Published by Associate Editor on February 24, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 25, Issue 25 Poetry, Poetry

The Tattooed Lady

One tattoo is a reminder of the guy
whose throat you slit.
That’s a red slice
not a wayward smile.
And, with belly button,
those eyes make three.

And here’s another pattern on your shoulder,
a heart this time.
You like having a heart there
where you can see it.
Better than behind your rib cage.
There’s an arrow through the initials, MK.
But that’s because the tattooist
was struggling with the jagged dagger you requested.

A devil straddles your spine.
It’s a she of course:
well-dressed but horned,
left foot in high heels,
the right one cloven.
And both ankles boast
a bloody image
from the loser you stomped on
in the bathroom of that punk club.

Your body is a history
of all you’ve done,
what makes you who you are.
And it’s not done yet
with its illustrations.
Every suffocation,
each poisoning,
will get its moment in the needle’s glare.

But then there’s the guy
whose skin you totally flayed.
You’re having a tough time
replicating that one.

John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in Oyez Review, Rockhurst Review and Spindrift with work upcoming in New Plains Review, Big Muddy Review, Willow Review and Louisiana Literature. 

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Published by Associate Editor on February 24, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 25, Issue 25 Poetry, Poetry

Lost in the Forest

there is no key, just
an infinite number
of doors turned
inside out, each one
creating a black hole
full of white noise
and closing into empty
dreams where doves die
forgotten on rotten limbs,
their songs remaining
unsung by toads spitting
insects from their lips

A one-time beginner yo-yo champion, state fiddle and guitar champion, teacher, and certifiable eccentric, John Reinhart lives in the Weird, between now and never, collecting and protecting discarded treasures, and whistling combinations of every tune he knows. His poetry has recently been published in The Vocabula Review, Apeiron Review, Songs of Eretz, Star*Line, Liquid Imagination, 94 Creations Journal, and Interfictions.

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Published by Karl Rademacher on February 23, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 25, Issue 25 Stories, Stories

Silver Tongue

by Leigh Ann Cowan

Part 1

“I was a boy when the strangers first came. Bright lights filled the air. The ground seemed to shake. A thing bigger than eight huts together descended toward the field outside my small village. My family and neighbors rushed outside, forgetting their tasks of weapons-making and weaving, and of cooking and dyeing, to stand awestruck. We gaped at the humongous monster as it landed with a deep, throbbing hum, crushing the seedlings we had planted only days before.

“Then all was silent,” whispered Mangled One, pausing for effect. The little ones watched him with open mouths and wide eyes. “I should stop. It is too frightening for you.”

“No!” chorused the children, shaking their heads at the elderly man. “We want to hear the story!”

“All right then,” said Mangled One. “But you’ll have to listen carefully, and don’t interrupt…”

#

The gray thing didn’t move, nor did it make a sound. It sat in the field as the dust slowly settled around its flat feet.

“Silver Tongue,” my mother said quickly in a low voice, giving me a stern but worried look. “Get inside. And don’t come out until I say, you hear?”

“Mother, what is that?” I pointed to the monolithic thing.

“Never you mind, my son,” she frowned, ushering me into our hut. She hurried me to the vegetable pottery and emptied one of the larger ones onto the floor. “Get in this, Silver Tongue, and do not come out until I say.”

I obediently clambered into the pot. She put a finger to her lips, and placed the lid over the pot, leaving just a crack so a sliver of light could enter. I was a rather small child at seven star cycles, but perhaps that was why I survived.

After what felt like an eternity of my being still and quiet, I began to hear commotion. Strange popping sounds echoed loudly and were followed by shrieks. A few twangs meant an arrow had been fired. Crashes and thuds resounded as things were thrown and broken. Familiar names were called out frantically. Strange, guttural cries rang out. Terrified, I clamped a sweaty hand over my mouth. Blood pounded in my veins. I willed my heart to slow so no one would hear it beating wildly in my chest. I knew I would be caught.

But I wasn’t. And my mother never came for me, even when there was no more screaming. Hunger gnawed at my stomach. The light that seeped through the crack mother had left was beginning to diminish; night was falling. So I curled up in an attempt to get comfortable, and tried to sleep.

When I woke, I knew it was light again. I blinked blearily at the peeking day-starlight that filtered into the pot. Everything was still and silent. I wondered if everyone had left me because they didn’t want me anymore. The longer I waited the more I began to believe it. Tears sprung into my eyes and hunger yet again troubled me. My mother had ordered me to stay within the pot, but I was sure she wouldn’t mind if I were to grab a handful of the vegetables she had poured out the day before.

So I crept out. Cold silence hovered in the air. I kneeled down on the floor of the hut and began to pick up the little yellow produce. As I leaned my head back to shove a few in my mouth, I caught sight of something outside the doorway. Chewing, I stared hard at the lump, wondering what it was.

I knew I would be in trouble if I was caught, but curiosity had gotten the better of me. Moving closer, I saw that it was Looks At Sky and laughed. The old man was always falling asleep in the strangest places. I crawled over to him and shook him–then leapt back with a startled yelp.

Looks At Sky was dead, his eyes opened wide in surprise. Blood stained his chest. I jumped to my feet and quickly glanced around for someone to call for help.

But like Looks At Sky, everyone was laying across the ground or over each other. Some were slumped against hut walls; some were half in and half out of their doorways. Crafts and foods had been destroyed and scattered across the ground. Blood was everywhere. No one moved.

“No Wars?” I whispered hoarsely. I kneeled beside my tribe leader and pushed his head scarf up to reveal his eyes. They were glassy, staring at a horror beyond this world.

I looked around me. “Snake Flower?” Dead.

“Peaceful Girl?” Dead.

“Day Star?” Dead.

“Prosperity?” Dead.

Everyone was dead. I began to panic. I counted the tribe members, looked for familiar faces. Everyone was here, even–

“Mother!” I fell to my knees at her side, put my hands to her cold face as my tears finally spilled. She was at the edge of the village, closest to the field. She had probably tried to communicate with the beast, and it had killed her, just like everyone else. The huge thing was nowhere to be seen now, though deep scars had set into the soft dirt of the ruined field. Strange, round footprints led to and from it.

I don’t know how long I stayed at my mother’s side, nor in what direction I had begun to wander. All I knew was that I somehow ended up at another tribe’s gate with blisters on my feet. Here, huts were made of wood, as opposed to our clay ones. The roofs were of straw and grass, and several fire pits were dug throughout the village, above which pots of stew broiled. This village was twice the size of mine, and housed many people who wore bright clothes and had facial piercings.

A woman saw me standing at the edge of the village, and she quickly brought me to the attention of several others of her tribe. The woman, accompanied by a man with a hunting knife, approached me. Her dialect was strange to me, but she spoke with words I understood.

“My tribe is dead,” I stated when she asked where I had come from. “The beast killed them.”

The man and woman shared a glance of confusion, but led me into the village. She sent him off to summon the tribe leader while she fed me hot stew from a bowl fashioned from the skull of an animal.

She asked me my name and tribe name.

I shook my head, indicating that I did not wish to speak to her. She became silent and refilled my bowl with the spicy food.

A withered old woman was escorted to me by the man who had first approached me and another more muscular one who appeared to be her bodyguard. I set the skull down to show her respect, as I would had No Wars approached me.

“What is your name?” she asked in the weird dialect.

“Silver Tongue.”

“Seelvor Tong,” she repeated it incorrectly, but I said nothing. “What happened to your tribe?”

I recounted the story, beginning with the beast that had descended from the sky. I told how my mother had saved me, the horrific screaming, and how when I woke everyone was dead. By the end of my story, a group of adults in colorful clothing surrounded me. A couple of women looked at me with tears running down their cheeks; several men looked shocked and angry. But the tribal leader sat dispassionately as she listened, never once interrupting.

Then she spoke: “My tribe name is Galloping Forest. I am Seventh Rain.”

I nodded, wiping my tears with a yellow cloth someone had passed to me.

“You stay here,” she continued. Then she turned to several of the men who seemed to have more piercings than the rest. “Rising Moon, Quiet Son, Runs Fast, to Sky Readers village, go. Find out what happened.”

“Yes,” they said in unison, standing and setting off immediately. I picked up my skull bowl and continued eating. I refused to look up.

The woman who had first approached me, whose name was First Daughter, took me into her own home and gave me a bed. I couldn’t sleep that night. The low murmurs of the Galloping Forest tribe members could be heard until the early hours of the morning. The three men who were sent to investigate my claims must have returned and spoken of what they had seen. Eventually, the conversations died down, and it was silent. I now realized just how silent the world could be.

I laid awake, listening to the nothingness and staring up at the thatched roof. My brain begged sleep, but my body was too restless. The day-star began to rise, and yet I was still wakeful. First Daughter began to stir, then got up from her creaky bed and passed me to the firepit in the center of the room. She poked the embers with a charred stick, sending up red sparks, and added dry grass to it. Then she set about preparing breakfast.

I watched her.

She was very quick and skillful about it, and breakfast was ready before the sky turned blue. The delicious smell had filled the hut. First Daughter sat back on her haunches and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. She glanced over at me.

She must have seen the firelight dancing in my eyes. She beckoned me to come to her, so I rolled onto my hands and knees and crawled the short distance to her.

“Hungry?” she whispered, taking care not to wake her daughter, whose bed I had slept in.

I accepted the fresh bread and sliced meat, steam still rising from them. My mouth watered, and I ate it quickly. I was disappointed, as it tasted nothing like what my mother had made. The thought saddened me. I would never eat anything by my mother’s hands again, nor hear her voice, nor feel her warmth as she hugged me close. My heart ached as I tried to remember those things.

First Daughter held out more food to me, but I turned from it. She moved closer to me and put a hand on my head comfortingly. It did nothing to console me, and at the time I did not appreciate her effort. She wasn’t my mother, I had thought with distaste.

I pushed her hand away and walked out of the door. The village looked drab compared to their exotic clothing. I saw plants hung up on lines strung from the roof of one house to another; I assumed that dyes were made from them. I wandered around, ignoring the looks I received from the tribe members. Children with nose rings followed me curiously. The older the child, the more piercings he or she seemed to have. There were many children here; in my tribe, I was one of the only five children. I ignored the mothers who reprimanded their children and hurried them away from me. As far as they were concerned, I was a stranger and a curse. I envied those children–their parents were still alive and well.

“Silver Tongue,” called out First Daughter. I stopped and looked to my right, where she stood in her doorway. I had walked in a circle. She beckoned to me, but I remained where I was. “Hungry?”

I glanced up. The day-star had risen high in the sky, but was not yet at its peak. It was time for mid-day meal, I supposed. I shook my head at her, earning yet another sad look. All I wanted was to eat something I knew. I thought Galloping Forest was so close a village to my own. How could we have such different tastes? Though now I know it was in fact a five-hour walk to that village.

I sat in the shade of First Daughter’s hut, and she went back inside with one last pitying look, and I finally fell into a much-needed sleep.

Jostled awake by rough hands. A startled cry escaped my throat as I was pulled to my feet. The man I recognized as Seventh Rain’s bodyguard gripped my arm tightly, as though he expected me to run away. His face was emotionless, but his eyes betrayed uncertainty. “Come,” he said in a deep, reverberating voice.

I didn’t have much choice in the matter. He began to walk, taking long strides that were difficult for me to keep up with. His vice-like grip on my arm was beginning to hurt. He was bringing me to the front of the village, where I had appeared the day before.

A throng of tribe members stood facing the entrance; their backs were to us. As we approached, several looked over their shoulders and stepped aside so that we could pass. The hunched figure of Seventh Rain stood at the fore of her people, studying the strangers.

My breath caught in my throat as I looked at them. They were so different from us. The three strangers wore clothing that was unlike any I’d ever seen; hardly any skin could be seen on them. Each of them had a slightly different skin color; one had skin as dark as wood, and another’s was as pale as starlight. The other one seemed to have a flesh tone in between. Their hair was different, too. One had fire for hair, it seemed, and another’s was so curly it seemed unreal. Their eyes, noses, and lips were all different. Then I noticed the strange sticks they held down at their sides.

“Silver Tongue,” said Seventh Rain slowly. “These creatures?”

I shook my head. “Do not know.”

The stranger with wooden skin stepped forward, and I heard shuffling behind me as the whole village stepped back warily. He spoke, and I recognized the guttural noise as what I had heard the day my mother had been killed.

“Killers!” I screamed, spinning on my heels to run. I was stopped short due to the man’s grip on me. “Killers! Killers!” The memory of my fallen tribe flashed past my eyes–the blood, the glassy eyes, the cold bodies. The villagers began to murmur in shock and fear, moving back even further. They looked ready to run.

Seventh Rain spoke calmly. “Silver Tongue.”

I quit fighting, breathing heavily. I looked at the strangers wildly, saw them watching with unreadable expressions. My eyes trained themselves on the tribe leader as she continued.

“With them, you will go. Galloping Forest remains safe if you will go. So go.”

I gaped at her. I hardly realized that her bodyguard was dragging me to the strangers until we were almost upon them. The wooden-skin raised his stick, and the others followed suit. They looked dangerous–they were killers.

“No!” I wailed. “First Daughter! No! Save me, please!” But if First Daughter was in the crowd, I could not see her. I should not have expected her to save me, anyway; she had her own child to look after.

Seventh Rain’s bodyguard offered me to the wooden-skin. One of the strangers behind him said something in their foreign language, and the wooden-skin studied me. He replied, then reached for me and took a surprisingly strong hold of my wrist.

I let out a scream louder and shriller than any before, as though the touch burned, and struggled to free myself. Seventh Rain’s bodyguard quickly backed away. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I threw all my weight to the ground in an attempt to be too heavy for him. I clawed and bit him, but he seemed unaffected. His clothing was made of unfamiliar armor that protected him.

One of the other strangers quickly approached and grabbed me, and the wooden-skin released me. He stepped towards the villagers again, but this time, they raised their bows. The wooden-skin backed away and said something. I, still screaming and struggling, was taken with them, out of the village.

“First Daughter!” I cried again. “First Daughter!” But she never came.

And I never saw the Galloping Forest tribe again.

#

Part 2

“What happened next?” prompted one of the children as the old man lapsed into silence. Mangled One jolted out of the fantasy and looked at the eager children.

“What happened, indeed? Listen:”

#

When I realized escape was impossible, I ceased my efforts against them and walked. The one with fire hair continued to hold my hand, but not as tightly as before. We walked for several meters through tall, dense trees. I had never seen so many trees in my life, but I had heard stories from my elders about this sea of life. They had spoken of it wondrously, but I thought it was terrifying.

Almost suddenly, the forest began to thin. The trees’ girths became smaller, and gave way to grass. Then we came upon a meadow. I dug my heels into the ground, beginning my fight anew when I saw what we were heading toward. The fire hair cried out and tightened her grip on me, but I kept pulling, forcing her to drop her stick and grab me with both hands.

The huge gray thing sat in the meadow, waiting menacingly. While the fire hair continued to struggle with me, she spoke in her strange language. Another alien came and tried to speak to me in a softer tone. He said something to the fire hair, then sprinted off towards the monster. It opened its great maw on its underbelly and swallowed the stranger. The fire hair refused to release me, and her dark companion merely stood to the side and watched our struggle. Their expressions were unreadable to me.

The one that had been swallowed returned, this time with two smaller figures. The smaller of the two was carried in his arms, and they all rushed back to the edge of the clearing. When they neared, I saw that the smaller figures were children. I stopped fighting and stared in surprise. It had never occurred to me that these strangers would have offspring.

The older child appeared to be a few star cycles older than me. He bared his teeth at me, and reached out to touch my hair. He patted me as though I were his pet, and said something in a scratchy voice. He squatted in front of me in his strange clothing, placing his hand on his chest. He said something slowly, emphasizing his chest with his hand, still baring his teeth.

I scowled at him.

He said it again, even more slowly than the first time: “Luk-man.” Then he repeated it: “Lukman. Lukman. Lukman.” Each time he gestured to himself.

Finally, I realized that he was trying to tell me his name. “Lukman,” I said, bewildered by the harsh syllables that rolled off my tongue.

He seemed to be delighted, as well as the other aliens that surrounded me. I noticed suddenly that three more had joined them. They began to buzz in their language. Lukman pointed to me, babbling in his scratchy voice. While the others quieted, he continued to speak to me. He didn’t seem to realize that I couldn’t understand him. He gestured to me, spouting off nonsense, then gestured again. He was asking my name.

“Silver Tongue,” I said tentatively, gesturing to my own chest with my free hand. The fire hair still held me.

Lukman frowned and started talking again. “S–Sil?” he stammered.

“Silver Tongue,” I reiterated. “Silver Tongue. Silver Tongue.”

“Silver Tongue?” he asked. His smile returned, and he spun around to face his family. He repeated my name slowly for them until they could call me as well. Hearing them stumble over the syllables made me see that they were genuinely attempting to communicate with me. Perhaps they were not the killers, but the slaves of the giant in the meadow, I thought.

The man who had brought the two children kneeled beside Lukman. He pointed to his chest this time and said slowly: “Jaxith.”

“Jaxith.” He nodded, the corners of his pink lips turning upwards. He said something to the fire hair.

She spoke to me, pointing to herself. “Se-mi-ra. Semira.”

“Fire Hair.”

She seemed flabbergasted. She pointed to herself. “Semira.”

“Fire Hair.” I pointed to her hair. “Fire.”

She shared a confused look with the others. I looked around for something to communicate with. I spotted a patch of bare ground nearby and dragged Fire Hair over to it. With a finger, I drew fire, then pointed to her hair.

Jaxith turned his head to one side to look at my drawing from another angle, then his eyes lit up. He covered his mouth with a hand as he laughed, a strikingly familiar sound, shouting a word. He laughed as he said something to Fire Hair, and her hand went up to her red hair.

The others joined in laughing, but Fire Hair jutted out her lower lip. To me, she insisted, “Se-mi-ra. Semira. Semira.”

“Semira,” I frowned.

The small child whom Jaxith had been carrying approached me. It held out a tiny white flower to me. I stared at it. The flower’s roots were still wriggling, and I realized that it was a Ygit–a poisonous insect that disguised itself as a flower.

I took it between my thumb and first finger, careful to avoid the stingers, and stared at it, trying to figure out what to do with it. Fire Hair held out her hand for it but I held it away. These creatures knew nothing of this world, it seemed. The flower insect became more desperate, writhing in my grip. I understood how it felt. I dragged the reluctant Fire Hair over to a tree and gently placed the insect on its bark. When I released it, it scurried away up the trunk. I watched it go longingly.

The child stood next to me, gaping up at the flower insect. Fire Hair’s grip loosened on me, then fell away. I turned and looked at her. She stepped away from me. Jaxith and the others said something in alarm, and Jaxith reached out for me. Fire Hair held out an arm to stop him, saying something that sounded important. She never took her eyes off of me. Was she letting me free?

I backed away uncertainly, but none made a move to stop me. Still no one moved or spoke when I had reached the edge of the trees, nor when I had moved beyond that. Then I turned to leave, but stopped. Where would I go?

A twig snapped somewhere to my left, and I cocked my head towards the sound. A graceful tree guardian stood nearby, looking back at me with its big, solemn eyes. Colors rippled across its skin; they were good colors. It wanted to tell me something. The guardian looked at me for a long moment, then moved its elongated head to look at the strangers. I didn’t think they could see the guardian; it was hidden by a clump of trees. The guardian had come to tell me to stay with the creatures, I was sure. The colors of its skin foretold peace and prosperity. Without much choice, I looked back at the strange people, who still stood watching me.

I looked back to the guardian, but it was already well on its way back to deeper woods. My mother had always warned me to never disobey any guardian, for the consequences of doing so could be dire. There were many stories about foolish travelers who refused to listen, and often they met untimely demises.

I watched as the child plucked another Ygit. With a burst of courage, I marched back and grabbed its wrist, forcing it to drop the thing. The insect scurried away into the grass.

“Dangerous,” I said, touching his nose. My mother had often done that when I did things that she didn’t approve of. On a whim, I named the child. “Plucked Flower.” I reiterated to him that what he had done was bad.

Lukman walked over to us, again babbling excitedly. Even though I couldn’t understand a single word of it, he seemed to be talking to me. I no longer feared the strangers. The guardian had told me they were no threat. It was not these strangers who had killed my tribe.

I took Lukman’s hand and the child’s hand, and allowed them to lead me toward the monolith that had first landed in my tribe’s field. The adults followed us, and we were swallowed by the monster.

Inside, its breath was icy, and I shivered as it touched my bare skin. There was a strange smell in the air, and the monster’s stomach was empty but for the light that shone down from somewhere. It looked nothing like any animal I’d ever seen..

Lukman began to ramble on again. As though I could understand him.

“Talks A Lot,” I named him. He stopped mid-breath and looked at me. I gestured to him. “Talks A Lot.”

“Lukman,” he said.

I shook my head. “Talks A Lot.”

