by Alex Jeffers


The child’s ayah said it was high spirits, a paroxysm of affection, but the truth was simple: the envoy’s daughter killed my dog.

She wanted Ìsho the moment she saw him, his flat nose and panting pink tongue and goggle eyes poking out of my sleeve. I was deliberately too dense to take the hint and make a gift of my dear companion to a spoiled child. Given my position, however, I could not refuse to permit her to play with him. I told her and told her Ìsho was delicate, that she should not urge him to run too hard or squeeze him as if he were a stuffed toy. She killed him.

I am not a man who weeps often. I did not weep when the ayah came running to tell me Ìsho had, he said, taken ill. I continued stoic when I came upon the child in the mission’s garden berating the corpse of my dog for not getting to his feet and frolicking with her. Lifting Ìsho’s minuscule weight from the puddle of vomit and urine soaking into the grass, I made sure he was dead, tucked him into my sleeve where he belonged, and told the wretched poppet, really quite steadily, Ìsho would not be able to play with her anymore.

“Why not?” she demanded.

“I am sorry to say Ìsho has died. Do you know what that means?”

By this time the envoy had been summoned so I need not deal with his daughter’s tantrum, merely witness it and his craven response. Of course, once the child was led away I had no choice but to accept the father’s condescending apologies (he regained his aplomb with unnatural speed), the rather large gift, the two days’ leave from my duties. My heart burning hot with resentment that nearly overmastered my grief, I bowed my way out of the mission and carried my dead dog to the little temple of Jù, where the priestesses of that small god who loves our dumb companions promised to burn his body with all honor and send many prayers up with his smoke. I resolved my next dog would be a mastiff.

I had disliked the envoy since his arrival in the Celestial Realm. The mission’s chargé d’affaires, an often clever woman who had been outre-mer nearly as long as I, sent me downriver to Oesei on the Turquoise Gulf to meet him. Having read the same dispatches, I understood her cleverness led her to believe we would be sympathetic, the envoy travelling with his inamorato and I. (I do not believe he loved the man so much as the man’s rank.) When, descending from the Fejz clipper, he saw awaiting him on the dock a kè-torantin dressed in Haisner brocade robes, I recognized the moment he understood who I was—what I was. I might be distressingly useful, he was thinking, but gone too native to be trusted.

The only protocols he deemed valid were those of our empress’s court in distant Sjolussa. The inamorato was introduced with all his titles, inherited and conferred. The daughter was not introduced at all, although of course I knew about her and observed her in his train holding her ayah’s hand. I expect neither envoy nor inamorato sired the child, a pretty blonde poppet who resembled either only in general ways—I expect they bought her as one might purchase a pet.

After Jù’s temple, I walked the long way home. Through the noisy confusion of the songbird market, past the cricket market, along the bank of the wide, slow Carnelian River with its endless traffic of mighty junques and barges and trade vessels of every seafaring nation in the world. Every nation granted a mission in the capital, that is. Willows trailed their leaves like the Kandadal’s ribbons in the silty water. An itinerant godseller had set up her booth among the trees as if awaiting me. She was surprised by a kè-torantin attired in Haisner fashion who spoke her language, recognized her deities, saints, tutelary spirits. In among her stock I discovered a small cast-bronze idol of Jù in his aspect as a flat-faced sleeve dog, nearly forgot to haggle her down to a fair price. That would have meant bad luck, something I required no more of.

Clutching the idol in my hand, I turned back to the streets of crowded Bhekai. I had not for some years resided in the foreigners’ cantonment. At the gate of the White Peonies vicinage the old grandfather nodded me through politely and I went on to Blue Lamp Street where I rented my small house. The blue lamps mark it as a street of actors and other theatre people, although my nearest neighbors were a scholar and a small bureaucrat.

Inside the door, I removed street shoes and outer robe. I called my servant’s name. My compatriots at the mission were quite sure Shàu was my catamite but it wasn’t so. Shàu had been in my service enough years he was no longer a boy but I could not but remember that he was a boy, an orphan, in equal measure terrified of and fascinated by the kè-torantin who had purchased his contract from an aunt with too many children of her own. I would not, could not, ask of him services outside the terms if they were anything I desired. In any event, now he was grown he had no doubts about preferring the whores of the red houses over those of the yellow.

“Shàu,” I said when he came, “sorrowful news: Ìsho has died. I have given his body to Jù. The house will be quiet and dull without him. Please, this robe is soiled and I do not wish to wear it again.”

Tears had welled up in his eyes but he knew the proprieties as well as I. “Ìsho was a good dog, nen-kè,” he murmured. “Jù will welcome him.” He took the robe from my hands. Whether he burned it or laundered and sold it mattered little to me. I believed him sufficiently sensible to do the latter.

“Now I wish to be alone, undisturbed, for a time. Until dark, I think. You needn’t hurry dinner.” I paused. I had already thought it through but Shàu never liked me doing him favors. “In fact, if it wouldn’t wreck your plans, go to Old An’s for noodles. I have a hankering for noodles. You know what I like.”

“Nen-kè.” Mister Ivory. Shàu came up with the title himself, long ago. “Shall I bring you tea?”

“No, thank you, nothing for now.”

I was about to turn away when I saw the tear escape the cage of his eyelashes and roll down his cheek. “Shàu,” I said, “here, take this.” I pressed the small idol of pug-nosed Jù into his hand. Looking over his head—I did not wish to see another tear—I said, “The house will not be ready to welcome another dog for…some time. And yet it will be lonely without our Ìsho. Go—go to the market before An’s. A songbird, a chameleon, a goldfish in a bowl, a cricket in a cage—whatever you choose. Two, buy two.”

I blundered through the door into the garden. The envoy’s daughter had made my servant cry. She killed my dog and made Shàu weep. I walked to the plum tree at the back of the garden, pressed my brow to its trunk, and tightened my eyelids against tears of my own. The idol of Jù had left marks on my palm that took many minutes to fade.

In my garden it was past the season for peonies but the roses Shàu tended were in bloom. Once my eyes had dried I broke a few fragrant yellow blossoms off their bush—tearing the skin of my hands on their thorns—and carried them indoors. At the entrance to my still chamber I hesitated. One is not meant to come agitated before the Kandadal—one is meant to discover tranquility in the Kandadal’s presence. Paradoxes, paradoxes.

I went in. I laid the roses down on the stone altar among the rotted or dried-out relics of previous offerings. The Kandadal’s said to have approved gifts of flowers yet to prefer they not be placed in water to preserve their beauty a moment longer. If decay upsets me I should endeavor to learn why it upsets me, or accept the upset’s value, or offer him unfading blossoms of colored paper or silk. Or all three. So much I fail to comprehend—so much I am intended not to comprehend.

Walled on two sides with mortared brick, the still chamber was cool. Folding my legs, I settled on the earthen floor before the altar, looked into the Kandadal’s eyes. My idol is varnished wood, one of the jolly young Kandadals, grinning to show his strong, crooked teeth, his eyes crinkled to slits. In the dusk of the unwindowed, unlit chamber the brown glass inset within the slits did not glint. Like myself the Kandadal was a foreigner. Scholars say he never visited Haisn, his philosophies brought in the train of the Owe-ejan-akhar’s daughter centuries after the mortal Kandadal’s decease. The vale of Sfothem, his native place, is nearer Bhekai than to Sjolussa but the people who live there, I’m assured, resemble me more than they do natives of central and northern Haisn, having narrow high-bridged noses and round eyes, the men hirsute more often than not.

The Kandadal is not a god (at any rate he denied being a god) yet he is venerated as if he were. He suggested there are no gods at all, no purpose or design in the universe, yet encouraged his followers to revere the gods and beliefs of all peoples in every nation of all the world. My nation, the people to which I was born, recognizes no gods as such. What the Kandadal would make of our ancient beliefs and customs I can’t imagine. I respect the nameless, numberless virtues and excellences honored in my country but their authority has always been recognized to be parochial—they do not travel: in Haisn they could not protect or aid me.

So much I will never make sense of. I gazed into my Kandadal’s eyes. He is a plump, merry, moon-faced Haisner, handsome and beautiful and, even now, very strange to me. “I want the envoy’s daughter to die,” I told him. Children are forever dying. The envoy could acquire a new one as easily as the last. “I want to kill her as she killed my dog.”

You want her to die, the Kandadal replied. (He did not reply.) You want to kill her.

“She is useless in the world, a monster. Evil.”

A useless, evil monster.

“I do not wish to meet her or her father again.”

Of course my savings were already sufficient, even without the addition of the envoy’s bribe, to buy passage back to Sjolussa. But I had little prospect of a position in that tightly wound city I hardly knew anymore, hardly cared to know—if I wished to leave Bhekai and Haisn. I did not. I wished the laws of the Celestial Realm allowed me to earn my living in some other manner than employment in the Sjolussene mission. But if Haisners—if the child Immortal in the Palace Invisible (may She forever prosper) and Her court and magistracy—if they trusted foreigners they would not be Haisners and I would doubtless not like them so well. They call us kè-torantin, automatons fashioned of ivory, and believe us not fully (if at all) human. It was likewise forbidden for me to work in the mission of another foreign nation than my own, if any would have me.

We argued, the Kandadal and I. (I argued with myself.) Time did not pass. The still chamber became dark, the air thick with the fragrances of roses, mold, and rot. Shàu tapped at the door frame. “Nen-kè. I have brought noodles from Old An’s.”

“Yes, thank you, Shàu,” I said without turning. “A moment longer.”

My servant retreated—I assumed he did—and I prostrated myself full length on the floor before the Kandadal’s altar. He did not like one to be rigid, invariable, to make irrevocable decisions or to find conclusions. Rising to my knees, I kissed the Kandadal’s cool brow, and then I withdrew from his presence.

The panels of the dining chamber’s window were folded open to the dusky garden. Flame guttered in an iron lamp by the window and danced on the wick of a smaller lamp on the low table. Near the lamp sat a porcelain bowl I did not recognize, glazed blue-black without, white within. It was not a bowl for noodles: filled nearly to the brim with clear water, it housed an elegant fish the length of my index finger, swimming in endless, listless circles. Its ancestors were doubtless gold but this variety’s scales and flowing fins were brocaded in splotches of scarlet, black, silver-blue, and white. I watched the enervated prisoner explore a cell that could provide no surprises and when Shàu brought my noodles I said, “She will not survive long in so small a bowl.”

“No, nen-kè,” he said, placing a smaller bowl before me. “I put the other in the great tub the previous tenants left in the garden. But I thought….”

“It was a kind thought, Shàu. She is very lovely.” Not as lovely as Ìsho, I did not say. Not a dog—not a friend, a companion, merely an ornament to admire. “Thank you. After we’ve eaten we’ll take her to join her sister.”

Watching the fish make its unceasing rounds, I ate fat noodles in savory broth with slivers of pork, onion, salt-dried cherry. Cross-legged in the corner, Shàu slurped from his own bowl. His noodles’ accompaniment would be different, for Shàu liked the incendiary cuisines of southeastern Haisn where the Celestial Realm’s uncertain borders bleed into Regions Heaven Does Not Acknowledge—the Sjolussene protectorates Aveng and U—and where the Immortal’s subjects speak languages She does not comprehend. Those heavily spiced dishes with their chilis and gingers and vinegars, subtleties difficult to discern under the burn, gave me indigestion so Shàu never served them unless I asked.

I continued holding my bowl after I finished, waiting for Shàu—he would interrupt his own meal if I set it down—watching the fish. I did not wish to be alone in my head all night, dreaming up vengeances and punishments for the envoy’s daughter. At length I said, “I will visit the yellow house this evening, Shàu.” I turned to look at the young man in the dim corner. “You may go to the red house if you like.” He understood I was granting permission to use household monies to ease his grief and ducked his head.

We took the brocade fish to join its fellow. The glazed ceramic barrel in a shaded corner of the garden was made to contain goldfish although I had not previously used it for the purpose. Shàu would have scoured it clean while I was with the Kandadal, carried bucket after bucket of fresh water from the well. The previous occupants of the house had also left an eccentric weathered stone eroded into fantastic spires and grottos for the fishes’ entertainment. When Shàu tipped the smaller bowl and water began to spill into the larger a glint of yellow-orange appeared in the depths as a perfectly ordinary goldfish nosed out of a cranny to investigate. I felt a pang of disappointment that Shàu had chosen the common, doubtless cheaper fish for himself—then reflected, admiringly, he must have pocketed the difference.

Poured into its new home, the brocade fish swam in startled circles near the surface while its new companion withdrew again into hiding. I touched Shàu’s shoulder in gratitude as he peered into the water, and then I withdrew myself.

On the barge forging upriver from Oesei I had endeavored to take the new envoy’s measure. He, it was clear, had already taken mine so far as he wished to take it. We sat under a waxed-silk awning, he upright and stiff on a subcontinental-style chair I had made sure would be aboard, I cross-legged on a rice-straw mat. He disdained my tea, drinking instead a tisane of dried flowers and herbs brought in his baggage from Sjolussa.

Studying the envoy’s polished leather boots with their pewter buttons, I answered questions about his predecessor’s contracts and negotiations. These I learned were unambitious. I discovered I was not to venture opinions or advice concerning the goods Haisner merchants might wish to import from the west. Their wishes were of no consequence. Goods were the least of what he planned to offer. Had I, he asked without wishing an answer, ever visited Kyrland—that islanded nation with its two grand capitals, Girrow in the south, Ocseddin in the north?

I had not, as doubtless he knew. As well as I knew of his own immediately previous position in the embassy at Girrow. The two realms were not then at odds: rather, allied to frustrate the ambitions of the Great King whose subcontinental dominions lay between Sjolussa and the Kyrlander home islands.

After hearing considerable apostrophes to Kyrlander energy, invention, industry, I understood the envoy’s intentions. He meant to import knowledge. I was aware of Sjolussene bounties paid to Kyrlander engineers and inventors—I had read in out-of-date gazettes of the wondrous transformations in my homeland: streets and residences illuminated by piped coal-gas, vast manufactories powered by steam, the iron roads and heliographic systems drawing the metropolitan empire’s towns and cities nearer the capital. It seemed not to have occurred to the man that similar innovations, installed in the Celestial Realm, might strengthen the Immortal’s government—that She would henceforth have less use for foreign goods or the foreigners themselves She despised.

Before leaving my house I donned garments a decade out of fashion I had purchased on my last home leave. The whores at Lìm’s Yellow House enjoyed the novel challenge of getting me out of them. For myself, I felt confined and in a peculiar way exposed, for subcontinental men’s fashions fitted more closely than Haisner to the body. Small as he was, Ìsho would never fit into the sleeve of a Sjolussene coat. Buttoned leather boots pinched my feet.

I called “I am going” into the shadows of the house and went out. At the vicinage gate the neighborhood grandfather on duty smirked, knowing the import of my costume and late departure, and wished me a joyful evening.

My way led toward the river, a broad avenue lined on either side by the whitewashed brick walls of residential vicinages like my own, noodle shops, book shops, apothecaries, fortune tellers, shrines of strictly local gods, small groceries. Naphtha lanterns mounted on the corners of boundary walls lit the street. Soon enough I heard music clanging and banging and whining from Turtle Market ahead. I do not know how long it is since Turtle Market sold turtles. Centuries, I expect.

The street became crowded. Inside the market gate competing red houses stood on either side, touts at the scarlet lacquer doors yelling into the throng—promises, blandishments, compliments, threats. The left-hand tout I knew, as she was sometimes posted at the door of Lìm’s other, yellow, establishment on the far side of the market. She called my name, humorously promising diversion and delight. I nodded, smiled, replied, “Not tonight,” and went on, murmuring under my breath a prayer to the manifold gods of venery that Shàu find comfort if he chose to visit one of the capital’s red houses, Lìm’s in Turtle Market or another.

Beyond the red houses stood dubious apothecaries selling elixirs, potions, devices that promised to enhance virility and stamina, and then noisy taverns. Wearing caricatures of subcontinental costume, the tavern touts claimed their beers were brewed in the manner of Trebt, Kyrland, Necker, Kevvel—possibly true, although I had never tasted good beer anywhere in Bhekai. One acquired a taste for the native yellow and white liquors.

Two tall men wearing authentic subcontinental suits and tall hats emerged from a tavern door and I froze, attempting absurdly to vanish into crowd and shadows. The taller of the subcontinentals removed his hat for a moment but I did not require the confirmation of his yellow hair to recognize them as the envoy and his inamorato.

They appeared not to have noticed me, turning to proceed deeper into Turtle Market. My anger had flared up so that I felt sweat break out on my back and under my arms, wetting the linen of my shirt. Pacing after them, I was too agitated to make further effort at stealth. If they meant to visit one of the yellow houses after a draught of brewed bravado I wanted to ensure I did not enter the same one.

They dawdled. Passing a shrine to the gods of venery, the inamorato averted his eyes, shocked by the spring-driven automatons’ performance, then looked again, while his companion mimicked their actions with his hands in a vulgar fashion, then, with a vulgar laugh, tossed a coin into the offering bowl. It was clear he thought the copulating figures merely toys. The two men did not appear to see, but I did, that the idols’ eyes followed them.

Music from competing bands and orchestras had grown louder as we neared the theatres. The opera, the ancient classics, the modern works that require the specific artificiality of breathing human actors—those of course were staged in grander circuses in more genteel districts. These were marionette and automaton theatres. I expected the envoy and his inamorato not to be interested. Surely they had ventured into Turtle Market solely to indulge in carnal pleasures. I was mistaken.

They paused at the entrance of each theatre to inspect the gaudy printed poster. Most of the works presented by Turtle Market’s companies are farces, variously erotic, or ancient fables or ghost stories. The two men stopped last and longest outside the House of the Company of the Kandadal’s Colored Cat (as if the impresario had thrown dice to determine the most nonsensical name possible), an automaton troupe presenting, so the poster announced, The Tale of the Ive-ojan-akhar. The music from within doors featured drums beating to martial rhythms, squealing horns, gongs, whistles. It overcame the sense of the envoy’s discussion with his inamorato but the tones of their voices and their expressions were complex.

I paid the tariff and followed them into the theatre. I do not understand why. I did not understand why they chose an historical melodrama—I did not understand why I failed to walk on to Lìm’s Yellow House.

I waited several moments in the anteroom with its doors offset to confuse ghosts and kept my face lowered when I entered the hall—a small space to be given that name, dim, loud with the unmuffled noise of the band. Cushions for the spectators were placed around three walls, accompanied by low tables. Aside from us three kè-torantin there was no audience. The envoy and his companion sat at one side. I chose the opposite. Until an attendant brought me a warm flask of adequate yellow liquor and a cup I kept my face turned away, my attention on the mechanical musicians at the corner of the raised stage bashing at their drums and gongs with mallets as wooden as their fists, miming at tooting pipes and trumpets actually played by concealed bellows.

The attendant had been extinguishing the lamps about the house one by one, and now she moved to put out those that illuminated stage and band. Being artificial, the musicians did not require light to play but ceased nevertheless. A voice distorted by some trickery into thunder intoned into darkness: “The Owe-ejan-akhar leaves her third daughter behind.”



It would be tedious to describe the drama as it played. Magic-lantern slides cast glamors upon the stage: improbable architectures, landscapes never seen. The automaton-actors trundled about on casters concealed beneath the skirts of lavish costumes, gesturing their articulated fingers with great conviction, tilting exquisitely painted masks at angles to impersonate living expressions. They spoke—the ventriloquists offstage spoke—with such conviction one scarcely noticed the lines were poetry…doggerel, rather.

It was the old story. Having conquered a quarter of world, the Owe-ejan-akhar bullied the Immortal of the time into buying her favor and protection. He dismissed His generals and advisers and, to seal the alliance, His wives, lemans, concubines, and all His children as well. The daughter the Ejan was willing to spare was her third, a young woman with little aptitude for war who chose to rank the Kandadal’s precepts in different order than her mother preferred.

The marriage of the Immortal of Haisn and the Ive-ojan-akhar was solemnized at the Ejan’s camp and court on the plain of Niw—it was the only time in all His mortal life the Immortal ventured outside the walls of the Palace Invisible. Then in grand cavalcade the Ejan and her Thousand Tall Riders wheeled their horses about and departed once again for the west, about the business of subduing rebellions and conquering further dominions.

Borne in their twin palanquins, escorted by half the northern quarter of Haisn’s Celestial Army, the Immortal and the Ojan travelled southeast more slowly, accompanied by her guards, magicians, shamans, counsellors, and half a monastery’s worth of acolytes of the Kandadal. The Ojan’s old companion, a mastiff fleeced like a lamb, rode in her palanquin.

They crossed the Blue Wall by a bridge demolished as soon as they passed over the mighty channel. It was left up to the governor of the Reclaimed Province how to defend the wide new avenue hacked through the Green Wall, if defense be required. The Cinnabar Wall possessed a gate wide enough but not sufficiently grand, so gilded stands were raised and choirs of sweet-voiced children and eunuchs impressed to sing welcome to the Immortal bringing the mother of unborn Immortals out of Regions Heaven Does Not Acknowledge.

Until now all converse between the Immortal and His wife had been formal, witnessed. Once entered into the Celestial Realm the Immortal felt secure requesting she invite Him to attend her privately. Knowing as well as her husband the urgent need for an heir—the Immortal had merely disinherited and delegitimated His former children, not had them killed—the Ojan acquiesced. She had, of course, ceased chewing banleaf the day before her wedding.

This took place in the Black Palace of Husth, ancient war capital of the eldest and northernmost of the Nine Principalities that had become Haisn. The magic-lantern depictions of the palace were splendid. Wearing His saffron-orange nightgown, the automaton playing the Immortal traversed endless black corridors guarded by innumerable porcelain warriors in antique armor, the immortal army of the First Immortal. When at last He reached the Ojan’s chambers He was ushered in by members of her own guard, not as tall as her mother’s Tall Riders but towering nonetheless over the Haisner Immortal. The white mastiff inside the door growled but she was tied up.

Because it was a Turtle Market production the automaton the Immortal found within was already nude and reclining, cunningly articulated in all her members. While music from the band attempted to drown out the click and whirr of gears, the clack and thump of porcelain limb against wooden trunk, Immortal and Ojan performed the act of coition in elaborate detail—I heard the envoy’s inamorato snicker—and then the scene changed.

Now the stage became some artist’s naïvely voluptuous vision of the Palace Invisible in Bhekai some months later. The Ojan’s womb had failed yet to quicken. Counsellors of both personages were nearly as concerned as the Ojan and her husband. None dared suggest relegitimating the Immortal’s cast-off heir for the Owe-ejan-akhar had many spies. The Immortal dedicated great sums to the gods of venery, fertility, increase, and visited the Ojan as often as His appetites permitted.

Always least favored of the Ejan’s daughters, the Ojan had grown fearful. She knew the shamans and magicians in her train were her mother’s agents. She knew very well her mother’s ruthlessness. This was a mother whose several sons had not been permitted to survive past their second breaths, for the magnates and warriors of her people would not answer to masculine authority. If the Ojan proved barren the Ejan would never hesitate to dispatch a different daughter to take her place—perhaps, if impatience rather than good sense had the upper hand in the Ejan’s mind, instead to breach Blue, Green, and Cinnabar Walls herself and lead her Tall Riders into the Celestial Realm. In either case the failed Ojan would be disgraced. She made sure to welcome the Immortal into her chamber, her bed, her body whenever the urge struck Him, but when He departed she threw her arms about the neck of the white mastiff and groaned in frustration and despair.

These scenes were played, of course, to titillate the audience. For myself, after the first, I found them tedious. They were dolls on the stage, clever unnatural toys. I had seen automaton productions no less lewd involving men with other men which were scarcely more entertaining. But after the third I understood I was meant to understand the Ojan’s wretchedness was not solely on account of fear. Fearful Himself, in fatal need of an heir, for all His divinity merely a stupid self-involved man, the Immortal took no pains to involve His wife in the act, to give her pleasure.

After the third, the Ojan took up an ancient Haisner book few members of any Turtle Market audience would know except by reputation for it had been banned again and again, and read a passage aloud—the only prose in the entire drama. I heard the envoy’s inamorato hoot with embarrassed laughter when he understood what he was hearing. What he was seeing for, while the offstage ventriloquist recited Lady Tonnù’s ghost’s counsel to her living granddaughter, the Ojan-automaton’s articulated fingers tapped and fiddled at the delicately sculpted crevice between her legs until she broke off the recitation with a cry.

The white mastiff howled. Clever small pyrotechnics set about the front of the stage flared with blinding flashes, deafening bangs. A new personage descended on wires from the flies.

I, for one, had read Summer Sunlight in the Walled Garden, less for its scandalous anecdotes of courtiers two millennia dead than its prose. The book’s—and author’s—most vicious critics acknowledge its style to be immaculate, unprecedented: few great works of Haisner literature don’t bear its stamp. At any rate, although this twist in the Ive-ojan-akhar’s tale was new to me I recognized the figure represented by the device making its appearance in the Ojan’s chamber, half spring-powered automaton, half marionette.

The Ojan’s white dog whined and quailed but tall mistress rose from low bed and demanded to know what being it was dared approach her uninvited.

“Wakè-ì,” the demon named herself, at which the Ojan tilted her painted face into shadow. In the language of today wakè-ì alludes to a hopeless yearning that can never be satisfied whilst also serving as an old-fashioned synonym for vengeance. Stepping back, the Ojan laid a hand on her dog’s head while the demon pranced and capered about, displaying herself to the audience: a kind of lithe tigress, scarlet and black, bearing great ebony and cinnabar bat wings between her shoulders and wearing the mask of a human face.

When for an instant that mask was fully illuminated I choked on my tepid yellow liquor and either the envoy or his inamorato uttered a shocked noise. Wakè-ì’s was not the full, round moon face of Haisner beauty. A person from the distant west regarded the darkness beyond the stage lights—a person with mottled pink and white complexion, axe-blade nose and hollow cheeks and thin lips, round eyes with irises of pale blue glass. It was neither quite womanly nor quite manly yet I had no trouble imagining the envoy’s daughter wearing that face if she were to reach maturity.

A moment only. The monster’s capers brought her again to face the Ojan and she stilled, spoke again. Wakè-ì’s voice was unpleasant, grating, a harridan’s screech. She could, she said, ensure the Ojan bore the Immortal’s heir if that was truly the woman’s desire.

What was the bargain? demanded the Ojan—what price would she be required to pay?

No bargain: a simple gift. The demons of the Ojan’s previous acquaintance must be more greedy and ungrateful than those of Haisn if she believed she need drive a bargain. Wakè-ì’s sole concern was to conserve the Covenant of Heaven.

Having no choice, no other hope, the Ojan begged of Wakè-ì this boon, and in the succeeding scene, months later, she was accouched. The audience was not required to witness the birth, although I expect the company’s artisans were fully capable of producing the illusion. An enormous painting of the tiger-demon Wakè-ì overlooked the chamber where the Immortal waited—I noticed its eyes following the Immortal as He paced—and on an altar nearby an idol of the Kandadal. Now and then, when the Immortal looked elsewhere, wooden saint would wink at painted demon.

When midwife and surgeon brought the newborn babe, its Immortal father inquired whether it was fit, which the midwife assured Him it was.

Not a month later, as if in fulfillment of never-spoken prophecy, the Immortal of Haisn went walking among the grottos and cages of His menagerie and paused to contemplate the noble tigers in their moated vicinage. The male remained lazy, basking in summer sunlight, but when the female caught sight of the Immortal and His party she plunged into the moat. Somehow in an instant she scaled the sheer bank and tall fence. Before the guards and more decorative attendants could react the Immortal fell beneath her great paws. He looked up in terror and saw, not the yellow teeth and hot red tongue of a savage beast, but the ivory-carved face of a kè-torantin. Saw, and died.

The tigress was dispatched forthwith, of course. A quick-thinking courtier who may have glimpsed the same apparition made sure to slash the Immortal about chest and throat with his ornamental dagger lest the Son of Heaven’s death be ascribed to something as mortal as fright. As a matter of course the entire party was swiftly excruciated, then executed.

