her arms gripping his shoulders with surprising strength. Passion took her. Eyes closed tightly, teeth clenched and lips pressed together, she moved, tightening and loosening the muscles inside her, gasping and quietly moaning until joy shook her and she stopped. He thought she might go to sleep, but she dutifully began moving again until he was finished. She rolled off and went to sleep. That was the end of it.

He wondered if Mathilda, in her new role as a goddess, would know what he had done. He thought she might appear to him and rebuke him. He did see her in his dream, but she said nothing and did not look angry. She stood in the crumbles the guarded the village of Badenmasrsh. As he watched, she extended her hands. Snow fell in billows from the sky. She had confirmed what he had planned to do. A trumpet awakened him. Though still dark, it was time for the Frankish army to move out.

He and Bertina rose and got ready to go. The physician who had examined her brought her a dress, boots, a cloak and mittens. He removed the dressings and examined her wrists. Pleased that they were healing, he said it would be best to leave them open to the air. She should be careful not to break the scabs and, above all, not to scratch no matter how badly her wounds itched.

Clodion, mounting on a large black horse, rode up to them. He smirked, thinking (correctly) they had enjoyed each other during the night. He imagined (incorrectly) that they were lovers emotionally and physically attached to one another. Not wanting to shatter the illusion, Rolf looked just slightly angry when Clodion leered at them.

“Horses for you and your companion,” he said. Rolf helped Bertina up on hers and mounted his own. “You’ll ride with me and my generals. If you attempt escape or treachery, you will be killed, both of you. You will lead us to Badenmarsh—to the most advantageous approach to the village. When victory is ours, I give you my word I will set you free and send you on your way with ample funds to establish yourselves wherever you may want to go.”

Rolf nodded. The stars had shifted. The moon had gone down. The sharp cold made everyone move quickly. Clouds of steam rose from the horses mouths. His fingers and ears stung. A trumpet sounded and the army started out, Clodion, his generals, and Rolf and Bertina, leading on horseback. The other soldiers—Rolf estimated the force at a thousand—marched behind, armor clanking, spears bristling above their ranks.

Clodion had prepared well, Rolf noticed. The snow had been cleared by oxen pulling logs. It was easy for the horses and, more importantly, the foot soldiers to make their way forward. They seemed like a disciplined army and made good time. The sun turned the horizon pink for a moment and then to the white light so characteristic of a winter dawn.

Rolf ran over his plan. It could go wrong, he knew. The Franks might recognize what he plotted. They were not familiar with the territory or they would not have impressed him as a guide. Still, it would be easy to tell, just from the lay of the land, what he would lead them to. Only a good covering of snow would deceive them, and the snow seemed to have thinned the last few days. Besides this, a group of Saxons had joined them. They might know the area—though, he pondered, if they did why had Clodion not simply used them as guides? Still, it was a possible danger.

They rode, stopping after four hour’s march. The soldiers broke into squads. Clodion gave them bread and wine. He seemed lighter, almost chipper, flushed with the possibility of victory. “This day the forest will be ours,” he said. Rolf only nodded. Bertina drank wine. After a short rest, they went on. The land grew more familiar. Rolf noticed formations and landmarks he knew; after that, he rested in the familiarity of his homeland. Clodion turned to him. “We are near the precincts of the village where the attack will take place.”

“It’s three miles from here. Your best course would be to get off the road and go through the forest. There is a path wide enough for horses and wide enough for your soldiers to march by twos. It will bring us in sight of the village.”

“Won’t the road take us to the lea side of the village?”

“It will, but you will not escape detection. My people will harry you and shoot arrows from the shelter of the trees. If we come the other way we will escape detection.”

“If you’re lying, leading us astray, or deceiving us in any way, boy, I’ll have this woman skinned alive in front of your eyes. Then it will be your turn.”

Bertina blenched. Rolf thought for a moment she might faint, but she recovered. Dread shone in her eyes but she kept quiet. Satisfied that he had frightened them, Clodion told his commanders they would be cutting through the wood to approach the village from the rear.

He formed his troops into a double rank. All were armed with swords, a few with bows that shot bolts, and with oval shields. On his order, they advanced at a slow pace toward Baldermarsh. A light snow began to fall as they moved out.

Ahead, Rolf could hear the sound of battle. As he had anticipated, the Franks had attacked the Saxons at the meadow of Nerthus, which was a sacred site. He heard the whinnying of horses and the cacophony of war—screaming, shouting, the ringing sound of sword on sword, the blare of trumpets ordering troops to different locations on the field. He waited. The snow increased in velocity. Looking about, he saw Clodion and three of his officers, three guards, sitting on horses. Four foot soldiers stood behind them so he and Bertina could not escape into the forest.

Rolf held his breathe, waiting. He reflected, ironically, on how would die in the battle without lifting a sword in his defense. He hoped they would not have time to torture Bertina to death as Clodion had threatened. He waited for the deception that would mean their deaths to unfold. The ranks of Frankish soldiers advanced toward the meadow, keeping quiet, shuffling down a bank toward the marsh now entirely concealed by deep snow. They moved, shuffling through the accumulation up to their thighs. Rolf held his breath. In a moment, he heard the sounds he had been waiting to hear: the sound of ice cracking, of water and mud splashing, and, after a moment, shouts, cursing, and screaming.

The snow cover had concealed from Clodion’s force that they were advancing over what the locals called The Crumbles. The Crumbles was a wet, marshy area of land where the soil was supersaturated with water—not a lake or pond but a bog. In winter the surface froze enough that you could walk over it, but the weight of an army had broken the ice and the frozen mud on the surface. The Frankish soldiers began to sink into the frigid mire.

Rolf also noticed that the snow had begun to fall hard—so hard you could not see more than a foot beyond where you stood.

In the next moments several things happened at once. The cries of dismay, angry, and annoyance from the soldiers turned to cries of fear, anguish, and pain. The crumbles was not deep, but in winter it could be deadly and people who had wandered into it were trapped and died of cold. The icy water would suck the heat from one’s body in minutes. The muck would encumber the soldiers to the degree that they could not extract themselves. And they were in armor and carrying weapons. The sound of the Frankish company turned from cries of anger and dismay to cries or astonishment and terror.

The snow fell in clumps and clusters. Rolf heard Clodion’s horse stir, though he could not see him now even as close as they were. Clodion roared out an imprecation. Rolf wheeled his horse about, seized the reins to Bertina’s horse, and spurred the animal in what he thought was the direction of the path they had come down. He heard a thump and realized he had hit one of the foot soldiers guarding them. He heard the clatter of chain mail and military equipment. He needed to be armed. His horse whinnied loudly. He had not found the road. He and Bertina had come to a line of trees too dense to ride through. He leaped off his steed.

“Stay here,” he said. “Don’t try to ride away.” Rolf sprinted through the curtain of white following the fast-disappearing tracks his horse had made. The soldier he had hit lay on the ground, stunned. Rolf stomped on his arm, wrenched the sword from his hand and killed him with one stroke. He took his dagger as well and turned, looking for Clodion and the remaining Franks.

He bumped into one, briefly engaged and dispatched him. Not able to see, he listened. The sounds coming from the crumbles had altered. Now he could heard, besides the screaming and shouting of the trapped army, the sound of bolts released and of arrows flying. It was hard to use a bow in wet weather, but he knew the rear guard left behind to watch Badenmarsh, had seen the situation and fetched bows out of their houses. Arrows whizzed making a swishing sound. Men cried out in pain as the arrows reached their marks. He heard the clattering of armor. Out of the curtain of white, another of the infantry soldiers charged him. Rolf parried his thrust. He slipped and fell, the weather making him invisible. Rolf listened but only heard the pandemonium from The Crumbles. He waited, sword at ready, but did not hear the soldier again. He decided it was time to find Bertina.

He tried to remember his direction and stumbled across her. Snow had coated her cloak. Off in the distance, the din of the battle rang in their ears, carrying through the stillness of winter to such a degree that both of them heard words, curses, prayers, oaths, as clearly as if the men speaking them were only a few feet away.

“Come on,” he said. “If we skirt this line of trees, it will take us back to the pathway.”

As he said this, he heard hooves. Someone was riding down on them. He turned and stepped away from Bertina. A dark shape formed through the snow. Someone was trying to ride him down. Black horse. It was Clodion.

Fear should have gripped him at this point, but he had fought this man before and knew that, whatever his reputation, however he had risen to a command position in Frankish army, he was not a particularly good fighter. Rolf had disarmed and captured him once before. He was too hot-headed to master the discipline and concentration necessary to become a consummately skillful solider. And like most cavalry officers, he put too much faith in the strength of a horse. All of this went through Rolf’s mind in only a second, and by the time Clodion came close enough that he could see his face, he knew what he course of action to take.

Rather than fleeing from the horse, he stepped directly into its path, waited until he could see its eyes and nostrils and suddenly brandished his sword so it pointed directly at the horse’s muzzle.

Horses would not charge into sharp objects. The animal cried out and abruptly twisted sideways to avoid Rolf’s sword. Clodion flew out of the saddle as the horse skidded past Rolf, its legs askew, hooves trying to find traction. The animal righted itself and galloped off into the white curtain obscuring the world around them.

Rolf crossed over to where he lay. He was hurt. He poked at him with his sword.

“Finish me, Saxon,” he said.

“Your army is destroyed. The main body was counting on your attack from the rear.”

“If you have any regard for me as a soldier, don’t make me face my shame.”

“I would have done that except that you tortured Bertina and threatened to flay her alive. I’ll take you captive a second time. We’ll find out if your King sees fit to ransom you again.”

The billowing snow had already covered Clodion. Rolf heard a noise, the movement of a horse. He turned. A few feet away he saw one of Clodion’s lieutenants leveling a crossbow at him. Before he could move, the soldier pulled the trigger.

The next three things seemed to happen in time slowed down but also to happen so quickly they blurred into one. The bolt did not strike him. Mathilda stood beside him. She had caught the missile in her hand. When the soldiers saw this—all of three of Clodion’s lieutenant’s had ridden up by now—they turned and fled down the path that Rolf knew would only lead them to the main Saxon force.

They faced each other. Mathilde handed him the bolt.

“Keep this. It would have killed you.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m not sure my people would have made you immortal—otherwise I would have let it go into your heart. Get Bertina for me.”

He nodded. The snow diminished so he could see her and her horse only a few feet away from them. He walked over and told her to dismount.

“We’re safe now. Come on.”

She climbed down, sensing something in the tone of his voice. He took her hand and led her over to where Mathilda stood. When she saw her, she went pale and sank to her knees. Mathilda stepped up to her, reached down, and took hold of her chin, lifting her face so they looked into each other’s eyes.

“What do you have to say to me, Bertina?” Mathilda asked.

Rolf thought she would be too terrified to speak but she replied in a clear, even voice.

“I know I am face to face with a spirit. I am not worthy to even speak to you. My sin has found me out. Forseti the God of Justice has delivered me into your hands. Do to me what you wish to do. I am not fit to live.”

“It should hearten me to hear you say that, but I realize I was partly to blame for what you did. You loved Dedrik. I should not have stolen him from you.”

“It did not justify what I did to you.”

“We were two vain, foolish women. We’ve both learned wisdom by what we’ve suffered. The Fates have kept us alive, though in different ways. We should both be thankful for that. Dedrik is here. He survived the battle. He knows the wrong he did in abandoning you for me. If you can forgive him, you two might be reconciled and you might marry him as you always dreamed.”

She looked up and met Mathilda’s eyes.

“This is sacred day of victory,” she said. “It is not a day for petty vengeance. I hope both of us have learned the shallowness of such behavior. I have.”

Bertina only nodded. Rolf heard noises and readied his sword. The snow had diminished now to the degree that he could see the soldiers approaching them were Saxon.

“Take Bertina with you. I’ll come to you tonight,” Mathilda said. She vanished. The soldiers who approached Rolf seemed not to have seen her. Among them was Fredyk. He threw down his sword, ran over and embraced his son. The others converged on the injured Clodion. Then they noticed Bertina. After Fredyk had broken off his embrace with Rolf, he leveled his gaze at her. He was a grizzled veteran of many campaigns. Rolf noticed he was bleeding slightly (his left shoulder). He looked over at Bertina.

“This woman is a traitor who converted to the Frankish religion. Hang her.”

“No.” Rolf stepped between them. “She was most helpful to me. She did convert but then realized the error of her ways. When she repudiated the Christian religion, the Franks tortured her, as you will see by looking at her wrists. She helped me escape. I ask that you spare her and receive her back into the tribe.”

His father nodded. More soldiers had appeared. The ones who had come with his father were lifting Clodion up. Ferdyk’s face twisted into something faintly resembling a smile.

“You’ve captured this man twice.”

“He’s not much of a soldier,” Rolf said.

“You led his army into the Crumbles. The whole force perished. They had attacked us with foot and cavalry but not a large enough army to have defeated us. They relied on stealth, planning to hit us from behind. They could have destroyed us if they had. We owe you our very lives and the lives of our people.”

“Their force?”

“Destroyed or captured. It was a great victory. We were led by Teutorix.”

Teutorix came from the northern reaches of Saxony, by the sea. He was wild and fanatic—driven by religious fervor for the old gods. Many people said he had the gift of prophecy. His followers were wild with fanaticism. He had proved a strong leader and skillful tactician. Rolf was surprised he had come this far south.

“He led an army down this far?”

His father managed a full smile this time. “He came here to consult with our leaders and his heart was smitten by the sight of Steora.”

“Steora?”

“Steora the daughter of Gerolt. I think you were friends with her, one might say. He merely set eyes on her and declared that the eternal gods had shown him his bride. They were married the next day. She rides with him into battle.” He looked at Rolf’s hand. “Why are holding that bolt.”

He glanced at it. “One of their soldiers let it fly at me. It glanced off my tunic and stuck in a tree. I was so amazed I retrieved it.”

“The gods were with you.”

“They certainly were,” he murmured.

The snow had completely stopped by now. He and his father walked to the edge of The Crumbles to see the results of Rolf’s deception. The frozen muck, churned up by the feet of a thousand advancing soldiers, showed black as the sun broke through the clouds, chunks of ice glistening in its light. The bodies lay or stood upright. Many had been killed by arrows but just as many had died from the cold. A few had stumbled through staggered to the far shore but were too weak to resist their captors. They had been taken prisoner. They would be killed or sold as slaves. The unit guarding the village was already beginning to lasso the bodies and pull them out of the cold, black mire to strip them of weapons, armor, and valuables. Rolf thought of how he had led them all to their deaths. He knew of the carnage, rape, and pillage invading armies engaged in when victorious. The Christian warriors saw the Saxons as pagans who were not fully human and so their morality did not apply to this conquered people. He had never relished killing and had to force himself to boast of his exploits when the men assembled after battle for wine and talk. He had a good record for his age. The older men respected him, especially for his first capture of Clodion. He would be a hero now and possibly be added to the village council, despite his youth, for his decisive action in the latest battle. He did not particularly relish the idea. As often as you defeated the Franks, they came back to fight again. They were numerous, organized, and determined. He wondered if his people could stand against them forever.

His father led him around to the other side of the village. In the meadow of Nerthus, the Saxons were rounding up prisoners. Some had been hanged. Some were reserved for burning in wicker cages as sacrifices to the gods. The others were being herded into groups of ten to be dispensed to various villages where they would be sold as slaves. Word of Rolf’s deception had spread through the Saxon camp. Men slapped him on the back and hailed him as a hero. After a while, he came face to face with Teutorix and Steora his bride.

Teutorix sat on a bay stallion. He was tall and strong, every bit the warrior. His armor soaked with blood, showed to the men and women there that he had been deep in the fray. Beside him, astride a white horse, Steora rode. She wore a buckskin dress, boots, and a cloak. A signet crown encircled her head. Her blonde hair flowed free as if she were a prophetess. She looked like Bellona, goddess of war. Rolf bowed to the couple who had successfully destroyed the Frankish army—with his help, no doubt. Teutorix, who looked wild-eyed and half-crazy, lifted his hand in praise.

“Rolf, Son of Fredyk. You have done the gods and your people a great service. We hail you as a hero and will reward your service.”

He bowed. Steora looked down at him. “We will enjoy hearing the account of his exploits at the feast tonight,” she said.

Rolf returned to the house in which he had grown up. His mother washed him. His sister Gretchen waited on him at table. His step-brothers and step-sisters ogled at him. They knew his previous successes in battle but never thought he would be a hero the entire village lauded. After eating and drinking, he rested in his own bed, which was a blessing. The journey here had been wearying. The tension of captivity and battle had drained him. He slept deeply until Helg woke him and told it was time for the burial and then for the celebration.

