MYTHIC

A QUARTERLY SCIENCE FICTION & FANTASY MAGAZINE

ISSUE #12 | FALL 2019

Editor’s Note

by Shaun Kilgore

HELLO EVERYONE. WELCOME to the twelfth issue of MYTHIC: A Quarterly Science Fiction & Fantasy Magazine. I am glad to have you back. I am still committed to providing a diverse collection of short stories in each and every issue of MYTHIC and this one is no different.

The challenges of producing a quarterly science fiction and fantasy magazine almost single-handedly remain much the same and I’ve had a few setbacks that have kept the releases of new issues behind schedule. But, I am pressing on and I hope that keep returning as I each one is published. With any luck, I’ll get caught up and get the releases back on track early in the new year.

Sincerely,

Shaun Kilgore

Editor

---- ---- ----

Interested in submitting stories to MYTHIC? We prefer electronic submissions. You may email us at the following address: submissions@mythicmag.com. For more complete submission guidelines and any other information, you may visit our website: www.mythicmag.com

Would you like to advertise in MYTHIC? Contact me at mythicmag@gmail.com to find out about different pricing options for advertisements of books and select services relevant to our readers.

Knocking On The Door
by Justin Patrick Moore

HAVE YOU EVER TRIED to open up a door no one else even knows is there? That’s what I’ve been doing on and off for the past twenty odd years. I tried all kinds of things to get the door to open, but none of them ever worked until I gave up. I spent a lot of time and money trying to get through that door, but in the end the price I paid was just a penny compared to what I gained.

Working downtown at the main library for as long as I have you start to notice certain things. It’s a big building and if you are into exploring at all, you start finding yourself in forgotten corners. The place has seen a lot of construction and remodeling over the years. There are some places up in the stacks where work projects have been started but never finished.

One morning not long after I started the job I managed to come in early. With some time to kill before my shift began I went up to the browse the stacks. I’ve never gotten tired of picking through the old books and there is always a new discovery. Just when I happened to stumble across an ornate volume of Giordano Bruno’s Art of Memory I saw someone move out of the corner of my eye in the row next to me. I peeked through the shelf and saw the back of what looked like a middle aged homeless man. He slipped off around the corner along the wall.

The public aren’t allowed up in the stacks, yet at the same time I didn’t want to narc on the guy. Street people had been known to sneak into them before closing time to sleep somewhere warm and dry. To me that’s blameless. I did want to see where he was going, so I followed him down the hall until he turned a corner. When I turned the corner he was gone.

I walked along the edge of the wall looking for him until I came to a place where a heavy canvas drop cloth splattered with gray, white and beige paint was hung. It flapped in the wind as I arrived and the air seemed warmer. I could smell hot dust. With it came the memory of the desert, of the time my Mom and I had flown out to visit family in California. My aunt and cousins took us back home after a few weeks and we drove through the Mojave. I still remember seeing the cattle skull on the side of the road. Then the wind and smell disappeared. As I stood another memory welled up inside me, a half grazed recollection which lingered on the edge of an impossible threshold. When I reached out to touch it the memory faded.

I pulled back the canvas drop cloth to reveal the door. My jaw dropped at the sight. It was a solid piece of oak so polished I could make out my own reflection inside the mesmerizing grain. The hinges were solid cast iron with bronze bolts. Carved into the door itself were words written in an ancient alphabet reminiscent of both Hebrew and Greek but belonging to neither. It was no script I recognized. The handle and the keyhole were made of silver. Embossed on the knob was an octagon star. When I turned the handle and pushed and pulled the door stayed firm, stolid, in its place. I crouched down and tried to peer through the keyhole. Squinting and looking inside all I could see was a field of black, but then a star glittered and then a field of stars exploded into view, a milky splash glowing against the night until these too faded back to black. Perhaps I had just strained my eyes.

I looked at my watch and was stunned to see I was fifteen minutes late. Where had the time gone? I scrambled down the nearest stairwell to Book Distribution and punched the clock.

“You’re gonna have to stay after a bit Justin, to make that up.” My manager Rich had a haircut straight out of the ‘70s. He kept it dyed too, the same dark reddish brown as the tie clipped to his neck.

“No problem,” I said. For a boss Rich was cool. He collected Arkham House first editions and had a vast knowledge of Weird fiction. We’d chat about the adventures of Conan, and the intricacies of Lovecraft’s mythos.

I grabbed a cup of coffee from the percolator and started scanning a box of material perplexed and disoriented by what I had seen.

“So Rich, I was up on D stack this morning and I saw this homeless looking guy up there in the religion section, and I followed him and then I saw this door. It looked like something straight out of a fantasy novel, all gilded and carved and stuff, except it was under this hanging piece of canvas. Have you ever seen that?”

Rich laughed, “You making stuff up again Justin? This would be good in one of your stories.”

“No, I’m not making anything up. When I saw it I became transfixed and lost track of time. That’s why I was late.”

“I’ve never seen that,” he said. “But hey, it’s a big building. Maybe it’s one of those unfinished renovations.”

“Okay,” I said, disappointed. It was hard for me to believe he hadn’t ever seen the door. Rich was in his sixties and had started working at the library when he was eighteen. He knew the building back and forth.

Yet his dismissal only served to make me more curious. Anytime I had to go fetch a book that was shelved near the door I’d make a pit stop and try to turn the handle, see if it would open. Getting to the other side of it became a slow burning obsession.

Then the years passed. Life happened. I met a girl named Audrey and she became my girlfriend and a year later we shacked up. My curiosity about the door remained. A few years after we moved in together death happened. My mother’s passing was sudden and unexpected. Yet even after death life kept happening and Audrey and I got married the year I turned thirty. All through this time I still wondered about the door and stopped up to take a look at it every now and again, to see if I’d ever be able to crack it ajar.

On the weekends the lady and I would go on antiquing trips to northern Ohio, or down into Kentucky, or Indiana. I’d buy skeleton keys on these jaunts and try them on the door. We had lots of fun and my collection of keys had become quite impressive but none of them ever worked.

I was beginning to lose hope when I saw an ad in the back of Citybeat for a lock-picking class at the local hacker-space Hive 13. The class was real nifty. You get these little pieces of thin metal to put into the mechanism so you can trip the bolt. Not to toot my own horn but with practice I became skilled at picking locks. One time I got my cousin Chris out of a tough bind. His ex-girlfriend called me up in a panic to help unchain him from the bed. It was kind of awkward for everyone. But on the door this skill didn’t do diddley-squat.

I started spending loads of time in the lock-picking forum on reddit because someone in the world must know how to trip the mechanism. I chatted with folks who were as bedeviled as I was about doors, locks, bolts, keys. Still nothing worked.

Then I saw the homeless man wondering in the stacks again. I was fetching a copy of The Jerusalem Bible for a patron and there he was. When I yelled “Hey,” he turned to look at me and I saw him. Marvin. The crazy hobo squatter punk. He ran down the aisle ahead of me and turned the same corner he had all those years before. The canvas drape flapped in the desert scented wind as he shut the door in my face.

I pounded on the door with my fists, but he didn’t come back. No one answered. He might be able to tell me what was behind the door, but maybe he didn’t want me to know. My mind despaired. In all likelihood it was probably just a storage closet for the janitors or an access point to the HVAC system and Marvin slept there when he could. Yet if that were the case why was the door made of fine oak and carved with ancient letters in detailed filigree? Maybe it all was just my fevered imagination.

Shaking my head I tried to let the whole thing go. I grabbed the book I’d come up for and took it down to the customer, full of seething resentment and defeat.

I couldn’t believe it was Marvin. I’d seen him around town and knew him by reputation. I’d run in to him at noise music shows over the years. My wife and I saw him milling about at the annual Northside Rock and Roll Carnival on the Fourth of July. All the cities hot freaks came out for that. But mostly I’d seen him at the library, looking at books on mysticism, magic, and meditation. My co-workers thought he was weird. I was intrigued by him, but now I was just peeved that he could go in the door, and I was stuck out. He didn’t even work at the library for Christ’s sakes.

My good friend Syd knew him a bit; he even lived with him in a punker’s squat for a few months and relayed Marvin’s crazy stories to me, stuff about being a time traveler. No one believed a word.

A week later I was still in a stew about it all when I left work. Waiting for the bus, my mind spun in a billion different directions. I paid my fare and noticed the 17 was extra crowded. There was only one seat left and it was next to Marvin who looked at me wild eyed as if he was about to reel in the biggest catch of his life.

“Don’t worry, I don’t bite,” he said, as I sat down next to him. He had an earthy smell. It wasn’t the kind of bathroom funk you get with a wino though he did have a brown paper bag sitting on his lap. His smell was of strong tobacco, soil, and a dry cracked aroma reminiscent of the desert.

“Seen any good bands lately?” he asked as I tried to get comfortable.
“No, I haven’t,” I said.

He looked to his side with a nervous twitch then whispered, “Will you hear me out? I’ve got something to tell you. I know you’ve seen me up in the stacks and I know you know about the door.”

I nodded my head.

He grinned, revealing his nicotine stained teeth. In the sparkle of his eyes I could see hints of far off places. This man had been stretched thin. Despite his rugged muscularity from a life in the elements a burning mystical gulf existed within him, a void filled with silence and stillness.

“My friend Syd told me you hop trains?”

“It’s not common knowledge but if you hop a freighter under the glow of a blue moon while shaking a bag of old possum bones and singing Cannonball Blues you can ride the line to another time. If you sing the words backwards you go into the past and if you sing them side-a-ways you step into the future.”

I had just learned my first piece of hobo magic.

“It works with a harmonica too,” he said.

Marvin pulled a scratched up harmonica from the front pocket of his beat up overalls. To the surprise of everyone on the bus he honked off several bars from Cannonball. It was so captivating everyone shut up. Even the bus driver stopped until a horn blared from a car behind us. Marvin slipped the harmonica back in his pocket and we were on our way. Conversations continued like nothing had happened.

“I’ve been all across this country,” he said “riding the rails. I’ve walked the streets of San Francisco, Chicago and New York. I’ve done odd jobs in the small towns too, in Springfield, in Ypsilante, in places you never heard of. And on all those trips I wasn’t just travelling across the country. I was travelling across time, out on collecting trips.”

It sounded crazy, but so was the door, so maybe it was true. “Collecting what?”
“Books. For the secret wing of the library.”
Something clicked. “Did you ever get caught smuggling books into the building?” I asked. Steve in security had told me a story about a man they caught sneaking antiquarian books the library didn’t own up into the stacks.

“That was me,” he said. “For a half-Irish, half-Lebanese madman I’ve wised up a bit since then. Now I use an invisibility orb when I make deliveries.”

“Then how come I’ve seen you?”

“People gifted with the sight can see past the glamour of the orb.”
I was able to see things other people didn’t. “Is that how I saw the door in the first place?” Marvin nodded.

“But how come you ran...and how come you’re talking to me now?”
“I ran because I was on a mission. I’m talking now because you’re persistent,” he said. “And because you knocked. Knocking is the first step.”

“I’ve been trying to open the door since I started at the library. I’ve tried everything and it won’t budge!”

“Next time you’re there it will” he said, “because something in you changed.”

“I don’t even remember knocking.”
“Well, you kind of pounded on it a week ago.” I had. I’d been desperate.

“So what are you doing now?” I asked.

“I’m gonna hitch a train up to the Cleveland. I gotta pick up a book from another member of the League, maybe check out this band Terpsichore while I’m there.”
The League. The name was vague, familiar, a half grazed memory.
I looked outside the bus window and couldn’t see a thing. A heavy fog had settled in. Had I missed my stop? It felt like I’d been sitting there forever. Then I looked around the bus itself and saw that Marvin and I were the only passengers left. The driver got up and said, “Layover boys.”

“I’m gonna have a smoke, man” Marvin said, so I got up with him and stood outside the bus as he rolled a cigarette from his pouch of bugler. He offered me one and I accepted.

We were parked next to an old gas station. It was the only thing I could see. Everything else was covered in a swirling haze of mist and fog. Gas stations like this only existed in the movies or in the small towns you pass through on a country drive. It had two antique pumps, solid metal, bright red and green. An attendant was pumping gas in a white ‘59 Ford Galaxy with the top rolled down. The driver took a swig from a bottle of Coke, and had his arm around a brunette sporting a flipped bob.

“I don’t remember there ever being a layover on the 17 between Downtown and Northside,” I said after taking a drag.

Marvin exhaled and I exhaled. His gray smoke mingled with my gray smoke and both mixed into the penetrating fog. The man in the Galaxy paid the attendant and the car chugged into life exhaling thick smog from the tailpipe before driving off into the misty haze.

“This whole world is a layover. Your trip here on this planet is just a stop at a way station. You come down here and the threads of your life interweave with the threads of other folks who’ve made the same stop. Some get back on the same bus or train as you, and others walk off down the road, go a different way. Some folks you get to know real well, others just intersect your path. A few you may have met during your last stop at the way station. Some you keep on meeting again and again. You and me are like that because I swear we’ve met before, and not just up in the parlor at the Southgate House. Anyhow, after a time you open your eyes and start seeing how you’re just another passerby. You don’t become wrapped up in the world so much. You start wearing it like a loose robe knowing it’s all just part of the weave. The painful things that go on here, and the joyful things that go on here only end up touching you in a few places, and there lightly. With your eyes opened to what lies beyond this brief layover, you’ll be able to open the door.”

As he spoke a kernel of light passed from him and into me. It was a floating golden book with tiny wings no larger than a firefly. It crawled out the crumpled paper bag he held and flew into the shirt pocket over my heart.

I looked inside my shirt pocket and the book bug was gone. The faint neon residue it had left behind glowed in the shape of an archaic letter. The fog started to dissipate. The gas station sign flickered on and off, and it seemed like a pink United Dairy Farmer sign emerged from beneath it. A sharp whistle from the bus driver came for us to get back on and snapped me out of my reverie.

Marvin said, “If you want to live a life of service as a member of the League take this.” He offered me the paper bag. With trembling hands I received the gift. It wasn’t a bottle of cheap dime store wine. I could feel a book inside, but it had the heft and weight of a stone tablet.

In the distance I heard another whistle blowing, and saw huge tufts of hot white steam in the shape of a stallion billowing into what was left of the fog. The sound of iron wheels against iron tracks rifled through the air making a sonorous drone. As the train came into view I saw it was the magnificent Mercury streamliner that used to serve the Midwest. There had been a display about the Art Deco commuter in the rare book room last month.

“Come on,” I said. “The bus is about to leave.”

“No. I’ve got to catch the Mercury,” he said. He tipped his hat to me, turned, and sprinted into the copse of honeysuckle and weeds in the junked out green space behind the gas station to the train tracks beyond.

I climbed on the bus and sat down. As we drove the fog cleared. When I reached my stop I walked home in a daze. The book was heavy in my hands, a burden and a weight, but one I accepted. Audrey was at her tap dancing class when I got home so after I fed the dog I opened up the bag to look at the book. I found a note written in exquisite cursive on a scrap of yellow notebook paper.

Justin,

Please take this through the door into the secret wing of the library. There is a shelf for the new arrivals in a nook behind the spiraling staircase. Be seeing you,

Marvin.

Stamped below this was the octagon symbol from the doorknob embossed with the letter L in the center.

My first job for the League.

The next day I managed to get to work early. I got off the bus, went inside and ran up the steps to the stacks. As I walked to the door I heard the faint echo of a harmonica playing Cannonball Blues.

Standing at the threshold I pulled back the canvas and knocked on the door with a tenderness I had not known before. A dry desert wind emerged and combed through my tangled hair. I turned the handle and pushed it open. The smell of old books, dry with the dust of ages, greeted me.

My heart skipped as I stepped into the secret library. I ran my hand along a row of books, but their spines did not feel like leather or cloth or paper but like the rock wall of an ancient cave. The cave walls were painted with images of antelope and lions.

I crept to the end of the passage and came to find an alabaster jar. The perfume of the desert emerged from it in a spiral of dust that glittered like the stars. I reached down into the mouth of the jar and my fingers touched a scroll. The paper crumbled as I grabbed it, yet even in the dim light I saw the ancient hieroglyphic text. Afraid the knowledge would be lost forever I licked the little bits of paper from off of my hands and the words dissolved in my mouth. Thousands of little tiny golden books with wings flowed into my bloodstream and a hot red flame, bright as the fire of a welder’s torch ignited in my heart.
Past the jar I saw the passage curve around a tight corner I had mistaken for a wall. Faint flickering lamplight beckoned to me. I followed the light further until I was standing before a spiraling staircase that climbed up into the stars and down into deep caverns below. I stood in the secret wing of the library where there were many more doors, rooms and mansions to explore.

Now I have the key. All I have to do is knock.

--Justin Patrick Moore
Cincinnati, Ohio
March 21, 2019

About the Author

JUSTIN PATRICK MOORE is a writer, apprentice green wizard, and ham radio operator. He spent over ten years in the trenches as a radio show host for various programs at WAIF, 88.3 FM where he still does occasional programming. His science fiction writings have previously appeared in Flurb: A Webzine of Astonishing Tales edited by Rudy Rucker and are forthcoming in the Founders House Anthology Love in the Ruins edited by John Michael Greer. His non-fiction has appeared in Abraxas: International Journal of Esoteric Studies and articles from his series on the history of telecommunications and electronic music have appeared in AntenneX. He earns his keep working in the catalog department at the Public Library of Cincinnati. The Queen City is his home town and he makes his home with his wife Audrey.

A Level of Choice

by D. A. D’Amico

AISHWARYA PATEL LIKED ME in a way that was clearly against the law. I knew, but said nothing as we rode the narrow tube up into the cap with the others from our graduating class.

Holographic images of our starship home floated like thought bubbles above our heads, silvery potato shapes meant to represent our tiny made world as it traveled between the stars. I’d never given it much thought before. Starwind was my home. The ship was all I’d ever known, and that wouldn’t change in my lifetime.

“Star time, Ndamona.” Rashawn Ortiz smiled at me from his place near the crowded front of the slender elevator. His eyes were all pupil, glittering black saucers against the thin planes of his face. He was completely leveled out, a poster boy for medicated normal. “You excited?”

I tried to smile, but the heat from Aishwarya’s thigh pressing against me from beneath where our layered formal skirts overlapped made it hard for me to breathe. The scent of her perfume shifted, becoming flowery, sweet, like the candy I’d just eaten. I glanced away.

“Are you excited, Aishwarya?” My voice trembled. My face hot as I became all too aware of the double meaning behind my words. She looked at me, lips slightly parted. I blushed. I hadn’t meant it the way it sounded.

The tube slowed. A wave of dizziness rippled through me that had nothing to do with the change in momentum, and I trembled. I tried to stand. The compartment felt too crowded, people jammed together in a tight mass like fleshy puzzle pieces, hot with mingled and sometimes stinking breath. I could feel my level slipping away.

Unfamiliar anxiety gripped me. I panted. The air in the tube seemed to vanish, and my vision blurred.

Aishwarya realized my dilemma. She slipped a hand around my neck, her icy fingers easing my head toward her lap. “Put your head down. Close your eyes and breathe.”

My left arm flopped awkwardly, grazing Malala who sat suffocatingly close on the slender padded bench. She grinned, pupils huge, the soft lines of her plump face flexing liquidly as she leaned back to stare dreamily out the curved glass window.

“It’s a once in five lifetimes event,” she murmured as if speaking to herself.

I leaned forward to get some air, but the withdrawal symptoms got worse. “I’m fine.”

“Where’s your tool?”

I fumbled with the silver chain around my throat, choking back the bitter taste of embarrassment as Aishwarya pulled the lipstick-sized micro-grid injector from between my breasts and dialed up a leveling dose.

“Better?” She caressed the spot on my neck where she’d drugged me, her fingers soft and gentle.

I exhaled. The sense of suffocating faded, leaving me with a hollow feeling as I sat up and tried to smile. It’d been a long time since I’d experienced withdrawal. I’d overreacted, but nobody in the tube seemed to have noticed. Or cared.

“I think my tolerance is building again.”

“It happens.” She put her hand on my knee, but I felt nothing.

THE TUBE STOPPED JUST below the cap. People squeezed by in a hurry to see the stars. Some hesitated to level out, injectors in hand, before entering the grand viewing chamber. Three girls I didn’t recognize held hands up ahead. They swung their arms to soft instrumental music emitted from thin guide strips in the floor, their gazes dreamy and far away. I envied their unworried innocence.

A image of the ship floated high above. Its pocked surface appeared elongated, its engine cones shining from a bulge in its lumpy oval tip. I had no idea where in the giant rock my home was located.

“Do you need a dose before we go in?” Rashawn tapped a pen-shaped injector to his wrist with three quick jabs; for anxiety, aggression, and a phobia he was too embarrassed to describe.

I checked my own injector. It seemed to be malfunctioning, random warnings scrolling across its sleek polished surface. It clearly needed to be serviced.

The tool monitored my socially adjustable traits, correcting mood, and guarding against breaches in morality set down by the starship’s founders in the first years. Most of my levels had been determined in-vitro, some corrected before I’d even been implanted in my mother’s womb. Others were latent. I showed a tendency toward bipolar disorder, and had a dose for that. There was also a possibility I’d become a trouble maker. My genetic makeup favored high intelligence but low drive, a strong factor in the rebellious, and my level for that one required two shots a day.

“Okay, we’re going in. Please keep together, and level as needed.” Niki, our guide, patted the ruffling on her seafoam-colored skirt, her small eyes glistening pebbles of hematite against her dark skin as she bent to press an injector to the back of her knee. Her blank but playful little smile never faltered.

I glanced at Aishwarya. She was taller than me, but slender, and stood out among the ocean of students waiting to enter the viewing platform. There’d always been something different about Aishwarya. It’s what drew me to her.

“I’m having trouble with my tool.” There wasn’t a hint of concern in my voice. I’d been leveled for anxiety, so the weight of my problem wouldn’t hit me for a while. “I should get it fixed before I do anything else.”

“There’s got to be an Omni-Med up here. They’re everywhere.” Bucket lamps set into the smooth stone ceiling illuminated the warmth of Aishwarya’s round face, and I studied her eyes. Her pupils were reactive. They dilated naturally, no sign of mood-altering medication. I found that odd. We’d been friends for nearly a year, but I still had no idea what her levels were.

I stepped out of line. “I’ll catch up. Don’t wait for me.”

“You’ll miss the stars?” Rashawn smiled blankly beside Aishwarya as if it didn’t really matter.

“It’s okay.” I’d miss standing under the crystal dome in the starship’s bow, but I didn’t want to end up in a hospital.

“It’s a once in five lifetimes event, half a millennium in the making.” Niki the guide’s voice spoke from up ahead as if she were part of the conversation.

Turnaround was a special time in Starwind’s history. Almost five centuries had passed since our ancestors had left a place called Earth for a new home. The ship had reached the half-way point. The crew had silenced the engines to reorient for deceleration, and the stars had become visible for the first time.

I was supposed to be awed by this, but my medication concerned me more.

“There’ll be hell to pay if I let myself slip.” I swung my injector on its chain, thinking about the trouble I’d be in if my parents found out. I was on the list for my own suite, but it wouldn’t happen for a year. Until then, I was still at home, still under someone else’s rules.

I pressed my injector to my wrist. A tremor tickled up my body, but the cold sensation of a dose didn’t flow through me as I’d expected. An unfamiliar feeling of panic washed over me instead. I worried about bottoming out. I worried I’d change.

“I’m coming too.” Aishwarya grabbed my hand and pulled me away from the crowd, leading me in a different direction.

THE CORRIDORS IN THE cap seemed primitive compared to the public warrens that’d been scooped out deep within the protective mass of the ship. The walls here were little more than rough cut stone valleys. The alcoves seemed uninteresting. Nothing flashy, bright, or exciting lined the walls, and there were almost no service terminals available. Traveling at relativistic speeds made it important to have a thick plug of shielding set in the direction of travel. Still, they could’ve done something to liven it up.

We were further from the city than we’d ever been, close enough to the emptiness of space to see the curvature of the hull reflected in the shape of the walls. Aishwarya had been quiet for the most part since we’d left the group. She seemed content to walk beside me, holding my hand, lost in her own thoughts.

“I think I see one.” I spied a wide metallic tray set in a recess at the end of an intersecting hallway. The bright red cross glowing beside it flickered, but was unmistakable.

“It doesn’t look good.”

“It’ll have to do.” I sped up, jittery, my skin cold and clammy. Goosebumps made me drop Aishwarya’s hand to wrap my arms around my sleeveless bodice. If I’d only known, I’d have brought a small jacket. But it wasn’t really the temperature. It was my receding level.

“Do you want me to do it?” She reached for my injector.

I pulled back. “No, I’ve got it.”

The Omni-Med came up to my chest, its dull brass-colored finish protruding only inches from the alcove where it rested. Its icons barely glowed, and the white plastic inlay on its handles appeared chipped and melted.

“This thing looks like it needs fixing more than my injector.” I laughed, uncertainty making me hesitate. I debated waiting, but the fear of withdrawal won out.

“Then don’t use it.” Aishwarya’s eyes seemed sunken in the harsh uneven light coming from the Omni-Med. “We can go back down to the warrens. There’s a terminal not too far from the tube there.”

“I’m coming off. Now. I can feel it.” My fingers shook as I dumped my injector onto the plate and tapped the repair glyph. I needed my level.

Nothing happened. I struck the glyph again. Hard. So hard my teeth chattered and my wrist hurt. I felt on edge, as if something were crawling under my skin. I hit the machine a few more times, frantic. Finally, it took, and my injector vanished behind a mesh service screen.

“It’ll be okay.” Aishwarya put an arm around my shoulders. I leaned into her warmth, strange sensations clouding my thoughts.

As a child, I’d felt separate. I’d felt alone. It was almost as if I were a different kind of creature from the people around me, a changeling in human form. Confusion had caused me to question my body, and my soul. I’d pleaded for answers, but in response got only an injector tool shaped like a tiny pink unicorn, and a blank feeling of numbness to blot out my true self.

Those feelings returned as the drugs thinned in my blood. The chemical mask I’d worn my entire life slipped aside, and I cried for the girl I’d never gotten the chance to become. I cried for my lost innocence.

“I know. I know.” Aishwarya brushed a tear from my cheek. She leaned in and kissed me, our lips barely touching. Her breath smelled of licorice, and I turned away, sadness sinking into despair as I buried my face against her shoulder and continued to cry.

THE SMELL OF BURNING plastic pulled me away. Sizzling noises hissed from the Omni-Med like angry snakes. The machine crackled, its colorful holographic icons blending and then fading out altogether. I grabbed the handle. The tray burned my hands, and I screamed.

“I need my tool back!” My fingers stung, white-flecked patches of red throbbing painfully where the handle had seared my hands. Losing my injector was worse than the pain.

“Let it go.” Aishwarya pushed me aside.

The glyph winked out. A shrill alarm tore the air, and frigid blasts shook the Omni-Med as fire retardant erupted from the ceiling. I coughed, tasting something bitter and dry. Then a line of brilliant red beacons illuminated the ceiling.

“I broke it!” I screamed over the clamor, eyes wide as I stared from the Omni-Med to Aishwarya. My heart felt like it would burst. “Now they’ll find out. They’ll know I’m not medicated, and they’ll take me away!”

There were consequences for missing treatment, and not just with the law. If I came off my doses, I’d risk creating an immune response that’d leave me at the mercy of my own body. If I came down, I might never get back up.

“Let’s get out of here.” Aishwarya grabbed me with surprising strength and dragged me down the hallway as the Omni-Med shrieked behind us.

“IF YOU’RE REALLY WORRIED, I won’t say anything.” Aishwarya held my hand as we walked through the soft grass.

It was early evening, and the long filaments overhead had just begun to dim. The park was crowded. Children played ball in the clay courts beside the high barrier wall, older couples strolled through the finely manicured dwarf trees, and teenagers loitered in groups against irregularly-shaped statues in the garden plot. I searched faces as we passed, relieved when I didn’t recognize anyone. Nobody paid attention to us, although I imagined a thousand glances as we reached the pavement and entered the busy heart of the city.

“Worried about what, the Omni-Med?” My voiced sounded husky and raw. I still felt sick.

“About everything.” She slowed. “I know you’re feeling confused. I feel it too, but....”

“You think it’s because I’m off my level, don’t you?” Withdrawal still clouded my thoughts, making me jumpy and irritable. I had no injector. I had no dose, and I didn’t know how to get more.