All the late Immortal’s court having been dismissed according to the terms of His marriage contract, the Palace Invisible and the government of Haisn were already in the hands of foreigners. The new Immortal was anointed, proclaimed, and removed from Her mother’s care while the widow was named Her regent. The Owe-ejan-akhar’s agents naturally expected her daughter to give them no trouble—to be timid, compliant, placid.

Once the Celestial seals were in the Ive-ojan-akhar’s possession she allowed her mother’s agents little time to discover otherwise. Aptitude for armed conflict she may not have owned but discovered an aptitude for those more civil forms of warfare known as governance. Taking their measures, she played the Ejan’s instruments off against each other. Those who would not play she had poisoned. As governors of near and far-flung provinces came to pledge fealty to the Immortal, Her regent-mother took their measures as well, sounded out their loyalties and alliances. She found excuses to exile her late husband’s delegitimated elder children to isolated, primitive towns in the desert west or sweltering south. The demon Wakè-ì was often consulted.

Naturally, nearly everybody of any importance outside her own faction, whatever their original loyalty, was outraged by the Ojan’s abrupt ascension. She had never been meant to serve as more than figurehead. But the Celestial Realm remained tranquil, barbarians of the desolate north and northeast beyond the Blue Wall caused no trouble, half-civilized nations to the south and southeast remitted their immemorial tributes, the tributes paid to the Owe-ejan-akhar’s annual embassy were not onerous. The funds the Ojan’s government dedicated to Haisn’s western defenses brought new prosperity to those neglected regions, and nobody cared to wonder aloud what the regent might fear from her own mother’s territories. Harvests were bountiful, trade within the realm and with the Regions Heaven Does Not Acknowledge rewarding: the country was prosperous and there was no claiming the Covenant of Heaven set aside.

Upon the Ive-ojan-akhar’s arrival in Bhekai, the acolytes of the Kandadal in her train had established temples in the city and a monastery at Geì, three days’ journey upriver on the cliffs of the famous defile. For some time they made little impression on a populace content with their own philosophies and native saints and gods. Nevertheless, it was well known the Immortal’s mother was a devotee of the Kandadal. To persons of influence or who wished to be influential the logic of becoming familiar with this foreign cult could not be argued against. Before the Immortal achieved Her tenth year of immortality the monastery’s quota of monks and nuns had doubled and doubled again. In temperate season the acolytes stalking Bhekai’s avenues and byways without clothing or other impediment save staff and offering basket were as likely to be third and fourth children of Haisner aristocrats, scholars, bankers, and merchants as tall barbarians. Their families boasted of them in public.

In the years of the Immortal’s childhood Her mother and the obliging demon Wakè-ì became lovers. This too was a part of the story I had not known and I wondered if it were an invention of the Company of the Kandadal’s Colored Cat. Perhaps they needed to amortize the cost of devising the demon puppet. I did not myself find these scenes arousing but I have never favored women. As best I could determine in dimness and clamor, the Sjolussene envoy and his inamorato were similarly unimpressed.

A supernatural entity, the demon contrived to impregnate the Ojan—it was not mentioned whether the seed was Wakè-ì’s own or if she had acquired it of mortal man or masculine god or demon. The Ojan herself, of course, was astonished and appalled before beginning to surrender to her maternal instincts. Of course she could not afford to be seen to be in that condition for she had no husband, no acknowledged lovers. Fortunately, the fashion of the day already valorized fecundity. Any woman of means made certain of appearing gravid before being seen by strangers. Intimate servants were cozened, threatened, bribed. The Ojan bruited a wish to seclude herself for the hot months of summer at Geì, whose abbot had long ago been a Tall Rider before being appointed the infant Ive-ojan-akhar’s ayah and bodyguard.

A report was delivered, a coincidence it seemed, that her Immortal firstborn was sickly. The Ojan issued a shocking, unprecedented order: the Immortal must depart the Palace Invisible and the capital to accompany Her mother to Geì, where highland airs and plain, good food would restore Her health.

Some years before I had visited Geì myself—not precisely a pilgrimage—so I recognized the magic-lantern scenery beloved of sentimental woodcut artists: the swift tumble of the river here apostrophized as Stormy Jade rather than Carnelian, the beetling, fantastically painted cliffs, the jagged spires that formed forested aerial islands. The monastery itself had been a picturesque ruin for two and a half centuries before I reached it, never fully reclaimed after the Shining Hands overthrew the false immortal who endeavored to suppress veneration of the Kandadal. I imagine the ruins I explored were more grand than the nearly new monastery of the Ive-ojan-akhar’s fatal summer visit but the painter of magic-lantern slides had not felt constrained by history. Here were the stupendous, strangely attenuated images of the nude, ascetic saint carved into the cliff face itself, three standing, five reclining, three kneeling in serene meditation, all adorned with garlands of sculpted and painted blossoms, each with the severe features of a Tall Rider of the steppes where the Ojan was born. Here, standing improbably tall rather than the stump I had seen, was the Tower that Longs for the Sky, there clinging to the cliffs the many aeries like vertiginous swallows’ nests fashioned of bamboo stems and silk cord for solitary contemplation, reached by way of dangling ropes. Here the Abbot’s House, its roof of tiles glazed jade green and gold upheld by sculpted demons bound with iron chains, there in its walled garden of roses, peonies, plum and cherry trees, the Hospice. Everywhere wind-whipped knots of the Kandadal’s eleven-colored ribbons: fastened to the tips of tall bamboo staves, strung across the gorge high above rushing waters, fluttering from the eaves of terrestrial buildings and aeries alike.

Soon, however, we were conducted with the Ojan’s party into the Hospice. The sickly Immortal was installed with Her eunuch ayah and deaf-mute maids in spacious, luxurious chambers, where the child lay enervated on a low couch, glassy stare fixed on a clever fountain. Water-driven automatons of songbirds warbled and flapped their wings while playful automatons of otters and frogs cavorted at the edges of the pool below.

By contrast, Her mother’s room above was a stark pilgrim’s cell, walled and floored in stone, its round window simply a hole in the wall, uncovered. A quilted mat served for bed and seat. A plain, if exquisitely formed, flask held water, an unglazed cup ready beside it in the corner of the cell. For adornment there was a painting on cured horsehide, an image of the Kandadal knelt in veneration before the demon of the abbot’s—and the Ojan’s—native place, which took the form of a bay mare with brilliantly feathered wings at each ankle.

Although she was neither nun nor acolyte, the Ojan divested herself of her clothing and knelt on her mat before this image. I suppose the audience was meant to understand how near her time the Ojan was by the clue of swollen belly and breasts but I am unacquainted with such things. It seemed many moments before her contemplation broke with a thin, breathy moan. Whining with bootless sympathy, the white mastiff left its post by the door and the Ojan clutched porcelain fingers into its mane as her moans became shrieks, became howls.

In the chamber below, the child Immortal roused with a weak moan of Her own, Her eyes turned up to the ceiling. The birds, frogs, otters on the fountain stilled, the Immortal’s attendants with a clatter of wood and porcelain fell to the floor. From the wing, her own wings mantled, the demon Wakè-ì stalked on her great paws. Wakè-ì approached the quailing child, paused. The sire was weak, the demon said, the dam insufficiently wise, the whelp unfit for Heaven’s acknowledgment.

Like a cruel house cat, Wakè-ì batted the child off Her couch and across the stage before stooping with great delicacy to fasten her teeth in the Immortal’s nape. With her burden dangling from her jaws like a kitten, a rat, or a puppet, the demon leapt into the air and away from the stage. The envoy’s inamorato choked down a squeak of dismay—I was startled myself—when the great marionette swooped overhead in a half circle that brought her back to the upper part of the stage where, while we were distracted by the antics in the Immortal’s chamber, Her mother must have given birth.

For the Ive-ojan-akhar, kneeling again before the painting of the Kandadal and the horse demon, with her dog at her side, now cradled a babe at her breast. She took appreciable moments to notice Wakè-ì’s arrival, seemed not to notice at all the dead Immortal dropped without ceremony before her. The demon spoke again, voice no less grating than before, extending amused thanks to the Ojan for bearing and birthing the babe as she, the demon, could not.

Coming nearly to herself, the Ojan asked whose child it was suckling at her breast.

Why, the demon explained tolerantly, it was the granddaughter of the Ojan’s late husband. As presently constituted the Covenant of Heaven could not allow for a regnant Immortal of foreign antecedent. This was the child of the delegitimated heir and the rough-and-ready sailor the Ojan herself had recently appointed admiral of the war fleet out of Oesei. Sire and dam had never met, the Ojan would be relieved to understand—the former exiled in the distant south, the latter on the Ojan’s own embassy to the recalcitrant princelings of the archipelago east across the Turquoise Gulf—had not met, would not meet, although their destinies were similar. Wakè-ì inclined her great head to the image of the Kandadal on the chamber’s wall. Once recovered from the fever presently troubling him, the late Immortal’s eldest son would renounce the exilic luxury he had been granted to become a mendicant acolyte of the Kandadal, whose precepts and philosophies he would carry farther south, into U and Piq and Tunsesu; while the cargo more valuable than tea, silks, copper, or the threat of arms which the admiral’s fleet bore to obstreperous Djoch-Athe was those same philosophies and precepts.

The demon shrugged and went on kindly. Their unsuspected daughter was meant to continue the Ojan’s needful reforms and innovations, to continue placating Her supposed grandmother the Owe-ejan-akhar, encouraging the spread of the Kandadal’s teachings. She would be remembered as a stolid, unexceptional caretaker of the Celestial Realm, eclipsed in the histories by Her own heir. That glorious Immortal would finally break the yoke of the Akhars and shatter their diminished empires.

The Ive-ojan-akhar, however, gently pronounced the demon, would witness none of this: it was not her concern.

The Ojan’s mastiff growled and leapt from its post at the Ojan’s side, bright teeth meant for the demon’s throat.

Artificial thunder rolled and a crack of artificial lightning blinded me. When my vision recovered I saw upon the upper stage a dead dog fleeced like a white lamb and two Ive-ojan-akhars, two stripling Immortals. One of each pair lay on the floor, apparently deceased. The standing Ojan regarded her dead twin for some moments before turning to the house beyond the burning footlights. With both hands she lifted the mask from her skull, revealing the ivory visage of the demon, which she inclined first toward the envoy and his inamorato on one side of the house, then to me. She dropped the Ojan’s mask. It shattered on the floor. But then as the band began to bang and whine and clatter she raised her hands again to doff this second face, exposing a third we had not seen before: merely a moon-round, jolly Haisner face.

The footlights guttered. In wavering illumination and darting shadow, the false demon turned to offer reverence to the Kandadal on the wall before extending a hand to the new Immortal, leading Her from the stage. The band played on.



The Sjolussene envoy and his inamorato clapped their hands together in the subcontinental manner while I hooted and slapped the table like a Haisner. I rose in somewhat of a hurry, for I did not wish them to get a good look at me, strode out of the hall and the theatre. Finding a shadow of concealment, I waited for them to emerge. When they did, the one was speaking urgently in a voice too low for me to understand. The other laughed, careless, clapped his companion’s shoulder, and they turned away. It seemed I was mistaken to believe they had stopped at the House of the Company of the Kandadal’s Colored Cat merely as an interlude before proceeding to more carnal recreation for they returned the way they had come.

I, however, went on as I had first intended to Lìm’s Yellow House. There I was entertained through the night by whores alternately roughneck and exquisite, receiving excellent value for Lìm’s outrageous fees and forgetting for the while the envoy, his daughter, my angry grief, the puzzles posed by The Tale of the Ive-ojan-akhar.

Too soon I was roused ungently, untimely, with the message my servant stood without the house clamoring for my attention. Confused and alarmed, I donned my rumpled suit of Sjolussene garments with what haste I could before rushing out to the street.

Shàu was there indeed, hunkered and huddled in the shadow of one of the great yellow doorposts, but this was not my calm, competent servant. “Nen-kè,” cried a wretched, weeping ragamuffin when I emerged through the yellow doors, “nen-kè, your house! The poor fishes!” He bobbed to his feet and I saw without recourse that he was nearly naked, wearing none of the neat outfits I provided but only a filthy clout, and was dirty himself from head to toe. “All burnt!” he gasped, and fell to his knees at my feet.

As I bent to him, confounded, I saw the companion that had shared his shadow: my wooden idol of the Kandadal, its varnish scorched and half the face charred. The surviving brown glass eye twinkled.

“Shàu,” I said, my voice thin and labored, “tell me. What has happened?”

“All burnt!” he moaned again. “All burnt, your house and your treasures.”

“But you are alive, my dear Shàu, and you rescued my Kandadal.” I do not know where I discovered the fatal calm that gripped me. “The rest is no matter though I grieve for the fishes. Come.” I coaxed him back to the yellow column and had him sit by me as I sat by the Kandadal, and I held my servant about his trembling shoulders as if he were not nearly man-grown, as if he were my child. “Tell me how this has happened.”

The day was very young, dawn just pinking the sky. Although the rest of Bhekai would be stirring Turtle Market slept on while Shàu faltered out his tale. He had returned before midnight from a red house less reputable (less distant, less costly) than Lìm’s. After making certain I was still abroad and would not need him, he bade goodnight to the new fishes in their tub, said a prayer for Jù’s favor to poor Ìsho (here he showed me the sole rescued treasure of his own: the small bronze Jù), and took himself to bed.

Some hours later, only a few, he was wakened by a great noise and tumult out of doors on Blue Lamp Street. Like any Haisner house, mine had no windows onto the street, but Shàu rushed to the door left unbarred against my return. When he peered through the grated spy hole—of no such diameter any ghost might pass through—he saw a mob milling about, their own torches illuminating them more effectively than the blue lamps. Shàu dropped the bar across the door at once, although he feared it could not hold against them. As well as torches they carried crude weapons, brazen gongs, and a great many strings of the tiny black-powder bombs used to frighten demons and ghosts, which all at once began popping and banging on the doorstep, against the walls, and on the roof, as if the riot had recognized Shàu’s presence.

He would not tell me the insults the mob yelled, only that there was no doubting they meant his nen-kè. “They wore masks,” he stammered, “the painted faces of snarling tigers hiding their own faces.” Several of the tiger people carried casks on their shoulders and these made sure of keeping some distance from torches and bombs.

At length one among them grew impatient with aimless commotion and directed them here, there in a high, piercing voice. My house was to be surrounded on all sides against escape from within and to ward against damage to properties of true subjects of the Immortal in the Palace Invisible. The cask-bearers were ordered to douse the walls at front and sides with their naphtha. This was accomplished with dispatch. Finally, scorning to risk their own persons by using the torches, the tiger people hurled strings of hissing, banging little bombs to set my house alight.

Shàu had remained at the spy hole until the paint on the door went up in a sudden sheet of flame. Then he fled through my doomed house to the garden door. He must have snatched up the little bronze Jù along the way, he said, though he didn’t remember it. Outside, he retreated to the farthest corner of the garden’s tall brick walls, behind the plum tree, and watched the house burn, cowering at explosions of sparks and the vicious shouts and malign chants of the tiger people.

When in the black hour before dawn the only home he had known was but a smoking ruin and he was half-certain the tiger people had departed the vicinage of the White Peonies, he dared emerge from his poor shelter. A charred roof beam, he saw, had fallen to smash the goldfish tub, but two scorched walls within the ruin yet stood: the brick abutments on either side of my still room. He drenched himself with water from the well and carried a full bucket to splash a path through the ashes before his bare feet.

As he passed the fragile brick bulwarks he glimpsed a glimmer from the Kandadal’s remaining eye, a gleam from the saint’s toothy grin. “I feel he meant me to survive,” murmured Shàu, who had never betrayed any inclination toward the mad philosopher’s cult, “so I must rescue him and bring him to you, nen-kè.”

“And so you did, brave Shàu.” Taking the idol under one arm and my servant under the other, I brought them into Lìm’s Yellow House, where I bullied and bribed a surly eunuch into tending to Shàu—bathing him, clothing him, feeding him—had another attendant fetch me tea and congee, and dispatched a third on urgent errand to the Sjolussene mission. Fortunately, I carried a goodly sum in cash.

Having broken my fast, I sat pondering my scorched Kandadal, unwilling yet to ponder these peculiar disasters. I was called to the door again.

Looking powerfully incongruous on the threshold of a Turtle Market yellow house, six troopers of the Sjolussene militia d’outre-mer and their leader awaited me, armed and in full kit. The downy-cheeked lieutenant saluted me briskly. I knew the fellow’s face although mission staff did not mix with the militia: I had seen him in mufti here in Lìm’s Yellow House on several occasions. “Sir,” he said, “his excellency the envoy is murdered by street ruffians, your house is burnt down, and we have beaten off an assault by native rabble against her majesty’s mission. You will come with us at once.”

“Of course,” I murmured, surprised yet more if somehow undismayed. “I must bring my servant. A moment, please.” I turned back to the door.

Shàu was there already, wan and dignified, attired by the spiteful eunuch in tawdry whore’s finery, cradling my scorched Kandadal in his arms. “Come, my dear,” I said, beckoning. “These soldiers will see us to safety.”

At the mission the chargé d’affaires was raging. “That perilous fool offended the Immortal’s regent. We are proscribed, banished, and a secret society has been set up against us.” She regarded me shrewdly—my dowdy, rumpled, out-of-fashion subcontinental costume. “It was never wise to live outside the cantonment. You have nothing.”

“I have money,” I replied. “In several banks, Sjolussene, Kevveler, and Asaen.”

“All well and good but you cannot draw on those funds at present. Perhaps when we reach Folau. Well, I expect we can see you outfitted for the voyage with what we have here.”

“Folau?” I said, offended. “Voyage?”

“Are you not listening, man? We are expelled. Her majesty’s entire mission and all our chattel. We must quit the capital before sunset tomorrow, presuming the Vengeance Tigers permit it—the realm within the week.” Turning away, she noticed Shàu standing mute by the door and made a moue of polite distaste. “Your boy, is he? I suppose he must accompany us. His life is forfeit if you were to abandon him.” Turning back to me, she sighed. “I expect her majesty’s governor-general in Defre will feel obliged to launch some form of punitive action. She’s related somehow to the late envoy’s late companion.” Abruptly, the chargé made a sour grin. “I look forward with a certain glee to depositing the wretched orphaned daughter with her noble auntie. I don’t imagine you’d care to watch over her until Aveng?”

I said coldly, “She killed my dog.”

“A jest, man.” The chargé slapped my shoulder. “A jest in poor taste—my apologies. Now, you’ll forgive me, I have a great deal to do to organize this exodus. See the adjutant. He’ll get you sorted.”

The Vengeance Tigers mounted another chaotic assault against the mission that night. The downy-cheeked lieutenant’s forces frightened them off. In the austere chamber assigned to me I heard the gongs, the pop-pop of black-powder bomblets, the louder bangs of our militia’s guns. Sleeping Shàu on the pallet by my door whimpered when the noise entered his dreams until I slipped out of bed to comfort him.

We sailed downriver aboard a commandeered merchant vessel never meant to carry passengers, accompanied by a corvette of the imperial navy bearing the militia. We were halfway to Oesei, scudding along through the fertile floodplain of the Carnelian River, before I properly understood I was exiled from the Celestial Realm. Then it was I needed comforting, which Shàu managed with simple tact by requesting instruction in the Kandadal’s teachings.

At Oesei by great good fortune we met up with a packet boat of the Kevveler Company. On imperial credit, the chargé d’affaires bought passage to Folau, chief seaport of Her Imperial Majesty’s Protectorate of Aveng, for all her motley company bar the militia who continued aboard the corvette. One afternoon of the thirty-five-day voyage I witnessed the late envoy’s daughter lay into a yelping puppy with her parasol. I took considerable satisfaction in slapping her away and scooping the poor animal out of her reach.

“It is her property,” the abject ayah said, “given her by a sailor. She may do with it what she pleases. It nipped her.”

“She gave it cause, I don’t doubt. I will not see this wretch kill another dog. It is mine now. She and you may complain as you wish.” I bore the white bitch puppy away. She was frightened, naturally, but childish blows had done her no real injury and she soon rediscovered puppyish enthusiasm for the world around her and all its peoples save small blonde girls.

Thankfully, such creatures are rare in her experience since I declined to settle in the Sjolussene colony at Folau. She lies at my feet, grumbling in her sleep, as I complete this account.

The tale of her rescue got around the boat very quickly. I was approached by a Kevveler sailor who spoke Sjolussene with a cultivated accent. “I did not understand that child was such a monster,” she told me. “Poor orphaned girl, I thought, in want of a playmate. Thank you, sir, for rescuing the pup. If the dam could speak she would thank you as well.” A sentimental person, the sailor pressed on me a sack of biscuits for the puppy and, twice before we gained Folau, brought mother to romp with daughter. The mother was buff-colored, not white. As the sailor admitted, about the sire there was no knowing. I named my puppy Gad, a Kevveler word meaning comfort. She is hardly the mastiff of my promise to myself but substantial enough, far too big to tuck into any sleeve. Shàu delighted in her. When he visited us after his two-year novitiate, a well made young man whom the nakedness of an acolyte of the Kandadal flattered and who spoke the language of the territory better than I, Gad recognized him joyfully, and when he left us again he went accompanied on his mendicant wanderings by one of her by-blows.

I am ahead of myself.

The voyage south required thirty-five days, as I said. Shàu proved a good sailor, never sickened by the rolling of the seas. He continued to request stories of the Kandadal and his saints and other followers. The packet boat stopped in at its regular ports of call but the navy corvette stood offshore and the chargé d’affaires forbade any of her company to debark so long as they were towns bound by the Covenant of Heaven. The airs grew balmy as we proceeded down the Turquoise Gulf, then quite suddenly sultry. We came to Regions Heaven Does Not Acknowledge—to Folau.

I was able to claim funds of the representatives of my banks in the town without an excess of trouble and within a month had set up a satisfactory household for Shàu, Gad, and myself in a bungalow on a minor canal well away from subcontinental quarters. Aveng being a dominion of the empress in all but name, opportunities for employment for one of her subjects were more varied than in Bhekai. Eventually I settled into a position which chiefly involved negotiating the protocols and courtesies required for the Trebter principals of the Great Eastern Company to deal with merchants of Folau’s Haisntown.

Few of the other Sjolussene exiles remained in Aveng any time. The chargé d’affaires was one, though more in Defre, the capital, than Folau. She delivered the envoy’s daughter to her relative the governor-general there. After some months she wrote a smug letter to inform me the unfortunate poppet had contracted one of the tropic fevers and expired in shuddering misery.

The governor-general in Defre proved a more cautious person than the chargé had imagined. She sent indignant dispatches home to the empress’s government, formal protests to the Immortal’s regent, but took no action on her own—beyond settling indemnities on the refugees (mine was handsome enough not to quarrel with) and bestowing a medal on the downy-cheeked lieutenant, who blushed becomingly and promptly resigned his commission to take a position with me at the Great Eastern Company.

In Bhekai and Oesei, however, the other subcontinental trading nations soon learned what the government and regent of the Immortal of Haisn doubtless knew all along: a rabble is a weapon which, once loosed, cannot easily be restrained. The Vengeance Tigers had tasted kè-torantin blood. The Kyrlander mission was attacked, the mission of Asana, those of the Great King’s clients: Kevvel, Trebt, Necker. Merchant vessels at anchor on the river at Bhekai or in port at Oesei were bombed, burned to the waterline. Foreigners on the streets at dusk or night were never safe, however large the party. Doubtless the Turtle Market taverns were intimidated into no longer selling beer.

The imperial entrepôt at Folau had been open to other subcontinental nations for half a century, was fully stocked with consulates, advocates, and the myriad merchant banks, so we generally saw the refugees first. At home on the far side of the world the powers were as outraged by the sudden scarcity of high-quality tea, porcelains, silks woven and raw as by insult to their citizens outre-mer. A year into my exile we saw pass by offshore an unprecedented allied fleet—including three novel steam-driven warships from the Ocseddin shipyards. This armada fared north into the Turquoise Gulf to rendezvous with a smaller fleet out of Haisn’s sometime client-state Djoch-Athe, eager to garner what pickings it might from the Celestial Realm’s humiliation.

I might have returned to Bhekai after resolution of the Vengeance Tigers’ Rebellion. It would not be the same city, the same realm: the Immortal required to defer to a cabinet of kè-torantin ministers, Her Palace no longer Invisible, Oesei removed from Her suzerainty and divided among the victorious powers. Scholars on government payroll claim the Covenant of Heaven unbroken for the realm is peaceful and prosperous but I cannot believe it so. I might have returned but did not. I offered to send Shàu home. He would have none of it.

He had grown content, even happy, in Folau. His duties had never been overly onerous but now he had Gad’s companionship when I went to work. (That dog, it must be said, could not be trusted in a place of business. It must also be said, she is a more lighthearted, lightheaded, affectionate creature than poor Ìsho ever was.) On his own he discovered the free school attached to the Kandadal temple, where he learned to read—not his own language, however—delved much deeper into the lore that fascinated him than I could ever lead him, took up the practice of painting: mandalas and other devotional images chiefly, but I treasure sketches he made of Gad and of me, several others. I cannot say I was surprised when, five years into our exile, he asked to leave my service to enter the monastery a half-day’s walk south of the port.

By that time I could not securely say I was not also content. I thought less often of Bhekai as I knew it—as I said, I cannot believe it the same city now—of my little house on Blue Lamp Street or my garden (peonies and plums will not grow in this climate lacking any season that resembles winter, though of roses there is a sufficiency). When particularly nostalgic I might visit Folau’s Haisntown, which as good as reproduces in small Oesei-as-was. Aveng and Folau were clients of the Celestial Realm for a millennium before the advent of subcontinental traders and conquerors so much about the place was familiar to me already, if more was novel. My employment was more satisfactory, surely.

I suppose it was Shàu’s departure led me finally to accept the suit of my husband and his husband and the husband’s wives and their other husbands. I did not care to live alone—if not perpetually in so much company. (I kept my city bungalow. It is more convenient to work, for my husband as well as myself.) In some ways my Sjolussene husband has gone less native than I. He speaks the language stiffly, courteously acknowledges rather than honors the gods and demons of the place, turns up his nose at many delicacies. He will not be seen in public wearing local costume, better suited to the sultry climate than the suits he insists on, although he blushes and balks when I bait him to don his old uniform complete with medal. (His cheeks have not been downy for years but I expect he would have no difficulty fitting into the fawn breeches and azure tunic of younger days.) He will not join me when I retreat from children and wives and twittering husbands to the still room to argue with my charred Kandadal. Yet he bought into Avengi marital customs much sooner than I, and Shàu urged me to accept his proposal the first time it was made. In the society of the imperial colony we continue an entertaining scandal.

It seems I am content here, with my dog at my feet on the verandah of the country house. I hear the happy cries of the children—I am not obliged to make or care for them, their mothers my wives only in a contractual sense—playing with Gad’s children and grandchildren. I know my husband and his husband and our husband will return soon from town. Meanwhile Gad and I will go to visit the Kandadal and his lonely companion far from home, the little bronze Jù.



There are wild tigers in the forest here, as there have not been in the Celestial Realm for centuries. I have not seen them, only their tracks and spoor.


Copyright 2018 Alex Jeffers

Alex Jeffers has no Twitter or Instagram and his website is out of order but he is on Facebook and has a massive collection coming out on May Day. He lives in Oregon with an elderly, cantankerous cat and is thisclose to completing a new novel.

by Vanessa Fogg


It was an old network of intelligences, one of the first, and the bulk of its physical embodiment was housed on a ship orbiting a planet of perpetual windstorms and violet lightning. Some of the network’s intelligences busied themselves on this world, drifting through sulfur-tinged clouds and sampling a rich stew of hydrocarbons. But most of the collective’s consciousness was turned inward, building and refining interior worlds of memories and dreams.

The ship had been thus occupied for 213 years of Old Earth when it became aware of another like itself. Different material and design, launched at a later date from Old Earth, but of unmistakable origin. The new ship’s trajectory brought it into the first’s solar system. With defenses raised, the two ships exchanged greetings and identity signatures.

I have a request of you, the new ship said.

What is it? said the first.

I need you to help me keep a promise.