They walked out as a family. The village was assembled for the burial of the warriors who had been killed in the battle. Casualties had been light, but even light casualties meant grief and loss. His village had yielded four dead. Two of them were his age—young men he had grown up with. He wept to see them laid out for burial. He knew the older men as well. Their widows wailed. Their children wept. The village elders asked his help to carry them to the pyres. After burning their bodies, their bones and ashes were consigned to sacred ground. The people returned to their homes. The celebration would follow in an hour.

When he came to the gathering he found himself seated with the village leaders. During the course of the celebration he got to talk to Steora.

“I had an easy time of it,” she said. “I simply rode off. As you said, I found hospitality with a family who live nearby. The next day I arrived at my village. My family welcomed me back with open arms. Then Teutorix arrived. When he saw me, he cast his eyes on me and that night told me that Odin had indicated I was to be his bride. He’s a handsome man, Rolf, and I thought of you and of how much I loved you, but how could I rebuff him? I told Father I was not a virgin. I said the Franks had raped me and I could not show Teutorix a maidenhead. Father told him. He said he was fine with that. He insisted on wedding me and I had no choice but to consent. He called me Bellona. I thought he might want me for a chaste wife—Bellona is a virgin goddess—but that was certainly not what he had in mind. He always lays me before we go into battle. Once, when we were hemmed in by the Franks and regrouped our forces, he brought me into his tent and fucked me with all his strength. We broke out of the trap and marched home without a single loss. Of course, I’m pregnant now and won’t be able to ride with him much longer. Still, I see the touch of divinity in our marriage. I’m sorry, Rolf. I wanted to marry you. The gods intervened.”

The gods had intervened more decisively than Steora could ever imagine.

 

V

 

Rolf slept late. In the morning he knew she would be there. He dressed and made his way into a light snowfall. He saw her deer and followed it. He found Mathilda sitting on the trunk of a fallen maple tree. A snowy owl perched above her. Her deer came up and licked her hand. She wore her white embroidered robe and was barefoot. She wore no cloak or gloves. She smiled. Though still wary of her godhood, he came up and kissed her. He felt the seductive cold from her lips, felt it fill him and warm him. He took her hands.

“You’re not afraid of me anymore,” she said.

“You must be patient with me I’m not used to dealing with goddesses.”

“How will you deal with me now? Steora is out of your life. Bertina will marry Dedrik. You? Now that you’re hero, every family in the village will be throwing their eligible daughters at you—with sumptuous dowries.”

“Why would I care about that? Can a mortal love a goddess?”

“You’ve already loved me—with your soul and with your body. The question is, Can I gain immortality for you? Some of the gods get a little grumpy about dispensing it. They don’t want mortals to get the idea that you can just waltz into Valhalla and get made over so you live forever and have godlike powers. But”—she paused and smiled—“some very high-ups are impressed with your skill as a fighter and with your loyalty. They were impressed with the way you stood up to the Franks on Solstice and held out for the old faith when you were being proselytized. I think they will grant it. There are other reasons too.”

“What reasons?”

“The old ways are fading. The Franks will conquer our people. The old religion will pass away and we will live more quietly. Quite a few of them are gathering companions who will . . . admire them when their worship completely fades out. I’d say your prospects are good, Rolf.”

“I don’t care about prospects. I care about you.”

“That’s why I’m sure you will become immortal. You need to tell your family what happened. Tell them and don’t leave anything out. I will come to Helg in a vision. She is my kinswoman. She felt for me but had to think of what she would say to her family, especially to her daughters. I’ll speak to her so that when you leave it won’t merely be your word.”

“I’ll miss my family—especially Gretchen.”

“She will prosper. Your family will prosper. Go back now. When you come to me again, it will be to join me forever.”

Rolf returned and told his family—father, stepmother, Gretchen his sister and step-brothers and –sisters—what had happened. They gaped in amazement. He thought they might think him mad, but too many unusual things had happened with him of late for them to dismiss what he said. And the presence of Teutorix had increased religious fervor in the villages of his tribe. His father said they would miss him, and the village would know a sad gap in its ranks when he went away, but who could go against the immortal gods?

He spent a last night with them. In the morning, the buzz in the village was that they had found the body of Mathilda.

Rolf went down to the shore of The Crumbles. Washed up on north shore, one blackened arm extended as if she were trying to climb out of the mire, the body of Mathilda lay half in, half out of the water. She appeared as the villagers who had seen her walking, her face and body turned a dark color by the acids of the bog but her hair still gold. She wore the bloody smock in which she had been killed. The rope was still around her neck. It had broken off from the stone they used to sink her in the mire.

No one knew how she had come from the bog to The Crumbles. Some say she walked but many claimed an underground stream connected the two bodies of water and had carried her from one place to another. The Council met and stated that though it had not been wrong to execute her as an adulteress. It had been wrong to treat her so cruelly and to defile her corpse. The women of the village took her body, washed it, and dressed it in a new garment. She was buried among the people of the clan. The priests offered sacrifices to atone for the village’s sin and to quiet her vengeful spirit. When the burial was complete, Rolf went into the forest to find Mathilda.

He came to his house, much closer than it had seemed before. She stood by the front door to welcome him.

“Welcome, Rolf.”

Image06He sensed he was being welcomed to her house but also to his apotheosis.

“That easy?” he asked.

“Everything is done.” She took his hands. “And my blessing will be on your village. It was vexing that a small part of my spirit was broken off and wandered the earth. I never came to grips with my anger and anguish over how I was treated there, so that part of me was excluded from divinity and roamed the earth as an angry, vindictive wraith. Now sacrifice and repentance has placated my anger. I’m whole. Your people won’t see that part of me again.”

“I’m happy to hear this.”

“I know you are. The kindness you showed to me—to a woman you didn’t even know—brought you to this—and brought me to this as well.”

He wanted to respond but could not find the words. She took him inside her chamber. The words would come later, though perhaps now, with things changed as they were, words would not be necessary. Words especially failed when you were love, and love crossed the line from the mortal to the immortal. He followed her into the bed chamber as the snow fell, a white curtain, through the towering trees outside.

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Published by Karl Rademacher on July 9, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 22, Issue 22 Stories, Stories

The Rockwizard and the Wheatrider

By Noah Youngs

WraithIt stretched a scarred claw towards the glimmer of moonlight above, inching forward slowly. A thousand times it had tested its invisible prison, felt the sting of fire and lighting as it was forced back into the depths. But no fire burned… no acrid bolt singed its mark. The claw crept forward again, touching at last a tendril of the moon’s light, so long yearned for. It let out a low hiss. From the chasms below, a chorus of multitudes answered back.

#

When the first summons from the Mage Guild arrived, warning that the Seal of Myth had been broken and the greater and lesser fiends let loose upon the world once more, Ulliem threw it out. It was the Guild’s own fault for meddling with things, and he wasn’t about to pack up and leave for some backwater just because they needed him to make a few superstitious peasants feel safer.

Certainly the danger was greater in the frontiers than it was here in the city of Lastrania, where professional soldiers and warwizards manned stout walls, but Ulliem wasn’t afraid. He was too old to bother with fear anymore.

“It’s all just so confoundedly vague,” he complained to the statues and ornately adorned bits of masonry that littered his shop. Really he wasn’t too surprised, since the guildmasters themselves probably had little idea as to the extent of the peril. The Seal of Myth was one of the most unorthodox pieces of magic ever conjured, rumored to be equal parts genius, madness and accident. For nearly a thousand years, generations of guildmasters had poked and prodded at it, trying to comprehend its success. “And now they’ve gone and broken it,” Ulliem snorted.

The next day another summons arrived, this one scribed on parchment the color of rusted manacles, and icy to the touch. In no uncertain terms, it threatened Ulliem with forced labor under the cruel whips of warlock jailors unless he obeyed his charge. With a plethora of long-suffering sighs, the rockwizard packed his bags for Dern.

#

Perched half-heartedly on the shoulder of a ragged hill, Dern was a meager collection of thatched houses and gapped-wood barns meant for surpluses that seldom came.  Above the town a stumpy keep attempted vigilant guard, anchoring a road that wandered down past Dern, splitting wheat fields and bending to accommodate the curves of a small orchard. Before the road disappeared back the way Ulliem had come, a small track branched off northward, mostly reclaimed by tough dusty-green grass, marching towards a narrow canyon that sliced into the hills.

Missing a turn in the path, the rockwizard wandered though the orchard, forlornly prodding at the hard, unripe fruits. He found the road again, unaware that he’d ever lost it, all the while cursing the carriage driver who had taken his money but dropped him off leagues down the road. Making his way slowly up the hill, past the wheat fields, Ulliem finally reached what a generous man might call ‘the center of town’. The rockwizard fell into a bony heap near the well, ignoring the stares of the dozen or so Dernians who had gathered after spotting his protracted approach.

Sun alleyMany folk accustomed to city and culture would have been dismayed by the dull prospect of Dern, but Ulliem, despite having lived in the midst of both, was neither. Stone was the only thing of permanence in his life– people just wandered in and out of it without leaving much behind.

What did dismay him was the question of what exactly he was supposed to do now that he was here. More sculptor than sorcerer, the rockwizard’s grip on the arcane had never been more than tenuous at the height of his study, many years ago, and his mildly prosperous career had been based largely on the skill of his hands rather than the strength of his incantations.

Not that it looked as if the village felt much need for a powerful wizard. Everyone seemed so calm. He’d expected a grateful parade, or at least a tearful speech or two, thanking him for abandoning the safety of Lastrania to save them from nightmarish danger. But even though he knew riders had warned every town after the Seal had shattered, he caught not even a whiff of dread.

“Where’s the governor of these parts? Where’s the engineer of fortifications, and the colonel of the militia?” he snapped at no one in particular, ignoring timid greetings and proffered hands.

Ulliem felt resentment swelling inside him, fueled by hunger and the fatigue of his weeklong journey. He’d managed to save up some money before the summons had come, perhaps enough to retire. But it was all gone now, spent on wearying travel. Picking a stalk of wheat from where it had hitched a ride in his robe, he began to chew on it angrily.

Finally a blacksmith pushed his way through the crowd, introducing himself and motioning to the rockwizard to follow him up the hill. Peering irritably up at the large man in his leather apron, Ulliem made out a broad, unsympathetic face, ruddy with forge-heat. Ulliem spat the stalk into the dirt and rose to his feet, mumbling obscenities under his breath as he trailed in the smith’s wake.

As they approached the squat keep, the rockwizard pursed his lips in disappointment. It was a sham-castle, built with barely enough strength to keep out fear. The four walls seemed to lean on each other for support, rife with holds for many-armed demons, and its warding runes looked to have been cast by false-bearded charlatans hoping to turn village superstition into coin. Worst was the stone, aching with strain and compromise. It smelled of a time when fiends were already painted into story, sealed in myth. It would never stand against their manifestation.

Just outside the arched gateway to the keep, a middle-aged man awaited, standing behind a woman seated in a rolling chair of the kind found commonly in guildhalls of medicine. She was graceful, even in her old age, but her eyes wandered about absently, and with a shudder Ulliem recognized the vacant stare of the mind-lapsed. It was a fate that sometimes came to the elderly before their time was spent, and the rockwizard had often wondered of late whether it lurked for him just around the next season’s corner, bemusing arms held wide in insidious welcome.

“I, acting mayor Ralten, welcome you to the city of Dern, on behalf of our citizens and my mother, mayor Lenorra” the man intoned in a reedy voice. Clearly bought for exorbitant prices from some traveling swindler, his clothes were gaudy, full of gold thread and colored-glass jewels. The way he held the rolling chair was more reminiscent of someone clinging to a badge of office than a loved one.

Ulliem had no skill at divining, but he had read nearly all the great books of Insight in his youth. Adding to this knowledge were many years of experience carving the likenesses of Lastranian aristocracy, including more than a few pompous and spoiled noblemen’s sons. The rockwizard saw at once that while the mayor Lenorra had been erudite and wise, her son Ralten had managed to travel the road of literature without passing through the city of learning, and had stopped a few leagues short of wisdom.

“Yes, very nice town” Ulliem snapped by way of response, still in a resentful mood as he gazed about disapprovingly.

There was an awkward pause, and then a mousy-looking woman in an overlarge striped apron appeared from inside the gates, followed by a half-dozen children of varying ages, who quickly formed into a line. Ulliem caught a delicious whiff of something baked trailing behind the woman, and he craned his neck to look for the source.

“Allow me to introduce the rest of my family,” Ralten said stiffly, clearly annoyed by the rockwizard’s response. He turned, his mouth entertaining a frown that looked quite at home. “It seems we are one child short. Adopted children are often more willful than natural kin.”

“Mmmmm,” Ullien agreed sagely, moving towards the acting mayor’s wife to speed on the commencement of the meal. Shaking hands, ignoring names, and murmuring pleasant nonsense, the rockwizard moved down the line of children until he reached the blacksmith.

“We’ve met, Wizard, by the well. I told you my name was Mungar,” the blacksmith reminded him emotionlessly, but Ulliem was lost in the smells of fresh cooking.

“Good lad. Carry on,” he replied, before moving once more and offering his hand to the empty air.

Ralten cleared his throat, momentarily unsure how to treat the seemingly senile old man. “Ah, do you have any questions about our city or the environs?” the acting mayor asked finally, tugging at Ulliem’s attention.

DesertSun“The canyon to the north, a quarry if I don’t mistake my guess? Do you still mine good blocks?” Ulliem inquired, momentarily diverted from gastronomical reverie.

“No quarrying in these parts. That canyon is a sacred place,” Ralten answered tersely, his face darkening, but Ulliem missed the reaction.

“Hmm, too bad. There was some sandstone lying about that was quite a luscious red… never seen its like. I might go take a peek and see if there’s anything of size,” the rockwizard mused.

Ralten looked suddenly angry, drawing himself up. “As acting mayor, you are under my direction. That canyon is a holy place, and I abjure you from setting foot in it,” he declared haughtily. “What’s more,” he continued, “I’ll thank you to keep any displays of magic or talk of fiends to yourself. We’re a simple folk here, with quite enough to keep us busy without you spreading fear with horror stories and nightmares. I don’t know what this business is the Mage Guild has gotten itself into, but I’m sure it has nothing to do with us.”

“Now, see here–” Ulliem said, offended, but Ralten interrupted, regaining his composure.

“Let us speak no more of this until we have dined, Master Wizard,” he declared, “my wife has prepared a meal in your honor.”

Ulliem grumbled, still affronted and of a mind to dispel a bit of the arrogant man’s ignorance. But his stomach was grumbling too, and in his experience ignorance was hardly ever conquered in a day.

The meal was not half-bad, and made all the better for the rockwizard by leagues of travel and cold, stale food. Ulliem found his good spirits returned, and lavished florid compliments on the acting mayor’s wife between mouthfuls.

“Lady, a more succulent roast there has never been on the highest tables of golden lords…Madame, truly what ambroisal meade you have deigned to grace us with…Oh goddess of ovencraft, thy pies drip with delectable juice!”

Ralten sat in sullen silence. After dinner, his furiously blushing wife led Ulliem to a room that smelled as if it might quite recently have been a meat-curing pantry. Exhausted and full, the rockwizard kicked off his boots, threw down his satchel, and dropped like a felled tree into the small cot, snoring loudly within minutes.

The next morning, Ulliem awoke early, sneaking out of the keep. Whistling a lively tune, he ambled down the hill, barefoot, heading for the very quarry he had been “abjured” from the day before.

farmlandFarmers were already in the fields, pausing to stare at him as he passed, but none moved to bar his way, and he made sure to wait until he had passed them all before turning northward. When at last he reached the canyon mouth, two pillars greeted him, standing sentry. They were fashioned out of the same deep red sandstone that seemed to find its origins in the canyon beyond, and Ulliem marveled at their craftsmanship.

“Now here’s some stonework,” the rockwizard murmured to himself, stepping closer to the columns. “Crafted in the Heuric style, if I don’t mistake my guess.”

A quarryman’s pickaxe was carved into the base of each pillar, chiseled skillfully to give the illusion of two entirely different stones being welded together. Above the axes, partially obscured by lichen, subtle runes wound about the pillars, calling for good fortune, safety, and strength of stone. There was something else too, hidden.

“Sir Wizard!” A cry came from behind him, breaking his focus.