The trip back down from the cap seemed like a strange dream. We’d run until I could hardly breathe and until the siren’s wail was lost in the turning corridors, and then we’d squeezed into an already crowded tube, dropping all the way back to the warrens with Aishwarya’s hand in mine, our faces pressed close, the sweet taste of her breath against my neck.

“No. The drugs only keep you from realizing. They did that to me too, for a long time.”

“Realizing what?” I was too confused to think straight.

“What you’ve given up, what you’ve been denied all your life. You’re not who your level makes you, Ndamona.” She turned down the residential corridor leading to my home, and I followed.

I stopped, my hands trembling, and stared into her bright unclouded eyes. “Oh my god... you’re not on anything right now, are you?”

She put her hand over my mouth and pushed me against the wall. Surprise held me there, the compressed rock cold against my skin, the acrid odor of new paint strong and pungent.

“Please, Ndamona.” She moved her hand, letting her fingers trail down my cheek. “Please don’t ruin this for me.”

I let my legs buckle, and I slid down the wall until I sat in a heap against the floor. I wrapped my arms around my chest, protecting my still injured hands. I could barely believe it, but it explained so much.

“When?” I whispered.

“Not long.” She knelt beside me, her canary-yellow dress stretched tight against her thighs. She bit her lip, the gesture of a little girl caught at being naughty. “My injector clogged, like yours, and I lost my level.”

I was stunned. I’d seen Aishwarya every day. We went to school together, hung out together. We were like sisters, but I never even suspected she’d dropped her medication.

“Don’t you feel out of control?” I shivered and started to cry. I was exhausted, emotionally drained. The comfort of having all my flaws held in check was gone, and there was nothing to keep me from going insane.

She held out her hands. I took them, too weak to resist. “For the first time in my life, I’m the person I was born to be and not someone else’s ideal.”

“I don’t want to be someone else,” I said.

“The world isn’t what you think it is, Ndamona. You’ve only seen it from the inside of an injector tool, but your level hides a more real and unpleasant truth. Free yourself to become what you were born to be.”

I tried not to think about what I’d lost when I’d been leveled, the little girl I’d abandoned to become the young woman I was today. Pain and humiliation kept me from searching down that path. I tried to think of a future, of a world where responsibility wasn’t injectable, but fear made my thoughts spin out of control.

Who would I become in that world, I thought? But I said nothing as Aishwarya dried my eyes and brought me home.

“YOUR EYES ARE ALL red.” My mother looked me over. Her frown dragged her thin lips comically over her chin, as if she were merely pantomiming real concern. She leaned against the video wall. Cartoonish images arced out and around her like coronal ejections as I hurried by. Her gaze followed, eyes like obsidian flecks in the dark rock-like angles of her face. “How’s your level?”

“I’m fine.” I stammered as I pushed past her towards my room. My hands throbbed, and I had a headache.

I’d promised to keep Aishwarya’s secret even though I knew it was wrong. I shouldn’t have. She was in danger without treatment. I was in danger as well, but my lack of medicated control was already causing me to make bad decisions.

“You’re. Home. Early.”

My father glanced at me from the big futon in the corner of the communal room, his colorful agbada tunic gathered over his wide frame like a tent. He spoke as if each of his words needed time to reach me before the next could follow.

I stopped. “Are you okay?”

He moved with the fluidity of cold molasses, shifting in his chair like an exhausted sloth. “How. Were. The. Stars?”

I glanced at my mother. She’d turned to face the video wall, her body glowing a deep emerald color, enshrouded amid images of an Earthly rainforest as she hid among the trees.

“Mom....”

“Yes, dear?” She turned, face half hidden behind a creeping vine that made it look as if she’d been split in two.

“I think....” I’d planned on confessing. They should know I was off my medication. I needed more, and I needed it soon, but their strange actions had me convinced it might already to too late. “What would happen if someone fell off their level?”

“Bad. Things.” My father stood. It was like the ponderous rise of some enormous undersea creature.

“Why?” My mother asked.

“Just curious. It came up in conversation today.”

“It’s. Illegal.” My father took his first step towards us. I could see suspicion eroding his features like the slow wearing away of a mountain. “And. Horribly. Immoral.”

“Just because something’s illegal doesn’t necessarily mean it’s wrong.” My cheeks grew hot. I thought of Aishwarya, and her cool composure even without her level. I’d never even known she was drug free.

“It. Does.” My father took a second step.

“The original colonists had specific goals in mind when they set off for the stars. The drugs saved us all, and it’s not our place to question why.” My mother seemed to sink deeper into the projected rainforest, almost invisible now behind the dense foliage.

“Maybe it’d be better if people had a choice?”

“Who would want that, Ndamona?”

“I don’t know.” I squeezed my fists together, grinding my teeth at the pain. “I just wondered... there might be more than what the founders wanted. Maybe without the levels holding people in....”

“That’s. Crazy. Talk.”

“But what if it were somebody you loved?”

“Then it would be even more important they get help.” My mother’s voice echoed from somewhere within the forest, lost now only feet from where I stood. I wished she’d shut down the projection, or at least step away from the wall and the seething images that hid her from me.

“Do. You. Know. Somebody?” My father didn’t quite make another step forward.

Is this what people were really like? Is this how I’d been, I thought?

“Aishwarya?” My blood froze when my mother said her name, emerging from her forest to stare at me with beady black eyes. “Is your friend in trouble?”

“No!” I shouted it, my voice shrill. They were too suspicious, even with their weird behavior and odd movements. “Aishwarya’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with her. Leave her—leave me alone!”

I ran from the suite. My mother’s gaze followed as her body slowly sank back into the rainforest. My father never even had time to react.

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE coming back. You said you would, but you never did.” Rashawn looked dazed. I’d bumped into him as I stumbled into the street. He reached for me, pawing clumsily at my blouse. I didn’t remember telling him where I’d be.

People lurched like cheap movie zombies across the sidewalks, moving in small groups through the intersecting spaces where neighborhoods met. Not a single one seemed normal.

“I needed medicine.” I hugged myself, feeling strangely shy.

Bizarre splashes of conversation hit me like rain. I turned, distracted. An older couple stood back to back. They argued as if they were staring into each other’s eyes, their facial expressions identical, their words in sync.

“You didn’t come back.”

“I know,” I said.

I’d known Rashawn since we were children, since before his level. In my memories, I see only the man, the un-medicated boy he’d once been as lost as my own childhood. It’d been assumed we’d eventually marry, raise a family, and live our lives together, but I wasn’t sure who’d done the assuming and why I’d never bothered to correct them. We were just friends. I could be friends with a man without needing more.

“You said you would.” His petulant tone caused me to hesitate. I stared into his eyes, but saw only my reflection in their dull glossy surfaces.

“Are you okay?” I’d asked that question far too often lately. At first, I’d wondered if it were my lack of level making normal people seem strange, but now I suspected something far more dreadful. The whole world had gone crazy, and I’d just begun to notice.

Aishwarya had been right.

“I thought you were coming back. You said you would, but you never did.” He repeated himself, stuck in a loop.

The drugs not only changed how we interacted with the world. They changed how we perceived it. People who’d seemed perfectly ordinary had become caricatures in the absence of medicated normal. My parents, my friends—even the way I saw myself. It’d all been a lie. I could see behind the illusion for the first time, and it frightened me.

I stepped onto the grass, my low heel twisting, and stumbled drunkenly, teetering for a moment before falling into an ornamental bush. I screamed. Flower petals the same dark blush of my cheeks scattered everywhere, and Rashawn just watched as if I hadn’t even moved.

THE SIGNAL WOKE ME from a nightmare.

I’d curled up in the unfinished shell of the suite being built for me. Strips of plastic sheeting covered the bare rock walls, cutaway in spots where workmen had chiseled alcoves for appliances and conduits for electrical devices. A small yard had been carved behind the living area, and lights heavy in ultraviolet were already warming the freshly manufactured soil.

“Your. Friend.” My father’s voice sounded like thick syrup oozing from the tiny button phone behind my right ear.

“She’s in the hospital, dear.” My mother interrupted in a more rapid tone. “She was off her level, but she’s okay now. They fixed her.”

I sat up so quickly my head spun. “Aishwarya? They can’t fix her! She wasn’t broken!”

“No, of course not, but they fixed her just the same.”

THEY’D TAKEN AISHWARYA TO one of the new clinics, built ten levels up from the warrens to accommodate children who wouldn’t be born for another two years. Overflow cases from established towns were taken there. It’s where they put people they wanted to hide.

I had so much to say. I wanted to tell her she’d been right, I understood that now. Thoughts weren’t illegal. Desires should never be immoral. We were so much more than our levels let us be. I wanted to tell her I loved her. We could figure it out and make it work--even if we had to change the world to do it. It was a once in five lifetimes chance. It was our chance.

“Aishwarya?”

She looked small and fragile in her paper gown, her back to me as she stood by the small bed. Her hair had been pinned into a sloppy bun. It sagged to one side of her drooping shoulders making her seem about to fall over.

“I came as soon as I heard.” My heart fluttered. My knees felt suddenly weak as I rushed forward and she turned.

Her face was as smooth as a porcelain doll, eyes wide and unblinking, pupils huge like black buttons sewn over an empty expression. My breath caught. My hands flew to my lips to stifle a sob.

“She’s still adjusting.” A pale woman in a peach-colored lab coat stood in the doorway behind me. Her words seemed to ooze carefully from her lips, as if each were a precious gift with which she was reluctant to part. “It might take a while before the medications settle in.”

“You leveled her?”

“Of course. She was absolutely drug free. Unbelievable. It was amazing she could function at all.”

Aishwarya still hadn’t spoken. Her gaze followed me, but I wasn’t sure if she heard my voice.

“Are you okay?” The doctor squinted, studying me. “You’re... crying, I think. Perhaps you should check your level.”

“I’m fine!” I snapped.

“Medication isn’t something to fool around with. Your friend—”

“I said I didn’t need your help! Neither did she!”

I turned back to Aishwarya. She’d wrapped her arms around her chest, hugging herself. Goosebumps tickled her exposed skin.

“She’s cold.” I glanced behind me, but the doctor had gone.

I took Aishwarya’s right hand, pressing it to my cheek. She smelled like roses, a perfume her mother had given her on her last birthday only two months before. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

“I’m so sorry...” I whispered into her palm.

She’d seemed different even then, affectionate, almost criminal in the way she’d looked at me. I should’ve realized she wasn’t medicated. I should have noticed, but I’d been on my level and oblivious to the rest of the world.

I glanced into the blank expanse of her eyes. She moaned, her voice the soft mewing of a frightened kitten. “You tried to free me from the haze of chemical censorship, but I fought you. I didn’t understand then, but I do now. I’m sorry it took so long.”

She pulled away from my hand, her body rocking, the porcelain serenity of her face cracking into an expression of anguish. A single tear spilled down her cheek.

“Step away, please.” The doctor had returned. Two female orderlies in pale blue scrubs stood beside her, swaying as if in a heavy breeze. They both wore wide smiles, but I got the impression nothing friendly rested behind those perky expressions.

“I was just....” I had so much more to say to Aishwarya, but the doctor stepped quickly between us, facing me. Her smile never wavered. Her gaze seemed to sink into me, the pupil of her left eye much larger than her right, making it look as if she were winking, as if we shared some dirty little secret.

“Please, I’d like more time with her.” My throat felt dry. I shivered, suddenly realizing I was still in my party dress from the night before. I wasn’t sure how they saw me while on their level, but I felt a mess.

The two orderlies stepped in behind me. Aishwarya stumbled, flopping awkwardly against the nearest woman. The huskier woman grabbed her. I lunged to intercept, but the second orderly wrapped her arms around me.

“Get off!” I kicked out. Even in her drugged state, Aishwarya had been more aware than me, because I never saw the doctor move. She snuck up behind me. A sharp stab tickled my throat, and an icy calm flooded into my blood as I lost consciousness.

“ARE YOU EXCITED TO see the stars, Ndamona?” Aishwarya sat beside me in the tube, a wide smile on her face, her cheeks flush. I could see my own grin reflected in the black disks of her enlarged pupils. Laughter erupted around us. Everyone seemed perfectly on their level, happy and medically adjusted, and I smiled a bit wider.

It’d been two weeks since my breakdown, and only two days since my release from observation. Both Aishwarya and I had been re-medicated. Our levels had been adjusted, our ethical and moral proclivities tuned to align with what the original colonists had intended. We’d been balanced in every way, two friends sharing a once in five lifetimes opportunity.

“I’m glad we’re getting a second chance.” She giggled at the double meaning.

“Me too.” I squeezed her hand. Her fingers felt warm, a comforting weight in my lap.

It turned out the drugs didn’t work so well a second time. They’d never been intended to cease. Going cold broke the cycle. Reintroducing new medication only made me aware of the intended effect. I wasn’t a slave to it. I was free.

I remembered everything as if it were a dream, but I no longer felt the tension or anguish of needing to choose between the girl I was born to be or the woman my level made me. The tingling in my fingers, my shortness of breath when I looked into Aishwarya’s eyes, and the way she blushed when she glanced at me told me I could be both.

I might not know what the future held for us, but I knew Aishwarya liked me in a way that was clearly illegal, and it made me happy.

About the Author

D.A. D’AMICO is a playful soul trapped in the body of a grumpy old man. In early years, this presented a problem, but the author’s grown into the role quite nicely. He’s had more than forty works published in the last few years in venues such as Daily Science Fiction, Crossed Genres, and Shock Totem…among others. He’s also begun transcribing his memoirs onto the moon with a 25 petawatt laser borrowed from his evil twin, but he’s afraid the beautiful 12-point Old Century Gothic font he chose is lost among the bright dust of Tycho crater. He can be found at https://www.dadamico.com, or on Facebook at authordadamico, or in the crevices between those pesky floorboards you’ve been meaning to fix—if you can find him.

The Gift

by G. Allen Wilbanks

MINKATSU SAT ON THE narrow beach of his tiny island and waited for the boat that would bring him his weekly supplies. He smiled with anticipation of the small craft’s arrival, but the smile was more for the boat’s passenger than for any of the food or creature comforts it might carry.

Forcing himself to remain patient, he stared out over the shallow, blue waves in the direction from which he knew she would come. She always used the same route and appeared about the same time each week. As reliable as the sun overhead, he thought. He shifted his feet in the coarse sand, making himself more comfortable.

Today was the day he would tell her, Minkatsu had decided. He would at last tell Anha exactly how he felt about her.

It was a lonely existence on this barely habitable dot of land rising above the surrounding expanse of ocean, but Minkatsu accepted it as a better alternative than death at the hands of his frightened neighbors. The people he had at one time considered his friends had turned on him quickly when they felt their own lives were at risk.

He did not blame them, however. He would have done the same had his circumstances been laid upon someone else. At first, he had hated them all for their callousness, but that was a very long time ago, and with time came forgiveness.

It had been more than five years since a moment of frustration and impatience had forever changed his life. Minkatsu had been hurrying through the broken, cobbled streets of his village when a child crossed his path, hindering his progress. The child, a girl wearing a dirt smudged, yellow dress two sizes too large for her, had stopped to peer up at him and apologize for bumping into him.

“Just move out of the way,” he had shouted, sweeping her aside with the brush of an impatient hand. She stumbled and fell to the ground, striking her head upon one of the large stones paving the street. She never got back up. The girl lingered in a coma for eight days before her tiny heart finally failed and she took her final breath.

It was the girl’s grandmother, a Banta witch, that had cursed him.

She found him on the morning the girl had died. Using a small but viciously sharp knife, she cut her hand and wiped the blood on his shirt over his heart. Pointing a gnarled finger into his face, she told him, “You carry death in your hands. Eight days from the moment you touched her, you murdered my granddaughter. So, it shall be for your entire life. All will die at your touch after eight days.”

His parents were the first to fall. Then his brother and sisters. When his closest neighbors began to succumb to mysterious illnesses, the rumor of Minkatsu’s curse began to circulate. The villagers initially wanted to put him to death but were ultimately too afraid of the curse to risk touching him. They promised to bring him enough food and supplies to support him so long as he stayed away, and he had agreed.

For the first few years, Minkatsu sat on this rocky strip of beach staring out over the endless water and wondering what it would feel like to become part of it; to just swim away from the island until fatigue left him unable to do anything except sink below the surface and surrender to the ocean’s cold embrace. Every day, he considered ending his life, and every day he wondered why he had not done so already.

Then, two years ago, Anha made her first visit.

Today, as he waited, he let his mind wander back to her long flowing hair and her shining dark eyes as she stepped off the boat onto the island that first time. Her face was soft and round, with wide, full lips that seemed to have been created for smiling. The colorful skirt and top wrap that she wore pulled and flapped from a strong wind gusting over the water, and they clung to her figure in an enticing display as she walked up the beach to introduce herself to Minkatsu.

Nine or ten different people brought him supplies from the mainland, rotating responsibility each week. Initially, he only saw Anha about once every other month. Then, inexplicably, she began to arrive every four weeks. Then every two.

For the past three months, Anha had been the only person that still came out to see him on the island. Minkatsu hoped that had been her decision. Otherwise, he was going to make a grand fool of himself.

A dark speck appeared on the horizon, bobbing up and down with the rise and fall of the water. Minkatsu felt his heart accelerate in his chest. Anha was coming.

He stood in anticipation, although she was still several minutes away. Minkatsu walked to the water’s edge and began to pace the shoreline as he watched Anha’s boat slowly grow larger in the distance. He wanted to leap into the water and swim to meet her but restrained himself. Even if he did something so foolish, he could only then swim alongside the boat back to the island. He could not risk climbing into the tiny vessel with Anha for fear of accidently touching her.

After a seemingly interminable wait, at last, she reached the beach. The wooden craft lodged itself nose first in the sand and Anha leapt out onto dry land. She grabbed the prow and pulled the boat further ashore to prevent it from floating back out to sea without her. When she was satisfied her transportation was not going anywhere, she turned to greet Minkatsu.

Her smile was as wide and welcoming as ever. If there was anything disingenuous in her greeting, it was well hidden. She always seemed pleased to see him. Resisting the urge to rush up and embrace her, Minkatsu clasped his hands behind his back and stepped backward several paces to give his guest room to unload her cargo. Anha wore a light-blue skirt and wrap, similar to the ones she had worn when they met, but unfortunately there were no favorable winds today.

“It is very nice to see you, Anha. I have missed you.”

“I missed you too, Min. You are my favorite part of each of week.” Anha smiled again and blushed slightly as if she had said something embarrassing. Or perhaps, Minkatsu thought, she is merely flushed from the exertion of rowing.

“Would you like to help me unload?” Anha asked him.

Minkatsu shook his head with a small bemused smile on his face. “I will stay out of your way. Unless of course there is something you need me to carry?”

“Just the usual items,” Anha assured him. “Although I do have beer this week. My father finished brewing a new batch and I managed to sneak some out.”

Minkatsu’s mouth watered at the thought of real beer. He had not had any decent alcohol of any kind since Anha had brought him a small barrel of brandy almost four months ago.

“That sounds wonderful,” he said, pleased. “I hope you will be willing to stay a while and enjoy it with me.”

Anha grunted as she pulled a basket of figs from the boat. “Of course, I will join you,” she told Minkatsu. “I never pass up an opportunity to drink my father’s beer, regardless of the company.”

Minkatsu flinched at the barb, but relaxed when he saw the laughter in Anha’s eyes. She seemed as truly happy to see him as he was to see her.

When the boat had been unloaded and Minkatsu moved the provisions into his wood and mud hut at the center of the isle, he came back to the shore to find that Anha had laid out a black and white, wool blanket. On the blanket were three wide banana tree leaves serving as plates to hold grilled sausages, freshly cut melon, and flatbread respectively. To either side of the blanket, a large, corked brown bottle had been propped upright in the rocky sand.

Anha sat on the ground next to one of the bottles, gazing out at the water where it lapped against the shoreline. Minkatsu dropped down next to the second bottle, far enough away from Anha so as not to risk accidental contact with her, but still close enough to be companionable.

This was not the first time Anha had brought a meal for the two of them to share, but it was one of the more elaborate ones that she had managed to put together. Minkatsu eyed the sausages longingly.

Anha saw the direction of his stare. “Please, Min. Help yourself. I will wait.” She plucked the bottle from the sand, pulled the cork free with her teeth and spat it playfully in Minkatsu’s direction. After taking a long drink, Anha sighed and placed the bottle back in its divot on the ground.

“Curious,” said Anha to herself, though loud enough so Minkatsu could hear.

Minkatsu was chewing on a piece of melon while placing two of the sausages into a rolled piece of flatbread. He swallowed quickly. “What is curious?” he asked.

Anha shrugged, picking up the bottle again and pretending to examine the glass. “Oh, I find it curious that a man should live all alone on this island for so many years, without companionship or distraction from his isolation, then a lovely girl shows up to spend time with him and the man only has eyes for food.” She took a second, more modest sip of her beer. “Perhaps the girl is not so pretty as she thinks.”

Minkatsu sat back, stung by the comment. “The girl is, if anything, more lovely than she could imagine,” he assured her, staring at his feet where they rested in the coarse sand; unable to look up for fear of meeting Anha’s gaze. “But, perhaps the man keeps his attention on the food because it is the only thing that he desires that he can safely reach out and touch.”

Anha’s face fell at the depth of sadness she heard in his voice. She turned to look directly at him, stammering an apology. “Oh, Min. I am so sorry. I was only teasing you. I did not mean … I was trying to…”

“Please. Do not be so upset. I am sorry to have spoiled our wonderful time together.” Minkatsu placed the sausages in his hand back onto the blanket. “I have been searching for the right moment to tell you something and, perhaps before I completely ruin the day, I should just say it to you now.”

Anha did not respond. She watched Minkatsu carefully and waited for him to continue.

“Anha, I do not know how you feel about me, but I must tell you that I am in love with you.” He paused to assess her reaction to his confession.

Anha nodded slightly. “I see,” she said, her voice low and calm; revealing nothing. “And what makes you think what you feel is love, rather than simple loneliness and gratitude for the one person who visits you?”

“For the first years I lived on this island, loneliness was my most reliable companion,” Minkatsu admitted, talking his way through the very same arguments he had had with himself over the past few days. “Each week, I waited for the boat that would bring me someone to spend time with. Someone to talk to. It was all I had to keep me sane. All I would ever have. And, ultimately, it was enough.

“Although I looked forward to these brief visits, the rest of my week I did not spend much time thinking about them. I learned to accept being alone.

“Then, you started visiting the island. At first, you were only another stranger willing to risk coming to the island and spend an hour gossiping about what was happening back home. And yes, of course, you were certainly lovely.” Minkatsu was gratified to see a slight flush bloom high on Anha’s cheeks.

“But, slowly, I began to realize that I no longer cared so much about the others’ weekly visits. I welcomed the companionship of any who came to the island, just as I always had, but the only person I thought about – yearned for – was you. These past few months have been more than I dreamed I would ever have again. I live for the few hours you are here with me, and when you leave, the week you are gone is an eternity. I miss you from the instant your oars touch the water to the moment your boat comes ashore again.”

Minkatsu dropped his eyes back to his feet, emotionally exhausted and shivering slightly with the adrenaline of having finally opened his heart to Anha. “It is not loneliness, Anha. And though it can come to nothing more between us, I love you.”

Anha reached a delicate hand toward the leaf holding several pieces of cut melon. She selected one and shifted herself back into her seat in the warm sand. “I suppose that is acceptable,” she said, evenly, staring out over the water once more. She sighed, slowly breathing in and out.

“I love you, too, Min.” Anha popped the small piece of fruit into her mouth.

TWO MORE MONTHS PASSED after Minkatsu’s confession. Anha continued her weekly deliveries, shared meals with Min, and stayed later and later with each visit. During the past few weeks, Anha had begun spending the night on the island and rowing back to the mainland the following morning. On these nights, Anha slept in the hut, using Minkatsu’s rough-hewn, wood-framed straw bed, while Minkatsu slept outside, keeping one wall of the shack between them at all times.

While together, they sometimes walked the perimeter of the island and discussed what their lives might have looked like under different circumstances. They talked about the perfect children they would have raised and how glorious it would be to grow old together. Next, they bragged to one another about who would be better at spoiling their grandchildren.

One afternoon, Anha again brought beer from her father’s stores, as well as a small, fat hen that she had roasted the night before and wrapped in banana leaves for the journey to the island. Separated from Anha by the black and white blanket, Minkatsu had eaten his fill of the bird and quickly drained his bottle of beer, enjoying the heady feeling of the alcohol coursing through his bloodstream.

Anha ate very little, instead choosing to sit back and bask in Minkatsu’s enjoyment of the meal she had prepared for him. She had barely sipped at her beer, and currently had almost half of it left in the bottle.

“I think it is time for a walk,” Anha announced, standing up with her beer bottle in her left hand and brushing the sand from the back of her skirt with the right.

“I agree,” said Minkatsu, immediately, rising and dusting the sand from his own clothing.

Anha peered over her shoulder to be sure Minkatsu was following, then started walking toward the shoreline. Minkatsu hurried to draw even with her, staying a few paces distant on her left side. He clasped his hands behind his back and turned to stare at the profile of Anha’s face as they strolled by the water.

“You are beautiful, today,” he told her.

Anha pulled her mouth into a pout and a furrow appeared between her brows. “Today?” she asked.

“Every day,” Minkatsu laughed. “I think it every time I see you, I only said it so you would know what is on my mind.”

“Oh,” Anha said, her smile returning. “I suppose I can forgive your poor selection of words. You are no poet, after all.”

“If I were a poet, I would be quite a boring one,” Minkatsu retorted. “All my poems would be only about you, and people would soon grow quite tired of them.”

Anha nodded her appreciation of Minkatsu’s answer. “Much better,” she said. “And you are looking quite handsome as well.”

Minkatsu ran a hand along the smooth skin of his jawline. “Yes, well thank you for the razor. I haven’t seen my face without a beard in a long time. I think I have missed it.”

“I noticed you finished your beer. Would you like to share mine?” Anha asked, holding the half full bottle up between them.

When Minkatsu nodded enthusiastically, Anha placed the bottle on the ground between them. Minkatsu bent forward to pick it up, but at the last moment, he was distracted by a glint of sunlight in the sand. He peered closer and noticed a perfectly intact pink and yellow shell that had been washed up on the shore by the waves then partially buried in the sand. Thinking that Anha would enjoy having the pretty bauble, he reached for it.

Anha had also seen the shell and, believing that Minkatsu would take the beer bottle, she too moved to gather it up. Minkatsu felt the back of her hand brush against his.

Recoiling, Minkatsu leaped backward and cried out in shock. His stomach twisted into a hard knot and he felt physically sick, at the same time his mind raced wildly, trying to deny the reality of the accidental touch. Horrified, Minkatsu took a step toward Anha, then retreated again. He turned to go to his hut, to run away, but stopped as soon as he realized what he was doing. The full reality of what had happened began to close around him, as massive and undeniable as the sea around the island. With no way to correct the mistake and nowhere to run from it, Minkatsu turned to face the woman he loved.

The woman he had just murdered.

Anha’s face was calm. She had picked up the seashell and was staring at it as though nothing exceptional had occurred. But, Minkatsu could see the single tear that had escaped her eye and was now crawling along the soft contour of her cheek. He fell to his knees, hopelessness leaving him too weak to stand.

“Anha, I am sorry,” he said, grief choking his words. “I did not mean … I only…”

“Hush,” she said, gently, and walked over to where he knelt. She settled down in front of him, adjusting her skirt with one hand while still holding the colorful shell in the other. “It is done,” she told him, laying the delicate item on the ground between them.

“I have killed you,” Minkatsu sobbed, tears blurring his vision and running freely down his face. “I have destroyed the only perfect thing in my life. I am so sorry, Anha. You should go now and be with your family. Leave me here to starve as I deserve.”

“Leave?” she asked, genuine surprise in her voice. “Why would I leave?”

“I am so ashamed. How can I look at you? How can you bear to look at me?”

“You are a foolish man,” Anha chided. She held her arms out to the sides, displaying herself to him. “I am not dead at this moment. Would you really allow your grief over something that has not yet happened to cause you to throw away the precious gift that we have just been given?”

“Gift?” Minkatsu asked, shocked. “What gift?”

Anha reached out a hand and laid her palm against his cheek. Minkatsu pulled away instinctively.