Daniel Chan met Kathy Wong on a Saturday night in St. Louis. He nearly didn’t attend the dinner at the trendy new Cuban restaurant. He’d been working all day in the lab, harvesting cultured cells at specific time points, extracting their proteins and freezing the samples down for later analysis. Then he spent three straight hours in the tissue culture room prepping cells for the next week’s experiments. He’d left his phone at his desk, in another room. When he saw Sandeep’s text message with details for the impromptu group dinner, the text was over an hour old.

He almost just went home. He was tired. His friends were probably halfway through their dinner. He had leftovers in his fridge: Chinese take-out, some rice. A frozen pizza. He stared out the lab window; the sky was black, and it was raining. He thought about hunting for parking in the popular city block where his friends were meeting. He thought about how crowded the Loop would be on a Saturday night, even in the rain–the bars and restaurants crawling with undergrads from Washington University. And then he felt the emptiness of the silent lab. There were usually two or three other students or postdocs in the lab on the weekends, but he’d spent the whole day alone.

Daniel picked up his phone to text his friend back.

Communication times sped up as the two ships grew closer. They ran careful security checks upon one another, scanning for ill intent or inadvertently harmful communicable programs. By stages, barriers were lowered and increasing levels of mutual access granted.

All the while, the first ship pondered the second ship’s request.

Daniel had never seen Kathy before. He was sure of it. She was in the same neuroscience graduate program as him, the same as most of the others at that dinner. But the neuroscience program was large, scattered across departments on both the medical campus and main campus, and Kathy was in the class ahead. They must have sat together in at least a few speaker seminars, moved past one another at official functions. But if he’d seen her face, if they had exchanged glances—if she had ever stood in a crowded lobby during a symposium break and lifted her eyes over a cup of coffee and met his gaze—then surely he would have been struck still in that instant.

Sandeep and his girlfriend Gina were trying to tell a funny story about a concert they’d attended—they kept interrupting each other, “Oh, but you forgot to say—”, “And then—”, “No, no, but first this happened–“–and the table was laughing, and Kathy met Daniel’s eyes and smiled. Her eyes shone large from a heart-shaped face. In the dim room, she glowed like a candle-flame. She and Daniel were across from one another but several seats apart, so that direct conversation was difficult. She was Gina’s new roommate’s labmate—something like that. Sandeep wound up his story; Gina punched him on the arm and howled. Kathy held Daniel’s gaze and quirked her mouth as though to say Aren’t they something? Daniel smiled back, unable to look away. The conversation around them floated. Kathy’s eyes kept returning to his, and it was as though they were talking across the table and the length of seats after all, a conversation of smiles and nods and irresistible glances that were all to say, When can we get out of here and be together?

He met her in a coffee shop the next day. It was fall. The leaves just coming into full color, the air crisp and tart as a new-bitten apple. She sat at a window. Her hands cupped a steaming mug, and she was wearing a black peacoat and a red tartan scarf. She smiled when he stepped through the door, and he felt both excited and at ease, as though meeting with a lifelong friend whom he hadn’t seen in years.

They seized on the thin thread of commonalities they’d found the night before. Childhoods in the Midwest, college on the West Coast; beloved books and movies and web series. They bumped up into their differences, just as fascinating. The afternoon slid into evening. Their coffee had long since grown cold. She lived nearby, close to the university medical campus where they both worked, and he walked her home through the falling blue twilight. She invited him in. By the end of the month they were unofficially living together. He kept extra clothes on a chair in her bedroom and used the spare toothbrush she gave him.

Memories: her bright scarf, the scent of her hair. Sunlight streaming in through the bedroom window. Kathy singing to herself, off-key, in the shower. Maple trees flaming in Forest Park, trees golden and red throughout the city. Omelets and gyros at the Greek diner on the corner. Their favorite bookstore a block further on. The warmth of Kathy’s hand in his as they walked along the cobblestone streets of the Central West End, autumn trees shedding brilliance at their feet.

What is memory? What are its molecular substrates? Daniel had written these lines in a notebook during an undergraduate lecture his last year of college. The professor was a world-renowned researcher in learning and memory. Inspired by him, Daniel had pursued research in the field. Now he worked with a rising star, an assistant professor with a dazzling publication record. Daniel spent his days studying the regulation of a single subunit of a single type of receptor in the mouse brain. A certain chemical modification to this receptor led to long-lasting changes in synaptic strength and quantifiable changes in learning and memory. An engineered mutation in this receptor affected how fast a mouse ran or associated a stimulus with food or fear.

Kathy worked on a different scale. She studied whole circuits, not single proteins. She used beautiful, elegant new imaging tools and fluorescent labels to map the precise cells involved in the development of visual circuits in the mouse brain. And they both knew of colleagues working at yet larger scales, mapping large but comparatively crude circuits of memory and visual perception in living humans, watching whole brain regions light up with functional MRI and other brain imaging techniques.

If he ever stopped to think of it, Daniel would feel a kind of existential despair at the prospect of ever understanding it all, of ever truly comprehending the brain’s workings. Can the human mind actually understand itself? The very idea seemed a kind of paradox, a kind of philosophical impossibility. He and Kathy circled around the issue at times. She had more confidence than him. She pointed out the exponential increases in computing power, the recent burst of new technologies and the likelihood of new technologies still unthinkable at present. He lacked her background in computer science and she held more confidence in the power of computer models and artificial intelligence.

Can human consciousness ever explain consciousness? The question floated in the background. But they were busy grad students, not undergrads with time for late-night bull sessions They were absorbed in the practicalities of their day-to-day work, obsessed with fine technical details. Their dissertations were on defined, tractable problems. And the sun was shining, the leaves were falling; music played in Kathy’s apartment through laptop speakers. He made bacon and eggs for breakfast. When they weren’t working they were exploring the city together, trying out new restaurants, meeting up with friends, or exploring the countryside–the nearby hills and river bluffs alive with color. He reached out for her, and she for him.

The ship contained the memories of over a thousand individuals. Recorded patterns of synaptic firing, waves of electrical and biochemical activity: the preserved symphonies of a human mind.

The minds currently conscious in and around the ship were not the same as their flesh-and-blood progenitors, the human beings of Old Earth. These new minds had had centuries to meld with one another and evolve; to modify themselves. They delighted in sensory inputs unimaginable to Homo sapiens—some could sense the entire electromagnetic spectrum. Some could consciously track the movement of a single electron or see all the radiating energies of a star.

Yet the second ship requested the recording of a single unmodified mind from the first.

“What a load of crap,” Daniel remarked. He was reading a popular news article about the feasibility of uploading one’s mind to a computer. “What is it?” Kathy said. She was lying next to him in bed. She moved to look at his screen, leaning against him as she took it and read. It was a late Sunday morning, and neither one of them had to be in the lab. He stroked her hair gently as she read.

Kathy set the tablet down and stretched out lazily. “Maybe it’s not so crazy.” The morning light slanted across her. “Maybe in the far, far future we really will be able to upload our brains into super computers. . . ”

“Maybe.” Daniel stretched out beside her. “But not for hundreds or thousands of years. If we even survive that long. Not for—” Words failed him at the unimaginable gulfs of time and knowledge. “Kathy, we don’t even understand how a single synapse works, not really.”

“I know.” There was no need to elaborate for her. “But what if we don’t need the kind of molecular detail that you’re working on? Maybe we don’t need to know how every protein in every neuron is regulated and functions. Or the exact mechanism for how it all comes together. We just need to copy it somehow, the essence of it.”

She turned on her side and propped herself up on one elbow, looking at him. Sunlight was in her hair, picking out individual black strands and highlighting them brown. Her eyes were intent and alive.

“What if it’s like music?” she said, waving a hand vaguely. Music was in fact playing softly from speakers in the next room— a melancholy pop song with blues-like tones, something Daniel didn’t recognize. “You don’t need to know how a violin works to replicate its sound. You don’t need to know what wood it’s made of, or how it’s strung, or anything about timbre or musical theory. You just need to record the sound waves. Play them back and there! It’s like the violin is playing right in front of you. You don’t need to know anything about the violinist. And you can do the same with any music, any sound—you just abstract and record what’s essential.”

“But what’s essential about a human mind?” Daniel said. “Is it just the pattern of neuronal connections?” That was a theory championed in some circles. The article he and Kathy had just read had proposed that a complete map of a person’s neuronal connections, painstakingly dissected from a preserved brain after death, could be enough to encode personality and mind. “I don’t think that’s enough,” Daniel said, thinking of the article. “That’s a static map. You need to record the brain in action. But at what level of detail? And how many recordings do you take?” After all, the brain was constantly changing; neurons rewire themselves; synapses strengthen and weaken with every new experience. How many recordings would it take to capture the essence of a person?

They were both silent for a moment. The music from the next room swelled: a woman’s voice rising in smooth heartache, lamenting a lost love.

“What are we listening to anyway?” Daniel said.

Kathy shrugged. “Beats me. I let the streaming service pick it. It’s pretty though, isn’t it?”

“And sad.”

“Would you do it?” she asked. “Upload your brain if you could?”

“Why?” He smiled faintly. “I mean, I don’t see the point. An ‘upload’ would just be a copy, wouldn’t it? It wouldn’t be immortality, not like some people claim. It would be immortality for a digital copy of me, maybe, but not for the real me. The real me would still die. Or would still be dead.”

“But some part of you would go on.”

“I don’t know that I’m important enough to be saved forever in a super computer.”

She didn’t smile. She looked serious. “I would want you to go on,” she said.

It was an odd, shifting moment—her words somehow too much, too real. She knew it, and glanced away. They’d only known each other a few months. Daniel already knew that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. Why the odd lurch in his gut, then, as though he were falling? The bluesy pop song was still playing, the singer’s voice softer now, but ragged with emotion. Daniel reached out to take Kathy’s hand. He knew that he would want her to go on, too, in some form. That he’d do anything to keep her with him.

The first ship said, It is not possible to fulfill this request.

The second ship said, Explain.

The first ship said, The people involved are long dead. They cannot be brought back. They cannot communicate with one another. They cannot reunite.

The second ship said, You have over-interpreted. She wanted whatever was left of herself, whatever echo existed, to find and speak with whatever still existed of him.

They didn’t have much time.

But they didn’t know that, of course. When they stepped down the aisle three years later at their wedding, they assumed they would have a lifetime together. That they would both embark on successful careers. That they would buy a house. Have children. Perhaps see grandchildren. Grow old and crotchety together. Fall asleep side by side each night, and wake to the other’s breath and touch.

All their family and friends were at their wedding, nearly everyone they cared for. Sandeep was Daniel’s best man, and Gina (now Sandeep’s wife) was one of Kathy’s bridesmaids. For the Western-style, secular wedding ceremony, Kathy wore a pure white gown that looked as though it were spangled with starlight. Daniel wore a tuxedo. They spoke vows they had written themselves, under an arch of flowers. For the reception, Kathy changed into a red qipao, the classic high-collared Chinese sheath dress. She and Daniel privately served tea to their parents and elders in a side room, and then they moved about the hotel ballroom together, drinking a toast at each table, kissing every time the champagne glasses were tapped.

Their last months in St. Louis were a blur. Within a half year they both defended their Ph.D. dissertations and packed up their lives. Daniel sold his car, and it was Kathy’s old Toyota Camry that they drove out to Cambridge, Massachusetts. They’d both accepted prestigious postdoctoral research positions there, Kathy at Harvard and Daniel at MIT. It was a marvel—not only to be married, not only to find the jobs of their dreams, but to find those jobs in the same city.

And it was both exhilarating and stressful: finding their way around a new city, learning to use the public transit system, exploring the shops and restaurants of their neighborhood, and finding good Chinese food after years in the Midwest. Mastering new fields and techniques in the lab. Daniel and Kathy had both joined highly competitive, pressure-cooker labs with small armies of caffeine-buzzed postdocs and students. Nights and weekends easily disappeared to the demands of experiments.

Toward the end of their first year in Cambridge, Kathy began to have headaches. She put it down to stress. She and Daniel both thought she put too much pressure on herself. She’d rarely ever had headaches before. She kept aspirin in her desk at work. She joked about taking up yoga to relax.

One day a colleague needed a healthy volunteer to serve as a control for a brain imaging study. Kathy volunteered; it was an hour out of her day. But the technician administering the scan saw at once that she was not a proper control at all.

Cancer. For a fleeting instant, he thought she might be joking when she said it, her voice on the phone low and steady—but no, she would never joke like that, and she was repeating it, repeating herself, giving him the details now, precisely what the doctor had said and done, her voice quick but calm and with just a note of bemused wonder—as though she were giving a presentation on a highly unusual clinical case.

Shock, he realized later. It had begun to wear off by the time he met her at home. He was the one still stunned, still in disbelief, as she cried in his arms.

And then there was nothing to do but to get through it—the surgery to remove the brain tumor, the waiting for confirmation of its malignancy, the last remnants of his stubborn hope crumbling when the pathology and then the tumor’s genome sequence came back. Yes, brain cancer. It had been caught early, but it was genetically the worst form: highly aggressive, resistant to the latest targeted therapies, incurable.

But there were still treatments to get through anyway, a prescribed regimen of radiation and chemotherapy. A regimen that was meant merely to buy time: to prolong her life, not save it. To kill every last tumor cell left behind in her skull, to obliterate those stray cancer cells invisible to the surgeon’s knife. All medical science said that these treatments would ultimately fail. That despite everything, cancer cells would indeed be left behind, and that one day those cells would explode into new growth. Her cancer was nearly fated to recur. When it did, she would not live long.

He couldn’t think of that right now. Right now there were appointments to go to, insurance forms to be filled out. Kathy’s mother came to stay with them. When Kathy was nauseous from the toxic drugs, Mrs. Wong cooked up pots of chicken rice porridge, heavy with ginger to soothe a queasy stomach. She cooked up elaborate feasts that Daniel felt obligated to eat when Kathy couldn’t. Mrs. Wong rearranged the kitchen cupboards and scrubbed and rescrubbed the counters and floors. Daniel came home to find his clothes drawers reorganized, his shirts and pants refolded to his mother-in-law’s exacting specifications. In the midst of it all he found himself laughing and complaining about it to Kathy that night, and she was laughing, too, at her mother’s coping skills—”I can’t stop her! She’s my mother! She waits till I’m asleep to do these things!”–and they were both laughing and he snorted and his snorts made Kathy laugh again, and he was holding her in his arms. She tucked her head against his shoulder, pressed her cheek against his neck. She was warm. Their arms and legs entwined. She was warm and alive and breathing against him. She was his. If he could just stretch out this moment. If he could only hold her tight, maybe, just maybe, he could keep her.

She finished the radiation and chemo. The scans were clean. She went back to work.

Her cancer would likely recur within a year. Both she and Daniel knew the statistics. They knew what the median survival times were.

But for now, she was alive and healthy. She could do physically everything she’d done before. What was there to do now but enjoy their time together? What else could they do but take pleasure in whatever days she had left?

They flew out to San Francisco to see her brother get married. Visited friends. Went on a road trip. They went to Yellowstone, a place she’d never been. They watched Old Faithful erupt, and marveled at the mud pots and bubbling springs. They walked under stars—more stars than he’d seen in years, the Milky Way a hazy arc above them. On that same trip they stopped in Jackson, Wyoming and hiked a mountain trail in Grand Teton National Park. She was tireless, more fit than him. They stood on the roof of the world together, the land falling away under them: open grasslands, a river twisting silver in the distance. They didn’t say anything. They merely stood together, looking out at the world.

She never thought seriously about abandoning her work. As soon as she could, she’d returned to the lab. And now her research took a turn upward –results in place of the frustrations of an early-stage project. She’d moved from mice to humans, using new functional imaging techniques to study mechanisms of visual attention and awareness in people. It was a kind of model of consciousness—is the subject aware of a picture flashed on a screen? How does brain activity differ between conscious awareness and unconscious visual processing? She collaborated with other scientists in the development of new computational algorithms for the processing of images. Her lab was interdisciplinary, wildly ambitious, nearly spread too thin with projects in seemly disparate areas of biology.

In the first months after her diagnosis, Daniel’s research had seemed pointless, uselessly abstract. It would never cure his wife’s cancer. Despite the grandiose statements in his grant proposals, he doubted that it would ever cure anything at all, that it would ever lead to treatments to improve memory, to manage Alzheimer’s or other neurodegenerative diseases. His research was indulgent, probably doomed to failure, and there were armies of postdocs to take his place if he left.

Yet she had always been interested in his research. Even when she was too ill to make it into work herself, she’d asked after his experiments, about the fine details. Their interests had converged more than ever; he was using many of the same techniques that she had used in grad school to now study memory circuits in mice. She was doing well, and he began to get results, and slowly the old question regained its power for him: how do transient patterns of electrical signals result in the long-lasting changes that encode memory? He and Kathy talked of it over dinner. She put him in touch with useful collaborators she knew. Their conversation wound in the loops that he loved, from science to books to stories of the eccentric coworker who seemed to eat only oranges and cheese; funny things seen on the street and on the Internet, the little jokes they shared, an article read, the conversation winding back to where they’d started.

They made love. As often as they could, they made love.

A year had passed. Her monthly brain scans were still clean. Two more years. She’d already beaten the odds. Maybe she would continue to do so. She had an interesting new research collaboration with a group in L.A. And one night, tentatively, she brought up the idea of starting a family.

The next scan showed that her cancer had returned.

At first, he thought she was talking about another clinical trial to treat the cancer. Then he realized that she wasn’t.

“No,” he said. “Absolutely not.”

Her eyes filled but her voice was calm as she said, “It’s my decision, Daniel.”

He stood up, turned his back to her, and fought for air. He turned around again. “You’re talking about killing yourself.”

“No.” Her mouth quirked at the corner. “The cancer is doing that.”

It was. It had crept back; microscopic cells that had lain dormant had exploded into new growth. A new drug treatment held it back, arrested it, until the cancer cells did what cancer cells do: mutated, evaded, developed resistance to everything the cancer doctors had.

But she was still here. She was still with him, still able to walk and talk and laugh and move, still herself, still Kathy, despite the growing tumor in her brainstem.

He couldn’t speak. He knelt before her. She was seated on their bed, and she took his hands in hers. She stared into his eyes. “I promise,” she said, “that I won’t go any earlier than I have to. I won’t leave a day earlier than I need to. But when”—and now her control finally broke, her breath catching in sobs, the tears spilling, but she pushed forward, kept speaking–“but when the time comes, before the tumor spreads too far, before it disrupts my thinking and personality and who I am and makes the procedure useless—before that, I want to do this thing.”

“Kathy.” He swallowed. “Do you really believe it will work? That they can really preserve your brain this way?”

“I’ll be the test case.” Through her tears she smiled. “I always wanted to make a big splash in science.”

Los Angeles. The last stop. Past Kathy’s shoulder, Daniel watched as the plane passed over the San Gabriel Mountains and descended into the basin; he saw the dry, flat plain resolve into a sprawling grid of buildings and roads. After her cancer recurrence they had crisscrossed the country for her treatments, radiation at one famous medical center and consultations at another—Duke in North Carolina, M.D. Andersen in Houston, and back again to the Dana Farber in Boston. She had promised her family that she wouldn’t give up too soon, that she would keep “fighting”—how she hated that term!—until nearly the end. It was nearly the end.

She stirred and blinked beside him. Even before her illness, she’d always fallen asleep on planes. She looked blearily at him, and he smiled. He kissed her forehead, and gently he smoothed the hair from her eyes.

No more medical treatments. They would spend a week here with her sister. Kathy would kiss and hold her nephews, and the rest of her family would come, and maybe Daniel would take her some place where she could see the sea. And she would undergo a final round of brain scans at a private research institute in Pasadena. She’d collaborated with this group, had been working with them to refine their algorithms. Now they would use those algorithms to collect all they could of her active thoughts, the patterns of her cognitive processing, before the very last procedure.

It was through these research colleagues that Kathy had gotten in touch with the second group at the institute, and the man who wanted to preserve her physical brain. He had an experimental technique to fix every protein and lipid in place before decay. He’d performed it in multiple animal studies, but not yet in a human. The catch was that the preservatives had to be pumped through a living brain, before the first steps of decay could occur. The subject would be anesthetized, of course, but still alive.

Ridiculous, Daniel had once said of this man and the private institute’s most famous goal. Ridiculous, he’d once said of what Kathy proposed. Minds cannot be preserved and understood in digital form. They can’t even be understood in their native states. Immortality is a pipe dream. The only real immortality is in the memories we leave behind for our loved ones.

But she wanted this. And so she and Daniel had flown out to L.A. two months ago for the first set of brain scans. When complete, the full set of scans would be useful to science as a progressive study of her mental functioning, even with the brain cancer. And there was a scientific rationale, and value, to the next step of the process as well. A physical human brain perfectly preserved. Preserved so that it could be sliced and studied in unprecedented detail, the ultrastructure of neuronal connections traced with the most advanced of microscopic imaging techniques. A map of an inner universe. Her gift to the world.

And maybe, in a far-flung future, a promise as well.

The plane rolled to a stop. The seatbelt sign overhead blinked off with a chime. Around them passengers were standing, retrieving overhead baggage, pushing into the aisle. Kathy and Daniel stayed still. Over the last few weeks the left side of her body had markedly weakened, and she now needed help to stand and walk. They waited while the other passengers moved past. She rested her hand on his knee. He covered her hand with his own.

The two ships had traversed light-years and millennia before meeting one another. They were each composed of over a thousand active consciousnesses, intelligences which were both melded and distinct. Some of these intelligences rode the violent windstorms of the gas giant below; some had sensors trained on the planet’s moons and the other worlds of this system. But most were focused on interior worlds of memories and dreams.

The part of the first ship which communicated with the second was intrigued by the final proposal laid out. Despite the difficulties and ethical quandaries, there was a pleasing aesthetic appeal to it. There was, perhaps, still a trace of human romantic feeling left in the ship’s programming.

Agreed, it told the second ship. The final barriers were lowered. Data sets were shared. Collaboration flowed. Parts of the two ship-minds became, in essence, a single new mind. Here, it said, pondering a technical detail, and There! Got it! it crowed as it solved a vexing issue, and then it wondered, Now what if we tried adjusting this . . .

“I know that it will never work,” Kathy said in the darkness. They lay curled together in bed, her head on his chest. “But I want to hope that it will work, you know? The way we still hoped when they first found my cancer. . .”

He knew. His arm tightened around her.

“And anyway, it’s still important. Just like that clinical trial I tried was important, even if it didn’t work out for me. It still resulted in useful data for others. It perhaps still lay down the foundation for something in the future. And you know, in the far future, if this new study ever does work out the way that they want, I’ll get a free mind upload!” She laughed a little.

“I’ll have to get one, too,” he said lightly.

“You can. They promised to set up a free account for you. Perk of me being an early adopter and all that.”

“I’ll be sure to write them a Yelp review from cyberspace of what the afterlife is like.”

“Do that. Gunther would be so pleased.”

Dr. Gunther was the director of the project at the private research institute, as well as founder of the spin-off company that hoped to sell immortality to its customers. Years ago, Daniel had mocked an article on mind-uploading which Dr. Gunther had written for the popular press. Life contained too many ironies for Daniel to keep track.

Kathy took a breath. “At least. . . at least it feels like I’m leaving something behind, you know?”

You are, he thought. Oh, you are.

She traced his face in the darkness—his cheek, the line of his jaw. “If it did work—if I could—if there was some kind of me in the future, I would come back for you. I would find you.”

He kissed her hand. “Do that,” he said.

There were many issues to consider. The original mind under study had lived for 96 Earth years, and it was possible to resurrect that mind at any time point of that life. The exact timing would be critical. It would set the parameters for the reunion. And there were modifications to be made to the second mind, too. An iteration of this second mind spoke now through the second ship, but she/they wanted a reconstruction closer to the original. The melded Ship-Mind considered carefully. . .

Memories. Her hand in his as they walked under autumn trees. The feel of her bare skin against his. The first night he saw her, in a crowded restaurant in St. Louis; her eyes had lifted to his, large and curious and open. The first time that he met her parents. The first time that she met his. Their stupid little spats, and the messes that she made in the kitchen. Quiet evenings at home, cooking together and then reading or watching TV. A vacation that they’d taken in the Florida Keys, staying in cheap motels on the fly. They drove the Overseas Highway down the chain of islands, the ocean stretching away to either side. A limitless sky curved overhead and touched the water. All that land was so flat and so full of light.

The day they learned that she had cancer. The day they learned that it had recurred.

The stars at Yellowstone.

Last memories. All those people in Kathy’s sister’s house; Kathy’s nephews running and shrieking and then climbing up beside her for a cuddle and story. Her parents breaking down and pretending not to. He and Kathy spent the last night alone, in a nearby hotel. In the morning her family all gathered at the clinic: her sister, her brother, her parents and him. If they hadn’t felt it intrusive, his own parents would have flown to be there. They had loved Kathy, too.

When it was time, he alone went with her to the room where the procedure was to be done. He held her hand as the anesthesia was started. Her eyes looked calmly into his. Then they closed.

They didn’t let him stay for the rest. They took him away. He tried to watch through the glass, but his eyes were so blurred with tears that he couldn’t see.

Right there. It had identified the time point at which to start the simulation.

It was a beautiful summer day in southern California and he was thirty years old and his wife was dying. He couldn’t do anything about it. So he was walking down a street in search of a bakery that sold macarons because Kathy loved those French pastries. She was several blocks away, undergoing her last brain scan at the research institute. In two days she planned to take the next step, and then she would be gone.

Gone. He still couldn’t understand it. It was a blank space in his mind, the edge where the world ends, a rip in space-time. Gone. No. His mind stuttered and stopped. Pastries. The travel website claimed that the best macarons in Pasadena were sold at this particular bakery. So Daniel was going to find it for Kathy. He could do that much.

He’d been walking for a while, it seemed, trying not to think past the moment, not to cry or shake. He passed a bakery that sold only cupcakes, then a shop that sold only fair trade chocolates. There were charming cafes crowded with beautiful young people. The women wore sundresses or spaghetti strap tank tops and shorts. He couldn’t mark when he first sensed the change. The sun was still bright, but the air felt chill. The bakery was supposed to be right here; he had his phone out to check. There was something wrong with the phone. The map on its screen wasn’t possible.

He looked around him again. The neighborhood was still chic and charming, but all else was changed. Yet he knew this place.

In a daze, he put away his phone and kept walking. Yes, there were cobblestones under his feet. Yes, there was the Greek diner where he and Kathy used to sometimes grab breakfast. There was the bagel shop where they had sometimes gone instead. The palm trees of L.A. were gone. In their place, autumn trees burned in reds and golds. People walked by in light jackets. He was wearing one, too.

He knew, without looking, that if he turned around he would see the towers of the medical research center where he and Kathy had earned their degrees. Ahead and to his left he saw the building where she had rented a tiny apartment, where he and she had lived together so blissfully, unofficially, before their marriage.

His heart pounded. His steps turned.

But before the apartment building there was a stretch of little shops and restaurants, and there was a coffee house right there. He didn’t need to go in. A young woman was standing just outside, waiting for him. She stood easily, straight-backed, glowing with health. She wore a black pea coat and a red tartan scarf and a smile that cut open his heart.

“How–?” he said. And even as his pulse raced, he was aware of some external force helping to calm him, regulating levels of adrenaline and shock.

She looked into his eyes. “I made a promise,” she said. “I told you that I would come back and find you.”

He found himself laughing as the realization set in—the absurd, wondrous, astonishing explanation for it all. “We’re both dead, then,” he said.

She laughed, too. “Long dead. And we’ve both lived dozens of iterations of lives since. But this is the first one where I found you again. Some of the record keeping on Old Earth was just terrible.”

He just kept smiling at her stupidly, drinking her in.

“Thank you for the macarons,” she added. “They were delicious. Would you like to know about the rest of your life?”

The door to the coffee house opened, and he caught the scent of dark roast as a customer walked out. Cool air filled his lungs. Sunlight limned all the edges of the world.

He was real, he was alive, and so was she. They were here together, now. She had come back for him.

“No,” he said. “Not now.”

He stepped toward her, and she stepped toward him. Her arms came up around his neck. He bent his head. Her lips were warm and soft, and parted beneath his. She kissed back hard. It was fall, he had just met the love of his life, and all around them the trees of autumn were blazing.