He nodded, seeming to resign himself to his new name. I pointed to the child that had released me and was now digging into a box full of strange objects. “Plucked Flower.”

It seemed the only way we understood each other was with hand gestures and names. So I decided to name all the creatures according to my people’s culture. I pointed to the dark one who seemed to be the leader: “Wood Skin.”

They repeated it. While most of them seemed eager to learn and listen, others seemed to be uninterested.

“Fire Hair.”

I came to Jaxith and had to think. He watched me expectantly, then I pointed to him. “Laughing Summer.” He had a warm laugh, and he seemed so far to have a kind personality. Laughing Summer stumbled over his name, and I corrected him until he could say it before moving on.

This female had the palest eyes I had ever seen, and I stared at them in awe for a long moment. “Little Moons.”

“Slim Face,” to the woman whose face was thin and pointy.

“Echo,” to the woman who repeated anything I said several times.

Another man drinking something belched loudly, drawing a disgusted look from several of his companions. He shrugged and became “Has No Shame.”

The last woman was another difficult one. I eventually decided to don her “Big Eyes.”

Plucked Flower came up to me with a strange, colorful device. I accepted it and stared at it dumbly. Plucked Flower pressed it with a little finger; the thing lit up and buzzed in my hands. I shrieked and threw it away from me, holding my hand a distance from me because it still tingled. My first thought was that I had been poisoned by the thing.

Laughing Summer immediately picked it up. “Silver Tongue,” he said, holding up a hand. He pressed the same button Plucked Flower had, and the lights began to flash and swirl again. A soft buzzing sound found my ears. The lights danced and spun in a small bubble on the end of the thing in Laughing Summer’s hand; it was quite entrancing. I stared hard at it, trying to figure out what it was.

I recognized that it was child’s toy when Plucked Flower began to bring out more devices that lit up and made sounds. Some had wheels and moved of their own accord; others resembled strange creatures that I had never seen. Before I knew it, I was sitting with Plucked Flower and Talks A Lot, examining and learning of these strange things. Talks A Lot, of course, rambled incessantly.

After we had played for a while, Fire Hair called us to eat with them. It was a warm, funny-tasting dinner. There were vegetables I had never seen before, and something brown that tasted like meat. I had never before seen browned meat. I came to like the taste of the strangers’ foods.

Sleepiness overcame me once I had eaten. I remembered I hadn’t slept for over a day. They put me into a circular bed–another first for me, and the softness of it sent me instantly into a deep slumber. My last cognitive thought was, “I wish my mother were here.”

#

Part 3

The next morning, Little Moons took it upon herself to start teaching me their words. In return, I taught them my language. They seemed to find my pronunciation hard; our language was more melodic than their rough tones. Even when they said something correctly, it was still hardly recognizable as one of my people’s words.

By the end of the day, I knew the words for most of the objects we could find, yet they hardly retained anything I had taught them. It was disappointing, to say the least. While I could remember “window,” and “metal,” and “washroom,” they could not remember my words for the trees and sky.

As we ate dinner that night, I listened to their conversations and caught several words I had learned. But I still could not understand them. They did try to include me in their conversations, but it took much repeating and hand gesturing before I inferred their meaning, and it took even more time to convey my words back. So, eventually, I immersed myself into concentration on eating, and they took the hint.

Over the next weeks, Little Moons began to teach me strange symbols to scrawl onto thin pieces of white cloth. I realized soon that they were letters, and that each had a name. When she reordered them and sounded them out, they became words. Little Moons also drew pictures next to the words. They were simplistic, but recognizable. They seemed delighted by how quickly I caught on, though I thought my writing was clumsy.

Before I knew it, nearly a star cycle had passed. I was eight star cycles then, and was able to carry on a conversation with them on just about anything. I taught them what plants were safe to eat and how to prepare them when their food supplies began to dwindle.

I learned that they came from a planet far away, and that they had to leave because they had different beliefs than everyone else. I asked why, but they couldn’t seem to give me an answer. They had reached my planet after thousands of star cycles of travel; they had slept in tubes that kept them alive. They showed me a great room full of them, all empty.

The giant monster I had first feared was actually their spaceship. They hadn’t been the only ones in it; in fact, there were hundreds of them, one for each of the sleep-life-tubes. Has No Shame privately told me that those who didn’t die in their sleep woke up and went insane. Many of them ran off into the wilderness with their gun-sticks. I assumed, on my own, that the insane ones had killed my tribe.

I learned, eventually, that Big Eyes’s eyes actually were not big, but magnified by glasses, as they called them. I tried them on, but the world around me suddenly distorted, making me dizzy. I couldn’t understand how they could help Big Eyes see better.

I learned all their true names, but still called them by the names I had given them. To them, their true names had no meaning, but were simply just a part of them. Laughing Summer and Fire Hair had twenty-three star cycles to their life; Talks A Lot had twelve; Plucked Flower, whom I finally learned to be Talks A Lot’s younger brother, had four; Wood Skin, Echo, Has No Shame, and Big Eyes all had about thirty star cycles; Little Moons had forty-seven; Slim Face had fifty-four.

Has No Shame, the best shooter, taught me to fire the gun-sticks. They were powerful weapons, more powerful than any arrow or stone. He told me they were for protection, but their people had often used them to attack and as weapons of war. The gun-stick was a fearful piece. Has No Shame also introduced me to alcohol and drinking games, though I found neither of them pleasurable. Fire Hair scolded him for teaching me.

Laughing Summer was a story teller. His stories were often comical, but also had lessons. One such story was of two creatures called a tortoise and a hare. The tortoise was very slow, and the hare very fast, and they decided to have a race. The moral of the story, it was carefully explained to me, was that slow and steady wins the race.

Big Eyes was the pilot of the spaceship, and she made sure that everything worked correctly. She was also able to communicate with their home planet, although it took several days to exchange messages due to the distance she called “light years.” When she was in good humor, she would show me how certain technologies worked. My favorite thing to do was flash the colored lights, controlling the power with the flick of a switch.

Wood Skin was a serious man, but he also was one of the kindest. Once when I had been practicing my letters, I had run out of the white cloth. There was a stack of them on the table, so I took some of them, even though it looked as though they had already been marked on. Big Eyes walked in and saw that I was writing on them, and snatched them away with a squeal, her eyes larger than I had ever seen them.

“Silver Tongue!” she’d snapped at me. I looked up at her in confusion as she began to rant at me in her foreign language, words rolling off her tongue faster than I could comprehend. Wood Skin, probably having heard the commotion, entered the room and came to my rescue. He spoke quietly to Big Eyes, who began to argue. Wood Skin seemed to win, however, because she gathered up the white cloths and haughtily left. He smiled at me and patted my head, saying something that might have been to put me at ease, though my ears still rang from my reprimand. He took me to a small drawer near the window and opened it, showing me where hundreds of white cloths were hidden. He gave me some and went away to whatever he had been doing before.

Echo was a very quiet person, and I never got to know her well. She was always off on her own, documenting plant and animal species. Sometimes she asked me questions pertaining to a creature she had found, to which I would reply with something simple. She appeared to be disappointed with most of my answers and skulked away to continued sketching the things in her book.

Little Moons and Slim Face were sisters, I learned, though I couldn’t see any resemblance. Little Moons had a more outgoing personality as opposed to Slim Face’s distant one. Little Moons relished in correcting my pronunciation and teaching me more. She often found pleasure in having me read to her. I think she was in love with my voice; she urged me to speak as often as I wished. Slim Face, however, seemed to want to have nothing to do with me. She only answered to her true name, Cheche. She ignored me whenever it was possible.

Talks A Lot and Plucked Flower became my friends quickly, and shared everything they owned with me. Talks A Lot frequently convinced me to wear his strange clothing, but I quickly rediscovered each time how much it limited my movement and I removed it, preferring to wear my own.

I lived with them in their spaceship for several star cycles, learning of their customs and language. Soon I felt as though I had always been their family, and I’m sure they felt the same with me. My late mother and tribe were rarely in my thoughts. As we grew older, Plucked Flower began to look more like a boy; Talks A Lot stretched taller and began to grow hair on his chin. My body began to mature as well, and my voice became deeper. Slim Face and Fire Hair made clothes for us boys.

Fire Hair then was nearly seven months into her pregnancy; she and Laughing Summer had fallen into something Little Moons called love. Sometimes, when she wasn’t overly emotional or irrationally angry, I would sit with my hands placed gently on her protruding stomach, waiting to feel the baby kick. It was fascinating to me.

“Silver Tongue,” called Wood Skin from outside.

I went to the captain immediately, leaving Fire Hair to her sewing.

“Will you help me pick these?” he asked, standing up and arching his back tiredly. He was standing in the garden with his pants legs rolled up to his knees, revealing his dark skin.

I nodded and set to work, pulling up the strange orange vegetables called carrots. I tossed each one into the basket Wood Skin had brought outside with him. It was happy work, and I sang old songs I vaguely remembered from my childhood, humming the parts my tongue lost. Little Moons came outside to listen and sew in the day-starlight.

I stopped abruptly and turned my head toward the forest that surrounded us. I stood slowly, peering intently at the trees.

“Silver Tongue?” Wood Skin asked.

I held up a hand to silence him. As if on their own accord, my feet began to move stealthily towards the tree line. There was something there, I could feel it. As I passed the first tree that marked the edge of the forest, I turned to the right.

The tree guardian was there, just as it was several star cycles before, looking at me solemnly. Only this time, colors that foretold danger pulsed on its skin. Reds and oranges intermixed with swirls of black, darting angrily across its flesh. A distant twang that awakened a past memory echoed through the trees, drawing my attention. When I blinked and turned back to the guardian, it was gone.

“Silver Tongue,” Wood Skin called, approaching me. “What’s wrong?”

With wide eyes, I looked at him over my shoulder. Little Moons had stopped sewing and was watching with interest. Laughing Summer came out of the ship, shirtless, with a gun-stick slung over his shoulder.

Words from my language rapidly poured from my lips, my mind racing. What was the danger the guardian was trying to warn me of? Was it them? Or was someone going to attack? Was I in danger, or all of us? Or was a horrible accident about to happen?

“What’s going on?” Laughing Summer frowned, coming up behind Wood Skin, who had stopped a short distance from me. I eyed his gun-stick.

“Put it down,” I ordered.

Both men seemed surprised. Laughing Summer didn’t move.

“Put the gun-stick down,” I repeated, a tremor of fear entering my voice.

Laughing Summer stared at me, but didn’t lower the gun-stick.

“Laughing Summer,” I pleaded, taking a step back. Could they not hear my heart hammering in my chest?

He gently put the gun-stick on the ground, never taking his eyes off of me. “Are you okay, Silver Tongue?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “You know I’d never hurt you.”

I glanced over at where the guardian had stood only moments before. I wondered if I’d imagined it.

Twang!

“Ah,” Laughing Summer suddenly uttered as though protesting something, his face grimacing. He stumbled sideways into Wood Skin, who grabbed him in surprise. Little Moons let out a shriek. I gaped at the bolt that protruded from Laughing Summer’s ribs.

“We’re under attack!” Wood Skin bellowed. “Get inside! Go, go!”

Laughing Summer groaned in pain, clutching at the arrow’s shaft. His face was deathly white. Wood Skin hoisted him up and began to drag him back to the ship. Another twang signaled an arrow being fired; it just missed Wood Skin and plunged into the ground, quivering.

“Silver Tongue!” Wood Skin yelled over his shoulder. “Move your ass!”

I scooped up the gun-stick Laughing Summer had set down and sprinted after them, hating myself. They wouldn’t have shot if he hadn’t put it down!

I listened for the next sing of bow. It came, and threw myself to the ground. The arrow flew over my head and lodged into a far tree. Wood Skin and Laughing Summer had made it to the spaceship. I pushed myself to my feet, clicking off the safety button of the gun-stick.

I pointed it in the direction of the twang, anticipating their next move. If they were a good archer, they would move away from their last attack point, almost always towards a more protective spot. I knew the culprit would be hiding in the thick clump of trees to the right.

I fired; felt my eardrum pop painfully, but I didn’t care. All I cared was to see a dead archer. I heard a high-pitched scream. I had hit my mark!

A young girl stumbled out of the trees, clutching her shoulder. She dropped her bow and fell face-first to the dirt. Several bolts spilled from her quiver. She was still.

I dropped the gun-stick, mouth gaping. It was a girl of my kind. She was my age, only about thirteen star cycles. My hands shook, and I felt sick. Has No Shame burst out of the ship, his own gun-stick ready, and took one glance from me to my kill.

“Shit. Come on, Silver Tongue,” he said quietly, grabbing my arm and pulling me towards the door. He put his arm around my shoulders, turned me around, forced me to look away.

“What happened?” demanded Talks A Lot as Has No Shame led me toward the kitchen. As we passed a mirror, I saw my reflection. I was pale, sweaty, and shaking. I looked as though I had come down with a horrible fever–and I felt as though I had. I had just killed someone. That girl was what the guardian was trying to warn me of.

“Take care of him, Lukman,” Has No Shame said gruffly, pushing me into his arms. This was the most serious I had ever seen him. “Keep him and Ghaith inside. Dureth, come with me…Shit.”

Wood Skin left with Has No Shame, a grim expression shadowing his face. Plucked Flower attempted to follow, but Talks A Lot grabbed him and scolded him. For once, Talks A Lot had nothing to say. I sank to the floor, shaking horribly.

“Laughing Summer,” I said when I saw him across the room. He was laying motionless on the floor. Slim Face and Fire Hair were tending to him while Big Eyes was busy recording an urgent message to send back to their home planet. Echo stood helplessly aside, trying to get out of Little Moon’s way as she rushed about looking for clean linens to use as bandages.

Laughing Summer yelled out as Fire Hair tried to pull out the arrow. It didn’t come out, and Fire Hair fervently apologized, tears streaking her cheeks.

“Stop!” I shouted at her. They all looked at me; Fire Hair held a hand to her lover’s shoulder. “You can’t pull it out! That’s the way it was made–you have to cut it out!”

“No,” Fire Hair shook her head.

“Bring me a knife,” Slim Face said quietly. “Give him something to bite down on,” she told Fire Hair.

Talks A Lot brought her a sharp kitchen knife.

“No,” Fire Hair repeated. “You’re not a doctor! You can’t do this! He needs a doctor, Cheche!”

“The doctor’s dead!” Slim Face snapped.

Laughing Summer moaned in agony. “Just do it,” he cried hoarsely.

“Help hold him down,” Slim Face ordered. Talks A Lot took hold of his ankles. Echo stepped forward to help, and Little Moons finally returned with clean cloths. Fire Hair rolled a cloth up and pushed it into Laughing Summer’s mouth.

I stood shakily, sick to my stomach. I retched a little, but nothing came up. I needed fresh air. As I left the ship, I saw Wood Skin examining the girl’s dead body as Has No Shame stood guard, gun-stick at the ready.

I stumbled towards the edge of the woods. The air wasn’t helping. I choked on my tears, and heard Has No Shame call out my name in alarm. I leaned up against a tree at the edge of the forest, and finally vomited. Then I continued deeper into the forest, not really aware of anything. All I could think about was the girl I had killed. She was my own kind; I was a traitor. The worst kind of traitor–the kind who instigated wars. I had lost my mother, but to another species. Her mother had lost her daughter to her own race. What horrors, what grief had I unleashed unto her family?

I deserved no less than death myself.

In the distance, I could still hear Has No Shame and Wood Skin calling me. I had to leave. I could no longer go back to them. I was a murderer of my own people. If Laughing Summer died, it was my fault. And then I would be a murderer of my family, too. My legs gave out under me, and I couldn’t get back up.

On my hands and knees, I looked up at the sky, tears slipping down my cheeks.

“Mother, why’d you leave me!” I shouted up at the treetops. “If you hadn’t hidden me, I’d be dead with you! I hate you! I hate you so much! You should have let me die with everyone else!” I sobbed and lowered my face to the leaf-covered ground, clutching my hair. My shoulders shook with each chest-wracking sob. “I should have died with you.”

I heard twigs snap as someone approached. I looked up.

“You.”

The tree guardian looked at me solemnly.

“Why me?” I asked it pitifully, a tear sliding down the side of my nose. “Why do you keep coming to me? Go bother someone else, please.”

It kneeled regally before me, pointing its ears toward me. The colors on its skin were now neutral. It had nothing to foretell.

I heard a new voice in the distance: “Bell Star!”

The guardian turned its head in that direction. I stood and ventured towards the voice silently, never looking back. The guardian did nothing.

A young woman was wandering through the trees, calling Bell Star’s name. With her was an older man; he was probably her father. She was surprised to see me emerge.

“Excuse me,” she said, inclining her head to me respectfully. “Have you seen a girl around here? My sister’s been gone hunting for quite a while, and I worry she’s gotten lost.”

Without a word, I took her hand and began to lead her back towards the clearing. The older man followed. It was only the thing I could think to do, for I didn’t trust my voice.

“It’s dangerous around here, you know,” the young woman whispered to me. “Aliens have been running around recently. My sister thinks she can take them on herself, though she swore this time she’s only gone hunting for food.”

As we reached the clearing, I uttered the words, “I killed her,” and released her hand. Wood Skin was no longer kneeling at the girl’s side, but she had been laid out so that she only appeared to be sleeping. Her bow and arrows were placed beside her. The men stood nearby the corpse, watching us as we appeared from the forest.

The young woman gave a strangled cry and ran to her sister. She dropped to her knees the moment she reached her and lifted her into her arms. “Bell Star! Bell Star!” she screamed as though it would wake her. The girls’ father hobbled as quickly as he could. He kneeled and picked up his daughter’s bow, tearful.

The elder sister turned to me and screamed for an explanation that I couldn’t bring myself to give. I began to cry again and sank to the ground, unable to look at them. I had no one to blame but myself. Because of me, Laughing Summer was hurt, and from my own anger stemmed a girl’s death. Listening to Bell Star’s sister’s wails hurt me even more.

Plucked Flower ventured out of the ship, unsupervised by Talks A Lot. He slowly neared the sister, almost unnoticed. He looked down at the dead girl for a moment, then spoke brokenly in my language to the sister and father. Plucked Flower was the only one who seemed capable of learning my language; I had spent much time trying to teach him.

“Excuse me,” he said.

They looked at him. The sister held a contemptuous expression. “Alien,” she growled menacingly. Her hand moved to her hip, where a knife surely was hidden. I shifted, my heart leaping into my chest.

“Not Silver Tongue’s fault,” he said, stopping both me and her short. He pointed at the girl. “She shot Jaxith.”

“Jax?” frowned the father.

“She shot first,” Plucked Flower insisted. “Silver Tongue shot in the trees,” he pointed to where I had fired, though that was something he should not have known. He must have seen from the window. “Silver Tongue not know she’s there.”

The elder sister scooped Bell Star up into her arms and began to trudge away sadly, acknowledging that her sister had been the attacker. The old man picked up the arrows as well and followed silently. I stared down at my feet as they passed.

“Murderer Of His People,” she dubbed me. The worst title one could bear.

After a few minutes, the sister’s sorrowful wails began anew, and I covered my ears.

Plucked Flower came over to me and wrapped his arms around me comfortingly. “Jaxith is okay, Silver Tongue.” He patted my head.

“You shouldn’t blame yourself, kid,” said Has No Shame, putting his strong arm around my shoulders. I felt Wood Skin’s familiar hand on my head, though he said nothing.

“Let’s go inside,” Plucked Flower suggested. “It’s getting dark.”

“We must leave,” I sobbed, wiping my never ending tears. “They will come to kill us. They do not see us as equal beings here.”

“We can protect ourselves,” Has No Shame assured me, pulling me to my feet. “We’ve got superior weapons.”

I wasn’t so sure. There were far more of my kind than the eight of them living here.

They led me back to the spaceship, Has No Shame’s arm still resting almost lazily on my shoulders. He suspected that I might run again.

Inside, Laughing Summer had been moved onto a bed and covered with clean, white blankets. He was still a bit pale, but otherwise looked fine. He was sleeping with Fire Hair sitting at his side. Fire Hair stroked her protruding stomach as though comforting her unborn child.

I treaded quietly over to them, and Has No Shame let me go. No one said anything, but I could feel them watching me. I vaguely remembered a time when I was sick, and my mother had taken care of me. She had…

Words formed on the tip of my tongue, and I closed my eyes. I let the words spill forth in a gentle waterfall. It was a song she had sung to me, a comforting song:

#

May the guardian call to you,

May he deem you well.

The guardian is more true

Than the ring of bell.

#

Back to the desert sand,

Your sickness shall exile.

My son, again you will stand

With your charming smile.

#

May the guardian call to you,

May he deem you well.

The guardian shall come through

And grant me you to revel.

#

My son, again you will stand

With your charming smile.

Here I will wait for you

Until that time may come.

#

When I opened my eyes, Laughing Summer was looking at me. Startled and embarrassed, I stepped back and put a hand over my mouth. I suddenly found myself laughing, for no discernible reason. Laughing Summer smiled.