“Stop!” she commanded him. She pressed her hand to his face once more, stroking the strong lines of his jaw and chin. “Yes, gift. Your touch can do me no further harm. We are free to be together as lovers are meant to be together. Do you not consider that a gift?”

“But, Anha. I will lose you. You will die, and it is my fault!”

“It is no one’s fault, and I am not gone yet. Please, let your sadness go. If not for yourself, then be happy for my sake. You told me that a week away from me is an eternity. Can this week not also be an eternity? Can we not make it an eternity together?”

Minkatsu caught the hand against his face and held it close. He pressed her palm to his lips in desperation. “I love you, Anha. For whatever time we have, I will do everything I can to prove that to you.”

MINKATSU PLACED THE NEW shell he had found on the small mound of Anha’s grave. In the seventeen years she had been gone, he had amassed quite an assortment; large and small, smooth and jagged, and all the different colors the sea had to give. But, the prize of his collection, given pride of place atop the heavy stone bearing Anha’s name, was the pink and yellow shell they had discovered together.

Anha had called it her “magic shell” because it had finally given him to her. During their days together, she had never let it out of her sight, and Minkatsu felt it was only right that it should stay with her now.

He traced the edge of the shell with one finger and prayed for the thousandth time that he had made Anha happy while she was alive; given her at least half of the joy she had given him.

Wiping away a tear with the back of his hand, he turned toward the beach where a young man was pulling a boat bearing his weekly supplies up onto the sand. He waved to the youth and smiled broadly.

“Hello, Kenanha,” Minkatsu called out. “You are early today.”

Kenanha returned the wave and the smile. The young man strode along the shore up to Minkatsu and encircled him in a fierce hug. Minkatsu returned the embrace, clapping the boy several times on the back. He did not worry he would do the youth harm. He had long ago accepted the fact that through some miracle the boy had acquired an immunity from Minkatsu’s curse.

The same immunity that had shielded Kenanha’s mother during the months she carried him inside of her.

“Father,” Kenanha said, holding Minkatsu at arm’s length and giving him a critical look. “You look a bit thinner this week. Am I not bringing you enough to eat?”

Minkatsu chuckled. “I am fine. I have plenty.”

Kenanha nodded, releasing Minkatsu. “I did come early, but only because I have to be back as soon as possible to help with the wheat harvest. I am sorry I can not stay more than an hour or so. I know you can get lonely out here sometimes.”

Minkatsu raised an open hand. “Stop. You can be sorry when you leave. For now, be happy we are together. What have I always tried to teach you?”

Kenanha smiled and rolled his eyes tolerantly. “Do not let grief for what has not yet happened make you throw away the gifts you have now.”

“Exactly.” Minkatsu placed an affectionate arm around his son’s shoulders.

“So, while you unload the boat you can tell me all about this girl you mentioned last week. Does she like you? Is she pretty?”

About the Author

G. ALLEN WILBANKS is a retired police officer living in Northern California. For twenty-five years he wrote collision and crime reports during the day to pay the bills, and short fiction during his off-time to stay sane. He is a member of the Horror Writers Association (HWA) and has published over 80 short stories in Daily Science Fiction, Deep Magic, and many other magazines and online venues. His stories have also featured in several internationally, best-selling anthologies. He has published two short story collections of his own, and the novel, When Darkness Comes. For more information you can visit his website at www.gallenwilbanks.com, or check out his weekly blog at www.DeepDarkThoughts.com.

Alone On the Cold Hill’s Side

by Bo Balder

THE SHUTTLE SET FO down with only her floating suitcase and a limited AI-Medikit on her shoulder. She felt groggy from cold sleep and the bandages around her left hand itched. She needed to sit down for coffee before trying to find her prospective employer. The spaceport was misty from the shuttle condensation and she didn’t have a clue where to go, except out of the red circle around the shuttle.

Fo staggered as air displaced with the shuttle’s departure. She looked up, saw only mist and waved, but really she’d been awake so briefly that she hadn’t had time to get to know the crew. They probably wouldn’t have wanted to, once they found out she had a record. It had only been some creative bookkeeping, she’d told herself, not a real crime. She’d just never counted on the chain of consequences. She’d paid the price, and after her stint in prison she’d found this job in the dead ass-end of nowhere. The only job offer on hand.

How was she going to get to the interview? She reached out for the local cloud and some kind of mapping app, but found nothing. “Medikit, my inphone is out. Can you steer me to someplace to eat? Maybe I should get a warm coat, too? It’s cold here.”

“The cloud here is down, or there is none. My files tell me the closest habitation is a three-mile walk and there is no spaceport as such. I cannot update locally, but I assume these data are still correct. I detect radio-emitting beacons. We will follow those.”

“There’s no cloud? That’s impossible. How do people talk to each other or buy stuff?”

Medikit didn’t answer. A gust of wind blew the mists aside and showed Fo she was standing on a green mountaintop amidst a thousand more green rolling mountaintops. She saw a flimsily printed beacon. The mist descended again.

Fo swallowed. She was completely alone out here. Her head swam and she sat down to keep from falling.

“Your blood sugar is low,” Medikit said. “I recommend eating something.”

Fo agreed. But she hadn’t brought any food when she boarded the spaceship two years ago. There was never any shortage of things to eat in human space.

“I only have that gum they give you when you come out of cold sleep,” she said.

“Better than nothing. I can add some nutrients to your blood via the port, but my stores are limited. Go find civilization.”

Fo popped the stick of Wake Up gum in her mouth. “Why? I say we wait for the next ship and leave this place at once.”

“The next transport won’t arrive for another year,” Medikit said.

Crap. Now she had to land the job even harder than before. What kind of people were this, not even providing transportation to the nearest town?

The green leaf-like things she was sitting on gave off a smell she couldn’t decide was disgusting or delicious. She tore off one of the leaflets. Its color seemed unnaturally bright against the light brown of her skin.

“Medikit, can you test this, please? Maybe it’s edible.”

“It’s more or less a plant, no surprise there. But you can’t eat it. Get up and start walking.”

Fo sighed and clambered up. Her legs felt heavy from disuse, but there was no other option than to follow the radio beacons. Which she couldn’t see. “Medikit? Where do I go?”

“Turn left. Walk straight ahead.”

Maybe there was a faint trail in the green ground cover. It led across a narrow ridge, the land falling away steeply to either side. Fo had grown up on an orbital and had never been required to pick her way through bare nature. She already disliked its lack of amenities.

By exiting the spaceport she was leaving civilization, but the port was nothing more than a painted red circle on top of a mountain. She could leave that behind. She could.

Fo balanced over the narrow hogback trail, suitcase floating behind her, Medikit warmly attached to her neck. It wasn’t as scary as she’d expected it to be.

“Medikit, are you drugging me?”

“Just a little. To take the edge off.”

An unfortunate choice of words. Fo’s eyes moved to the edges of the trail, only a few inches on either side of her feet. She plowed on. The vegetation muffled her footfalls. Why was the same stuff growing everywhere? She slithered down a hill, huffed and puffed up another one, and again, and again.

The last beacon stood at the edge of a large, shallow depression between hills, cut in two by a small stream. More nearly flat land than she’d seen so far, a great place to build a town. Only nobody had built one. The bowl of land was covered in the same green vegetation that covered everything, with a few boulders strewn here and there and nothing else.

“Can I drink the water?” she asked the Medikit.

“Take a sample so I can analyze it.”

Shimmery red spots danced before her eyes, afterimages of all the green around her. Her legs ached. But she took the sampler the Medikit extruded and knelt down by the stream to fill it, balancing awkwardly on her left arm to keep her bandaged hand from getting wet.

“You must be our new human,” a deep, gravelly voice said.

Fo startled and slipped face-first into the tiny stream. “What? Who?”

The boulder she’d seen before at the other end of the valley now loomed over her, its rough brown surface less than a meter from her face.

“Medikit?” she said. The proximity of the rock seemed to suck up the sound of her voice, making it faint and tinny. Not like stone. “What is the nature of that boulder in my face?”

“You mean the sentient being known as a House?”

Fo muffled the pathetic shriek that wormed out of her mouth. “Oh. That is. Well.” She tried to brush the wet green spots off her coverall. “Hello, Mx, erm, House. My name is Folasade Orehovec. Are you my new employer?”

The House rumbled and hummed, like a grandfather searching for words. “I don’t have an audible name like humans do, but you may call me House, since I’m the only one here. May I call you Folasade?”

Fo managed to scrabble up without touching the alien creature--not easy while keeping her bandages dry. “I’d prefer Mx. Orehovec, thank you. This being the workplace.”

A shiver went down her back. This was nothing like any workplace she’d seen before. Where would she work? No building, no workstation. Forget about work, where would she sleep? Eat, game, work out? Everywhere she looked was hysterically green nature.

Except two more shapes moving at the other end of the bowl: a white shambling blob and a brownish chunk. Oh, god. More aliens? People in funny suits? She really, really wanted to crawl into bed and zip the blankets shut over her face.

“What the fuck’s keeping the anxiety meds?” she said to Medikit over her closed channel.

“Anxiety medication is prescribed when subjects feel out-of-context fear. This context, potential physical danger from aliens, seems to warrant adrenaline and fear.”

Fo wanted to scream and tear her hair out, or curl up into a ball, or attack the alien. None of these seemed in any way feasible, so she just stood and quivered.

“In my previous human, your biological signals would have indicated stress,” House said in that rockslide voice. Nothing moved on the outside of the boulder to indicate how it was making this sound. “Would you like something for that?”

Fo started laughing, and discovered that once started she couldn’t stop. “Drug me, drug me not,” she said. “All I’m lacking is a daisy.”

A delicious calm blanketed her thoughts. At last the Medikit had come through. “Thanks,” she said and sagged against the rock. It wasn’t as cold as boulders should be, but for now she didn’t mind.

“Mx. Orehovec,” the gravelly voice said after a while. “Our host would like to talk to you.”

She cracked an eye. She was slumped against the side of the House, one foot in the stream, green everywhere, check. “Aren’t you my host?”

“Get up,” Medikit said.

“Did you give me something to wake me up?” she said. “I don’t like it.”

“I’m trying to cancel out the hysteria without making you sleep. Also, balancing preservation needs against future emergencies. So get up and stop whining.”

It put a little zing in its voice that reminded Fo of her mother. Did Medikits access your personal file so they could push your buttons? Or maybe human beings were depressingly similar and mom tones worked on everyone.

She pushed herself up on wobbly legs and leaned against the boulder. “Feeling better?” the boulder inquired.

Fo jumped away. Don’t lean against the alien.

Her suitcase hovered nearby, the boulder rested near the stream, the white blob still blobbed somewhere in the distance. The sun was lower than before, though, reminding her of the nasty planetary habit called day and night. Did the sun being lower in the sky mean it was going to be dark soon? She should have boned up on planets and sunsets and so forth, but she’d been so relieved to have a job offer that she’d skipped that.

“So, our host?” she said, smoothing down her springy hair as best she could. The suitcase could turn its side into a mirror, or project a holographic one, but she didn’t want to ask in the presence of aliens and/or future employers.

“It’s here,” the House said. “It’s all around you. The previous human learned to talk to it, but don’t stress whether you will be able to or not.”

Fo looked around. Her host was all around her? All she saw was the green, monotonous ground cover. She stomped her foot. The leaves dimpled, turned lighter green, but then sprang back up, regaining color in the process. “You’re not talking about the plants, are you?”

“Yes, yes, I am,” the House said. “Our host is the plants, or a plant, and they cover the whole continent.”

Fo’s breath huffed out. The plant cover was what? A being? One being, not ten thousand?

She tried to lift her feet so as not to stand on a sentient being, but it was impossible. Every square centimeter of ground was covered in the plantlike being. “Does it not mind?” she whispered to the House.

“Mind what?” the House said, seemingly comfortable in its own much bigger footprint on the foliage.

“Us! Stepping on it.”

“Oh, I think she likes that a lot,” the House said. “Otherwise she only ever touches herself, you know.”

Right. Not unlike Fo herself, lately. How bored and lonely the poor leafy thing must be. She looked down and waved at it. “Hi! I’m Fo. Nice to meet you.”

She understood why it liked to feel her footsteps. It got information about her through her soles. She would do this exploring thing later. First she had to get that interview out of the way. “Are you my new employer? Can you tell me about the job?”

What, on this strange fucking planet, could a plant want her to do? And it couldn’t even talk to her.

“That’s for the Host to answer,” the House said.

And by the way, why did it speak perfect English? It was as alien as the ground cover here. She must be dreaming. This couldn’t be real, this conversation, this feeling. Maybe she was still in cold sleep. Wouldn’t that be nice?

“This is real,” Medikit whispered in her ear.

Maybe she hadn’t needed to know that right now.

“But I help you,” the House droned on, “with the living part. The previous human lived in one of my rooms. I have been feeling quite empty inside since it went away.”

Fo laughed, aware that it was a hysterical laugh, but unable to stop. Yeah, right, she was going to enter a smooth-talking alien’s mouth. Clearly she wasn’t very bright, having fallen for the most unlikely job offer ever, stranding herself on a faraway planet in an empty corner of the galaxy, but she knew that much. Ha.

Her right foot was getting cold. She looked down and saw that it was darker than her left foot. She looked up. The sun was lower in the sky than before. The dark, cold spot on her foot was the House’s shadow, longer now. One more reason to hate planets. On an orbital nobody had to endure random shadows if they didn’t want to. The sun hovered over the green mountaintops, boiling them a different color with its entirely too-natural rays. Soon it would be behind the top of that hill. Should she care? Yes, because she couldn’t see an alternative source for the light and the warmth, and it was getting colder already.

Why would anyone want the sun to go away? But unwanted knowledge from long ago appeared in her brain. Planets turned. They had nights. She had no choice.

“The temperature of your outer integument is lowering,” the House said. “It would be warmer inside me.”

She hated the House for butting into her entirely sane and rational thoughts. For assuming she would eventually give in.

“Medikit, what do you know about the alien species called Houses?”

“I contain a medical database for humanity,” it said, a bit huffily she thought. “For other information I rely on the cloud.”

She hadn’t meant to hurt its feelings. She had enough to worry about. First priority was not dying from cold and not being eaten by predators. Plants, Houses, white blobs, anything else. Second was finding something to eat. Third. That should be to get out of here ASAP. Or it could be finding somewhere permanent and safe to stay. She shelved it for later and concentrated on priority one. Survive the night.

“Suitcase,” she said.

It floated down from its position behind and above her and opened silently at waist level.

Black heels lay on top. They were useless for keeping warm, but their 10 centimeter spikes might come in handy if she had to brain someone.

She found her cashmere sweater. One of the luxuries she’d so longed for, she’d let people talk her into the misstep. Expensive possessions had seemed the key to belonging to a different class of people. She noticed she was crying. No use crying over spilt cashmere, she could almost hear her mother say. But it wasn’t the sweater, it was her dreams that lay Fo-scented and almost weightless beneath her hands. Insubstantial and, in the end, pointless.

“Medikit?” she asked. “I want to stop crying.”

“Nostalgia is a healing emotion,” it said. “It strengthens the sense of self.”

Nostalgia her ass. Nothing sweet about those memories.

The suitcase had temperature control. She couldn’t fit inside, but maybe if she set it on its end, open, she might get some warmth from it. She covered herself in bits of clothing, her back to the suitcase.

Her bandaged hand seemed very white against the dark colors of her clothes. She’d forgotten to let Medikit take it off.

“If you want I can extrude a blanket?” the House said. It was almost invisible against the darkening sky now. Much creepier, too.

“Go away,” Fo said. “Leave me alone.”

She curled up in the inadequate shelter and closed her eyes.

HER BODY WAS STIFF and cold and achingly empty. The clearing was brightly lit from the other, wrong, side of the sky, for some peculiar planetary reason. Her stomach protested at having had no more than a stick of gum all day and everything else was also asserting displeasure. The bandaged hand felt cold and crampy. Well, her body would just have to grit it out, because no food was going to be forthcoming.

She sat up, trying to remember what you did to when feeling bruised and achy. Sleeping under antigravity plates just wasn’t like this. She rubbed her eyes with her good hand and found a colorful object amidst the green. It looked like a checked cloth with plates and food on it.

She pinched her am. Nothing changed. “Medikit, am I hallucinating?”

“Close your eyes, I’ll recalibrate. No, your eyes are working fine, they match my camera.”

“Is that real food?”

“I can only tell you if you give me some,” it said.

Fo leaned forward and took a bright red fruity-looking object, speckled, with a little green crown. She pinched off a bit and fed it to Medikit. A sweet, almost familiar smell filled the air.

“Smells good,” she said.

“It resembles baseline food quite a bit,” the Medikit said. “Mostly water and saccharides, with some harmless trace elements and natural colorants. Safe to eat.”

“Hm,” Fo said. But the scent was getting to her and her mouth watered. “Into the breach, then.”

“Unto.”

Fo gave it her middle finger, since she had her mouth full. The fruity thing tasted absolutely wonderful, her stomach said. Eat more.

She did. She let Medikit try the fleshy stinky bit, and something yellow and white, as well as a heap of granular and beige. Fish analogue, avian egg and plant seed, it said, safe to eat. Human baseline.

Fo wasn’t brave enough for the stinky bit, but the brown grains and the yellow-and-white object, a bit like a Slimy but not actually slimy, resembled printed food just enough for her to stomach it.

“Where the hell is this food coming from?” she said.

“It was here when you woke up.”

Her stomach didn’t feel so good now. She lifted her eyes from the checked cloth, forcing herself to take in the overly bright green and the House on the other side of the clearing. “The House made it, right? I’m eating House-?” She retched.

“Indeed I made it,” the House said. “Before I was unjustly exiled I was known for my near-perfect approximations of human food.”

Fo gagged and spat.

“I call that inconsiderate,” House said, suddenly much closer. “Our host doesn’t need those foodstuffs, you know, it can extract all it needs from the soil and the sun. I, on the other hand, could really use your discharge. A delicacy. How am I going to get it out of those leaves?”

“Shut up, House,” Medikit said. “You’re not helping.”

Fo crawled over to the stream and rinsed her mouth. “You’re conspiring with aliens now?” she said. “That’s so hurtful.”

Which was pretty fucked up in itself, that she’d be hurt by a stupid machine’s actions. She wanted to crawl into the suitcase and never come out again.

“Suitcase, can you become larger?” She should have asked last night.

“I do not have that capacity.”

It had been a cheap suitcase. Another demonstration of making bad life choices. She wiped away a lone tear.

“Tears, also appreciated,” the House said.

“Fuck off!” Fo and Medikit said simultaneously.

Fo regretted her words at once. Maybe House was not so much creepy as lonely? She vowed to ask it about its former human as soon as she was feeling more herself.

Fo dug up her second-to-last post-freeze gum and chewed on that. She looked down on her now pretty grubby bandaged hand. “Shall we get it off now, Medikit? It’s looking gross.”

“Sure,” Medikit said. “Go ahead.”

Medikit had never told her exactly how the hand had gotten hurt. A cold sleep malfunction, it had said. Fo peeled away the bandage. It seemed bigger than normal, but she’d put that down to the bandaging. The last layer of gauze slipped off and her hand, a disturbing bright pink, sprang open to full size.

Not a hand anymore. Someone had replaced it with an octopus with squirming tentacles.

Her mouth was open but she wasn’t sure she’d screamed.

“I’m sorry,” Medikit said. “The cold box malfunction was severe, and unfortunately the ship carried no replacement human hands. Instead we used a synthetic Colroi symbiont, a semi-sentient air swimmer. It can emulate finger function and send tactile information to you. Also, I’ve been told, it has quite a winning personality.”

Fo wrung her right hand over the left wrist, where pale brown met violent pink. “Off, off, off!”

A pair of large pink eyes opened and blinked, with long lashes. “Quiee?” A mewling sensation traveled up her arm.

“It would like to be petted. It’s very young and will imprint on you.”

Fo gargled.

“The ship sent its apologies for being understocked.”

“Fuck the ship!” Fo screamed. Finally, real sound.

“The ship was a gracious host, a wonderful being of vast capabilities,” Medikit said. “I was lucky to be allowed to converse with it.”

Fo ignored the evidence of Medikit’s little crush and pulled her sleeve over the wiggling creature at the end of her arm. Better. She pulled the hood over her head, turning the world a cloudy grey.

“Maybe name it?” Medikit suggested. “Pinky?”

“No. And shut up. Don’t act as if this is nothing.”

Medikit uttered no further suggestions. Fo imagined it retreating woundedly, licking its paws, its broken little heart. Fuck it, if she could anthropomorphize a fucking Medikit, why not a fucking pink octopus? Or a House?

“Schiaparelli,” she said.

“What?”

Fo pulled the hood down. “It’s called Schiaparelli. For its shocking pink color. And I apologize. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” There. She’d planned to be kinder, thinking only of the House, but Medikit was a sentient being as well.

She gently peeled the sleeve off and looked into pink, fake-looking eyes. “Hi, Schiaparelli. I’m Fo. Nice to meet you.”

A wave of love and happiness shot up her arm. Whoa. Almost better than what Medikit shot her up with. And again.

“I advise you to stop that. You want to train it, not let it train you.”

Fo managed to keep her angry retort in check. Because, as usual, Medikit was right. “Did you know my mom, Medikit? You sound like her.”

“Thanks.”

“You get that not everybody loves their moms?”

“I have no illusions about that. I have a fully functional psychiatrist module. However, I was made to approximate humanity, and I was responding to my apparent success.”

The House coughed. “May I ask what I’ve done wrong? I see this new alien is getting love, whereas you’ve been constantly rude to me.”

“Maybe you should try turning pink and growing a pair of huge eyes?” Medikit suggested.

“Medikit!” Fo said.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” House said, stiffly.

Schiaparelli unfurled its tentacles and stretched them out to the green foliage. “Touch?” it asked.

It was so cute. Fo still remembered her abject panic and horror from two minutes ago, but after receiving Schiaparelli’s love hormones the memories seemed monochrome and dull.

“Sure.” She lowered Schiaparelli to the ground.

The moment Schiaparelli’s tentacles touched the foliage, Fo stretched out vast, many-fingered and many-footed, enjoying sunshine and rain in equal measure. She quailed at the thought of unfiltered water sluicing down at random intervals from the ceiling, but the Host, as it thought of itself, reassured her it would be fun.

The Host invited her to join with it, to fully experience it. Fo sensed strongly that she should undress and lie down on top of the greenery. Give herself over completely.

It was the last thing she wanted to do.

As soon as she started thinking about what she didn’t want, the things she did want popped into the forefront of her mind. Safety, shelter, food, nice clothes, friends… things she couldn’t get. Not here, not for a year. If only she’d stayed on the orbital. To think a little shunning was the worst thing she’d feared up until yesterday.

She might as well do this. So what if it was dangerous? Maybe dying wasn’t a bad thing if all life was giving you was crap. Yeah.

She opened a channel to Medikit on her shoulder. “It wants me to undress and talk to it that way. It’s going to be cold. And please detach. It wants to talk to me alone.” Fo was proud of the determination in her voice.

She peeled off the cashmere sweater and folded it away in the waiting suitcase. As she opened up her coverall, the chilly air puckered every square centimeter of her exposed skin.

The Medikit’s grayish ovoid perched on her shoulder, its input tube snaking into her port. “You’ll be voiding warranty if you unhook me.”

Fo detached it anyway, stoppering up her port with its dangling seal. “Don’t fuss. Where shall I put you?”

“The suitcase,” Medikit warbled with its squishy audible voice. It didn’t sound half as authoritative as it did on her internal phone.

Fo put Medikit gently on the soft folds of the cashmere sweater, still faintly warm from her body.

Free of Medikit, her bare feet on the Host’s leaf cover, the world seemed larger and more dangerous. If she fell down now and broke a leg, how would Medikit get to her? Almost she reached back into the suitcase, but the pink tentacles wiggling at the end of her left hand changed her mind. If she could endure that, why not communicate with another strange species? It would be a meaningful act, even if it was her last.

She walked a little distance away from the Medikit and the eagerly listening bulk of the House to lie down. She seemed to sink deeper into the springy leaves than the short little plants warranted. Through Schiaparelli she received curiosity and delight.

The green of the ground cover and the hazy blue of the ceiling sped by. She found herself on top of a hill, with only other green hills for company. The valley with her companions was gone. The sun burned bright, almost straight overhead, and she enjoyed its rays on her skin. Who felt this, she or the Host?

The Host showed her a series of alien species living on it. She recognized the House, or a House, but no one else, except the human being at the end of the list. Fo wanted to know if he had died or left, but the Host seemed unable to understand the difference. Apparently the Host was a kind of collector. It was also very pleased with Schiaparelli, sentient or not, seeing it as yet another species to collect.

“So now you have a human.”

And your many host creatures. A wonderful gift, the Host said.

What did it mean by that? She was only one Fo.

They live on your skin and in your excrement. Even the dead ones are full of information.

Oh, great. Change the topic. “You already had a human in your collection. What do you need another human for, then?”

This it understood. To be human, it said. To do what humans do.

Fo wasn’t sure she got this. What did humans do that was specific to them, and not to other aliens? Not space travel, not make great art, not trade. Those were all things other species did, though not all of them did all of these.

She looked around at the empty green world. Floating on the Host none of her anxieties bled through, but still she couldn’t imagine staying. She couldn’t even imagine an hour into the future. There was nothing here for her to do. Her future was only endless boredom and loneliness.

Fo asked if there was a place in this world that wasn’t green. The world wooshed by again and when she felt steady enough to open her eyes, the world was blue. How had that happened? She began to perceive that there was a line bisecting the blues, and that the quality of the atmosphere was different on either side. Was it a horizon? She needed to see it with her own eyes.

An arm shot free from the leaves’ embrace, into cold air and whistling wind. Her neck corded taut, Fo tore her own hair out to get away from the Host, but her muscles were no match for the strength of a thousand little mouths. She gasped in the suddenly thin, painful air. Fuck, had the Medikit been helping her breathe all this time, and then the Host? Why did they never tell her these things?

“Let me go,” she said, “I need to see!”

You will die, the Host told her through Schiaparelli. Already the skin of her free arm was turning blue, the skin cracking.

“I just need to know if there is anything here but green!”

With a last push of the leaves, Fo tumbled upright. Icy cold bit into her skin. Her eyesight blurred and she couldn’t get enough breath. She knew she was doing something deeply unwise but she couldn’t stop. She needed to see how the ceiling and the floor met. There was a bit of black sand or rock between the two blue and the green, crenellated like the edge of a handmade cookie. The picture rearranged itself into beach, sea and sky. Her heart lit up with recognition. That was how a planet was supposed to look. A sea was like an enormous swimming pool and if you had money you could go vacation on it.

She stepped out of the green, every inch of her skin tingling, her lungs screaming for air. Her soles touched the sand, experiencing the grainy texture and the wetness. She fell over, her face close to the burbling water. She touched it with her index finger and watched the top turn black.

It was enough. The green did end. She could stop looking now.

She crawled back up on blue, peeling knees and managed to get one hand into the green.

FO FOUND HERSELF UPRIGHT after a terrible nightmare, which she couldn’t recall, although the emotional aftermath still thundered through her body. The room was dim, the bedclothes slithering off her skin. Plastered over her left shoulder was the thin but reassuring presence of the Medikit. She pushed a curl off her forehead and remembered Schiaparelli. And everything.

“Lights up,” she said automatically, remembering too late she wasn’t in a room, that in fact the nearest room was light years away.

She was sitting in the glade, naked, remembering she’d feel cold in a moment because it was evening. Such a wonderful, old-fashioned, planetary word. Evening. Gloaming. Twilight. Where were her clothes? She’d put them in the suitcase.

She found the suitcase behind her back, its contents spilled. Only bits and pieces remained. High heels without uppers. A few buttons glistening in the greenery. Something cobwebby-fine spread out over the leaves: the remnants of her grey cashmere sweater.

Fo waited for the devastation she knew was going to come. It didn’t arrive. “Stop dosing me, Medikit,” she said. “I can take it.”

“I’m not administering anything.”

Fo bent forward and touched the last strands of precious wool. Goodbye to all that. Te Host had eaten everything it could and left almost nothing. Her coveralls, a bit frayed, as if the Host had taken a nibble here and there. Her boots. At least she had some clothing.

It didn’t really matter anymore. A cashmere sweater and high heels had never really kept reality at bay, however much she’d wanted them to.