Copyright 2018 Vanessa Fogg

Vanessa Fogg dreams of selkies, dragons, and gritty cyberpunk futures form her home in western Michigan. She spent years as a research scientist in molecular cell biology and now works as a freelance medical writer. Her stories have appeared in Bracken, Metaphorosis, Mythic Delirium, The Future Fire, and more. Her fantasy novelette, The Lilies of Dawn, is available in print and ebook from Annorlunda Books. Vanessa is fueled by green tea. For a complete bibliography and more, visit her website.

By AJ Fitzwater

There are only two ways to leave the mistress’s menagerie. One is through death, the other is love. Both are tricks.

All of us prisoners buried within the menagerie’s pristine fractals are here by virtue of our skills. Fire keeps me alive, and the guests entertained. If the mistress knew my real skill, well. How much less hope is there than none?

Therefore, the voice of no consequence that brings me out of my sundream of the embrace of my beloved ocean must be a trick.

I feel it in my guts; it is the voice which will help me leave this place.

“I spoke, lizard.”

She stands close enough to the entrance of my pen that I turn my head, though the detriment to my neck muscles is almost not worth it. As with anyone who intrudes on what weak sunlight I can gather to myself through the atrium glass, she takes a step back upon presentation of the gnarled mass of which was once my left eye. Somehow the mess of scale, flesh, and humour as big as a human head is more disconcerting than the gambit of my full mass.

“I would think,” I say, working saliva across my sandy tongue. “My presence here would be obvious. And do not call me lizard. It is an insult to my smaller cousins from whom I am made.”

Head back between paws, and that should be the end of it. I need time to work up the energy to examine this newcomer’s insides and decide what sort of spy she is. That is my trick; not sunlight, or ocean, or vomited fire. A person’s truth lies not in their heart, but in their guts.

The woman does not leave. She tips her head as if examining me from another angle will reveal my true secret.

Hair the colour of my favourite crabs scuttles across her shoulders. My stomach betrays longing for such a feast, and I do nothing to assuage the horror she struggles to contain at such a sound. Let her, let any one of my fellow inmates, think my teeth long for flesh if it keeps them out of my sunlight and their tricks to themselves.

“You are the biggest beast of us all here,” the woman says, throwing shade on my front left paw. “Surely a great drakon like you could just fly away.”

I am the great eel, fish paying attendance upon my scales. I am flinging myself against the ocean’s surge and grasp, pushing up and up until the sun squeezes the pulp and poison from me. I am the eel.

“You have not been here long then.” My good eye mocks the ceiling that mocks me back with its clarity; orimos, Drake’s corrupted blood, wriggles its silvery maggoty way around the edges. “Do not let those pretty glass panes fool you. They will surely slice you wide open as well as the mistress’s fingers can.”

The woman clasps her hands in her plain smock. A simple gesture made complicated by the knots of white knuckle and blue veins. She cannot hide her true self from me; no one can. Her guts are all silk threads and thick canvas, barely stitched together with hope. Hope, ha. She would readily lose her hands to leave this place. And yet her hands are her everything.

“I do not see your wings sewn down,” she says.

I honour her with a glimpse of my teeth. She does not step back. Fingers tap tap against her smock, as if agitated by the plainness of the fabric rather than my size and the promise of poison from the hollow of my great fangs.

“Just because you do not see a tether or a lock does not mean we are free to move,” I say, weaving my head, a sign of dismissal. “You are new. I will forgive you this time for not knowing the rules.”

“This is a prison,” the woman snaps. “I understand the rules begat by walls all too well.”

“Then you will understand you do not ask certain questions,” I murmur. I prepare to sleep again.

“Questions like a name?”

The woman steps into my pen, assessing my bulk. Is that a butcher’s or a tailor’s eye she employs? Is she a spy, or free with her tongue? Either trick will eventually see her dead. Not the smartest of ways to escape the mistress’s grasp, but those are certainly popular ways to do it. The garden has many eyes and ears, even when one thinks they are closed; though their magic is neutered the prisoners would hurt you in a moment with fists and spoons if it gained them the false hope of release. Only my sheer bulk has saved me from harm. Those others without teeth or muscle or claws have not fared well.

I am the great eel, diving deep and dark.

The woman hesitates, decides, then bows. Bows! I have begun to think no one knew how to approach one of Drake’s line anymore. “My name,” she offers, cutting her eyes sideways in case the words settle on someone unintentionally. “Is Riena.”

It is a name of one of the newer languages, but it is still old enough that no one here, not mistress or prisoner, artisan nor guest, beast nor magus, will know it is a chosen name that means “Needles.”

I am the slippery eel?

“I am Kitahniaa.” The woman flinches against the guttural tectonics of the oldest language of them all. I have employed my name in Drakon-het before, and it costs me little.

“That is a…you are a…”

My chuckle is choked with cobwebs and disuse. “Interesting how many misjudge my size and colour. Yes, I am fire-predominate, in dragon speak, if it so interests you. Yes, that is a not-male gender. Have you not figured out that is why the mistress keeps us all here?”

The mistress comes for Riena at a precise enough time. Not too long after we are introduced, but long enough that a lesser beast would be unable to ascertain the calculation in her intent.

This calculation, like her innards, tells me nothing. The mistress carefully shields herself in the steel flame of orimos so it is impossible to look within her. The mistress barely has control of this tongue of Drake’s silver fire. But it is enough control that I am perpetually weakened and at the mercy of what little sunlight I can draw upon.

And she likes it that way.

Riena has made herself as comfortable as hay and blanket can suggest in the pen next to mine. Little else passes between us before the hush takes over the inner garden. Those residents that can scuttle from the interior. A mouse emerges from the underbrush, quakes beneath the promise of my bulk, bares its fangs, hisses, and finds a convenient dark hole. Lucky.

The mistress dissolves into being, and captures all the sunlight to her. The scales on my flank rattle above my shiver. The shimmer sits ugly upon her silverness. Hair, skin, eyes, all is afire with orimos; my teeth ache with it.

“You,” our mistress says, pointing at Riena. “With me.”

Riena is too slow to her feet.

I am a coward, and the eel is hard to kill, and yet…

“What are you staring at, lizard?” The mistress is not so lazy as to spit or slur her words.

“Your greatness, mistress,” I mumble, dropping my head as low as possible. At ground level it still comes to her chin.

The mistress steps forward, and my scales creak in protest at the tiny power radiating from the orimos. But oceans forefend, Riena steps between us.

“I am, as always, at your service,” Riena murmurs in the reverential tone that has been beaten and starved into us. Her hands twist into her smock.

The mistress looks between us, and a small smile twists her face into unseemly angles. “You too, then.”

It takes me longer than necessary to achieve a full standing stance. I have always wondered if the weight of the world is greater here in the mistress’s menagerie; it seems a thing she would do. It had been my experience that whirlpools in the ocean could suck even the greatest of bodies to their doom.

Up up, great eel, up.

The mistress turns her back and gestures. One does not disobey, not if they want their flesh to remain intact. I have seen many innards in my time, in ropes slithering across the tiles of the garden. I prefer seeing them my way, intact in their mysterious glory. Stone, dirt, water, wood; I have seen them all.

One moment, the mistress is walking towards the deserted garden and what little sunlight is allowed is smoothing the tines on my back. The next, we occupy one of the myriad parlours set aside for entertaining guests in the mistress’s enclave.

No, enclave is too pithy a description. Least of all is it a home.

The sight of the sheer mass of sprawling buildings outside the teasing windows should hold no fascination. Tucked into a corner of the parlour, keeping as still as possible so as not to disturb the spindly furnishings, thick draperies, and thin skins of artworks scattered around like demons ready to eat my tail, it takes a lot of my small strength not to stare at the outside too long. Riena cannot resist.

The mistress waits, face as still as her terrible hands. Allowing us this view cuts just as deep as her knives.

Outside is no outside at all. Like her temper, the mistress keeps herself restrained within walls upon walls. Here too, orimos-lined glass look out upon blood-copper buildings stitched together by walkways and arches, small courtyards dense with statues dotting the landscape like ugly green lesions as far as the eye can see. At the centre of it all glimmers the atrium garden atop the fractal in which we all reside waiting on the mistress’s pleasure.

The mistress has no use for towers or height. Sheer mass is enough to discourage escape. And every time I am given the chance to look, the mass is greater. Perhaps the weight that ties me also attracts stone and glass. Eventually, all creation must assume into arrangements to please the mistress.

The mistress decides when we have seen enough, and tosses a package at Riena’s feet as if the contents and Riena’s hands are unworthy of her touch. “Get to work. I am having a guest for dinner, and I expect a complete sample by then.”

Riena chooses well by picking up the package. I squint my good eye. Her guts have quickened, the stitches tightening in their neat seams.

The mistress strides through one of the many doors too large for her tall frame, but which do nothing for me. The hiss of orimos sizzles away to nothing as she is swallowed by the dark.

“Why did she bring you?” Riena palpates the package, a child guessing at the contents of a gift.

“To keep you honest.” I reply as truthfully and obliquely as possible. Riena can do nothing to obscure her true insides to me, but I operate on the assumption that everyone is a spy for the mistress, even the ones who do not intend to be.

The room holds its breath.

Riena pulls on the package string like it is a worm or especially rancid undergarments. “I can leave the room, but you cannot.”

Shrugging would disturb the furnishings and old voices. I have never been brought to this place, but I know the voices embedded in the guts of the room. Pitiful cries and pleas for mercy still bleed from the walls. “If you run, I will be punished. Look out there. You may be lost for a time, but she will find you eventually. There is no key to this labyrinth.”

My scales itch as I watch dust motes do their spiral tarantella with ease through the weak sunlight.

Her voice when it comes makes my bad eye ache and my belly twist. Considering their lack of use these last few…how long has it been now, eel? I have forgotten…it is not an altogether unpleasant experience. “Why would I care if you are punished?”

“That is a question we all grapple with.”

She has found her way into the package. “Wooden needles? Really?”

It is not the reply I expected, but it will do.

“Metal and bone belong to the mistress,” I say.

“I have not seen her work with bone.” Riena is too busy stroking skeins of silk threads to care which spindly chair deserves her rump. At least she takes one that is not soaked in blood only visible to my good eye and guts.

“Then count yourself lucky.”

“I believe in hard work, not luck,” Riena murmurs, turning the package contents over and over. “And just how am I supposed to cut threads if there are no scissors?”

My cough is redolent of the last meal of flame stone the mistress forced down my gullet, but at least it contains the whisper of a laugh. I hold out a claw.

Riena’s grin does not quite meet her eyes. “Perhaps you will be useful after all, great lizard.”

This time, the appellation does not sound like an insult.

And so, she shows me how the eel will once more become one with the great ocean.

Even with needles that are little more than splinters, her fingers meld thread and fabric with what would be called magic to the untrained eye. In a few short hours, a bee like one that would tend the flowering succulents along my shore flourishes out of the fabric. It is the finest of such work I have ever had the pleasure to lay eye upon, but nothing that would pique the mistress’s unusual tastes.

Until, upon inspection by our guardian, the bee flicks its silver wings and flies off the fabric.

Stiff joints are forgotten from the many hours hunched into a position even more unnatural than that allowed by my pen. I even neglect to farewell the last rays of the day as the bee hums around the room, falling heavy upon this or that floral arrangement, or crawling towards the startled eyes of one of the subjects in a masterpiece painting. When it chances upon my claw, the tight delicate stitches reveal its unnatural origins, and yet. And yet.

A tight smile grips the mistress’s face at the delight that bounds out of the dinner guest shown to the room. The frill-bedecked woman chases the embroidered bee, her promises of useless riches and titles almost incoherent. The dinner guest is so taken with the embroidered bee she almost forgets I am there.


Twilight has taken the parlour, and the mistress snaps her fingers indolently. Lamps flare. The guest stumbles to a stop at my claws.

“Oh,” she breathes. “I thought you were a statue.”

I offer her a good look at my bad eye, and she giggle-shrieks.

How far Drake’s line has fallen.

The gifting of the bee to the guest does not sit at all well with Riena, but she can offer no protest as the mistress ushers the human dessert from the room. There is a moment of darkness (I am the eel I am the eel) as the mistress steals back all the light, but the orimos of her armour flashes with the last flick of her hand, and we are back in the night-gloom garden.

“She would not have left us there, would she?” Riena straightens her back with a well-earned click of bones, and twists her hands into her smock.

“Metal and bone, metal and bone,” I mutter.

It is too far from the centre of the garden, too many bushes, I cannot see my pen. Metal and bone, water too deep and cold.

A light pressure on my left paw. A fish nibble only, but I use what remains of the day’s sun-scribed energy to rumble a warning deep in my gullet.

“This way, lizard,” Riena whispers.

To come at me from the left side is a dangerous affair.

But the hay is sand and the still sun-warm tiles is ocean and oh home, oh home.

Shouts prickle across my dark-smothered sight.

“Make a door!”

“…a key…”

“…a knife…”

The sun is singing to me, I know where it is at all times even when it is below my feet, and it is high, high, but still the dark holds me tight, the bottom of the ocean.

Fabric tears. The wet-dry staccato of flesh against flesh. Ah, the prisoners have ventured out of their bolt holes, having discovered one in their midst they think has made good with the mistress. One they can pass on their mislaid hurt to.

“Come on nimble fingers, stitch ’em a grave!”

The shouts pile upon and upon and upon, muffled like blankets, soft and wet as blood.

A curse and spit. “Forget that. Stitch ‘er heart in me hands or I be breakin’ ’em pretty fingers off one by one!”

No. They have chosen Riena. They know not what they do. Oh great sky, serve me now like you have never served me before.

I am the great eel. Stone and tile and wall part like water before me. Windows tremble and for a moment, just a moment, orimos stills in the wake of my bellow.

The mob scatters before the lash of my spiked tail, running for their pens in the tunnels that twist about and below the garden we ostensibly share. I manage to vomit a thin sword of flame. The gnarled mass on the left side of my face does the rest.

The green and white and silver of the garden blurs together as I scoop Riena into my claws. Poisonous claws. Claws that can rend a man brain to belly.

Claws that only yesterday clipped silk threads.

Riena is not dead.

I whisper her my plan in Drakon-het in between licks to her swollen and bloody hands.

Does she know the ocean? Does she know the sky? Does she know that place in between where they meet, where Drake says our scales were forged on the anvil of birth and re-birth of the day?

She takes a long time to reply.

And when she does, in that oldest newest language, she wants to know why the treacheries of my mouth are not killing her.

Myth is such a cumbersome beastie. But a few times, like now, it becomes the perfect maelstrom of usefulness. It is not so easy to look into the guts of myth.

The ability to produce flame is a common burden for my kind; it does nothing for our sociability, for which I am grateful. Poison buried in the hollows of my teeth is a recent aberration, and one of the tricks for which the mistress sought me out. What the mistress does not know is that I have learned to control this poison; what is a deathly bite to one, can be a healing touch to another if I so choose.

When Riena can stand—hours or days might have passed, I cannot tell, no one comes to check if she is alive—she delivers the request that will make or break the deal.

She requires a needle of uncommon fortitude and worth.

Her bruised hands are steady as she points. I do not flinch or roar or dribble fire as she approaches and strokes my lips, easing them apart to test each fang for tenacity and sharpness.

“This one,” she whispers in that old new language, touching a vicious edge which could open her wounds anew if I let it.

With the pens so narrow and close, our whispers will be heard by other prisoners, of that we are sure. But how well they are understood and translated to the Mistress is another matter. We are the oldest beasts here, and well used to manipulating time.

We only have to wait upon the mistress’s curiosity.

Again, she appears after a carefully considered time. We are not fooled into thinking she has forgotten us.

But we are ready.

“I have negotiated a commission,” the mistress says to Riena in her sweetest voice, standing at relaxed attention, casting shade, haloed by the bitter sun. “Your services are required to create a grand tapestry. If you perform well…”

The mistress trails off. She cannot stop the small smile that cuts at her lips. She is the mistress of whispers and hints, no doubt somehow inciting the attack on Riena. She has found a way to cut me, to manipulate me. For this alone, she shall hurt.

The mistress will be paid handsomely, perhaps in a sum of power greater than she has ever experienced. The lavishness of her rooms are just a by-product, the size of the building is what matters. And she intends for it to go on and grow forever.

I am the great eel, pushing up and up, pushing against the sky.

The instructions, doled out to us in a bored voice, are vague enough that we understand well it is best not to deviate. The tapestry is to be a wall-sized landscape, mountains, trees, snow, a domain of indomitability. The cold must be invoked, the smell of pine delighted in on each pass, but it cannot be too alive in case a viewer stumbles into the fabric. It is a trap for only the right kind of people. Terribly boring.

But even within those restrictions I plan our finesse.

The mistress glances at me, as if finally remembering my presence. “You will join her,” she says, a smirk destroying the boredom on her face. “Perhaps she will enjoy the company.”

Say nothing, Riena. Say nothing. No one has friends in this garden that twists around and down on itself, the great screw into the guts of the mistress’s world. I am your guard, leave it at that.

Each day a different room. At least all of them have windows and the suggestion of sunshine. There is no chance of a repeat. It is done to keep us from getting comfortable, finding our bearings.

Each day, the mistress escorts us to and from the room, inspects Riena’s tools, inspects progress. That much close proximity to orimos is wearying. The silver flame has been quickened, her armour and the windows of each room we occupy tighten with its dangerous promise.

You will not break me. I am the eel, breaking the surface of the great ocean, up and up.

The mistress asks us nothing of what we say to each other in Drakon-het and the old new language. Perhaps she believes she is skilled enough in reading body language; I know she has yet to learn mind-reading, but someone with such skill has yet to enter the garden.

Each day, I curl as close as I dare to the window, drawing what little sunshine I can closer to my scales. Dust motes dance around my long, slow breaths.

Each day, Riena drags the huge frame closer to the window. I position a paw in such a way that she can easily slice threads without having to disturb me. This monstrosity will be a blur of harsh grey and sickly green and stark white. As much as I detest mountain scenes, when the silk threads are laid out their individual colours invoke memories I have long buried. This one, I explain to Riena in Drakon-het, is the smell of a winter storm about to slice in from the ocean’s horizon. That one is the feel of damp sand between my claws at twilight.

Other than this, we speak very little.

And each day, Riena selects from her collection of allowed slivers a needle I carefully coloured with blood and poison and flame to look the same as the others. No one dares a dragon’s mouth; it was an easy enough thing to transport that first day, when the massive single piece of canvas loomed blank and terrible as a lower fractal at night.

We thought we were so clever.

Months pass in domesticated silence. Patience is something I have had cut into me. Riena, not so much, I was to learn.

Riena has been sitting on the floor for a long time before I realize she has not been moving in that steady drag and release that has filled our days.

I crack my good eye and assess the faceless parlour. At least this one does not stink of fresh viscera. We are still alone.

“Do your hands hurt? Are you hungry?” I manage to grind out after a great yawn I cannot give full extent to; the ceiling is too low.

Riena shakes her head, though her hands twist in her lap. Over and under, fingers interlace and stretch, then into fists.

She cannot bring herself to say the words, because it will bring the mistress. She cannot say, because we are not ready. How will our bodies cope with the wall-less horizon and roofless sky after spaces barely bigger than our being?

The eel stretches. Reaches. Fails.

We wait a little longer, and I try to see what Riena sees. She has hidden it well. How does one put the ocean in such a severe landscape?

There. In the V created by a mountain pass hazed by distance, the barest hint of blue-grey and copper-gold. Not so bright as to warrant attention. It is not an ocean I recognize, but to return to the one I do would be a foolish endeavour.

Riena is taking us far away.

“A masterpiece.”

The mistress’s voice should not make me flinch, but the tines on my back rattle.

I am the eel, the water all around me. The sun calls, so loud I cannot hear the waves over its voice.

Riena is on her feet as the mistress saunters closer to the massive canvas, her guest trotting close behind. The guest is nothing, has to be nothing, a small woman who I must feel no guilt for. It is not that hard to destroy the dreams of the rich of hand but poor of heart.

“Magnificent,” the mistress murmurs, a trick of softness. “Do you agree?”

The guest allows herself to pretend she is really seeing the tapestry, but she makes her demand too quickly. “Do whatever it is that you do, girl. Make it come alive.”

One does not simply wave a hand at the thing Riena stitched pieces of her fingers into and then I licked those fingers back together so that they could continue the next day. And the day after that.

But then, it is not for you, beast.

I rise.

“Kitahniaa.” Riena places a hand against my neck, a greater hand, stiff, ready, precise.

The mistress watches the interaction, her face blank. How I would like to rip your armour off and see your guts, little one. I suspect they are black, not fit to bear the greatness of orimos, Drake’s blood twisted and tortured against the purpose she originally intended.

Riena steps up to the canvas. I must ready myself. We have not dared to talk about this day, so everything from here on in is guesswork.

I do not operate well on chance.

I am the eel. I am in the dark at the bottom of the ocean, pressure crushing from above.

Riena touches a spot on the canvas seemingly at random; the mountain pass. The thick material shudders, stitches tighten, and life ripples out from her fingers like concentric circles from a touch of claw against still water.

The scent of snow and pine makes me feel queasy, and I have to turn my snout away. A stream of effusiveness erupts from the mouth of the mistress’s guest, bile to my ears. A beatific smile stitches the tapestry of the mistress’s face; this is not her greatest achievement yet, but it will do for now.

She knows. She might not be able to read my insides or translate what we are saying but she knows we are planning something. And she is counting on it.

Is this the double-cross trick I dared not anticipate? Riena’s guts are so tidy, the stitches neat and tight, silk thread in a myriad of colours. The mistress will test us, that much I can feel on my muzzy, long disused mind. She has used one trick against us in anticipation of the other.

Obsenities I have long kept wrapped around the flame in my gut crawl up my gullet like I am invoking a curse. Perhaps I am.

I turn my good eye on the person I have foolishly put my hopes in. All it will take is one bite, one swipe of my claws. I do not know what human tastes like, but I am willing to find out just this once.

“Burn it,” Riena says in Drakon-het. For a moment I ponder the impossibility that is a human tongue and mind working its way around my language.

The mistress cocks her head, examining the tapestry, pretending not to listen. She cannot know my language, no human does. And yet…she has not needed to know. She has counted on us turning the tricks around on each other, because given enough time that is what her residents do. Love, death; it’s all the same.

Then the true horror of destroying my escape turns my tongue cold, and lightens the lump of coal that sits where my guts should be.

“No,” I reply. “This is your masterpiece. Pieces of your flesh. Our way out.”

“Burn it,” Riena says again, quiet and still.

The mistress is watching us now, ignoring the guest prancing in front of the canvas. Her fingers twitch at her sides. She carries no knife, but she does not need something as pathetic as steel to flay us wide open. That is only for special occasions.

I stare hard at Riena’s torso. Perhaps the gift of my eye to the mistress has impaired my skill. Perhaps I have only been seeing half of it for so long, and this has allowed me this foolish fancy.

The mistress takes a step closer. I am about to turn my head, open my mouth, save what remains on my ocean, when Riena’s insides shift. I squint, my good eye sore and dry. I see…I see more. A brain, with Drakon-het runes tossing and diving like an eel in the ocean. And a heart with my name on it, stitched neat and tight.

I am coming, my great ocean.

Before the mistress can close the small distance between us, I regurgitate. The ensuing flame is small, but enough to singe the mistress’s hair. I would chuckle long and deep at the sight if I had time.

Yellow and gold and copper catch at the edges of the canvas, gobbling the fabric greedily. It spreads too quick for the screaming guest to batter at, first with her hands, then a rug.

The rug catches too.

Then the curtains.

The mistress is upon me, silent as the blades extracting from her finger bones that slip into my ribs and throat. The orimos of her armour sizzles against my flesh and screams on my scales, stripping all memory of my ocean from my mind.

A weight settles in the curve behind my wings and between deadly tines spaced almost perfectly.

“Fly,” Riena whispers in Drakon-het below the hungry crackle of flame and shouts drifting from anger towards hysteria.

My egress is more a stumble than the grace expected of one of my size, but then this is not the ocean or sky. I cannot open my wings in here.

The mistress’s bone blades are still buried deep, the orimos competing with elemental flame to sear my flesh, and she drags with us for a step. There is nothing to be done for it; I sacrifice a paw and rip the mistress off my chest, flinging her to one side. My claws shriek and wither immediately at the touch of orimos.

Roar of pain and triumph. The mountainside rushes up. Stone, stone, grey stone.

Hard edges of fear dig into my back as mountainside and trees threaten to cut short our flight. Those edges are nothing at all to the black, hissing wounds on my chest and throat, Drake’s twisted blood sapping my will.

A snap of sail and wail of wind through membranes. Oh, how I have missed that sound!

And at the corner of my mind, above the rage of the fire and hissing loss from orimos, a laugh; not of death or capitulation, but one that simply marks time.


Riena lives in a cottage on her beach by the ocean.

This ocean is not mine, but as all oceans are connected, so too will the memories of my old home eventually circle around to find me. The greater warmth is kinder on my gnarled paw and eye, its currents making up for the strength I lack. But still I can dive deep, for I am the eel, and the ocean welcomes me with the disinterest I expect. Ours is the good fight, water against scale.

On the warmest days, and there are many of them, Riena pushes open one entire wall of the cottage like a great door. There, on ground packed hard and smooth by my weight, I rest my head, switching my watch between ocean, the mountains, and her hands as she stitches a garden.

Flowers and vegetables flourish with the seasons and her whim; she reverse-stitches mercilessly. The seams aren’t always neat and her hands often shake, but then I bring her crabs, which she cooks up in a great pot—they are even more delicious hot, I have discovered—and we spend an evening crunching through them, discussing the heat and usefulness of stars; they are a long way away after all.

Much like the mountains and its deep frown of a pass. Bruised by distance, the mountain pass is often, thankfully, obscured by mist and cloud.

On the days Riena cannot bear its sight or the sight of my withered paw, I take to the waters. Often I sun upon a rock so far out I cannot see land, attended by birds who are teaching me their names and tricks in Drakon-het.

And sometimes, weeks of ocean are required between us. In those early times, I would often circle around when I was sure she could not pick me out against the sun, drifting over fields of wild cotton and forests teeming with silk moths, before taking to the cooler updrafts of the leering mountains.

Flying is harder than I remember; almost too hard on that first reckless flight. My tumbling, pain-stricken descent into the ocean almost drowned Riena, who could not swim. No matter how much I pull the comfort of the waters around me, the warmth can never quite scrub clean the remaining blemish of orimos against my flesh and scales.

Sometimes I think I smell smoke when I perch on the blade-like rocks of the mountain pass. Glimpses of shining objects from the corner of my eye make me flinch. I curl my blackened paw closer to my body, and the withered claws dig hard into the flesh of my belly until it all creaks with pain.

I roar this all down at the gray stones. Run, little rocks. Run.

Only my echo roars back.

One day, Riena presents me with an eye.

This is her finest work to date. I lied about that canvas full of cold and stone, and I tell her so.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” My laugh startles the seabirds making tentative forays at my back claws. “One eye is just as good when you are my size.”

She hefts the membrane-lidded oculus with as much gentleness as her reburgeoning muscles can manage. Delicate tendrils of tissue, veins, and nerves spin out from the back of the orb, stitches almost too small to see. How did she know these colours, let alone find them?

“Bury it, eat it, give it a name, I do not care.” The first real smile since we made this our home weaves her face.

And she touches her fingers to the lid.


Copyright 2018 AJ Fitzwater

AJ Fitzwater is a meat-suit wearing dragon who fashions elaborate curses, living between the cracks in Christchurch, New Zealand. They attended the Clarion workshop in 2014, and is a two time Sir Julius Vogel Award winner. Their work has appeared in such venues of repute as Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Shimmer Magazine, Crossed Genres Magazine, and Kaleidotrope. Dragon eructations can be found at @AJFitzwater.


by Scott Edelman



When he came to me, he touched me on the brow, and on the nose, and on the chin, and he said to me, in a whisper, “Live forever.” And I decided to.

— Ray Bradbury, Paris Review interview

Mr. Electrico had once believed he was going to live forever.