“I’ll live,” he said, a bit hoarsely.

“I am glad,” I replied, lowering my hand.

Then he went back to sleep, eyes fluttering closed.

Once his breathing had evened out, I walked back into the main room. Wood Skin and Has No Shame were waiting there, talking quietly. Plucked Flower and Talks A Lot sat a little ways away from them, but it was obvious that they were listening.

“We’ll need to be careful from now on,” I said loudly, drawing their attentions. Before they could reply, I said, “No one can go out alone. Go out with as many others as possible. My kind don’t like to attack groups. But they will attack children, especially since I’ve killed one of theirs.

“Always carry a gun-stick with you. The more the better. Our arrows are often accurate and strong, but they are no match for your weapons. Start wearing thicker clothing again. If you were to meet with the blade of an arrow, at least you’d have a softer blow–and a better chance of survival. We never know when we’ll be attacked.”

Wood Skin nodded. “We will be careful. What will we do for food? There is not enough in the garden for us to live off of, not in the long run. We’ll need to hunt.”

“Hunt in groups,” I replied. “They will hear the explosions of the gun-sticks and fear our power. That might deter them–at least for a longer while.”

“Speaking of food,” said Talks A Lot suddenly, “I’m starving!”

“Shut up,” Has No Shame said, tossing his boot at the young man’s head. “We’re all hungry.”

Talks A Lot scowled and threw the smelly thing back. Then he returned to his task of darning a sock, though he was doing a poor job of it.

I couldn’t help but to smile. Perhaps everything would be okay.

#

Part 4

“And was everything okay?” asked Round Stone. “There is a happy ending, no?”

“Perhaps there is,” said the old man vaguely. “We are nearly to the finish now. Listen:”

#

For several days, all was quiet in the forest. But inside the ship, tensions were rising. Being stuck together inside for so long seemed to wear down the aliens’ nerves. Even the calm Wood Skin’s patience was short, and he often spoke curtly and resumed glowering. Squabbles broke out constantly. A fist fight between Talks a Lot and Has No Shame had to be broken up by Little Moons and Plucked Flower. There was nowhere private except the washrooms, which I frequented despite having no need to be in there. At least I could get a bit of peace there.

No one was allowed to set foot outside without accompaniment; this also served as an irritation. But they adhered to it to alleviate my fear of attack. Perhaps they also knew deep down that it was inevitable for another attack. The more of us there were, the less chance that my people would build up the courage to wage war. Hunting trips were far less fruitful since we did not dare stray too far from the camp. The gardens outside were practically abandoned and overgrown, though it had only been a short time. Yet we were safe, and rationing ensured we did not go hungry.

A month passed with no incidents, and the group had formed a peace treaty amongst themselves. Fire Hair’s baby was born. It was a tiny girl–a squirmy thing. To my horror, she was hideously deformed, and I lamented that the atmosphere of my planet, which they had told me was different from theirs, had caused it. The babe had a large head, hardly any hair upon it, and eyes much too large for her face. Her tiny lips were puckered, and her gums harbored no teeth. Even her limbs seemed horribly out of proportion. I spent much time fervently apologizing to Fire Hair and Laughing Summer, not understanding their confusion in regards to my pleas for forgiveness. Then, once I had tried to explain, they laughed at me and assured me that the baby was completely healthy and normal. I disagreed, though. Infants of my people were relatively quiet and curious; they rode in their mother’s sling and watched the world around them. This one wailed. Loudly. All the time.

Fire Hair and Laughing Summer had named her Nomble. I named her Crying Loudly. I translated it for them, and Laughing Summer laughed while Fire Hair scowled. Most of us went out as a group when Crying Loudly was awake; it was much more peaceful. It seemed that Crying Loudly’s birth had brought a mutual desire to go outside, never mind whether it was a large, armed group or not. It seemed the only way to silence the baby was to feed her, dress her, or sing her to sleep. None of those were delightful tasks, however, and none were guaranteed at any given instance to work. There were times when I seriously considered asking Has No Shame to bash me over the head with the end of a gun-stick so I could sleep through the night peacefully.

Wood Skin, Has No Shame, and I each grabbed a gun-stick. We were going hunting, since our supplies were running low. We thought it would be best to go and return as quickly as possible, meaning the stealthiest and quickest of us would be going. The others were ordered to stay inside. Slim Face and Echo observed that they would never set foot outside again, lest they meet Laughing Summer’s fate. Talks A Lot pointed out that they had, in fact, set foot outside on numerous occasions to escape Crying Loudly’s wails. We set out and did not hear the argument that was sure to ensue.

The forest was quiet, as usual. The animals were mostly tree-dwellers; that made the gun-sticks all the more valuable. They were much more accurate than bolts, and could kill much more easily, making a quicker and less painful death, I hoped. The only downside was that the blast would often scare away other prey.

We had gotten quite a few catches, which Wood Skin carried slung over his shoulder, when we heard a gun-stick shot in the distance. Wood Skin wheeled around in the direction of the spaceship, which wasn’t too far, but Has No Shame held up a hand and whispered, “It didn’t come from that direction.” Then he pointed ahead of us.

“Everyone should be back at the spaceship,” Wood Skin frowned.

“I think they are,” Has No Shame replied quietly. “It might be the others.”

“You really think they’d survive this long on a hostile planet?”

I frowned. My planet was not hostile–if you knew how to behave. If it weren’t for me, they would surely have died long before now. But I kept silent and listened to them converse.

Has No Shame said, “Of course they could have survived. They have guns. They can hunt. Just because they lost their minds doesn’t mean they don’t have survival instincts.”

Another shot rang out, this one closer to us. Has No Shame was right. It did come from somewhere in front of us.

“It could just be one person,” Wood Skin murmured. He and Has No Shame began to crouch to the ground slowly, as though they were trying to keep from making noise or show movement. “Get down,” he hissed to me, and I dropped immediately. Has No Shame rolled his eyes in a way that meant he was biting back a rebuke.

I heard crunching approach. “There’s more than one,” I whispered, pressing my ear to the ground. “It sounds like…five or six, maybe more.”

“Shit,” Has No Shame spat. He positioned his gun-stick to point straight ahead, anticipating an attack. Wood Skin did the same, and I followed suit, keeping my ear to the ground.

The footsteps grew closer and closer, then stopped. Several shots were suddenly fired, so close to us that my ears popped. I moved to leap to my feet and run back to the clearing. Wood Skin pushed me back down, his callused hand heavy on my shoulder. He stared intently into the trees, as did Has No Shame. Several more shots–and an unmistakable cry of agony.

A huge creature burst into our view, colors flashing desperately on its skin, silver blood streaming from multiple wounds. It screamed again–so horribly, I released my gun-stick to cover my ears. Then it crashed to the ground and convulsed, colors fading. Its eyes were wide open, staring just as No Wars, my village leader, had. Just as my mother had. The horror of that day suddenly gripped me–I couldn’t look away from the sight of the tree guardian lying dead before me.

Gun-sticks had killed the sacred guardian of the forest. I was hardly aware of the whoops and yells of triumph as aliens ran into the clearing, waving their gun-sticks over their heads. Shifting my arm so that I could not feel the cool, menacing metal of my own gun-stick, I swallowed repeatedly against the guilt that obstructed my throat. When that didn’t work, I focused intently on the new arrivals. They were a mess–clothes in tatters, covered in mud and sweat. Then I saw that some of them wore traditional pieces: a hat scarf here, praying beads on that one’s arm, a healer’s belt there…And several of them wore things that were unique to my village–bracelets given to daughters by their mothers, a baby’s sling, a bone star cycle counter. Hot rage coursed through my terse body, muscles trembling as I fought it, as I realized that these aliens had killed my family, and had stolen meaningful belongings from them as prizes.

The eleven aliens began to dance around the guardian, pulling all-too familiar hunting knives out of the confines of their clothes. They were going to eat the guardian!

I screamed and tried to push myself up. I had to stop them!

Wood Skin grabbed me and pressed his hand over my mouth, stifling my protest. I struggled, but he only held me tighter. The aliens had yet to notice us even though we were less than a meter away.

“You’ll get us killed,” he hissed into my ear. I watched helplessly as the first strip of sacred meat was shoved into a mouth full of rotten teeth. Silver trickled down the alien’s chin, and he let out a shrill whoop that seemed to incite the others to begin feasting. They converged on the prone guardian, and sickening sounds of tearing flesh made me feel faint. One plunged his knife into the guardian’s soft underbelly and gutted it as though it were an animal.

“Let’s get out of here while they’re distracted,” Has No Shame said. He began to scoot backwards, gun-stick still pointed at the group. Wood Skin also began to move, trying to awkwardly pull me with him. I came to my senses and went willingly. A bitter taste clung to the back of my throat, and I forced my stomach to hold its contents. There was nothing a mere child like me could do to avenge my family’s death.

When the men judged we were far enough away, we stood up and began to swiftly make our way back to the ship, not caring that leaves and sticks crunched loudly under our feet.

“We should move to another place,” Wood Skin said. “There’s no way we can keep hidden like this. And they are too unpredictable.”

“But where else would we go?” Has No Shame asked. “We don’t have much energy left to burn. Shit! Binder will probably tell us that it’s impossible.”

“We’ll make her make it work. We don’t have much of a choice, do we?” Wood Skin replied, raising his voice.

Has No Shame fell silent and glanced over his shoulder to see me falling behind, gasping for breath. My stomach had apparently decided it was a good time to renew its rebellion. Each swallow only made me feel sicker. Has No Shame slowed a little and put an arm around my shoulders. I gripped the back of his shirt, and he slowed until he was walking briskly, swinging his gun-stick at his side. Wood Skin must have heard our steps slow behind him, because he lessened his pace as well. The gesture calmed me, if only a tiny bit.

At our pace, we arrived back at the clearing, where the ship waited as loyally as ever.

“Shit,” Has No Shame said suddenly, halting in his tracks. Wood Skin and I looked at him in alarm. “We forgot dinner.”

I chuckled a little, but Wood Skin wore a serious expression. “Well,” he said, “we can’t go back for it now. We’ll have to make do with what we have already.”

“So, carrots and crackers. That’s good eatin’,” stated Has No Shame sarcastically.

Wood Skin rolled his eyes and kept walking. I followed, suppressing a giddy laugh despite the serious situation. I was glad that my stomach had ceased rolling at the welcoming sight of my home. When we reached the spaceship, the ramp lowered to allow our access. Someone had seen our approach from the window. We entered.

Talks A Lot bounded up to us excitedly, but his grin quickly faded. “Where’s the food?” He ducked his head from side to side as though to catch one of us hiding it behind us.

“A wild animal came and ate it,” grumbled Has No Shame, tossing his gun-stick into a corner, where it clattered against the others. The women shot him a look from their seats across the room, but luckily Crying Loudly was not startled from her sleep.

“Huh?” whined Plucked Flower and Talks A Lot in unison, looking at Has No Shame in disbelief. “Why didn’t you just shoot it, then? More meat!”

“He was just kidding,” I informed them. “What really happened–”

I was cut off with a sharp glare from Has No Shame and Wood Skin both. Wood Skin ever so slightly jerked his head, silently ordering me not to breathe word of what had happened out in the forest. I swallowed my words and winced as Crying Loudly began to do what she did best.

“Ugh,” moaned Plucked Flower, covering his ears. “She’s been crying all day!”

“What else is new?” Talks A Lot mumbled under his breath, severely put out by the lack of sustenance.

“Where’s Binder? I need to speak with her,” said Wood Skin over the baby’s screaming.

Fire Hair could be heard in the background, trying to shush her child, but it didn’t seem to be any use. Crying Loudly wailed on and on, and Wood Skin, pressing his fingers to his temples, wandered off to find the pilot of his ship.

My stomach growled. I looked around the kitchen, but there didn’t seem to be much to eat–crackers and carrots, as Has No Shame mentioned. The water supply was dwindling as well. A faint pop echoed in the distance–actually, it must have been very near if it could be heard through the thick metal walls of the spaceship. I moved to tell Has No Shame, but he was already at the window, peering out intently with his nose on the glass.

The others didn’t seem to hear anything; they were too preoccupied with Crying Loudly as she was passed from person to person in an attempt to calm her. Fire Hair was sitting with her head in her hands, whether from a headache, exhaustion, or struggling with her emotions I did not know. With an uncertain glance at Has No Shame’s serious face, I went to Crying Loudly and took her gently into my arms. She was squirming miserably in her papoose-like bindings, so I loosened them a bit and began to hum. Like Little Moons, Crying Loudly seemed to take to my voice and quieted.

Everyone gave a quiet sigh of relief. Laughing Summer snored away on a chair on the other side of the room. Fire Hair had dark rings under her eyes, and she leaned back with an exhausted but grateful look.

“Is everyone here?” Wood Skin asked as he entered once more, this time with Big Eyes trailing him.

I quieted my humming but otherwise continued. Anything, I thought, to keep the child silent for a while. Once again I reminded myself that there was something wrong with her, despite everyone’s claims that there wasn’t. No baby would scream so much if there was nothing wrong. I could not understand why no one was worried but me.

Slim Face shook Laughing Summer awake, and he snorted, looking around slackly and muttering incoherently. “What,” he mumbled before his eyes found Wood Skin.

Looking important, he began, “We’ll be leaving to a new location.”

The five who had not gone hunting voiced startled opinions and comments. Wood Skin held up a hand to quiet them. “I will explain more later, but–”

“Yeah,” Has No Shame said, still at the window, “I hate to cut your lovely speech short, but we need to get moving. Now.” He ducked at the sound of a gun-stick shot, and the glass shattered and rained down on his bowed head. “Shit!”

Crying Loudly woke and began to cry in my arms. Fire Hair leapt towards me and possessively took back her child, looking wide-eyed at the shattered window. It was a look not unlike the one my mother had worn when she had hidden me all those star cycles ago. Big Eyes looked to Wood Skin for orders.

“Start the ship,” he said. Big Eyes dashed away.

“Oh no,” muttered Echo, moving about and collecting the journals she had left lying out, clutching them to her bosom. “Oh no, oh no.”

More gun-stick shots, louder than before.

“Everyone, get down,” Wood Skin cautioned.

Has No Shame moved over to the corner closest to the door, where the gun-sticks had been stored. He grabbed one and crawled back to his position underneath the now broken window.

Slim Face, Little Moons, Laughing Summer, Talks A Lot, and I also grabbed a gun-stick each. Fire Hair, her baby still clutched tightly, Echo, and Plucked Flower were directed by Wood Skin to move into the next room, where they would be safer. There were no windows in that room.

Has No Shame cautiously stood up and peeked out of the window, then slowly raised his gun-stick and put the barrel on the ledge. After a moment of careful aim, he fired, and immediately ducked again. Shrill whoops and more fire could be heard outside. Has No Shame chuckled mirthlessly. “Right in the neck.”

A well-aimed, but possibly accidental, shot flew in through the window, shattering an overhead light. Little Moons shrieked in surprise, raising her gun-stick as though it would protect her. Slim Face reached up and raised the window she was under, squinting one eye shut. She and Has No Shame both slid their barrels out of their windows, then fired. More shrieks from outside.

“They’re running,” Laughing Summer whispered, breaking out in a grin. “They’re afraid of us.”

Has No Shame and Little Moons laughed, but hers was more of relief.

“Right then,” Talks A Lot joked, “Cheche and Nadim are our official new warriors! Nadim totally killed three of them–two with one shot! Cheche missed, though,” he added, giving the older woman a wayward glance. She scowled at him as Has No Shame chuckled proudly.

“Let’s go grab their gun-sticks before the others come back,” I said seriously. “The less they have, the better.”

Wood Skin nodded and pressed the button that lowered the door. Over his shoulder, he told Little Moons to see why Big Eyes hadn’t started the ship yet. Laughing Summer, Wood Skin, and I set out to retrieve the weapons, our own gun-sticks at the ready. Has No Shame and Talks A Lot aimed their gun-sticks out of the windows, covering for us.

I looked around nervously, suddenly realizing just how dangerous the loss of the guardian was. Without the guardian, there was nothing but my instincts to warn me of impending danger–and that wasn’t much. Then there was the fact that killing a guardian was the worst thing one could do. The balance had been upset. Opportunity for chaos was everywhere now. It was likely, it struck me, that the forest would die, as it was left with no protection.

Laughing Summer grimaced with disgust at the corpses, and kneeled down to pick up a gun-stick. I did the same, wiping some blood splatter off of the handle onto the grass, wrinkling my nose at the putrid smell that came off the dead alien. They smelled as though they had never bathed–which, I presumed, was likely true since they had arrived here. Wood Skin grunted as he bent, his fingers outstretched towards the gun-stick still held loosely in the dead man’s hands.

Or, he had looked dead.

As Wood Skin bent over him, the man’s eyes snapped open. Before Wood Skin could react, the barrel of the gun was pointed at his chest, the trigger pulled with a deafening bang.

“No!” Laughing Summer cried, lunging forward, but the damage had been done. Another shot rang out from behind us; blood splattered both the insane man and Wood Skin, who fell, clutching his abdomen. Laughing Summer then hoisted him up, as Wood Skin had previously done for him, and began to drag the man back to the ship. A sheen of sweat had already coated his waxy skin, his intelligent eyes dulling.

“Shit! Silver Tongue, get back inside!” Has No Shame screamed from his position in the window.

I saw movement in the trees. “There’s another one!” I called back to him, aiming my gun-stick into the trees. I fired–and missed.

I began to run towards the trees on instinct. I wanted to shoot the insane aliens dead, see their blood. Ignoring Has No Shame and Talks A Lot screaming behind me, I soon reached the tree line. Then I slowed, listening and looking around myself warily.

My finger pulled the trigger as a figure leapt out at me, and I hit my mark. With a yelp, the alien went down and was still.

My victory was short-lived. A hand snatched out and grasped my gun-stick. It was wrenched away from me, leaving me defenseless. I gaped at the alien that had appeared from seemingly nowhere, a lopsided grin on its face. More materialized from the trees, whooping and waving their gun-sticks. All of them wore sickening smiles, as though they were playing some kind of game.

With a sinking feeling, I realized that I had been baited.

Shots rang out, and several bodies began to fall. Has No Shame was still shooting, trying to give me an opening through the ring of aliens that surrounded me. The insane people didn’t seem to be aware that they were under attack; they danced around me in a ring as though celebrating. My heart was racing; there were many more than the group that had killed the guardian; there must have been at least thirty! I desperately tried to find some kind of opening that I could break through. The shooting had ceased as Has No Shame reloaded. Then I remembered that there was nothing left to use for reloading. We had been using the last of the stock for the hunting expedition today.

The spaceship suddenly shuddered and groaned as if a great weight had just burdened it. Then it roared to life, lights flashing on its underbelly. Only then did the crazy ones stop mid-dance and turn to look, lowering their gun-sticks to their sides. They still ignored Has No Shame, who had probably taken Talks A Lot’s gun-stick, and was shooting down the few that blocked my path.

Clouds of dust churned as the engines started–finally, I realized that Big Eyes had gotten the ship to respond. They were leaving!

“Silver Tongue!” called Laughing Summer, appearing at the doorway. The ramp was hanging open even as they lifted off, which probably was affecting the ship. He held onto the side of the opening to keep himself from falling out, and extended his other hand to me. “Run! Come on!”

I took off towards him, my feet flying faster than I ever thought they could. But the ship was ascending faster than I could run; I made a leap for his hand. Now I could hear the screams behind me. The insane aliens had realized what was happening, too. Shots missed me by mere inches, but I had somehow managed to grab Laughing Summer’s hand.

He groaned as he tried to pull me into the ship, but nearly lost his grip as a bullet struck the metal right above his head. I reached up with my other hand, scrabbling to find a grip on something as I felt myself slip through Laughing Summer’s hold. His fingers tightened over mine, so tightly it hurt.

The ship swung in mid-air, wobbling dangerously. The engine shuddered, protesting its awakening from star cycles of slumber. Laughing Summer pitched forward as the ship lurched again, only just managing to save himself. We were connected by only our fingertips, but still he held on. I could clearly see the fear in his eyes, and I was sure mine reflected it.

But I let go, only feeling a bit guilty at the look of horror that crossed his face. There was no way he could have pulled me up, I knew. It was my own fault for going into the trees, for not being quick enough.

My split-second musings were interrupted as I smacked hard into a tree branch; I hadn’t noticed that the ship had been drifting away over the forest. Winded, I fell to the ground. I felt my arm snap underneath me, but I grit my teeth and didn’t cry out. The crazies, as I decided to dub them, weren’t around–for now. I still had a chance to escape, to catch up with the others. I forced myself to my feet and raised my eyes to the sky.

I could hear the ship far above me, but could not see it. Its droning engine was fading as fast as my hope. The sound eventually gave way to crunching footsteps and the constant shrieks that accompanied the insane aliens.