Nothing here was familiar or comforting or safe. And she would just have to get used to it. Worse, she needed the scary aliens to survive here.

A year of loneliness and misery. It was going to be tough.

The House loomed up before her, silhouetted blockily against the darkening sky.

Maybe not loneliness.

“I was just thinking of you, House,” she said. “I’m sorry for getting off on the wrong foot. I’ve not been at my best recently. Can we start over?”

“Of course, of course! Now, maybe?”

“Didn’t you say you had a room for me?”

The House’s outer wall parted in a woman-high opening.

“It was my other human’s room,” it said through the walls. “I can do other colors if you want to.”

It hadn’t occurred to her that the House might be grieving for its human.

“Thanks, House,” she said. “I’m sorry he went away. I’ll try to be a good human for you. And Thanks, Medikit. Hope I didn’t scare you too much.” She patted its edges.

“Thank you. You’re doing great.”

She stepped inside the House. “Can you make it lighter?”

The walls brightened. She was in a small room with rounded corners, a raised platform and nothing else. Everything was a browny green. She and the House were going to get along fine, as long as she could keep the edges of the world in her mind. The Host ended at the sea. She was on an island on a ball of matter in space. See, she was getting the hang of these planet-type words.

She wished she’d taken a few grains of sand with her to rub between her finger and her thumb. To remind her that not only an island but misery were finite.

“How did Houses come to know humans?” she asked. “I seem to remember you guys weren’t from our original planet.”

“No, indeed not,” The House’s voice reverberated through the walls of her little room. “We had other species that lived with us before the humans arrived in their ships. But those were not as talkative and interesting as you people.”

There was just one other thing.

“Can you make a window? And keep it open all night?” She didn’t think she could sleep inside the alien if there was no escape from its still creepy innards. That was a sign of something buried deep. She called up her mental image of the green ending at the edge of the sea. Her year here would end, too.

In a weird way she was glad the anxiety was still there. She was still Fo. Not someone else. Just scared, stupid Fo. But she was still doing this. Doing the thing she needed to do to survive and to get along.

A closet opened enough for her to put in the suitcase, the footless soles of her stilettos and a handful of cashmere cobweb. She could do this. She was a human being, and she could adapt to anything. A year wasn’t that long.

She smoothed out a wrinkle on her coverall. “Door, please, House. I’m going to take a small walk, and then I’ll go to bed.”

“Ho, ho,” rumbled the House. “Excellent, excellent. Have a nice walk.”

A door opened. Good.. She needed to know she could leave at all times to be able to bear living inside another creature.

If she did that for forty days straight, it would become an ingrained habit, if she remembered the science correctly. She was better with credit columns, but it felt right.

She stepped outside. The world looked so empty, but it was full. She should keep that in mind. She wasn’t alone. Someone beneath her feet, someone who made her breakfast, someone who kept her sane, someone who made her able to talk to the green.

Swiveling on her heels, she noticed again the white blob and the brown chunk. The other aliens. Time to pay them a visit. She waved, so they could prepare themselves.

Schiaparelli strained downwards. With a sigh, she kneeled down in the foliage. Schiaparelli touched the Host’s leaves.

“I’m so glad to see you’ve started humaning,” the Host said.

What else could she be, except human? “I still don’t know what that is…”

“Curiosity. Seeking the edge of the known.”

The Host’s presence retreated.

Fo got back up. Is that what humans did?

She responded to the paw the white boulder stuck in the air. A year. Time enough to get to know everybody.

About the Author

BO BALDER lives and works close to Amsterdam. She is the first Dutch author to have been published in F&SF and Clarkesworld. Her fictino has also appeared in Escape Pod, Nature, and other places. Her sf novel “The Wan” was published by Pink Narcissus Press.

Deep Calls Unto Deep

by E.L. Bates

TEARS BURNED AT THE back of Zarya’s throat as she exited the Matushka’s office, the heavy oaken door shutting with the unyielding thud of finality behind her. She struggled to maintain her composure, but the smirk on the face of a nearby acolyte, clearly delighted by her misery, undid her. Despair washed over Zarya, too strong to be fought, and she turned and fled, stumbling over her own feet while her breath came in short, hurried gasps.

Her failure to persuade the high priestess to allow her to face the sacred trial early pressed on her chest, cutting short her air and filling her limbs with the frantic desire to escape. She would have left the temple altogether had she anywhere else to go.

As it was, she came to a ragged halt at the very edge of the portik, clutching one of the twisted cedar pillars that lined the edge of the marble floor. Why—why—why wouldn’t the Matushka listen to her? Couldn’t she see that Zarya was ready? Couldn’t she see the desperation that writhed barely beneath the surface, the need to bond with water that ran through Zarya’s veins like blood? Wasn’t it the Matushka’s responsibility to recognize those who were prepared to give up themselves to a life of service to the sacred waters? Or was she too jealous of Zarya’s deep connection to the waters?

Zarya knew the other acolytes hated her, despising her ignoble birth and undistinguished name while at the same time envious of her natural affinity to the element they all held sacred.

Fire for the Ogon Temple, earth for the Zemlya Temple, air for the mysterious, hidden Vozdukh Temple, but here at the Voda Temple, they were dedicated to the element of water. Here they served the vodyanoi, those elusive spirits of the rivers, pools, and lakes of Rusvanya. Here, after two years as an acolyte, one underwent the final trial to be bound wholly and irrevocably to whatever role the vodyanoi deemed best: priest or priestess, known familiarly as the Brat’ya and Sestry, the brothers and sisters; the Zashchitnik who guarded the temples and the sacred waters throughout the land; or servant to care for the physical needs of the other two.

Zarya had been at the temple for less than five months, but she wanted—no, needed—to bond early. She had fled her small village far in the north in search of peace, of stillness, of rest. Oh, to be one with the deep waters! It was all she’d ever wanted. The fluidity and aloofness of water suited her, its separateness from the stolid, unchanging nature of the earth, or the passion and intentness of fire, or the uncaring lightness of air. Even here, at the temple from whence all the water-bound sprang, Zarya had not met anyone who matched her deep, innate connection with the watery deeps.

Yet it seemed that peace was still denied to her.

Despairing, Zarya released her grip on the pillar and sank down to sit on the hard, inflexible slab of marble that served as a bench. She stared across the snow-covered fields glimmering under the weak midwinter sun, and wondered what she could do now. If even the Matushka wouldn’t help her, who would?

She felt more than saw a plump body settle next to hers on the marble bench, guessing from the scent of cinnamon and cloves that it was Sestra Dominika, in charge in the kitchens.

“Now then, Sestrenka, what troubles you?”

Zarya felt a brief warm glow at being addressed as “little sister”—it wasn’t often she felt accepted in any community, even this one—but her woe quickly quenched it.

“Sestra Dominika, why won’t the Matushka let me take the test? She must see I’m ready! I have proven my devotion over and over, done everything that is asked of me without complaining, given up everything and asked for nothing—nothing but this—in return.”

The Sestra sighed a little. “Sometimes it is not about devotion, Sestrenka. I do not know for certain, but I believe the Matushka is worried about losing you should you take the test too soon.”

Zarya frowned, trying to work through that. “You mean like Ivan Ivanovich?”

Ivan Ivanovich was an acolyte who had taken the test a month ago. He had failed, and left the Temple in shame. “But I wouldn’t fail, Starshaya Sestra, I know I wouldn’t.” In her distress, she didn’t notice that she had unconsciously referred to the priestess as “elder sister,” a familiar form of address she had thus far eschewed in her single-minded focus on the spirits of the waters, rather than those she would work alongside in their service.

Sestra Dominika smoothed Zarya’s sleek brown hair with a hand roughened by years of kneading bread dough and chopping vegetables. “There is more than one way to become lost, Sestrenka.”

With that, she rose to return to the kitchens, leaving Zarya puzzled and uncomforted.

THAT EVENING, WITH THE steady breathing and soft snores of sleeping acolytes filling her ears, Zarya rose and left the personal quarters, padding on bare feet down across the cool grey-veined marble floors of the temple, dodging behind the cedar pillars whenever she saw one of the priests or priestesses carrying out their nighttime duties. She made it past the kitchens, hearing Sestra Dominika’s snores even through the oak walls, and escaped onto the back terrace, running lightly down the smooth steps to enter the dark grove of cedar trees that sheltered the willow-ringed sacred pool at its heart.

The shadows danced with the silver moonlight as the breeze tossed the branches; Zarya found herself almost dancing with them as she slipped from darkness to darkness, always aware of the need to avoid prying eyes. She didn’t think anyone from the Temple could see her here, but she meant to take no chances.

She could bear it no longer. If the Matushka wouldn’t let her take the test, she would bond with the water spirits on her own. Better to fail and drown than to suffer this way. She had thought coming to the Voda Temple would solve her problems, would give her a place to belong. Instead, it had stripped away her last hope, leaving her as restless and unsettled as she had ever been, while taking away the promise of a place where peace could be found.

There was no peace anywhere on the earth, not for Zarya. She would take matters into her own hands. She would go to the place she had dreamed of her entire life. If the Matushka wouldn’t help her, she would have to help herself.

She broke through the last of the willow ring and stood before the sacred pool.

It was a perfect circle, smooth and unbroken, dark even under the silver light of the moon. Rimmed all around with smooth white stones surrounded by a larger ring of black pebbles right up to the cedars, it seemed an opening to the spirit world. No needles from the nearby cedars floated on the water’s surface, no willow branches dipped beneath the surface, no bugs skimmed over the top, no fish darted up from the bottom to snap for their dinner. It was still, pure, and silent. Zarya could hear her pulse pounding in her ears.

Moving quickly now, before she lost her nerve, she shed the dark blue cloak she had tossed over her shoulders to better blend in the night when she left the Temple, and stood before the pool clad only in her long, thin, white nightshift. It wasn’t quite the proper garment for an acolyte taking the test, but the color was correct, and Zarya believed it would suffice. She drew in several deep, cleansing breaths of the sharp night air, only now aware of the cold pricking her flesh through the light fabric.

She had only been here twice before: once when she had first been accepted as an acolyte, and she had knelt on the black pebbles while the Matushka dribbled a little of the sacred water on her forehead; and once when the acolytes had gathered to watch Ivan Ivanovich’s test. Nevertheless, she felt comfortable here as she hadn’t even within the Temple, and she remembered the words and actions from the failed acolyte’s test with crystal clarity.

First, she knelt again on the black pebbles. There was no mother priestess to drip water on her head this time, but Zarya didn’t dare breach the pool yet to collect water to pour on her own head. Her presumption didn’t carry her that far. She took one last gulp of air and released her fears along with it.

“Vodyanoi, spirits of the water, guardians of this pool, protectors of all life within this land of Rusvanya, you who connect the land through the rivers and streams, all the way to the Clouded Sea, hear my words. As you sustain us, so I offer myself to sustain you. I here pledge my service, my loyalty, and my life to you, to honor and protect you and to serve you in whatsoever way you deem meet.”

She lowered her head and spread her arms from her sides, holding herself steady by will alone, feeling the pebbles press into her knees with bruising force. When the vodyanoi did not strike her down for daring to approach them without the Matushka’s blessing, she rose to her feet and moved to the white stones. There, she stood rather than knelt, feet spread wide and toes flexing to keep her balance.

“My name, when I was of this world, was Zarya Viktorovna Popova. I renounce that name and make myself nothing, to become your servant. Make what you will of me; I am yours.”

She lifted her arms above her head, brought her hands together, rose on the tips of her toes, and dove into the pool.

The water was cold: colder than ice, colder than snow, colder than anything Zarya had ever felt. It was an unearthly cold, one that went beyond the flesh and chilled the spirit as well. She resisted it for a moment, her instincts urging her to rise to the surface, toward the relative warmth of the early winter evening. Then she relaxed and allowed it to numb her, mind and body and heart.

The waters around her swirled as she floated, brushing up against her skin with a feathery touch. Was it the vodyanoi? Zarya couldn’t tell. She couldn’t hold her breath much longer. Water pulsed in her ears, her eyes, her nose. Cautiously, she attempted to draw it in.

The guardian spirits were with her! Ivan Ivanovitch had been rejected; when he had attempted to breathe underwater he had choked, forced to come to the surface or drown. Zarya hadn’t realized how afraid she had been of the same result until she herself was able to draw oxygen from the water surrounding her as easily as from the air.

For a moment, elated triumph filled her. She had done it! She had proven herself. When she rose from the water, she would no longer bear on each cheek the simple white dot of an acolyte. Depending on what the spirits wished of her, she would carry the swirl of a priestess, the teardrop of the servants, or the seven droplets that marked the Zashchitnik, the protectors of the Temple.

But must she rise? Why shouldn’t she stay here, one with the water at long last? On land was nothing but loneliness and misery. She didn’t belong there, had never belonged there. For so long she had dreamed of losing herself in water. Now that it had happened, she didn’t want to leave.

Zarya couldn’t be certain, but she thought the vodyanoi moved faster around her as she thought of remaining with them, swirling around until the still surface up above must have turned into the whirlpool. Were they encouraging her to remain with them? She thought they were.

Zarya opened her eyes. She could see nothing. Darkness surrounded her on every side. She let herself fall deeper into it. No longer able to feel anything, not even the spirits, nor the cold cutting through her body, no longer able to see, nothing to hear ... she was truly losing herself, just as she had vowed to do in that other place—up above, on the surface.

No more fear, no more sorrow, no more despair. Here there was nothing but stillness, as she’d always known in her heart there would be. This was what she had always craved, from childhood on. This was why she had so yearned to bond to water. It no longer mattered that the other acolytes despised her, that her parents had misunderstood her, that the villagers had feared her, that the Matushka hadn’t trusted her. The water didn’t care about any of that. Neither would Zarya.

It seemed to her that she was starting to dissolve, that her fingertips and toes were beginning to lose cohesion. She welcomed the idea. Soon she would be nothing, merely part of the water, every bit of herself mingled into the sacred pool. Never to have to think again, never to feel sorrow or pain or loss. Nothing but calm emptiness.

The merest tendril of thought snaked its way into Zarya’s benumbed mind. Never to feel joy or hope or love.

Though she couldn’t see, she blinked.

What did she care about that? How much joy had she experienced in her life? What had hope ever brought her? As for love ... who had ever loved her, or who had she ever loved, that she should mourn the loss?

It came to her that the question itself was something to mourn.

Was it not a waste of a life to live it so emptily you grasped at the first chance to exchange it for oblivion?

Faces and events arranged themselves before Zarya’s blind eyes. In the darkness of the water she saw them as from above, not as herself.

She saw Sestra Dominika offering comfort, and Zarya maintaining a stiff and unfriendly distance. She saw the Matushka extending grace and patience toward her, and Zarya demanding more as a right, convinced she deserved special treatment, sure she was the only one who had ever experienced her own particular kind of suffering and need.

She saw the other acolytes, proud and cold, it was true. Yet could not the same be said about herself? Hadn’t she despised them as much as they had her? Had she ever shown a morsel of friendliness or extended the smallest gesture of understanding, would they not have opened their ranks and accepted her?

Going further back, Zarya saw the many people who had helped her along her journey to the Temple, people whose aid she had taken for granted and ignored in her obsession.

She saw the old priestess at the tiny water shrine in Zarya’s village, Sestra Marya, fearing for her sanity and her life, urging her toward the Voda Temple in hopes that the Matushka could give this fluid, unbalanced girl some needed boundaries and guidance. For even the river had to be kept within its bounds or it would lose itself.

She saw her parents, loving her the best they could though they did not understand her, and young Zarya rejecting that love in favor of her passion for the soulless stillness of water.

Was this how she wanted her life to end? Was this what she wanted to mark her days, that she existed as an empty shell until the day she lost herself among the waters of the sacred pool and dissolved like so much salt stirred into a filled cup?

Who was she in the first place? Did she despise herself so much she was ready to become nothing in order to escape being Zarya? The words of the offering came back to her. When an acolyte renounced his or her name, it wasn’t necessarily of her own self, her own identity as a person. It was saying that the Temple and the bonds of water were now greater than the bonds of family. That was why the Sestry and Brat’ya kept their first names after the test, only casting aside their family names. They did not lose themselves; they merely shaped new boundaries, shifting their identities rather than losing them.

Deep within her, Zarya felt a stirring, an urging toward life. Toward warmth and breath and love ... yes, even fear and pain and rejection. Toward hope, whether it was fulfilled or not. Toward people, and friendships, and perhaps even enemies.

She was not nothing. She could not accept the promise of peace the waters gave. She had thought she could, but in the end, she had to reach for her own identity.

She gathered herself back together, starting at her core and working her way out. When she felt every part of her down to her smallest fingernail back again, when her thoughts were mirror-bright and razor-sharp with clarity, she bid a sorrowful farewell to the vodyanoi and swam toward the distant surface.

She was conscious of a deep sense of loss, knowing that she had, in the end, failed the test. She had not bonded with water—she had first nearly lost herself to it, and then rejected it. The Matushka had been right.

Zarya would be cast out now, as she rightly deserved, and she would have to either make her way back to her village and try to accept an ordinary life there, or seek beyond the edges of the world she knew to find a place for herself.

Nevertheless, she could not regret her choice to live. Her love for water had not faded with this new burning at her core; it seemed to have become tempered. Water no longer promised escape and emptiness; now, as her head broke the surface and she breathed the air for the first time in what felt like years, she could love it as a friend, for its restfulness and soothing nature, an element to help one find peace within the world rather than retreat from it.

With strong, steady strokes, Zarya made her way to the edge of the pool. The numbness had worn off now; she was cold and shivering down to her very bones. She would go back into the Temple and confess to the Matushka, and perhaps before she was thrown out she could say farewell to Sestra Dominika and get a hot drink from her.

She placed her hands on the white stones and began to lever herself out.

“Let me help you, malyshka.”

Zarya started, and her hands slipped off, landing back in the water with a splash. It seemed she wouldn’t have to return to the Temple to confess after all. The Matushka was here.

It made sense. With the whirlpool that Zarya and the vodyanoi had created earlier, it was a wonder all the inhabitants of the Temple together hadn’t awakened and rushed to the pool.

The old woman reached down and with her strong hands pulled Zarya out of the water. They walked together off the white stones and onto the black pebbles, where a white fur and small, aromatic fire made of cedar wood awaited the sodden girl. Zarya wrapped herself gratefully in the fur, breathing deeply as warmth started to build in her bones.

“I know it is useless to ask for forgiveness, Matushka, but I am deeply sorry I did not listen. I understand now what you were trying to protect me from. I’ll leave as soon as I have gathered my things.”

The Matushka raised an eyebrow. “You have decided against life in service to the spirits of water, then?”

Zarya felt some of her old impatience and frustration return at that question. Old habits do not die away in an instant, no matter how well-intentioned one might be. “I failed the test! What place do I have here now?”

The Matushka studied her, then took her arm and led her back to the pool.

“Look,” she said.

Half against her will, Zarya peered down. No longer dark as a moonless night, the pool was now a brilliant silver, shining brightly in the forest and showing a perfect reflection of Zarya’s own face.

She uttered a startled gasp, fingers flying to her cheeks. The white dots of the acolyte were indeed gone, but her coppery brown skin was not left unmarked after all. A pattern such as she had never seen before now danced across her face, as light and lustrous as the sacred waters themselves.

“I don’t understand,” she said, dazed. “I thought ... what does it mean?”

The Matushka sat down again before the fire. Zarya lowered herself to sit across from the older woman, tucking her legs up under the fur and schooling herself to listen without prejudice for once.

“The test of an acolyte, as you have learned, is not only to see if one is truly affiliated with water, but if one can resist its lure. For water, like all else in this world of ours, can be both destructive and life-giving. As fire both warms and burns, so water can bring both life and death. Some, like poor Ivan Ivanovitch, fail to bond, and that is the lesser tragedy. There are those, like yourself, who face the temptation to lose themselves entirely to the water. Much of the acolyte training is to prepare you to face that temptation and overcome it. That is why I would not permit you to take the test early—not because I feared you would fail the bond, but because I could see that you were one who would all too easily lose herself.”

Zarya was surprised to find herself piqued at this. She had believed she was the only one to face this particular challenge, the only one to fall prey to the empty call of water’s false peace, the only one to overcome it to return to life.

Arrogance, again. She was ashamed of her folly, both now and in refusing to listen to the Matushka before.

“It is rare,” the high priestess continued, “for one to overcome that lure with as little training and as little will to live as you had. I am pleased indeed, malyshka Zarya, that you have endured.”

“And ... I am not to leave the Temple after all?” Zarya touched the cool silver marks covering her cheeks and forehead again. “What does this symbol mean, Matushka?”

The Matushka tapped a withered finger on her chin. “That, I do not know for certain. It is not a mark that has been seen in the Temple as long as I have been here. I must ask Brat Fyodor to examine our archives to know for certain. I suspect, though ...”

Zarya waited until it seemed the Matushka was not going to finish her sentence at all. “Suspect what?” she finally burst out. “Apologies,” she mumbled immediately afterward.

The Matushka laughed. “You are showing yourself a true water child! You have left the stale waters of the marsh, clogged with doubt and anger and black hopelessness, and how have now entered the tempestuous waters of the spring, always rushing ahead without thinking and then having to come back upon yourself and do it over again. I think, little Zaryushka, that you will have to leave the Temple after all.”

The words made no sense on the heels of what she had said before. Zarya blinked stupidly for several moments.

“What?” she finally managed to say.

“Not forever, my child. You are not to be cast out. But I believe the vodyanoi are asking more of you than to serve them here. I have heard a tale of one or two such as you. Given a greater gift than most, and asked to do greater things with it.”

The Matushka shifted her seat. “There are places in Rusvanya where the elements are not honored. Turgid, sullen, dark places, needing the cleansing of sacred waters to bring life back to them. It will not be an easy task; it requires great love of life to bring life to others. Do you understand?”

Zarya did. In the pool, she had chosen life. One might consider this task a penance, for having been so willing to throw herself away. Or one could think of it as a gift: the chance to find what beauty and joy there was in living, to share that goodness with others, before returning to join the Sestry and Brat’ya here at the Temple.

“I see,” she said.

Inside, in that place that had always felt so empty before, and was now filled with energy, she felt an absolute rightness at the Matushka’s words. Zarya did not need to wait for Brat Fyodor. She knew this was the right path for her. It might wind and weave, take her to places she never expected to go, places dangerous and dark, empty of all joy and life—but it was hers. Only one who had lived through that same emptiness and had chosen life instead could truly fight against it.

She looked at herself—clad only in a nightshift and a white fur, barefoot, her hair in a long braid down her back, her face marked plainly with the gift of the water spirits—and for the first time in her life, laughed from sheer joy in living. “Will you give me your blessing before I go?”

The Matushka laid her hands on Zarya’s head and spoke the words of blessing, and Zarya left the sacred pool and the Temple alike to taste the goodness of the world.

At the gate, she turned for one final word.

“Say goodbye to Starshaya Sestra Dominika for me,” she said.

As the sun rose and turned the sky to liquid gold, Zarya turned the corner, walking toward the edge of the horizon.

About the Author

A storyteller from the time she could talk, as soon as E.L. BATES learned to write she began putting her stories on paper and inflicting them on the general public. She is a firm believer in the power of story to convey truth, hope, and joy in a way nothing else can. When she gets a spare moment she enjoys reading, knitting, ice skating, and exploring the beautiful English countryside alongside her family. You can find her online at stardancepress.com.

The Song of Sibyl

by David England

“ENTER,” A DEEP VOICE on the far side of the hatch commanded in response to the knock.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Cap’n,” Sam O’Shaughnessy, the absurdly young-looking Engineer’s Mate, 3rd Class, reported as the portal swung open. “The Lieutenan’ be wishin’ to say there be another ship aft o’ us, comin’ up crossways like.” Intelligent green eyes rose from the floor grating to consider the imposing commander of the freighter Cybelene Serenade seated at his desk. The youth’s close-cropped hair, the color of bright flame, contrasted with a pale complexion and the loose, standard-issue grey coveralls which always seemed to be a size too large. This newest member of the crew possessed a smooth chin and higher-pitched voice which had caused a fair number of the ship’s complement to wager that the recent addition was somewhat younger than the sixteen standard-year minimum generally required among the national merchant marine of the worlds.

“Very good, O’Shaughnessy,” the captain received the report with a curt nod, glancing up from the daunting stack of forms on his small desk. “Probably one of those damned fly-by-night traders that have been cropping up in this sector of the Belt, now that the Tsar’s navy cleared out that last nest of pirates back in ‘02.” He gave a grunt. “Tell Mr. Theismann to keep an eye on his distance and maintain proper spacing. We don’t need some idiot rookie colliding with us out here.”

“Yes, Cap’n,” Sam acknowledged the order, quietly shutting the hatchway as the commanding officer turned his attention back to the mound of paperwork. The captain was a good sort, Sam thought. Certainly, he and the Lieutenant had gone out of their way to take a chance on a young runaway when they hadn’t needed to, and that willingness had extended even beyond the usual, considering the circumstances.

Sam was shorter than most of the crew, attributed to that suspect age for the time being. A slender build, combined with the loose-fitting coveralls, served well to disguise what slight curve of hip and swell of bust might otherwise be noticeable. The timing of the showers had been the trickiest thing to manage, but so far, no suspicions appeared to have been aroused among her crewmates. Hell, she snorted to herself as she moved along the gangway, half the crew didn’t like to shower none anyway, so blending in had been far less difficult than she’d imagined.

It took her only a few minutes to reach the bridge and relay the captain’s orders to Lieutenant Theismann. The sanguine first officer received the message with a wordless nod before sending her on her way back to the engine rooms and her regular duty-station deep in the bowels of the freighter’s aether engine with its massive Henry-Germain lens and matrix of vulcanite crystals.

The captain was probably right about that other craft, Sam considered as she made her way aft. While she’d only been a member of the crew for a few months now, she’d seen enough to realize that he was a seasoned aetherman who ran a tight ship. He respected competence and expected it of everyone under his command. She certainly could have done far worse in her desperation to get off Venus and beyond the reach of the earl.

She’d been on the run for many days when she stumbled, wet and ragged, into the port city of Ishtaar. Though her reading skills were basic by most standards, and generally limited to labels on foodstuffs, she had been able to tell from the flag displays rising above the town center that she was still within the boundaries of the British Concession. Not that it made much difference for one in her situation. The Franco-Spanish Empire which administered Venus wasn’t going to care about the plight of a lone serving-girl, particularly one being sought by a powerful British noble.

Still in her grip in the panic of her flight, she had put the knife to her hair almost as soon as she’d entered the first of the marshes beyond the estate house. The spines from the taller fungal vegetation tore at her clothes as she moved and her long, flame-red hair only gave the damn things something else to catch onto, not to mention sharp contrast for her pursuers to spy out against the greens, greys, and browns of the marshlands. Besides, she’d thought ruefully as she had sawed away furiously at her fiery locks, it would save the hangman the trouble when they did catch her.

The lower half of her skirts met the same fate as her hair and she plunged deeper into the marshes, which gave way to a fungal forest and somewhat less soggy ground. The perpetual rains of Venus had been muted that day and only a fine mist floated in the air, wetting everything it touched. Her escape had been touch-and-go for those first crucial hours. More than once she’d heard the baying of hounds at a distance that was not distant enough for her liking.

But the multitude of marshes, the frequent streams, and a sheer determination to keep moving were enough for her to elude immediate capture. However grateful she might have been for that fact, she was not so foolish as to believe that the authorities wouldn’t eventually close in. Her only hope would be to get off the planet entirely, no small feat for a scullery maid who’d never before set foot off the estate grounds.

“Sam,” a brusque voice cut into her reflections. “Get your ass over here and give me a hand with this bitch.”

“Yes, PO,” she replied, stepping through the hatchway and into the forward engine room. This compartment, and its much larger mate, was her favorite haunt aboard the Serenade. If she wasn’t sleeping or eating, she would be here or the much larger main engine room just aft. That massive compartment held the heart of the ship, the aether engine with its Henry-Germain lens and the matrix of crystals from the mines of Vulcan, that innermost planet which whirled infernally-close to the Sun. The lens focused and directed the aetheric flow and the crystals augmented that power to incredible levels, enabling this vessel and others far larger to swim the aetheric currents of space. Her primary job in this compartment, however, dealt with the auxiliary equipment of the engine and it was to this that she directed her attention as she approached her more senior crewmate.