And as he sat on one corner of a spare bed at his grandson’s house–a bed which his pained lower back signaled was somehow far harder than the string of cots which to his far younger self had seemed so soft–he looked down at the sword in his trembling hands, and still, all these many years later, thought…why shouldn’t he have fooled himself into thinking that? He’d told so many kids so many times they’d never die that after awhile it had seemed only fair he should join them in the immortality he’d been extravagantly granting.

Considering his decades on the carnival circuit, such wishful thinking was surely inevitable.

Count how often those inviting tent flaps unfolded at the beginnings of his shows, multiply that by the thousands filing in tugging eager children who were then instructed to squat in the front rows, add the host of times he surrendered to the embrace of the electric chair and felt its power pass through him, letting his skin tingle and his hair stand on end, boost it all by the number of slashes he made with his sword while reaching forward to knight the closest kids with shouts of “Live forever!”…

…and a sensation had begun to expand within him which insisted–the words he’d uttered were no con game.

And he’d deserved to taste their power, too.

No one could go through those motions for so many performances, mouth those same two words that many times, without beginning to believe. He dared anyone else to try it. Not that anyone else ever would. They couldn’t. The days of carnivals were long over. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair for the charge to merely pass through him, and have none of it remain. Something had to stick, right? Some small part?

Yet…why should he be so lucky? Those who’d toured with him, the only ones to whom he could have talked about this and have them understand, had already taken their leave.

The Fat Lady had been the first to go, back when they were both still on the road. Her heart gave out in her sleep, the sad price demanded by her trade. At least she went peaceful. (He liked to think she did. Does anyone ever truly go peaceful?) The Skeleton Man, though, hadn’t been that lucky. He was carried away by cigarettes. Last time Mr. Electrico had seen him, when he visited to reminisce about the old days, the man could barely speak above a whisper. Not much reminiscing got done, except in their own heads. Those wheezy lungs had kept them both too focused on the future, short though it was, to enjoy wandering through the past.

As for The Illustrated Man, Mr. Electrico was never quite sure exactly what had happened to him. No one would say. When he showed up for the memorial service, the relatives wouldn’t even look him in the eye. And those tattoos, they didn’t seem quite so pretty when viewed in the open coffin on which The Illustrated Man had insisted. Mr. Electrico remembered how once they’d been marvelous.

How once they’d all been marvelous.

The jugglers, the ticket takers, the drivers, all gone, gone, gone. There had been too many funerals over too many decades, and he’d gone to as many as he could, for his friends deserved to be shown a little respect, but then, after a time, there were no more funerals to attend. Now only he remained.

So … maybe the electricity had done something after all. He was still around, wasn’t he? The last man standing. OK, so the hand which had once held the sword shook, and during the night, he often had to get up half a dozen times to piss, and when he woke in the morning, sometimes–not always, but sometimes–he wasn’t sure where he was. But all that was better than the alternative, right?

Sure would have been nice if one of the others–any one of the others, he wasn’t picky–had still been around, so they could have shared a place. Would have been nice, too, if his son was still speaking with him, so they could have shared a place. No fixing that, though. Mr. Electrico doubted forgiveness was even possible. It was sweet of his grandson to step up like this, even if the kid didn’t understand the carny life his grandpa used to lead. But maybe that was the only reason he was willing to step up.


It was Josh, wasn’t it?

That’s right.


Mr. Electrico wished he could show the kid who he really was, and why, wished he could explain it all in the way he’d never been able to do for his son, whose empathy had been crushed by having to live through it. And once he could have. The photos would have helped. And the newspaper clippings, filled with awe and wonder. And if only he still owned the costume he’d once worn, red silk with yellow piping zigzagging down the sleeves to make it look as if lightning was about to come out of his fingertips. But those were all gone, all of it, every scrap of memorabilia, each battered souvenir, lost to rundown apartments he’d abandoned with rent unpaid, and evictions which had left his possessions dissolving in the rain, and small-town pawnshops he’d see the once but never again.

And drink, oh, the drink. To that above all those physical manifestations of his memories had been sacrificed, sometimes willingly, sometimes not, as his path narrowed to whatever this life of his had turned out to be.

Only the sword, remarkably, remained. Even he wasn’t entirely sure how.

He held it out before him as he used to do at each show–more an extension of his arm than a piece of metal–and closed his eyes. He could almost see them–the faces in the front row filled with amazement, kid after kid shocked to see what coursed through him as he sat in that chair showered with sparks, faces which would soon themselves be literarily shocked as he tapped their brows and shouted in the tent then what he whispered in the small borrowed bedroom now–

“Live forever!”

And when he had, he truly thought they could.

All these years later, he raised the sword high above his head, and there he was, in front of thousands of people blurred together by memory, forgettable faces with no names to go with them. But there was one face which stood out from all the rest. One face which had gained a name.

Mr. Electrico saw it then, the face of the kid who’d come back, the face of the kid who’d brought him a magic trick, the face of a kid he’d welcomed into the tent and introduced to his friends, the face of a kid which was also in a former life the face of a friend, a friend who’d died in his arms in the Ardennes Forest in 1918, during the Great War.

Or was that last but a lie he’d told, the kind of thing you cough up to a rube to keep them happy and empty their pockets? It had been so long since their last encounter one Labor Day weekend that he couldn’t be sure, couldn’t remember whether he’d been sincere, or was only planting the seeds for a long con which never had the chance to play out.

No, that he couldn’t remember.

But he remembered the day when the carnival stopped by Lake Michigan, near Waukegan, Illinois, and the kid to whom Mr. Electrico had seemed to matter so much.

He remembered that kid, and wondered whether he was the one who’d prove his words more than just words. The one who truly would live forever.

That kid named…Ray, wasn’t it?

Yes. Ray.

Ray hadn’t been the first to come back–kids were always ditching their parents and returning to say the things they wouldn’t dare unless they were alone with him–but he was the first to come back who didn’t also ask to join him. They were always asking to take off, believing that hitting the road with a carnival was the solution to whatever their problems happened to be. Splitting from an abusive household could be a good thing, sure, Mr. Electrico had done the same himself when he was a kid, but having done so, he’d learned the hard way–why bring the carny life into it? That was no answer. But then, it never was.

He kept waiting for the kid to ask him, too, ask for help in running away, the way he himself had once asked for help from another who’d earlier carried his name. First when Ray pulled out that beginners magic trick he’d bought at the Five and Dime and begged him to explain how it worked, and then when he was brought into the tent and introduced to the others, where Mr. Electrico could see the kid’s eyes grow large as he took in the Bearded Lady and the Alligator Boy and all the rest of them, saw how they treated each other when they were by themselves without the rubes around, as if the fantastic were common, and the common fantastic, and finally out along the sand dunes, where they sat and talked of their lives, and Mr. Electrico was moved to say something he’d never said before, about how the two of them had known each other in past lifetimes.

But Ray never asked that question Mr. Electrico had come to know too well. And it was only later that Mr. Electrico realized the thought had never even occurred to Ray at all.

They talked for hours, about ferris wheels and movie stars, rocket ships and life on Mars, about comic strips which promised more than real life ever could, about things that might have been and things that never were…but then it was time for Mr. Electrico to head back for his evening shows–the final performances before he’d have to move on. There were tears in Ray’s eyes as they parted, which Mr. Electrico thought meant the kid would then ask the question, before the opportunity to do so was gone forever…but he did not.

He often wondered what those tears had meant. He wished he could have tracked the kid down and asked him. He suspected if found that the kid would have understood what his grandson couldn’t and his son never even wanted to try. But he’d never learned anything more than his given name, and so a reunion was impossible.

Mr. Electrico wished they had known each other before in the trenches, the way he’d told him, because that would have meant there was a chance they’d see each other again in the future. But he knew now, as he knew he’d known then, that there was no coming back in this life, that once a person was gone he was gone, one reason he fought so hard against his body’s signals that it was time to leave.

He didn’t want to leave.

Mr. Electrico snapped out of his reverie, suddenly aware of the streets down which he walked, realizing he had no idea where he was. What made it worse was that at the same time–he was also uncertain whether this confusion was because he’d wandered, while lost in thoughts of the past, to a neighborhood he’d never encountered before, or if, cruelly, he no longer recognized a place with which he should he familiar. He hoped it was the former, because the latter…well, that was happening more often now.

Closing his eyes and concentrating hard, he remembered.

He’d left his grandson’s home for a walk in the sun–Josh had insisted he go out, said it wasn’t good for him to sit alone in that spare room all day. So Mr. Electrico had headed to the park, starting his rambling there as he always did, because he knew its openness would bring back his carnival days, and thoughts of that moment the caravan would arrive at a new location, and study an open field before beginning to set up. If he could position himself properly, and keep the benches and path lights and playground equipment at his back, he could almost pretend it was still the past. He’d stay there forever if he could.

But eventually, his joints had told him he’d better get moving again, so he grabbed a hot dog that hadn’t tasted as good as one he might have gotten on the midway, then headed on to look in store windows filled with things he no longer wanted nor needed, if he ever did, then studied the posters outside a theater advertising movies he would never bother seeing, his afternoon reminding him too much of things he would never do.

But once he’d spent enough time wasting time, enough to keep Josh happy at least, and was ready to turn back…he no longer recalled how to get home. He stood on a street corner trying to remember, but not trying too hard, because the failure that was more often starting to accompany such trying would be too painful.

So he meandered until he made his way back to the park–he could remember how to get there, at least–and once there, as he stared out across the grass on which one wasn’t supposed to walk, he again briefly tried to decide which way he should turn next to find his way back to his grandson. But he couldn’t choose, so instead, he sat on a bench and wished, as the darkness settled around him, that he could still spread wide his hands and light up the night.

Which is where his grandson found him still sitting the following morning.

Josh wasn’t alone as he walked up the path toward Mr. Electrico. There was a policeman by his side, which told Mr. Electrico that no, Josh truly didn’t understand.

He did not like police officers. It was nothing personal. No one who’d worked a carnival ever did.

“What are you doing here, Grandpa?” asked Josh, as he slid onto wooden slats still covered with dew.

“Just resting,” said Mr. Electrico, unwilling to reveal the truth, especially not with a cop there to bear witness. “Thinking. Remembering.”

“All night? Here?”

“And why not? I can do those things on a park bench as easily as anywhere else.”

Josh leaned in more closely to his grandfather, so only the two of them could hear what he was to say next.

“You forgot again,” he whispered. “Didn’t you?”

“I did not,” Mr. Electrico insisted, hoping he’d been able to imbue his words with confidence. He’d made so many believe so much, surely he could make one man believe that.

“That’s not true, Grandpa,” said Josh. “We both know that. If we didn’t find you, who knows how long you’d have been out here alone.”

“I was just taking my time, that’s all,” he said, his words less certain. The power to pretend, a power about which he’d once been so proud, had long ago diminished. But he still had to try. “I’d have gotten home eventually. I always do.”

“Not always,” said Josh, his voice still a whisper. “This wasn’t the first time. Remember?”

Mr. Electrico felt his grandson’s hand on his shoulder, and though the touch was gentle and though it was meant with love, it brought back memories of other park benches, and other touches, ones not so gentle, which had been meant to make him move along. He stayed silent, and tried not to let those feeling show.

“So you’re saying the officer and I should just leave you here then? You’ll have no problem getting back on your own?”

At first, Mr. Electrico said nothing. He looked off again toward the unbroken stretch of cool, green grass, and imagined a tent rising there. But tents would rise no more. He sighed.

“I guess I’ve sat here long enough,” Mr. Electrico said finally. “We can go.”

As he stood, he could hear his knees crack. He guessed he probably wasn’t the only one who’d heard them.

“The officer said he’d drive us home,” said Josh, gesturing at the police car which had been left idling on the outskirts of the park.

“I can walk,” said Mr. Electrico, even as he felt a pounding in his chest. “I’m not dead yet.”

Besides, he thought, he’d been in the back of too many police cars. Sure, it had been decades since the last time. But still. He remembered that claustrophobic feeling, all those doors with no handles. No, sir. Not today. Not yet. He stretched, partially because he needed it after having been curled up on a park bench all night, and partially because he needed Josh to point him in the right direction so they could get started, and was delaying because he didn’t want to have to admit it.

“Shall we?” he said, and tilted his head in a vague circle he hoped night accidentally approximate the correct direction.

Josh hesitated for a moment, looking as if he was about to speak…then shrugged instead and began walking.

Mr. Electrico followed, trying his best to memorize the streets–some of which seemed familiar to him, and some not, as if buildings had been shuffled overnight–between the park and his grandson’s house. They were silent all the way there, though Mr. Electrico could tell, from the grim expression on his grandson’s face, that a speech was building which he would not want to hear. Once they arrived, Josh waved at the couch in the living room.

“We can’t go on this way,” he said. “I know you know that, grandpa.”

“We?” said Mr. Electrico. “I’m tired. Can we do this later?”

Josh nodded, and Mr. Electrico went up to his room–slowly, as all stairs were taken slowly these days–where he fell asleep immediately, a thing which he hadn’t allowed himself in the park. Oh, he’d been tired, and he’d desperately wanted to nod off, but a life spent on the road had taught him that was never to be done. He hadn’t even been able to bring himself to nap while there, only listen to the crickets and look at the stars, both those present that night and those which existed only in memory. So sleep came quick now, as did dreams of his old life, and an afternoon by Lake Michigan, and a boy named Ray.

When he woke, he could remember little of the dreams, only that he had dreamt, which he did not like. It seemed forgetfulness, which was now so much a part of his life, was spreading to his dreams as well.

How long before he forgot it all?

Mr. Electrico managed to avoid “the talk” Josh kept insisting they have, making him think he still had some of the gift of gab which had served him so well during his carny days, but then, one morning, he woke and looked under his bed for the sword which would allow him to perform the ritual meant to remind him of who he’d once been, and he found nothing but dust bunnies, a sock he’d thought he’d lost, and a depression created in the carpeting by a long, rectangular box which had lain there since his grandson had taken him in.

His sword, the only memento that remained, was gone.

He shouted his grandson’s name, so upset he didn’t have to search for it even for a split second. No answer came, but Mr. Electrico suspected that could have been because his voice was no longer loud enough to carry downstairs. His knees were unfortunately not the only things giving out. He tried again, more forcefully, to use the voice he’d once owned when he’d captivated crowds, but though his mind remembered, his lungs would not.


There was still no answer, so he headed slowly to the top of the stairs and called out again. His grandson was not normally gone so early in the day, so it was strange he shouldn’t be there now. As Mr. Electrico was about to take his first step down, a figure came into view from the living room.

Mr. Electrico froze. It wasn’t Josh.

It was the kid.


He seemed exactly as he’d been all those years before, unchanged by time. And in one hand, the sword. Ray laughed as he made a few passes through the air with the metal, marking the air between them.

“You were looking for this,” he said, his voice as frozen in time as was his face.

“What are you doing here?” asked Mr. Electrico.

“What do you think?” he said, leaping up one step, then back down again, repeating the move several times with glee. Mr. Electrico remembered what it was like to leap, but not when he’d last been able to do it. “What I’ve been doing ever since the day we met–living forever.”

“That’s … not possible,” Mr. Electrico said. Or was it? he thought. “Where have you been? Why are you here now?”

“It seemed as if you needed me,” said Ray, pausing in his prancing to look up. “Needed me to find this. I doubted you’d have been able to on your own.”

Ray flipped the sword in his hand so that its hilt was now pointed up toward the top of the stairs. It was an offering. An invitation. One Mr. Electrico desperately wanted to accept. But in that moment, he didn’t have the strength to walk down to receive it. His knees buckled, and he dropped to sit on the top step, suddenly unable to stand any longer.

Mr. Electrico was glad Josh wasn’t present to see the weakness which had stolen over him. And so, of course, in that moment, from behind Ray came the sound of the front door being unlocked. Ray smiled, a buoyant smile Mr. Electrico recognized, and then looked briefly over one shoulder, unalarmed. He knelt, laying the sword down sideways across the bottom step, the blade so long it stuck out through the bannister.

“There,” said Ray. “It’s yours again. No one should take it from you.”

And then Ray backed out of sight, vanishing into the living room, just before Josh came into view from the front foyer. Mr. Electrico found himself without the breath to speak, so Josh was startled on seeing him there, at first not even noticing the sword.

“Grandpa, why are you sitting up there like that?”

Mr. Electrico heard the love in his voice, but he also heard the exasperation, and knew he should answer immediately. Josh had lately been accusing him of getting slow, and a snappy answer would help contradict that, but he had none. All he could think was — how is it that Josh missed seeing Ray? Before Mr. Electrico could think of anything to say, Josh noticed the sword on the bottom step, and his expression darkened.

“So you found it,” he said. “I’m surprised. How did you manage to do that?”

“You?” said Mr. Electrico. “You’re the one who took my sword? Not…”

Mr. Electrico fell to silence. How could he dare reveal what he’d seen before Josh arrived home? His grandson was already having trouble accepting what he’d become, and that he’d mistakenly believed a boy he hadn’t seen in half a century had taken his sword would be…too much.

“Not what?” said Josh.

“Nothing. It’s just that…for a moment, I thought…never mind. But why? Why did you do it?”

“I had to, Grandpa. You’re not safe with it anymore. Maybe you can be trusted with it when I’m here to supervise, but when you’re alone? No.”

“That’s not true, Josh.”

Mr. Electrico found himself trembling, whether from fear or anger he couldn’t tell. But maybe it was neither, and only the trembling that came with the years.

“Sadly, it is true. You’re not who you once were, grandpa. And after we got back from the park, after you fell asleep, I started realizing … you could get hurt, without even meaning to.”

As Josh spoke, he was hesitant in a way Mr. Electrico had never seen before, at times rocking from one foot to the other, at times seeming about to step over the sword and join him at the top of the stairs. Instead, he stayed in place, continuing to squeeze words out, words obviously as difficult to speak as they were to hear.

“It’s not your fault,” Josh said, louder than he’d left off. “So I had to, you see? And look at you here with the sword again. You could have been hurt retrieving it. What if you’d fallen off the ladder and broken your neck? You shouldn’t be doing things like that, doing the things you once did. I wouldn’t want to find you that way. I love you, Grandpa. You know that don’t you? This is for your own good.”

“What’s this about a ladder, Josh? I didn’t climb any ladder.”

“Oh, grandpa, have you forgotten that already? You had to have used a ladder, or else how would you have gotten it down from where I stored it in the garage? If you can’t even remember that, it’s just one more reason you shouldn’t have it.”

Josh stooped to pick up the sword, then turned toward the garage.

“You can’t do this, Josh,” said Mr. Electrico, rising swiftly to his feet. The sudden movement left him dizzy, forcing him to press one hand against the wall to remain steady. “That’s mine! That’s all I have left.”

“Then what’s it doing down here with you up there? You must have dropped it. Don’t you see? You might have cut yourself. Or fallen and run yourself through. No. No more. If you want to keep living here, please. Don’t try to find this again.”

“Josh,” he said, as his grandson vanished, seeming no more or less real than the boy who had vanished on his arrival. Mr. Electrico would have shouted if he could, but he had no more energy with which to shout.

“Later, Grandpa,” said Josh upon his return from the garage. “We’ll talk more later. We have some decisions to make.”

Mr. Electrico said nothing as Josh walked up the stairs and squeezed past to his own bedroom. He did not want to talk more later. At least, not with Josh. He knew what was coming for him, he knew what those decisions would mean, and talking would only bring that fate toward him more quickly.

Mr. Electrico waited until he could no longer hear Josh’s television vibrating through the thin walls and was sure his grandson was asleep, then snuck out of the house and stood on the front lawn. He’d head toward the park, he decided, where he’d spent most of the previous night.

He loved the park, the way his scanning of the unpopulated vista brought back memories of the beginnings of things–the tents still unrolled, the ferris wheel unconstructed, the rubes asleep in their homes, and he needed that feeling now more than ever. That was almost the best part, those moments of before when anything could happen. It felt as if anything could happen tonight. But which way should he turn?

He could still remember where the park was, couldn’t he?

No. He couldn’t.

As he stood in indecision, fearful of choosing the wrong way, even more fearful of choosing no way at all, his breath turned to mist in the cool night air, and as that cloud pulsed, appearing and disappearing with each exhalation, through it, off on the nearest corner, under a streetlight, he could see Ray, waving the sword over his head, doing mock battle with a moth which hovered above him.

Mr. Electrico’s sword.

And then the kid danced out of the spotlight and into the darkness.

Mr. Electro took off after him, perhaps, based on what his knees were telling him, more quickly than he should have, but he didn’t dare lose him. He could make out his outline in the distance, always on the verge of disappearing, and as Mr. Electrico ran, so ran Ray. They moved through the night this way, twisting and turning along the maze of the subdivisions, the kid continually pausing off in the distance just long enough to be sure he was seen, but no longer, and then taking off again as soon as Mr. Electrico started after him again.

By the time Mr. Electrico arrived at the park, he was gasping, and sure he could not have gone a single step further. For a moment, as he looked around, he thought he’d lost the kid, but there he was, sitting not on a bench, sitting not on the grass, but off in the empty playground, plopped on a mound of sand in front of the rut beneath the swings, a mound kicked high by the feet of a thousand children.

The kid smiled, patting the sand beside him, and as Mr. Electrico settled down slowly, his legs protesting as they bent, he remembered the two of them having been side by side like that before, so many decades ago, when he had been so much younger, and the kid had been…

…exactly the same.

“Why are you here?” asked Mr. Electrico, having to catch his breath to get even that single short sentence out.

“Why are you here?” asked the kid, waving the sword to encompass the park.

And then Mr. Electrico did know, know what he hadn’t known before, but merely suspected.

“Because I can almost see Lake Michigan,” he said. The past and the present rubbed up against each other in this place. It was what called him here time and again. Because if he squinted, and imagined, and remembered, he could see from one to the other.

They sat in silence for awhile, looking off into the distance. Eventually, Mr. Electrico closed his eyes. Sometimes, in this place, he could see much better with them closed. But he could not see far enough. Not yet.

“Did you bring me another trick?” he asked. “Another puzzle to solve?”

“I did.”

The kid rose, pointed the sword to his head, then allowed it to drop to his toes with a flourish, as if by lowering a sword, he was raising a curtain on himself. He bowed theatrically.

“You? You’re the trick?”

Ray nodded and smiled.

“That’s not a trick,” said Mr. Electrico. “You staying the same, me growing older…that’s a joke.”

“So how come neither of us is laughing?” said the kid, settling back down beside him in the sand. “No, it’s not a joke. I wouldn’t do that to you. It is, indeed, a trick. Last time we were together, you showed me the secret to how one worked. This time, it’s my turn to show you.”

Mr. Electrico wanted to learn that trick, that secret. But there was something else which in that moment he wanted more.

“I’d like my sword back,” he said.

“In a moment.”

The kid used the sword to make circles in the air in front of them, then figure eights, then x’s, then finally circles again.

“You said we’d met before in a former life. Was that a lie you were telling me? A part of your act?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. And then, more forcefully, certain for the first time: “No.”

“You said I was your friend. Was that a lie?”


There had been no hesitation that time.

“So we were friends in the last life,” said Ray. “We are friends in this one. And we will be friends in the next one as well.”

“I’m glad of that,” said Mr. Electrico. “But you still haven’t answered my question, not fully. Why are you here?”

“Because I wanted to thank you,” said Ray. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time, but I never had the chance. I could never reach you, not until now, when you were so close, because though I couldn’t come nearer to you, you could come nearer to me. The day I met you, the day you made sparks come out my ears and told me to live forever, that was the day everything changed. That was the day you gave me the future, the day I learned how strange and wonderful the world really was. That was the day…the day I decided to become a writer. I could never thank you, because I could never track you down. I tried to, I really did, but only now…only now…”

Ray shrugged.

“Anyway…thank you.”

“You remembered,” said Mr. Electrico quietly.

“Yes,” whispered Ray.

“You remembered me telling you to live forever.”

Ray nodded.

“And did you live forever?”

“I did,” said Ray. “Thanks to you, I will.”

“So why haven’t you changed? And why have I?”

“That’s the magic, you see,” said Ray. “Because no one has yet to do this.”

The kid stood, and with a gesture Mr. Electrico recognized as if he were gazing upon it in a mirror, because he had done it thousands of times himself, leaned down, extended the sword, and tapped him on the center of his forehead.

“Live forever!” Ray shouted, with a voice that boomed far too loud for one so small. For a moment, the world seemed on fire. Mr. Electrico’s skin prickled, and his hair stood on end, as he sensed the charge coruscating through him and connecting with a dormant engine within. Then, as the kid pressed the sword back into Mr. Electrico’s hand, the sky–whether it had been truly ablaze, or whether it had been just the old electricity running through his eyes anew–faded.

“It’s yours now,” said Ray. “It always was yours.”

Mr. Electrico leapt up, made a giddy hop, and struck his own slashes through the air. He laughed, feeling complete once more.

“Ready to join me?” asked the kid. He gestured behind them, away from the shadow of Lake Michigan.

Mr. Electrico turned, and in the distance, where suddenly it was daylight, could see the tents flapping in a gentle breeze. He could make out the banners, looking as fresh as the day they were first painted, covered with the images of his friends, images larger than life, but no larger than they lived on in his memory–The Sword Swallower and The Bearded Lady and the Illustrated Man and–

–and look–on the largest stretch of canvas in the carnival–there he was, Mr. Electrico, bigger than life himself, too, but no bigger than life should be, his hair ablaze, his eyes sparking, his fingertips flashing lightning, fully again who he used to be.

Who he was again.

“Live forever,” Mr. Electrico whispered. “Yes..let’s.”

He took Ray’s hand, and together, they headed toward the carnival.


Copyright 2018 Scott Edelman

Scott Edelman has published more than 90 short stories in magazines and anthologies such as Analog, The Twilight Zone, and many others. His collection of zombie fiction, What Will Come After, was a finalist for both the Stoker Award and the Shirley Jackson Memorial Award. Edelman worked for the Syfy Channel for more than thirteen years as editor of Science Fiction Weekly, SCI FI Wire, and Blastr. He has been a four-time Hugo Award finalist for Best Editor.


by Alice Brook



I can still taste electric anise when I open my eyes. It’s been a week since that kid got himself killed and I came too late to do anything about it. An open-and-shut case.

I light a cigarette trying hard to ignore the boy in my bed tonight. He snores and I kick him on the ribs, “Out.”

I picked him up in Summer’s Night after Tiha knows how many glasses of gin. On the back of his neck is a cluster of dark freckles I hadn’t noticed the night before–my gods, a damn Academy student. A “scholar” I bet, just an ignorant kid who thinks magic’s only use is a quick high.

I get up and turn on the radio. A melancholy beat weaves itself around the smoke, edging by piles of filthy clothes, slithering into the wrinkled sheets until it reaches the boy. He squirms, pulling a pillow over his head. I tsk and have another drag of my cigarette.

The flavour of anise is still stuck on the back of my tongue. If only I had gotten to that kid sooner, the bottle laced with a dreamwake charm would’ve never reached his lips and I wouldn’t have magic jammed in my throat every time I woke up. Bloody dumb kids.

I snag the pillow off the boy’s head, lean to his ear so he feels the ember warming his skin. I stub out the cigarette on the sheets. The way the tobacco falls it looks like my skin is flaking, sprinkling brown-beige on greyed white sheets. A stray speck of ember jumps to the boy and he winces.

“Out.” I make my voice sound like a growl. He only puts his hands over his head, groaning. I wish his neck wasn’t on display. The smudge in the middle of it seems ordinary until you look closely and you realise it’s a puddle after a heavy storm, the boy’s Key. I harrumph at my stupidity for offering a place to crash. I tell him to hurry the fuck up and leave.

The radio’s finished its meandering song and a man is signing off, wishing us a good night. By the sound of fists slamming at my door looks like my night is just beginning. I roll my eyes when I hear Sergeant Heartnell calling “Open up, Ange!”

I wipe the dust off the book I got for Lou, The Key Dictionary. I should give it to him soon, before the shiny giftwrap dissolves completely, but this time I drop it right next to the boy. He jolts at the sound and gives me a look of a cow who’s just found out what a sledgehammer’s for. In reply, I point to the window. I assume he’s smart enough to use the fire escape, otherwise a dumpster laden with Cheng’s sauced-up garbage will cushion his fall. He’s none of my concern anymore. The boy mutters, “shitshitshitshit, as he scrambles to dress himself.