I pushed myself to my feet and started in the opposite direction of their approach. It was difficult to focus on treading lightly due to the pounding in my skull, but I knew I had to try. I no longer had a gun-stick–no way to protect myself if I was caught. I had to flee. Behind me, they found my trail; I could hear them chasing. I knew the river from which we got our water was ahead. I raced toward it, pinning my useless arm to my side with my good hand. Perhaps if I reached it, I could cross it and they would not follow.

But when I arrived, I saw that the river was swollen from the earlier rain. Now it was too deep and the current too fast. I would have to follow the river until I found safety. If I reached a village, I could rally the tribe members and they would string their bows and hurl their spears. There was still a chance! I came to the riverbank and immediately turned left to follow the stream.

My breath came fast and hard, sweat poured into my eyes. My broken arm hurt terribly. The pain burned up and down my shoulder, jolted with each stride. The aliens were still behind me, spurring me on. I didn’t know or care whether I was leaving a trail for them to follow, or if I was being raucous. I could be imagining that I was being followed, for all I knew. I could hardly think.

I fervently hoped that the others had gotten away safely, that the engine hadn’t given out, that they hadn’t crashed into the forest. As long as my family was safe, everything would be okay.

All to suddenly, the river ended.

I skidded to a halt, all too aware of the shrill screams growing louder behind me. My eyes darted about desperately, looking for a place to hide, a place to go. The waterfall in front of me cascaded for what seemed like forever, and ended in a frothing white sea of foam. The sheer cliff face could not be descended with a broken arm. But the forest offered no protection, either. I looked over my shoulder, feeling sick, and saw that they had finally caught up. The one in the lead, wearing a nasty grin, raised his gun-stick as he squealed incomprehensible words.

I could not afford to think of consequences–I threw myself over the edge, and knew no more.

#

Part 5

The children gaped at Mangled One. Several young eyes flicked down to his twisted leg, then back up to him as he continued speaking.

“To tell the rest of the story,” the old man said, “I’ll have to switch tactics!”

There was a flurry of confused mumblings, but they died away when Mangled One waggled a finger in the air.

“It’s not much of a change, no need to fear,” he said. “I will tell it as though I were a bystander.”

“Why?” demanded Hallowed Birth, brow furrowed.

“Why not?” countered Mangled One. Then, as though to himself, he said, “Why, indeed? But no matter, thus it goes:”

#

A deep, throbbing hum reverberated through the air; bright lights shined down upon them, blinding them momentarily. Several villagers screamed in terror of the humongous gray beast that descended from the sky. It landed at the edge of the field, then shuddered and went still. A moment later, the huge maw on its underbelly dropped open with a hiss.

“What is that?” cried the voice of a frightened child, piercing the silence.

Mothers began to usher their children away, and uncertain men and young women stepped forward with spears raised. Harvest Moon, the village leader, moved to the fore of his tribe, head raised high. His eyes betrayed no fear, but he seemed taken aback when figures began to emerge from the mouth of the beast.

They came with strange sticks held at their sides, but with their other hand raised. They all looked different; some with brown hair, others with black, and still others with wheat or fire colored hair. All their eyes and skin tones were different as well. The strangers wore silver clothing like none anyone had seen.

One spoke in a garbling, throaty language, startling some of the villagers. Several shrank back with fear, while others adjusted their spears menacingly.

“Who are you?” spoke Harvest Moon in his most intimidating voice. He slammed the butt of his adorned spear to the ground as if to punctuate his demand. The strangers frowned and seemed nervous, whispering amongst themselves.

“They wish to know where they are,” Mangled One said quietly, limping up behind Harvest Moon. He leaned heavily on his crutch, slightly dragging his twisted leg.

Harvest Moons glanced at him in surprise, then returned his gaze to the strangers, who noticed Mangled One’s approach and watched silently. “These are the aliens you’ve told us about?” He seemed a bit bemused; the villagers had deemed Mangled One crazy when he had first started speaking of the aliens star cycles ago. No one had believed him; instead they privately joked that his head had been hit rather hard sometime before he was pulled from the river.

He nodded, a lock of long hair falling into his face.

“Mangled One,” Harvest Moon said, “you can communicate with these creatures?”

He nodded. “I picked up a bit from my time with them.”

“Ask them why they have come.”

Mangled One did so, and the aliens broke out into ecstatic grins. “He can understand us!”

“We’ve come to escape persecution,” answered the one who seemed to be the leader, shushing the others with a wave of his hand.

Mangled One limped forward, relaying their words to Harvest Moon between grunts. He halted when he reached the halfway point between the villagers and the strangers. This was so that he could translate easily between them, direction both of the side’s attentions to him rather than each other.

“Ask them what they want with us,” Harvest Moon called from his safe distance. He seemed greatly apprehensive, but knew he had no choice but to rely on Mangled One. It was a tough decision for him, but as the chief it ultimately fell to his judgment.

Mangled One asked, and the strangers replied: “We want to know where we are. We would also like to know if you have any information regarding the whereabouts of the previous colony. They seem to have disappeared several years ago.” Almost as an afterthought, one asked, “Will your kind be hospitable to us?”

Mangled One turned to Harvest Moon. He listened to him, something he had never done in the six star cycles Mangled One had lived here. He regarded him with a thoughtful expression.

“Mangled One,” he said at last, “you would perhaps know more than I what has become of the last–colony, as you called them. You can tell them that we are the Yellow Mud tribe, and that we will be as hospitable to them as they are to us.” It went unspoken that Harvest Moon would not hesitate to wage war if he believed his people to be in any sort of danger.

The leader of the aliens nodded at once, and he seemed grateful. “We can trade very valuable objects for any help you give to us,” he said.

“As for the others,” Mangled One said, shifting his weight, “I have not seen them for six star cycles. The last I saw of them was in the forest. I was running from them. They were not like you. They were shooting me and trying to kill me. They also killed my family.”

The aliens seemed stunned and speechless.

“Mangled One,” Harvest Moon called. He turned slightly to indicate that he heard, and was listening. “Will you please remain as translator for us?”

“Yes.”

The chief nodded, then looked as though he were about to add something. After what looked to be internal conflict, he added: “And you will teach us their language?”

Mangled One hesitated. “Yes, if you will learn.”

Harvest Moon broke out into a small smile. “If you do well, we will praise you, Mangled One. Your name will be heard all across our lands!”

He nodded, feeling his strength draining slowly. He was very tired. Crippled as he was, his strength was often fleeting. He was too tired to even feel the elation that he was finally believed, and completely missed the furtive stares he was receiving from quite a few villagers.

“You have a gift,” Harvest Moon said, still keeping his distance. “You should share it.”

The alien leader informed Mangled One that they would return with gifts, and left back to their spaceship. He sat down to wait for them and watched them go, and felt an ache deep in his chest for all that he had lost. Six star cycles was a long time.

#

****

#

Shortly after the arrival of the newest colony of aliens, Mangled One had found himself in a conference with the elders of the village. Never had any of them listened to his words so intently, enraptured by merely the sounds of his voice. The elders questioned him, only interrupted when they truly did not understand the strangers’ actions or words when he spoke of them.

It was perhaps the most Mangled One had ever spoken in those six star cycles. By the end of the night, for that was how long the conference lasted, his throat was raw and hoarse, and he could hardly make another croak.

During the meeting, it had been decided that Mangled One would be a teacher, and he would begin immediately, teaching the villagers of the customs and language of the aliens. Harvest Moon was adamant that they would not be at a disadvantage to the aliens should they attack, despite the reassurances from Mangled One that they were generally a peaceful people.

So it was that a pavilion was built within the week, and adults and children alike were sent in groups to begin their education. Until they had grasped Mangled One’s diligent teachings, he would act as translator between Harvest Moon and the aliens’ leader, Gregory. The children learned the quickest, and they had, after sneaking out to the alien encampment, made quick friends with the alien children.

Within a star cycle, Mangled One had finished his work. Every villager had at least a basic grasp of the alien language, and could communicate effectively. The barrier broken, the aliens and villagers began a constant trade, usually consisting of seeds or other valuables. Only minor squabbles broke out occasionally, but that was to be expected in everyday life, and no one thought much of it.

It was only when Great Yell came and informed Mangled One that a group of nine armed aliens had asked to see him that he was bewildered. Never had so many aliens asked of him at once. They usually preferred to send a couple to exchange words or barter for supplies, and even then he was usually left out of the dealings. Mangled One had reverted back to his state of the previous six star cycles, spending much of his time alone. Could something have happened?

He limped hurriedly up towards the front of the village, where visitors were made to wait until someone came to collect them. His eyes concentrated on the ground in front of him, willing his mind off of the stabbing pain in his leg that occurred whenever he walked. By the time Mangled One reached his destination, he was panting.

“There they are,” said Great Yell, stopping a ways away from the group. He nodded his thanks to her without looking up and continued forward with his eyes trained on his path, wondering what they could have wanted.

“Yes?” he asked in their language as he approached, then looked up. He drew in a sharp breath.

Eight aliens beamed at him, while the ninth stared down at his twisted leg curiously. Mangled One recognized each one of them, despite the fact that he hadn’t seen them for many star cycles.

“Silver Tongue,” Little Moons said in a cracked voice. She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. Despite his ruined leg, he had grown taller than even Talks A Lot, who was still as lanky as ever. Plucked Flower had grown into a masculine young man. Laughing Summer and Fire Hair looked the same, though a few strands of their hair had grayed. Echo, Little Moons, Has No Shame, and Big Eyes all looked older, faces shriveled like dried fruit. Slim Face and Wood Skin were not present, and a sinking feeling told him all he needed to know.

“Is this Crying Loudly?” Mangled One asked, smiling down at the honey-blond haired girl. Her green eyes flicked up to his, then she buried her face in her father’s pants leg.

“It is,” Fire Hair choked out in a voice hardly above a whisper. “Oh, we’re so glad to see you again, Silver Tongue.”

“Shit, what happened to you?” asked Has No Shame, looking pitifully at his leg.

Mangled One smiled. “I landed feet first at the bottom. Luckily, the aliens that were foolish enough to follow me over the waterfall fell head-first. They were carried away by the current to who-knows-where, while I just managed to pull myself to the bank. The villagers here found and rescued me.”

“Waterfall!” Little Moons exclaimed. “That’s so dangerous!”

“But I’m alive,” he laughed. “And you are, too.” He felt a happy tear slip down his cheek. He hadn’t felt so happy in so many star cycles. “And I’ve missed you all so much.”

The nine of them drew Mangled One into a hug, tearful as well. He let his crutch fall to the dust, leaning heavily into their embraces.

“Will you come back with us?” Plucked Flower asked in a very different voice. “Our ship is just in the forest over there…You should rest your leg,” he added after a pause.

“There’s no help for my leg,” Mangled One laughed. “How did you come across me?”

“You’re famous,” replied Laughing Summer, tousling Mangled One’s long hair. “And so young, too.”

“You need a haircut,” fussed Big Eyes, looking as though his hair were an abomination.

He laughed, wiping his face with a hand. His arm was wrapped around Talks A Lot’s shoulder, keeping him upright as his crutch still lay cast aside. “Perhaps it is a little long,” he agreed, eyes shining. He was acutely aware of the stares from several villagers, namely Harvest Moon’s.

But he found that he didn’t care. Mangled One–Silver Tongue–was reunited with his family.

END

• Continue Reading

Published by Karl Rademacher on February 23, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 25, Issue 25 Stories, Stories

Wool Rider

by Carrie Naughton

Part I

James leaned against the kitchen counter and shook his head. “You cannot let her do this, Ronda.”

“Why the hell not?”

“She’s only six years old.”

“Exactly. So are the rest of ’em. Let her have some fun, James. It’s perfectly safe.”

“You can’t be serious. They make these children wear hockey helmets and padded vests. It’s like gearing them up for Desert Storm! Tori Helfert’s little girl dislocated her shoulder last week.”

“Well, maybe that’s because prissy little Eden Helfert just isn’t cut out for mutton bustin’.”

James finally stopped talking, and Ronda sighed with relief. She had him. About time. She was sick of arguing.

But he said, from between clenched teeth, “I can’t believe you. You’re like one of those psycho beauty pageant moms, except you’re trying to turn our daughter into some kind of rodeo warrior.”

Ronda snorted, and went back to emptying the dishwasher. “Really, James. You sound ridiculous. They ride sheep, for God’s sake. For six seconds. It’s stupid fun.”

“Our daughter cannot ride sheep. It’s patently absurd. You know why.”

“No. Actually I don’t.” Yes, she did know why. But when James glowered at her and used uppity pedantic phrases like patently absurd as if he considered himself Booker T. Washington reincarnated, Ronda always played the offensive.   “And Lulu is so excited. She hasn’t stopped talking about it.”

“You told her she could go?”

Ronda didn’t need to glance up at James to know that he was enraged. She could hear it crackling the air.

“No, I did not. But it’s all I can do to keep her pacified without actually consenting to this. That’s why I’m bringing it up now. The rodeo is Friday, and Lulu wants to go. Let me tell her we’ll take her. I need to sign her up before tomorrow afternoon.”

“Ronda.” James’ voice changed to a low growl. “Look at me.”

She complied, a pair of forks in one hand and a spatula in the other, on her way to the drawer where they kept their utensils. James’ eyes had gone amber, pupils dilated to deep black pools. His dark skin, gleaming with a sheen of sweat, rippled along his jawline as he clenched his teeth.

“What?” she barked, feeling her own hackles rise.

“You can’t sign her up. It’s tough enough trying to assimilate in this damn town. The last thing we need is -”

“It’ll be fine. She’s only six. You’ve seen her with the Nelsons’ chickens. And Jenny’s cat next door. Lulu’s just a pup. I want her to have some fun.”

“And riding these poor sheep in a muddy arena is supposed to be fun? It doesn’t sound like our kind of fun.”

“Well, not that PETA or your comrades at the University would approve, but yes. Fun.”

“You know what I meant.”

“Every kid in this town except for the Gaffners’ diabetic boy is signed up for this. Lulu wants to do it -”

“She isn’t like the other kids in this town -”

“- she wants you to be there to cheer her on. Hell, James, we both know she’s tough. She might even take home a ribbon.”

“Oh, if she rides, she’ll take home first place,” James puffed up, never one who’d diminish his daughter’s prowess at anything, whether it was piano lessons or shoe-tying.

Ronda could sense him bending to her will. She smiled, tossed the forks and the spatula in the drawer, and crossed the kitchen to her husband, holding out her arms. He pulled her to him, and he smelled of autumn leaves and woodsmoke and last night’s moon.

“You’ll see,” Ronda said, kissing his mouth before he could open it and say anything else. “Our daughter will be a champion.”

James laughed, conceding the fight. “Don’t make me regret this,” he murmured, and licked her neck.

“You’re gonna be late for class,” she pushed him away, but he held on to her for a moment and bit her earlobe. She almost jumped him right there. Fighting with James always did that to her.

After he drove off in their one vehicle, a beatup Honda Odyssey van, Ronda went to the bedroom and exchanged her robe and pajamas for jeans, a flannel buttondown, and Redwing workboots. She collected her hardhat and a plastic grocery bag of lunch food, locked the house and set out for the one mile walk to the construction site. After James had landed the assistant professor position with Boise State’s Biology Department and they’d moved to this town, Ronda couldn’t find work. It had been three months now, and even with her Masters in Business Administration and years of experience in public relations, no one was hiring. Or maybe no one wanted to hire her. Finally last month she’d fallen back on the work that had put her through college, before she’d met and married her husband. Construction. Her father had been a foreman for a leading contractor in Atlanta, and Ronda had worked on his crews since the age of fifteen.

The morning was cool and redolent with October aromas. And for Ronda, more than burning leaves and coming snow. She could smell the rot of a roadkilled squirrel two streets away: a red burble of guts and offal and asphalt. Three houses up, Greta Jameson had left her kitchen window open as she rummaged in her fridge, and Ronda could taste raw meat – hamburgers for dinner, kids – and the musty funk of Greta’s night sweat. Greta was a stay at home mom and even though she was sweet and matronly, Ronda couldn’t seem to warm to her. She could tell that Greta harbored a kneejerk disdain for Ronda – working class, black, and outspoken – that she tried mightily to both conceal and overcome. Maybe some day they might be friends, but Ronda doubted it. Greta’s kids were unruly little brats anyway.

Ronda turned her thoughts back to her own business. She would never admit it to James, but lately she’d been thinking seriously about staying in construction. There was something about swinging a hammer and driving a forklift that satisfied her in a way no desk job or press release ever could.

She laughed, strolling down the treelined suburban sidewalk. Unfortunately, Darryl and his buddy Chris were coming toward her down Shoshone Street, and they heard her. She caught their scents too late and cursed herself; how had she not noticed that cloud of cheap cologne and last night’s Jim Beam? Dammit to hell. She might have slipped past them and kept going down Teton, if she hadn’t laughed.

“Heeyyy, Ronda!” Darryl called out. “Heyyy, there lady,” he strutted a little, swinging his own lunch bag and quickening his pace to reach her. He had long legs and a rangy, looselimbed way of moving that was more akin to stalking than walking. Chris puffed along trying to keep up, looking slightly worried, as he should. Darryl pointed his narrow face at her and lifted his chin slightly in greeting.

“Morning, Darryl,” Ronda said, and kept going, head down, arms and knees pumping, walking as fast as she could without appearing to hurry.

“Where you goin’ so fast? Whyn’t you walk with us? We goin’ the same place, right?”

Ronda ignored him.   It was the only thing to do. Half a mile to go. He never bothered her at the site. He was annoying, but not stupid. It was 1996, not 1966, and even though she still had to listen to bad Anita Hill jokes, their foreman made it a point to remind all the new employees of sexual harassment laws. She tried not to think about how different her world might be if that weren’t the case.

“Rondaaaa,” Darryl sang out behind her. She thought he might be closing in, but dared not look back. He would give up after a few minutes, if past incidences were anything to rely on. Unlike some of the other guys, Darryl was all bluster and no muster, as her father might say. And Chris was weak. Still, knowing all this didn’t stop her from wanting to turn around and run Chris down like a deer and rip his throat out. What prevented her from this, she couldn’t say.

She breathed hard through her nose, licked her lips, and kept walking. The construction site was up ahead: chalk dust, iron, and the early morning fresh perspiration of men. Ronda focused on that and let her limbs carry her forward, faster than Darryl or Chris could keep pace.

She didn’t see the two teenagers on bikes rolling at her down the sidewalk as she started across the road. They were going the wrong way, and so she didn’t clock them until they were both right on top of her. Two greasy-haired boys in jeans and hoodies with snarls on their pimply faces. She finally smelled acne lotion and dirty boxer shorts in time to spring backward, pissed at herself for being off her guard this morning.

“Watch where you’re fuckin’ goin’!” The bigger boy yelled at her as he cruised past without braking, leaving a waft of adolescent boy-stank in his wake. The back of his hoodie advertised Pantera’s Cowboys from Hell tour, and Ronda thought: that’s right, welcome to my life in Idaho. Cowboys from hell.

The second boy followed, glaring at her with a scrunched-up face like an angry mutt and jabbing his middle finger in her direction. Neither one of them slowed down, and they surely would have plowed right through her had she not moved faster than a human.   For the second time in ten minutes, she laughed aloud. Something about the boy’s face and his simmering pubescent rage struck her as hilarious.

Pantera braked suddenly in the middle of the road, skidded out in a 180 and zeroed his beady eyes on where she still stood in a semi-crouch on the sidewalk.   Uh oh, she thought, meeting his soulless gaze. Target Acquired.

“What’s so funny?” Pantera demanded.

“Yeah!” Muttface chimed in, circling back on his dirtbike, standing on the pedals and staring her down as he coasted past, so close that Ronda took a step back and almost tripped over the curb. She thought of Lulu, and the possibility that her only child would some day attend school with cretins like Pantera and Muttface. Unacceptable. But what could she do right now?

Before she could respond, she caught Darryl’s boozy scent as he approached with Chris, upwind.

Back off, Ronda thought, and it took every ounce of will she had to batten down her wrath and replace it with meekness.

“I almost tripped over my own feet,” Ronda told the two teenagers, who were now cycling around her like a pack of hyenas, so near she could count their zits.

“Yeah you did,” Pantera muttered, and spat on the sidewalk.

“Yeah!” Muttface barked.

Ronda did not laugh again. Man, she wanted to. But being silent calmed her. Her heart began to beat at a subdued pace.

She took a step forward, intending to keep going. Down the street at the job site, Adam’s table saw whined and sparks snapped in the chilly air. So close.

But Pantera and Muttface followed, zigzagging around her on their bikes, swooping across her path and trying to cut her off. They laughed too now, especially when Pantera reached out and thwacked Ronda’s baseball cap off her head. It flipped backward and landed in the gutter on top of a matted drift of dead maple leaves, and Ronda felt a cool breeze tickle her forehead. She ignored the boys and squatted to pick up the hat – no way would she bend over in front of the little bastards. She’d pick up her hat and keep moving and they’d get bored soon.