Petty Officer, 2nd Class, Burk Johnson was a crusty aetherman who’d served on the Serenade for nearly ten years. He was also the head of Sam’s work detail and allowed for no slack in the performance of his team. Despite his sour disposition, Sam found that she rather liked him. The ever-present scowl on his face deepened as she approached.

“What the hell took you so long?” he growled at her. “You were only supposed to turn in the daily logs to the officer-of-the-watch. No more jerkin’ off, got it?”

“Yes, PO,” Sam replied. “The Lieutenan’ was wishin’ me to take a message to the Cap’n and the Cap’n sent one back.”

Johnson grunted. “What about?”

Sam smiled to herself. If there was anything she’d learned during her short time aboard, it was that scuttlebutt was always valuable. “Somethin’ ‘bout a ship comin’ crossways to the stern,” she said offhandedly. “Cap’n said to keep distance an’ make sure no idiot ran into us.”

The petty officer’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Well, I’m sure the captain knows what he’s doing, but it’d make me more than a bit squirrely to have someone that close in these here parts.” Having never been off Venus, Sam had been unfamiliar with the PO’s colloquialisms and a question two weeks after she’d joined the crew had produced a fair amount of ribbing from her mates. Johnson gave another grunt. “The Ruskies are good at their job, though. And King Nicky don’t play around.”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “King Nicky?” she asked, puzzled.

“The Tsar, Gears-for-brains,” the petty officer replied gruffly. “Nicholas II.” He shook his head in a mock-despair. “They didn’t let you out much on Venus, did they, boy?”

“No, PO.” She gave a shrug of her slim shoulders. “I dinna get out none.”

“We had a run-in with a band of pirates five years ago, back in ‘98,” Johnson explained. “We fought ‘em off and reported the incident as soon as we made port at Vesta. A few months later, King Nicky’s navy caught up to ‘em. Them that wasn’t killed outright had a nice public hanging a short time later.” He looked at her levelly. “Best stay on the Ruskie’s good side.”

Sam nodded. “I’ll ‘member that, PO.”

“Good.” The scowl returned. “But all this yakkin’ ain’t getting this here secondary aether flux regulator fixed and the chief’s all over my ass about it so I’m gonna be all over yours. Work your magic on it, boy, and I’ll be back later.”

“Got it,” Sam affirmed, flexing her fingers in anticipation. “She’ll be a-purrin’ so nice you’da never knowed she’da been broke.”

Johnson grunted once more and left her to her work. Sam bent over the stubborn piece of equipment and got down to business.

Twenty minutes later she had the regulator disassembled and the parts carefully laid out on the surface of the portable workbench she’d moved from her workstation on the far side of the room. This was her favorite part of her job. She smiled to herself as she closed her eyes and reached out to touch the pieces of the machine, listening.

The alarm cut into her brain like a saw blade. Sam’s eyes snapped open. An instant later, several loud bangs sounded in rapid succession, as of objects colliding with the ship. Muffled explosions immediately followed. Confused shouting, far away, then closer, just on the other side of the bulkhead. All too quickly, the alarm was silenced. The ubiquitous hum of the aether engine died.

Quiet settled, ominous. Sam looked around quickly. She was alone in this compartment, but for how long, she did not know. Something was wrong, that much was obvious. An accident? Possible. Her gut told her otherwise.

She had her answer a moment later when three figures stepped into the compartment through the hatchway she’d used only a short while before. They wore combat armor--helmets, chest protectors, arm and leg guards--and all three had rifles shouldered, scanning the space with practiced precision. She was spotted immediately.

Her hands went up. This was no place to die.

With a minimum of conversation, she was taken by two of her captors, the third apparently remaining to man a post in that engine compartment. After a short trip, she was brought to the main cargo bay. Huddled at the center of the bay floor were the rest of the crew.

Or most of the crew. As she was brought toward the group and pushed to a sitting position on the floor, Sam noted that none of the Serenade’s officers were present. Nor the chief. She cast furtive glances at the guards posted at the perimeter of the bay, trying to do nothing that would attract attention to her. Their faces were hard, eyes sweeping the prisoners huddled in the center. The clothing beneath their armor was nondescript, but their bearing spoke of discipline. She could make out no discernible insignia. At irregular intervals, a member of the crew would be taken away. After a period of time, Sam realized that none of those who had been taken had returned. The pool of prisoners in the bay slowly shrank.

“Sam.” A low whisper from behind her broke into her awareness. It took her a moment to place the voice.

“Yes, PO?” she whispered in reply, not turning her head.

“Listen to me carefully,” Johnson told her in a low tone. “You need to watch yourself.”

“Wadya mean?” she whispered back.

“It looks like they’re taking us away one by one,” he responded, confirming her observations. “These are pirates. The likes of them will have a special place for a lass like you. So you need to be very careful when they take you away.”

Her pulse quickened. “I donna know what yer talkin’ about, PO.”

“Cut the shit,” he whispered harshly. “It ain’t like we all don’t know. You’re good, I’ll grant you that, but that’s not a thing that a body can hide for long. There’s just something about the way a woman moves.” He gave a quiet snort. “Anyhow, most of the crew had it figured out after a week and them that didn’t had the situation explained to them all personal-like by the chief. So let’s not fuck around with one another here.”

Sam swallowed, hard. “Yes, PO.”

“Now,” he told her, “you need to play this smart. These people don’t know you. There’s a good chance you can pull this off. But whatever you do, don’t let ‘em know what you are. I don’t know what happened to the crew they’ve taken, but a short walk out the airlock would be better than what the likes of these would do to a woman.”

She nodded nervously, then realized her couldn’t hear that. “Got it,” she whispered.

“Good. Now watch your ass. Looks like two of ’em are heading our way.”

Sam looked to her right and sure enough, two of the pirates were approaching their edge of the cluster of prisoners, expressions grim. They stopped next to her and one of them pointed.

“You, there,” the pointing one said. “Come with us.”

Sam stood, slowly. “Where ya takin’ me?” she asked, pitching her voice slightly lower than normal.

“Never mind that,” the other replied. “You’ll find out soon enough.” They grabbed her by the upper arms and moved her away from the group, over to one of the hatchways leading from the bay, then into the corridor beyond. When they stopped several minutes later, she realized they stood outside the officers’ mess. One of the pirates knocked on the hatchway.

“Come in,” a voice replied.

The other pirate opened the hatch and pushed Sam through the opening. She found herself in the small room, the longer mess table that served the captain, lieutenant, and pair of ensigns having been removed and replaced with a much smaller one. A man sat on a folding chair behind that table, a stack of files set before him. Another chair, empty, was positioned on the near side of the table, some distance away. A hand shoved her forward and she stumbled into the room.

“Have a seat,” the man at the table said.

Sam glanced behind her, but her two escorts remained at the hatchway. She stepped further into the room, cautiously, and took the proffered seat. She sat up straight, tense, not touching the chair’s backrest.

“Name?” the man asked. He had intensely blue eyes which examined her with a mild interest from behind the wire-frame spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. A thick mane of wavy black hair topped his head and his face seemed, quite absurdly, more that of a clerk than of a pirate.

“Name, please?” he repeated, surprisingly polite.

“O’Shaughnessy,” Sam replied carefully. “Shamus O’Shaughnessy.”

“O’Shaughnessy, O’Shaughnessy,” the man said quietly as he leafed through the stack of folders. Folders which Sam recognized now as the ship’s personnel files. “Ah. Here we are,” he pulled one folder out and opened it. “Shamus O’Shaughnessy, Engineer’s Mate, 3rd Class. A very recent addition to the crew, it seems.” He read through the thin file quickly. “But an unusually strong aptitude for mechanics, despite no formal training. And rather unusual circumstances of recruitment.”

Sam’s heart began to race, thudding loudly in her ears. But she kept her mouth shut and merely nodded.

“Quite impressive, all things considered,” the man commented, closing the folder. “But I would like to have a bit more information.”

Sam said nothing for a moment, then after the man declined to continue, dared to ask. “Like wha’?”

The man looked at her levelly. “Like what your real name might be, miss.”

Sam shot to her feet, knocking the chair to the floor. Her feet were spread in a fighting stance, her fists up. “I’ll no’ be any whore,” she shouted, her pulse pounding in her ears. “I’ll rip yer fookin’ balls off first!”

The man stared at her for a moment, his expression one of shock. Then he threw his head back and laughed heartily. The guards at the hatchway joined in. Sam stood there in the middle of the floor, still braced for combat, and looked about, perplexed.

“My good woman,” the man behind the table said as he regained control of himself. “I merely asked your name.”

Sam’s expression grew more confused. “An’ why woldya wanna be knowin’ that?” she asked warily. “Wha’ kinna pirates be askin’ for folks’ names?”

“We would like to know who it is we’d be potentially asking to join us, of course,” the man replied. He motioned to the toppled chair. “Please, miss, have a seat so that we can talk. The Sons of Eris are not uncivilized.”

“An’ who be these Sons of Eris?’ she asked as she righted the chair and sat down again, her eyes never leaving the man at the table.

“We are,” he answered. “But we’ll discuss that in more detail shortly. First, I would like to know more about you and how you came to serve on this vessel.” He gestured toward her. “So, if you wouldn’t mind, what is your name?”

She considered him for a long moment. “Sibyl,” she said. “Sibyl Brennan.” She sat up straighter and looked squarely at the man. “An’ wha’ be yer name then?”

“Leon,” the man answered. “I am very pleased to meet you, Sibyl. We’ve only known each other a few minutes and I can already see how valuable an addition to our cause you would be.” He shook his head. “But I get ahead of myself. Please, tell me how a young woman like yourself came to be an Engineer’s Mate, 3rd class, on a merchant freighter.”

“I was a-runnin’ from the earl,” she replied. “I got to Ishtaar, bu’ I knew it wunna be long afore the earl’s men found me agin. The lieutenan’ here was recruitin’ an’ so I signed up.”

“Women aren’t allowed to sign up in the merchant marine,” Leon observed quietly.

“I made myself look like a lad,” Sibyl responded. “The lieutenan’ wodn’t fooled none though, nor the cap’n.”

“So why did they take you aboard?”

“I’s good with me hands,” she answered. Seeing Leon’s smile, she retorted. “No’ like that. I mean with machines. The cap’n thought me good eno’ to be useful. ‘E’s a good sort.” She looked at Leon, her eyes intense. “Wha’ gonna ‘appen to the crew?”

“Some may join us,” Leon answered.

“Wha’ of the cap’n an’ the lieutenan’ an’ the others that don’t?”

“As I said earlier,” Leon replied calmly. “The Sons of Eris are not uncivilized. Rest assured that no one will be taking short walks out the airlock. What I’m interested in right now, however, is you.” He folded his hands on the table. “Why were you running from this earl?”

“On account o’ his son,” she answered. “He’da always been handsy wi’ the kitchen maids. Mostly jus’ a grabbin’ an’ touchin’.” She paused. “Bu’ then he a-came after me hard like. Wannin’ more’n that.”

“I see,” Leon responded, his gaze unwavering. “An unsurprisingly common tale.” He waved toward her again. “Please, go on. I take it you were alone at the time?”

Sibyl nodded. “He caught me by misself in the pantry, jus’ as I was a-cleanin’ up from the day’s cookin’.” She frowned. “A-smilin’ in tha’ way that ain’t so friendly an’ I knew wha’ was gonna ‘appen.”

“And what did happen?”

“I was puttin’ away the dishes an’ cookin’ tools when ‘e came at me,” she answered bluntly. “I stabbed ‘im in the pecker with a bonin’ knife.”

Leon smiled wolfishly. “Good. And then you ran, I assume?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “No’ gonna stand aroun’ an’ wait for ‘em to put a hangman’s noose aroun’ my neck.”

The unlikely-looking pirate nodded slowly. “Quite sensible.” He leaned back in his chair a bit. “Now tell me about your recruitment. How did you convince the captain to take you on?”

“It wa’ the lieutenan’ first,” Sibyl replied. She paused, trying to decide how best to explain how it had all happened: her swiping lad’s clothes from a line in the early morning, getting caught stealing food from a cart in the market, the lieutenant’s intervening and paying the indignant grocer for the fruit she’d taken, the quiet conversation they’d had afterwards. “He gave me a test,” she said finally. “An’ I passed. He brought me to the cap’n private, tol’ ‘m ‘bout me an’ wha’ I done.”

“And the captain agreed to take you on?”

“Well, ‘e sorta looked me quiet-like, then tol’ the lieutan’ to sign me up as Shamus O’Shaunessy an’ put me as Engineer’s Mate.” She looked at Leon. “Like I said, I’m good wi’ machines an’ the ship was a-needin’ someone like me.”

Leon looked at her for a moment. “What, if I might ask, was the test you passed?”

Sibyl smiled for the first time since the pirate attack. “Oh, tha’. The blimp the lieutenan’ took to go recruit...”

“The ship’s dinghy, you mean?”

“Tha’s the one,” she nodded. “There wa’ a fan in the shitter that clicked real annoying-like when it wa’ turned on an’ no one’d been able to figure out wha’ was the matter wi’ it. He tol’ me to make the clickin’ stop. An’ I did.”

“How?” Leon asked simply.

It was impossible, she’d found, to explain how she fixed things. “Donno. I jus’ took the fan apart an’ put it back together agin like it wanna be put back together.” She frowned. “I listen to what the machines are a-sayin. To how they sing. An’ I just do wha’ they ask.” She shrugged. “I canno’ say it any better than that.”

Leon did not reply, but considered her silently for several minutes. The quiet stretched out. Sibyl held her own gaze level, staring with equal frankness at her captor.

Finally, the pirate-leader gave a curt nod of his head. “I would be most pleased, Sibyl Brennan, if you would join the Sons of Eris.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why wolda body be doing tha’?”

Leon placed his hands on the table, steepling his fingers, and leaned forward. “We are fighters in a war. A war against those who would lord themselves over the workers of these worlds, who hold themselves to be superior due to accidents of birth and class, who seize the fruit of the workers’ labor for themselves and leave those workers with nothing but scraps.” His eyes hardened. “There are many forces arrayed against the system of these worlds. We are but one part of the gathering storm which will eventually sweep that system away, scattering it like so much dust in the wind. With some luck and much hard work, we may be able to build better worlds in the aftermath.” His blue eyes looked into her. “It is not a venture for the faint-hearted. It is a long road, with long odds, and with many perils. I ask you to travel that road with us.”

She frowned. “An’ wha’ happens to them that say no? Wha’ happens to the lieutenan’ an’ the cap’n?”

“They will not be harmed,” Leon replied. “When we are done here and all who have agreed to join us have done so, we will depart this vessel and leave everyone who declined that offer, and all the officers, aboard.” He gave a tight smile. “We will, of course, be taking with us the cargo in the ship’s holds and the vulcanite crystals from its engine. But the ship will remain otherwise intact, if vastly under-powered.” The blue eyes held hers. “No one will be killed.”

“How many ‘ave said yes?”

A subtle nod toward her. “You would be the first.” Another pause. “We do not ask everyone.”

Sibyl considered that answer. She thought about the crew, about what the PO had said, about the lieutenant and the captain and what they’d done for her. Then she thought about the earl. About the earl’s son. About the life she had escaped, but others had not. A quiet resolution formed within her.

“Yes,” she said, her voice sounding surprisingly firm in her own ears. “I’ll a-join wi’ you.”

“Thank you, Sibyl,” Leon replied, his blue eyes gleaming with a fierce light. “And welcome.”

About the Author

DAVID ENGLAND is an idealist and dreamer who sometimes feels he was, rather like Miniver Cheevy, born too late.  His stories have been published in MYTHIC, Into The Ruins, the first volume of the Old Solar System anthology Vintage Worlds, and the online e-zine Tales To Astound.  He lives in small-town Wisconsin on the western shore of Lake Michigan with his artist wife, Anne, who has somehow managed to put up with him for over a decade now.  His current projects include a series of novels set in an alternate timeline of nineteenth-century space exploration, with intrigue, revenge, adventure, romance, and yes, space pirates.

The Alien Among Us

by James Rumpel

YEAR 1 DAY 1

THE CAPSULE HAD BOUNCED and rolled through the thick underbrush of the jungle, leaving a fifty-foot-wide scorched trail in its wake. Despite the recent clamorous intrusion into the calm, everything was now silent. No birds took flight or called out in fear. There were no animals scurrying to presumed safety. The jungle appeared lifeless, except for the site of the crash.

There, three identically clad men stood over a fourth. As the prone man opened his eyes, he gasped deeply, sucking oxygen into his near-empty lungs. His comrades spoke to him, simultaneously.

“Don’t try to get up to fast, you’ve been in stasis for over twenty years.”

“What do you remember?”

“What is your name?”

After a few minutes, the astronaut managed to sit up. He was unsteady as he leaned back against a piece of mangled equipment, but he was ready to reply to the bombardment of questions.

“I am Mission Specialist John Howard of Interplanetary Search Mission Alpha.” While he answered the inquiry, he glanced down at the emblem and name tag on his left chest, as if for verification.

“Do you know who I am?” asked a mountainous man with MISSION SPECIALIST GAVIN WHITE embroidered above the mission patch of his uniform.

A confused look appeared on John’s face. “No, I don’t recognize you at all. How can that be, if we were on the same mission…” He stopped, his expression composed of concentration and bewilderment. “I can remember everything about the mission, except whenever I try to picture or recall any of my crewmates, I come up blank. I can recall conversations but I can’t picture the other person.”

“It is worse than that,” added the man with MISSION SPECIALIST DUANE MCDONALD on his name tag. “If you are like us, you can’t even remember their voices or idiosyncrasies in speech patterns. It is totally impossible to identify who was with us on the mission.”

“Well, that should be obvious. We’re the only ones here. It has to be us.”

“It is not that easy,” replied the fourth astronaut, Mission Specialist Eduardo Esposa. “Think about it. We were only a three-man crew. We checked the wreckage, there were only three suspended animation compartments on the ship.”

“Not only that,” continued White, “Someone or something pulled us all out of the compartments and laid us here, outside of the ship.”

“We’ve gained consciousness, one by one, out here,” explained McDonald.

John held his hand up, needing time to analyze the new and extremely troubling information. “Are you telling me, that one of us didn’t come with the capsule? One of us is not from our mission?”

“It could be more than one. For all I know, I am the only true human among us,” declared McDonald.

“But I remember it being a three-person mission. And there were three opened stasis compartments,” pointed out White. “I think we should operate on the assumption that there is only one alien.”

“Technically, we are the aliens,” explained Esposa. “Whoever the imposter is, they were here when we arrived.”

“That’s impossible.” John gathered his strength and rose to his feet. “There has to be some way to determine who wasn’t with us on the ship. Wouldn’t it be the one who was awake when everyone else regained consciousness?”

Esposa shook his head. “I’m thinking this being would be smart enough to pretend to be unconscious in order to carry out its ruse.”

“Of course, you say that. You were awake when I came to.”

“Let’s remain calm,” instructed Howard. “I think Esposa has a legitimate point. There must be some other way to identify the imposter.”

“We could ask questions that only people from Earth would know the answers to,” suggested John.

“Yeah, like we are all going to know what team won the World Series in nineteen forty-two,” scoffed McDonald.

“Not like that…”

“Remember, John, the being we are dealing with has the ability to block very specific parts of our memories. I’m guessing it would be able to extract enough info to answer a few trivia questions.”

“You’re right, White…”

“Call me Gavin. Maybe we should go around and introduce ourselves. It might even give a clue as to who is the imposter.” Each member of the crew proceeded to tell a small bit about themselves: their hometowns, when they joined the Interplanetary Search Mission, and other minor details. McDonald joked about being a Pisces and enjoying long walks on the beach. Not surprisingly, none of them claimed to be from a mysterious planet or mentioned wanting to enslave the entire human race.

“That was a waste of time,” concluded McDonald.

“Whoever the alien is, they could have killed us instantly if that was their goal. We are stranded in the middle of a jungle and who knows what else is out there or what it’s going to be like once darkness hits. Why don’t we just, all, work on scavenging the capsule, checking inventory, and setting up some sort of shelter for the night.”

With varying degrees of enthusiasm, the crew agreed with Gavin’s suggestion. They each set about the tasks before them, though all kept a wary eye on each of their compatriots.

YEAR 1 DAY 2

A DAY AND A half of constant labor produced positive results. The four marooned astronauts found enough food for five or six weeks. A prefabricated shelter was constructed. In two days, the crew did not encounter any forms of higher animal life. Aside from a few grubs and insects, the planet seemed to be devoid of any lifeforms. Water could be found abundantly in the morning dew and persistent short rain showers. Tests of the water proved it to be entirely safe for human consumption.

The jungle around them was extremely dense. Any exploration away from the crash site was extremely difficult and time-consuming, with the exception of the burnt and flattened path the capsule had left in its wake as it crashed onto the planet.

Most importantly, the beacon the crew was sent to set up on the planet’s surface was fully operational. This beacon, along with the multitude of others, similar to it, which the vessel’s computer theoretically placed along the route to this planet would allow any subsequent ships to locate the crew. The computer, however, had not survived the crash. Any interplanetary communication, beyond the beacon, had been rendered impossible. The failure of the computer had also destroyed any recordings which would have indicated the identity of the true astronauts.

As the quartet sat around a makeshift dinner table, they finally addressed major issues.

“I question whether we should activate the beacon,” said White.

“Why?” asked Esposa.

“Do we really want to bring more people here. Remember, one of us is an alien. The plan might be to lure more humans here so they can infiltrate our population or take our vessels.”

“First of all, we have to quit applying human tendencies to the alien. We have absolutely no idea how its mind operates or what it wants.” Howard stood as he spoke. “Secondly, if that was what the alien wanted to do, why even wake us up. It could have activated the beacon on its own after reading our minds.”

McDonald spat out some reconstituted vegetable mix and spoke, glumly. “No ship is coming from Earth. We all knew this was a suicide mission from the start.”

Esposa chastised his crewmate. “That’s not true. It is entirely possible that Earth has developed faster than light travel in the twenty years that we were en route. They could be here in a week after the beacon is established.”

“Or, all of Earth could be dead and gone. We have no idea what happened in that time.”

“Well if they haven’t gotten faster than light travel, we are going to be stuck here for at least twenty years. Had the capsule not crashed we could have set the beacon and started our return trip.”

“You’re stating the obvious, Gavin,” declared Howard. “Something else that is obvious, is that if we are going to have to wait twenty years for rescue, we have to develop better housing and find a way to grow food. I don’t think there are any animals in this area. We have to explore.”

“We also will need to find edible plants and start growing crops,” added Esposa. “The path of the capsule is already cleared to some extent. We could start gardens there.”

“We are not a flippin’ colony. If we were sent to colonize this hell hole, they would have sent women with us.” McDonald stood quickly, sending his canvas folding chair flying as he did so. “No one is coming. We aren’t going to survive for long. And on top of everything else, there is some stupid alien spying on us. Face reality; we are dead men.” He reached back as if to reset his fallen chair, but suddenly stopped, gave the chair a scoff and waved in its direction. He stormed out of the shelter, slamming the door as he did so.

YEAR 1 DAY 5

ON THE FIFTH DAY, after countless hours of debate, the crew activated the beacon. Minor progress had been made investigating the planet. There were many plants that, to the best of their knowledge, the crew found safe to eat. They even found some of the vegetation to be tasty. Construction of a more permanent shelter had begun and they had surveyed a few square miles of the immediate vicinity.

McDonald, who had begrudgingly returned that second night and agreed to do his share, was the first to speak after the beacon was initiated. “Okay, now that we’ve done that. I have an announcement.” He drew a small device from the pocket of his uniform. “This is an explosive. I rigged it from some of the material off of the ship, but trust me, it will be deadly. So, unless the alien wants to die along with the rest of us, you better come forth right now.”

“Hold on, Duane,” White stepped forward, his hands raised. “You don’t want to do that.”

“Oh, yes I do. If by some miracle the beacon actually leads more people here, they are not going to be violated, like we were, by some unnatural being. I’d rather we all die than allow that foul creature to exist.”

“It hasn’t done anything to any of us,” proclaimed Esposa.

“Not one time has any of the individuals in this group acted against us,” added Howard. “There is no evidence that it is anything other than benevolent.”

“Then why doesn’t it just show itself. If it doesn’t mean any harm, then just tell us.”

“Put down the device, Duane. Killing all of us isn’t the answer.”

“I don’t have to kill any of us if the creature simply shows itself.”

“Maybe it’s not a creature. Maybe there’s something else entirely at work here,” suggested Howard.

“Yeah,” continued Esposa. “Maybe there were always four of us and our memories got changed during the crash…I don’t know…but there has to be hundreds of possible explanations for what’s going on.”

“Let’s just wait and see. We can figure it out without having to resort to this.” White, carefully, moved a step closer to the red-headed, weapon brandishing astronaut. We have time. God knows, we have time. We can wait. Keep watching. If there is an alien, maybe it will slip up or decide to come forward.”

“Whatever it is, it has played with our minds. It needs to be killed.”

Howard and Esposa stood silently as White continued to try and negotiate with McDonald. “And if that is what it comes to, then we will do so. But, for now, we need everyone so that we have the best chance for survival. Please, give me the explosive. We will keep it. If we need it, we will use it.”

“I’ll keep it. I’m going to watch each of you. Don’t give me a reason to use it.”

“Sure. We trust you.”

“I want my own shelter. I’m not sleeping in the same building as the alien. I’ll work with all of you, but I will not let any of you near me when I am not awake, understand.”

“Of course. That is an excellent idea. Now put down the explosive.

Looking dejected, yet, at the same time, relieved, McDonald turned the explosive in his hand, deactivated it, and replaced it in his clothing.

The four men stood silently for a prolonged period of time.

“Okay, let’s make lunch,” said Howard.

YEAR 1 DAY 38

JOHN HOWARD SWUNG THE improvised hoe towards the soil with all of his might. The blade barely sunk into the grass covered ground, but when he pulled the handle back towards himself a large chunk of sod broke loose. He had been working at clearing the soil in this area for three days and had managed to create a decent sized area of weed free, exposed soil.

He stopped to catch his breath and take a quick sip from his water bottle. As he raised the hoe above his head, preparing for another mighty swing, he heard rustling from the edge of the jungle. He froze with the hoe above his head, his eyes searching the dense underbrush for the source of the sound.

The thick vegetation parted and a woman stepped into the clearing. John recognized her instantly, it was his late wife, Jenna. He let the hoe fall from his hands to the ground behind him. He stood, unable and unwilling to move, as she walked in his direction.

When she was about ten feet away, she stopped. “Hello, John.”

“You’re not Jenna.”

“That is true. But don’t you wish to see and talk to her.”

“I can’t. She’s dead. She died three years before the mission began.”

“You miss her. At least, look at her and remember her.”

“I don’t need to see her, to remember her,” declared John. But he stared at her, intently.

“I have no intention of ever hurting any of you. I want you to survive. I want you to be happy.”

“Seeing Jenna is not making me happy. It is making me quite sad.”

“I understand, but you are lonely. I thought seeing her would help.”

“I loved her so much. I still do. It’s been so long that it is starting to become more difficult to see her, to truly see her beauty, in my dreams. I guess being able to see her now will rekindle many memories. For that I thank you.”

“You are welcome. I only wish the best for all of you.”

With that, Jenna turned and ran, briskly, back towards the jungle. Howard started to follow, maybe hoping to grab and capture the creature, but he stopped. Instead, he turned and sprinted in the direction of the camp.

HOWARD WAS EXHAUSTED. HE struggled to catch his breath, as he reached the remains of the capsule and the shelters in which the astronauts now resided. He quickly located Gavin White working on the ship’s computer, trying to bring it back to life.

“Gavin, where are the others?”

“I’m not certain. Eduardo was gathering fruit to the south, earlier. I think, McDonald was exploring, trying to add on to his map.”

“Go find McDonald, right now. I will go look for Esposa. Bring him right back here as soon as you can.”

“What’s this about?”

“I’ll tell you soon enough. Find McDonald, quickly.”

IN LESS THAN TWENTY minutes the four castaways were gathered together in their camp.

“What’s this all about, John?” asked Esposa.

John took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “About half an hour ago, I saw my wife. She…the alien, in her form, approached me while I was working on the garden. It said that it meant no harm and wanted us to be happy. Were any of you together at that time.”

“I was out by the deep ravine, trying to find a way across,” answered McDonald. “I was there the entire afternoon.”