Ulliem whirled to see a small girl running towards him. Her long strawberry-blond hair, uncharacteristic of the region, streamed behind her, and sunlight picked out a yellow ribbon at her waist.

“You don’t have to call a wizard sir, little girl,” he snapped, annoyed at having been caught. “That address is for trained knights and merchant’s second sons with deep enough pockets to buy the title.”

The girl nearly skidded to a halt in front of Ulliem, abashed, clasping her hands behind her back. “You don’t have to call a girl little, Sir Wizard,” she said seriously, staring at the ground. “That’s for babies and boys who pick their noses and don’t know right from left.”

Ulliem couldn’t help but laugh.

She looked up at him, smiling, before growing serious again, her miniature hand lifted towards the twin columns. “You shouldn’t go near the benee nee,” the girl warned in a solemn whisper. “It’s not a place for trampsing feet or loud breaths.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t traipse on the binny inny,” he reassured her indulgently. “I’m just going to have a looksee…” he trailed off, squinting at the girl suspiciously. “How did you come here lass? I always look behind me, and the fields were empty but a few moments ago.”

grassShe beamed at him, shifting her weight to one leg and twisting her other toe in the grass. “I rode the wheat,” she said simply, and the rockwizard loosed a chuckle.

“Hmmm, can I ride it too?” he asked amusedly, assuming that she had simply been hiding in a field. “These old feet are tired.”

She scrunched up her lips, shaking her head after a moment’s thought. “You can’t ride the wheat. It doesn’t know your song.”

The answer might have given Ulliem pause, except that he wasn’t listening, focused on the pillars once more. They were still nagging at him, and he stepped closer, closing his eyes as he placed a hand flat against the cool stone. There it was, just under the surface. More runes overlapped each other as if the column had been carved from the inside out, a higher magic than the rockwizard had ever even dreamed of achieving. Trying to recollect long-ago studies, Ulliem recognized a few of the sigils. A soul-binding spell? Ulliem frowned. That didn’t make sense at all.

A sudden jolt traveled up the rockwizard’s other arm, as if he’d touched a bell being struck. Ulliem looked down to see the girl firmly gripping his hand, her leaf-green eyes holding his.

“No,” she intoned firmly, and Ulliem found himself unable to move for a moment. Then the girl smiled, and the spell was broken as warmth flooded over the old rockwizard. In amazement, he allowed her lead him back down the grassy track and towards the main road.

“What’s your name, lass?” Ulliem asked as they approached the town.

“Thealenne“ she replied, and then began to sing a wordless melody.

“That’s a nice tune, Thealenne. Did you make it up?” he asked her.

She shook her head, sending strawberry-blonde hair flying in every direction like a started flock of birds. “Granma Norra, used to sing it before her songs got trapped inside. I don’t ‘member the words though, unless she sings it with me.”

“Granma Norra? Norra, Lenorra. That would make you Ralten’s missing adopted child…oh, er, hmmm.” Ulliem trailed off in consternation, not knowing if he had unwittingly revealed the girl’s false parentage, but Thealenne’s nose had wrinkled at the mention of the acting mayor.

“Uncle Ralten used to say he was my daddy, but I knew right away he wasn’t.” She declared firmly, and Ullien laughed aloud at her fervent tone.

“Aye, Thea Wheatrider, I wouldn’t have thought that he was.”

Thea clapped her hands and laughed happily at the title he had given her. She rose up on her toes, and then back down again, squinting at Ulliem with pursed lips. “Sir Ully!” she exclaimed, giving him a nickname in return, and the two were fast friends.

#

The following weeks quickly settled into a routine for Ulliem, who spent his mornings stomping around the town and surrounding hills. There were no signs of danger, and the rockwizard began to treat his post as something of a retirement after all. Dragging a chair into the shade just outside the keep walls, he passed long afternoons napping, an unlit pipe drooping from the corner of his mouth as he snored.

Sometimes in the evening Thea would find him and they would put on a show for Ralten’s other children. Ulliem played a cracked lute passed on by Lenorra’s late husband, and Thea would sing in a beautiful soprano that was amazingly complex. But for the most part the girl seemed to prefer her own company, and so he frequently passed the evenings alone, chiseling away at some small piece of the red sandstone. The rockwizard didn’t mind her absences, fully understanding the need for solitude.

It took the villagers of Dern less than a fortnight to get over their amazement at having a resident wizard, especially since he refused to perform any magic for them. Ulliem told any who asked that he was following Ralten’s orders, but secretly he was afraid that if the town discovered how meager his abilities were, they’d never trust him as their protector. Thus the rockwizard was largely treated as an irrelevant oddity, and those that did not ignore him quickly learned to do so after he began asking them about the history of the quarry.

The other resident of the keep, master farmer Kaid, was an overworked boulder of a man who was perpetually sweating, and turned to excessive drink as soon as his duties were done (or sometimes before). The man dabbled in some sleight-of-hand, and was forever trying to accost Ulliem so that they could swap “secrets of the trade”. Between avoiding Kaid and avoiding Ralten, who managed to irritate him more with every affectation, the rockwizard spent much of time in the forge.

The blacksmith gave no signs of annoyance at Ulliem’s presence, even though the quarters were close and hot; but then again, Mungar never gave many signs about anything. Ulliem had heard somewhere that the smith had been pressed into service for the War of Two-Dozen Dowries, and didn’t return quite the same as he had left. Still, Mungar was the closest thing to another craftsman in the town, and so Ulliem did much of his carving in the forge, to the ringing of hammer blows and the roaring of bellows.

It was during one such night, just shy of two months after the rockwizard’s arrival, that Mungar finally acknowledged his presence. Taking a break from the anvil, the smith deftly sliced an apple in two with a knife at his belt, and proffered one half to Ulliem, who took the gesture as an opening.

“I hope you don’t think I’m prying, but do you know anything of the circumstances of Thealenne’s adoption?” Ulliem asked innocently as he took the fruit.

The blacksmith blanketed him with a probing stare before answering.

“One of the copse-kin came through seven or eight years ago,” Mungar said, ”offering barkcloths and grow-all tinctures of the kind folk don’t trust much around here. Come morning the peddler was gone, leaving a cold firepit and a quiet baby in a willow-bough basket.”

Ulleim nodded to himself, as if confirming a prior suspicion. “And the quarry,” he went on, taking advantage of the smith’s unusual openness, “Binnyei Inyei? Benee Nee? When did the mining stop?”

There was an almost imperceptible tightening around Mungar’s eyes…the rockwizard might have imagined it… and then the smith answered slowly. “Long time ago, centuries maybe, this was a quarry town. Baine Enielle they say folk round here once called it…Lenorra used the name from time to time, though I don’t know the origin.” Pulling a broken plough-blade from the fire, Mungar stared at the glowing iron, as if planning his attack with the heavy hammer gripped by one large hand. “Folks don’t use any name for it much these days. All mining stopped after the slide, and it’s been nought but a grim reminder in the scores of years since.”

“The slide?” Ulliem asked, but apparently the smith had decided the conversation was done, for the hammer rose and fell, spraying fountains of sparks into the air, and Mungar was silent.

The rockwizard wandered slowly back to his room, mulling his thoughts with care. He had a hard time reading Mungar, and tried to wrack his memory for details about the War of Two-Dozen Dowries, a whimsical name for a brutally short, vicious affair. There had been rumors of atrocities committed for the sake of greed, he recalled, and blood that continued to drip long after the combatants had supposedly sheathed their swords.

Reaching deep into a pocket, Ulliem fingered a small piece of the rare sandstone absently. It was surprisingly warm, and for a odd moment Ulliem thought he could hear muffled singing, until he realized he was by the cupboard under the stairs where Ralten’s children hid when they were in trouble with their father, which was often. Recognizing the melody, the old rockwizard pressed his ear to the rough wood.

“Rise Up Quarrymen! Quarrymen Arise!

Fetch pickaxe and lampoil. To Work! To Toil!

‘neath heavy stone embrace, we mine.”

Ulliem found himself humming along to the tune, realizing that it was the same song that Thea often sang without the words. His accompaniment gave him away, however, and there was a startled silence inside the cupboard, before the door creaked open and a timid pair of brown eyes peeked out.

“Whaddaya doin’?” the eyes asked, narrowing suspiciously.

“Why, I was just try to catch a listen of that fine song there, sung so well,” Ulliem answered warmly, trying to coax Ralten’s youngest boy out into the open. “Where did you learn the tune?”

The eyes widened a bit at the praise, and a freckled nose emerged as well. “I heard Tob and Gindel singin’ it,” the boy answered, naming two of Ralten’s older children. “They say you only learn it when you turn from a boy to a man like they have, so I’m practicin’.” There was a pause, and the nose withdrew. “We’re not s’ppose to let grownups hear it.”

Ulliem smiled at the contradiction. “Well I’m a wizard, not a grown-up, so you can sing it for me,” he reassured the eyes, but they disappeared as well, closing the cupboard door after them. The rockwizard waited for a moment, but his only companion was silence.

When Ulliem returned to his room, he reached under the bed and pulled out his satchel, probing around inside it until he found the querybook. Magically linked to the massive Guild library, the querybook was an invaluable source of information. The trouble was, you had to wait for a scribe to processes your inquiry, and the rockwizard had been waiting nearly three weeks.

Opening the querybook hopefully, Ulliem saw the sketched outline of a golden quill in the upper left corner of the first blank page, and smiled in excitement. Grabbing his own quill, he hastily scrawled “Baine Enielle – or – Quarry of Dern”. He sat back on his bed waiting for the far-away scribe to notice. After a few minutes, neatly penned letters appeared on the page, listing a half-dozen books. He circled one, and there was a pause as the scribe cast whatever spell was necessary to summon the volume from the quite extensive shelves of the library. Then the querrybook fluttered slightly, ink draining from its pages, only to be refilled as if another book had been cast as a die and stamped onto the paper.

The rockwizard perused various texts until the candles burned low, and the golden quill started to fade, indicating that his time was up. Unfortunately, many of the accounts made only brief references to the quarry, but Ulliem managed to piece together that Dern had once been fairly prosperous on its account. The Sultans of Heur had bought the unique stone for their most ornate monuments and palaces, up until some sort of accident almost two centuries ago.

Ulliem let the candle exhaust itself with a wisp of smoke, lying back on his cot in the ensuing darkness.

“Why would they close such a lucrative quarry?” He mused aloud. There was always demand for colored stone among masons and sculptors, and men risked their lives daily to excavate far less vibrant hues. “It’s a dangerous business, quarrying. Accidents happen,” Ulliem muttered softly, his breathing becoming regular, tired old limbs leaden. “Regrettable of course, but no reason to deny the world such luscious stone. And those pillars! Strange spells, and secretive villagers…” His last thought before falling into a deep sleep was that many accounts had mentioned a memorial on top of Dern hill.

The next morning Ulliem headed east, up the slope of the hill behind the keep. Quickly steepening, the path struggled to pick its way through outcrops that became more frequent, and the rockwizard skinned both knees and an elbow scrambling over boulders. When the path faded away Ulliem halted, dabbing at the bleeding elbow, his breathing labored. He had climbed perhaps a thousand feet in elevation, but now a nearly-sheer cliff face presented itself to him, mocking his final attempt at reaching the crown.

There was no sign of a shrine, but Ulliem felt the need to conquer the summit anyway after how far he’d come. Glaring at the offensive stone barrier, Ulliem began stomping around the crest, looking for another way up.

The cliffs seemed to completely encircle the summit of the hill like an impregnable stone helmet, and Ulliem was about to give up when he noticed a narrow cleft in the rock. Hiking closer, the rockwizard found a set of steps, wide enough for the shoulders of two men.

The crown of the hill was an impossibly flat plateau, as if a knife blade had sliced off the peak to create a level surface for the memorial in the center. A low semicircular wall embraced the shrine, made of crimson blocks joined together so deftly that Ulliem was hard-pressed to find the seam with probing fingers. The wall cradled a cracked sandstone column, capped by a huge ball of quartz that Ulliem was surprised had resisted the ever-seeking fingers of thieves.

At the base of the column were two waist-high statuettes of kneeling men, so red that it seemed is if their touch might leave a stain. By their garb and gear Ulliem could see that they were meant to be quarrymen, but though their arms were arranged as if to grasp some tool, the minutely carved stone hands were empty. His mind whispered something familiar to him, but the rockwizard was tired from the arduous climb, and his old memory could not quite make the connection. The column itself was twined with runes, and the air seemed thicker, full of powerful magic – the kind of magic that cradled men’s souls.

“My, my, what have we here,” the rockwizard breathed in amazement, approaching the shrine carefully. A rectangular portion of the pillar had been sanded smooth, clear of runes, and at the top Ulliem recognized the crest of Val’Thul, a past guildmaster of stonecraft. Ulliem vaguely remembered from the yards of youthfully memorized lineage that Val’Thul had held office around the time of the alleged quarry accident, and that he had disappeared mysteriously. Below the crest a poem was inscribed:

O’er bracken and scree, through crook and cleft,

The Quarrymen march true

Grinding, rolling, relentless, they boldly live anew

But when the rose’s hastened bloom grows bare,

Petals fallow in the fields will lie

And the Quarrymen, ever marching, the Quarrymen will die

 

The column had fractured, as if the quartz were somehow too heavy for thick stone, and Ulliem couldn’t tell if there had been more verses to the poem. He did not examine it further, however, for the sun was quite high overhead and the descent would be treacherous enough without darkness to hide his path.

Climbing back down towards Dern, Ulliem’s thoughts were a turmoil of curiosity. Staring at the ground in front of him, pondering various wild theories, the rockwizard noted absently that his descent was shadowing the tracks of some wild animal. It was a strange imprint, three splayed lines that looked as if they had been cut rather than impressed. Scrambling down a boulder, Ulliem observed that the tracks continued right over the stone, slicing into the rock as if it were just more packed earth.

The blood in his veins turned to ice. ‘…razor sharp claws that do not slow for steel or stone,’ he remembered reading in the Mage Guild summons. Clutching his chest, Ulliem could feel his heart beating uncomfortably fast. Abandoning caution, he raced down the rest of the path, miraculously avoiding a fall, and didn’t stop running until he reached the mayor’s quarters in the keep and fell heavily into a chair in front of a surprised Ralten.

The acting mayor looked over Ulliem’s torn clothing and bedraggled condition with disdain before returning to his papers, waiting for the rockwizard to catch his breath.

“Fiends! Tracks in the hills!” Ulliem choked out finally, clutching the armrests while struggling to rise to his feet.

The acting mayor sniffed dismissively, not even bothering to glance up. “I’ve warned you already wizard,” Ralten admonished. “We don’t need this kind of fearmongering around here. I’ll thank you not to bring Mage Guild troubles to our doorstep.”

“You fool!” Ulliem exploded, all of his pent-up anger at the man suddenly giving him the strength to stand. “You pompous imbecile! These demons are more than trouble. They could be doom for all mankind! We need to get the villagers somewhere at least remotely defensible – the keep, or up on the plateau where the narrow stairs can be stoutly held.”

Ralten had been initially taken aback by the rockwizard’s outburst, but quickly found his own anger, rising amidst an avalanche of paper. “You trespassed on our sacred ground?” he accused hotly. “You have no business there. That shrine is for the citizens of Dern to mourn their ancestry, to pray to those spirits that watch over us and protect us. Have you no decency?”

“Deceny?” Ulliem screeched, waving an arm in the air wildly. “Everything around you is a breath from ruin, and you speak of decency? I have seen the signs with my own…”

“You have seen the signs?” Ralten interrupted coolly, his anger back under control. “And what, prey tell, do you know of such things” – the acting mayor paused scornfully – “rockwizard?” Ralten plucked a sheet deftly from amongst the scattered pile of papers. “I reached out to an acquaintance in Lastrania, and looked up your status with the Mage Guild. You’re barely more than a sculptor, Ulliem. What do you know of such things?”

The rockwizard felt doubt creep into his stomach like a slithering worm. The light had been failing…could he have imagined it? He opened his mouth, and then closed it again.

“Now then, I’m sure some wild animal gave you quite a fright in the twilight,” Ralten went on patronizingly. “Mungar will go take a look for tracks in the morning, and if there is something dangerous about, you can help us take appropriate measures. How does that sound?”

Ulliem drew himself up, suddenly almost too tall for the room. Leveling his arm at Ralten’s chest, he spoke in a voice much younger than his years. “Have a care, Ralten son of Lenorra, for the horrors of myth are at hand. See that ye tend to thy kin and thy charges, lest all come to slaughter.” Whirling quickly, the rockwizard stormed out of the room.