She would have done that. Really, she would’ve. But after she put her cap back on, before she could stand, Pantera swerved on his next round, and his knee bumped her shoulder. Might’ve been an accident. Ronda lost her balance for a second, but she also lost her control. She was up on her feet before Pantera coasted past her, and she was in front of his bike before he knew it. She reached out and put her hand on the dirtbike’s handlebars and kicked at the front tire of the bike with her left workboot. The bike tires screeched with a sudden smoke of burning rubber, the bike flew backward like a discarded toy, and Pantera was launched forward into her arms. Ronda caught him easily in midair, and held him aloft with both her fists gripping his grimy hoodie. Dimly she heard the squawk of Muttface’s brakes and the rasp of his bike tires on the pavement as he came to a stop and goggled at them.

Pantera froze, dangling in midair like a dogtoy and gazing down at her with a priceless expression on his face – equal parts puzzled surprise and instinctive fear. She savored it, and then she saw Darryl and Chris rounding the corner.

“Don’t you ever mess with me again,” Ronda told Pantera in a low rumble. “Or I will feed that bike to you, piece by piece. You got that?”

She dropped him, and he fell in a heap on the street. He never answered her, and was up and on his bike in seconds, pedaling away with Muttface – who kept glancing frightfully over his shoulder all the way down Teton Street.

Darryl saw it all.

“Hey, Ronda,” he greeted her casually. “You always start off the morning beatin’ up the neighborhood kids?”

Ronda glared at him, but he wasn’t mocking her now. She sniffed, then wiped her nose. “You know those boys?”

Darryl nodded. “Wish I didn’t,” he replied, eyeing her with his usual unwarranted appreciation.

Chris hung back in apprehension. Ronda thought he would’ve dropped to the ground and showed her his tender white belly if she’d demanded it.

“I didn’t like their manners,” Ronda said.

“I don’t like their faces,” said Darryl, and when he laughed, she found to her surprise that she was laughing with him.   “You must bench 130,” Darryl added, probing her body with his eyes in an altogether new way. “Maybe 140? Don’t be askin’ me to lift nothin’ for ya when we’re workin’.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” Ronda promised him. The three of them continued walking down the street. This was not a workday story she would be sharing with James that night. But she wished she could. She didn’t trust Darryl any more now than she did twenty minutes ago, but maybe he wasn’t as bad as her instincts had told her. He wasn’t wary of her, though, and that could prove either useful or dangerous, in the same way that Chris’ anxiety could work for or against her some day.

By now they had reached the site, a two story, three bedroom home that was coming together a week ahead of schedule. Ronda relished the hours of manual labor ahead of her. She needed to burn off her aggression. Darryl and Chris couldn’t possibly have noticed, but she was shaking with unspent adrenalin. Anyone like her in a two mile radius could’ve caught a whiff of it.

“Ronda!” Eric Walters, the foreman, called her over as soon as he saw her. “I need you to swing by the office and pick up a few things.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. Take the truck.” He handed her the keys. “I walked off this morning and left the damn plans sitting on the worktable.”

Ronda almost blurted out well why don’t you take the truck and go get ’em yourself, but gritted her teeth and choked back the words.   Eric’s wife was three months’ into chemotherapy, and he had potentially more shit to deal with than Ronda could claim. Ronda always scented a pall of death and sickness on Eric and couldn’t ever stand closer than arms length. Still, he’d chosen her to run errands for him. Of course he had. The only woman on the crew, the only non-white, and who knew which of these made her the least necessary. No matter that half the boys spent the days when Eric wasn’t on site smoking weed and sitting around while she, Darryl, and a few of the other jerks actually got some work done. More points for Darryl, she realized.

Ronda took the keys from Eric.

“Becky’s got everything ready for you, and she knows you’re comin’.   Thanks, Ronda.” He started to walk away, then turned back. “Bring me a coffee, too?”

Ronda opened her mouth, not even sure of what she might say, and Eric laughed. “I’m kidding,” he told her.

Ha ha, she thought, but forced herself to give him a big smile. She saw a twinge of unease in his eyes before she pivoted away and headed for the big blue Ford F350 Super Duty that gleamed in the dirt driveway. She’d driven it before – oh yeah, not the first time Eric had sent her out as his errand girl – and captaining the big beast down the streets of Boise was perhaps the only reward for being a lackey.

She climbed up onto the plush bench, tossed her hardhat and her lunch sack on the passenger seat and slammed the door, leaning forward over the wheel without realizing it. To keep away from the gun rack behind her head. Eric’s hunting rifle was the only thing Ronda didn’t like about his truck. She didn’t like guns. Too many close calls. Gun oil smelled like terror to her. It made her think of home, the home they’d had to flee after James’ family had been –

Nevermind. No point in thinking about that. They were here now, and she’d decide how safe here was soon enough.

The rumble of the Ford’s engine shook the frame of the half-built house like an avalanche, and Ronda smiled with genuine pleasure. She didn’t like the diesel stink, but it was better than unwashed teenager or chemo reek. She threw the truck into Reverse and backed out onto the street. Adam straightened up from sawing a sheet of plywood and saluted her. She returned the gesture as she drove off.

The offices of Walters & Sons Construction occupied a doublewide trailer painted the color of mashed potatoes and set down cockeyed in a weedy lot near Overland and Vista. At least, Ronda decided, traffic was a concept that had yet to occur to Boise.   She made the trip to the office quickly, parked the truck as cockeyed as the trailer, and hurried up the steps and through the unlocked door.

Becky, the office manager, was typing away at her giant putty-colored computer keyboard while Scott stood at the filing cabinet stuffing manila folders into an already crammed drawer.   The crappy paint-splattered clock radio on top of the cabinet was blaring the opening chords of a Loverboy hit from ten years ago, and Scott was bobbing his head to the beat.

The inside of the trailer was stuffy and dusty and stank like a livestock pen. Even so, or maybe because of that, Ronda liked being here, a feeling she refused to scrutinize too intensely. She had no business at all enjoying the company of either Becky or Scott, but nonetheless, she did. Very much. She considered them, against all reason and instinct, her friends. And she knew they liked her, too. At first, it hadn’t seemed possible, because at first, both of them had been totally frightened of her.

Becky stopped typing without looking away from her squat, boxshaped computer monitor, and Ronda saw the young woman’s nostrils flare. There was a quick flash of nervousness that made her fleshy chin quiver, but it was gone soon enough and then Becky swiveled in her chair to acknowledge that Ronda was standing over her.   Ronda had time to think: the woman is almost the same shape as her computer, and then Becky smiled at her, slapping her hefty thighs and bouncing heavily in her chair.

“Hi, you!” Becky blurted. “Eric radioed in that you were comin’ by. Didjoo getta drive The Beast?”

Ronda nodded, and sat down on the corner of Becky’s desk. Becky rolled backwards a little and crossed her arms over her chest. She was a squat, rosy, doughy woman with wide blue eyes and a highpitched voice. She looked like she should be churning butter and harvesting tulips on a Dutch farm. She handled all the company’s bookkeeping and human resources with the help of Scott, who was a senior at Boise State majoring in something Ronda couldn’t remember. Something that James would no doubt consider useless like Art History or Womens’ Studies.   He rock climbed every weekend at places like the Black Cliffs and City of Rocks, and he was as muscled and tan as Becky was flabby and pale. The two of them got on like brother and sister.

Just then, Scott turned toward Ronda, started air guitaring to Loverboy, and singing along.

“I’m not a man…or machine…I’m just somethin’…IN BETWEEN….whoooaaaa whooaaaa ohhhh!”

Becky snorted with laughter, her neck quivering. Ronda remembered the first day she’d run into Becky outside of the office. It had been one blustery late September afternoon at Lulu’s school. Becky had been waiting to pick up her own child, Kara, and was standing with the other moms on the sidewalk outside the kindergarten wing. As usual, Ronda waited alone; none of the moms deigning to greet her, or even acknowledge her presence. They sidled farther away from her like a nervous herd. Except Becky. Only Becky had broken away from them and tentatively approached Ronda with wide eyes and fluttering hands and a hesitant, don’t-I-know-you smile. The porcine Becky had smelled at that moment like sacrifice and tears to Ronda, and she still wasn’t sure how she might have reacted had her Lulu not come running out of the door at that moment, grinning and giggling and holding hands with Becky’s daughter.

“Heyyyy Ronda,” Scott drawled. “What’s up?” He was still lazily air guitaring, his knobby long-fingered hands noodling around on an imaginary fretboard.

“Running errands,” Ronda replied wearily.

“Runnin’ for the boss man,” Scott nodded, riffing to the music.

“So did James say yes?” Becky asked in her girlish voice. “Kara won’t stop asking me if Lulu’s gonna do the mutton bustin’.”

Of course, Ronda had not mentioned anything about Kara being one of Lulu’s prime motivational factors for wanting to compete in the sheep riding tournament. As much as Ronda liked Becky, James absolutely did not. And he had even less regard for her offspring. They had weekly fights about Lulu going over to Kara’s house to play.

“He said yes,” Ronda nodded. “Took a little extra effort to wear him down, but Lulu’s in. I’ll sign her up today.”

“Oh yay!” Becky squealed, and bounced in her chair. “Kara’s gonna be soooo excited.”

“Lovin’ every minute of it!!” Scott belted out along with Loverboy. His brushy fu manchu style chinbeard – four inches long – flopped as he headbanged some more. Several times he’d innocently complimented Ronda on her ripped arm muscles and invited her to go rock climbing with his gang, but she’d declined. She came closer to accepting each time though, mostly to see if, working his way from crack to crevice on a wall, Scott did indeed resemble a mountain goat, as she suspected.

“Shoot me like a rocket…into spaaaaace!” Scott sang, and Ronda couldn’t hold back a laugh. Scott reacted less dramatically than Becky did when Ronda showed him her teeth, but still she turned away politely and started to ask Becky if she wanted to have lunch later that week. A voice in her head, one that sounded uncomfortably like James’ voice, said ask her if she wants to BE lunch later this week, here piggy piggy piggy.

The office phone rang, and Becky simultaneously held up a chubby finger to Ronda, meaning wait a sec, and pointed her other finger at Scott, meaning turn that music down.

“Walters and Sons Construction this is Becky speaking how may I help you?” Becky gulped out, the phone already in the crook of her cushiony shoulder so she could stuff envelopes while she talked.

Scott watched his boss, then smirked at Ronda. “I’m not into that whole multitasking thing like she is,” he shook his head. “I’m a one-task-at-a-time dude, you know? Singletasking! Lovin’ every minute of it!!”

“I hear that,” said Ronda. She began to pace around the furniture in the office’s cramped waiting room, which consisted of a battered naugahyde love seat and a cracked glass-and-brass coffee table that looked as if it still bore coffee rings from 1981. A few wrinkled copies of Time magazine lay strewn about, as well as the October issue of Rolling Stone. The magazine’s cover showed a picture of Tupac Shakur, who had died less than a month ago, on the very day Ronda accepted the job with Walters and Sons.

Scott was standing next to her. He had that way about him, unlike Becky, of moving in close and nudging her, then backing off, prancing around as if he wore climbing shoes instead of flipflops all the time. He glanced down at Tupac, looked into those somehow sad eyes as Ronda did the same.

“Too bad about that guy,” he said. “I liked that last album.”

“I liked them all,” said Ronda. Tupac had not been perfect, far from it, but he’d been real, and most times the only thing that had helped Ronda with her own reality had been his music. She had been so furious when he was killed, and shocked at her intense reaction when she saw it on the news. Lulu had been playing outside with Kara, and Ronda had locked herself in the bathroom, turned on the shower, and screamed into a towel so that James, who hardly appreciated any music that he didn’t hear on NPR’s classical hour, couldn’t hear her. She’d ripped the towel off the bar so hard she’d pulled the bar right out of the wall. James never used the guest bathroom anyway, so she’d fixed it before he ever had time to notice.

There was a book on the coffee table, too. Seeing it, she couldn’t believe her eyes hadn’t been drawn to it first. On the cover: the close up photograph of a silver-furred, yellow-eyed wolf. She locked eyes with the creature and a shiver of recognition ran through her. She read the cover. Barry Holston Lopez. Of Wolves and Men.

“What’s that book?” Ronda asked Scott, and he danced away at the sound of her voice, then darted back to pick up the book.

“S’mine,” he told her, now a bit uneasy, glancing from the image of the wolf to her face. “Readin’ it for my Lit of Natural History class. We’re gonna have a big debate.”

“Debate?” Ronda stared at him, and Scott backed away, mistaking her confusion for something else…malice?   Hunger?

“You know, about the issue,” he said, frowning at her. He put the edge of the paperback against his bottom lip as if he wanted to chew on it, then jerked it away. “The wolf reintroduction, man. Like, sixty gray wolves from Canada that they just put back into the wild last year, here in Idaho – central Idaho – and down in Yellowstone? Cuz you know, the wolves have been extinct in the Lower 48 since, like, the 1930’s. And now the Feds are all hey let’s put ’em back, even though the first cow they killed, every redneck and rancher in a hundred mile radius is goin’, open season, dude, let’s shoot us some wolves!”

“No,” Ronda shook her head.

Behind them, Becky jabbered into the phone, “I’m sorry but Eric’s out at a job site right now. I’ll be happy to tell him everything we just discussed and -”

“No,” Ronda repeated. “What’s there to debate? It’s illegal to shoot wolves,” she told Scott. Thinking, that’s why we moved here, dammit. Because there’s safety in numbers. And protection.

Scott was watching her, round-eyed, and now he actually was nibbling on the corner of the book. He looked so ridiculous with his square teeth pressed into the wolf’s fur that Ronda didn’t know whether to rip the book away from him or bite him. The whole situation was ridiculous. It was patently absurd.

“Maybe…maybe you should come to the debate,” Scott suggested, tucking the book under his arm. He raised his eyebrows and seemed so harmless and docile in that moment that Ronda felt a surge of guilt. “Doesn’t your husband…isn’t he in the biology department? Maybe he’s goin’.” Scott fidgeted, shifting on the balls of his nimble goatfeet.

“He probably is,” Ronda said, trying to make her voice sound less like a growl.   James had done a great job of portraying the wolf reintroduction as something that everyone in Idaho cheered for.   How had she been so stupid to believe him? Or had he really believed moving here might be a good idea? She thought of Eric Walters’ gun rack, and a low whine almost slipped out of her throat.

“What’re you guys talkin’ about?” Becky asked. She was off the phone, and snacking from a package of powdered donuts. Ronda turned, and Becky had white sugar dusted all over her chin and the front of her navy blue blouse.

“Books and stuff,” Scott answered, before Ronda could say anything. “Hey, Becky, I almost forgot, can I put in for some time off around Thanksgiving?” Scott skirted around Ronda and went back to stuffing folders into the filing cabinet, taking Of Wolves and Men with him and not looking back at Ronda.

Ronda watched him slip by her and wanted to reach out, yank on his goatee, and chew his face. She wanted to pull him into her arms like a lost child.   Instead she began to pace the room again, letting out a long exhale. She needed to leave and get back to the job site. She was feeling too….volatile.

“Sure thing, hon,” Becky told Scott. “You know we’ll be closed day of, and day after anyway. Ronda, you got family comin’ for the holidays? You goin’ anywhere?”

“No,” Ronda answered. Everyone in our family is dead. Our pack is dead. “It’s just us,” she said.

“Quiet day at home with James and Lulu? Big turkey?” Becky smiled warmly.

Ronda didn’t know what to do. She wanted to hug Becky. She wanted to claw her soft cheeks.

“Yeah,” Ronda choked out. “Hey – where’s that stuff for Eric?”

“Oh – I almost forgot, I’m so sorry. I got on the phone and then that man was so rude to me.” She sighed and heaved herself up out of her chair, waddled around the front of the desk to the kitchen table that Eric always used to unroll blueprints and planning maps. “Lemme see….it’s this thing…and this….and that…” she handed Ronda a cardboard blueprint cylinder, an Ace Hardware bag full of drywall nails, and Eric’s plastic forty ounce Conoco coffee mug.

“Did he want coffee?” Becky asked, and Ronda almost flung the mug at Becky’s head.

“He asked for it, but he was joking,” Ronda grumbled. “So no.”

“Ronda,” Becky said quietly, standing her ground but trembling a little. “You okay today?”

Ronda could sense Scott listening, even over the thrum of the radio. It was Bad Company now. ‘Runnin’ With The Pack.’ Ronda found that she wanted to hear Loverboy again. Rewind and start this whole morning’s tape over.

I’m not a man, or machine, I’m just something in between.

She reached out slowly and touched Becky’s white chin with her own brown fingertips. Becky froze.

“You got powdered sugar all over you,” Ronda said, dusting her off.

“Oh,” Becky blushed and looked down at her blouse, starting swiping at herself. “What a pig,” she chastised herself.

Ronda was already at the door. “You’re not a pig,” she said, wanting so badly to believe her own words.

Becky smiled shyly and mouthed okay, but Ronda didn’t think Becky believed her either. Behind the desk, Scott waved one of his files in a goodbye gesture.

“Have fun with the boys today,” Becky told Ronda.

“Lovin’ every minute of it,” said Ronda, and closed the door on their laughter.

She drove a mile down the road and then pulled the Beast over into the parking lot of a 7Eleven.

Her lunch bag was still on the passenger seat, and she grabbed it and hauled it into her lap and pawed through the contents. Cold chicken in tinfoil – two drumsticks and a thigh. Three big pieces of beef jerky. Saranwrapped half of a grilled T-Bone from last night’s dinner, and a Ziploc full of shaved ham. A package of sliced deli roast beef, and a bag of baby carrots. Ronda tossed the carrots aside, unwrapped the chicken and opened her mouth wide.   She ravaged the drumsticks, pulled the meat off the bones with her teeth until nothing was left but gristle, then she devoured the thigh. She ripped into the steak next, barely chewing it before swallowing. Then the roast beef, so rare she sucked bloody juice from the bottom of the package. She ate the jerky last, tearing the tough hunks of it apart with her greasy hands. She couldn’t eat the ham. She had to push it aside. The ham smelled too much like Becky.

When she’d finished, there were gnawed bones all over her lap and the floor of the cab and bits of chicken flesh stuck to her jeans. She hastily cleaned up the debris and put it in her plastic bag with the Becky – with the ham – and the carrots, wiping her hands and face on a used napkin she found in Eric’s cup holder.

Ronda belched. She felt calm again. She drove back to the job site.

Part II

Ronda had hoped, though she would never admit it, that James would find a way to avoid going to the rodeo with them. But he was not the kind of father who would miss a single event in which his daughter participated. Tonight, as he drove them north to the town of Emmett and the Gem County Fairgrounds – Lulu jittering and chattering excitedly in the backseat – he could barely conceal the mixture of unease and loathing twisting across his face. Ronda could see him trying ardently to temper his disdain with pride and enthusiasm for Lulu, even as he pulled their van into the massive unpaved lot and piloted it through the crowds, dust clouds, and horse trailers.

“Get outta the WAY,” James grumbled, his huge shoulders hunched over the wheel. A mother with a stroller and two young boys toodled past them, moving too slowly for James. “We’re gonna have to park out in the back of beyond,” he added.

“I can walk, Daddy,” Lulu announced. “I got my pink boots on tonight so I can walk.”

“You bet, sweets,” James responded. Ronda knew he’d be carrying Lulu within two minutes. But she had indeed worn her pink cowgirl boots, and her sparkly pink cowgirl hat.

“Cuz I’m a big girl and I’m’onna ride da sheep, right?”

“You certainly are,” James said, gritting his teeth. Ronda elbowed him and he tried to contort his face into a smile. A sheepish smile, she thought grimly. He failed. James, when he smiled, could only achieve a wolfish leer.

“I’m a ride a sheep and I’m a get firssss place!!”

“That means you gotta hang on, then,” Ronda reminded her. “Give that sheep a big ‘ole hug and hang on tight.”

Lulu laughed with delight. “Hug the sheep!” she cackled, banging her little hockey helmet on her knees and kicking the back of Ronda’s seat with her pink boots.

“Lulu, don’t kick the seat, baby.”

They pulled in between a Buick wagon and a Cadillac Eldorado, the Honda van jouncing over muddy ruts as James nudged it into the narrow space. Lulu had already unbuckled herself from her carseat, but Ronda hesitated before opening her door, and noticed that James did too.   They both knew it would be near unbearable. The noise, the odors, the people, the animals.

“Lesss goooo!!” Lulu stood up and poked her head over the console and into the front seat, her large dark eyes accusing first her father, then her mother. “Hurry UP!”

“Okay buckaroo,” James said, and Ronda snorted. Lulu giggled, that highpitched girly chortle that sounded half delightful and half false cheer every time.