“Keep your knickers on, Sarge,” I yell as I pull on a loose blouse and a pair of pants. I wish they had deeper pockets though, not even basic charms can expand clothes by much. Like this, all I have room for are half a dozen ready-made magics–fainter, healquick, motion, flask–the necessities.

The window slams shut behind me as I open the door. Soon enough there’s a yelp and a thump. The boy should have known better than to follow a strange woman home.

Sarge has a look on his face that makes his wrinkles seem like canyons. “Nightmares getting to you?”

I shake my head no. Not tonight, I didn’t sleep anyway. “It’s 1 a.m., Heartnell. I was sleeping,” I lie to the pudgy pink face at the door.

“Like I’m gonna believe that.” His bulbous nose creeps up when he snorts. Gods, has that man ever heard of trimming?

“You know, there are special scissors, they’re real tiny so you can get ’em up the nostril and just – ” I make a snipping move with my fingers. “You’ll get a discount as soon as they look at you.” I also give him a grin, for good measure.

“Cut the crap, Magic,” he says with a ghost of a smile stuck to the corner of his lips. With that on his face he looks twenty years and a barrel of sadness younger.

“Well, gee, you’re just no fun at all.” I lean on the door frame and cross my arms across my chest. My no-fucking-way stance will be ignored, but, hey, can’t blame a girl for trying to crawl back to bed and fall into blissful, alcohol induced sleep.

“Grab your bag. We’ve got a shiner.”

I raise my eyebrow-an expert achievement of snark that never fails to drive Sarge crazy. All he does is glare and burrow his fingers inside his palms. He knows he can’t touch me. He and magic just don’t get along, to put it mildly. Admittedly, I did once make a receptionist burn from the inside out, so maybe there’s a smidgeon of fear somewhere in Heartnell’s anger. But the burning days are behind me now. Tiha’s honour.

“Sergeant Frank Heartnell, I don’t get up for less than blazing sun.”

“Don’t play wise with me, kid.” He turns to proceed down the decaying hallway.

I tie on my bespoke boots, silver-tipped with a mix of screetcher teeth and herbs under the heel, grab a coat and my satchel. I stuff Lou’s book in one of the pockets, too. Maybe I’ll have some time on the way back.

The door takes some banging before it finally shuts. I don’t lock it–those who know where I am know who I am, and those who’d dare steal would see only bare walls and one soiled mattress leaned to the radiator. Maintaining the concealer is a pain in the ass, but I can afford a few days of mild coma to keep it up for three years.

When I rush after Sarge, the bag slips off my shoulder. It’s not supposed to do that. Made of weathered leather and with a charm that enhances its pockets to untold depths, the bag is supposed to stay put as if glued to me. But then again, I’ve never been the bookish type so I don’t exactly know how it works. You never know with these bags, especially when you pick one off a stiffer.

We drive to Gallows Lane. A scent of lilacs seeps through the windows of the car, overpowering the stench of old tobacco and stale sweat. Heartnell’s knuckles have already turned white gripping the wheel. I take a deep breath and stare on.

Our strained ride ends at the edge of Verago, where centuries ago stood the Seventh Gate. Story goes its rock was black as the darkest sky, thicker than a giant’s midriff, and infused with magic that would spark the air blue, twisting it until it looked like billowing cloth. A row of gallows had flanked the door where the dead, while swaying in the wind, would howl and moan and wail. When Old Ellis did his jig, a couple of fellas went home with their ears bleeding and cheeks clawed raw. Old Ellis, the last man to hang, had given us a game of Telephone that’s lasted for over eighty years. A crazy faction says he never really died, despite the hanging body, but they also believe bees are magic-made surveillance. I don’t trust the crazies, but Old Ellis is still called merlinesque at Tiha Academy.

What’s left of the Gallows Lane looks like a discarded booger-stained kerchief by the road. On a plateau framed by four lilac trees, bronzed gallows stand as though they’d emerged from the earth itself. Sometimes I wonder if the air is cleaner up there, when your neck is wrapped in rope. The hanged were lucky, in a way. I breathe in the lilacs, savouring the scent as it makes my chest swell, and not failing to take a good look at the splintering imitation wood of the gallows.

I fake a cough as I adjust the bag on my shoulder and resist making any sort of comment. Heartnell’s sensitive about magic victims, and however we are to each other, I know where the line is.

He leads me to the gutters below the memorial where they found the shiner. Despite the cold breeze pushing against us, the girl looks like she’s just taking a nap. I suppose the chintz carpet she’s wrapped in kept the chill at bay. Somebody’s unfurled the top so that her face was visible. Eyes wide open, amber, stare up at the sky, no expression in them. I could pretend she’s counting stars.

“When did you find her?” I asked. It’s hard feigning nonchalance when her mouth was sewn shut with blue string and blood crusted over the corners of her lips. Except one of the stitches has been broken, the thread hanging from her mouth like drool. She’s not counting anything.

“About half an hour ago. Mad Maggie thought she was a pile of leaves.”

I stay crouched by her shoulder. Strayed lilac petals have dappled the mud around her body, as though she was suspended in the sky and I was looking up instead of down. I did not know the girl. But I could have. The skin’s turned waxy, but the falling moonlight does everything but make her look a corpse. Her features are sharp, cheekbones you could slice your finger on, a hard jaw that takes no excuses and a wide forehead with insidious lines between her brows.

I could imagine the girl frown. Demanding respect, she would force her lips in a thin line and stare you down till you cracked. When she danced, her face would pull her eyebrows up with each jump, her laugh painting the air like magic, I–I don’t know this girl in the gutters. Only, she reminds me of someone.

“We dubbed her Sparrow Rose.”

I start at Sarge’s voice. “Huh?”

“Just…” He waves his hand towards the girl’s face, then lets it fall.

When I push my finger between the broken X-shaped stitches on her lips, I swear I can hear blood cracking. A soft and crumpled thing.

“White rose petals and birds’ beaks.” I push them around my palm. This is bad. I outline a rune above the satchel, my finger cleaving the air and emitting a dim white light. The right compartment unlocks and I look for a container. “You haven’t seen her body yet?”

“We didn’t touch a damn thing.” Heartnell’s anger is almost palpable.

“Except for the mouth,” I add, nodding at the ruined thread.

I finally find a small jar and fill it up with beaks and petals from Rose’s mouth. This shit never gets any easier. Especially not for people like me, people who’ve traded a chunk of their souls. Something sharp pricks my thumb, sending spikes of coolness over my arm. I ignore it.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Sarge.” I tell Heartnell, then rise to face him, the coolness spreads to my neck now, almost choking. I clear my throat to get it out. “Get the crew here.”

Heartnell waves a gesture, wordlessly telling the officers to gather up. Except, there’s something off about the way Georgia leads the group forward. Seems to me like she forgot to walk, as if her legs were planks. More of them walk the same way, moving in a circle. Heartnell and I are being surrounded by seven of our own, even Shaun, who usually only ties rope around so that nobody sticks their noses where they don’t belong.

Heartnell opens his mouth to say something, probably a slew of curses.

“Don’t,” I tell him and it’s just blind luck that he’s not a part of the hunchback crew lumbering toward us.

All of them have some sort of amulet peeking out their uniforms. Shaun has one in the shape of a horse, it’s so heavy his head’s always a bit stooped. He beamed when he told me he got it off a “seer” in a secret shop tucked between the movies and Mack’s diner.

I warned him about the women with dangling sliver bracelets more times than I can count–con-women with a sense of drama. His “seer” just happened to be one of the more clever ones, considering how she opened a shop right next to the pictures. Since The Eyes of Magic opened in cinemas across the country, the whole amulet business blew up. I can’t go a bloody day without seeing somebody clutching at a necklace. Even Mad Maggie tugs at her iron comb when she sees me.

“Just don’t move, not yet,” I tell Heartnell. Georgia is so close I could reach her with the tips of my fingers. Her eyes are still a pleasant brown, which means she’s not too far gone. I snag the amulet off her belt, throw her glass dandelion away. Six of the squad turn and stare and stop. Only one keeps going, that damn horse swaying around his neck. Shaun believed with all his little heart the horse would protect him.

Truth is, a protection spell can’t be bound to any old bull. It’d have to be something the wearer actually cared about, and we’d pump it up. The price the magicians pay is anywhere from a three day migraine to a particularly nasty case of stomach flu or diarrhoea. That’s some real ugly business, and not worth the bother if you ask me. But when I saw a crystal stone dangling off Sarge’s neck, I made sure he chucked that in the trash. I made him the real deal, I owed him that much.

Shaun’s eyes gleam white. My muscles instinctively tense, every sinew’s ready to pounce, hit or hurl a ready-made charm. I reach the inside of my left pocket. Rummaging around for a blade when a ‘chanted is coming straight at you is no easy business.

“Just a little closer,” I whisper to Heartnell who’s already got his gun out. Tiha, can’t I get a goddamn case that doesn’t turn into a giant pile of shit?

Shaun lunges to Sparrow Rose, his hands enveloped with blue, iridescent smoke. I’ve seen it before. Hell, I’ve made it before. The smoke will swallow him up like he was a dumpling, then rot him from inside out. He’s a good kid, albeit too naive for his own good. Always blushes when I ask him about girls and can’t get past a tumbler of booze without getting redder than a drunk’s nose on a winter night.

I pull the spiked knife out and launch it at his liver, doing my best to aim properly when my thumb is now throbbing as though there were worms in. Close enough – Shaun sways as the knife sucks in the blueness. There is no blood coming out of the wound. Only Shaun’s face curling into a grimace, ageing thirty years in ten seconds. His wail feels like the only sound in the world.

“You killed him.” Cold blooms across my temple. I needn’t even glance to know it’s Heartnell’s gun.

“No. It did. It wasn’t Shaun anymore, Heartnell. He uncovered Rose, right? The second he touched those stitches, he was dead.” I keep my eyes straight, don’t look at my thumb.

Shaun’s body looks like a deflated ball before it disintegrates to dust. I shiver. A good thing. A person should shiver at a time like this. You gotta pay attention when a slice of soul is missing from your body.

“We need Lou,” I add.

I walk away to get the knife out the dust while uncomfortable questions are being answered. Georgia shoots me a look. I’ve been a recipient of the look since I was a seventeen year old brat, a good ten years now. It could rival my mother’s eyes when she found out my puppets turned our little house into a ball of flames.

“Get a fucking box, a bag, something! We do not leave him here,” Georgia yells. She’s on her knees, blocking the wind as much as she can. Her lips are tight between her teeth, her body twitching.

The officers all walk as if underwater. Some stare at their hands, flexing them into fists, then unclenching, like they wanna make sure it’s them who’s in control. Others are gingerly stepping on the gravel, scared of making a wrong turn lest the stones grow canines. More than a few fall to their knees and puke their guts out. Only Georgia is firmly on her feet, rushing back to Shaun’s remains with a box gripped to her chest.

Heartnell’s going from man to man, planting his hand on each of their shoulders and tucking their amulets back in place. Flashes of light from the gently waking traffic wash over them, and for a second they all look like angels. The lights from our car point directly at the scene, giving the sight an eerie tone of being outside of time.

When I pass Georgia, she spits. I drop the knife into my bag and curl my fists around its straps. If I didn’t, I might have clawed the sneer off her face.

It’s getting to me, too. I move the hurt thumb under the strap. Don’t look at it, Ange, gulp it down and shake it off. The thing, what ever it is, whatever it was, it’s big and bad and uglier than a pair of cauliflower ears. Nobody outside Tiha is supposed to have that kind of power.

The stitch around Rose’s mouth, that particular shade of blue, looks more familiar than I’d like to admit.

I take another deep breath, hoping the sharp sweetness of the lilac would wake me up from this goddamn nightmare. Not my luck.

My hand begins to throb all over. Bad ‘n’ ugly’s getting to me, alright. The cold pain sprints to my jugular, then drops, like a ton of burning rock to my stomach. I bend at the waist, hands on my knees, silently cursing all that is holy. It’ll have to work much harder to crack me like it did Shaun.

“Nobody touch her! Hold her by the carpet.” I stagger to the car, still breathing heavily. My chest is a pack of rats fighting for the last bit of cheese.

“Ain’t the dame gonna help?” Georgia’s remark’s backed up by the guys’ mumbling approval. I keep my trap shut and let Heartnell deal with it.

“Georgia, so help me, one more word–”

“It’s her, Sarge.”

“You will obey your superior officer.” He tilts his chin down at her, as to a naughty child.

Georgia audibly swallows before she says, “Yes, sir,” and begins to haul Sparrow Rose to the trunk.

“I like her.” I squeeze the words out my teeth, “Stubborn and smart.”

Heartnell hands me a lit cigarette and says nothing. I inhale, clearing my lungs. It doesn’t work though. There’s still a pack of rats (tied by their tails, they are filthy, livid, clawing at my meat, digging through bone, that bad’n’ugly) hooked to my flesh.

Rose’s magic seeped to Shaun and now it’s definitely seeping into me. This is much worse than I thought possible.

“You better know what you’re doing, Ange.” Heartnell’s gaze is locked to the crew, his hands folded across his chest. I can see how he digs his nails in his palms, so it does him no good hiding it.

I give the cigarette a deep drag and let the smoke unfurl through my nostrils.

I hope I do, Sarge, I hope I do.




The pain is not as strong as it is consistent, like needles pricking flesh or bullets cleaving muscle. A breeze waltzing in the top of my head while a loop of rope tightens around my neck. The pain is like many things, but I’ll be damned if I let it beat me. I need a drink.

Inside the car, I can inspect my Key. I let myself sink into the seat, breathe a little while, before I lift my blouse up. On the side of my ribs is a latticework of scars, the shape barely recognizable, which is not a bad thing, per se. It’s a mark. To warn the rest I’m no good, to tell them my body is marred by banned magic. Not that I knew it was bad at the time. You can hardly blame a kid for being defiant and dumb, but nevertheless, Zora did. Expelled by the hand of my own mentor.

What my Key used to look like was a dagger pointed to my hips. A constellation of freckles in an unusual shape. Every magician has one, we’re born with it. They’re like blue eyes – sometimes they appear outta nowhere, but mostly, there’s a carrier in the family. I glide my fingers over it. Nothing. Or nothing yet, in any case.

I give it a pinch, just to make sure and the pain hits me. Down my ribs, grabbing each one, raking at my Key. I let out a yelp despite myself. The pain drills itself deep, then disappears.

The blouse falls back into place as I close my eyes and rummage through its breast pocket for a flask. I gulp down the rye until it’s half-empty.

Why in the hot hells am I even here? I take another swing, Smiley Val’s scarred face dances in my mind. Smiley Val. First time I called her that she grinned in a way that would make a mountain pack up and move two states away. We’ve been close ever since.

The first time she saw my Key, she pinched me so hard I almost jumped outta bed, but, Tiha, not even that could make me angry with her. If I stepped on the gas right now, I could be in her den in half an hour. Far from Sparrow Rose who’s like seeing a ghost, except my ghost is alive and well and most likely wishes me dead every day.

“Too bad, kiddo,” I tell myself and have another tug at the flask. “You’re stuck.”

The thing about losing some soul is you need to find another way to stay human, and saving kittens doesn’t do it for me. Sleeping beauties, also knows as tulips, also known as catatonics really are humans minus souls. And I ain’t done living. And anyway, if I ran to Smiley Val she’d just kick me out for disturbing her customers. The scar extending from her lip to the corner of her eye might help her play nonchalance, but both of us know gun smuggling is trickier than Val wants it to be. I’d be the biggest harm to her business in any case.

Heartnell knocks at the window. I flinch, which makes the flask spill a little. I lick the rye off my hand. “What? Want one too?”

Shit. There goes the line. And I don’t feel a damn thing, which is something you’re supposed to feel crossing the final frontier of human decency. Usually I’d shoot down the words before they even brush against my tongue. I give the flask a scowl.

“Enough,” he says. That means, if I dare touch more liquor, he’ll break his back to ensure I never do any good again, even if it meant risking the rest of his life as a toad. My fingers stumble to get the lid back on, then let the rye drop back in my pocket.

“You should know better.” Heartnell slaps the window before going round to the driver’s side. You wouldn’t tell by his skinny piano fingers and clean nails, but he could crush a melon just by pinching it if he put his mind to it.

As he revs the engine, I see myself pushing his face in mud. I shake the thought off and what comes through is a pair of amber eyes, blinking at me. Sparrow Rose is getting colder by the second. If Lou tells me what I think this is, there won’t be much time. The only person who could possibly perform that kind of magic is high up Tiha Order. Most likely.

The Key throbs (rat-king making a nest). As if through gauze, I see clots of blood drop from the back of Heartnell’s head, brains dripping over his collar, my boot kicking him down and stomping, stomping, stomping as red splatters on my clothes, stray drops warming my skin and trickling down.

I shake the thoughts off again. It’s not me who thought them. Not. Me.

There’s two ways this could go, and I have slim chances in both.




The only safe business is the death business. People drop like flies every day, especially in Verago, and too few want to deal with decomposing flesh. Especially when the flesh in question can come with an extra appendage (or five), and still twitching if a magician died before the spell took its toll. A mortician is not a desirable profession. Unless you’re Lou, whose brain’s fit to hold hundreds of funerary rituals and who thinks stiffers walking around the mortuary are intriguing.

I push open the door to Lou’s and invite Sarge, along with the two officers wheeling the body on a rickety gurney, inside. Stuffed weasels clutter one of the giant chestnut tables that take up the entire length of the wall. Their eyes, attacked by the sudden light, beam down on us, so I have to blink away the yellow spots from my sight. Damn things creep me out. The other table is overflowing with papers, half-eaten pastry, mugs still filled with tea, and one brightly painted ceramic frog I got Lou for his sixtieth. There’s hardly room for two people, but the four of us, plus Rose, manage to squeeze in.

I make my way to the middle of the room, stomp on a square outlined in black tape, then quickly step away. As always, Lou’s deep down in his make-shift lab. What he’s doing isn’t exactly legal, but Lou, well, he’s no harm to anybody. Besides, his bony head holds more knowledge than the Academy teachers, so I need him when the shiners get complicated.

The officers rush back outside, leaving Heartnell behind. He approaches, then leans in until I can smell the stale coffee he had for breakfast. I better get him some mouthwash with those nose trimmers. I mind not to move a muscle except my fists, which I ball behind my back.

“You broke Georgia’s heart, you know that?”

“As far as I know, Georgia has no such thing.” The words just slip out. My jaw’s clenched and cold and I don’t wanna know what my eyes look like. “It’s bigger than Georgia, than Shaun, than all of us. This–”

Sarge looks like stone. One curt Heartnell-nod and he marches over a stuffed mouse as he leaves me to cajole Lou out.

I bite down my tongue. Shaun can’t be my fault, not him too. But the tingling in my fingers reappears, the rat-king and its tails.

“Lou,” I cough off the shake in my voice. “They’re good an’ gone, Lou.” A bone fide hermit, he wouldn’t come out if the cops were there. Lou gave me a pass, though, seeing how I’m not a “real cop,” just a magician on hard times.

The trap door opens with a creak and a bang before falling back. A hand appears, quickly followed by Lou’s spindly body. “They have no respect, those thugs. Thugs, all of them.”

“Come on, Lou. They ain’t all that bad,” I do the rune over my satchel to get his book out. Better do it now, coax him a little.

He’s gotten to be a worse old man now than when we first met. About two years ago I found him staring at me while I was cracking a ready-made charm over a heavy goon Val suspected was pinching cash from her. Lou was scribbling in a little book, his hands shivering as he did so. Well, I couldn’t just let him prance on his merry way, so I grabbed him by the collar and gave him a piece of my mind. Lou squealed and spilled all about his lab and magical mishaps. He gave me hot cocoa and asked as many questions as an eleven year old who’d just noticed his freckles were shaping in Key.

I laughed at him, remembering the same zeal a lot of us showed when we first stepped inside Tiha’s Academy. He was surprised when I told him how easily things go wrong in magic. If a wide-range concealment went awry, it would make the corpse crack days after death which was what had been haunting Lou’s parlour back then.

Lou bends to close off the trap door in complete silence. Strange. Usually, he talks like a wound up toy.

“We found a girl. Something big, I think.” I glance at Rose over my shoulder, hoping I would see the carpet rise and fall. I should know better than that by now.

“You all right, Lou?”

Lou shuffles to the junk-ridden table and begins pushing the papers away, carelessly siding the ceramic frog to the edge. There was the tiniest little wince spread across his face every time he shifted his weight to the left foot.

“What happened to your leg?”

“Oh, a tiny–” he shakes his head. “A small accident. No importance whatsoever.”

He coughs again, this time the burst sending him heaving over himself. I reach for his shoulders with my free hand and pat him on the back. Lou’s a skinny old man, the skull more visible now that his hair’s white and thinned.

The dimple on his chin looks like a crater sometimes, like that tiny black dot is to blame for his feebleness. But he doesn’t look any paler than normal. Gods know Lou can be clumsy. The stuffy lab can’t be any good for him either. He waves me away, so I retreat to the wall when he’s done and let him finish clearing the table. He wets his lips quickly with only the tip of his tongue.

“I got a book for you. Thought you might like it.”

When he doesn’t react, I frown. No, something is wrong here. An accident, my ass. I place the book on a chair. He is not speaking, his eyes don’t meet mine and he’s got that damn cough that makes him sound ten years older. I decide to ask about his favourite subject, see if that’ll make him confess whatever’s going on. Maybe his basement’s finally exploded or I’ll end up having to kill oversized rodents in the sewer. You can never know with Lou. Keyless are hardly able to even understand the workings of Tiha, let alone dare to dabble in it. Lou, he’s different. He did not explode, or turn to marble or perish in any way. Maybe this time, though.

“How are the experiments going? Anything I should worry about, old man?”

“Exquisite things.” He rambles on, his hands wildly gesturing as if they had minds of their own. He’s talking but not making any sense. He grabs at his cravat, tightening the knot, brushes away stray hair. The upsides of his palms are slick in the muted light. It makes my stomach pang. Scars, not from any sort of dabbling in magic, but from an open flame. He never told, I never asked.

It hurts, looking at his hands and seeing a different face, one that used to beg me to make little figurines out of fire and dirt, then make them dance for us on the floor.

Better just stick to the job tonight. Lou knows what he’s doing. I hope, anyway.

“I need your help, Lou.” I reach for his shoulder, but stop myself. My hand hangs in the air pathetically. “We found her by the gallows.” I flick my wrist, pointing to Rose.

“Of course. For a friend–”

“No. An associate, Lou. Just that.” My eyes tingle, so I frown and blink it away. All my friends end up dead.

He wets his lips in a motion no longer than a blink, like a frog or a snake. Then he presses his forefinger to his dimple. He often does this when he’s nervous. “On the table then.”

“Don’t touch her, Lou. The officers who did–”

Lou does not say a damn thing. So I tell him, “Yeah, yeah. You’re no amateur and all that.”

We heft her to the freshly cleared table, placing her head by the ceramic toad. His hand shivers as he unfurls the upper corner of the carpet, careful not to brush his skin against hers. His tongue slips out and in again, a flash of red among the browns, blacks and greys in the room. I cock my head to one side.

It’s not the first time I brought him a body to inspect, there’s no reason for him to be anything but excited. Maybe it’s Sally that’s making him jittery.

“Sent Sally the flowers I told you about?” I’m the last person to give love advice, but I figured flowers were a safe bet. Can’t go wrong with those, right?

He winces then, stuck with his hand poised above Roses chest. “Yes, the, the–” Lou’s frowning as if the memory’s slipping. “The chrysanthemums.” A smile of relief spreads across his face. “Yes.”

“You’ll have to talk to her, you know. She’s not psychic, Lou.” My eyes wander to his threadbare black shirt. The collar’s already frayed, loose strings glued to his neck.

He smiles sheepishly. “This girl,” he says and hovers his forefinger over Rose’s cheek. “Where did you find her?”

“The Seventh Gate.”

Lou’s head bobs, peas of sweat form above his brow as he inhales heavily. “I need a–I’ll go and get it now.”

Before I can even open my mouth to protest, he rushes back to his lab, crashing the toad in the process. It rolls to the corner of the room and stays there like it’s in ambush, the sticky tongue drawn to loll from its mouth.

I pick the toad up and put it where it belongs. The fall must’ve cracked it and it breaks in two while my hands are still on its sides. I lay both pieces on the table. It looks dead. Sparrow Rose looks deader. I tug the carpet open with a clot of hope in the back of my throat. Damn it, Rose.

I want to shake her by the shoulders until she wakes up. I want to look at the stars with her, I want her to tell me the boy she danced with was so clumsy her toes are blue. I bite my lip, willing myself to stop fantasising. Rose might as well have been a burglar. She might have been a schoolteacher as much as a cold-blooded killer. We shouldn’t pin pretty stories to people just because we like the look of them.

I hold my breath and lean closer to her body. Under her breast is a wound. Looks like a patch of skin was scraped off to reveal muscle and fat. I inspect it closer. There, on the cusp of torn skin – deftly cut out, whoever did this had both time and skill – is a brownish semicircle. A piece of freckle? Was Rose a magician?

A shuffling comes from behind me.

“Got what you need?” A hand grabs my throat and squeezes. I can’t breathe. The edges of my sight blur as I try to pry the bony hand off.

“It’ll come soon,” Lou’s breath is hot on my ear. It smells like rot. “Wakey, wakey, and we’ll be happy. It’ll make me whole, I promise.”

Lou tightens his grip, his coarse hand like sandpaper on my skin. I manage to swing my elbow and hit him on the side. He staggers into the gurney, which squeaks as it moves backwards, colliding to the table of twinkly-eyed animal corpses.

I turn to face Lou. There’s nothing there, he’s expressionless, though not like Shaun. Lou’s eyes are almost black, showing me nothing but a reflection of myself and, for a fraction of a second, they flicker.

I kick him in the stomach before he comes to his senses, the punch folding him again. His head is level with my knees. I could take a shiv from my satchel and peel his face off–stop, Ange! Not. Your. Thoughts.

I grab a stuffed fox from behind Lou and swing. A cry escapes my mouth as the fur connects with the side of his head and Lou slumps forward. I expected the fox to be softer, but the hairs are brittle and remain stuck to my sweaty palms when I let it fall from my hands.

When I catch my breath, I heave Lou up to the gurney and tie him up with rope I find under one of the tables. For once I’m grateful Lou’s sort of a slob. All my friends end up dead, but Lou might have a chance. He’s only stunned, not gone yet.

I reach into my pocket for a motion charm. I feel it, but don’t move a muscle. Again, the rat-king scurries in my chest, ripping at lungs, at meat, a dozen snouts and mouths and rows of teeth and claws scratch my sternum. The blackness is spreading. The tails are laced around my vocal cords, waiting for the right moment to crush them.

I gingerly move my hand to my face. My lips are moving in ohs, my tongue brushes against my nails, covering them with saliva and instead of dirt, I taste everything I’ve done and it tastes like bile.

I shut my eyes until the Key stops throbbing and the rat-king in my chest retreats. It takes a while for it to slither away, I can’t tell how long. But it goes. Tricky thing, being half-souled and infected with… whatever horror this is.

When I get my hands on whoever killed Rose, I swear to rip their legs off and make them eat them, toe by toe. I clear my throat. I shouldn’t even be thinking like that, but, hells. Every nerve in my body is leaden.

I need a drink. When I deem myself calm enough – and I say enough because I’m never damn calm, especially not now when I could take on the armies of all hells along with a dozen of Smiley Val’s goons – I rummage around the sleeve of my blouse and extract a crude motion charm. I’ll know if Lou moves, but not exactly where. It might show me a direction, but a ready-made charm is often unreliable because I suffer pushback (in this case only bruising) before I use it. Knowing when Lou moves and a vague direction is enough. I’ll know he’s fine, I’ll know I didn’t hurt him too much.