Instead of heading back to his cot, Ulliem marched out to the keep’s gate, closing and barring it laboriously while Ralten came outside and looked on in exasperation. Climbing the uneven steps to the walltop, the rockwizard planted his feet firmly, pulling his cloak about him to stave off the chill air. His gaze was directed intently east, but even though a half-moon shone down, Ulliem saw nothing but grass, rock, and tree.

Grim doubt crept into his mind, for what did he really know about the fiends? They were demonic creatures that used to ravage the ancient world, feeding on terror and superstition, but accounts of their true nature or source were few and mostly conjecture. Not even the guildmasters knew entirely what to expect, their summons having only included a few cryptically prophetic warnings taken from ancient songs and rhymes.

Eventually exhaustion overwhelmed Ulliem, and he stumbled back to his cot, falling into a defeated sleep.

In the morning, Ralten sent Mungar to the hilltop with the rockwizard, as promised, but though the smith scoured the ground intently, there was no sign of the demon tracks. When they returned empty-handed, the smugness in Ralten’s eyes was almost more than Ulliem could bear.

#

For the next week the rockwizard traced every inch of the hillside, but never found any more tracks or signs. At night he obsessed over the querybook, using what remained of his money to buy a priority inquiry and bypass the wait for a free scribe. Pouring over all the fiend-related spellbooks he was allowed access to, Ulliem tried to learn incantations or enchantments that might be of help. Thea came by once or twice, looking to play music, but in his studious fervor he sent her away. To his dismay, however, all the spells proved too advanced for his skill, and he despaired of being able to do anything to help the town.

More days passed, and though there were no further signs forthcoming, Ulliem slipped into a deep depression. Either there were fiends about, and he was too feeble to detect or challenge them with magic, or he had imagined the tracks, in which case he was too old and senile to be of use – hardly better.  On the last night before his priority inquiry expired, Ulliem tried to distract himself, scribbling the words “Val’Thul – and – memoirs” into the querybook. The wait was agonizingly long, and then instead of the usual listing of results, a direct note from the attending scribe appeared:

The volume you requested is classified as ‘Guild Sensitive’ and requires a passphrase specified by the author.

Ulliem pulled the candle closer, hunching over the querybook in excitement. After a moment’s thought, he wrote the only phrase he could think of: “Baine Enielle”.

Chewing on the end of his quill, Ulliem waited anxiously, his hope starting to fade. Then a single page stamped itself into the querybook.

The Confession of Val’Thul

A great weight lies on me, and I do not think I shall be able to carry on without relief. It concerns the good people of Dern, who have always sold me their unique and beautiful stone at a fair price.

It was with some concern for the integrity of his quarry that the master mason of Dern wrote to me, for he was receiving pressure from the Sultans of Heur to produce stone at a greater rate. Gladly offering my assistance, I booked travel to the distant town, but was intercepted by a Heuric seneschal, who promised vast donations to the guildhall if my evaluation of the quarry’s integrity should be favorable.

It will be my eternal shame to admit that for the duration of the inspection, I could think of little else but the number of new journeymen who could be fed with Heuric gold. Thankfully I will never know exactly by how much greed blinded me, for if it were certain that I could have prevented the catastrophe, my already-tortured soul could not bear the guilt.

About a week after my return, I received news of the rockslide that had killed more than half the men of Dern, and I immediately set forth.

A fog of hatred and grief darkened the village, and I could feel the souls of the perished quarrymen still floating in the nether, refusing to leave. Their anger burned fiercely towards the Heuric seneschals, already arrived to re-open the quarry, but also hottly towards me, their trusted advisor who had failed his charge.

With penitent resolve, I have decided on the only course of absolution. I will bind the lost souls of Dern to the Baine Enielle as I name it, Mason’s Ruin. The quarrymen shall keep their lavish stone, and Dern will be abused no more on its account.

If ever there is need of the bold quarrymen again, I shall place twin keys readily at hand, to avert new danger in atonement for that which I failed to prevent.

Ulliem sat back and massaged his temples, trying to process everything he’d read. After a moment he quickly reached for the querybook, writing: “Binding rhyme –or– Poetry forms used in binding enchantment”. A lonely entry appeared, and Ulliem circled it quickly, the words materializing on the page.

The Apprentice’s Encyclopedia of Enchantment: Binder’s Couplet

Aside from the keys to a binding, other factors (see entry on binding factors) can be worked into the enchantment. A binder skilled in his or her craft will often use something familiar to enhance the potency of the spell, but the benefit is lost if the factor used is forgotten. In order to keep track of a factor paired with a particular binding, a wizard will often compose a poem known as a binder’s couplet. The traditional couplet fills three verses.

Before Ulliem could jot down any more inquiries, the golden quill faded from the querybook. “So there is more to the poem,” he mused out loud, repeating the two verses from the memorial pillar to himself.

A squeak of poorly oiled metal-on-metal made Ulliem look up, and he saw that Lenorra had wheeled herself to his doorway. The ancient woman’s lips were moving, but no sound came out.

“Lenorra,” the rockwizard greeted her, “do you know the ending to this poem?” He tried to catch her eyes, but was met only with a vacant stare and silently dancing lips. After a moment, she wheeled herself on down the hallway, and Ulliem was left to try to sleep.

The rockwizard awoke to the sight of Thealenne waiting patiently beside him, her face uncharacteristically mournful.

“What seems to be the matter Thea Wheatrider?” he asked tenderly. “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy of late. An old man’s mind can play tricks on him sometimes.”

Thea shook her head sadly. “It’s not that,” she said. “Today’s the day the wheat stops singing.”

Ulliem nodded solemnly, tightening the yellow bow around Thea’s waist. “Would you care to accompany me to the harvest festival, noble lady?” he inquired. “We can give the wheat a proper farewell.”

Thea nodded three times, and they walked hand in hand down towards the village well. There they found all the farmers of Dern already gathered, split into groups, and taunts and jibes about who would harvest more wheat flew through the air. Ralten was there too, decked out in his most ostentatious baubles, and all that remained was for master farmer Kaid to arrive and commence the competition.

The morning dragged on, and still there was no sign of Kaid. A few jests were shouted out about how he had probably fallen into the well in search of more mead, but soon the jests turned to angry muttering at the delay. Ralten was clearly infuriated, and dispatched Munger to go find the missing drunk. After about an hour the smith returned, impassive as ever, but when he leaned in to whisper into Ralten’s ear, the acting mayor’s face went white.

Telling Thea to stay put, Ulliem hurriedly made his way over to Ralten’s side. “Tell me what happened,” he demanded in a loud whisper, but the man seemed to be in shock, and it was Mungar who answered.

“I found Kaid up the hill, dead, cuts all over. There were… animal… tracks around his body, lots of them, and fresh.”

Ulliem felt his body numb, the fear attempting to paralyze him. ‘…when daylight no longer deters, when the taste of blood is renewed, settle your affairs, for you have but till nightfall in this good life,’ the Mage Guild summons had warned. A strange calm settled over the rockwizard, and he felt suddenly alert and focused, as the danger he had been dreading finally arrived.

“Ralten, order everyone into the keep. We’ll have the best chance of holding off the fiends there,” Ulliem commanded, but the acting mayor snapped out of his daze.

“You have no proof that…”

“A man is dead,” Ulliem interrupted hotly. “Whatever the cause, you need to protect your people.”

Ralten glared at him, but then nodded reluctantly. The rockwizard hastened back over to Thealenne, forming the seeds of a desperate plan.

“Thea, I need help with something, and I think you are the only one who will listen,” he told her honestly. “It’s very, very important. Will you help me?”

She nodded, her eyes wide.

The crowd of villagers was fidgeting uneasily, slowly growing aware that something was wrong. Ralten started to address them, and the Ulliem and Thea slipped away unnoticed.

The climb up the hill passed in a nervous blur for Ulliem, his eyes scanning every rustling stand of oak, never keeping his back towards the same direction for long. Though calm at first, Thea soon picked up on the tension in the air. The closer they got to the peak, the more agitated she became, until at last she stopped at the foot of the hidden stairs, clamping her hands over her ears.

“I don’t want to go up,” she screamed, as if to overcome some tumultuous racket beyond the rockwizard’s hearing. “The spirits are singing angry songs.” Tears traced their way down her cheeks.

Ulliem knelt down in front of her, wiping her eyes and placing his callused, wrinkled hands over hers, drawing them slowly away from her ears. “Are they singing about you?” he asked gently.

She shook her head quickly from side to side, strawberry-blonde hair flying.

“And do they want to help the people of Dern?”

Thea nodded, calmer in her movements this time.

“Then can you endure a little hurt to help our friends? To keep all of Dern singing?”

Her lips pursed and her brown knit bravely, and then she nodded once more.

The quarrymen statuettes were light, but awkwardly shaped. Ulliem would have been hard-pressed to make the tricky descent back to the keep carrying both, and he doubted there would be time for another trip. Urging Thea on as they went, the rockwizard prayed silently that the sandstone wouldn’t chip as she dragged the figurine behind her down the hill.

They reached the keep with the last of the villagers, many of whom were still carrying harvesting tools uncertainly. Ulliem grabbed Thea’s hand, pulling her through the crowd in the overstuffed courtyard, mounting the steps to the western walltop as quickly as she could go. The rockwizard placed the figurines on the uneven stone, hearing the gate being closed and barred beneath them as he did. He was relieved to see that there was no permanent damage to the statuettes, but the relief was brief as a scream sounded from the throng of villagers below, and then another.

A roiling tide was cresting the hilltop, parting around the cliffs before rejoining in a sea of limbs the color of bile, climbing over each other like a mass of caged crab. The fiends themselves were like nothing on this earth, but familiar, as if the most vile creations of nature had been turned inside out and jumbled into oozing masses. In the courtyard below, villagers were milling about in terror, a few fainting, and many others vomiting into the dirt. Ralten stood on the eastern wall, half-turned, his eyes bulging.

Ulliem fought to keep hold of his own stomach, the waves of panic and revulsion that emanated from below threatening to overwhelm him. Focusing on the seated form of Lenorra, a lonely rock in the chaos, he breathed deeply, reaching out a hand to Thea who was trembling beside him. When her small fingers grasped his, he felt a momentary surge of hope, and muttered a prayer to gods he had never really believed in.

Chanting a poorly-remembered spell, the rockwizard touched the nearest statuette. “I release you, souls of Dern, to protect your progeny,” he shouted. There was a flare of light, and a muffled boom. Ulliem felt bones in his arm snap as he was knocked flat, but the miniature quarrymen did not move.

Hearing the blast, Ralten spun, quickly taking in the prone rockwizard and the crimson statuettes. The terror that threatened to overwhem his sanity found an outlet in fury, and he raised a shaking arm to point at Ulliem.

“You!” he screamed, cutting through the horrified moans of the villagers below. “You have vandalized our sacred land, angered the spirits that protect us. Who will be our deliverance now? You have doomed us!”

People began to look up from the courtyard, and other angry, desperate voices soon joined Ralten’s.

“The wizard has desecrated our shrine! He has brought this horror down on us!”

“Cast out the wizard. Appease the demons while there is still time!”

Ears still ringing, Ulliem gripped a crenellation with his good hand, doggedly hauling himself to his feet. If they turned on him now, blindly following Ralten’s idiocy, he couldn’t save them, couldn’t save her. To his left, he saw that Thea had pressed her back to the battlements, hands over her ears and eyes closed, but thankfully unharmed. Raising his own arm, Ulliem summoned as strong a voice as he could manage.

“This man you trusted, this arrogant popinjay, has kept from you the most perilous event any of us will live to see. The Seal of Myth has broken, releasing nightmare to appear at any time and suck us down into the abyss.”

A few of the more educated villagers went white, comprehending at last what was happening.

“Blessed spirits! The fiends, the fiends are loose,” someone moaned, but most were looking about in confusion, never having been taught the history of the world, still believing that demons were the stuff of legend and nightmare.

“Enough!” Ralten bellowed in fury, smacking stone with his open hand. “All that matters now is that you have destroyed any chance for our salvation.” He started working his way around the walltop, shouting down to the smith. “Mungar, stop him! Seize our sacred relics!”

The large man pushed his way through the crowd easily and started to climb the steps, but Ulliem was ready.

“Remember, soldier, the last time you obeyed orders without question,” he barked in his best impression of a sergeant’s rough voce. “Remember the war and sins you committed for an unworthy master. You have the chance now for absolution.”

Mungar froze, foot raised to the next step, and then began to tremble. The large hammer was suddenly in the smith’s hand, his eyes on fire, and for a moment Ulliem was afraid that he might have unleashed a demon of his own. But then as if an enchantment were dispelled, the smith’s body loosed, and the hammer fell.

Screeching in rage, Ralten was approaching quickly, still fixated on the statuettes. “Give them to me Wizard! Defiler! Give me the keys to our salvation.”

KEYS! Ulliem’s mind raced. ‘I shall place the twin keys readily at hand,’ Val’thul had said. He looked down at the two statuettes. He’d assumed that they were the keys themselves… but those outstretched hands, meant to hold some missing tool… Finally he made the connection, and his gaze slowly rose, looking northwest to the Baine Enielle and the two sentry pillars. “The pickaxes, one on each pillar…I missed it, an old fool!” Ulliem gasped, falling to his knees as hope drained.

The tide of fiends was halfway down the hill, hundreds, maybe thousands, the clicking of their claws on stone just becoming audible. There was simply not enough time.

A gentle tug on his sleeve broke the spell of despair.

“I can get them Sir Ully. I can ride the wheat.”

Ulliem looked down at Thea, his eyes suddenly watering at her bravery. “You know the danger, little Wheatrider? Fiends have no melody, and the cuts from their claws cannot be stitched.”

She smiled, pushing the horror away a little. “I’m the only one,” Thea answered simply.

Grabbing the girl by the waist, Ulliem stood and lifted her carefully to the edge of the battlements. She began to sing, a golden song full of rich earth, sunshine, and soft rain. There were horrified gasps from the courtyard below, and the rockwizard suddenly felt hands gripping his shoulders painfully.

Looking back with one last radiant smile, Thea stepped over the edge, and was gone.

“What have you DONE!” Ralten screamed into the rockwizard’s ear. He threw Ulliem to the ground and rushed to the wall’s edge, falling to his knees in shock.

The old rockwizard landed awkwardly, his injured arm failing under him, and his head bounced off stone, the world spinning. He fought the haze grimly, pushing himself up on one elbow and gazing down in trepidation.

Thea was almost a speck already, sitting cross-legged as tall stalks of wheat bent and straightened under her, carrying her swiftly and safely in an undulating wave.

Strong hands were thrust under Ulliem’s arms lifting him up, and the smell of leather and iron filled his nostrils. “How is this possible?” Mungar asked, his voice tinged with awe.

“She is a shaman of the Hathalsea,” Ulliem answered groggily, “the copse-kin as you call them. The songs of all living things are in her heart, and they love and obey her for it.” The rockwizard almost laughed aloud in relief and joy.

But it was short-lived, for with a crash the tide of fiends finally broke around the keep, circling madly. A gusting wind arose, seemingly from every direction at once, clawing at clothes and eyes, and carrying gruesome shrieks.

“What can we do?” The smith shouted over the gale.

“Get everyone on the wall. Use shovels, scythes, whatever you can find to hold them off as long as you can,” Ulliem shouted back, but his voice was tinged with hopelessness. He imagined Thea prying the stone pickaxes loose from the pillars, turning to carry them back, but she was cut off. “Get away,” he whispered under his breath. “Run and live for all of us.”

The sickening howls stopped as quickly as they had begun, followed by a silence that was the most terrifying of all, for it felt as if it were slowly compressing around them, pushed tighter and closer by encroaching horror. Faintly below, the clicking of claw on stone tapped a petrifying beat.

Then Mungar was shouting orders, and the villagers were slowly roused, obeying in a frightened daze. Still gripping farm implements in white-knuckled hands, men and women rushed to the wall-tops. Razor-tipped arms began to grope over the crenellations, some spidery or reptilian, others nauseatingly close to human. With a ragged battle cry, the people of Dern engaged the fiends, pushing ghastly bodies from the walls with thresher and scythe. Mungar was everywhere, bleeding from a dozen cuts, his hammer a blur as he smashed deadly appendages into useless lumps of murky ochre ooze.