Ronda opened her door and didn’t take a breath until she’d yanked open the rear slider to let Lulu out. When she did inhale, it felt like a punch in the face. The rodeo grounds, even all the way out here in the back forty, swirled into a dusty tornado of smells. Fried food, perfume, diesel exhaust, horse shit, sweet hay, livestock, piss-stained port-o-lets, stale beer. Somewhere, fresh blood. Ronda gagged, and then her stomach rumbled and she began to salivate. James came around the back of the van and as she saw his face she knew she wore the same expression. Hungry, pained, alert. He had been so worried about Lulu, who was now bouncing in her cowgirl boots and waving her padded gear and helmet for Ronda to carry.   Ronda took it from her and looked again at James.

Our daughter’s just fine, she thought. How are WE going to get through the next few hours?

They locked the van and started to make their way down the nearest weedy aisle, falling in line with the rest of the throng straggling toward the arena. Ronda had Lulu’s gear slung over her left arm, Lulu’s hand in her right, and James had the other side. Lulu swung between them, kicking up brown dust puffs with her tiny bootheels. The crowd parted easily. People glanced around nervously and gave the three of them a wide berth. Lulu moved forward and cut a path through the herd, tugging her parents along behind her.   The bright stadium lighting turned the night into day, and Ronda could hear live music, a bass thump and peal of electric guitar. The press of bodies moving close and then backing away made Ronda’s pulse pound in her ears.

“So how does this actually work?” James asked Ronda under his breath. Until now, he’d refrained from discussing any detail about the Mutton Bustin’ competition with her. Ronda was glad. It was too late now for him to deem any part of this unacceptable and pull Lulu out of the competition. The child would raise a screaming fuss, loudly and publicly, and James would never endure that. Partly, Ronda knew, because of his image in the academic community – though she doubted that any of those vegan liberals (Darryl’s words, not hers) from the college would stoop to attend a rodeo. But also because James loved Lulu and could not be so cruel. Ronda didn’t care to consider which part outweighed the other.

“All I know is…we check her in – there should be a table near the entrance. And then I’m sure they’ll send us to the chutes. They use the same chutes that the rodeo riders do – the sheep are waiting in the chutes as each rider comes up. When it’s her turn, her sheep’s in the chute, we’ve gotta lift her over the fence, and there’s a man who’ll put her on the back of the sheep just before they open the gate. And then she just – she hangs on for dear life, bareback, there’s no saddle. Really I think the sheep just runs really fast and takes sharp turns and tries to shake her off, and she’s gotta hold on. For three seconds. Or six. I can’t remember. Or until she gets bucked off or falls off. The clowns keep the sheep from chasing after her or trampling her -”

James made a scoffing sound at this. At all of it, really.

” – and the clowns herd the sheep back into the pen. And that’s it.”

“I’m not gonna fall off!” Lulu protested. Another child walking nearby with his mother flinched at the sound of her voice and shied away. He had black and white paint on his face – whiskers, cat eyes. Ronda remembered that there was a KISS tribute band playing tonight. She began to see more kids – and even some adults…good God, she would never understand that – with their faces painted to look like KISS members. Fake animals.

Ronda turned away. James was staring at her. Don’t say it, she willed. But then she raised her eyebrows at him, as if daring him to say out loud what they were both thinking. This is the most ridiculous, dangerous thing we’ve ever let Lulu do.

“She gets a souvenir trophy and a commemorative water bottle, just for competing. And a belt buckle if she wins,” Ronda informed James, who shook his head.

“I’m gonna WIN!” Lulu trumpeted. The crowd parted before them in a widening circle.

“I’m sure riding a terrified sheep is its own reward,” James offered, and was duly ignored by both his wife and daughter.

The crowd began to coalesce into a few loosely organized lines as they approached the gates. Ronda watched people’s faces as their bodies jostled closer and closer. All those faces, their pale skin bluish in the glare of the big lights. All those sheep.

“Daddy, pick me up,” Lulu warbled. James complied, and Ronda sidled closer to them, feeling protective. Their own faces, dark and alert, had no bluish cast, but instead a fierce glow. Lulu’s eyes blazed beneath her cowgirl hat.

Bottlenecking through the gates became a nightmare crush of limbs and breath and hair. People all around seemed to be hurrying to get through and get away. Ronda’s heart thumped in her chest so hard she could barely swallow. She could taste the cloying reek of garbage from underneath the stands, and the buzz from the KISS cover band’s amps grew louder and louder until it felt like a chainsaw in her brain.

LICK IT UP!   LICK IT UP! WHOOOAAA OHHHHH OHHHH! DO IT RIGHT NOW!

James leaned down and put his lips to her ear. “The poetry of this song is simply sublime,” he mumbled, and Ronda relaxed, laughed. He had that skill. He could rein her in. He nuzzled her jawline, and Ronda smiled, then caught the eye of a young woman standing by the snack bar. She was frowning at them. Ronda looked away.

“There’s the booth.” Ronda pointed across the way to a long table with a banner that read WELCOME WOOL RIDERS!

They had to purchase tickets first, which seemed to go quickly. That was a relief, considering how antsy Lulu was starting to get. Ronda picked up on it and couldn’t stop watching their backs, every so often locking stares with someone who narrowed eyes at them. She wanted to find Becky and Kara. She dreaded to see Darryl. Or even Pantera and his mutty friend. Everyone around them radiated a simmering hostility tinged with unease. Ronda inhaled slowly through her nostrils, trying to pick up Becky’s scent as she followed James. Lulu gazed back at her from over her dad’s shoulder as he pushed through the turnstiles and into the open space near the bleachers.

Suddenly Ronda could smell nothing but the low musk of dumb beast. They were passing the sheep pens.

James stopped first, and Ronda pulled up next to him. They stared down at the animals. These were Ram Bouillet sheep: massive, girthy creatures with wide backs of matted wool. Their eyes lolled and their long white snouts lifted to scent the air. Ronda had a moment to think, we’re gonna let our baby ride one of these things all by herself?

“Hello sheepies,” Lulu called out cheerfully, waving a hand over them. One by one the sheep pricked up their ears and began to shift in the pen, stirring up clods of dirtpacked straw and a big, oily stink. They began to move away, at first slowly, and then with real panic, bleating and grunting and pushing against each other. People began to congregate against the steel gates, peering at the scene.

“What’s got ’em so spooked?” A man behind Ronda spoke.

Several of the closest sheep staggered backward, raised their tails and let fly with a barrage of brown pellets.

“Mommy, those sheeps poopied!” Lulu observed. One of the bigger animals opened its mouth and brayed loudly. It sounded like a scream. Suddenly the rest of the sheep were screaming, too.

“Let’s go,” Ronda told James, and prayed that Lulu wouldn’t make a fuss as they carried her away. The screams of the sheep sounded red, and their fear hit the air around Ronda like a slap.

“We’re gonna go get you signed in so you can ride your sheep,” James said to Lulu, in a preemptive attempt to distract her. “Are you ready?”

“Ready!” Lulu cheered. Ronda poked her in the tummy and she snickered, showing her teeth. “Mommy where’s Kara?”

“I don’t know, honey. They might already be here. I think Kara and her mama are meeting us near the chutes.”

They stood in a short line behind a little boy wearing leather chaps and a petite girl with a fake mohawk dressed in what looked like full body armor. Ronda took the opportunity to help Lulu into her padded vest and shin guards, still carrying the helmet. She knew Lulu would demand to wear her cowgirl hat as long as possible.

“Well, hello little lady,” the man behind the table greeted Lulu. “Are you ready for the ride of your life?”

Lulu became shy, and somehow smaller. She said nothing while enduring the process of checking in. She was weighed, measured, and deemed appropriate, though the woman behind the table did not smile as genuinely as the man.

“Okay, sweetheart, you’re all set now. Are you excited? There’s no reason to be scared of those sheep, you know.”

Now Lulu tilted her head up to look at the man. “I’m not scared of the sheepies,” she told him. “The sheepies is scared of me.”

“Ohh,” said James, “oh ho,” he chuckled, placing his hands on Lulu’s shoulders and steering her away from the table. Ronda didn’t look back.

They had given Lulu a nametag and her prize water bottle – which, once claimed, she refused to relinquish. James and Ronda were instructed to take their little wool rider around the walkway to the chutes. Ronda and James got nametags, too, theirs on lanyards.

Over here, the air smelled like nacho cheese and Marlboros, with a topnote of manure. The manure stench intensified as they skirted around the bull pens. One of the bulls, a giant of a creature with a shitcaked ass, swung its massive head around to watch the three of them as they moved by. James stared it down and the bull emitted a long, low moan and kicked at the back of its stall. Lulu was grinning at it with all her teeth showing as they passed, and when James noticed this he shifted her to his opposite hip.

The KISS cover band – they were called Strutter, according to the fiery letters sparking above the stage at the opposite end of the arena – had launched into a song Ronda had never heard before, but was probably called ‘Crazy Crazy Nights,’ since that seemed to be the only verse in the chorus. The volume level was intense and overpowering, rolling out across the empty arena like a shockwave. With almost every power chord, the stage erupted in a fury of pyrotechnics, and Ronda coughed as the burning fumes reached her. James hurried them around the gates’ curving arc and toward the base of the opposite stands. They found the chutes coordinator, were hustled down to their assigned chute, and waited. Lulu was second in line, behind the boy with the chaps, who had the requisite KISS facepaint and the ersatz baditude to go with it. Ronda thought she recognized him from Lulu’s kindergarten class, but had no idea what his name might be.

When ‘Crazy Crazy Nights’ ended in a burst of applause and sparks, the boy turned to Lulu and gave her a very adult nod of greeting, thumbs tucked in his waistband.

“We got one more song and then I’m next,” he said. Now he looked slightly agitated.

“Okay,” said Lulu, unconcerned.

“Them sheep are really big,” the boy said. He was a sad puppy in his facepaint.

Lulu said nothing.

“This my first time,” he added.

“Me too,” Lulu allowed.

He gave a tight nod again, then darted over to a man standing nearby, who was talking to the chute handler. The man stooped and talked to the boy, and Ronda listened. She knew James was listening, too.

“You said you wanted to ride ‘im,” the man jerked a shoulder at the sheep waiting in the chute “So you’re gonna ride ‘im, mister.”

“But Dad, I don’t like it. He looks mean!” The boy shrank back, and gave Lulu an ashamed glance. Ronda could almost taste the kid’s fright.

“You’re not backin’ out now, d’you hear me?” Dad hissed.

“Yeah. Oookayy.”

James leaned over to Ronda and whispered, in mockery of the father, “You ride that sheep or you’re a disgrace to your family, boy! Dishonor!”

Ronda burst out laughing, and earned an evil look from the boy’s dad.

“Who’s that boy, Lulu?” Ronda asked.

“Justin,” said Lulu. “He’s scared of everything. Mommyyy, where’s Kay-rahhh?”

Ronda searched for Becky and Kara, and spotted them waving, three chutes back near the holding pens. They must have walked right by. Ronda couldn’t believe she’d missed picking up Becky’s scent. Kara must be further down the rider roster. Ronda hoisted Lulu up onto her hip and they both waved back. Kara, too, wore her sparkly pink cowgirl hat. She had a round face and a snubnose, like her mother.   She seemed distracted by the vast crowd filling the stands behind and above them.

Standing with Becky’s husband was Darryl, and he was eyeing Ronda with an intense scrutiny that made her scalp prickle. She felt her nostrils flare and her lip begin to curl, but she hid this by quickly wiping at her nose. Darryl cocked his head, long hair hanging in his face. He favored her with a wily smile, and then turned away.

As soon as the next song began, the audience began to stomp the boards and clap in time with the frenzied beat. There was something primal about it, like a ritual enacted before a slaughter.

BOOMclapBOOMclapBOOMclap

Ronda could sense the sheep shuddering in the chutes.

I….WANNA ROCK AND ROLL ALL NIIIIIGHT….

James made a point to fuss with Lulu’s gear and help her put her helmet on, but Ronda knew he was mostly trying to distract himself from the appalling music. Herself, she couldn’t help but enjoy it, and wondered if Scott was somewhere in the stands, air guitaring with his friends.

As soon as the song ended, and the applause died down, the rodeo announcer’s voice broke through over the PA.

“Hello ladies and gentlemen, cowboys and cowgirls, buckaroos and buckarettes, welcome to the Gem and Boise Counties Rodeo! Put your hands together for Strutter!! That’s right! What! A! Showwww!!”

James put Lulu’s pink cowgirl hat on Ronda’s head, where it did not fit at all, and applauded with far too much enthusiasm for the rock band. Lulu jumped up and down between them, clapping ferociously.   Ronda waved the pink hat in the air and then handed it back to James.

“Are you ready for some MUTTON BUSTIN’?!!!” The announcer bellowed, and the crowd erupted. The announcer kept yammering. “We’ve got twelve brave boys and girls ready tonight for their chance at glory! These little wool riders have got the guts and the skill and the helmets and they aren’t afraid of a little rough-and-tumble! They’re rarin’ to go! Let’s hear it for our first rider, in chute number one, Cody Thomas!! CODYYYYY!!!”

Ronda and James both craned their necks. Lulu practically crawled up James’ leg, and he picked her up and swept her atop his shoulders, padded gear and all.

Down at chute number one, Cody Thomas’ dad was peptalking his son, who had much greater enthusiasm than Justin. Ronda couldn’t see over the gate, but through the bars she could make out Cody after he was hoisted in the air and lowered onto a big grey sheep’s back. Cody leaned forward as if to give the sheep a bear hug, wrapping his arms around the creature’s neck. And then the bell rang, the chute gate opened, and the sheep plunged into the arena, running for its life.

Cody hung on for a good three seconds, flopping around like a doll stapled to the sheep’s back. Ronda thought the kid might make it for the full mark, but the sheep swerved so hard to the right that the little boy lost his grip and went rolling off to land face first in the dust.

“Daaaamn,” James exhaled, sounding both impressed and disgusted. “It’s just 1-2-3, eat dirt.”

Cody Thomas rolled over and came up smiling, raised his hands in the air like a miniature rodeo rough stock champion. Two garishly painted clowns chased the frantic sheep around the arena while a third clown in baggy pants and rainbow suspenders hustled Cody back to the chute. The clowns finally got the sheep back in the pen, and Cody climbed up the rail at the far side to high-five his dad. The bleachers exploded with applause and whistles.

“Yessir, that was Cooooody THOMAS! And we are off to a very impressive start, ladies and gents!”

And so it went, with unsettling speed – an assembly line of kindergarten competitors – until it came to be Lulu’s turn. Justin had survived despite his terror, but not without tears. Ronda wanted to give the kid a high five herself, since it seemed that his own dad wasn’t going to, after the kid, his face a heartbreaking collage of paint, snot and tears, hobbled back to the chute, escorted by a capering clown.

“Justin did OK,” Lulu had commented, in a strangely mature tone that indicated she would most certainly do better.

All of sudden, Ronda hesitated. A warning voice spoke up in her mind. You can’t put this child in that pen with that sheep. It’s not right. It’s against nature.

The chute handler called them over. James let Lulu tumble down expertly from his shoulders.

“Let’s goooo,” Lulu pushed at Ronda’s leg. Her sharp teeth glinted, behind the rather sinister grill of her hockey mask, and she stared up at Ronda with a hunger that made Ronda feel unsettled and triumphant all at once.

James was eyeing Ronda. “This was a phenomenally bad idea,” he whispered, alternately squeezing the prize water bottle and kneading the little pink cowboy hat in his big hands.

Of course, he had to say it.

“Well, it’s too late now,” Ronda spat back. She didn’t even hear the announcer call out Lulu’s name, as she lifted her daughter up and over the gate and the big man in the plaid shirt and suede vest grabbed Lulu under the armpits and dangled her above the sheep’s broad back.

“You ready, Lulu?” the man in the vest asked.

“I’m ready, boys!” Lulu sang out, and all the men on the fence chuckled.

The sheep waited placidly, ready to accept its fate. Perhaps it was an old veteran of Mutton Bustin’, long accustomed to wool riders. There was a split second in between the moment Lulu settled onto the sheep’s back and wrapped her arms around its neck, and the moment when the starting bell clanged. In that pause, the sheep let out a mournful, horrible, bleating shriek. The chute handler looked startled, and leaned forward, to do exactly what, Ronda had no idea. But it was too late. The gate whammed open and the sheep bolted forward, taking Lulu with it, her pink boots digging into its woolly haunches.

“GO LULUUUU!!” A little girl whooped, and it was Kara, standing up with her legs astride the pipe-rail gate just down the way, waving her chubby arms and clapping awkwardly while her mom gripped the waistband of her jeans to keep the kid from toppling into the ring. Kara’s fluffy blond curls spun out around her round face in a luminous cotton-candy cloud that sparkled in the rodeo lights as she tracked Lulu and the sheep’s chaotic route with wide eyes.

Even James was hollering now, cheering on his daughter with a ferocity and volume that a few clapping onlookers heeded by shuffling quickly away. Ronda, finally realizing that she’d been hanging back out of – what? embarrassment? trepidation? – stepped to the gate and climbed up so she could see.

Her baby girl was out there, flying along on the sheep’s back, circling the edge of the arena as the clock ticked the seconds and the audience began to count along with it.

“FOUR!! FIVE!! SIX!!”

The buzzer went off, and still Lulu hung on. The crowd went nuclear, in a riot of booted thunder, stamping the bleacher boards and hollering like bloodthirsty Romans at a gladiatorial throwdown.

“Laayyydeez and Gentlemen! We have a new frontrunnerrrrrr! Oh, look at Miss Lulu there, she’s STILL hangin on! Can you believe it folks? INCREDIBLE!!”

“EIGHT!! NINE!!”

Ronda’s nails screeked against the metal of the fence rail, and she was leaning so far out she almost flipped over.

The announcer laughed nervously into the microphone. “I think we need the clowns in there. This little rodeo queen ain’t gonna quit!”

“LULUUUU,” Ronda cried out desperately. “Time to let the sheep go, honey!!”

The sound of the crowd a rampage now, Ronda’s eardrums on fire, throbbing, her heart racing.

She couldn’t hear her own voice. She couldn’t hold back. She howled. She wanted to jump the fence. She want to throw her head back and laugh. She wanted to tear the sheep to shreds and feed Lulu the bloody pieces from her mouth. She howled again, and when she inhaled, she tasted blood and dust and realized she already had one leg over the railing, ready to leap into the pit. But Lulu had heard her. Of course she had. Lulu had good ears. She listened to her mama.

Lulu dismounted the sheep, where every other child had been violently thrown. Dismounted like she’d just finished practicing dressage and the sheep was her favorite stallion. Of course the sheep veered off instantaneously with a flutter-lipped bray of freedom, but Lulu kept on walking casually back toward Ronda and James. Just strolling along, waving like a princess, completely unfazed, while the rodeo clowns darted past her in frantic attempts to dog Lulu’s panicked sheep back to the pen.

The sheep almost knocked Lulu down in its wild run down the center of the arena, and the crowd let out a collective gasp, then rowdy applause when Lulu smacked its dirty butt on the flyby. The sight of Lulu’s tiny dark hand walloping the sheep’s hairy white rump made Ronda bark out a weird chuckle and clap her own hands together. That’s my child, Ronda thought.

Out of the corner of her eye, Ronda saw Kara giggling and teetering as the fence wobbled beneath her, she was so ecstatic with glee for Lulu, and Ronda thought okay, it was gonna be okay and her girl had just broken some kind of world championship mutton bustin’ record, damn right.

Then Kara fell off the gate.

At first Ronda thought Becky had pulled her down, because for sure that gate wasn’t too stable at all. One moment Kara was there, like a sunlit cherub in Ariats and an Elmo tshirt. The next, she was gone.

Someone screamed, a squeal of horror that split apart the raucous din like a razor splitting flesh. It was Becky.

“Kara! Kara sweetie get up! Oh my gawd John, John she’s hurt! She’s hurt and she doesn’t have her helmet on! John! Darryl! Somebody – please – get her outta there!”

Ronda thought, what’s the big deal? The girl, even as chunky as she was, could squeeze back through the space between rails easy. Hooking her arm through the top rail, Ronda dangled herself out to get a better look

Kara was on her knees in the dirt, squalling like a newborn and holding her fleshy left arm up at an unnerving degree. Broken, thought Ronda. Kara’s lip was was bleeding, too, and Ronda fought back a vicious urge to jump the railing, seize the child, and shake her. Kara looked like so much easy prey.

“Ohh shit,” Ronda gasped, and felt James’ hand on her back.

“You better look away,” he said softly. “Don’t want trouble.”

“I know,” Ronda grunted. “Where’s Lulu?”

“She’s comin’ back.”

Lulu had now noticed Kara in the ring, and halted, perplexed, cocked her head in almost the same way that Darryl had earlier. Sniffed the air.

“Come on Lulu!” Ronda yelled, and it came out in a roar. Nobody heard. Everyone near them was fixated on the plight of poor Kara, who was still sobbing while one of the rodeo clowns jogged across the arena toward her and Becky jiggled a fat arm through the gate trying to grab her.