Esposa held up a bag of bright orange fruit. “I was collecting fauxmangos. You found me up in a tree.”

“So, none of you know any of the other’s whereabouts?” Howard’s eyes moved from person to person, focusing intently on each of them.

“I was here, working on the computer all morning,” said White. “I do have something to tell you, though. I know I should have told you earlier, but I wanted to wait to see if it happened again. Two nights ago, I was visited by my partner, from when I was in college. He looked the same as he did then. I knew it was the alien, but it felt so good to talk to Michael. It was late at night and everyone was asleep in their cabins. I had gone for a walk, to think. He met me near the garden. I raced back here after we finished talking, but all of your cabins were locked.”

“Well, I haven’t been visited by anyone. The alien probably knows I would drop it on site,” interjected McDonald.

“I haven’t, either,” said Esposa.

“But that doesn’t mean either of them is the alien,” explained White. “We could just as easily be making up our stories.”

“I know.” Howard nodded. “If one of you actually is that alien, I just want to say that I believe that you do not mean us any harm.”

“Well, I don’t.” This time, it was McDonald who looked from person to person. His look could only be described as a glare.

YEAR 2 DAY 1

THE ASTRONAUTS COMMEMORATED THE anniversary of their arrival on the planet with what could barely be called a celebration. They ate vegetables and fruit from their expansive garden. They looked at the progress they had achieved. They now had six sturdy permanent buildings in their camp. The supply shed was nearly filled and they had created a freshwater reservoir. The beacon had been kept operational the entire time. The quartet was surviving.

“I still wish we could get the computer up and running. It would be nice to be able to send out some form of communication beyond the beacon,” announced John.

The beacon was designed to send its location a great distance. It is not made to send messages. We could change the transmission to a two- or three-word message, but then it might not be able to relay our location.”

“We know, Gavin,” asserted John. “I was just wishing out loud.”

Eduardo changed the subject. “You know, it has been over a month since any of us have even mentioned the alien. I hardly even think about the fact that one of us might not be human. The last time I thought about the alien was when my mother came to talk to me last month.”

“I still think the alien still is a threat,” McDonald responded. “If anyone ever does come for us, we will have to do something. But, for now, I agree, we have to just go on living, day to day.

“Well, to each of you, I say thank you. We’ve survived because we have worked together, worked through our differences.” Here, John looked directly at Duane. “I don’t know how this is going to end, but we keep going.”

All four compatriots raised their glasses of fermented fruit, nodding agreement.

YEAR 5 DAY 113

THREE ASTRONAUTS STOOD OVER the grave. The marker, constructed from metal pulled from their ship, had an embroidered nametag fastened to it: MISSION SPECIALIST DUANE MCDONALD.

After a short traditional ceremony, Gavin White raised his head. “You know, he was a stubborn son-of-a-gun but he always had our backs. He always had the best interest of us and mankind at heart.”

“I agree,” said Esposa. “And the last couple of years he was actually enjoyable to be with.”

“He really wanted to map this planet. I think he was always looking for some sign of civilization, some sign that there was life somewhere on this planet.” John pointed to a mountain peak, barely visible through the vegetation. “I think we need to officially name the mountain after him. Not just because it is where he fell and lost his life, but because it signifies who he was.”

“I totally agree.” Eduardo picked up a worn paper map from a collection of McDonald’s belongings. “I am going to continue to survey the planet. I promise to continue his work.”

“I think we all will,” added Gavin.

YEAR 12 Day 76

GAVIN WHITE LAY, NEARLY motionless, in his bed. The minuscule movement of his chest with each shallow breath was the only visible sign that he was still alive. His body, weakened by the ever-spreading cancer was on the verge of giving up the fight, surrendering to the inevitable end.

The door to the cabin opened and a handsome, young man entered the room. “Gavin, it’s me, Michael.”

Gavin opened his weary eyes and fought the pain in order to turn and gaze upon the image of his long-lost friend. A soft, unintelligible mumble emerged from his lips.

Michael took Gavin’s hand in his own. Gavin had once been a strong and powerful man, now his hand, like the rest of his body, was shriveled and weak. “You don’t need to say anything, Gavin. I am here with you. I will stay with you until the end.”

YEAR 12 DAY 77

TWO GRAVES OCCUPIED THE makeshift cemetery on the outskirts of the camp. The more recent of the resting places, like the first, was adorned by a marker which featured the nametag from a uniform, the uniform in which Gavin was buried.

The two remaining astronauts no longer wore their uniforms. Years earlier, John had mastered the art of creating fabric, using an improvised loom. They wore pale brown clothing fashioned from the thread-like roots of a jungle plant.

“He was a good man,” eulogized John. “He didn’t deserve the physical suffering he had to endure at the end. He will be greatly missed.”

“What do we do now?” asked Eduardo.

“We continue living. There is nothing else to do.”

YEAR 23 DAY 199

JOHN CLOSED HIS EYES, letting the heat of the afternoon sun soak into his aged skin. He had asked Eduardo to bring him out into the clearing one last time. The open area had shrunk a great deal during the last few years; there was no one capable of maintaining it as it should have been. A shadow moved across his face, drawing his attention. He opened his eyes to see Eduardo standing above him.

John’s friend took a seat next to him. Eduardo’s hair, once thick and coal black, was now almost pure white. Wrinkles filled his face, giving the impression of a mosaic pasted together by a child. John spoke, “You are looking old, my friend.”

“I dare say, not as old as you.” Eduardo smiled. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“You can finally answer my question. I’m not going to live long enough to ask again. Are you the alien?”

In answer, Eduardo’s body and clothing began to change. Slowly it morphed, transforming to a completely different appearance. Soon the image of Jenna, John’s beloved wife, sat before him. She wore blue jeans and a purple blouse. John remembered that purple had always been her favorite color.

Jenna took John’s hand in hers and smiled.

John smiled back, looking into the eyes of a love he had lost so many years earlier. “Why? Why masquerade as one of us?”

The alien, still in the form of Jenna, replied. “I had been alone on this planet for thousands of years. I had endured loneliness that no one could ever imagine. I wanted to experience companionship, brotherhood. Had I revealed myself to you, you would have accepted me, but you would have always thought of me as something different, something alien. I wanted to, truly, be one of you and be part of something I have not been part of for an incredibly long time.”

“But, why introduce the suspicion. You could have, simply, taken the place of one of us.”

“I will never take the life of a sentient creature. I know what it is like to experience the loss of someone, everyone. I refuse to inflict that on any being.”

John shook his head, ever so slightly. “I think we might have accepted you had you been honest with us.”

“You very well may have, but I made my decision and I am happy with the outcome. For the last twenty years, I have not been lonely.”

“You will be alone again, very soon, I fear.”

“I wish it wasn’t true, but I know. I will have new memories of friendships to fill some of the emptiness.”

The two did not speak to each other again. They sat in silence, an old man and his beautiful wife. The sun set and darkness fell across the shrunken clearing.

YEAR ? DAY ?

SCARCELY DETECTABLE IN THE thick underbrush lies the skeleton of a space ship. In a far corner of a section of jungle, which was once a clearing, are three shallow graves. A short distance from the graves, a beacon still sends a faint signal out into the heavens.

Next to that beacon sits a shapeless, translucent being. Rarely does the creature move. It is waiting, always waiting.

About the Author

JAMES RUMPEL is a recently retired high school math teacher who has greatly enjoyed spending his additional free time rekindling his love for science fiction and the written word. He currently resides in Wisconsin with his wonderful wife, Mary.

Bridges

by Erika Wilson

MY MOTHER LEFT WHEN I was just old enough to remember her - the deep glow of her eyes, the gentle pressure of her spines when she embraced me. My father taught me to sing her name into the star-song, and many seasons later, when he left, I added his as well.

After my father walked into the forest, the village stone-carver looked after me and taught me to see the beauty in stone and shape it. Then he was gone, and I became the stone carver. Until it was my time to follow the path so many others had taken.

Like my mother, my father, my teacher, I did not say good-bye. I simply put down the stone I was shaping - a piece for the Maker’s altar that would now never be finished - and walked away. At the edge of our village-grove, Assia-Shaman separated from the trees, halting my steps with bright, knowing eyes.

“You are going?”

Made speechless by the urge to move, I could only nod.

The Shaman bent stiffly at the waist, strings of wooden talismans clacking, “May the Makers guide your way, Tessi-Stone-Carver. We will sing your name in the star-song tonight.”

Again I nodded, my gaze breaking away, seeing nothing but the green of the forest beyond. My limbs propelled me forward, not stopping until I stepped into a stream running cold as the winter wind. I woke with a shock, as from a dream, wondering where I was and how I had come here. Above, the stars shone - the one familiar thing. I remembered my half-carved stone, the Shaman’s eyes, my village home disappearing behind me. Whatever had called me away had sof-tened to a whisper, allowing me to hear and see again. I drank from the stream, then waded wea-rily across to the far bank, mourning for all that was lost to me. With my lone wavering voice, I sang the star-song, adding my own name to the end of the list. There was comfort in knowing that my people would be doing the same, enough comfort to lift my arms towards the lights in the sky and let me sleep.

Light dazzling off the water woke me, and I continued my journey. If others had gone this way, they had left no track to follow. I was drawn to follow the stream, though the overhanging greenery thickened until I had to navigate by the sound of it. The water-noise changed, became musical. The forest opened up into a green-lit glade, populated by spires and arches of stone. My guiding stream cascaded down a series of steps into an emerald pool before spreading out into a web of stone-lined channels. All around, remnants of stone carvings emerged from the woods.

I wandered through the glade in a daze. The varied and detailed work sang to my artist’s heart. So sure and delicate, it was far beyond anything I could do. I had to bend deep to pass beneath the arches, and the steps were built for limbs a great deal smaller than my own. I knew in my roots this was Maker’s work. The spines on my skin lifted as I was suffused with wonder and awe. I’d only seen small artifacts left behind by the Makers, carefully preserved and brought out for the most solemn ceremonies. This place was worn and overgrown, clearly ancient and abandoned, but still beautiful beyond anything I’d known.

Darkness gathered in the surrounding forest, but around the Maker’s stones, lights blinked in-to life, drifting over the water like stars come down from the sky to dance with their reflections.

“Shimmer, glimmer, lovely star

Shining clear above me far

Bright beyond the trees so high

Crystal beads strung in the sky.

Guide the traveler in the dark

With your clear beloved spark

Show the way to where we are

Shimmer, glimmer, lovely star.”

I thought the stars were singing, so high and sweet, but the little lights wove themselves into a shining garland, following the sound, drawing me after them. Into the maze created by the splitting stream they led me, illuminating islands connected by fragile bridges - a few with collapsed or broken spans, leaving their island isolated and adrift.

On one such island stood the singer; pale, soft, and hardly taller than a forest mushroom.

“You have come,” she said with a voice that plucked every string of my being. “I am so very grateful. Can you help me?”

I knew what she was immediately, knew it in my core. “Maker,” I breathed, stunned at a legend come to life. More than a legend - a myth, a dream. “How could I possibly help you?”

“The bridge.” She gestured at the ragged gap between the spans. “Can you make it whole again?”

The thought of stone grounded me. I touched the surface, felt the soundness of the remaining sections. It would hold my weight while I worked, and all around there were remnants of the Makers’ designs that could be used to rebuild, but…

“What is wrong?” she asked.

“I need a support, a scaffold to hold the stones in place until the arch is complete.”

“That much I can do,” she said. She knelt upon her side of the bridge and closed her eyes. The guiding lights gathered, swirled, and streamed into the gap. A shining net formed, linking the sections, a gleaming ghost of what had once been. “Set your stones, Tall One.”

I shook off my wonder and got to work.

The sun set and the larger stars wheeled above as I gathered stones, shaped them, and put them in place. I sang a quiet star-song, adding the meeting of a Maker. A faint crystal echo followed, and my spines tingled as the bridge below me hummed. I put the last, crucial stone in place, felt the wholeness of the structure. “It is done,” I said. The starry net dissolved, the faded lights fluttering into the wind like fallen petals. The Maker sighed, opened eyes grown dull.

“I cannot…” She wilted to the ground and lay still.

“Maker!” I crossed the bridge and bent over. Hesitant, I reached out to touch her. She was small, fragile, precious. “Maker.”

The eyes opened. “Forgive me,” she sighed. “I am so very old and the years weigh heavier than I thought.”

“Old?” I said. “Our tales say the the Makers are ageless. And you look…” I could not say for sure, as my people aged as trees did, growing taller as the stars spun overhead, but she had the look of a green leaf, newly unfurled.

“I do not look old, no,” she agreed. “I chose this body before I travelled here, wishing to re-member how it felt to see the world as a child - fresh, and bright, and full of hope. But some things cannot be restored. It will soon be time for me to sleep.” A hand grasped my limb, so weak I could barely feel the pressure. “What is your name?”

“Tessi-Stone-Carver,” I replied.

“Tessi-Stone-Carver, I am Kowlin. Will you take me home?”

“It would be my honor, Maker-Kowlin. But I do not know the way.”

“Lift me,” she said, and I scooped her up as gently as I could. “Look around.” We stood on one island among many, separated by streams of star-lit water. “This is a map of the world, cre-ated long ago. Do you see a silver tower tipped by a white light?”

“I do,” I whispered, once again overcome by wonder. Never had I imagined such a place as this, with the world laid out as one would a garden.

“That is my home.”

I memorized the intervening islands, and the location of the bridges linking them. Some ap-peared to be as broken as the one I had just restored, and around the Maker’s island there was only a ring of open water. “Maker-Kowlin”, I asked. “Does the map reflect the world as it truly is?” There was no answer. The Maker had fallen asleep in the crook of my arm. Either she would wake and tell me the answer to my question, or I would see for myself. I cradled her against me and took the first steps of our journey.

Until the urge to leave came upon us, my people did not travel. We stayed rooted in the place where the Makers had created us; breathed life into our limbs, and instilled the love of the stars in our hearts. We reached up to those shining lights, rather than outwards into the world.I had never known there was an end to the land until I stood at the edge, looking down into an abyss filled only with cloud and mist.

“Once there were more than the stars in the night sky.” The Maker had awoken. “A great cataclysm destroyed our companion moon, shaking this world nearly to pieces. We salvaged the fragments we could, lifting them above the destruction. We chose to keep them separate, to pre-serve the memory of what had been lost with all its unique diversity.”

“There are bridges,” I said, making my way to the one spanning the impossible gap with blocks of stone.

“Yes, the pieces are linked, and a guardian was appointed to each connection.”

“I do not see one.”

“Here,” said the Maker, reaching out a hand to touch a lump of mossy stone beside the bridge. Cracks appeared and the lump unfolded into a nobby, rocklike being.

“Maker,” it creaked, bowing its boulder head. “I regret to say that the bridge cannot be crossed. It is broken beyond my ability to repair.” A crystal tear tumbled down the craggy face, landing on the ground with a thud.

“Weep not, good guardian, and see that your bridge has been made whole by this noble stone-shaper.”

The head ground round, with the body following as it stared in disbelief. It stumped up the arched curve that I now recognized as the vast double to the one from the world map. Stones that I had shaped and carried were now larger than I was. The guardian knelt ponderously, strik-ing its forehead against the stone. Like a bell, the bridge tolled, clear, deep, and strong. The guardian returned to us, picking up something from the ground at our feet.

“I cannot repay the service you have rendered,” it said. “But please, take this as a token of my undying gratitude.”

It placed a bright blue-white stone in my hand - the tear it had shed.

“So beautiful,” I breathed as it sparkled like a star fallen from the sky.

“Please, allow me,” said the Maker. I gave her the stone and she fitted it within the short spines of my chest. It glowed there, pulsing gently like a second heart.

The guardian nodded, moving to stand beside the bridge like a column. “Safe journey, Maker, stone-shaper.”

The bridge arched high over the abyss, until both ends were obscured by mist and we were suspended in the air. The wind sang, and I felt as though I could spread my arms and take off into the sky. But the Maker had fallen back asleep, and I held to the way, curling over her small warmth as a new world emerged from the mist.

It was a mountainous land of stone and wood. Pine forests marched up steep slopes as far as they could find purchase, leaving sharp, stone-tipped peaks piercing the sky. There was a well-worn path winding through the trees and etched into the flanks of the mountains. Water, spilled from clouds hooked on the jagged spires, cascaded down in white, rainbow-lit streamers. It seemed a beautiful, serene place, but when the bridge came into view, it was clear something had shattered that serenity.

“Maker,” I said, touching her gently. “You must wake.”

The bridge was wooden, with heavy beams and spars taken from the surrounding forest. A section had been built to be raised, and this was lying askew, twisted and splintered across the midspan.

“Alas, with the stone bridge broken, I feared something like this might happen,” said the Maker. “We must find the guardian.”

There was a tunnel etched into the mountain. As we ventured inside, a blue-white fire bloomed within the gem on my chest, lighting our way.

“Oh, Maker,” a deep voice sobbed. “do not illuminate my shame, for I have failed us all.”

The tunnel had opened into an arched chamber, with walls, floor, and ceiling covered by wooden panels, smoothed and polished until they shone sliver-gilt in the light. Slumped on the floor by a cold hearth, a burly figure, armored in overlapping plates of ridged bark, wept like a child.

I put Kowlin-Maker down beside the guardian, and she touched his cheek. “No, dear guardian, it is I who have failed. I should have returned sooner. Please forgive me.”

He shook his head. “It was my duty to keep them from crossing the bridge until after the harvest, but in the end, I could not bear to strike the leader with my axe. She kicked it from my hand, broke down the draw bridge, and they were able to jump over the wreckage and escape into the golden fields. There will be no grass left to cut this year.”

“Guardian,” I said. “Your arm.” The bark armor had been shattered, and the flesh beneath was swollen and suffused with dark, angry color.

“It is broken,” said the Maker, sounding near to tears herself.

The guardian nodded. “Yes, even if I still had my axe, I could not cut new wood to repair the bridge.” His voice was ragged with despair.

“I can make a stone axe,” I said. “Though I do not know much about shaping wood. Perhaps you can tell me what to do?”

It was as though the stars had reappeared after endless winter storms. Hope flooded back into the guardian’s face. “You would do this?”

“I would be pleased to try.”

The guardian breathed into the ashes of the hearth, coaxing a warm glow from deep within. He reached with his good hand and pulled out a drop of golden amber. The Maker took the shining droplet and fixed it to the spines of my right shoulder. “Make your axe, Tessi-Stone-Carver,” she said. “And guardian, let me see to this arm.”

Outside, searching for a good stone to shape into an axe, I heard a strange cry. On the bridge, a small creature struggled to leap over the broken timbers of the draw bridge. Its hooves scrambled for purchase, but it tumbled back, collapsing in a heap. I approached cautiously, not wishing to distress it further, but the small thing was too exhausted to move. Its eyes were glazed, and ribs were etched clearly beneath its cream-colored coat as it panted. Three little ruby nubs poked through the fur of it’s forehead. A tricorn, though I’d only ever once caught a glimpse of them moving like a fire-edged mist through the forests of my home.

“Come, little one,” I said, picking it up. The spindly legs attempted to kick, but they had no strength left. It could only whimper. It weighed almost nothing and I could feel the bones pressing sharply through the skin. The little tricorn was starving.

I brought it back into the cave where a proper fire was now burning on the hearth, and the Maker was tying a sling around the guardian’s arm. The guardian glowered as I laid the little thing beside the hearth. “It needs food,” I said.

The Maker stroked the fur between its bright horn nubs, humming a gentle tune. The desperate panting ceased, the dark eyes closed, and it slept. “When the skies are gray and the air is cold, the tricorn roam the dense forests of your home, Tessi-Stone-Carver,” Kowlin-Maker spoke to me. “They feast and grow strong on the quick-growing vines and thick undergrowth. When the days become warm and clear, they cross the stone bridge to these mountains where they bear their young. On the far island, across the wooden bridge, fields of tall grass ripple in the warm breezes, shining like a sea of gold. After the grass is harvested, the draw bridge is lowered and the tricorn cross to graze on the golden stubble before returning to the forests.” She ran a finger lightly across the tricorn’s bony flank. “But with the stone bridge broken, they could not return to the green forest. They were forced to live out the cold days and frozen nights here between the unyielding trees and the unforgiving mountains, watching their children waste away. When the ripening grass waved to them across the bridge, can you blame them for going mad?”

The guardian stirred. “I keep a small garden sheltered from the mountain winds,” he said gruffly. “Put it in there and let it eat as much as it wants.”

THE MAKER SAID NOTHING, placing a hand upon the guardian’s arm. The firelight caught a tear as it trembled on her lashes and fell to the floor shattering into crystal shards. I picked up the sleeping tricorn and left to find the garden and a stone, hoping such simple things could set the world right.

The axe I made was serviceable, though the bushy eyebrows of the guardian lifted at the sight of the rough-hewn edges of the wood I cut. He sat in the sunshine beside the bridge, direct-ing my work, looking much like one of the stumps he used as a seat. After a few days in the gar-den, the little tricorn gained healthy flesh, and enough energy to gambol around us, butting at logs with its little horns. It tired quickly, though, and took to climbing into the guardian’s sling to fall asleep.

I set the last log in place, pounding in a final peg. The raising mechanism for the draw bridge was not yet repaired, but that could wait until the guardian’s arm had healed. The bridge was sound enough to cross.

“Will you come with us?” The Maker asked the guardian.

He looked at the tricorn nestled in his sling. “Yes, there are still bridges to mend.”

We crossed the bridge and it was easy to follow the trail of the tricorn herd, marked by the acres of grass shorn to the ground. Beyond the low, undulating hills, the bridge came in to view. A golden curve hung across the abyss, suspended by ropes twisted like a tricorn’s horn.

“The bridge is made of grass,” I said.

“Yes,” the Maker replied. “And must be made anew every cycle. With no grass, it cannot be remade.”

A tall, slender figure stood before the bridge, holding a long sickle across her body. The tricorn herd milled about, some tussling with scraps of rope that had already been pulled from the bridge. A single massive tricorn faced down the desperate guardian, scraping a garnet hoof along the ground. Its horns gleamed blood red in the light, curving back as long as the sickle’s blade.

“Hold!” cried the guardian from my arms, and I set her down. The herd split apart before us, like a foaming stream around a stone. With a bleat, the little tricorn leapt from the guardian’s sling and ran ahead. The great tricorn bellowed, and bent her head to nuzzle the little one butting at her knees, snorting as though in disbelief.

“Lady,” said the Maker in a voice both stern and sad. The tricorn met the Maker’s eyes, and the maddened fire in their dark depths guttered and died. The Maker put her hand on the tricorn’s forehead. “Great Lady, the bridges back to your forest have been made whole. It is time to take your family home.”

Eyes gleaming, the great tricorn bent her neck, gouging her side with one sharp horn. A droplet of red fell to the ground, where the Maker picked it up. Gesturing to me, I bent down and she fixed it into the spines of my left shoulder.

With one last toss of her head, the tricorn trumpeted, trotting away. The herd wheeled, trailing her over the hills - a red-streaked cloud scudding before the wind. If I had followed, I might have found my way back to the forests of my home. But the guardian at the bridge had dropped her sickle, and was weeping into her hands. The Maker needed to go home, and the bridge dan-gled precariously from ropes damaged by the tricorn.

“There is still some grass left to harvest,” I said. “Enough to make repairs for now if we help you twist new rope.” I looked at the guardian of the wooden bridge. “Afterwards, perhaps your bridge can be rebuilt using wood, along with grass.”

The guardian of the grass bridge looked up, eyes wide and wet with tears. “You would do this?”

“Yes,” said the other guardian. “When my arm is healed, I will come with wood and help you.”

“Thank you,” she said, picked up her sickle. She grabbed a tuft of grass, still green at the base, and cut it with one swift slice. Clenching the grass in her fist, she squeezed until a bright green drop fell out. The Maker took the drop and set it in the hollow of my throat.

The guardians and I worked to repair the damage done by the tricorn herd, while the Maker rested, though to my eyes, she grew only weaker. I knew there was not much time, so we made the bridge strong enough to bear my weight and little more. The rest would have to wait.

As soon as the bridge seemed sound, I took the Maker in my arms and we left the two guardians together, making plans for a new kind of bridge.

The rope bridge creaked and swung with every step, and the wind was so strong, I wondered if it might tear the bridge apart, despite our efforts. But it held, and we stepped from it into a land as bare and sere as though we had been transported to the face of the sun. Out of a sea of burning sand rose stone arches and twisted spires, sculpted the wind. By day the sun beat down without cease, and at night the heat disappeared as though it had never been. I sheltered the Maker as best I could, but I was worried, she seemed so very weak. She spoke little and slept much. The land across the bridge was bare and sere. My only comfort was the unobstructed view of the stars overhead. They seemed close enough to touch as I welcomed them with the star-song.

The sky was darkening and the air cooling when the land dropped away and we stood at the edge looking at the final crossing. Stars were starting to spark into life, but one white light shone brighter and more constant than any other.

“Home,” the Maker sighed, her voice as thin as a thread about to break.

“But there is no bridge,” I said, “I do not know how to get you there.”

“Listen,” she said.

From high above a song drifted down. Like crystal drops of rain, the stars followed, flashing across the sky. I did not know what was happening, but I knew the song as well as I knew my own name, and the names of all the others who had taken this road before me. I sang them and heard the voices of all those I had loved and thought lost forever, sing them back to me. They soared towards me, held aloft by translucent wings: my mother, my father, my teacher. They called for me to join them.

One by one the Maker touched the gems on my chest, throat, and shoulders and they blazed with a blinding light. “You are the bridge, New-Maker-Tessi.”

The spines on my shoulders lifted, new joints snapping open. Between them, veined leaves unfolded and stretched. The wind filled them, breaking the hold of the world upon me. I gripped the Maker tight and let it take me.

I flew across the void, joined by the stars that were my people. When I landed, folding my wings with new-found grace, they gathered around us; shining, singing, joyous. “Welcome home, Makers,” they sang.

“Welcome home.”

About the Author

ERIKA WILSON received a Philosophy degree from St. John's College in Annapolis. Her poems have been published by Strong Verse, and Every Day Poets. Some of her stories may be found under the anthology titles 'Unburied Treasures' and 'Storyland Shorts Collection’.

Broken

by Courtney R. Lee

“HEALER!”

The cry rang through the square, wrenching my attention from the poxy old man and his vice grip on my arm. Everywhere I looked townspeople stood gaping at me: some with fingers pointed, others covering their mouths in shock, many more with chests clutched and jaws gaping. Even the other schoolchildren, who walked beside me just moments ago, now stood among the throng, surprise and disgust plain on their faces.

“Get her!” shouted Eli—a scruffy, dark haired boy I’d thought was my friend.

The crowd erupted to life, rushing me. I tore my wrist from the old man’s grasp--ignoring his litany of ‘praise gods’ and ‘thank yous’—and sped for the woods.

I didn’t look back to see who followed or if they sent for the sisters. I just ran. Fast. Faster than I should have over the knotted roots and tangled undergrowth that conspired to send me sprawling. Trees and brush blurred past in a spectacle of reds, greens, and yellows. Their branches raked gashes across my skin and snagged at my hair and skirt as if, they too, intended to capture me. My chest burned and my legs screamed, but the fear that bit at my heels would not let me slack.

The woods opened into a brightly lit clearing. Momentarily blinded, I raised a hand to shield my eyes. There, resting in the shadow of Grandfather Mountain, stood our simple log-and-mud cabin. Smoke billowed from the chimney.

She was home.

I flew across the dusty field, skirting an overturned plow, and charged around the hen house, their frenzied clucks following me as I crashed through the door.

“Mama?” I called.

Startled, my mother, her fair skin and pale locks a mirror of my own, spun round dropping the bowl she’d been holding. A flood of peas rushed across the floor.

“Oh my God.” Mama ran to me, peas forgotten, and grabbed my wrist, lifting and rotating my arm to inspect the mass of pockmarks that ran its length. She tipped my head by the chin and followed the trail of scars up my neck and jawbone. Then she lifted my shirt to find yet more pockmarks covering my belly. “Oh, Beth. What did you do?”

“It wasn’t my fault,” I cried. “The old man came out of nowhere. He grabbed me, I don’t know why, and it just happened. I couldn’t stop it. I tried not to scream, but it hurt so bad. I’m so sorry.”

Her eyes widened. “Who saw?”

“Everyone. The whole square. They tried to grab me so I ran. They’re coming for us. We have to get out of here.”