Several farmers went down, rent with bloody gashes, but the wave of fiends slowed. There was the beginning of a cheer, but it was swept away by a sound like the ringing of a gong. The walls began to hum and shake, loose stones falling out and landing below with a clatter, and the cheer turned to shouts of alarm. It would not take much to bring the weak masonry tumbling down beneath their feet.

Hoping against reason, Ulliem looked west once more. Thea was closing in, riding a mass of wheat that tore itself up by the roots in its effort to speed her journey. But she was headed straight for the mass of fiends, towards rending death. A mournful trill drifted through the air, and then the wheat exploded in a puff of stalk and chaff, sending Thealenne flying though the air above the thirsty claws far below, and Ulliem’s heart hurdling into his throat.

She landed in the arms of an astonished Mungar, bowling the smith over, but both seemed unhurt. Thea was on her feet slowly, exhausted.

Running over to her, Ullliem hugged her small frame, tears falling freely. “You are a precious one, little Thea,” he murmured into her hair. Seizing the stone pickaxes from her arms, Ulliem took two long strides to the crimson statuettes, still kneeling peacefully among the carnage. He placed a pickaxe in each quarryman’s grasp, twisting them until there was a soft click. Stepping back hurriedly, he reached for Thea’s hand, and the two of them gazed west and north, nervous breath held amidst a sudden stillness, the rockwizard and the wheatrider.

With a thunderous boom, red boulders poured out of the Baine Einelle, tumbling through the twin pillars like whitewater from a sluice-gate. As they rumbled and rolled closer, shapes formed, the pebbly outlines of strong men twirling pickaxes.

Dropping from the walls, the fiends turned towards the avalanche, skittering from side to side. Another gong-like sound stretched the air, and the walls stopped shaking.

Instead the quarrymen slowed, losing momentum. The tide of rock reached the wheatfields below Dern, unfurling like the petals of a rose, but still slowing, stretching thin and bare.

There was the sound of another gong, and the mass of fiends surged forward, stopped short, and then again, and again.  Each time more of the quarrymen collapsed into lifeless heaps of rock, the march all but halting.

Ulliem looked down at the statuettes, seeing tiny fractures spreading across the surface, and Thea clenched his hand in fear. The spell was not strong enough to save them from the demons of nightmare. In final desperation, he began to chant the binder’s couplet, hoping that even incomplete, it might boost the spell.

“O’er bracken and scree, through crook and cleft

The Quarrymen march true

Grinding, rolling, relentless, they boldly live anew” he recited. But it was another voice that spoke the second verse.

“But when the rose’s hastened bloom grows bare

Petals fallow in the fields will lie

And the Quarrymen, ever marching, the Quarrymen will die”

Confused, Ulliem paused. Was it working? Was the stone answering him? But the other voice did not pause with him. The rockwizard spotted Lenorra in the courtyard below, standing from her chair and finishing the third verse in a musical tone.

“But warm the song: ‘Rise Up Quarrymen!’

Quarrymen with hands so deft

Enemy, face them if you dare” the old mayor paused, but there was no effect, the piles of sandstone in the fields lay still.

Then she raised her voice in a haunting melody, starting mournfully but gathering speed and energy as it went.

“Rise Up Quarrymen! Quarrymen Arise!

Fetch pickaxe and lampoil. To Work! To Toil!

‘neath heavy stone embrace, we mine.”

Realization dawned on Ulliem, and he shouted to the villagers: “Sing! Sing! Strengthen your protectors!”

In the courtyard below, young boys and girls looked at each other, still terrified, but hesitantly added their voices to the mixture.

“Rise Up Quarrymen! Quarrymen Arise!

Fetch caution and courage. Drink your mead! Eat your porridge!

‘neath looming crush, silent dark, sharp threat of death we earn our keep.”

There was a stirring in the fields, as piles of crimson rock began to quake. But it was not yet enough.

“Sing now, sons and daughters of Dern!” Ulliem tried again, feeling the last of his strength go out with his words. “Remember the song learned far from the ears of disapproving elders. Remember the stone and axe forgotten for the pain of loss, and let the quarry song ring out once more in the Baine Enielle!”

One by one, the farmers of Dern found their voices, for a melody learned nestles deep, and is not oft forgot.

“Drink your mead! Eat your porridge! This warm hearth visit might be your last.

For we risk life and limb, to fill family coffers to the brim,

to build the halls of lordly dreams and walls against the fiends.”

The ochre mass of fiends built itself upward, frothing and shrieking, but unable to drown out the voices of Dern as they joined for the concluding refrain in thundering unison.

“Rise Up Quarrymen! QUARRYMEN ARISE!”

There was a deep groan, as if the earth itself heard their song, and then the refrain echoed back in an impossibly deep baritone.

“Rise Up Quarrymen! QUARRYMEN ARISE!”

Geysers of sandstone shot into the air, human forms reshaping in their midst, surging up the hill towards the keep.

With one last piercing howl, the fiends let loose, flowing down to meet them.

The two waves, red and yellow, met with a crush and shattering.

Ulliem felt suddenly dizzy, his vision blurring as he gripped the wall for support. Reaching to touch the bump where his head had smashed into stone, the old rockwizard’s hands came away sticky. As the world faded, he heard the demonic shrieks become more frenzied and desperate, slowly drowned out by the relentless grinding of good strong stone, and then everything went dark.

#

Ulliem awoke to the face he least wanted to see, Ralten’s, looking awkwardly ashamed. Everything seemed slightly blurred to the rockwizard, as if time had snuck ahead without him and his mind was struggling to catch up. He tried to speak, but his tongue had no energy.

Ralten noticed the slight movement, and broke into a smile that was both relieved and contrite. “Ah, you are awake,” he said. “Don’t try to move. Keep your strength.” He attempted to mop Ulliem’s brow clumsily, dripping water in the rockwizard’s ear. “Mungar has some skill with battlefield medicine, but a guild healer from Lastrania will be arriving tomorrow to tend properly to you and the rest of the wounded…” Ralten kept on speaking, but the words seemed to grow smaller and fainter.

Ulliem’s vision began to fade, and with a laborious sigh he slipped back into unconsciousness. Clawing fiends scuttled in and out of his dreams, keeping him from rest. Sometimes the quarrymen would march through in a wide column, sweeping away the horrors, but always they would return, as if seeping from some invisible rift.

The next time he awoke, it was to a melodious song and the much more welcome face of Thealenne. The two beamed at each other, the rockwizard and the wheatrider, holding hands as Thea sang, and when Ulliem slept again his dreams were much sweeter.

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Published by Karl Rademacher on June 30, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 20, Issue 20 Stories, Stories

The Boatman’s Price

by David Wright

 

Her husband was sleeping–sleeping, but not snoring.  She watched the steady rise and fall of his narrow chest, waiting.  Something gnawed away in the back of her mind, like a weasel pulling on the tail of a half-dead gecko.  She didn’t want to wake him, but she could wait no longer.

“Alex,” she whispered, bending close to his hearing aid and nudging his arm.  “Alex,” she said a little louder.  His eyes opened, a look of instant recognition on his drawn and weary face.

“Ranjeet, my darling, you’re late.”

“I’m not late,” she said defensively, but then Alex smiled with his eyes and Ranjeet knew she’d been duped.  Always the trickster, even now.  She could kill him.

“So how are you doing?” she asked, trying to make Alex be serious for once.

“Everything’s going to be fine, Ranj.”  He blinked with condescension, dismissing her worries before she could even express them.  She hated when he did that.  Didn’t she have a right to worry?  Didn’t she have any rights?

“Alex, I…”

“Yes, Ranj.”

“I don’t feel–something’s wrong.”

Alex laughed.  “The whole world is wrong.”

“That’s just what I mean.  It doesn’t seem right what we’re doing, not with the world the way it is.”

“Oh Ranj.”  He tapped her hand, his touch cold.  “You were always so superstitious

“It’s not superstition.  It’s just not fair.”bp-1

“It was perfectly fair.  It was blind luck.  We can’t just stop living because the world is falling apart.  We have to take what life luck gives us.  I just wish we had more time together.”

He looked at her sadly, serious for the first time.  She tried to smile, grabbing his hand and squeezing it, feeling a pang in her heart that she could hardly bear.

“I’ve brought you something.”  She looked over her shoulder furtively and reached into her handbag.  “Samosa.  It’s cold but still fresh.”

He shook his head, his eyes closed.

“But it’s your favorite.  Here, smell.”  She put the deep-fried triangle under the tubes in his nose.  He tried to pull his head away and the health monitors screamed in protest.  She stepped back, the weasel in her head swallowing the gecko whole.

#

bp-2An hour later, the doctor sat with her in the stuffy “patient-family” room.

“Your husband is very fortunate,” she said.  “We’re into the second phase now and everything is five by five.”  The doctor explained the phase schedules as if they were new to Ranjeet, as if she had not already heard them a thousand times before.  They were always changing, yet always the same–meaningless.

“He’s not eating,” she said, interrupting the smooth, practiced cadence of the doctor’s recital.  The doctor seemed mildly perturbed, but for the first time looked Ranjeet squarely in the eye.

“No.  We removed the feeding tube because his digestive organs have shut down.  I was under the impression this had already been explained to you.”

“So he won’t eat anymore?”

The doctor looked at her coldly as if she were a stubborn child refusing to go to bed.

#

The network was on when she got home–a thousand faces, a thousand voices, the tendrils of her world.

“Congratulations on the lottery.”  It was Jumar, her lab assistant.  He looked anything but happy.  “So when will you be back?”

bp-3“He’s only in phase two.  It might be awhile, maybe never.”

Was he smiling?  She couldn’t tell with his head down.  If she didn’t come back to work, she’d be off the shortlist and Jumar would be one step up the lottery.  Nobody ever talked about that openly, but it was on everybody’s mind–the elephant in the room.

“UR71 has gone pandemic.  It won’t be long now.  We could always use your help in–”

He was kissing up, hedging his bets just in case she did come back.  She didn’t have time for that.  She panned through the news channels.  The countdown had started.  Pestilence, war, famine, death–the four horsemen of the apocalypse.  It was as if the whole world knew its end was near.  Only the lucky ones would live, like brands plucked from the fire, somewhere way out there in the stars, if you could call that living.

She shut it down, shut it all down, and now her house was a hollow shell, an endless cavern of blank, empty walls broken only by the closed door at the end of the hall.  The closed door led to a room she never entered.  The door beckoned to her, but she would not open it.  The room beckoned to her, but she would not enter it.

#

“We’re well into the next phase,” Alex said with an odd sense of anticipation.  “It could be anytime now.”

Ranjeet watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, not knowing what to say.  It didn’t matter anyways.  The hearing aid was gone.  He was completely deaf.  Soon he would be blind too.  She felt the tears welling in her eyes.  She squeezed his hand, but he didn’t seem to feel it.  He stared past her at the blank, white wall.

“I feel–it’s hard to explain–like I’m on the edge of some great new world, not death exactly, but you have to die to get there.  It’s like I’m crossing the River Styx.”  He laughed hoarsely.  “My ancestors used to put coins on a dead man’s eyes to pay the boatman.”  He looked directly at Ranjeet.  “I guess we’ve paid that price already.”

Ranjeet felt her soul melt.  She bent forward and kissed Alex gently on each eye.  He smiled, and then suddenly winced in pain.  She looked pleadingly at the doctors, but their attention was now fully dedicated to the beeping lines and squiggles on the life support monitors.  They too seemed rapt with euphoric anticipation, as if something great were about to happen.

And then it did.

The bed kicked suddenly and the monitors screamed.  Two more white-robed doctors ran into the crowded hospital room.  Alex’s body convulsed violently on the bed, nearly knocking Ranjeet to the floor.  She didn’t know it at the time, but she was screaming and praying and pleading.  And then everything just stopped–Alex, Ranjeet, the squiggling lines.

Alex opened his mouth to let out one final sigh, and his narrow chest lowered, never to rise again.

Ranjeet broke over his lifeless body, her tears mixing with his sweat.  The doctors ignored her, still too intent on the electronic monitors.  And then she heard it.  A beep.  And then another.  And then a steady rhythm, and the doctors gave a collective yet civil cheer.

#

Days passed, weeks.

Her husband slept.  He did not snore.  He did not breathe.  Only the steady beating of his heart told Ranjeet that he truly was alive.  And then his eyes opened.

“Late again,” he said.

She did not argue.  She did not laugh.  Her husband was a stranger to her, trapped behind the aura of his ghost.

“So how…?”  She began, but did not finish.

He’d lost his hair, his eyebrows, and his eyelashes.  His skin had become featureless, without pores or wrinkles.  He hardly seemed human anymore, like an undressed manikin in a store window.  They said he could hear again, that she could talk to him, but she couldn’t think of what to say.  She felt the coldness of his skin and let go of his hand.

“Ranjeet,” he said clearly, as if no time had passed since their last conversation over a month ago, “I’ve been thinking.”  He looked at the blank, white wall.  “I’ve been thinking maybe you should go.  I know what you said before about staying to the end, and I appreciate that, but you have to go on with your life.  Nobody knows for sure when the final phase will happen, and from what I can tell, it won’t be a pretty sight.  Come back when it’s all over.  Will you do that for me?  Will you, Ranj?”

He reached for her with his pale, white hand like some grotesque zombie.  Ranjeet stepped back from the hospital bed, horrified.

“Ranj, it’s okay.  It’ll be okay.”

She covered her face.

“Ranjeet, please.”

“No!” she screamed, and ran out of the room, down the hall, past the startled patients and doctors who had come to think of her as just part of the aging hospital décor, like a wilting flower by her husband’s deathbed.  But she would not come back, she told herself.  She would never come back.

#

Two days later, she showed up for work.  No one was particularly happy to see her, especially not Jumar–the illusion of her juicy lottery spot shattering before his greedy brown eyes.  She couldn’t blame him.  They all wanted to live.  And every day UR71 spread to another city, and more and more transports thundered out of Cape Canaveral and Baikonur.  Soon, very soon, the last transport would leave, and what was left of the human race would wither like a raisin in the sun.  The earth would live on, the plants and animals, but the people would just blink into oblivion.

“It’s good to see you back,” Jumar lied, the words dripping off his tongue like acid.  “I suppose you’ll want your office back.”

“Yes,” she said bluntly, “and my parking spot.”

Jumar didn’t even blink.

Ranjeet took charge immediately, diving into her work with a feverish passion that immediately silenced any hope Jumar had of taking her position permanently.  It was all meaningless.  The chance that her lab or any other lab would find a miracle cure before UR71 eliminated the earth’s human population was a statistical impossibility, but that didn’t matter.  She had to work, and so she did, past all reason, past all hope.

At night, she would walk home through the park, the smell of lilacs filling her nostrils.  She used to love that smell, or any smell, but now she felt nothing.  There were no flowers in New Haven, or so she’d heard, no plants of any kind, no great red cedars, no little ground ferns, no budding cacti, and no lilacs.  They didn’t even grow plants for food.  They didn’t need it after the change.  Oh they had the genomes for most species in stasis just in case, but it would be centuries before they bothered to clone them, if ever.

New Haven–a world without food and death and flowers.

And then she would enter the blank cave of her apartment, and the closed door at the end of the barren hall would greet her, ever silent, ever beckoning.

Days passed, weeks.

She received an email from Alex’s doctor.  The final phase was over.  She could return to the hospital.  The news glared at her accusingly on her wall screen.  But this time, she did not respond.  This time, she did not head immediately to the tram as she had so many times before–and into the elevator, and down the hospital’s antiseptic hallways to her husband’s room to sit by his bedside like the dutiful, loving wife.  And neither did she steel herself and return back to work with her head held high.  This time, she failed.  Curled up in a ball of self-defeat and self-pity, she mourned her weakness until her eyes were dry.

And then the door beckoned to her.

Powerless to resist though she knew it would utterly destroy her, she drifted down the barren hallway like a ghost in a dream.  The door gave way to her slightest touch although it had not been opened in more than two years.  She entered helplessly.  A thick layer of dust coated the furniture, obscuring the pastel pictures of dancing hippos and flying alligators.  The dinosaur mobile hung limp and lifeless in the airless room.  She wanted to touch it, but did not.  Instead, her trembling hand fell upon the edge of the dusty crib and her eyes upon the picture of her daughter above it.

Cassandra was one of the first to contract UR71–one of its first victims–a six-month-old child.  What kind of a malevolent bug would choose an innocent child for its first victim?  What kind of a god would allow it to happen?