The sheep, still loose and galloping in wide figure eights, dodged the rainbow-suspendered clown, kicked up a massive dirtclod with its hooves, and veered off again. Headed straight for Kara.

“Heeeyy!” The announcer piped up with a whine of audio feedback that made Ronda clench her hands tighter around the gate rail and gnash her teeth. “Get those clowns over there, awright?”

Kara was trying to stand up, but the booming voice over the loudspeakers startled her and she half-turned, overbalanced, and fell forward on her broken arm, just out of her mother’s reach.

The high-pitched shriek of pain that spiraled out of Kara almost knocked Ronda flat. The crowd sucked in a massive gasp of dismay, and Becky wailed and tried unsuccessfully to climb the fence. Kara rolled herself into a ball and shook with sobs, her pink face contorted in misery and smeared with dirt.

The sheep, disoriented by the child’s cries, careened toward the pens, almost mowed down a rodeo clown, and then doubled back at highspeed, ten yards from where Kara lay.

Sacrifice, thought Ronda, and loathed herself as she felt her stomach growl. She swung a leg over the rail.

“What the hell’re you doin’?” James yanked at the back of her shirt.

“KAAYYRAAHHH!!!” A shrill voice pealed out, and Ronda whipped her head around. Lulu was closer now, but she’d ripped off her hockey mask and dropped it to the ground. On her young face was a look of fury and despair that Ronda had never seen before. Her eyes blazed. “MOMMY!!!! Mommy Kayruh’s HURTED!!”

Becky’s husband John, just as girthy as Becky, couldn’t heave his bulk over the fence, and the cowboys in the chute had waited too long to try and open the gates. Ronda saw that she had maybe five seconds to get to Kara before the sheep did, if it kept coming. Surely it’d turn away and not trample the child, but tonight Ronda had already seen worse things happen to several of the kids who’d been bucked off, and those kids had been wearing hockey pads and masks.

What Lulu might do, though, Ronda feared much more. We can’t leave this town, too, she thought, with grim determination, and sprang into the arena. Behind her, James grunted her name and she ignored him.

Ronda landed on all fours and lifted her head. The reek of lanolin and blood and grassy feces roiled in her sinuses. Dimly, she heard the pound and surge of the audience, every heart beating in a dissonant rhythm. She saw Lulu running hell bent toward her – no, toward Kara, a savage intensity pulling her tiny mouth into a snarl.

Oh no, baby don’t, thought Ronda, and she leapt forward.

Movement to her right caught her eye as she ran. Darryl. He vaulted the fence, touched down and kicked off into a graceful sprint, and Ronda had a quick moment to think to herself, in stunned amazement: what are you, then, that I never sniffed you out?

He seemed to be heading straight for her, and Ronda saw that all four of them – herself, Lulu, Darryl, and the stupid mutton, might collide in a bone-cracking explosion of wool and muscle, but she kept on. If she could scoop up Lulu on the fly and keep going, she’d leave Darryl to whatever he intended. Surely he meant to help Kara?

Ronda gulped in air, saw Lulu covering ground in a low, speedy crawl, and knew she wasn’t going to make it in time.

The sheep never slowed, barreling toward Kara – until the moment when Lulu tackled it. It made a sound halfway between a yip and a mewl and then Ronda could see nothing but a blur punctuated by hoofkicks and Lulu’s high-spirited howl of triumph. The sheep, Ronda thought dazedly. The sheep, not the piglet. Lulu hadn’t hurt her friend. She’d helped her.

The horde of people in the bleachers thundered like a summer storm, and Ronda couldn’t even hear her own keening wail, a noise that threatened to become a crazy bark of laughter, or a yelp, she didn’t know which. A blind madness overtook her.

Before she could reach Kara, Darryl got there first, swung past the child’s prone form and snatched her up by the collar of her tshirt. She kicked and hollered as he swept her up, her pale belly heaving and then she was over the rail and in Becky’s blubbering embrace. Then Darryl wheeled and came at Ronda.

“Get your pup off that sheep right now!” he barked, and slammed into her broadside with his haunch. He was smaller than Ronda, but wiry and agile, and she stumbled and almost rolled.

She would have turned on him, would have pushed him down and tore into him, but over his shoulder, she saw James. He was standing atop the rail and yelling at her, waving his arms, but she couldn’t hear him. His mouth moved soundlessly, his eyes juddering whitely in their sockets.

Ronda glanced up. A thousand pairs of human eyes nailed her in place like a lifeless hide tacked to a trophy wall. All eyez on me, she thought, with giddy rage. And Lulu. Dammit.

Mutton bustin’. Ronda scowled. Indeed. She whirled, and in two strides had her claws tangled in the sheep’s greasy wool, yanked hard and pulled the struggling animal free from Lulu’s grasp.   In one swift motion, Ronda whipped the animal aside, and it tumbled onto its back, flipped, and shook itself to standing. No blood, Ronda observed with relief. Lulu still had her baby teeth.

The mutton gave a quick, irritated baaaa, and then spun and ran headlong into one of the stupefied rodeo clowns.

Darryl was at her side. “You better cry,” he snapped at her. “And make it look good. Your kid just got attacked by a sheep, awright?”

Lulu was up on her feet and ready to launch herself after the mutton, but Ronda grabbed her and pulled her close, lifting the child into an embrace.   “Ssshhh,” she whispered to her quivering daughter, who kicked at her and tried to bite her neck. “Stoppit,” Ronda yapped softly. “Lulu. Sweetie. It’s me. It’s Mama. Ssshhh.”

“Mommyyyy,” Lulu snuffled. “Where Kaahhaa heeyy ruhhh,” she began to sob. “Where Kara? Didda sheepie huh huh hurt Kayyy ruh??”

“She’s okay, baby. You’re okay.” And the damn sheep is too, Ronda sighed. Damn sheepies are always okay.

In the stands, applause began as a slow ripple, like a faraway rain, then grew to a downpour, surrounding the three of them in a cacophony of chants and whistles.

“AMAAAAZING!!” The announcer declared. “I don’t know about you folks, but that was definitely the show-stopper tonight! Let’s give this little girl and her mom a big ol’ rodeo cheer!!”

“You owe me,” Darryl said in Ronda’s ear.

Ronda eyed her coworker, her chin resting on Lulu’s shoulder as the girl clung to her neck. James was walking across the arena toward them, a mix of possessive fury and perplexity – and relief – on his face.

“No, you owe me,” Ronda countered, beholden to no man, white or black, pack or not, human or otherwise. “You owe me some answers about what you are.” She paused, considering.   “My husband grills a mean steak,” she told Darryl. “I think you need to come over for dinner some time.”

Darryl surprised her with a toothy grin, and a short, yipping laugh.

“Steak sounds good,” he replied. “I like mine rare.”

“I thought you might,” said Ronda. In her arms, Lulu woofed sleepily.

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Published by Associate Editor on February 23, 2015. This item is listed in Issue 25, Issue 25 Stories, Stories

The Girl, the Ghul and the Gift-Keeper

By Rhea Daniel

There is only one way to kill a ghul. One hard blow, delivered with the force of a thousand armies, but if it is not done hard enough, it returns with renewed strength. Many people have tried, and that is why the ghul is so hard to kill. The one that follows me is an errant one, far from the guidance of its brothers, and therefore the most dangerous.

A master of disguise, you might think it a good trickster, but it lacks the wiles of one. It has passed through the centuries, its tricks have worked so many times that it can’t think ahead of them, falling into a pattern of stalking, giving chase… consuming. And that is why I have angered it so, enough for it forget its calling and dedicate itself to the sole pursuit of me. I see it in my dreams, I see it when I wake, a flicker of smoke at the corner of my eye to warn of its coming and the coldest chill on the silver mark it has left on my shoulder.

I am richer now than I ever wanted to be; you have no idea what kings and princes are willing to pay to learn their future. I could have been richer, but the silver mark keeps me from tampering too much with the fates of men. Sometimes I give consul in gilded halls, in robes fit for royals, sometimes on a makeshift pedestal made of wooden crates. They call me Mother Seer, Virgin Oracle, silly names concocted to assure themselves of my use, my purity.

I know too much, more than I’d care to know. They whisper things behind my back, “What does she mean, ‘What will be will be’? Have I traveled miles to hear this? ‘All things will sort themselves out in the end’? How will that help me?”

There are many futures, so I am careful with my words, what else is one to do if one has the power to crush countries? I see them all, and I have learned to sift through the multitudes of strands marking their paths, the ifs, the may be’s, but I know most of them are slaves: so predictable, so stodgy, so intent on suffering! Rarely, there are sparks. It could be a prince, a widow, a beggar, or a convict. I save my most colourful predictions for them.

Kings and emperors touch my feet in reverence, but life is lackluster. History repeats itself, but so does the future. People bore me now, no lover holds thrall for me. I only anticipate the ghul’s next move. Sometimes I crave it, for it keeps my heart skipping. Oftentimes, I seek comfort in the past, when things were simpler, when I had a family, and from the hell I have seen in my visions, a passably good one.

I open a window in my mind and dare rest for a few minutes.

I see a tall, heavy woman leading a little girl through a crowded marketplace. She holds her hand tightly so the girl doesn’t stray, but the girl is curious, peering at the wares, smiling the smile of a child who held a fascination for the unseen. I am inside that little girl again, I’m holding my mother’s hand, eager, fearless, a fool for the unknown.

She fretted only when I was with her, making a great show of being a good mother. She had no qualms about sending me out alone to buy medicines or groceries when the need arose. I had a brother too, who was a liar. He acted out the part of protective older brother, like the time when the street urchins threw stones at me and I returned home with a cut on my forehead, and he railed loudly about how he would kill them with his bare hands until the neighbours came out to hear. I didn’t call him to task because I knew the urchins would make a worse job of him than they did me. He also pretended that he hated girls and frequently called them stupid, but I knew that he secretly liked them because he was often tongue-tied in their presence.

I had decided at early age that people were full of conflict and it made them weak.

My Father too, lived in conflict, but he wasn’t a liar like the others. He loved new and foreign things, his eyes settling longingly on the curves of silver amphoras and ivory horns, taking in the smells wafting from the foreign tenements whenever we walked hand in hand through the marketplace. Back in the day he had been a young sailor unencumbered with the burden of a family, but his job as a notary had dulled his senses, much like my Aunt Jaffina who embroidered kerchiefs all day because her husband couldn’t pleasure her.

Father complained that salt made his heart drum like “a buzzard’s wing around a carcass”, but couldn’t resist an extra pinch in his food. The rush of blood in his ears was the roar of waves and the drumming of his heart were the feet pounding the deck of a ship, the taste of salt on his lips was the spray of seawater from a howling storm. As much as he longed for his old life again, reminders of it made him uncomfortable, because he had turned Householder now and there was nought he could do about it.

I knew all this then, though I did not speak of it because people don’t like hearing the Truth. Also, does anyone take the words of a twelve-year-old girl and not call them childish fancies?

I licked my lips, tasting the grittiness of the dust kicked up by the carts and mules, savouring its chalky taste. Vendors tried to attract me with ice-lollies and painted dolls, but I refused to be distracted. I found my treasure when I passed the old seller of souls, bottles arranged like live jewels on a mat in the hot sun. It was the hour I chose my future.

“Come, come little one! Come see!”

He held up a tiny bottle with the flicker of purple light inside it and grinned a toothless grin at me. I knew that he smiled from a place of desperation, trying to entice passers by, so I humoured him and smiled back.

“No!” shouted my mother as she pulled me away, “Don’t look at that!”

She covered my eyes.

“God knows where these fakirs land up from! Parasites! Immigrants will ruin this city!”

She turned me around and shook me by the shoulders.

“Must you stare at everyone so? You’ll attract the wrong sort of attention! If anything happens to you—tauba tauba—” She slapped her cheeks and crushed me against her bulk, “—I’ll just die!”

My mother had a flair for drama. I allowed her to drag me all the way home, crushed to her side, where she promptly forgot about me and began preparing dinner with Aunty Jaff. They considered me a disaster in the kitchen and worried about my future husband, but I took any freedom that was given me because I had more important things to do. I had plans: I would grow up, leave, make my own living and eat my own cooking.

“It’s nothing, just electricity,” explained my brother, “It’s a trick, souls can’t be trapped inside a bottle.”

Father prided himself on educating both his children, but my brother was quite frankly the better investment.

“But how can it be electricity if it’s not connected to anything?”

“I don’t know, but it’s definitely an illusion,” he said knowledgeably, “I saw something like that at a fair once, lightning inside a glass ball, and when we touched the glass the lightning followed our touch, because our bodies are conductors of electricity. It’s why Uncle Kadi was paralyzed during the lightening storm when he opened the tap. It’s a science trick and the rest is superstition.”

Nevertheless, I was eager to visit the old man and his odd shop. I sensed there was much Truth to learn there. I would miss school, but it seemed worth it. I prepared carefully for my outing, covering every track so that no one would sense anything amiss.

“Come! Come little one!” he exclaimed when he saw me, as if he had been waiting for me all this time.

“Don’t call me ‘little’ because I’m not.”

I certainly wasn’t. I had been a woman for more than a year now, too early in my mother’s opinion. Her wails had been worthy of a funeral.

“All right,” he said, “What do I call you then?”

“My name is of no importance.”

“Oh very well, I see!” he exclaimed, nodding vigorously and humouring me, “So why does the young lady visit my shop?”

I took a deep breath to calm my nerves and met his glazed old eyes steadily.

“I want you to answer my questions about your craft, and if a customer arrives I want to watch from behind the curtain.”

He lost his glee and became serious all of a sudden.

“An unusual request,” he mused, “Young people usually come to make a purchase.”

“If I am satisfied I will pay you for your trouble, and if you deny me—” I made my voice harder— “I know that you are a seller of souls and the king frowns on such things.”

He laughed with the same desperation he pitched his goods.

“A seller of souls! No, no my dear!” He waved his spindly arms, “I am a keeper of essences!”

“What’s the difference?”

“I take the essence of the bearer that has been denied, the sorrow of people who lie to themselves, the love of gifts that were not allowed to bloom!”

He was a flowery man, my teacher, his arms as expressive as his words.

“How can anyone find that of any use?”

“It is of use if you have none yourself, and if you are young then you can make an unused gift your own.”

“So…” I said, trying hard to grasp what he was saying, “You sell the talents of dead people?”

He sighed as if deeply disappointed.

“No, I protect them, and pass them on to new bearers.”

“Some people would say that you exploit sentiments.”

“My customers come to me of their own volition.”

I went quiet, observing him for a long moment. He had no reason to put up with my brashness.

“You’d better come inside,” he said, “It’s hot and dusty and it’s time for my coffee.”

“I will, but I want you to know that I am expected home in a few hours and I left a note on my bed of my whereabouts, and they will come straight here if I don’t come home on time. Moreover, my Father is an eminent notary and since the queen loves children, she will have you executed if anything happens to me.”

“Good God,” he said, scratching his head under his turban, “Children these days, really. Come in, or wait outside, it’s your wish.”

He disappeared behind the ratty old curtain. I waited outside a moment more before removing my shoes and stepping in.

Inside, it was darker and cooler. A large carpet that had seen better days covered the floor and the furniture was low and ornate. I stared at the hookah bubbling in the corner and the comfortable divan, the tray of fruit on a stand belying the appearance of poverty from outside. His space was small, but at least he had good possessions. I felt less sorry for him.

“Here,” he said handing me a small cup.

The pleasant aroma of coffee touched my nostrils.

“No thank you,” I said, to remind him that I hadn’t lowered my suspicions.

“More for me then,” he said and sat down crossed-legged on the divan.

“Now,” he said, taking a sip and laying the cup on a tray, “What is it that you want to know?”

“Everything,” I said, settling down on the carpet, “I want to know how you do your work. How do you extract an essence, how do you store it? Why do they glow inside the bottles? Is it….?”

His face took on an almost wicked look as I trailed away.

“Magic?” he finished for me, wiggling his fingers like a conjurer at a fair.

“No, of course not. I was going to say trickery.”

“Why have you come here if you don’t believe?”

“Seeing is believing.”

“Well,” he said under his breath, “I’ll just have to show you then won’t I?”

He rose and uncovered an nondescript cabinet against the wall of his shack. Inside, the shelves were lined with little bottles of uneven sizes. Some had more than one colour inside them. From inside, they looked drabber than the passing glimpse I had made outside.

“This one,” he said raising a bottle in the dim light with faint sparks inside it, “A girl so beautiful that her parents raised her only to give her away, little by little, but there was so much more to her than that. Pity.”

He shook his head sadly and kept it back.

“What do you mean, did they sell her?”

He stood silent and still for a moment and then said, “Yes, to the highest bidder, over and over again.”

“This one,” he said raising another one to the light, “A boy with such a colourful character that the people around him attributed it to madness. His teachers dragged him down and his father wished he had never been born. He could make his fellow students laugh for hours on end.”

“But why didn’t they like him?”

He looked at me and shrugged, “Too different, too much life.”

“An artist?”

“You could call him that. He had more gifts than he knew what to do with.”

He put that back as well as I watched him curiously.

“This, hmm,” he said, raising another bottle flickering red, “A talented dancer, given to bouts of rage because of her unfaithful husband. She ended her life to teach him a lesson, but he moved on.”

He sighed again.

“Did they all kill themselves?”

“Not all.”

“Were some of them murdered?”

“I don’t take those, they can have an inordinate effect on the bearer.”

“Did you steal it from any live ones?”

“No, that’s very difficult. The body has to give it up.”

“Have you tried any of them for yourself?”

“No, I fear my skill will cease if I do.”

“So how do you do it.”

“How do I do it? I wait for the right moment, and then I take it.”

“Did someone teach you how?”

“No, it came to me naturally…much like your own talent.”

He looked at me keenly and I blushed.

“I merely ask the right questions,” I said, refusing to be charmed.

“You are modest, little lady! You know I’m not short of talents myself? I used to be a great dancer in my day!”

He rose and began dancing impishly around the floor, spinning his skinny arms and legs about like monkey. I burst into helpless laughter.

“Customer!” he he shouted suddenly and went out.

I heard whispers and then the voice of an older woman practically wailing outside.

“I don’t know what to do with him! He lies around all day smoking hashish, or he’s off with his no-good friends. He begs me for money and if I tell him to get a job he calls me names—his own mother! What am I to do? He is heading down the same path as his father! Ai, ai, ai! I wish the ghilan on him!”

I heard her thump her breast in distress and the old man shushing her loudly.

“Don’t call on the name of Death-Takers unless you want them to pay you a visit! And do not despair, men have done worse things!”

He came inside and I watched him as he opened his cabinet again and searched busily through his bottles. He found what he wanted and went back outside, acting as if he had forgotten about me.

“Here, keep it under his nose tonight as he lies in a stupor, and tomorrow, I promise you, he will wake up a different man. But remember—”

He paused as if to make sure she was listening.

“This is a mere spark, it is up to him to nurture it, and up to you to make sure that he does. If he doesn’t it will fade and soon he will be back to his old ways. So don’t come crying to me again, for I don’t waste my elixirs on sluggards.”

I heard some sniffing and saw the shadow of her head nodding vigorously. The old man came inside looking very pleased.

“So you do exploit sentiments.”

He caught sight of me and sighed.

“Little one…I mean ‘nameless young lady’, if you feel I take advantage of these people, then don’t you think I would charge them in gold? They have lost all hope to come to me, and there was time when they came more often. Times have changed, but my prices have not.”

“Very well,” I agreed reluctantly, “But you might as well sell nothing in a bottle, name it ‘HOPE’ and then charge money for it.”

“Oh I see, I seeee…” he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes this way and that, “Fancy yourself a great philosopher do you? Do you know children fetch a pretty price in the market by the docks, and your parents won’t come to know of it until you’re off to…” he dropped down on his knees and wagged a finger at me threateningly, “… an island so far away that it drops off the edge of the ocean, where they stitch your lips together and make you work in a quarry all day! And no will hear you because you can’t scream!”

I stared at him, speechless and horrified.

He drew back, looking apologetic.

“There, there…but even I have reached the end of my patience.”

I swallowed nervously but stayed put.

“I have an hour left and I will wait for your next customer.”

“Suit yourself, but hide inside the bedroom, some people are not comfortable sharing their private matters, and if they see you it’s bad for business.”

I looked suspiciously at the curtained off room as if it were a gateway to a dungeon.

“I’ll stay here until your customer comes, and then I’ll go inside if it suits me.”

“I see, and what do I expect in payment from this my most fussy client?”

I removed the coins I had collected from my forgetful father’s trousers over the past few months and showed it to him.

“Child, I don’t even want to know how you got hold of that much money.”

“It’s mine,” I insisted.

“A good truth-seeker but a bad liar.”

“But my father won’t miss it.”

“How do you know that, especially with such a large sum? I don’t want anyone accusing me of taking money from a gullible child.”