“Come on.” She hurried to the bed, and from underneath pulled out two large sacks, already stuffed with supplies. She tossed one to me. “Go watch. I’ll get the food.”

I slung the heavy bag over a shoulder and bolted to the window, pulling back the drapes just enough to peek outside. “Nothing, yet. What are we gonna do?”

“We’ll hole up in the woods for a few days, then head south to Charlotte.” She shoved dried fruit and grain into a satchel. “From there… I don’t know.” She heaved the bag over her shoulder then, one-handed, grabbed the flintlock rifle, fire bag, and horn. “Let’s go.”

We opened the door to find a cavalcade of riders pouring down the little road to our farm. The cavalry rode in procession with a flag bearer at the fore, his banner beating violently against the wind. It was the new separatist flag, the ‘Grand Union’ my teacher called it, red and white stripes with the union jack stamped onto the top left corner.

The men were more likely farmers than soldiers but were still an intimidating sight in their tricorn hats and dark blue jackets. Their horses’ hooves pounded the powder-dry clay, raising such dust the riders appeared to float on red clouds.

It was like a great grizzly giant took hold of my chest and squeezed. I could not breathe, could not think. I could only watch, frozen in fear, as the riders descended upon me.

Mama rammed me from behind, so I almost toppled over, “Run,” she shouted, and my legs finally came back to life.

We raced for the cover of the woods, but the horsemen were too fast. They came at us from all sides, cutting us off from the field and forest and forcing us back against the side of the house. That’s when the entire front line, perhaps fifteen men, dropped from their mounts and drew muskets.

Mama stepped in front of me, and wiry arms trembling, raised the flintlock. The rifle was so massive she had to tuck the butt under an arm just to keep it upright.

I lay my hand on her shoulder. “Please, Mama. It’s no use. They’ll just kill you.”

She glanced sideways at me and shook her head. “I don’t care,” she said, tears spilling down her cheek to wet the powder.

“I do. Mama. Please.” I wrapped my hand around hers and guided the barrel downward. She didn’t fight it, and with a shuddering sigh let the gun slip from her grip and into the dirt.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she sobbed unable to meet my eyes.

I wrapped my arms around her chest, and we leaned into each other sobbing.

“Elsbeth Wythe?” A woman’s voice rang out from the armed throng.

I pulled away from Mama, her whimpering protests like tiny knives to the heart, and mustered what little bravery I possessed to reply, “Yes, Sister. I’m here.” My voice was much steadier than I would have expected.

The soldiers parted ranks, and an old nun plodded forward on horseback. She rode astride, her ivory habit heaped about her thighs, revealing knee high stockings and an indecent amount of translucent skin. Her head was coifed from temple to throat, so only her craggy face and sagging jowls were visible, and a black veil cascaded down her back to brush the horse’s haunches.

She dropped from the saddle, landing easily—this was not a frail woman—then looked us up and down as though she were assessing hung beef. The sister finished her appraisal, and seeming to find it wanting, glared at me disapprovingly. “Sister Miriam. That is how you’ll address me, girl. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sister Miriam.”

She harrumphed, “Good.” She glanced at Mama then back at me. “You’re quite a slippery one, Elsbeth. How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

“Fifteen. Goodness.” Her arms swung out dramatically. “I’ve never found one so old. How ever did you fool us for so long?”

She wanted names. People who helped hide me. People she could punish. I lowered my eyes and stood silently.

The Sister crossed her arms over her chest. I could feel her watery blue eyes boring into the top of my head.

“Well, girl? Answer me.”

My hands were shaking. My stomach rolled, the morning’s meal threatening a reappearance. Still, I said nothing.

“Rufus.” She called, her tone high pitched and musical. A giant, with a face like a brick, rode forward. “Cudgel her mother.”

He dismounted and pulled a massive club from the horse’s harness.

“Wait.” I jumped in front of Mama and flung my arms out protectively. “Please. Don’t. I lied. I pretended to get sick and get hurt, and Mama knew nothing about it. Please don’t hurt her.”

The old woman sneered and raised her hand to halt the giant’s advance. “Of course, dear,” she said too sweetly, then turned toward the troop of men at her back, and with a voice like a thunderclap, commanded them to “Mount up.” The men immediately set about climbing back into their saddles and forming lines. All but a few that surrounded me and the one that still hovered over Mama, fingering his club’s well-worn handle, dark stains littered the tip. Sister Miriam glanced round to him then tipped her head toward Mama and said, “Arrest her.”

“Mama.” I lunged for my mother only to be grabbed about the wrists by two soldiers. “Please. I don’t want to go. Please. Mama!” I dropped all my little bit of weight to the ground yanked my arms, kicked my legs and resisted with every ounce of my strength, but the men were too strong. They dragged me across the earth, rocks, and twigs tearing at my back and thighs.

Mama screamed too. She screamed and cried and fought, but there wasn’t anything either of us could do. The men bound my wrists so tight I could feel the blood pool in my fingertips and slung me over the back of a horse.

The horseman circled to leave. The beast’s hip jabbed my stomach with one step then my clavicle with another, and I strained my neck to watch the remaining men attempt to bind Mama’s wrists. She struggled against them, pulling free for a moment before they toppled her to the ground. A guard slammed the butt of his rifle into the side of her head, and she slumped over unconscious.

“No,” I wailed. I dredged the power from within myself and drove it in ribbons from my fingers. The ribbons took to the wind, twisting and swirling across the yard, fighting through the current and ever-increasing distance to reach Mama. When at last they touched down, the ribbons caught onto her like hooks to a fish. I ripped the injury from her body and drew it into myself. It landed like a hammer to my fingertips, the bones breaking then knitting in tandem as the crushing blow traveled up my arms and shoulders. I howled in pain but all sound was lost to the wind and pounding hooves. The injury settled into my cheek and temple where the bone cracked and splintered sending shockwaves through my skull and spine. Warm blood oozed across my face and dripped onto the horse's flank and for a bare moment, I feared the pain would never end. Then my vision flashed white and red as the broken bits of bone lifted back into place and fused. Everything went black.

A SHARP SLAP ACROSS my cheek startled me awake.

I opened my eyes to find Sister Miriam standing over me. In her hand was a long wooden rod. “Get up, girl.”

I sat up slowly, more to annoy her, than out of sluggishness.

The wood thwacked against my cheek again. Hot pain flared across my face.

“Ow.” I rubbed the spot where she’d struck me even though the pain was already gone. One good thing about being a healer. Nothing hurts for very long.

“Then move faster next time. Now stand up.”

I did, but not too fast because she could go to hell for all I cared.

Whack. That time a sharp jolt against my shoulder.

“Stop it.”

She didn't. Instead, she stuck me in the ribs, then again on my shoulder, and again across my face. I ducked my chin and raised my arms over my head, screaming. Finally, I caught hold of the rod mid-swing and ripped it from her grasp. “Stop,” I spat.

The sister shoved me into the cot and twisted the rod back out of my hand. “Oh, you’re a fiery one. Good. I like a challenge.”

“I won’t do it. I won’t do anything for you,” I said knowing the lie of my own words.

Her eyes drew into slits. “You are a selfish, selfish child. You think only of yourself, not of the countless lives that have been lost at your hands.”

“I’ve never—”

“You have through your inaction,” she broke in. “For every life a healer saves there are countless more left to die simply because we don’t have the numbers we need to meet the demand. Instead of using the gift our Lord so righteously bestowed upon you, you would horde it and allow these men, these heroes who fight for you, to suffer and die.”

“That’s not fair. I never asked for any of this and I don’t care about your stupid war. I just want to go home.”

Sister Miriam’s eyes lit with rage. She grasped me two-handed by the neck and squeezed so hard my head started to pound and I thought my eyes would pop from their sockets. I couldn’t breathe. I raked at her hands, panic-stricken.

“How dare you! These men are fighting to protect us: our land, our rights, our freedom and you would stand here and call those efforts ‘stupid’?”

She shoved me and I careened over the bed cracking my back and skull against the hard, stone floor. When I opened my eyes, the old woman was standing over me again, brandishing her switch.

“This isn’t freedom?” I said, bracing for the next strike.

She paused then lowered her arm. “Maybe not. But we don’t have time for sappy sentiment girl. This is war.” Her face screwed up strangely and I couldn’t tell if she was about to scream or cry. “If you’d seen what I’ve seen, you’d understand.” She shook her head as if to clear the image from her mind. “You are one person, girl. I’m fighting for a nation.” She snapped out of her reverie and smacked my leg. “Now get up and follow me.”

The sister took me down a long windowless hallway, candlelight flickering along the walls as we passed. To say I wasn’t frightened would be a lie. I was terrified, but I clasped my hands to stop them from trembling and did my best to keep my face blank. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing my fear. We entered a massive room, broken up by rows upon rows of homespun pallets filled with ill, dead and dying men. They were only silhouettes against the light from the hearth that lined the far wall, but I could hear them. They pleaded for death and relief; they moaned and sobbed and writhed and coughed. The air hummed with their pain and hung heavy with the stench of blood, shit, and death.

My stomach heaved and I fell to my knees. I closed my eyes and breathed through my mouth to lessen the nausea, but then, oh God, I could taste it—like rotten flesh. I closed my mouth again, but the sickness had grown unstoppable and I retched all over Sister Miriam’s feet.

She cursed and flung off her shoes, then grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and jerked me to my feet. "Don't like it, huh? Well, remember it's your fault." She shoved me down the central aisle and came to a stop in front of a dark-haired, dark-skinned man lying on the floor. His shirt had been removed and his side bandaged, but blood continued to swell out of the wound and pool into the recess of his belly. He was sweaty and feverish and spoke nonsense about harvesting wheat and heavy rains. Sister Miriam pushed me onto the floor beside the man, “Heal him.”

“What?” I said disbelieving. “No, I can’t. It’s too much. You can’t ask me to…” I crossed my arms, defiant. “You can’t make me do it.”

”Can’t I?” Her brows raised. “Guards.” She snapped her fingers and two young men strode from their position against the wall to stand behind the sister. They didn’t look like guards. They were pimply faced boys, barely older than me, wearing simple brown cotton vests and britches. The pistols slung from their belts were real enough though.

My whole body shook and yet, ever the stubborn one, I said, “What are you going to do? Shoot me. I’ll just heal again.”

She laughed—a full, guttural guffaw that was more frightening than the boys and their guns. “You stupid girl. Do you really think I would be so ignorant of your abilities?” She leaned in so her face was mere inches from mine. “Let me make this clear. You have a choice. Either you heal him now or I’ll have these men hold you down and make you do it.”

“You can’t make me heal someone.”

“Really? So, you meant to heal that old man in the middle of the town square then? How altruistic of you. And to think, I simply thought you couldn’t control your power when you touched the ill. Oh well.” she shrugged her shoulders. “Perhaps we should try anyway? Just to see what happens. Boys—”

“Wait.” I thrust my hands out to halt the approaching soldiers, then thought better of it and sat on them. “Please, don’t make me do this. The pain—”

“A few moments of pain in exchange for a life. A life.” She gestured to the dying man. “You will not sway me in this, girl. Now do it.”

“Please,” I begged. The tears ran rivulets down my face.

“Guards—”

I curled up into a ball, but the soldiers were too strong. They wrestled my arms from my chest and began dragging me toward the wounded man.

“No.” I kicked my legs narrowly missing the sister’s shins. “Let me go. I’ll do it. Stop. Please.” The men released me and I collapsed to the floor. When I looked up, my eyes met the sister’s. She nodded. My vision swam and I half felt, half crawled the rest of the way to sit next to the dying man. I reached toward him, my hand trembling, and touched a fingertip to his chest. The power was immediately yanked out of me. It surged through the soldier’s body, curled around his crushed ribs and eviscerated organs then dragged the injury from his body and into mine. The pain slammed into me. It shredded skin and tissue as it ran up my arm like a tidal wave, my body knitting itself together again as it passed. The shredding wave ran across my shoulder and chest then settled in my midsection where it sliced into my stomach and intestines in a cruel facsimile of the man’s injury. I gripped the wound with my free hand but could not stem the flow of blood. My skin grew hot with fever and a rush of dizziness washed over me. He was killing me.

Fiery pain gripped my stomach and I felt the organs, tissue, then skin meld together. The fever cooled, the dizziness abated, and I slumped to the floor, my hand finally free. I lifted my shirt and traced my fingers over the long, angry scar running across my belly.

God help me.

The man sat up on his pallet, seemingly refreshed after his ordeal. He drew me into an embrace. “Thank you,” he said, tears spilling down my neck. “Thank you for saving my life.”

I hated him.

“YOU ARE THE HANDS of God. Your sacrifice is His sacrifice, your pain is His pain, and He will bear it alongside you. Do you feel Him? Do you feel His love, children? His love is infinite. It encompasses all of us: you, me, our United States, and yes, even that tyrant who would take away all we hold dear. God has laid his blessing upon us and we cannot fail.” Sister Miriam spouted her rhetoric to the assemblage, as she had every morning for the past month, raising her arms to the ceiling as though she could call down the heavens.

A ragtag collection of crippled, deformed and mutilated people surrounded me, their bodies bearing the scars of countless healings. Yet they clapped and cheered, their faces rapturous. I wondered, not for the first time, which ones truly believed her words and which only played along, the way I did.

Standing just a few feet in front of me was a little red-haired girl named Ann. She was probably younger than me and might have been pretty, but for the scars crisscrossing her face and body. She cried at night. I heard her. But there she stood shouting with the rest of them.

On my right, stood Jonah. He was older, maybe twenty. Jonah lost his arm and half his teeth healing others. He clapped his lone hand against a thigh and shouted, ‘Praise God’ and ‘Amen’ like the rest, but his eyes looked glazed over like he was somewhere else in his head.

And then there was Eliza who had lost a leg, and Tomas, his whole face looked like it has been shredded then reformed, and the little girl, Sissy, who never spoke and was missing half her hand. Could they truly believe all of this or were they just pretending?

Sister Miriam finished her sermon, and we filed out of the room to make our morning rounds.

When we reached the infirmary, it was abuzz with activity. Guards and attendants raced around the room frantically collecting water and bandages while healers rushed forward to treat the new influx of injured troops. To the naive, it might have appeared as though they were eager to provide aid, but I knew better. They were racing to claim the least painful, least debilitating injuries. I held back and waited, perched against the back wall. Sometimes they didn’t need every healer. Sometimes they forgot about me.

“Sister Miriam!” A voice shouted across the chamber.

“What happened?” Sister Miriam sprinted through the doorway toward a crowded area in the back corner of the infirmary. She melded into the horde of activity, then reemerged to scream my name. “Elsbeth! Elsbeth, come here now!”

"Dammit," I muttered under my breath. I walked across the room as slowly as possible, I stepped carefully over broken bodies and even pretended to trip a few times, but the distance was short and I could only stall for so long.

When I finally reached the sister, she shoved me to the floor next to a dead man. His face was crushed from cheek to jaw, his mouth gaped open in a sort of grotesque yawn, and his leg was severed at the knee and swathed in blood-soaked bandages.

Then he coughed. Dead men cough?

“No,” I gasped, realization dawning. I tried to flee, but Sister Miriam and her guards fell in behind me, stalling my escape.

“This is the major general, girl! You must heal him. Now.” She pressed me toward the wasted man.

I wedged a boot against the General’s hip and held fast. “I can’t. I’ll lose my leg. I might die. Please, stop. I can’t.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Her voice strained through gritted teeth, “He dies, and we lose this war. Now do it.” She rammed my hand into his chest and the power betrayed me. It spread across the general’s ruined body and drew the injury into my own. I wailed as the pain ran like lightning through my arm, carving through my chest, my stomach, and my leg. There it bored into the flesh like a hot poker, slowly severing skin, tissue, then bone. The pain continued up my chest, into my face and jaw where the bones cracked and splintered then caved in turning my shrieks to gargles. Specks of light filled my vision while darkness crept into the periphery.

My body screamed for release from the pain. I tried to push it back into the general, but the flow was too powerful. I pushed again, this time out of myself, driving it through my fingertips. Get out! Get out! I reached for the nearest warm figure and pushed. The flow surged from within me, at once both pain and relief, and rushed into my neighbor’s awaiting body.

She howled with such force my ears ached. I sent that to her too. My half-severed leg pulled together. The skin fused and healed. The broken bits of my face reformed. The pain abated. I was alive.

And Sister Miriam writhed on the floor next to me.

For a moment, I could only stare at the old woman, the magnitude of what just happened settling slowly in my mind. Is this my true gift? Not a healer, but a weapon?

“Take it back,” she screeched, hands grappling for her severed leg. As I watched, the injury traveled up her body crushing bone and tearing skin along the way, just as it had done to me every time I performed a healing. But Sister Miriam's bones did not reset; her skin did not knit together. She wasn’t a healer.

The side of the sister’s face crumpled in upon itself as if it had been hit with an invisible mallet, her pleas wasted on a jaw too broken to form words. She clawed the floor, bloody nails biting wood, and dragged herself toward me swinging at my leg. I scrambled backward to avoid her touch, but still, she persisted.

“NO!” I KICKED AND stomped her fingers with my shoe. “Go away. Just go away and die.”

She moaned and scraped and sobbed, and I watched, keeping just out of reach as the blood and tissue poured from her broken body to pool upon the floor like red soup. Finally, she fell silent, her face a frozen scream, her eyes accusing, even in death.

I wiped bloody hands on my apron, peeled it off and discarded it next to the dead woman. By the time I mustered enough strength to stand, a mob of onlookers surrounded me on all sides, so I was forced to push my way through. My legs were so weak, I feared they would collapse beneath me, but somehow, I managed to take one step then another, my strength returning as I waded through the crowd. Only one soldier guarded the door, but I could feel the others approaching from behind, their anxiety a dissonant cord in the silence. The guard was just a boy, with brown hair and a big nose. His ragged clothes were about two sizes too big and his musket so large, I wondered how he held it aloft.

“Halt.” He jabbed the air with the gun. His knees trembled.

“Please. Just let me pass.”

“No.” He jabbed again. “Surrender or I’ll shoot.”

I raised my arms as if to surrender, but instead sent tendrils of my power into the room, seeking an injury that was painful but not mortal. The boy fidgeted more and more with each passing moment. He inched toward me, but I ignored him, flipping through the wounded soldiers like the pages of a book until I found what I needed—a man with a minor burn on his palm.

I drew the burn into myself, then twisting my other hand toward the guard-boy, blasted it at him.

The gun clanged to the floor.

The guard screamed and clutched his burned hand in disbelief. He backed away slowly, as if I were a rabid animal. I spun round anticipating an attack from behind, but no one advanced. The entirety of the infirmary simply gazed at me, their faces bearing terror, confusion, disbelief, and for a few of my fellow healers, hope. No one moved to stop me, not even the major general sitting on his mat. He knew better. They all did.

A tiny figure stepped from the crowd. She crossed the room, unafraid, and came to stand in front of me.

“Can I come with you?” Sissy asked.

I nodded and took her mangled hand in mine. She smiled.

Jonah approached me next, then Ann and Eliza and Thomas and countless others I didn’t know or couldn’t name. One by one they came to stand with me while the sisters, the guards and their wounded soldiers watched impotently, stymied by their own cowardice.

I turned my back on them, flushed with a kind of strength I had never before experienced. Sissy’s hand in mine and an army of healers at my side, I opened the door and stepped into the sunlight.

About the Author

COURTNEY R. LEE is a mother of two living and working in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, where she spends her scant free time churning out tales that walk the line between the fantastic and macabre. Courtney’s work has been published in Stupefying Stories, and she is currently writing her second novel, a young adult dark fantasy set in the post-Reconstruction South. Follow her on Twitter @Courtney_RLee.

Reunited

by Shaun Kilgore

REN LEANED AGAINST THE soot-stained brick wall and scraped the muck and filth of the streets from his boots. Molly Cray would box his ears if he forgot again. Nothing she hated more than dirty floors. He scratched at the foulness, using a piece of scrap wood he found on the ground to get most of it off so he wouldn’t have to use his hands. The smell was awful.

His head jerked up at the crack of a whip. A cart rolled by being drawn down the clogged steet by a sad-looking horse. The beast flinched only slightly at the driver’s well-placed blow, resigned to the treatment. Ren watched both move by. The street in the lower city where Molly Cray had her boarding house was filled with buildings of plain stone and dark, weathered wood. Everything was covered with the ever-present soot from the coal fires. The smoke hung in the air like a cloud making everything look gray and lifeless.

Ren craned his neck up and caught a glimpse of the sun, but it was quickly hidden in the smoke. The traffic was light that morning. The mud was hampering movement in the streets. As he looked back down at his boots, the sucking sounds of passersby drew his gaze up again. The mud was everywhere and had been churned up so badly by the rains that it was just above ankle deep and difficult to walk in without losing a boot. People cursed as they continued struggling in the slough.

Ren inspected his boots one last time then pushed away from the wall and turned around to look up at the drab three-story building he called home. There were four windows to every floor, all of them shuddered to keep out the rain. Or at least that was what they were supposed to do. It didn’t help ones like Ren on the top floor where the roof leaked. Even now, the water dripped steadily in porcelain pots he had arrayed across the planked wood.

A sign hung above the door: Molly Cray’s Boarding House.

Ren clambered up the steps and opened the door. Raucous laughter greeted him but it seemed to be eminating from somewhere deeper inside the house. The front hall was dark and smelled strongly of tobacco. Ren’s eyes immediately started burning. Not pausing, Ren tromped up the staircase just to escape it. The steps squeaked and protested the entire way up. Ren wondered when they’d just give way beneath his weight. The thought made him hurry up the last flight.

The only light in the narrow hall came from lamp mounted on the wall in a bracket. The glow was weak and the oil gave off an unpleasant odor. Ren scrunched up his nose and walked past the first three doors. His room was the last one, the door right next to the lamp, where the stink was strongest. Ren drew the key out of his shirt on the twine necklace and jiggled it until the lock withdrew. He squeezed inside and secured the door again. His room was small. Barely wide enough to walk eight paces. A narrow bed was set up against one wall. A rickety table next to the front window. A small chest of drawers held his scant possessions. Ren was greeted by the music of the pots. The drips and drops were much quieter now that the roof was drying out.

He went directly to the table where the afternoon light shone in through the window and started emptying his overlarge coat’s pockets. Heaping handfuls of coins, a number of mud-crusted bank notes, fancy embroidered pouches and wallets, a jeweled necklace, and ornate rings tumbled out of one. A few wrinkled apples, roasted nuts, strips of dried pork, and a chunk of day-old bread came out of the other.

“Not a bad start to the week,” Ren said to himself.

The coins didn’t amount to much but they’d help him pay Molly Cray for another week’s lodging. The rest of it would need to be fenced for more coins. Ren didn’t have any qualms about stealing what he needed. Guilty feelings were left behind during the first winter in the city when he’d been left to fend for himself without anything. It had been harsh on the streets and the ice storms had nearly done him in. Ren shivered at the painful memories. His eyes found the small brazier that radiated heat in the small room and he drew closer to its warmth. Better to be a thief and live than honest and dead from starvation. Besides, Ren had a plan. If he squirreled away enough of the money he took, he’d be able to set up some place nice, maybe even leave the lower city entirely.

I could start a business of my own like one of the shops that filled all upper Waterley, Ren thought.

Ren scooped up the coins, the jeweled necklace, and his other loot and carried them over to his bed. The floor creaked. Ren tensed up but relaxed almost at the same time. The boarding house was always making noises. If he listened carefully, Ren thought he could hear it settling lower on its foundation. He squatted on the dark planked floor and reached beneath the bed. He pried up a loose board and pulled out a leather satchel that was drooping with the weight of the coins inside. Removing the clasps, Ren unceremoniously dumped everything inside and returned his treasure to its hiding place. As he replaced the board there was a soft knock at his door.

“Ren? Ren, are you in here, boy?”

“Yes, Molly,” said Ren.

“I’m not going to stand here talking to a door,” said Molly Cray. Her tone brought Ren to his feet. He pulled back the latch and opened the door.

The woman waddled in, her round, squat figure making it difficult for the gray-haired proprietess to get through the doorway. She wore a purple shawl that draped over a largely shapeless dress that hung on her like a sack. Ren had never seen Molly Cray without the garishly colored shawl. She gave him an appraising look then glanced around the shabby room.

“What can I do for you?”

Molly Cray scrunched up her nose and stared at him for a moment with her red-rimmed eyes. The old woman’s eyesight was failing.

“Do for me? Humph. For me, you can keep paying your rent on time?”

“Have I missed paying you yet?” asked Ren. His skin was tingling.

“No. Not yet. It’s a wonder where you can get the money. I’ve never heard of you having a job.”

“I do odds and ends. What’s it matter where it comes from?”

Molly Cray snorted then leveled a gnarled finger at Ren. “Watch your tone, boy. And mind your manners.”

Ren bit his lip. “Sorry, Molly.”

“Someone stopped by while you were out this morning. They were asking for you by name.”

Ren felt like ice cold water had been dumped on his head. He tried to hide the fear that pushed his heart faster. “Did they leave a message?”

Molly Cray closed one eye, then rubbed it. “You might say that.” She seemed to see right through him despite her dim sight.

Ren was unnerved by the woman’s expression. “What was it?”

Molly Cray scrubbed her dress and pulled the shawl trying to adjust it. She was stalling, trying to see how Ren would react. He knew the woman well enough to catch her ploy but fear was twisting his thoughts.

“Please, tell me,” he said pleadingly.

Molly Cray pulled out a shiny silver coin and held it up. “A right proper gentleman gave me this to make sure I delivered his message exactly. I suppose I’ll honor that request.” She squinted. “He said to tell you that you’re to meet him at the Wardsgate at midday tomorrow. The gentleman said it would be in your best interest to bring the necklace with you.” Molly Cray clucked her tongue disapprovingly. She turned around and waddled back out the door, but paused in the hall. “Nothing good comes of filching, boy. You remember that. Maybe you’ll get away with your skin intact.”

Ren went over and shut the door, secured the lock, and slid down against the frame. He dropped his head into his hands, shaking it at the same time. “Fool! Thought you were so clever. Now what are you going to do?”

THE SUN WAS REACHING its zenith when Ren made his way hurriedly through the streets of the city where brick roads replaced the dirt ones and the buildings came in different colors and were made of a variety of woods, stone, and other materials. The people filling the walks and streets were dressed in a finer cut of clothing and even vendors made sure their booths were clean and well-maintained. Ren was dressed in his finest coat and trousers, which were just short of shabby. He’d stopped and got his boots shined when he left the muck of his home in Farelton. The cost made him cringe, but with what laid before him at the Wardsgate, Ren wanted to create a certain impression.

The jeweled necklace was stashed in an inner pocket in his coat. As he negotiated the increased midday traffic of Waterley he continually patted the place where it was hidden. His nerves were on edge. Ren had no idea who was waiting for him. With a great deal of luck, he could just hand over the necklace and that would be the end of it.

Thinking back, he remembered the bright-eyed woman who he’d filched the necklace from. She’d leaned over to grab a package from the street and the necklace, stored in one of the embroidered pouches, had dropped to the ground unbeknownst to her. Ren was lingering nearby since he always managed to have good pickings among the well-to-do that haunted the markets near the Lowgate. He had swept in the moment her attention was diverted elsewhere and snatched the pouch from the streets before anyone was the wiser. At least he had thought it was a smooth filch.

“Nope, not smooth at all. Somebody caught you,” he muttered to himself.

The streets wound up around a hill until Ren saw the Wardsgate through a gap in the line of wagons and carts that were cluttering the way. There were six gates separating different quarters of the city, from the lowest slums in Grayling to the Highmark where the nobility dwelled. The Wardsgate separated Waterley from The Regent’s Quarter while Lowgate separated Waterley from Farelton. Divisions to keep everyone separated on most occasions though one could not be officially stopped from crossing gates to different quarters. Ren had done his fair share of crossing and had ventured as far as the Regent’s Quarter. The remaining quarters, Temple Court and Highmark were mysteries that Ren believed he would investigate one day. Provided he made it through the next hour.

Sunlight streamed down on the streets slightly less obscured by the smog though in nearing the higher part of Waterley Ren could tell a difference in how he breathed. The air was lighter and the pressure was slightly lifted from his chest. It was a pleasant feeling.

Ren skidded to a near halt when he was within a hundred paces or so of the Wardsgate. It loomed over him, all blackened wood and iron, buttressed with thick dark stone. The wall spread out in either direction away from the gate, creating one of inner the rings of Trykelion, the great city.