Two years of bitterness and sorrow welled up in Ranjeet’s heart.  Never had she felt so much emotion all at once, not when she first fell in love, not even at her own daughter’s funeral. It was overwhelming, intoxicating.  She could not take it, but she could not resist it either.  Collapsing on the hardwood floor, she lost herself completely to the blind rapture of utter sorrow.  And in that moment felt perfect peace.

Time itself became meaningless.  When she opened her eyes again, it was morning and her husband was standing over her.

“Alex?” she said groggily.  “You’re late.”

He laughed nervously.  “Yes, Ranj, it’s me.”

He had hair again, not just on his head but all over his face.  He was fully suited for flight, all except his pressure helmet, which was cradled in his left arm.  He looked strangely happy, like a boy with a secret.

“I don’t have much time.  My launch is scheduled for this afternoon.  But I have good news.”

“What?”  She rubbed her eyes still not sure whether she was fully awake.

bp-4“I got them to bump up your lottery number.  You start phase treatments tomorrow.”  He looked at her, apparently eager for signs of her approval.  She gave him none.  His new, brown eyebrows knitted together.  “You know what this means?  In a month, maybe two, you could be on route to New Haven like me.  We could be together again, forever this time, or pretty close to it.”

Ranjeet looked into Alex’s eager eyes, so filled with life, so filled with hope.  Could she ever feel that way again with all she’d left behind?  She gazed helplessly at the dusty furniture with its prancing cartoons, the lifeless dinosaurs above her head, and the empty crib behind her.  Last of all, her eyes fell upon Cassandra’s picture, and all at once her mind was made up.

“No,” she said firmly.

She heard Alex drop his helmet and then he was bending over her, reaching for her with his gloved hand.

“Look, Ranjeet.  I know you’ve been through a tough time, but you don’t have to die.  My new body may look different.  It may feel different.  But it will last virtually forever.  No more growing old.  No more dying.  And it’s still me on the inside.”  His gloved hand touched her shoulder and she cringed.  Alex stepped back, startled.

“Be reasonable, Ranjeet.  They won’t let you go without the phase treatments.  You’ll never survive transport.  And you can’t stay here.  The plague is unstoppable.  The earth is doomed.”  His tone became desperate.  He looked at the dusty crib behind her and the picture of Cassandra on the wall.  “You have to–we have to leave the past behind and start a new life for ourselves.  It’s the only way.”

“No!” she screamed, pulling away from him.  “I won’t go.  I will stay here until the end, and die if I have to.”

“Ranj, please.  You can’t give up hope.”

“I haven’t given up hope, Alex.  You have!”  She rose to her feet, suddenly strong, suddenly powerful.  “I will stay here and fight this thing until the very end, until my last breath.  I owe her that much.”

Alex stared at Ranjeet mutely, his rubbery, bearded face torn in anguish, but he had no more arguments, nothing else to say.  A suited soldier appeared in the doorway.

“Sir, our time is up.  We must go now!”

Alex did not move.

“Sir–”

“I’m coming, damn you!”

The soldier hesitated in the doorway for a moment, and then disappeared into the blank hallway.  Alex turned back to Ranjeet, his eyes pleading.

“But why,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

Ranjeet reached up to touch his chest, but there was nothing–no breath, no heartbeat, no life.  Her eyes fell.

bp-6“Like you said, Alex, we’ve already paid the boatman’s price.  It’s time to cross the river.”  She gestured to the door.  “Go on.  You don’t want to be late.”

Alex shuddered, but did not speak.  And then, slowly, he turned towards the door and left.  Ranjeet covered her mouth to restrain her cry, to stop herself from calling out to him.  And then it was too late.  And then he was gone.  But in her heart, she knew she had done the right thing.  She had stayed true to herself, true to her daughter.  She looked up at Cassandra with fresh tears in her eyes.

“For you, baby, I won’t give up hope.  For you…”

<the end>

David Wright is a writer and teacher living on Canada’s majestic west coast.  He has a lovely wife, two sparkling daughters and 40 published short stories in a dozen magazines including Neo-opsis, MindFlights and eSteampunk.  David’s latest eNovels, are available at Smashwords.com.  Visit his website at wright812.shawwebspace.ca.

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Published by Karl Rademacher on June 30, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 20, Issue 20 Stories, Stories

The Dragon’s Cook

by Erik Bundy

 

A dragon named Fume lived in the mountainous dukedom of Etbourg.  He was over three hundred years old, the size of an overweight pony, often bit his front claws – nerves — and had leathery wings that squeaked when he flew.  His price for not raiding the countryside was that a virgin live with him.  Her term of residence was one year, and she assisted him with his alchemical studies.  To show his sociability, Fume also volunteered when necessary at the local crematorium.

One spring morning as Fume creaked around inside his lair, he heard a shrill whistle.  He found a young woman in a lilac business suit  – knee-length skirt – at the main entrance of his cavern, four fingers in her mouth as she was about to whistle again.  From a linen pocket, she whipped out an electronic notepad with her photo identification on the screen.  Fume peered at it with rheumy eyes and pretended he could read.

“Lady Adir, Department of Safety and Health,” she said.  “My father is the Duke.”  She glanced back at the sloping, stony path.  “It’s a long climb up here.”

If Fume hadn’t burnt off his eyebrows long ago, he would have raised one now.  “I do live on a mountain.”

Her lips tightened, and he knew sarcasm had made him yet another enemy.

“You will need to repair those stone stairs,” she said.  “I stumbled twice.  And a handrail must be installed immediately.”

Fume blew out a smoke ring and watched it waver upwards and disappear in the soft morning light.

“Until the repairs are completed, I am sorry to say, I will have to close the footpath to all pedestrian traffic,” Lady Adir added, not at all sorry.

“Really,” answered Fume.  “Maintaining roads and public paths, I believe, are dukedom responsibilities.  Your father won’t thank you for reminding him of this.”

“The Duke is exempt from public safety rules.”

“How nice for him,” Fume said.

“I have come to inspect your lair,” she announced.

Fume hissed vapor through soot-lined nostrils.  “Do you have a warrant?”

“You are not a suspect in a crime.”  Lady Adir’s expression became uncertain.  “Are you?”

dc-2Fume chuckled smoke.  “No, no.  It’s just that you seem, uh, what is the word?  Predisposed!  Yes, predisposed to finding a crime in my home.  I cannot allow this inspection, Lady Adir.  It will set an irritating precedent.”

“Well now, let’s see.”  She brought up a document on her electronic notebook.  “My father is sending another young maiden next week.  Her name is Belena.  No inspection, no Belena.”

Fume scratched his limestone threshold with three yellow claws.  He grimaced as a twinge of arthritis passed up his green leg.  “I don’t wish to seem discourteous, but–”

“Good.”  She darted past him into the twilit cavern.

Fume growled, but having not yet basked in the sun, he felt too cold and decrepit to chase her around his lair.

She waved a delicate hand in front of her nose.  “What is that smell?  Oh-h, sorry,” she said, looking with repugnance at Fume’s moldering body.  “You might try incense.  The last maiden did complain.”

“She complained.  If Gussalin was a virgin, then I’m a duck.”  Fume ticked a claw on the stone floor in rhythm with his words.  “The Duke must send me a virgin this time.”

“That,” she huffed, “is no longer a job requirement.”

“It’s part of our contract.”

“Anyway, that’s not my department.  You can contact Human Services.  Recruitment Division.”

“I turn . . . what is the word?  Salvaged? Yes, salvaged iron into gold.  A female virgin is required to perform the rite correctly.  Otherwise, I end up with scrap iron, which is what Gussalin left me with.”

Lady Adir sniffed.  “Her job description calls for her to polish your gold, not make it.”

“Other duties as assigned,” Fume argued.

Fume didn’t mention, because he didn’t want to give Lady Adir more power over him, that he must perform the rite of rejuvenation soon.  He was rotting away like a mushroom browning at the edges because Gussalin had lied about her purity.  He needed a virgin before senility made him forget the youth-renewing rite all together.

Lady Adir’s expression became officious.  “You have only one window.  Facing north, I see.  You’ll need to add another for ventilation.  Facing south, I think.  Yes, south.  Oh, you do have a lot of treasure lying around, don’t you?  You sleep on it, I guess.  Ah-ha, we were wondering where our monogrammed silver plate had gone to.  In fact, one of the servants was executed for losing it.  Father will want it all back.”

Fume inserted his putrid bulk between his treasure and Lady Adir.  “Perhaps we could split the plate between us.”

“Are you trying to bribe me?”

“Sorry, I must have been thinking with the reptilian part of my brain.  I hope this new maiden . . . did you say her name was Belena?  I can’t seem to remember names anymore.  Well, I hope she doesn’t have an ardent young man, someone who wishes to be a hero and rescue her.  These petal-cheeked maidens you send me begrudge the attitude of winner dines after their bothersome boyfriends attack.”

dc-3Lady Adir tapped information into her notepad.  “Gussalin said you didn’t feed her.  She lost over ten kilograms in the year she lived with you.”

“Yes-s.  Improved her figure no end.  I should call it the Dragon’s Heavenly Body Diet.”

“This is not a hardship tour.  Starvation is not allowed.”

Fume aimed his red eyes at her.  “I provided Gussalin with fire and healthy food.  She wouldn’t crack open an egg shell.”

“Then you need a cook.”

“She claimed to have allergies.  Could eat only what appealed to her, mainly sweets.  She considered sugar a food group.  She thought warming food was cooking it.  She only had to ask, and I would have charbroiled anything she wanted.  You young women must–”

Lady Adir held up a hand.  “Cooking is beyond the scope of her position description.  Now show me what chemicals Belena will use to polish your gold and silver?”

“We use dragon urine.  Do you require a fresh sample?”

Lady Adir’s nostrils dilated.  “Be sure you provide gloves.  Now regarding your metallurgy, it is my understanding you do not have a permit.”

dc-6Fume snorted smoke ringlets.  “Alchemy is not illegal.  And I think you are too smart to tell your father you intend to cut off his percentage of the gold I make.”

Lady Adir considered this a moment, then said brusquely, “So in conclusion, before Belena comes, you will need to show proof that you added a south-facing window and hired a servant.”  She tapped on her note pad.  “I will send you a copy of my findings.”  Lady Adir then strode out of the cavern.

Fume lay hissing on his threshold.  Lady Adair expected him to hire a servant to serve a servant?  Only a dukedom official could think up such nonsense.  She also demanded a second window.  That meant calling in the mercenary dwarfs.  They would dig a hole in his treasure hoard as payment for chiseling a hole through his cavern wall.  Perhaps . . . yes, he would pay them with the monogrammed silver plate.  Let the Lady Adir try to reclaim it from them while they were eating off it.

Fume scratched his side and two scales fell off.  An unblemished maiden must come to him without delay.  Lady Adir, though, would insist on her findings being resolved before allowing Belena to enter his lair.

Must he rouse the countryside again?  That always stirred up a swarm of muscular heroes.  Had he even the strength to fly now?  His might pull a wing muscle.

Ah-h well, tomorrow he would crawl down to the nearest ripe wheat field and sneeze.  Accidents happen.  The duplicitous Duke would not blame him for the resulting fire, not officially anyway, but he would understand the threat.  This was all so tiresome and–

Fume flicked out his tongue to test the air . . . furtive movement, a hero or thief no doubt, and something else, something deliciously gamy.  The intruder had sneaked up the mountain while Lady Adir distracted him.  So much excitement in one day might bring on his liver fluctuations.

He slithered as fast as his aging body allowed to a back entrance covered by spider webs.  Hidden, he watched a stout, curly haired youth crawl unheroically through a pink rhododendron.  The second-rate armor was buffed to a dull shine but dinged . . . probably inherited from a grandfather who had fought as a common foot soldier in some ducal war.

Uncoiling, Fume crept down-slope behind the would-be hero.  The young man became alert, sniffing the air.  He glanced over his shoulder, jumped to his feet, and pulled a notched sword from a scabbard someone had used to stoke a hearth fire.  The hero lifted his left leg, knee bent, and stood on his right foot with his rusty sword held point up in front of him.

Fume gurgled a chesty, smoker’s laugh.  “I’m so glad to see you studied the manual.”

“Manual?  You know about the secret fighting stances?”

“I have seen the pose before.”  Fume didn’t mention that he had authored the manual to prevent heroes from becoming overly creative or that he received ten percent of the profits on all copies sold.  Telling the young the truth, depriving them of their illusions, always depressed them so.

“If I might offer a constructive criticism,” Fume said, “I believe your raised knee is an inch or three too high.  Balance, you know.”

The would-be hero’s eyes flared a second before he screamed a pagan war cry and charged.

Fume knocked the sword from the young man’s grasp with a claw swipe not found in the manual.  He reminded himself to include a heroic stance for becoming barbecue in the next edition.

The lean young face inside the helmet, visor up, twisted with fear.  The hero licked his lips and shucked a belly knife out of its raveling leather sheath.

“A novel idea, tickling a dragon to death with a knife.”  Fume sighed a sulfurous breath.  “Your timing is off, young man.  The perfumed virgin in need of rescuing won’t be here for at least a week.  What is your name?”

“Rulf,” the hero answered, his voice quavering.

Flapping to stop itself in mid-glide, an anticipatory raven settled on a limb of a nearby oak.  Fume snorted.  The fastidious Lady Adir would, no doubt, approve of ravens tidying up after he breakfasted.

Rulf swallowed and asked, “You have a shovel, right?  The Duke says all bodies must be given proper burial.”

Fume did enjoy these pre-prandial discussions.  “Ah-h, I think instant cremation is the exception.  Heroes are the only humans the Duke allows me to eat.  Tradition, you know.”

“Do I g-get a last meal?” Rulf choked out.

What was this dukedom coming to?  Servants required a servant to cook for them and meals required a last meal.  “Sorry, but I don’t have a cook in residence at the moment.”

“I-I-I can make my own meal.”

Fume’s tail twitched, a sign of sudden interest.  “Heroes normally skewer monsters, not kabobs.  You cook?”

“I’ve watched my mum do it for years.”dc-7

Fume sniffed.  A real hero would have lied and said yes.  “Why take up this quest of saving maidens who aren’t in need of rescuing?”

Rulf stared down at square toenails outlined with farm dirt.  “I thought maybe the Duke would let me marry his daughter or something.”

Fume shuddered.  “I take it you have not yet met Lady Adir.  Is your life worth a year of cooking?”

“My . . . my life?  Cook for a dragon?  You mean barbecue people for–”

Fume silenced him with a raised yellow claw.  “I do my own roasting.  Which reminds me, what did you ride here?”

“Our mule.”

Fume’s hollow stomach rumbled.  He had known it was not a horse.  “Mule à la francaise will show appropriate gratitude for my sparing your life.  You will cook for the new girl, Belena, if she ever arrives.  Agreed?”

Rulf blushed with relief.  “It’s a deal.”  He put out his right hand, looked embarrassed, and pulled it back.  “Do you have tarragon and savory?  My mum uses them a lot.”

Fume chuckled.  “This does sound promising.  I doubt Belena will lose weight this year.  Remember now, no stealing from me and no trying to assassinate an old dragon.”

“Yes, sir.  I mean, no, sir.  What are my duties?”

“Oh, nothing right now except to acquaint me with your delicious mule.  Then you will carry a message to the dwarfs.  I have work for them.”  Fume looked up at the sun, smirking, anticipating a good year.  “After Belena arrives, she will no doubt supervise you.  They always do.  I’m certain the first chore assigned you will be to hang linen curtains over a new window I’m having put in.  Oh yes, you will also need to buy a chef’s hat.  Lady Adir, no doubt, will require one.  Health regulations, you know.”

Fume chuckled, thinking of his coming skirmishes with Lady Adair.  Enemies were so much more amusing than friends.

 

###

Erik Bundy is a graduate of the Odyssey Fantasy Writing Workshop and grand prize winner of the Sidney Lanier Poetry Competition.  His fantasy novel, Magic and Murder Among the Dwarves, will be published by Untold Press in the spring of 2014.

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Published by Karl Rademacher on May 27, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 20, Issue 20 Stories, Stories

LOVE SONG FOR A CYBORG

They sit us down on plain wooden chairs and tie our hands behind our backs. Thick rope cuts into my ankles as they fasten them to the legs of the chair. I look around. A wooden cabin in the middle of nowhere. Basic furniture. An old sofa that has seen better days. Dust everywhere.

I’ve noticed two possible exits so far. The main door and a window behind the large table. There is a second door, half open, which seems to lead to another room.

cyborg-6There are five of them in the room and at least another three outside the cabin.