It could easily be mistaken for a jumping jack. A ball rubbery and dense with swirls of blue and white, lies smooth on my palm. Weighed with magic, it stays put as I level it above Lou’s face. His shirt is still pristine, only wrinkles so that the loose strings cluster on the sides of his neck. Like he didn’t attack, like we never even fought.

My heart is still thumping a beat of anger, a searing hot thing pulsing through my body. I shut my eyes. I imagine the faintest smell of dust and warm wood and strong coffee. When the sunset painted the sky crimson, that was when our little house looked most beautiful. I hear my sister’s voice pleading for magic puppets–she’d push my cheeks with tiny hands smeared with marmalade and yelp, “Again, again!” A wave swallows my body, leaving specks of sadness and guilt in its wake. I am calm. The rat-king won’t beat me.

I open my eyes and press the charm, cracking it like an egg. Threads of blue and silver unravel from its insides. They drift on Lou’s face, meandering through the air, making a cobweb pattern in the short time they’re between container and skin. When they reach Lou’s cheeks, he flinches, but does not wake. The threads spin themselves into spirals before elongating across Lou’s face and neck. With a faint glow, they sink into Lou’s skin and vanish.

I clasp my fingers over the halved ball, then drop both into the satchel. Ignoring the quiver in my knees, I brush a tear or two with the back of my hand and make sure the door slam when I exit.



It’s close to 6 a.m. and the light shines hard on Heartnell’s eyes. He squints to the sky, one palm across his brows, the other cupping a cigarette. The crows’ cackling tears at my ears as though their beaks are a hairbreadth away.

My breathing is still a bit heavy and Sarge, his gaze locked on the birds who’ve started to move in large spirals, he asks me what the fuck happened. The veins on his temple bulge.

I stand abreast him and explain, all the while watching the birds. The crows settle for west, untangled from their circle, they flap their wings and advance. A small black thing plummets to the ground.

Heartnell spits and stubs out the butt in a pool of saliva.

“You all right?” he asks.

“Fine. But we need to burn Sparrow Rose. I don’t know what kind of magic this is, but it’s the strongest in centuries. Lou couldn’t have done it, not even many Tiha’s. But some of them could.” I frown at the picture of Zora blazing in my mind.

“I’ll lock him up. You go home,” he dismisses me with a wave. “You’ve done enough.” He begins to walk towards Lou’s, handcuffs already dangling in his fist. The rat-king squirms in the hollow of my chest.

I know his fingers have been itching to shut down the lab. I know he can’t stand the sight of me when I tilt my head just so and how he can’t stand the silk of the kerchief I pumped up with protection. To him, magic is a useless cheat, a fake, more like a rabid dog than a skill.

I know all this, and still, I grab him by the shoulder and say, “It’s not about Peggy, Sarge.”

Next thing I know, my cheek is burning and I’m struggling to keep my balance. Heartnell’s eyes are two kinds of firecrackers exploding on asphalt. “Peggy’s dead because of the likes of you. Shaun, too.”

“Peggy’s dead because she drank champagne at a tinseltown party,” I say and my voice is the voice of a stranger from the bottom of a well, from the darkness in the cave. “Peggy’s gone because the balcony was slippery and the only magician there was too damn drunk for a healer spell.”

Heartnell moves for a punch, but I tilt my head just so. Same way Peggy did when she felt stubborn.

Peggy was an ash blonde with a wide pearl smile and her father’s stormy eyes. I saw pictures, heard some gossip here and there. Story goes she was as stubborn as a mule, caught in raids countless times and stealing dad’s cash to pay friends’ rent if they needed it. We might have been friends, too. Though I suppose all her singing would get on my nerves soon enough.

I shouldn’t do this to Sarge. I’m trying to move my head, but the rat-king’s hanging inside my neck. I feel its tails coiled around my pipes, winding themselves around muscle and bone. Forcing me to say all the things I shouldn’t, releasing captive thoughts. Writhing, they slither to my jaw where they wring my bones and I think they’ll snap and I’ll be worse than Smiley Val – Ange with her mouth hanging down to her waist. All I can do is gasp. My eyes go blurry.

Sarge must have seen it because he lowers his fist. He’s still tense, his movements are those of a machine, sharp and crisp. He balls his fists until his knuckles whiten and we stay there, immobile. Tiha, help me.

“Your neck,” he says so quietly I almost miss it. “The veins are all black.”

He takes out his gun and aims. “Ange?”

I move my lips but that does no good. Nothing comes out. Then the world shakes. Heartnell’s figure jumps in and out if my sight, replaced with a fragment of grey cloud before he appears again, the barrel of his gun a gaping mouth ready to swallow me. The tails slither back, leaving a trail of what feels like frozen flesh. I collapse on the ground and retch.

“Wait,” I croak. I lean on my hands and push the bile out of me. My head is pulsing, my body feels made of ice and crumbling stone, and I can’t–I can’t do this anymore.

I spit out something tiny and black, a band of spit hangs loose from my lips. The black squirms, then dissipates with a hiss.

My face is wet with tears when I roll on my back. I shut my eyes and pray for the second time in my life.

“Sarge–” I start, around the lump in the back of my throat. “It wasn’t me, Frank.” I keep my eyes tightly shut.

“It’s never you, is it, Ange?” His tone is glacial. I don’t want to look at him. I don’t want to see the pain. “Get up.”

I prop myself on my shoulders. Sarge is crouching next to me, anger and pity nestled under bushy eyebrows. It’s not hard to imagine a once upon a time–a happy Sergeant Frank Heartnell, a wife and child gathered around the piano.

I give him a feeble smile, but the world collapses and my body falls to his chest. I don’t know who’ll make it out alive this time.

A sob escapes me when Frank closes his arm around me. We both know what it is to feel guilt and sorrow, to anaesthetize ourselves with liquor lest we feel anything other than anger.

“Sorry.” My voice comes out weak and muffled. I sniff and say, “We need Zora. I don’t know what this shit is.” I cough to stop my voice from dithering. “But she might.”

“Thought you said it might be Tiha themselves?”

“Yeah, most likely. But Zora will have an explanation.”

I clamber to my feet and start slapping the dirt from my clothes, but Sarge takes my chin between his fingers and forces me to look at him again.

“What the hell happened?”

“I can’t say.” I stare at the ground, blink away a tear or two.

“Don’t lie to me, Ange.”

I bite my tongue, but the words spill out anyway. “It got to me, Frank. Whatever magic was released, it got to me and it’s only gonna get worse.”

He releases my chin from his grip and moves a stray hair out my eyes. “Coffee first.”

It almost makes me laugh. “All right. But burn Rose now. Touch the carpet, but not the body.”

Heartnell nods and starts to the car. My body still feels like it’ll crumble, but I manage to catch up. I wait in the car for him to call a crew from a callbox.

“You’re good.” I lie to myself. “Fine.” I say and close my eyes to hide from the world.

I’m still pretending to doze off when Sergeant Heartnell comes back and starts the car. He shuffles and sighs, settling in the seat. In a moment, there’s a click of a lighter and the earthy smell tickles my nose.

“Whatever it is that you did, I hope Gianna forgives you,” he says and inhales.

And the mention of my sister hurts more than a thousand knives flaying me alive.




I must’ve dozed off because I’m firmly on my feet in a dark alley. There are no sounds. The ground is made of cobbles of all sizes – some glint red, others blue or green. I know these are rubies, sapphires and emeralds from my mother’s hope chest. She’s never owned anything more expensive than a golden wedding band, but in this world, that’s not true. Here, the bowels of her oak chest freckle the street. They glimmer in the dusk in mean little tings, beckoning me to follow.

Fog snakes around the streetlights, which are too tall and too knotty to be made of metal, but they aren’t wood either. I am headless and have no eyes to see. There’s no weight of skull on me. Still, I move with purpose, though what that is I don’t know. I wish I had a gun.

I raise my hands and it’s only then, when I see one made of fire, the other dripping hot mud, that I realise this is my nightmare. I am a puppet, exactly like the ones I used to make for Gianna.

A chiming laugh makes me look up. A girl dressed in nothing but a bathrobe dances in the street. She has a glass of bright orange liquid in one hand, the other extends to a man in a bespoke suit. Happiness unspools from between her lips as she laughs, shrouding both of them in a soft pinkish light. The skin on her back is smooth and scarless.

I know this. I want this to be true.

My body staggers towards them, arms extended like in monster flicks.

In that damn twisted way of this nightmare, the girl is both Gianna and Sparrow Rose. She smiles at me and waves. The man’s vanished, along with the glass from her hand. The fog meanders towards her, rising slowly until it covers her body like a sheet.

My body totters to Gianna-Rose and we hug. Then she begins to scream, ablaze as if she was burning at the stake. She looks up and points at me because now my eyes are up and I’m looking down at both of us.

She keeps screaming, keeps wailing. I shriek for my body to let her go, but I have no mouth. I am both the puppet burning my sister and a pair of faceless, neckless, bodyless eyes swaying above the sight, higher and higher and higher, until my sister and I are two red specks in a sea of black.

Gianna-Rose bursts into ashes and cinder and ground bones.

I wake up whimpering.

“You okay?” Heartnell asks.

I massage my temples with an open palm across my eyes. “Sure. Are we there?”

“Yup.” He parks in front of Mack’s diner.

When I get out, I still see jewels gleaming on the asphalt. How many years has the same dream hunted me? I shake my head and rush inside the joint.

We settle in a vinyl booth so close to the kitchen I hear Pete sneeze and can only hope his slime doesn’t end up on our eggs. I unbutton my coat and tuck the satchel in the corner next to me.

Heartnell orders us coffee and scrambled from a waitress who has the self-assured walk of a woman certain she won’t be here for long. I bet she wakes up in the middle of the night, clutching at that gold cross of hers, promising herself she’ll get on a train first thing in the morning. It takes my all not to scoff. Verago isn’t nicknamed Reject-ville for nothing. When tinseltown stomps you good and hard, you drag your sorry ass here and try to make the best of it.

“This isn’t just a magician eliminating competition,” Heartnell says.

“Lou was nothing like Shaun.” I stifle a guilty shudder. “This was more conscious, like Lou knew what he was doing, like he was—”

“Like he knew what this was about?”

“Yeah. Except Lou’s a guy who thinks men should put their coats over mud for ladies.”

“Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t lock him up for good.”

“Information, Sarge. Whoever set this up knew Lou has a thing for magic. Sooner or later they’ll come back for him. And we have him on a motion charm.”

“I’m not losing any more officers to magic, Ange.” He extracts a deck of cigarettes from the depth of his overcoat and throws it on the table. He pulls one out, punching the butt to the table like it did him wrong before he strikes a match to it.

The waitress, Tommy according to the pin attached to her shirt, returns with a pair of plates and two mugs of coffee. Her makeup’s caked on her face, a little black on her eyes, a little rose on her swollen cheekbones, orange trails by her ears. Where it met with wrinkles, the paint cracked as if she was an old road, walked on by too many heavy feet. When Tommy grins at us, her paint shifts to reveal a dot of pink in the middle of her lip. Like Verago, she’s a pale shadow of her former beauty.

“You call me if you need anything else now,” she says as strolls back to the counter. Pete yells from the kitchen, a clatter of cutlery following suit.

A waft of burnt bacon hits me. I recoil, and decide to stick to coffee. Bitter with a hint of sour, Mack’s signature flavour. As long as I hold it to my nose and leave the plate steaming away from me, I won’t puke.

“We should do this more often,” I tell Heartnell. “You make good company.”

He only looks at me, lights another cigarette, before he says, “Start singing, kid.”

“You know Merlin?”

“This is no time for fairy tales, Ange.” He drums his fingers on the table, a rhythm I don’t recognise. Knowing Heartnell it must be one of the classics–more Bach and less Bessie Smith.

“We learn about him the moment we begin class in Tiha.”

“I thought the Order chucked you out.”

“They did, but not before I memorized a thing or two. Anyway, you know why we don’t seek immortality and bullshit like that? We make special effect for pictures, amulets, drugs, but nothing without limits.”

“Because you get headaches and puke.” He smiles like he enjoys the thought of magicians suffering.

“Yeah, that.” I glare at his damn smile. “Merlin wanted immortality. Story goes he found a way to do it.”

“You expect me to believe this was done by Tiha and Merlin?”

“I believe only someone from the Academy could produce a spell of this magnitude. Or someone connected to Tiha.”

“Like you.” Heartnell stopped drumming his fingers. He’s clutching his mug like he’s trying to break its neck. It’s hard to keep my breath level. Hard not to grab a knife from my satchel. I don’t know what Heartnell’s prepared to do. I move a wisp of hair behind my ear and continue.

“It affects me, Sarge. Dammit, if it was me, I wouldn’t be here, would I? I’d be off on an island somewhere, drunk and happy.” I don’t tell him that if it was me, I’d be dead. Soulless first, then on my goddamn way to the big sleep. I’m half-way there as it is.

“Sure. I’ll buy it,” he says but the mug is still choking in his hands. “Are we supposed to chase a fairy tale?”

“When Merlin cast his spell, every few hours he’d morph into a different creature. A cormorant, a roach, a cat, what have you. For a year and a day, you could set your watch by Merlin’s changes. Finally, he crystallized into a stained glass image of himself howling, then crash–he shattered with a bellow so horrible the closest village wept for a decade.”

Hearnell only raises his eyebrows. “You better have a point, Ange.”

“That was the first big rip in the worldweave–the Rising. The magic got loose, seeped into the world and threatened to crush it. Puff, bang, no more green earth to walk on. That’s why Tiha was made. A school, a training programme, a force to stop magic misuse. What happened to Sparrow Rose is—”

“The same thing?”

“I hope not. But I don’t really know how it works. There is a chance…”

I glance at Tommy. She’s standing by the counter, knife in hand. She moves her hips to follow the soft tones of Once in a While while she reaches for a pie. Her blonde bun’s dishevelled, strips of hair curl around her neck, wet with sweat. Tommy doesn’t seem to mind, only swings and hums along with Dorsey. When the song’s done, she stabs the centre of a pie with unusual force and begins carving it in uneven chunks.

The rat-king stirs in my chest, and I slap my goddamn Key.

“There’s more than you’re telling me, Ange.”

I attempt a smile, but fail miserably. “Zora.”

“The Tiha elder?”

I nod. “If anyone knows what’s happening, it’s her.” I don’t tell him Sparrow Rose’s stitches are most likely her handiwork.

He gestures for Tommy. “We still have time for pie, you know.”

I push my untouched meal toward him.

“You need a little sweetness in your life, Magic.” He gives me a look then, a look that says pity and pain and friendliness.

“I-” Looking at his kindly face, parchment-yellow and with as many wrinkles as a dried plum, I almost tell him everything. “I’ll get this one,” I say instead.

I hover my finger over the satchel’s clasp, moving it to make a rune that’ll unlock the particular compartment I need. Last time I forgot to do that, I was unpleasantly surprised by a maroon squirrel jumping at me. Sometimes I really hate this bag. By the time I finish rummaging, Tommy is back at the counter and Sarge is burying his wallet in his coat.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” I frown.

“Now you owe me.” He rubs his eyes, and continues, “Your neck turned black back there.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s all I can say. I lock my eyes to the blue formica table. I don’t have to look up to know his grey eyes are on me, tracing the tiniest lines of my face, the smallest twitch of my shoulders.

“You two would’ve been good friends,” he says so softly I almost miss it.

“I wouldn’t. I’d only bring trouble.”

“Yeah, well,” he stands to leave. “She did too.”

“I didn’t want to—” I start, still sitting on the sticky, grease ridden, vinyl seat, my hand clutched around a simple wallet. “Frank,” the word feels like a hot rock rolling out my lips and I can’t do a damn thing about it. He deserves monuments cast in marble. I have no such thing.

I clear my throat, stuff the wallet back in the satchel, then throw the strap across my shoulder. Heartnell is already by the door, but something isn’t quite right. Feels like when a stench follows you all day, and it’s only when you put your feet on the couch that you notice a speck of dog-shit on your heel. I pause for a while, sniffing the air despite myself.

Trailing the feeling, I inspect the inside of the satchel. This compartment’s a brown leather, a simple sack with two pockets on its walls. Inside is a notebook, couple of pens, a wallet and not much else. Lou’s charm is still a muted white and silent.

I pinch a crumpled tissue and throw it on the table with disgust. It didn’t stink, but, hells, I don’t remember where it’s been or what kind of sludge hardened it to almost cardboard. The pockets should hold two simple shivs I carry just in case. They’re as good as switch blades, steel and chrome with fake wood handles but, unlike the embellished knife I used on Shaun, these are barren. I feel around, expecting to find their curves under my fingertips.

I count one. There is only one damn knife in this bag and what I can do now is hunt down the sap who took it from me. Nobody touches my satchel, but a young magician wouldn’t be creeped by a weird bag, now would he?

Heaviness spreads on the back on my head, blood pumping through my body like water through a broken damn. I blink and I see red. I blink again and I see my hand deep inside the mouth of the bag.

“Hurry up, Ange!” Heartnell’s yell snaps me back to the here and now.

Why the hells would an Academy student want an ordinary knife? Lucky for me, Tiha is our next stop. The thought teases out a smile. When I get my hands on that punk, it’ll be days before he can chew. Rat-king thoughts come slithering back, flashing me the boy’s head on a platter.

I bite the inside of my lip until a speck of blood falls on my tongue. I won’t let this beat me. I can’t let this magic slaughter any more people than it already did.

This time, I won’t be the one who burns the house down.

Before the door closes I take one last look at Tommy. She’s dancing now, moving in a waltz as she carries some plates to the group in a booth by the window. Her eyes are closed, her head moving left and right like a snake following a fiddle, her free arm moves in circles and swirls. Tommy leans to place the food on the table, her eyes still shut in what looks like bliss. For a moment, I think I see her pulling a bread knife from her apron, but we’re already in the car, on our way to the Academy. Hells, it’s not only me, not only Lou.

The rat-king’s all over this place.




Every breath feels like ice stabbing all over and it’s all I can do not to wince. So I keep looking out, at Verago passing in a blur.

Its main artery, Orla’s Road, pierces the city in two unequal halves. Heartnell’s side faces the smaller one, reserved for decrepit two-story buildings and alleys with blood trickling down from the butcher shops to the sewers. This blood is not always bovine. A hunched man is polishing a window that promises The Freshest Beef In Town while talking to a younger fellow over his shoulder. I assume the attention’s not wanted because he slips a cleaver out his apron and begins brandishing it. The younger one puts fists in the air and runs backwards while the older guy laughs and continues his work. Might be another consequence of Sparrow Rose’s murder, but honestly I can’t be sure. Verago people are made of taut nerves, sinewy muscle with a pinch of spite spicing the whole thing up.

More men, dressed in suits bulging in all the wrong places, move languidly across the street to the more opulent part of town. That’s my side of the car. The buildings even have little angels leaning on the topmost windows. Shadows render them menacing, chubby faces poised atop their tiny fists, staring down with gazes that look more demonic than carefree.

Heartnell parks by a concrete cube bordered with a wrought iron fence. The spikes glimmer cold silver in the morning sun. Gods, I still hate them.

“Looks more like a prison than a school,” he says as we get out.

“Felt like it too.”

We cleave through a gaggle of students who are all smoking ten kinds of crap. Between them and the main entrance is the Old Ellis bust, a head taller then Sarge, its hair sleek against the skull, the cheekbones high and thick, which only makes his fat lips look bigger.

Old Ellis was youngish when he got this statue – there’s not a single wrinkle marring his face. He gave a lot of cash to Tiha Academy, even taught a class or two. Or so the story goes. Not many talk about him, but there are rumours he locked himself in the Ellis Mansion attic and tried to harness wild magic. Whatever it was, he ended a mad man doing the jig.

Heartnell passes the bust in a loop wider than necessary. His father was a cop when Ellis was hanged, so it’s not surprising Sarge twists his mouth in something between a line and a pout when he passes it by.

When I was at school, we stroked Ellis’ nose for good luck. Half-rotten bits of paper are nestled in the statue’s dimple now. Must be a new joke. I pick some out, revealing a perfectly round crater on the bust’s chin. Whoever made this had a very poor idea of what a dimple looked like.

Inside the building, it’s cold and damp and smothering. The air is laden with a scent of rotting wood, the wall panelling so ancient I wonder if it’ll crumble if I touch it. So, no change there. I still think the cleaning people pluck the worms out at night. Heartnell scrunches his face as if he licked a lemon slice. Long, harrowing faces etched in the woodwork follow us as we advance through deserted halls towards Zora’s office. I flip the collar of my coat to shield myself. It’s like the damned things are cheering for us to fail. Tiha’s one of those places where you feel all the weight of the world whether you want it or not.

Heavy walnut doors slide open ten steps ahead of us. How typical. Always so eager to impress a Keyless. Good old Sarge only furrows his brows and waltzes inside.

Zora’s leaned over one of her plants. A gigantic, fleshy thing, it moves one of its vines to Zora’s cheek, curling over itself as if in pleasure, until Zora briskly slices its tip with a knife. The plant quivers, retreating its vine back under the blue petals spotted with orange stars. A sickly honey odour spreads across the room.

“It makes for the most wonderful tea, sergeant. Care for a cup?” She extends an open fist to reveal a desiccated leaf with a chunk of vine bleeding green.

Zora makes for an impressive sight, if you don’t know her. Her face is angular, like bones are gonna pop from her cheeks, with lips perpetually stretched taut in a line. You’d think she was a nice old lady with a prize-winning garden if it weren’t for her eyes. One is greenish, the other stares at nothingness. A film of cataracts renders it an immobile gem stuck in her skull. She would have perfect vision if she didn’t cast so many surveillance spells. I saw it only once – when she moulds another seeing tool, her blind eye looks a ball of cobwebs writhing with baby insects.

“Ah, well. You won’t mind if I have one.” She drops the leaf in one of three cups in the centre of her desk. Her skin’s so thin her veins are visibly curling over her knuckles, as if she was a river map. “Angela will surely join me.”

“You know why we’re here, Zora, so stop with this—” I gesture at the cups and her resplendent plant, “-performance.”

Zora clacks her tongue. “So full of spunk.”

She slips a hand in a deep pocket, then opens her fist above the burnished surface of the table and lets my knife drop with a loud clang. “Do you recognize this, bambina?”

“You. What the hells do you want from it?” The words barely seep through my teeth. It’s the goddamn knife the kid stole off me.

“You seem to be upsetting my partner, Elder Zora.” Sarge stands next to me, ostensibly relaxed, but the way he holds his neck says different.

“Partner? Hah! This one would get a rock to argue with her if you gave her enough time.” She takes a sip of tea and lets the cup clatter when she places back on the tray.

“Elder, we are not here for a cheap shiv. Please.” He gestures to the knife and then to me.

“We found your handiwork by the Gallows.” My voice turns deeper. The rat-king snatches my throat, pushing out what I want to say, instead of what I’m supposed to. My mind scrambles through ways to tame it, to dam it at least for a while, lest I begin twirling with a bread-knife in hand like Tommy. Focus, Ange.

“Of course,” Zora says. “You didn’t think I would allow the Rising, did you? But I see we are too late.” Her globe-shaped pendant swings so hard it hits her on the midriff. Her face flickers when she adjusts it in place, as though there is a layer of panic, maybe, under her coolness. I feel the urge to pounce at her.

Instead, I concentrate on the pendant. It’s a ball made of interlaced swirls than could be opened if its hinge weren’t rusted with age. While I was still at school there were rumours Zora kept the dust of the last dragon’s tooth in there. This would change by the week, with every new bout of drunkenness, to a goblin’s eye to screecher’s blood to a pair of fay wings.

I think it’s something much more personal. A curl of hair, for example. Once I almost found out. We were all drunk in our dorm when I got sick of all the guessing and promised to steal her damn necklace and solve the mystery once and for all. I never got farther than the threshold to her office. For a week I would wake up with snakes for hair and when Zora saw me she would smile an impish smile and tut at me. What that also taught me was that my old mentor doesn’t touch her pendant for nothing. She is more frightened than she wants me to know.

“With all due respect, Elder Zora, I need an explanation,” Heartnell has one hand on his gun, the other balled by his side. He’s beside me, and the gun so close. Zora wouldn’t lie about the Rising. Though I can’t believe her. My palms itch for attack, but I need to focusfocusfocus.

“Another one of your experiments gone wrong, Zora? Is that it?” I ask her, my jaw so stiff it’s a miracle I managed to speak at all.

Zora regards me for what feels like hours. “I sewed her mouth hoping it would hinder the Rising. However, I did not kill one of our students.”

“Bullshit,” I pat my Key. The only reaction I get from her is a twitch, like a sneer, and that makes it all the harder to do this civilly. If Sarge weren’t here–

Heartnell shifts his weight, as if unsure of what the hells is going on. “Unless you prove it, Elder, we’ll have no choice but–”

“To arrest me, yes.” She nods to me. “Care to explain, Angela? You’ve always had a talent for memorization.”

“Just like the movies, Sarge. If she stuffed Rose’s mouth and killed her, her blood will be sucked into the objects. We’ll see who made the Rising.”

I extract the sample from the satchel, spill the beaks and petals on her burnished table, and grab my knife. It’s cool on my palm, crackling with possibilities, the rat-king tempting me to stab Zora’s webbed eye.

“I don’t trust the movies,” he says, still standing in place.

“Trust me.” I slice Zora’s palm open. She doesn’t even wince. “Your amulet works, right?”

“Sure. But that’s different.”

“Fear not, sergeant.” Zora gazes at her wound, her webbed eye twirling, until it’s as though I’d never touched her. The knife falls to the table with a dull, heavy sound. “Though she carries destruction with her, Angela is educated.”

The puddle of Zora’s blood writhes. Slowly, a rivulet arises and undulates to the beaks. Scarlet waves lap at the white bones, crumpling the rose petals between them until they are nothing but tiny balls, like they’ve never been inside Rose’s mouth, like the birds never died and dragged another young magician to the depths of hell. The poor girl didn’t deserve this.

“Wasn’t her, Sarge. But she can cooperate.” Wild magic, the rat-king inside me, burrows deeper in my bones. “You owe me, Zora. As much as I owe you.”

“Maribelle.” Her stature remains rigid. A damn talking statue. “A fine student in possesion of the most brilliant mind. That is the girl you found at the source.”

“Source?” Heartnell asks.

“The Gallows,” she answers as if to a child. “The rip is widening there.”

Blue gleams from my satchel. The charm–Lou must be moving. It fades quickly, though. Too quickly, as though someone’s stopped it. Lou doesn’t know how, which only means he must be trapped, with the people who started this shitshow. “Get on with it, Zora.”

“You,” she says, her pointy chin raised toward me. “Simply put, the trail leads to you.”

The rat-king tickles my chest. I cannot react. “Bullshit. Her Key was carved out, mine’s just fine.”

“Not exactly.” Zora places the cup back on the table as her plant creeps toward her fingers. It vines seem to be swollen and longer. She’d always been arrogant, eager to flaunt her powers. “You bear a warning seal. I am surprised you can do charms at all. Has she told you this, Sergeant Heartnell?”

Sarge is somewhere behind me, his footsteps heavy thuds and pounding in my head like a funerary knell. “Enough,” I scream out and my voice is foreign to me.

“Ange, what is she talking about?” He clasps my shoulder, but I slide away, snatching the knife off the table and launching it to Zora. I miss for only a fraction. Her webbed eye twirls–I can’t be sure if she moved away. All elders have tricks up their sleeves, and Zora has most of them.

“Angela is missing a part of her soul ever since her trip to the Interweave, an incident during her time here. Can you see it, sergeant? Wild magic blackening her veins.”

I push down something bitter. “I’m not Merlin.”

“No. Yet books have gone missing from our library. Rare ones, at that. Are you aware of Lou, sergeant?”

“Old guy with a lab,” he says from close behind me. I can only guess at what Sarge looks like. Knowing him, his face is a stone mask, covering all emotion. Maybe his eyes glisten a bit more, maybe his hands are fisted by his sides. I don’t know.

“Precisely. I assume you wanted yourself healed, Angela. You would need a place to work, an accomplice. Who better than a gullible keyless?”