“I’m not gullible! I’m wiser than my age!”

“All right, O Wise One, what have you seen till now? How many people have you met in your short life?”

“Enough to know Truth when I see it.”

“And have you found me out too, then?”

“Well,” I said, for I had already made my assessment, “A person’s soul is essentially his self, so I don’t believe you can harness a person’s essence without taking something from their soul, if you can do it at all. And if you have, then you have committed a grievous sin against the gods.”

He laughed the same desperate laugh.

“I have not taken anything they didn’t want to give,” he said, “Those are the Death-Takers.”

“You mean ghilan?”

He shushed me fearfully.

“Tauba, tauba,” he whispered, touching his cheeks and glaring at me, “Don’t call on their name lightly, child, it’s precisely what draws them!”

I laughed at his alarm.

“Those are bedtimes stories told to children so that they do what they’re told,” I said.

“What is wrong with your generation, don’t they believe in anything?”

“I believe what I see,” I reiterated.

“Mortal eyes cannot perceive everything,” he said, brushing my cheek with a dry, stubby finger, “Now go home. One customer a day is enough for me, and quite frankly you’ve exhausted me.”

I slumped with disappointment, then rose to my feet.

“I’m coming back tomorrow,” I said before leaving.

“Suit yourself,” he said, and waved me away.

I heard him humming a tune as I stepped out of his shop.

I walked slowly back home so that I would meet my fellow students on the way and blend into a group, then copy their notes when I reached home. I worked so diligently at my deception that I got extra pudding that night.

“Show me how you do it.”

“No, child, my bones are too old to carry me around, hunting for lost gifts.”

“So you traveled widely when you were young.”

“Yes, I traveled great distances, and I came across many gifted people.”

“Did you have a wife?”

“I did, I did, for a time,” he paused to suck on the pipe of his hookah, “She possessed the most terrible gift of all.”

My ears sharpened and I leaned forward.

“What, what gift is that?”

“A gift no one in their right mind would want: the gift of foretelling.”

My mouth fell open.

“But that’s a wonderful gift!” I squeaked in indignation, “I would love to have it! I would be rich, I would live in my own palace! I would–”

I rose to my knees, envisioning a great future for myself.

“I would provide for my parents, my brother would envy me! I’d get my aunt a new husband! I’d be honoured by the king. I’d be friends with the queen!”

“Would you love to know when and how your loved ones would die? Would you like to see bloody wars played out in your mind? Oh no, child, don’t you know what happens to real foretellers, not those charlatans in the market, real ones?”

“If you know everything that is about to happen, then how could anything go wrong?”

“Now, you aren’t clever as you think. To know everything is to know every event that could possibly take place, every little action strikes a different path of every individual, sometimes it has little effect on those around them, sometimes it has an inordinate effect. The ambitions of a single man can effect the lives of millions, the conception of a single child can alter the course of future generations. It’s large, enormous—”

He spread his arms.

“–And can you imagine a single person owning the knowledge to everything that is to come, all the possibilities of every choice, every accident, every miracle? How does one, lacking other foretellers to teach them how, channel such a gift? It can drive a person mad! And there are those inevitable things, things you can’t change. My wife knew the way she would die, in every future, in every scenario. Death put the fear of the devil in her. Her own death, the deaths she’d seen in her visions. It’s dangerous, because if what falls out of your mouth comes true, people will think you caused those things.”

He shook his head as I sat back down.

“No child, it is not as simple as it seems. When I met my wife she was ostracized by her community, left to beg on the street, howling bitterly at strangers. Hey baker, don’t you know there will be a war in five years and your shop will be nothing but a black hole? Might as well throw some bread my way! She was close to getting herself lynched, but I think she wanted someone to kill her.”

“And you saved her?”

He nodded.

“I did. I had to. Under all that dirt and abuse she was a jewel, a shining star, her essence so strong it could have blinded me.”

He paused, closing his eyes and letting out a shaky breath.

“I took her with me, taught her to live in the present, to calm her fears, and soon the visions in her head dimmed. She worried about some things though, like her fears for my life, and the recurring dream of her death at childbirth. We refrained from touching each other, but sometimes we gave in, and then the inevitable happened.”

“She died?”

“Yes. She had begged me to take her essence, and she warned me of the future, of every possible danger I would face because of my trade. She did it out of love, of course, but it made me run, as if chased by demons, becoming as mad and as paranoid as she had been. And then as I grew older, my legs could not carry me as far. And soon, I came here and learned to accept the present too. I do not think of death anymore.”

“What did you run from Uncle, the ghilan?”

He opened his mouth in mock consternation and tapped the bridge of my nose.

“Thrice the devil! Well I suppose I can’t control what a child says, and to answer your question, I only run from women!”

“Women?”

“Beautiful women, to be precise.”

“Did your wife tell you to do so?”

“I insisted to her that I didn’t want to know how I would die, of what use is such information? But she warned me about deception and demons.”

He rose to go to his precious cabinet.

“I would not wish this on anyone,” he said, raising the bottle with the black cloud inside it.

“Show me,” I asked curiously. I peered at the contents through the glass in excitement though I found it difficult believe that any of this was possible. It was more of a game to me.

“What if someone gets hold of it?”

“True, true, she had that fear as well.”

He sighed deeply.

“It’s easy to use this for evil, and that goes for any power, but surely this can do more damage than others.”

“We shall bury it,” I said, clutching the bottle to my chest, “Bury it in a spot that only you and I know.”

He got caught up with my excitement. We removed a tile from the floor of his shop and dug a hole deep enough to fit my arm. Once this was done, I returned home and got the scolding of my life, but not because of the dirt on my clothes.

I had been undone by my brother who had become suspicious about my whereabouts and wheedled the truth out of my friends. Of course it had been him, he couldn’t wait for an opportunity to ingratiate himself to our parents at my expense. I wondered furiously if he would ever grow a spine. I itched to go back to the old man’s shop.

Much to his delight, my brother was now my watchdog. He went beyond the extent of his authority and soon I was ironing his shirts and polishing his shoes as well. I held back my annoyance and waited patiently for him to slip up, but the fool was a model son.

Soon I decided to use my powers to maximum capacity and leave my principles in the dust.

I took the help of a friend, of course. It took a week but she managed to distract him with meaningful looks and half-smiles. I paid her well for her pains, caring little for the predetermined end to the charade which would leave his oily little heart trampled.

And I managed to get away, greeting the Gift-Keeper with an equally enthusiastic smile.

“Little One, how long has it been? A month? A year? Come, sit, have some coffee!”

I did not have coffee but we chatted away wildly like we were old friends. I returned once a week for the next month, my plans working out satisfactorily with my brother on his way to heartbreak.

I watched as the Gift-Keeper charged his poor clients only as much as they could afford, and swindled the rich with the skills of a moneylender. I learned the secret longings of the old and young behind the black curtain of his bedroom, gathering my knowledge of people like a treasure chest of human failings.

I began to think in earnest about my future–what would I grow up to be? A lawyer perhaps, or a minister, an advisor to the king himself?

One day a shadow halted in front of the curtain and the smell of sweet, cool perfume wafted inside. I slipped inside out of habit, hiding behind the curtain that would give me a clear view both the client and my friend.

“Come, come young sir, come in.”

Our new client was rich, or Uncle wouldn’t have invited him in so quickly. When he stepped inside, my heart stopped momentarily.

His features were so elegant: a linear nose, softly curved at the nostrils, a childlike mouth with lips curled like the petals of a rosebud. His mustache was precise as the arch of a bow, groomed so it could have been painted…and his hands–so graceful, like bejeweled reeds bending in the wind! His turban was a kingly turquoise and purple silk, trimmed with gold, matching his exquisitely embroidered tunic. I gazed at him with the ardor of an inexperienced child.

He looked around Uncle’s little shop with his darkly outlined eyes, a small smile playing on his lips and I thought I could have fallen in love from the way he moved his head. I held my breath, waiting for him to speak, hoping the sound of his voice would complete this near perfect vision.

“Uncle, I have a favour to ask.”

He spoke plaintively and softly, and I wanted to embrace him and tell him that everything would be alright.

“Tell me, my son.”

“I have a fear that has plagued me from birth. Sometimes it cripples me so I cannot get up from bed. I feel as if the strength is being squeezed from me. My doctors cannot help me, so I thought perhaps it is not an ailment of the body. I came here hoping for a cure.”

“My son, I cannot help you unless you explain in detail what ails you.”

The young man sighed, his mouth drooping at the corners.

“It’s a long story, Uncle.”

“You will find me a patient listener, my son.”

“My family has unjustly been cheated out of its inheritance by many swindlers. They roam the earth making themselves richer on the spoils that were owed my family since…well many many years. My father and brothers have hidden this fact from me because they do not want me to waste my life searching out what they consider mere pilferage.”

He looked up, a frown lining his forehead, his eyes searching Uncle’s face.

“This angered me greatly because I consider this a serious loss, however small. Wouldn’t you admit that a single diamond is worth searching out in a cave? When you add up the years it is tantamount to an astronomical theft! I’ve searched the world for these thieves, but there is one more talented than the others who evades my grasp. So you see, I am upset, I feel ill, I cannot sleep when I think of the injustice that my family has suffered. It was promised to us! After all, Uncle, would you accept half the amount for a job fully done?”

Uncle Gift-Keeper was silent, and when I turned to look he was sitting still and stiff, his eyes staring off to somewhere over the young man’s shoulder. He opened and closed his mouth, then said in the saddest possible way, “My son, I cannot tell you any more than you already know.”

I looked to the young man, whose eyes were narrowed. The smile had returned, but with the narrowed eyes it did not have the same effect on me as it did earlier. I sensed something was terribly wrong. The man reached out and coiled his beautiful hands around Uncle’s neck, and I watched in fascination and horror as his fingers turned to smoke when they touched his skin.

The Gift Keeper began taking deep, gasping breaths, his expression stricken as if he had seen something frightening. My heart began to pound with nervousness and sweat broke out on my back.

“I know what you are, vulture, eater of the dead.”

Uncle began to shiver.

“How dare you overstep your mortal bounds?”

The ghul’s disguise began to melt away, and its voice, enough to tempt me into revealing myself earlier, now scraped at my ears and made my blood run cold. Uncle made a gurgling noise as if the air were blocked in his throat and tried to push the ghul’s hands away, but he only succeeded in a making a waving motion as his hands cleared through the ghul’s form, as if it were made of air.

“Where is it? Where are you hiding what’s rightfully mine?”

Its face changed, joining the formlessness, clothes and jewels disappearing with the rest of the illusion, turning into a curving mound of undulating black waves. It peeled Uncle’s lips back with its curling black fingers, peering inside, its form dripping into the orifice of Uncle’s widening mouth. I watched as he struggled uselessly, emitting a staccato of grunts and squeaks until one intelligible word made its way through:

“…RUN!”

I jumped from my hiding place and running past the ghul, headed clumsily with waving arms into the open marketplace outside. The bright light of the sun blinded me I skidded for a moment, blinking and confused as to what direction to take. Then I ran towards home as if wild dogs were chasing me, kicking up dust with my bare feet. I turned a corner of a shop and leaned against the wooden wall, my breath burning and panting as if I’d run a mile. I forced myself to be calm and turning my head, peered back at the Gift-Keeper’s shop to confirm what I had just seen.

At first there was nothing, then the ghul stepped out from behind the curtain on long, stilt-like legs, its insides glowing through its belly like a fragmenting log of wood within a fire. It turned its head, with the same grace of the young man, glancing about as if looking for something, the sockets of its eyes grey and empty. I was sickened at the thought that few moments ago I was ready to fall in love with this creature. The Gift-Keeper had been right, I didn’t know as much as I thought!

A man walked past the ghul with a cart as if he didn’t see it as did everyone else on the street. And then, to my horror, it bent down and peered curiously at my shoes, lying haphazardly on the ground where I had left them earlier. It picked one up with its fingers and sniffed at it, then turned half its body around in the most knowing manner.

I ran again, terror taking hold of my body, jumping into alleyways and taking a winding route home, trying, unconsciously, to throw the creature off my scent, cutting my feet on debris and stones.

At home I wept deeply and loudly. I developed a fever and for the next few days I lay shivering in bed until my mother thought I had caught the plague. My body broke out into red blotches and the doctor was called. It took me a few attempts to calm myself but still I felt utterly alone and exposed. To add to that I was berated with questions about my missing shoes. The street urchins came as a good excuse and I was allowed to miss a few more days of school. My fever settled and I clung to my mother, her stifling bulk now a comfort to me. She was pleased at first but in a few days she grew tired.

“Must you cling to me so? What’s the matter with you? Leave me be!”

I turned for comfort to my father, who I thought would surely understand.

“Father,” I told him seriously, “There is a beast that pursues me, and he takes the form of a very handsome man. I’m quite sure that he intends to do me harm.”

Father listened intently until I reached the end of my sentence, then reached out and patted my cheek, which I took for reassurance.

“Oh, what silly stories you turn up with, my Little One.”

And he walked away dreamily.

I remember the deep sense of betrayal I had felt in that moment and I wondered if I had indeed imagined everything. I recollected each detail of the event, but then, it was true that no one saw the ghul in its naked form but me, and as a consequence, only I could believe what had happened.

I returned to school, clinging to my friends, who noticed my squirrelly behaviour. I walked in the middle, shielded by a girl on either side, protecting my self by trying to disappear, that I could be jumped on at any moment.

And then, as my self-possession began to return, I realized that no one could help me. Not my silly mother, not my flaky father, not my cowardly brother. I had asked enough of my friends already. It was time for me to swallow my fear and act on my own. I did not want my soul to be taken by the ghul, too be locked in some infernal prison and watch the torture of punished souls.

I returned to the shop. Taking one fearful step at a time, my head down, an ostrich with its head stuck in the sand—if I could not see the ghul then it could not see me.

I reached The Gift Keeper’s shack—bare, an empty hole. I stood before it silently until a woman’s voice spoke in my ear. It was the mother of the wayward son.

“Keep away, little girl! The place is cursed.”

“What happened?”

“Oh you should have seen it, I’ve never seen anything so horrible in my life. It was like his body had been turned in side out!”

She shook her head and made a sign to ward off the devil.

“Keep away dear one, this shop will lay unclaimed until the evil has passed.”

I waited until she had gone then looked around and seeing that no one else noticed me, I entered, my fear overcome by urgency. Bottles lay strewn over the ground and the cabinet was empty, the carpet marked by a large brown patch. I shivered, but only for moment. Retrieving the wife’s gift was of utmost importance.

I watch myself from the window of the past, clawing at the dirt with my hands and fingers, my uniform covered with dust, taking the only path I knew to take. Too late to turn back. I had been heading this way the day I had chosen to enter his shop.

I have cursed myself several times, if only I had never gone there, may be if I had listened to my parents, but no, I recognize the same spark that lit my heart as a little girl, the same one that lights the heart of all troublemakers and heroes. I was no hero, of course, I had been a troublemaker who had thought she was something special. I felt an inexplicable burning in my heart as I watched the girl uncover the bottle and swallow the dark cloud inside it.

I had waited for days, then the feelings began. I told the grocer to be careful, but I didn’t know why. My dear friend, my helper, my playmate, I could hear her screams in my dreams as she died, from what I couldn’t tell. I couldn’t look her in the eye after that. My brother? He would live a happy life, or at least he would convince himself of that. My parents would die in mourning.

It was testing me, poking the walls of my sanity. Visions joined with presentiments, some unclear, some accurate, but there could be no denying them. They did not drive me mad, as they had the Gift-Keeper’s wife, because she did not know what I knew. The cold clear sting of reality didn’t bring the same damning despair on me as it did in her. Perhaps I was made of sterner stuff. I accepted the subjects of my visions as much as I accepted the visions. I accepted evil. Besides, if one’s closest relationships disappoint you, how can anyone else hurt you more? My power, melded with the Gift-Keeper’s Wife’s, forged a bond that was hard to crack.

My talent bloomed and I made away with it, seizing my fate and leaving my father and mother to lie waiting for my return. I used my powers wisely and learned to hone my words, making them neutral enough to save me from blame. The tragic mistakes of the Gift-Keeper’s wife taught me all I needed to know.

My timing was fortuitous, people were disillusioned with modern life and were looking to the old ways for guidance. I traveled far and wide, attracting young and old, poor and rich. More over, I came in the form of a young virginal girl. What more convincing did they need?

Word spread of my powers, many kingdoms conspired to kidnap or bribe me, but I was always two steps ahead of them. Ordinary people followed me, venerating me, offering protection and payment. I grew to have loyal followers, ready to die for me. Full with the glory of my triumph I forgot the two most important things in my life, the ghul and my parents.

They came to seek answers about the whereabouts of their lost daughter. Ten years had passed, they did not recognize me under my veil. They had aged, shrunk with the misery of loss, and yet I found it hard to forgive them. Should I ease their burden, cast off my veil and reveal myself?

“Your daughter is happier now than she ever has been,” was all that I said.

They had looked at each other in a searching manner. My father patted my mother’s hand with a sad smile and they left to make place for the next customer. I felt sharp barbs in my heart, and yet I was relieved that they had left without more questions.

It was the same day that I had felt the piercing chill of the ghul’s touch on my shoulder. It had disguised itself as one my worshippers. I escaped death by climbing onto the pedestal that they had raised for me, surrounded by the smoke of incense and holy signs. Someone smeared my face with spices and showered me with rose petals, an unworthy goddess, interfering, playing with the lives of innocents. I wonder how much I had angered the gods in heaven.

It was then I began to think earnestly of how to put an end to the ghul. I grew more cautious with my foretelling. I ceased to receive customers and instead, dropped in unannounced. This somehow made them revere me more. I was always one step ahead of the ghul, constantly reading my future, searching amongst the multiple strands for a way out. I dreamt often of a bright, blinding light and deafening silence. My future was calling to me, but how was I to get there?

I did not have to wait long. A young king came to me; handsome, a great general, intent on expanding his kingdom. He had been misguided by the retinue of advisors behind him and had now bitten off more than he could chew. I drank in the sight of his form, proud, the unconscious stance of a warrior, a perfect specimen of a man, and yet the face betrayed a boyish softness. A few years ago I would have taken him to my bed, for I had no fear of recognition when it came to my lovers. My face, revealed to them like some glorious celestial entity, would be replaced in their minds and memories by something that they thought I was.

“What do you mean, flee?” he demanded, like so many dissatisfied customers before him, “A king does not tell his people to run.”

“Then there will only be death.”

He frowned, looking both perplexed and angry.

“A war to end all wars, there is nothing you can do but run,” I explained, “You have caused a great deal of trouble in trying times, and woken a great beast to battle.”

A follower of mine cleared her throat as warning to accept what was given and leave. He bowed, a vertical line still creasing his forehead, then turned and walked away shaking his head angrily. No, he would not listen to me, like I have never listened to anyone.

And thus the ghul would play right into my hands.

Three nations, leaving destruction in their wake, set on conquering the world at the risk of annihilation. I saw the white blinding light over and over in my dreams, I floated above it with invisible wings, feeling an incredible lightness, an unburdening that has eluded me ever since I had taken of the gift. I longed for this future more than anything, I longed to cast away the gift that had given me everything I wanted.

I made my way alone in the night to the land of the young king. His armies unaware of the destruction to come, sleeping peacefully, people going about their business before the crack of dawn. Should I save them? If I told them what was to come, would they believe me? Would human nature surprise me?

If I had learned anything in the past fifteen years, then it was this, that the truth was oftentimes unbearable. That is why, when I had begun, I avoided tragedies and only foretold happiness. It was why I was alive.They would call me mad if I told them the the truth.

They were indifferent to me, I was invisible unless I stood on a pedestal, surrounded by worshippers.

Sheep, slaves, I spat at them as they passed by in their carts and vehicles, the rich still asleep in their beds and the poor thinking that there was an end to this day.

I chose the spot where I would stand carefully, affecting stealthiness, where I would take the full force of the eye of light that would turn everything to dust. And then I waited.

My ghul came, as I expected it to, each hoof-step leaving a hiss not twenty paces behind me, gurgling gluttonously now that its most prized catch was within reach.

I dared not turn now, or my courage might fail. Instead, I turned my head just so, so half my face were visible.

“You think you have caught me,” I said, “But it is I who have led you here.”

The fool animal did not listen, its form at the corner of my eyes, the orange embers glowing inside its body, grey waves flickering and pulling at its corners as if it were made of ashes and smoke.

“I should thank you,” I said to it, “For showing me how to live.”

The creature paused, its desperation suddenly measured. Then it resumed its pursuit.

“Sorceress, witch, liar!”

The flicker of rainbow colours before the blast of white, my signal to turn so I would see the creature die with my own eyes. I smiled as I saw its face for the second time in my life, teeth bared, grey empty eyes, reaching out with its hands, clawed and black, thin and graceful, rabid and desperate.

There is only one way to kill a ghul. One hard blow.

~ The End ~

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