Ren searched the people clumped together around different vendors who had arrayed themselves around the open gates. The smells of fried vegetables and grilled meats mingled in mouth-watering ways. Ren ignored his stomach’s writhing and stood near a man selling baskets of the silver medallions worn by pilgrims seeking entrance to the Temple Court. He tracked the movements of the people nearby and waited for some clue. He only had Molly Cray’s description of the stranger as a gentleman to go by. He glanced at where the sun was half-hid behind the smoky cloud.

“Okay. Midday. I’m here. So where are you?”

“Good. You’ve arrived,” said a voice near his ear followed by a crunching sound.

Ren jerked his head towards the sound and nearly took off running. The owner of the voice was man with long blonde hair tied up at the back of his neck. He wore a pale blue coat, with embroidered leaves running across the shoulders and down the sleeves. Beneath it, he wore a ruffled shirt. Shiny riding boots caught what light was streaming from the dirty sky. An ornate pistol hung at one hip, a saber with matching markings on the other. The way he stood made Ren believe he knew how to use both with equal deadliness. There was no one else with him. He was chewing on an apple.

Ren stood there very still, unsure of what to say. His tongue was like dried leather. He stared at the vendors. Most of them were busy dealing with customers, though a few shot hungry glances at the man, marking him as a wealthy customer.

“You have the necklace, I trust?” The man’s voice was smooth and even. A pleasant voice without the sort of contempt he was accustomed to bearing from aristocrats.

Ren nodded, though he felt shaky doing so. “Yes. Yes, I have it right here.” Ren patted his coat where the necklace suddenly felt like a lead bar. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “How did you know my name?”

“Excuse me?” asked the man. He seemed amused. At least the tiny smirk on his face said so. He tapped his temple. “Ah, right. The proprietess of the boarding house, uh, Molly Cray.”

“Yes,” said Ren. “How do you know me?” Two men, clearly guards of some kind, appeared from behind some nearby tents. Three others emerged from the Wardsgate--likely from the station just beyond the thick walls. All were clearly armed with guns. Ren licked his lips.

The stranger noticed them approaching and gave the slightest shake of his head. The guards stopped and retreated back a few paces. He directed his gaze at Ren again. “Sorry about that. They’re a bit over-protective of me.” He leaned in and extended a hand. “My name is Casian Pentharia.”

Ren gaped at the name. He was one of the highborn, in the family line of royal privilege. In an awkward motion, he began to drop to his knees, but was halted by Casian’s hand.

“Don’t. There’s no need for that.” He eyed the crowded thoroughfare. “Besides, there no need to attract unnecessary attention, I think.”

Ren’s mind reeled. He spoke haltingly, keeping his eyes to the ground. “But, but, I’ve offended you, my lord. I’ve stolen what belongs to one of the highborn.”

Casian put a hand on his shoulder. The gesture made him jump again. His eyes went up and locked with the nobleman’s.

“Let’s say that you preserved my empty-headed sister from facing my mother’s wrath for stealing one of her prized possessions.”

Ren’s mouth dropped. You mean I stole from a thief, he thought. A mad urge to laugh seized him, but he shoved it down. Then his question returned and a second one occurred him at the same time. “But how do you know me? How did you know that I took the necklace?”

“One in my position must be aware of what happens in all the quarters of Trykelion and knowing who the players in all areas of life, even thievery, just makes good sense. You are one of a several thieves working the streets of Farelton and Waterley.”

Ren could hardly believe he had any sort of reputation on the streets. He’d done his best to remain invisible. He lowered his head. “I thought I was so clever. But, I truly am fool. And now I’m paying the price.”

Casian patted his shoulder again. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Ren. My sources have their ears to the ground at all times. They tease out the finest details from all sorts of places. I pay them well to trace every scrap. I believe your reputation, such as it is, is justified, I assure you.”

Ren nodded. The fear became mingled with pride. “What now? Surely, I’m headed for the stocks or worse. I know the penalties for theft as well as the next thief.”

Casian’s smile returned stronger. He was pleased by something. “No. I have something else in mind. It requires you to accompany me into the Regent’s Quarter though. Shall we?”

Ren gaped and he took a step back. His eyes tracked the guards. “The Regent’s Quarter? Why? How do I know you aren’t leading me right to the stocks or the whipping block now?”

Casian chuckled. “Don’t be silly. If that was my intent, I would come out and say it. I’d have my guards clap you in irons or something like it. Come. I have need of someone with your particular skills. I will tell you more on the way.”

Ren looked at the Wardsgate, looming over them like some shadowy beast. The portal between the quarters was free of traffic. Two of Casian’s guards were already heading back the way they’d come while the others tailed behind them. There was no way to escape. Ren swallowed his apprehension and followed the nobleman.

REN’S FORAYS INTO THE Regent’s Quarter had never been that long in duration given his conspicuous appearance so he was somewhat taken aback by the differences between it and Waterley. The streets were brick as well but far cleaner, clear of most refuse. The quarter’s streets bustled with fine carriages that gleamed when the sparse sunlight reflected off the surfaces. The buildings, both residences and shops, were of grander design and decorated in ways they were not in the quarters below. There were more exotic colors and details that dazzled Ren’s eyes as he walked with Casian and his small entourage. The people, too, were dressed in even more resplendent finery. The ladies wore elegant dresses replete with matching jackets and wore dainty hats blossoming with flowers and lace. Though there was not a spot of rain to be found falling from the skies, many of the ladies carried open parasols. The gentlemen were dressed in simliar styles to Casian, though most did not have long hair like the nobleman nor did they wear their clothes so casually. Coats were buttoned, cravats were secure and tidy, and the ruffled accents were kept at a minimum. Ren also noticed that only a handful wore pistols at their hips while a few were armed with traditional sabers.

“You needn’t be nervous, I assure you,” said Casian. The man possessed poise and confidence at levels that made him seem to float above the street. Casian expected things to go his way as a matter of course. One of the privilege of his position, Ren thought.

“Easy for you to say,” Ren muttered.

While ordinarily Ren had a fair share of his own cockiness to assure a productive day’s work, the nobleman had him confused and disjointed.

The nobleman smiled but said nothing more.

Casian led them onwards on a winding route through the quarter, moving down streets lined with finely-built houses of pale stone, with ornate ironwork decorating the roofs and windows as well as on the gates and atop short walls that surrounded tiny gardens. There were fewer people on foot now and only a handful of carriages. Ren paid them little mind now. Instead, he was focusing on remembering the route so he could make his way back when the time came. If that time came at all, Ren thought ruefully. Then his attention shifted. But why does Casian need me? What need does a nobleman have for a thief? It doesn’t make sense.

After a few minutes more walking, Casian slowed up on the sidewalk and turned towards one of the towering manses. The gates were open wide to allow their admittance. Ren hesitated.

“What is this place?”

Casian glanced back at him. “Home.”

Beyond the gates, he saw there was a lawn of freshly trimmed grass bisected by an old stone walk that lead straight to the front steps. Statues surrounded by bright golden flowers adorned either side of the path. To one side, Ren saw a second gate with a much wider stone path connecting it the house’s coach house. He caught the sound of horses drifting on the breeze and their familiar scents were not quite masked by another, more pleasant aroma.

Ren was astounded by the beauty--and the wealth--of the grounds.

Casian cleared his throat.

Ren jumped. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Come along,” Casian motioned.

He followed the nobleman up the walk. The manse towered over him. It was all the same pale stone as the other homes in the neighborhood but grander. Fronted by a deep porch supported by iron columns burnished a bronze color, and lined on either side with tall, framed windows of stained glass shaped like roses and other flowers Ren didn’t recognize. There were other shapes nestled in the midst of them that were even more mysterious. He wanted to look closer but had no desire to test Casian’s patience.

As he stepped beneath the portico, the sound of their bootfalls echoed off all the surrounding stones and the pitch of Casian’s voice changed. He sounded even more imposing. Ren couldn’t help but feel he was facing the judgement seat.

“Why are we here, my lord?” Ren managed the words those his voice was shaky. “Is this task...well, what is this task?”

Casian kept climbing. “I’ll explain it all to you once we’re inside, Ren. Please stay calm.”

Ren frowned. Okay. Not the answer I wanted.

Ren blew out a ragged breath and walked on. Servants were standing just inside the great double doors, dressed in starched suits touched with colors similar to what Casian wore. The nobleman and his guards walked in wide ring around Ren, giving him plenty of space. They must have thought it would put him more at ease.

Not likely, Ren thought.

The foyer was long and narrow. Honey colored wood paneling covered the walls from floor to ceiling. Black and white tiled floors lined the length. Large doorways stood open, revealing further rooms beyond. Directly ahead of them an imposing staircase rose up to the second floor and to a further level out of sight. Ren goggled at the immensity of the space and shook his head.

“Bloody huge! Probably fit Molly Cray’s whole boarding house inside here.”

Ren’s voice bounced off the ceiling, embarrassingly loud as it was amplfied across the foyer. Casian paused just ahead of him and eyed the room closely.

He nodded. “Yes, probably.” Then he met Ren’s eyes and pointed off to the left through one of the doorways. “This way, please.”

Ren followed quickly, trying not to meet the eyes of the servants that passed by while busy at their own tasks. His face was flushed. Casian and his men closed in as they left the broader room and entered a short hall that then opened again into a gallery. There was sparse furniture spread through out the openness of the room making it feel too open and barren. There was no warmth to it despite the filtered sunlight streaming through the uncovered windows. Ren’s stomach rolled with anxiety.

Casian crossed in the middle then gestured towards the couches situated nearest the cavernous fireplace. The hearth alone was about as big as Ren’s bedroom. Keeping further shock to himself, he simply hastened to obey the man that held his future freedom in his hands. The sobering reality seemed to help Ren push down his nerves so he felt a bit steadier. Once seated, he watched as Casian walked to a table lined with bottles and clear crystal glasses. He poured amber liquid from a exquisite bottle into two of the glasses and approached him. Casian held out the glass.

“It’s brandy,” he said. “To calm your nerves.”

Ren took the glass. It felt awkward in his hand. He took a sip and sputtered, gasping for breath. It burns all the way down!

“Easy does it,” said Casian. He put a hand on Ren’s shoulder. “Don’t drink much, I take it?”

Ren shook his head quickly, coughing again before he caught his breath. “No.” His throat felt constricted. “Not much.”

Casian lips curled a slight smile. “Calmer?”

Ren shrugged uncertainly.

The nobleman began to pace around the room, hands clasped behind his back, lips pursed in thought. He didn’t speak and Ren thought maybe he was thinking about how to say whatever it was he wanted from Ren. Certainly isn’t helping me stay calm, roaming about that, he thought harshly. Just get on with it!

Casian halted and looked right at Ren, one eyebrow arched quizzically, as thought he’d heard his thoughts. He cleared his throat.

“It’s difficult,” Casian began. “Difficult to explain what it is I require of you. As I said, someone of your talents...well, it is truly those talents that I need right now.”

Ren waited. What was this highborn man asking of him? The anticipation made his skin crawl and a cold stone of fear wedged itself in the midst of his stomach. Teeth clenched, he listened to Casian’s scheme unfurl there in that fine room laden with more wealth that he had seen in his entire miserable life. Ren glanced at the door, yearning just to bolt through them and escape into the streets.

The necklace still resting in his pocket became a shackle that bound him to this man and his madness. Ren jerked at his coat, jamming his hand inside and wresting the necklace from inside. He thrust it out at Casian who stopped to gape at him.

“Here! Take it. Please, my lord. Have mercy. I don’t think I can help you with this task. Let me repay you in some other way. Or, if you must, take me to the stocks. But, what you are asking...” Ren shook his head. “You do know how dangerous it is?”

Casian didn’t blink. “Yes. Very, I would wager, but I think you might just accomplish it, given a few well-placed resources.”

Ren exploded. “You want me to steal from the king of Trykelion! If I’m caught, I will lose my head.

“Yes, there is the possiblity.” Casian resumed his pacing. He sipped his brandy from the sparkling glass and stared at something beyond the expansive gallery.

Probably plotting my messy end, Ren thought. Oh, what have I gotten myself into?

“Shall I tell you more about my plan to pull it off?”

Ren shook his head in disbelief. “But why? Why Lord Casian? Why do this this at all? What could possibly be gained from stealing from our king?”

Casian placed his hands on the mantle above the hearth. “There is much I have not told you—and I may not tell you. Only understand that it is necessary.”

“Surely, there are better qualified people for this sort of...of business?”

Draining the last of the liquor, Casian looked at him again, his eyes shining with a feral sort of intensity. “Better thieves, you mean?”

Ren nodded.

“It is true,” Casian said. “But you have an advantage that those other fellows don’t have.”

“What could it possibly be?” Ren was deeply confused. The man wasn’t making sense. Dread. That was what he was feeling creeping over top him, leaking into his flesh and chilling him deeper than even the worse winter on the streets of the city.

“They aren’t a bastard child of a princess.”

The world grew blurry for a moment and Ren grew unsteady. He reamed his ears with his fingers. “Now wait a minute. What did you just say? I’m no bastard. I knew my mother and my father. They died when I was young. An aunt took me in but the old witch really only wanted the little coin they’d left in her trust for my care. She got rid of me and I found myself on the streets. On my own.”

“That’s what you were led to believe.”

Ren started to argue, but Casian forestalled him. “Please remember, my friend. I have eyes and ears who seek out many things, uncover many secrets including your secret. A secret even from yourself.”

Ren left the couch and paced about the room just Casian was a moment ago. The world had gone and turned upside in the course of a day. “What does this mean? And what does it have to do with the work you would have me do?”

Casian brushed a finger on the mantle. Dust flecked off and drifted in the air. He frowned. “This revelation will aid my plan. I have proof of your true parentage, Ren. The clues were all there. They just had to be put together. Now, I will present you to the Lady Helena.”

Ren’s eyes bulged. “What?”

“Isn’t it obvious. My plan to introduce you to your mother, the princess of the realm, engratiating myself for reuniting her with a long-lost child. The Lady Helena has expressed a desire to find learn the whereabouts of the unfortunate castout given those close to the princess lost track of the boy some time back.” Casian arched an eyebrow while clearing his throat. “With any luck, this will be the way we gain access to the proper places within Highmark and with that access, you will be able to fulfill your obligation to me. You will retrieve the great seal.”

A lump the size of grapefruit filled Ren’s throat. “Uh...uh. My...My lord, I don’t know what to say. I can’t begin to understand how any of this can be possible. I was abandoned for a reason wasn’t I?”

“Your fate was not all that different than that of other unfortunate bastards. The reasons are political. But, none of that matters just now. You just need to do as I ask or things will not go well for you. No, not at all.” Ren cringed at the menace in Casian’s voice. Gods preserve me. Now, what am I going to do, he thought desperately. Casian smiled and his tone was light again. “Once the seal is in my hands you will be rewarded handsomely for your troubles.”

“But why do this? What could be gained from this seal? Is it worth a lot of gold?”

“No. Not all, in fact. Its monetary value is modest. No, Ren, it has a different sort of value. The kind that comes from ideas and traditions older than law. But, you needn’t know too much about that. It will be clear enough at the proper time.”

Ren nodded and tried to ignore the apprehension growing in his gut.

Casian held up a finger. “Ah, but before all that, I must make you more presentable. Your appearance would not do at all when we approach the Lady Helena.” The nobleman grabbed a small silver bell from the mantle and rang it. The tinkling echoed across the gallery. A moment later, a servant entered.

“Danill, we will have need of Mister Baringfield’s services this evening. Please go fetch him.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The servant spun on his heel and left immediately.

Casian eyed Ren closer. “Next, I believe you need to bathe.”

Ren sat back farther in his seat. Oh, dear.

REN SCRATCHED HIS NECK vigorously. The material of his new shirt itched terribly and that wasn’t all. Every stitch of the fancy clothing, from the puffy white shirt to the black trousers and linen undergarments, irritated his skin—skin freshly scrubbed until it was as pink as a newborn babe’s. Casian nodded appreciatively as he inspected the results of his interventions.

“Yes. Yes, now you look presentable. Dressed to appear before nobility.”

Ren shook his head. “I still think this is madness.”

Casian’s expression hardened, but Ren quickly added, “But, I will do what is necessary.”

“Good,” Casian replied coldly. “Just remember that and everything will work out fine.”

The nobleman’s words were not reassuring and Ren believed Casian was lying. Something didn’t add up. The plan itself made no sense regardless of the supposed importance of this seal. Now that he was being put to the task, Ren started to think things through more carefully as he was apt to do when planning his days picking pockets on the streets. He made a decision and had his own plan—one Casian would not like very well.

Adjusting the starchy collar again, Ren turned away from the mirror. The new boots were comfortable, more so than the much patched ones he’d been wearing. With time, he would get used to the clothes. Casian had donned new clothes of his own, wearing a pale green vest over a white shirt and blue trousers. He moved gracefully and seemed more at ease. A few feet away, the tailor, Baringfield waited anxiously, eying both of them in turn, hands clasped in front of him. He was a shorter man and a bit pudgy, but his own clothes were as finely wrought as those worn by his customers. Ren believed he was an excellent tailor—at least based on his admittedly limited knowledge of tailors.

“My lord Pentharia, you do approve then?”

Casian nodded absently in the tailor’s direction. “Of course, you outdo yourself, Otto. Thank you. If you would make another set of clothes for young Ren here in similar shades, that shall do it for now.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you, my lord.” Baringfield bowed and left them alone in the dressing chamber.

Casian rubbed his hands together. “I have sent a messenger to the Lady Helena. I expect an invitation shall be delivered this evening. We will likely get our audience on the morrow.”

Calm confidence. The man seemed pleased with himself.

Ren sighed. “What now?”

“We work on your speech, your manner, and whatever else we can to dull the edge of the streets on you. I trust you will make every effort to assist me?”

Ren nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

“Good,” Casian replied. He waved. “Come. Let us go to the dining room.”

REN STARED OUT THE window of the carriage at the pedestrians filling the blessedly clean streets of Highmark at midday. The sights of city’s highest quarter, the domain of the royalty, the sacred dwellings of priesthood, and the government, were enough to his jaw hanging. The resplendent finery was everywhere. The buildings gleamed with it. The people worn it in the rich fabrics and other accoutraments of their elevated ranks. Ren felt completely out of place. But if Casian was to be believed, he had been borne out of this world only to be tossed away like refuse to dwell at the bottom of the great hill among the masses of the desitute.

Ren sank back in the cushioned seat of the carriage, deflated by the thoughts, and slightly frustrated by how he’d come to the knowledge of his birth. He wasn’t at all sure how he felt about meeting his mother either. The invitation had been extended just as Casian predicted and they were to venture to the Lady Helena’s residence to following day at an hour past midday. The following morning, Ren was roused from perhaps the most comfortable sleep he’d had in years, situated in a plump feather bed in a room three times the size of the one he occupied at Mother Cray’s boarding house. Dressed in the new clothes made for him by Baringfield, Casian and he set out not much before midday, leaving the Regent’s Quarter behind in the ornate carriage embellished with the sigils of House Pentharia and through the Royal Gate into Highmark.

“You needn’t look so glum. You must undertand that the Lady Helena has been searching for her offspring for some time now. She will be pleased to see you, I know.” Casian sat across from him, hands clasping a book on his lap. “She has said your loss was an awful regret that she had tried to bear but could no longer go on without knowing what became of her child.”

“She said this to you?”

Casian set the book on the seat next to him. “No. I only later became privy to the information and thus decided to act on her behalf, putting my own resources to work on the task of ferreting out your whereabouts. There were traces my men followed, leading eventually to the home of Jon Marces.”

Ren felt the name like slap to the face. Anger bloomed and the heat flushed his cheeks. He ground his teeth painful.

Casian noticed his aggitation. “Yes, Mister Marces is sore spot. There was an Ana Marces listed too, but sadly she is deceased.”

“Damn Jon Marces,” Ren growled. “The man...the man is a monster and a drunk. Ana had been so kind to me, treating me like I was her own. Made sure I had something of an education. She believed I had a chance for a prosperous life. I had a mind for figures. Even talked about me serving in the Royal Bank. Once Ana died, Marces lost any control he had, squandering the money she had managed in order to care for us all. Money, I take it, that came from those who paid to keep my secret. The ass then took to beating me so I had to run away.”

“And you found yourself on the streets of Farelton.”

Ren nodded sharply. “And I barely survived.”

“You had the will to live and were cunning enough to take what you needed and quiet any moral qualms you might have had with thievery.”

Casian’s other meaning was not lost to Ren. He sat up straighter in his seat and stared at the nobleman. “I do what needs to be done.”

“Yes,” said Casian who picked up his book and opened its pages. He put a finger between the pages and looked at Ren. “Given what we are about to do, I have to admit something you. You see, your theft of the necklace was not accidental. I encouraged my dear sister to be so wreckless with the jewelry. We had planned the moment for a week just so you would be the one to filch it. It was a colorful way for me to get your attention, I will admit, but rather enjoyable.”

Ren’s eyes bulged. Shock kept his mouth clamped shut. He didn’t know what to say. His hatred for Casian swelled, but he tamped it down. I must stick to the plan, he thought.

The ride continued in silence.

Several blocks later, Ren felt the carriage slowing then making a deliberate turn. He stuck his head out the window and gaped at the imposing stone gates opening before them. They were topped with ornately carved sculptures of hawks, their wings spread in flight and talons reaching out to snatch unwary prey. Ren swallowed the lump growing in his throat, quashing the nervousness tingling in his limbs.

On the other side, the royal residence of the princess sent waves of awe into Ren. The building lavished with the most beautiful engravings and statuary made Casian’s manse seem plain by comparison. The carriage passed lanterns already aglow at midday, each perched from beautiful wrought-iron posts. Each one placed every ten feet or so along the course of the drive, all the way to the main entrance. At intervals, Ren saw soldiers dressed in the royal colors, each armed with long rifles and sabers. Four alone were standing guard at the bottom and top of the steps surrounding the wide doors.

Ren bounced slightly as the carriage halted at the foot of the marble case. The door was opened by one of Casian’s coachmen. A step was extended and the nobleman exited first. Ren carefully climbed down after him, watching as a man in matching gray trousers and coat came down the stairs to meet them. Once he was closer, Ren could make see the hawk-shaped pendant on his breast pocket.

“Welcome, Lord Casian. My mistress is expecting you...and your guest. I am Myles Cordan, her ladyship’s chief steward.” Cordan extended his arms beckoning Casian and Ren to follow. “I shall take you to her audience chamber directly. Please come this way.”

Casian gave a slight bow and set off after the steward. Ren hesiated a moment then lurched into motion when the other man gave him an annoyed glance over his shoulder.

There was no turning back now, Ren thought. The whole situation was a tremendous risk. I may well be on my way to my doom, he mused. But I’ll get to see her at least once.

THE DOORS TO THE Lady Helena’s audience chambers were opened. The expansive space beyond was a storehouse of wealth beyond Ren’s wildest imaginings. Yet, his eyes focused on the people clustered in the center of the room, nearly a dozen surrounding another seated on a raised diaz. Heads moved back and forth until he finally caught sight of her. The Lady Helena was dressed in a white gown, interwoven with rose-shaped patterns, that clenched close to her slender shape. Her hair was as black as ink and the silken tresses draped down her shoulders. A thin circlet rested upon her forehead, keeping the bangs back to frame a rosy cheeked face, slightly gaunt and lightly lined around the pert lips and big, bright blue eyes. Ren could barely breathe. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever beheld in his short life.

The steward cleared his throat and announced them. All the activity surrounding the Lady Helena ceased and everyone retreated. The princess finally looked at them. Her eyes noticably widened and Ren heard the soft gasp in the silent chamber.

“Please,” she said, barely containing the emotion in her voice. “Come closer.”

Casian and Ren approached the diaz. The nobleman’s face was plastered with an arrogant smile, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered to Ren was her. He stared at her openly and she stared back. Their eyes were locked on one another. Identical blue eyes, Ren realized.

Ren stopped only a few feet from her. The Lady Helena held his gaze until Casian cleared his throat.

“Uh, my lady, thank you for seeing us. I have done it. I have recovered that which you lost many years ago. Your beloved child is returned to your sight. Please, let me introduce you to your son, Ren.”

Helena’s eyes had narrowed skeptically when looking at Casian, opened wide again and sparkled with tears as she looked again at Ren. She raised her hands to her mouth, stifling a sob.

Ren eyes were wet with tears of their own. He felt no shame. The pressure on his chest made him feel he was ready to burst. Ren lowered his gaze, his legs growing weak. As his mind spun with the reality of his mother standing there before him, his plan was nearly lost. He had to speak. He had to tell her.

“Uh...uh...my lady,” Ren faltered. He took another breath. From the corner of his eye, he could see Casian watching him, listening.

“Yes,” Helena said softly. “What is it?” Her voice was so kind, so gentle.

“My lady. Lord Casian has brought me here under false pretenses. Truly, I do not know if I’m your son. You see until a a couple of days ago, I was a thief living in the slums. Lord Casian found me and threatened me so I would filtch something for him. He told me of my true parentage and...”

“This is absurb,” cried Casian. The man was livid. “He is lying, my lady. I do not know why he speaks these untruths when all I have done has been in his best interest and in order serve you and the kingdom, but—”

“Enough, Casian,” Helena cut him off. “Let Ren finish.”

Casian’s face was pinched and pale. “Yes, my lady.”

“Go on, Ren,” Helena said.

Ren nodded. “Lord Casian demanded that I used that supposed connection to gain your trust and that of your household. Then I would be able to obtain a great treasure: the royal seal.”

Outraged gasps erupted among the others in the room.

Ren looked at Casian. The nobleman’s eyes burned with hatred. Then he looked at Helena and down at his feet. “But, I could not do this terrible thing. No matter what happens to me, I had to say something.”

“Ren. Look at me, Ren,” said Helena.

Ren slowly raised his gaze until it met her face. The Lady Helena was smiling. Tears flowed down her cheeks. As he watched, she drew a chain up from the folds in her shawl until a large metal circle embossed with the flying hawk appeared. It was the royal seal.

“The seal is a burden I carry always. The burden of my family. Mine and no other, Lord Casian.”

She was ablaze with anger. Her gaze wilted Lord Casian on the spot. “The crime, should it have been committed, would have been grave indeed. The seal is the symbol of our monarchy, the order of our rule. To hold the seal is to make a claim against the crown. Such a crime would have been punished most severely. Lord Casian, you have done me a great service and I thank you. Now, leave this place.”

Turning back to Ren, her smile returned. “Dearest Ren. Do you know you look just like your father?”

Ren gasped. “I do.”

“Yes, child.” Helena held out her arms.

The world faded until only she remained. “Mother!”

Ren ran to his mother for first time in his life.

About the Author

SHAUN KILGORE is the author of various works of fantasy, science fiction, and a number of nonfiction works. He has also published numerous short stories and collection. His books appear in both print and ebook editions. Shaun is the publisher and editor of MYTHIC: A Quarterly Science Fiction & Fantasy Magazine. He lives in eastern Illinois.

SPECIAL THANKS

I want to include a special thank you to our active patrons on Patreon.

Elena Westbrook, Isabel Kunkle, James Ross, Jay Skiles, Richard Ohnemus, Dan Mollo, dave ring, David England, Robert Walshe, Matt McNeill, Grant Martin, Jonathan Hodge, Mary Jane Kilgore, Scott Noel, Jeff Harrison, Justin Patrick Moore, Mark Akins, Jonathan Eaton, Matt Hopper, James Rumpel, Randell Pinegar, and Robert Mathesien. Your contributions are helping me to offer a whole new selection of imaginative and engaging science fiction and fantasy stories in every issue of MYTHIC.

I also want to thank those who’ve subscribed to MYTHIC and supported us in other ways.

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

MYTHIC

A Quarterly Science Fiction & Fantasy Magazine

ISSUE # 12 FALL 2019

Copyright © 2019 by Founders House Publishing LLC

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

All Contents are copyrighted to their respective authors

and used here with their permission.

Cover art copyright © Grandfailure/Dreamstime.com

Published by Founders House Publishing LLC

MYTHIC: A Quarterly Science Fiction & Fantasy Magazine

is a project and publication of Founders House Publishing LLC.

www.mythicmag.com

www.foundershousepublishing.com

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional,

and any semblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts

thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.