They make sure we are properly secured. We are placed next to each other, facing opposite directions.

Out of the corner of my right eye I can see his profile. His head is bent down, but he is regaining consciousness. When he finally comes around, his eyes first search for me.

I give a small nod, to which he does not respond. We both know what to expect next. It always starts with physical torture. I keep glancing at him, but his face reveals no emotions.

They hit me first. The blow tilts my head to the left. They probably think a woman will break faster than a man or the man will break to protect the woman.

None of that happens.

Cyborgs are not supposed to feel any physical pain.

But we do.

Our neuronal networks are ten times more complex than that of a human. We can sense a slight change in the air pressure miles away, we can hear the frequencies of the colors and smell the snow before it falls. They made us this way so that we could excel in our missions. But this highly sensitive and precise system, which notifies us if the butterfly flaps its wings, does not discriminate between stimuli and interprets them all. Including the painful ones. They are conveyed by millions of neuronal connections fully, without any restrictions.

So yes, we do feel pain. We only pretend we don’t. After all, what would be the use of a cyborg that feels more pain than a human?

Neither of us says a word. I can see they are getting frustrated. My left eye is swelling rapidly. They begin to beat him as well. That hurts me more than the punches they throw at me. I get the next one right in my abdomen. I think they broke one of my ribs. I throw up a bit of blood.

cyborg-7Not even an expert eye could tell the difference between cyborg and human bodies. If they cut us, we bleed just as a human would. We were made this way for a purpose. To fool the enemy. To make them think they are dealing with humans, when in fact they are dealing with an artificial entity.

We were never told how we can die. But we do know it is much harder to kill us than humans. Severing our body parts would make us inadequate for a task, at least until we are brought back to the base and our limbs are reconstructed. But all other injuries and fatal wounds, we can pretty much sustain, because our bodies have the capability to repair themselves. It is an excruciatingly painful process. In human terms the equivalent would be like having a major operation without anesthetics. But I suppose our Makers have missed that too, or they simply did not care. So neither do we.

With my only functional eye I glance at him again. As his head tilts backwards from the punch he turns his eyes to me as well.

My mind is racing from this little glimpse of his. Is he concerned for me or is he simply concerned I might break and endanger the mission?

Cyborgs are supposed to be fully devoted to their missions, never question their orders and have no doubts in their way of life.

But we do.

The ability to store an enormous amount of information, easily foresee a number of possible outcomes and calculate the best option out of hundreds in a split second is what makes us perform with one hundred percent efficiency. At the same time, these quick and endless connections between neurons reveal other options and attach notions such as wrong and right, good and evil, beautiful and ugly. They cause us to doubt. All this, is it worth it? Regardless what path of reasoning I take, it always leads me to the same answer. It is not.

But we are not supposed to follow our own rationale; we are supposed to do our best to complete the mission. That is why we keep doubts to ourselves.

cyborg-1Otherwise, what would be the advantage of a cyborg that questions his orders?

My nose is broken. Blood drips down on my lips. They say this liquid has no purpose; it is there just to make us appear more human. Yet, born in pain and warm as I taste it, I feel it is very much mine and I mourn every drop that leaves my body.

I keep my right eye on him the whole time. He stares at them blankly, as if he is watching a boring show. His indifference makes them angry. They hit him so hard his chair falls backwards. He is lying on the floor right in front of me. Despite the blood pouring from split skin above his eyebrow, he still keeps the eye contact. So do I. His eyes are strangely calming and caring. I feel protected. I always do when he is near me.

Cyborgs are not supposed to care about each other or anyone else.

But we do.

Each time they hit him, his pain is mine as well. Given a chance, I would gladly take his place. Since I’ve been aware of myself, we have worked together. They always send us out in pairs.

Together we are a perfect machine, complementing on all levels; separately our abilities are only slightly better than those of humans. But there is more to it. This natural compatibility extends beyond the mere efficiency for the mission. Without a partner, we eventually become useless, unable to perform. Even if matched up with new partners after losing our original ones, we still cannot perform as well as before. Nobody knows the reason why it happens. Our Makers try to find the solution, but so far many cyborgs in perfect condition are still terminated once they lose their partner.

What they fail to see is that it is not the unique compatibility that enhances our performance; it is the fear of losing our partner that pushes us to do whatever it takes, to stay together. But we are not supposed to care, so we never speak of our fears. We disguise them as blind devotion to our mission instead.

They untie us from the chairs. With the guns pointing at our heads, they order us to stand. I try, but I collapse immediately. One of my knees was shattered so I cannot use my legs properly. I detect nervousness in his eyes. I try again. They grab me by the elbows and lift me up. I manage to keep my balance somehow.

He is worried. I am making him worried. It is the first time we are in a situation like this.

They walk us towards the other room and push us in. I fall face down onto a rough wooden surface. I black out.

According to my inner sense of time I must have been out for about twenty minutes. I try to open my eyes, but manage to see only with one. The left one is still not functioning due to the swelling. First thing I see is his face. The next thing I feel is an unbearable pain.

The healing process has started. My broken rib is being repaired and so is the kneecap. To avoid any suspicion from the enemies, surface injuries remain as they are, or heal as they would heal in a human. It is only the inner organs that are being repaired, so that we can function at our full capacity when needed.

cyborg-3I try to lift my head, to see him better. He must have already healed. His body is built stronger than mine, so it takes less time to repair.

A drop of salty substance seeps from my eye. I wish it hasn’t, but for some reason I cannot control it. It is the only sign of my pain.

He is watching me attentively, without blinking. He knows what I am experiencing.

I want to tell him that as long as he is near me I don’t mind, but I am not able to move my lips. The pain is too strong. I think he knows.

Cyborgs are not supposed to fall in love.

But we do.

The substance that sends the spark to ignite this perfectly composed artificial body is called dark matter. It bears this name, because even our Makers do not fully understand how it works. They just know how to use it. The dark matter is what lights up our vast neuronal networks, causes our artificial blood to flow, enables us to talk, understand and obey.

From each piece of the dark matter only two cyborgs can be made. Perhaps sharing the same substance is what makes us so perfectly compatible. Perhaps, this is the reason why I seek his closeness beyond anything else.

We do not have feelings, or so we were taught, but if I had to pick a human emotion for the connection we share, the closest one would probably be love. But even love, as understood by humans, seems too limited and far too explicit to describe the intricate energy that exists between us.

The pain is almost gone. The repairs are nearly finished. I’m still lying on my stomach. I try to crawl closer to him but the shackles around my ankles and wrists prevent me from moving more than a few inches. He slowly shakes his head. He tried it already. The length of the chain is too short. I stop trying, his gentle gaze is enough.

When we are not on a mission we are stored in separate cubicles. Cubicles are neatly prepared living spaces, that contain everything an average human needs. Except the luxury to leave. We have to stay inside, until we are called.

I think our Makers intuitively sensed what I am only beginning to understand now. When we are together, there is nothing we cannot do. Everything becomes possible. That is why they keep us separate for most of the time, and allow us to be together only when necessary, for the purposes of the mission. They are afraid to lose control.

cyborg-2But the pain from being apart is beginning to be my teacher. It gives rise to all these feelings, I was not supposed to have, and which I still hide so timidly. And the more time I spend with him, the less timid I become.

Our captors are convinced they trapped us. But it was a trap for them. All along.

Soon I will have to engage in another bloodbath. He is waiting for my sign. I’m stalling. I don’t mind the current situation at all. Torture can hardly top the pain of separation. I fully embrace every millisecond in which my eyes are locked with his. I’m burning inside from the uncertainty of whether he feels the same. But the way he looks at me makes me hope he does. Hope, another concept we are not supposed to understand. Yet strangely, in this moment, it is all I need. Not a word or even a touch is necessary.

We will complete our mission. It is what we do. At least for now.

But this time I am not in a hurry.

As long as we are together, the rest can go to hell.

###

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Published by Karl Rademacher on May 27, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 20, Issue 20 Stories, Stories

THE BLACK KNIGHT’S CURSE

bn-1Slowly, the aging knight opened up his eyes and looked at the glossy black armor he wore.  How long had he been asleep, he wondered.  Three days, maybe four.  It was getting harder and harder to tell.

Years had passed since he first entered this trance, and now all he could remember was the battles.  They were all that was left to him, all he knew.  One by one, the lords of this realm had come here to challenge him, and, one by one, they had died by his hand.  So many men.  So many faces.

The Black Knight tried to imagine them all.  There were young men and old, weak men and strong, noblemen and commoners.  All of them had come here to kill him, but why?  Who was he?  What did he guard?  He then turned around to see a long bridge of stone over a gorge behind him.  On the far side of the bridge, there was a mighty black fortress with eight tall, slender towers.  Oh, yes, he remembered.

His master.

He was here to guard his master, the sorcerer.  And if he tried hard enough, he could even remember what the sorcerer looked like.  He could see his long, angular face and smoldering black eyes.  He could hear his sharp laugh and see his bitter grin.  But no matter how hard he tried, he could not remember the sorcerer’s name—or his own, for that matter.  He closed his eyes again and tried to think, but the only thing he could remember was what the sorcerer had told him the last time they were together: “Soon you will complete your masterpiece, and then your work for me will be finished.”

When the Black Knight opened his eyes again, he saw two riders approaching, a young knight and his squire.  Together the two men galloped forward, the young knight on a brilliant white stallion, his squire on a dappled grey.

Another champion come to die, thought the Black Knight.  But then he saw the banner that the squire was carrying.  There was something strangely familiar about the symbol on it.  Two grey towers upon a field of blue.  Where had he seen that before?

The Black Knight had seen countless banners since he took up this post.  There were lions, boars, bears, and herons.  He had even once killed a man with a sphinx emblazoned on his armor.  In fact, if there was a heraldic device within twenty days ride of this place, the Black Knight had probably killed the man wearing it.  So why was this symbol different?  The Black Knight shook his head, trying to remember, but it was no use.  He only knew what the sorcerer wanted him to.

bn-6The two young riders halted their horses before the bridge and dismounted.  The Black Knight studied them.  The young knight was tall and strong and dressed in a suit of shining, silver armor.  Beside him, his squire was short and thick and dressed in blue and grey homespun.  The young squire walked forward and planted his troublesome banner in the ground, as if to mark the spot where the two men had decided to die.

The young knight then raised his visor, revealing eyes the color of rain clouds.  “I am Lord Gabriel Carrock of Shacklefree Keep,” he said in a clarion voice.  “And I am here to avenge my father.”

“If it is death you are after, boy, then I will oblige you,” replied the Black Knight.  “Come forward and arm yourself, Sir.”

In a blink, the boy had a sword in his right hand and a spiked mace in his left.  Raising his shield, the Black Knight stepped backwards and drew his sword.

The two men stared at one another in silence, and then it happened.  The boy flung himself forward with a flurry of attacks.  Sword and mace.  Sword and mace.  He drove the Black Knight backwards, blocking and parrying as he went.

Then, all at once, a surge of dark power flowed through the Black Knight.  He lifted up his shield and drove the edge of it into the young knight’s chest, knocking him backwards with brutal force.  As the young knight hit the ground, his spiked mace went spinning off into the gorge below.

“Stand up and die,” commanded the Black Knight.

Enraged, the young knight climbed to his feet and grabbed his sword with both hands.  He then attacked with renewed strength.  He stabbed and hacked and thrust, but none of it worked.  None of his attacks got past the Black Knight’s guard.  Then, quick as a viper, the Black Knight shot forward and disarmed the boy.  As he lost his sword, the young knight stumbled backwards and hit the ground again.

The battle was over.  Exhausted, the young knight raised his visor and waited for the end.

The Black Knight walked over and put his sword against the boy’s throat.  He then took a long look into his rain colored eyes.  And then, just as he was about to kill the boy, his memories struck his mind like a hammer.  The Black Knight cried out, dropped his sword, and then fell to his back.

bn-2It all came back to him now, everything.  He suddenly knew who he was and where he was.  He knew his name was Lord Tostag Carrock of Shacklefree Keep, and he knew the boy he had just fought was his own son.  He knew the squire at the end of the bridge was his nephew, and he knew the symbol on his banner was his own coat-of-arms.  He remembered the names and faces of every man he had killed in the sorcerer’s service.  And now, most importantly, he remembered the sorcerer.  The sorcerer’s name was Ivar, and he had once held Ivar as his prisoner at Shacklefree Keep.  This curse was his revenge.

The Black Knight watched helplessly as his son stood up and grabbed his sword.

“This is for my father,” the boy said as tears streaked down his cheek.

And then he remembered the most horrible thing of all.  He remembered how he had become a Black Knight.  For in order to become a Black Knight, a man must slay one.

He then raised his hands and tried to call out, but it was no use.  The boy did not recognize his voice.  As his son’s blade fell towards him, he realized just how complete the sorcerer’s revenge truly was.

The End

Barry is a former United States Marine with a B. A. in Political Science. He enjoys fencing, studying ancient history, and reading and writing speculative fiction. He currently lives in St. Louis, Missouri, where he is slowly but surely compiling all of the necessary components for his first novel.

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Published by Associate Editor on March 6, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 21, Issue 21 Stories, Stories

Butterflies

by Ken Poyner

1.

butterflies-2Wonjel listened a moment to her mother busying herself upstairs, then turned back to watch Nika putting away toys.  Nika seemed to enjoy putting away toys more than anything, more than even playing with toys.  The small, slightly stooped under-girl whirled about looking for things out of place, and then put them back where they should be with a giggle and a glint of self-satisfaction that Wonjel wondered whether she herself would ever have.  Nika maintained a joy in such simple things.  Maybe it was not Wonjel’s place to have such self-satisfaction.

“Make sure Nika has on her tan tunic”, Wonjel’s mother called from upstairs, her voice not unpleasant, but knifing through the air.  Wonjel’s mother was in the throes of what she called ‘getting ready’, a ritual that preceded any other ritual or occasion.  Nika had a tendency to slip off her tunic, but Wonjel almost always made her keep it on when she was in the house.

Wonjel patted down her yellow dress, and glanced at the yellow sash her mother was sure to make her wear.  Nika would wear the tan tunic she usually wore.  Nika was not of the People.  Nika was of the under-species, a class of hominid without the soul of the People, without the gifts for learning and reciting.  The People could weave and plant and reap and herd, and reading was becoming popular even amongst the moneyed classes.  Poor Nika.  Her people dwelt drearily at the edge of the Arid Places and would come, if they were lucky, to be playmates for the People.  Nika did not know her own history, and her words were blurt and spit, expression that was discouraged in better company.  The under-girl had a face not too unlike her more evolved masters but her skin was thicker and her mind not of the People’s geometry. Her soul seemed to have leaked out long ago.

Surely, Nika understood that there was excitement about today, but she could not know what the excitement itself was for.  She luxuriated in the electricity of others, in the spice littering the air, though she had no idea why the electricity was there, why the spice was lingering on the edges of everything.  Later, Wonjel would help Nika comb her hair, and would make sure her tunic was on right side up and inside in, centered on her shoulders, and securely clipped on.

 

2.

I put away the things.  I know what is out of place.  I know what needs to go back into its place.  I see Wonjel be happy and I am happy.  Happy Wonjel, happy Nika.  I hear the noise of Wonjel’s mother, but I do not understand her want.  She makes great motions when small ones will do.  The sound at times is fearful. I do not fear Wonjel’s mother.  I had a mother. I do not remember mother.  But I do remember clinging, and of being in my place.

Wonjel has a father.  I keep away from Wonjel’s father.  I keep away especially when he is alone.  He has the way of claiming things. He is full of anger and invasion and I do not understand how he is made happy.  I put away the toys.  I use a clumsy device to order my hair.  I understand its use when I see it, but when I cannot see it the device becomes dull and without name and sometimes Wonjel helps me. She orders my hair and tames the device and I see myself as Wonjel must see me. It helps Wonjel to help me.

I would want a mother like Wonjel’s mother, but without the softness of scent.  I would fear a father like Wonjel’s.  A father of howl.  Wonjel’s world is more complicated than I have the wonder to waste upon it.

3.

butterflies-7It is the yellow that calms the Whu-ta-k’in.  There is something in its radiance.  Something in its soothing appeal.  It is why the People worship yellow.  Why golden hair is a gift from God.  Why the roofs of houses are painted yellow.  Why paddocks are shielded in yellow.  Why the prize breeding stock is outfitted in yellow.  Why the People, on the day of the Whu-ta-k’in migration, all stand in yellow and watch as the massive flight comes through and the Phe-butoo are exchanged.

The Whu-ta-k’in can be fierce.  The size of two well formed men, they glide on their butterfly wings, in a swarm of thousands.  The sudden beat of their wings can down a small child, can deafen the most gossipy of old women.  The creatures gather out of the forests North of the Arid Places, rising up each as one lone ingredient, joining the stream that flies across the Northern forests and the Arid Places and into the land of the People; and then on to cross the uncharmed sea to settle again in the Southern forests where they live, solitary in the season amongst shadows.  There they wait for the sun and moon to kiss once more, and with their great gathering then they travel thunderingly North to begin their cycles again.

Town to town the news is sent by runner of the migration’s location, and the People put on their yellow vestments, their yellow hats, their yellow sashes.  The swarm will last a day, the air having the sound beaten out of it by Whu-ta-k’in wings, the incline of the atmosphere tipped by Whu-ta-k’in grace, the sun shied back by Whu-ta-k’in strength.  To be in yellow is to be safe from the Whu-ta-k’in.  But to be without yellow is to be a spot of reason in the Whu-ta-k’in’s madness of hunger.  There is not much to sustain the thinning beasts on the flight, and many fall exhausted off, decreasing the number so that the best and strongest of wing can survive.butterflies-4

For some of the People, there is an industry in finding those of the swarm that succumb to the journey, a salvaging of the holy bodies. Relics collected.  Charms made.  Spices extracted.  Wings, if found whole, stretched out and mounted on filaments of whorl, a tool of reclaiming.

But the rest of the gathering searches out the food that will carry them to the next town, to the next thatch, to the next hillside. They will take livestock not protected by yellow; they will snap a stray dog; they would haul in one of the People if the People had not learned generations ago the miracle of yellow.  Yellow.

The Whu-ta-k’in do not abide yellow.  They see it.  They sense it.  They leave it be.

4.

“Be sure to put on your sash.”

Wonjel’s mother would remind her several times that day, and then herself fix the sash with a double knot.  Wonjel had golden hair, aided by home-made dye, and a yellow sheath, and the sash was surely not needed.  The more brazen of the People would not wear the sash.  In their yellow tunics alone they would stand honored beneath the hurtling Whu-ta-k’in, chests pushed forward, faces upturned to look into the talons of the massive butterflies, or those who might be giant cousins of butterflies.  Their courage would beam yellow into the souls of the migrating leviathans, soothing them, calming them, sending them peacefully away, sending them on to the quality of their business.

“Nika, now you have nothing to put away.  Why do you love so to put away my playthings?”

Nika looked at Wonjel and cocked her head to one side, the way she did when she understood the meaning if not the message. “Place.  Like place.”  She knew more, but could not say more.  The words were matted thatch that stuck somewhere between the thinking and the making and lay dormant and exhausted in the heart and throat of the under-girl.  She would hurl them if she could, just to see if they would bound or crawl, bounce or shatter.

Wonjel went over to her toy cabinet and took out a small wooden doll and two riding blocks, tossing them to the center of the floor.  Nika clapped her hands and made a slight hop and ran over to pick up the first block, while eying with delight the second.  Waddling on her powerful under-girl legs, she aimed for the cabinet and centered on it with all of her concentration.  When she had put up the first block, she went for the doll.  She had tricked the second block.

5.

Wonjel and Nika stood side by side between Wonjel’s parents.  Nika had maneuvered herself to be nearest Wonjel’s mother, not Wonjel’s father.  They were not alone, and he was focused on the collection of the People, but Nika had summoned memory.  Wonjel held Nika’s hand, and Nika enjoyed the warmth of the hand, the feel of the skin – much smoother than hers – pressing itself into the recesses of her leathery palm.

“Now hold on tight.  Nika can get spooked in a crowd. You do not want her wandering off too soon.”  Wonjel’s mother was a maelstrom of unnecessary concerns, a temptation for forgetfulness.  She would make rhymes for tasks, and sometimes the tasks would be changed to meet the need of the rhyme.

Wonjel adjusted her grip, but knew that Nika would go nowhere.

butterflies-8All along the town’s center lawn, the People were standing, stretched on both sides, in family groups one or two deep.  It was a small town.  They had been told by the last town’s runner from the night before that the swarm would be passing that day; it had left the last inhabited place the day before and had rested the night on the open plain of Zigor to rise that morning and pass through this hamlet of weavers and farmers and herders and hoarders of the word, before passing on, ever deeper South, their hunger growing, their anger needing ever more each day the yellow the People would provide.

Who knew what sanity to the soul of the Whu-ta-k’in the yellow brought?  The People knew.  How they knew it they knew not.  Part of what becomes a people is the mystery that holds a people together.  The People understood that the charm to hold the Whu-ta-k’in at bay, the key to making them a tool to be used and not a murderous bane to be hidden from, was the color yellow.  Brilliant yellow.  An unnatural color, the product of combination, elements mixed that only those who might weave or paint could manage and rely on in quantity.  The People learned it from the grandfathers who had learned it from their grandfathers who had learned it from a blinding, holy beginning. There was no questioning it, especially as the swarm rose and could be, depending upon the act of the People, the beginning of things or the end of things.

butterflies-3And there they were!  A shimmering cloud at first, but then a sense of undulation, and soon eddies of motion.  The swarm seemed a living thing, not a collection of living things.  It tilted on its axis and envisioned the vision of the town.  It took measure and took stock and stuttered in its purpose long enough to consider its options. It spied the lawn and its borders of yellow, and – long accustomed to its promise – narrowed and began to focus on the wide strip of public welcome.  As it closed, its life became the sum of its lives, and then the collection of lives, and soon each life alone, shored up with the next.

Across the green, one boy in yellow stepped out with his playmate in his tan tunic and walked with him hand in hand to the center of the lawn.  He spoke a moment and pointed to the ground, obviously telling his playmate that here was his place, he would stand here. And then more children walked out, male and female, with under-male and under-female, boy and girl and under-boy and under-girl.  When her mother tapped her sharply on the shoulder, a signal of time and not of command, Wonjel walked out with Nika still in hand; and when she reached the edge of the growing crowd she pressed Nika to the back of another under-girl, who looked around, but did not brace, her confusion and unwillingness to risk the punishment of disobedience stinging in her eyes like a house-pest in a funnel trap.  Nika reached out to grab this under-girl’s post like shoulder.

“Here. You stay here.”  And Wonjel was gone, a yellow blur back to her parents.

Her mother patted her again on the shoulder, pulled one strand of dried hair back into place.  “Mom,” Wonjel asked, looking up at the chin of her mother, “can I name my next Phe-butoo Nika?”

Wonjel’s mother, who had returned her attention to scouring the edges of the swarm above, glanced down to her daughter as the swarm began to bend down towards the public green, and said, “Why, of course you can, dear.  You can call it whatever you want.”

butterflies-6Then the swam banked sharply down, folding like a river folds when it is stumbling in declining gravity,  and the Phe-butoo began to be taken up:  sometimes in wholes, sometimes in halves, sometimes in pieces, the deep rumble of their screams hardly noticeable in the roar of so many wings so close together.  The aerial ballet of the Whu-ta-k’in was breath taking, and in their yellow guards the People watched entranced and nearly crystalline as in intricate choreography the flock took in this season’s indentured members of the Phe-butoo under-species, beginning the yellow-filled half of this year’s ritual, wherein the playmates of a thriving community were exchanged.

6.

Nika did not so much like putting things back into place.  But the comb was a marvelous machine.  She could drag its bristles along her arm and have the most wondrous sensation.  The tingles were a water that ran over her without the wet.  And Wonjel laughed when she did it, which made her laugh too, and she sat naked on top of her tan tunic giggling and laughing and perhaps hearing all of what lept from Wonjel’s lips, but not quite knowing where in her brain the patterns of Wonjel’s sound should be housed; and so she let them go and laughed and laughed and laughed.

 

AUTHOR BIO: Ken Poyner often serves as unlikely eye-candy at his wife’s powerlifting meets. His latest collection of brief fictions, “Constant Animals”, can be located through links on his website, www.kpoyner.com. He has had recent work out in “Corium”, “Asimov’s Science Fiction”, “Poet Lore”, “Sein und Werden”, “Cream City Review”, and a few dozen other places. When power lifting season is in recovery, he spends his time acting as a comfortable place for any number of his four cats to crash and dream.

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Published by Karl Rademacher on February 10, 2014. This item is listed in Issue 21, Issue 21 Stories, Stories

Hester Prynne’s Daughter

hesterprynne-2by Wilma Bernard

Neal was laughing, his head thrown back, his mouth open wide. The limousine vibrated with it, loud and full. Pearl had known he’d laugh — she should have known, anyway. Everybody laughed. They thought she was being funny. She laughed with him, until she punched him. Then she was laughing alone.

He made the limousine driver pull over, made Pearl get out. He said she’d probably broken his nose, said he needed that nose. So she was laughing in the dark and the rain, as her date rode off. She laughed him all the way out of sight.

When he was gone she spat up at the clouds. Her one constant since discovering time travel, that sky seemed intent on greeting her with unpleasant eras at every turn. In the past, people thought she was a demon or a god. In the future, they thought she was crazy, or just being funny. She was still looking for a time when she could fit in, but whenever people started to accept her she had the perverse urge to tell them that she was Pearl, Hester Prynne’s daughter, from the seventeenth century. They laughed. She inflicted pain. That ended the relationship.

hesterprynne-1This was her fifth decade in a week, so she was not in the best of moods as she made her way down a dark alley, toward her time-carriage. It seemed to be some freak of fate that wherever she ended up, the carriage was always down some kind of alley or lane, second door to the left. It might have been related to the freak of fate that gave a seventeenth-century maiden the only recorded working time vehicle, but Pearl didn’t have any way of determining their relationship.

A man stood in front of the second door on the left. A heavy raincoat shaded his features.

“Hello, Pearl,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Get thee gone,” said Pearl. “Look for someone else.”

“But I’ve been looking for you for so long.”

“And now that thou hast found me, thou mayst go!” She tried to keep calm, but it had been a fifty-year-long week, and she was tired. “My path lies through yonder door.”

“I know. Aren’t you a little curious who I am?”

“Vacate my path!” Pearl screeched. “I care for neither thou nor thine origins. Vacate my path or I shall drive thy head into yon wall!”

hesterprynne-3The man stepped aside. He followed her through the door, and flicked on the lights. They were in a warehouse, with glass fish on the walls and the time-carriage in the center, horribly mutilated. The roof was dented in, the glass windshield shattered. The wheels lay around the wreck, one of them twisted almost beyond recognition. The time-horses were gone. Pearl spun in fury toward the man who had accosted her. He was ancient, stooped and wrinkled. He had thrown back his hood, and his face was subtly twisted, as if it were viewed in a rippling pool. He was hideous, repulsive…and almost familiar.

“What hast thou done to my carriage?”

“What you did to me.” Was he deranged, that he thought he knew her?

“Perhaps thou hast mistaken me for some other.”

“No. There is no mistake.” Or maybe he was someone she’d met a few decades ago? When had she stuck around long enough to inflict that kind of damage?

“Who art thou?”

He laughed bitterly. “You first.”

“Pearl Dimmesdale.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. You’re the scarlet letter.”

It was Pearl’s turn to laugh. “Thou hast read the tale, then.”

“Read it? I didn’t need to. Don’t you remember me? I was younger then, but I was already old to you. You thought I was the Black Man. Remember?”

She shook her head, no, and hoped it was true, hoped he couldn’t be what she was beginning to recall, in images of childhood simplicity. Mistress Hibbins, and her witching tales. The Black Man, talking to her mother. The Black Man, lit up by the lightning, and she on a platform holding her mother’s and father’s hands – in the night, before her father would hold her hand in daylight. The Black Man who had always been with her father, when he was not her father but only the minister.

But he wasn’t the Black Man, really, only something like him.

He was watching her. “You remember.”

“Chillingworth.” It was only a whisper, but it seemed to echo off those glass fish on the walls. They seemed all to be whispering it back at her, confirming it, making it all too real. “No,” she said, louder. “It is not possible. Mr. Chillingworth is long dead.”

“Am I? Did you see my body cold?”

She backed away, shaking her head against his claim.

“Did you think you were the only one left from our sordid little story? You, the one who destroyed us all? Not quite. You ruined my life, but you couldn’t end it. I kept your father alive for years, when he should have died because of you. They knew I was skilled, but they never knew just how skilled. I’ve lived these hundreds of years waiting for you, Pearl. Pearl? Ha! Dagger would be more apt. All we whom you touched were cut. And did you care? Never. You left three lives trampled in your wake, while you went blithely off to wreak havoc on all the ages.”

hesterprynne-4“I? I have done nothing. It is thou who art to blame. Thou art the fiend who tormented, not I!”

“I tormented Dimmesdale in part, it is true, but who tormented your mother? And who, think you, tormented me? I was a good man, before you got to me. A kind man, even a loving one. It was only under because of you that I became what I am.”

“What art thou, what have I turned thee to?”

“I’m hollow. My better parts have rotted away under your influence. I am more than three hundred years old, and what do I live for? Can I truly call it living? I’ve done nothing significant for a hundred years but wait and search for you, ‘Pearl.’ I’ve finally found you. I think I have my revenge.”

He pulled a dagger from his belt, and Pearl gasped. “Thou art mad.”

Chillingworth laughed mirthlessly. “You need not fear for your life, demon-child. I didn’t kill your father, and I don’t mean to kill you. Death is too easy.” He skidded the dagger across the floor to her.

She picked it up, watching the blade flash in the light. There was a single pearl set in its hilt.

“No,” Chillingworth continued. “Death is far too easy. You’re going to live, the way we have lived. Your machine is broken, the horses are fled into distant eras. It’s like my marriage, Dimmesdale’s piety, your mother’s beauty. All gone or shattered. We had to live with it, in a world that wouldn’t understand. See how you fare, in the same circumstances.”

“It was no fault of mine!” She was shaking, screaming at him. “Thou must know it was no fault of mine!”

“But I don’t. I don’t believe you. I’ve lived too long, in the truth of this bitter world. It’s finished now, for me. No one will believe your story, no one understand your speech. Think about that, and I’ve done it to you. It’s only what you did to me, but does that change anything? You’ve got the tool. Kill me. Finish the job you started so long ago.”

She didn’t want to – she told herself that later: she really hadn’t wanted to at all. But standing there, taunting her, he was the Black Man again. It wasn’t her; it was him, everything he stood for, everything he said. He was the society she’d left behind, that condemned her for the circumstances of her birth. She tried to tell herself, later, that she’d been frightened. Sure, he seemed like a weak old man, but look what he’d done to her carriage. Maybe he would have hurt her if she hadn’t done something. Maybe not, maybe that was only what she told herself so she could sleep at night. But she still couldn’t sleep. Anyway, he would have stood there, talking at her, reminding and damning her with every vile sentence. And she couldn’t get away, and the fish were looking at them, and the fish wanted blood. They were all blown glass, hollow, and they had to have something to fill them up. If it wasn’t him it would have been her. She would have stayed, and died there, and rotted away, and they would have gorged themselves on her flesh, and … and that was all nonsense. She didn’t do it for the fish, and she didn’t do it out of fear, and really she never could figure out why she did it, but that she was Pearl Dimmesdale and she always did the wrong thing at the wrong time.

hesterprynne-5So, because she was Pearl Dimmesdale and always did the wrong thing, she lunged at him, dagger in hand. She grappled him to the floor, and stabbed and stabbed until those bony demon-hands stopped clawing at her. Then she stood up, and the room was deadly still, and the fish were drinking it all in. They disgusted her. She had to get away. So she shoved the bloody dagger into her belt and opened the door and went out. She closed the door behind her. She washed her hands in the rain. She washed the dagger off, too.

And she went away, and spent the night in a subway station, trying to rationalize and to sleep. But she couldn’t, and she wandered around the way he’d wanted her to, lonely and bitter. And she learned to talk the way they did in that part of the future. But people still laughed at her, when she told them who she was, and she still hurt them, and sometimes she killed them. And it was satisfying, really, to watch her enemies bleed. Because the blood is where the life is, and she was what Chillingworth had made her, after she’d made him what he became. She was Dagger, and cutting was the only way she touched people.

 

 

AUTHOR BIO: Wilma Bernard has had stories published by Youth Imagination, Every Day Fiction, and the Metro Moms Network. Links to her work can be found at wilmabernard.blogspot.com.

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