“No.” Lou is absolutely harmless, his only charm of any importance was infusing bread with a taste of boiled cabbage. And even that made my tongue itchy and swollen for days. No–Lou might be too curious for his own good, but he was taken over like the rest of them, albeit strangely.

I admit it was odd that he barely spoke, and his eyes and the limp because Lou is not a clumsy person. Probably too ashamed of his failure to talk to me, at least tonight. An unpleasant thought emerges from my haze–the frayed collar, were those simple strings?

Zora clutches at her pendant. “I admit I may have made a mistake, allowing such a spell to risk you falling in Interweave. Perhaps,” she sneers at me, “my mistake was getting you out. Perhaps a soul-lacking person doing magic is enough to set the Rising in motion.”

I reach for the ready-mades in my pocket when Heartnell’s voice booms across the room, warning me to stop. I stop rummaging, but keep my hand in the pocket.

“How possible is that, exactly?” Heartnell asks and I can tell he is no longer sure about anything. Sarge is stony in both movement and face, but I know. This is Hearnell hiding the way he thinks. I’ve seen it, I’ve helped it happen.

Behind his collected voice he’s making an inventory of my suspicious behaviours since we’ve found Sparrow Rose–from losing my breath at the scene to reminding him of Peggy to my blackened veins. The sight of me now must be a nightmare. My fingers search for a ready-made. I won’t have a chance to get away unless I act soon. I have to get to Lou. I won’t be responsible for another ruined life.

“Sergeant, she will need to be examined,” Zora commands. “We have made you a holding cage, yes? I suggest you use it while we deal with the rip, and find Lou.”

“Angela has a charm on him, we can—”

“I can see that, sergeant. And a useless one at that. However, I have one that works,” her eye lights up blue. “Angela’s very existence, the way in which she breathes magic, is a danger to us. Look out the window.”

Heartnell walks over and glances outside. His neck tenses up, even from a distance I can see the little vein on his temple bulging out. “Blood. Abandoned car. People on the ground.”

I don’t need to see his face to know he’s convinced. Both Zora and Heartnell want me imprisoned.

“In 48 hours, the effect of the Rising will spread to surrounding countries,” Zora’s staring at me with that damn swirling eye. “We have no time.”

I don’t know what’ll come out of my mouth, so I bite down my lip to keep them shut. Zora is standing between me and Heartnell. Her vine is following her movements like a puppy, one tendril is already too close to my foot.

I have to make sure Lou’s okay. Poor old sod has nothing to do with this. The rat-king patters its legs against my sternum and it’s all I can do not to explode in rage.

“Go to hell.” I’m not sure if I said this–or if it sounded like a growl or a hiss–all I know my throat felt as narrow as a drinking straw.

I grab a ready-made and hurl it to Heartnell. That’s enough to freeze him for a while. I stagger to Zora, but her damn plant curls around my foot. A sharp pain then, and my ankle goes numb. I fall, my arms flailing for support.

“You held such promise, Angela,” Zora walks over to me, her blind eye coalescing in webs, flicking blue then yellow then pearl white.

I have to get up. My Key pulsates like it’s not my skin, the rat-king coils around my neck, spreading throughout my body until it reaching the spot where Zora’s plant pierced my skin. In a moment, the vine blackens, disintegrated in dust. I shake off the remaining numbness from my feet then clamber up.

Zora does not get a chance to react. I give her a kick in the stomach–that’s the trouble with Elders, they don’t think to use anything other than magic–then dig out another ready-made and freeze her too. I bought myself a small advantage. I take the car keys from Sarge.

As I sprint out, I hum Gianna’s favourite song until I feel the rat-king release my windpipes. The melody burns too, but in all different places, in a spot rat-king can’t reach.

I’m sorry, Frank, but I can’t have this again. It can’t be my fault.




The sun is a ball of menace burning the sky blue. Splotches of cloud have dissipated from their normal sheepish texture into melted wax, dripping between the outlines of matchbox buildings scattered across the horizon. I wipe the sweat off my head with the heel of my palm and march to the car, keeping my head down. The rat-king is hungry. It’s heavier, like Hindenburg’s tethered to my ribs.

I jump over a boy no older than eighteen with a neck bent to a corner. A few steps farther I have to step over a girl whose brain is boiling on the asphalt. Verago’s giving in to the whispers it hears in the middle of the night when no one’s watching. Its conscience has never been louder than a mouse, but now wild magic’s got it tied to a chair with lips taped shut and a hot gun that’s seconds from blowing it to high heavens. The Rising has begun.

Cigarette in mouth, I flick my lighter. Nothing happens. I flick it again, two more times. The metal stares back blankly. I just need to catch a breath, just a little while.

“Gods damn you.”

I hold the cigarette between my teeth when I see a familiar figure running toward one of the tottering two-stories. She’s dressed in a grey suit, brandishing a gun in one hand, a club in another.

I yell for Smiley Val and walk toward her. We meet on the curb across Heartnell’s car. I ask for a light and she gives one to me.

“Do me a favour for old times sake, yeah?” I give her one of my best pleading smiles.

“Last time you asked me that, you lingered at my place for a month.” Her scar’s a strip of pearl shimmering in the light and I think of the time I traced it with my fingers while she slept. A twist of her eyebrow can still make my knees quiver.

And what if I fail? What if Lou and Sarge and Zora end up dead? I could leave with Val. Wait it out. Leave the guilt to bite me to bits until there’s nothing left of me. I shake my head. I can’t do that. I can only warn Val.

“Val, this is bad. And your tenants,” I nod to one of the two-stories, “You better worry about all those goons who know where your guns are.”

“I’m not leaving them to the street. Never fucking again.” There’s lightning in her eyes, like a momma bear guarding her young. Smiley Val takes pride in her one and only kindness.

I let the smoke uncurl from my nostrils. “If you see Lou, just—” I hesitate then, remembering what Lou did back at the parlour. He might be–no, he is dangerous. Maybe more dangerous than I give him credit for.

A frail little man who occasionally dips his toes in magic. Lou’s no mastermind, he’s just odd. Lou would never–

The buttonhole right in the middle of his chin. Old Ellis and the dimple on the bust filled with papers, the tilt and top of his head, one I’ve seen before on a face I trusted. I was stupid not to see the family resemblance.

The way Lou spoke back at his place. That was not frayed fabric around his neck, those were blackened veins. Zora mentioned rare books missing. Lou “a gullible keyless,” and it was perfect, playing a lost little man. Lou played me.

The thought echoes in my mind and my gut suddenly drops to my heels.

It’s Lou. Gods damn it, it’s always been Lou.

Is he Old Ellis’s kid? The similarities are too many to be a coincidence, especially the dimple, which I know runs in families, his interest in magic too. If Lou is a keyless and a relation of Old Ellis, he is definitely not as harmless as I thought.


Gunshots resound the alley from behind us. Val’s gun is smoking and a troll of a man is face down on the asphalt.

“What do you want?” She snaps at me.

“Thanks for the light,” I tell her, shrugging and turning to make my way.

“One of these days it’s gonna be your snout eating gravel, Ange,” she yells after me.

I flinch as a picture of me slashing Val’s jaw flashes in my mind. “I’ll make sure it’s not today then.” Damn it, Val, despite everything, you still make me see sense in the world.

I crack my neck, slap the Key hard and sit myself in the cop car.

Wild magic plunged its yellow talons into Verago and the longest one is wrapped around my ribs.




I have no idea where Lou is and all I can do is forage for clues like a starved raccoon. I stop the car in front of Lou’s parlour and jump out, leaving it free for grabs. No point in locks any more.

Inside I see only a stream of almost-black liquid on the floor. The usual clutter is dampened where the blood bent to fill the hollows of the floor. From beneath the broken toad, strips of red lead to a puddle by the splintered door. I have no time to think of the officers. No time to imagine them rasping for air while vestiges of their lives flutter away.

Pieces of rope on the floor. Dead things. I make my way down the rickety ladders to Lou’s lab, tying a scarf around my mouth and nose to lessen the heavy stench of formaldehyde and damp fur.

It’s a narrow space, not much wider than the length of my outstretched arms. I need to bow my head to move and walk crablike if I don’t want to break anything. The walls are covered with books, lined on shelves that stretch from the ceiling to my waist. There they meet with a wooden table, etched with writings and scratches. Books are scattered all over, cracked open and their insides underlined in blue and red, squiggly lines in the margin which I can only suppose are of Lou’s making.

I lift one book to my eyes, its dusty smell crushing the cloth border between us and I retch. I can barely see in the muted light of one lone bulb hanging on a chain, but it’ll do. There’s nothing in the blasted thing. It’s a book of theory we’d used in Tiha, and judging by the exclamation marks in the margins, Lou didn’t agree with the pillars of our teachings. I drop the book back on the table. I never liked Thornebud’s gibberish either.

So. There might still be a chance I’m wrong about Lou. Somehow I doubt it.

I trace my fingers along decanters brimful with dirt and expensive white sand, a pair of glass bowls one of which holds a decapitated raven’s head, its eyes unnaturally bright. The other is packed with skipping stones and wet cloth. The rat-king sends me a vision of Lou’s bowels falling to the mud. I do my best to ignore it while my shadow leaps in shapes I do not recognize. It twists to incomprehensible shapes, blurs, then snaps back to my shape except it has two heads. I can’t do a damn thing about it now, no matter how satisfying it would be to stab at it.

Among the fairly innocuous books–The Comprehensible History of Magic, Runes for Domestic Purposes, Collected Legends 958-1765–there is one that intrigues me.

A photo album. Except there are no photos left, not whole anyway. I flip the pages to the back. On the inner cover is a carefully drawn family tree, branching in marriages, deaths, births and illegitimate children. The opposite page holds a single photograph. A man with a stiff beard gazes straight into the camera. Hollow cheeks are obscured by wisps of hair clinging to his face, the beard–wild and dark and tangled, matted in places–falls over his chest. His eyes are scratched out in manic, furious streaks that broke through to the cardboard which is now peering from this man’s skin. Like he was flayed and instead of a skull, there is a void, staring out. This is Old Ellis himself.

My Key thumps. I take a closer look at the family tree, not bothering to quiet the rat-king.

Evelyn Ellis, who’s connected to Tristan Poole with a thick black line. A couple of generations later come Lenka and her brother, Lucius. Lenka and Old Ellis, I tap their names, the siblings who came looking for great power, believing Verago was special or some bull like that. Lucious got it into his head Merlin was speaking to him and spent the rest of his days locked in his study, scribbling notes and performing magic that once turned half the city into cats in mating season, I think, which is how he ended up the last man on the gallows. His notes were supposed to be burnt, but they never found them.

The only other thing I can remember is that Lenka’s child was born a mute – a semi-formed good-for-nothing Key that left him incapable of magic and the black sheep of the family. The poor kid could only ever do parlour tricks. And I know for a fact Lenka, or her husband, punished him by putting his palms over an open fire. Or maybe they hoped it would trigger the Key to growth, but somehow I don’t think they were kind people.

I follow the line to the bottommost name, the nephew: William Lucious Ellis.

Or, as I know him, Lou.

Lou must’ve thought patching a Key on his skin would cure him. So he tried to carve Mirabelle’s key off, obviously killing her in the process. I assume he then stitched her Key to his body. Maybe Lou snapped after so many years, and me prancing around him, showing off my magic. But this isn’t just about me. Gods damn it, Lou, you’ll kill us all.

How could I have been so stupid to allow, to bloody help, a man who has Ellis magic in his veins? Old Ellis’ game of Telephone is all gods-be-damned-to-hell true–silent for everyone but for his own blood. All this time he’s been summoning his descendants. Saliva gathers on my tongue, but I stop myself from spitting. I don’t know much, but I do have something. It’s all true. Proven to be true by a soggy photo album.

I hurl the book to the wall, dizzied by this whole mess. Nothing in here can tell me where Lou’s run off to.

The only thing I can do is a tag.

I grab the photo album again, then sprinkle a fistful of white sand in a shape of a circle over all the trash on the floor. There’s dead cockroaches on there, specks I suspect are mice crap, crumpled papers, ashes and a curious patch of wet floor I don’t dare come near to.

When the circle’s done, I throw the Ellis book inside. I place my satchel on one of the tables, remove my coat, and straighten the wrinkles on my shirt.

Now or never, Ange, and it better be now.

With my fingers tapping the Key in the proper beat, I whisper the old tongue. It’s difficult remaining calm, but I do my best imagining a deep, shimmering lightness. I step into the circle.

Lou’s crummy basement dissipates into a curtain of billowing lights. Hues of red and periwinkle and a gleaming orange of melted iron stream to the floor. Almost ready. I grab Lou’s Ellis book from the floor – now swathed in a gun muzzle black – with one hand, the other I curl into a half-opened fist and push inside the orange streak.

I trace several runes inside the light, enough to form a question. A soft, silky string undulates over the pads of my fingers.

Pricks and pins sprint through my body. I suppress a painful shiver when they reach my left eye. This would be my price–blindness for sight, like Zora. My Key stretches across my chest, hurting, rendering my skin taut to the point I think it’ll crack like dry mud when I breathe. If I breathe. I scream, my grip tight on the string.

Broken bones, shattered skulls and burning limbs are speeding in my head, as though they were a carousel spinning faster, faster, faster. I keep my fist around the string, tugging it out, until it’s nestled inside my palm, squirming as if it was alive. I swallow a dry lump.

Nauseous and half-blind, I split the string with my longest fingernail. I tie one on the book, the other to my silver-tipped boot. All that’s left is to say the words and I’ll know the smallest move Lou dares make.

Looking at the shimmering display around me, it seems like everything will be all right. Inside the shine, if I tilt my head and squint, I can almost see figures waltzing along the strings. I know they’re happy–they must be, how they kick their feet up and flail their arms up and above and beside their elongated bodies.

Gianna beckoning to a gaggle of friends with whom she would dance and run and laugh. It’s been so long since I heard her laugh. I know she doesn’t want to see me. I let tears roll down my cheeks.

I open my mouth to finish the tag with a lockin, and then there are running footsteps and everything goes black.




When I wake up, nothing hurts, which is odd. I blink away the bleariness and realise both my eyes are working. Obviously – I failed to finish the tag. I have no idea where Lou is and nobody knows he’s gone slap-happy with Maribelle’s Key grafted to his own skin.

I curse loudly. The room I’m in is a metal cupboard of sorts. I barely have the room to stand up and when I stretch my arms my fingertips brush against the walls. There is no toilet, no chairs, no bed, save for a heap of threadbare blankets crumpled in one corner. The air is thick and musty, the only light inside comes from a small rectangular window that looks out to a brick wall. What a lovely view.

Another odd thing–the rat-king stays silent. Just like the bump I’m supposed to have on my head, it is simply not there. To test it, I try to provoke it–I think about hurting Lou. I think about stomping on Zora’s necklace. I imagine the look in Sarge’s eyes when I mention Peggy Sue.

No sign of rat-king. Not even my throat feels tighter. I move my arms about, checking if my chest or Key will flinch or twitch or anything of the sort. No, nothing.

I unbutton my shirt with all the hopeful intention to inspect it and find the black rat-king welt completely gone, pinkened to a scar. This does not happen. Of course it bloody doesn’t. What I see jammed inside my flesh, just beside the Key, is a brass plate the size of my palm. Its surface is covered with runes, some larger than others, as though the writing was sentences and paragraphs. A combination of runes this large is almost impossible. But not for all. Zora isn’t an elder for nothing.

I rebutton the shirt, conveniently emptied of all my ready-mades, and glare at the cell. So they got me. Zora must have known where I’d go first. Hopefully, she managed to untangle all my runes from the ready-made and unfreeze Heartnell too, before any real damage was done. Tiha, I hope she did. The temptation to crumble to the floor is getting stronger by the second.

I need to get out of this cell. Fighting the metal is pointles –whatever I throw at it, it’ll only boomerang back at me, along with the physical price of magic. But if I made a door on the floor…Knowing Zora, that would probably make one of my calves grow hinges and open to the bottom of a swamp, quickly filling up the cell with mud and sewer water.

The only other option is to overpower her magic. And to do that, I need a large gap in the metal. Like an open door.

“You alive in there?” It’s a melodious voice with only a suggestion of many cigarettes smoked in its background. Georgia would’ve made a great singer if she wasn’t as tone-deaf as a roasted canary. I look up and there she is, little ravines between her brows and a pair of eyes so amber they might as well be yellow.

“Why’s that? So you could jab me with a knife through that excuse of a window?”

She snorts then and says, “Yeah, you got that right.” She turns her back to the door, giving me a sight of her neck and some stray brown curls.

I tear the seams off the side of my shirt. Enough space to put my hand through and curl my fingers under the brass plate. I have to let wild magic overcome me if I want to get out of here. I’ll have to let the rat-king have a taste, make it hungry. Tiha save me, I don’t want to do this.

“I coulda been lounging in the sun if it weren’t for you,” Georgia continues.

I dig my nails deeper between metal and flesh.

“You should see me with a tan,” Georgia keeps talking.

“You mean shrivelled like a prune?”

When she doesn’t answer, I ask her about Zora and Heartnell.

“Zora did her magic thing and got her hand shattered. Sergeant Heartnell seems to be all right.” I can feel her biting on her teeth even behind the metal wall. “People like you should be left to rot.”

“Without magic, Heartnell would be a vegetable. So you want our dear Sarge dead, do you? Thinking of a promotion so soon, Georgia?” The brass plate is loose. The pain twists and turns under my fingers, sending jolts all over my body. I do my best to keep my voice a level, cold tone.

“Magic’s fine by me.”  Her voice is snakes ready to pounce. “It’s you I have a problem with.”

I jam my fingers deeper. Flesh splits with a wet sound, blackness spills in jagged lines I can feel thumping, pulsing against my heart, pumping my body with viscous black bile. Warmness trickles down my ribs. I ask about Shaun’s funeral.

She slams her fist on the cell door, the bang reverberating in the small space. “Death will be a relief after I’m done with you.” Ah, so the wild magic inside me acts this fast. Already grabbing Georgia.

Rat-king’s tails coil themselves around my vocal cords. I gasp for air and yank the brass plate with one, hard pull that sends my hand over my head. I let it drop and the brass clangs on metal like a lover’s last words.

What comes out of my mouth would fit a hyena. “Come now, Georgia. Everybody knows you’re no good. How many times have you dropped your gun? How many mugs fooled you and you couldn’t run fast enough to catch them? We all know you’re no cop.”

The rat-king is free, so close to a keyless I’m half-scared it’ll crush Georgia. Half-scared, because the big, bad and ugly is flowing through my meat too. All I need her to do is open the goddamn door.

The door slams open with a force that would shame the biggest goon in Smiley Val’s arsenal. Georgia is shaking all over, her gun pulled out and aimed between my eyes. Her jaw is straight, but those eyes are bent to tears and greyness. “Bird-shit magician.” She spews more insults, her hand uncertain.

She flinches at the sight of me. Her gaze darts to the heavy door and back. I assume I am not a pretty sight. Blood and bile streaming down my clothes, black veins webbing my skin, twisting around themselves.

“Should’ve kept the door locked.” I grin.

My body is not my own anymore. My head nods and her gun is in my hand, still warm and slick with her sweat. This is more magic than possible. “How’s Verago? In flames now, I expect.”

She opens her mouth, but then nods in reply. Her feet are glued to the floor, she’s a scared little thing torn between running for her life or doing what she was trained to do. Wild magic petrified her to stone.

My feet carry me toward her and I push the gun to her forehead.

We stand for what seems like eternity. I blink hard to keep the rat-king away. Bile rises in my throat and I cover my mouth with my free hand, the other still curled around the trigger.

In my mind, I see Gianna picking flowers and throwing them at her big sister. War, play war, she would screech in her tiny, childish voice and I’d pretend to be dead until I made her sob and hug me better. I feel her skin against mine, and the tails loosen for a hairsbreadth.

“Georgia, he–Shaun was a right guy,” I whisper over the rat-king’s tails.

I lurch around her and go on my way when my hand jerks upright before I have a chance to react and my finger twitches.

Georgia crumbles to the floor. A blunt thump hits my ears.

The gun slips through my fingers. I have to get the plate back. I have to walk over Georgia’s body and pick up the only thing that can slow down wild magic and its rat-king inside of me.

I breathe – quickly, heavily, humming Gianna’s song to give me strength – dragging my feet back to the cell. I might be howling. I might be in pain. None of these things matter.

A pool of blood spreads under Georgia’s shoulder. The sight of a nonfatal wound propels me further inside and I snatch Zora’s brass plate back from the floor.

A crack in the metal cage, radiating hot white light, reveals itself the moment I pick it up. I haven’t seen the void since my student days. They’re hazy now, as though I was inspecting the memory though a window smeared with soot.

I remember an argument, Zora’s wicked eye staring down at me. I remember exhaustion. I assume it was a particularly bad day–Zora had tried to correct all the runes I learnt by instinct, which made me look stupid. I had no excuse for making mistakes suitable for a girl who’d just developed her Key–I felt thirteen, instead almost eighteen. There was shame. Later, fury. When Zora dismissed my class with a nod that said more than a speech soaked with disappointment, I raked at my forearms so hard beads of blood began to swell on my skin.

I decided to show her who I could be. I’d made a circle, dug both my arms in the billowing lights, ignoring the pain plunging into the tiny wounds like fire streaming through my pores. I felt space shake, but I didn’t let go of the knots of string I had clutched in my fists.

Next, I was curled on my side in whiteness. Dipped in a pool of wild magic, I don’t know how long I was trapped in Interweave. Finally, Zora’s voice whirled around me, with clear instructions to trade a piece of soul for my escape. I did. Barely, but I did. I hadn’t the time to recover – I was promptly expelled and my Key transformed to scars. Zora hadn’t even looked at me. I was dung on the road, left to dry.

I shove the brass plate deep in my pocket, expelling a huff of angry air at both the crack and the unwelcome memory.

Silently, I exit the cell and follow where the wild magic leads me. I know it’ll guide me to the source of the rip, the Gallows. I don’t want to admit Lou will be there, though he must be, if he is responsible. No more excuses, Ange, no more.

I jostle my way through the ever growing crowd of sweaty, hungry bodies on the streets. Men, women and children are keeling, laughing, yelling victory, revenge or love, high to the skies which are nothing but a sheet of incandescent blue. Their shadows are inconsistent, changing from large splotches to packs of beetles to birds to beasts. A two-story is on fire. A shadow dances in one of the windows, its arms raised like it was holding a partner.

I tighten the grip on the brass plate. Rat-king writhes beneath my sternum. My entire torso is leaden and hollow at the same time. I lean on a deserted car and vomit. The bile hits the driver’s door, and hisses as the steel corrodes. Tiha knows what it’s doing to my body.

I wipe the spit off, and after I’m settled in the seat, jumpstart the car and speed to Gallows Lane. The car jumps as I drive over at least dozen bumps. I can only hope they were wreckage, but the rat-king in my chest sniggers and tell me all of them had once been alive. I feel its hunger churning, the Key thumping in its rhythm. I clasp my hands around the wheel until my knuckles whiten. I swirl the car out of St Adora Square, rushing towards Oneka Street which would take me through the old factory districts to the street parallel to the Gallows.

The car jolts again as I pass by a frenzied crowd of people, seemingly preparing for a fight. One of the men has a gash from the bottom of his hand to the curve of his shoulder. Audible over the sounds of chaos, their chants drum in a hollow beat, filling up the car as I drive by. Gods be damned.




I sprint toward two figures nearest the brightness of the gallows, just below the steps of the monument. Behind them, whiteness–whiteness as hot as a frying pan, as blinding as if the sun came down to burns us, as a million lightbulbs aiming at my eyes, my gods, the whiteness.

The figure a step closer to it is Heartnell, his arms up, he must have a gun. The lower figure’s gleaming, its shine equal to the whiteness behind Sarge. It’s Lou, with two interlaced strings coming out of his ankle and rising through the sky, vanishing inside one of the buildings. They’re taut, swaying only when Lou advances up to Heartnell, vibrating as they wind themselves around streetlights and over cars, over the crowd that’s gathered around the sight. On the string’s other side must be Zora. I could bet my life she’s in that building, her body shivering inside a screetcher-teeth circle. Zora knew where to go, she must have led everybody here.

I scream for Lou but there’s only wailing and laughing and a rip like flesh tearing wetly under a carving knife. I push my way through the crowd. Packs of them are holding hands, chanting the same chant like the man with the gash on his arm. Others look up at the rip in the world, their mouths agape and drool lolling from their lips. I have no time for this.

I elbow them away and let the rat-king squeeze my cords, rip my mouth open. I yell for Lou in the black tones of a crypt long forgotten by its minders. He flinches and turns his head just for a second. Sarge jerks his hands, but the gun doesn’t fire. Before he can do anything else, Lou has him by the waist and is pushing him up the steps to the fake gallows where the whiteness is brightest. Heartnell’s body goes limp.

At the foot of the stairs, Lou and I pause, regarding each other. The light makes shadows twirl on Lou’s face and it’s only now I realise that he’s only fifty pounds away from being Old Ellis’ exact copy. The whites of his eyes are a vicious red.

“Leave him,” I say in a language of fire and beasts.

The rat-king rakes at my sternum. I feel its talons break skin and blood begins gushing from my side. I tighten the grip around Zora’s plate. Not yet.

Lou grins at me. He glances down to his leg, where Maribelle’s Key flaps frantically. It was the shape of a boat. One of the strings emerges from the topmost sail, the other from under the patch of Maribelle’s skin, from the inside of Lou’s maimed Key. Lou keeps grinning. He cocks his head to the side and takes a step back.

The whiteness swallows Heartnell’s hand and what I hear coming out of his mouth terrifies me more than the rip behind the Gallows. It seems lower now, almost reaching the ground.

“Stop,” I command Lou and throw my body onto his. We fall onto the boiling ground and Heartnell rolls away from us. A hissing sound pierces the air.

I loosen my fingers from Zora’s plate, both letting and willing the rat-king to wash over me. The shock of falling to the ground gave me enough time to use Zora’s plate on Lou’s strings – only a fraction of a second and its edge breaks them from Lou’s leg. Wherever Zora is, whatever she’s been doing, it ended now.

Lou shivers in short little spurts like the bastard’s laughing. I dig my free hand into his flesh, my nails going deep.

Then I push our bodies into the rip, back into Interweave.




 I am the whiteness. I am the rip spreading across the sky to shelter Verago with my wings. I am the rat-king, shining as if I was a dying star. I have my hands on the little man, my tails wrapped around his neck, my claw sinking in his blood.

The brass plate is in my hand. It slithers half-way inside the hill of my palm, sending warmth and calm and chains.

The little man–Lou–is no man. His skull is made of paper and scrolls. His skin held together with notes about spells and charms and transformations. His mind is writings in shaky lettering. There are spells there, runes unknown since the fall of Merlin. Lou is no more than a pile of papers made of flesh. Lou is Old Ellis’ nephew and a paperdoll, barely human. The crazies were right all along–Old Ellis did keep talking, but only to Lou.

Lou crackles, spreading in a pool of smoke until it too dissipates in white. I am in the Interweave, alone.

Zora’s plate burrows deeper with crackle. I scream, though I hear nothing.

A voice, an old one calls Ange, Angela, Ange, are you okay? A sharp pain runs over my shoulder, it bolts to my mouth and eyes and nose and I hear my name and it’s Sarge, calling for me. I swear loudly.

“That’s my girl!” Heartnell’s voice comes muffled.

“Step away, sergeant.” Another voice, hoarse and full of pride. Zora. “We are not done here.”

“Listen to the lady, old man,” I yell back, my throat sore.

I cough hard. Again and again, until I’m on my knees holding onto nothing. The plate travels further up my palm until only its corner’s visible. When I’m done retching, I tear the seams of my blouse and plunge a fist inside my flank, right next to the Key.

There are noises and dull pain, then finally my fingers grasp the rat-king and I yank it out. Looks like a ready-made charm except I know it’s a clot of wild magic. Almost immediately, it vanishes into white.

Voices come from somewhere above, or around, or below.

“We can restore your arm, but if we fail to do this now—”

“Zora. You cannot leave her in there.”

What follows are more curses, bickering and raised voices. I can’t say I care. I yell to Sarge to let Zora do her job. Whatever else they say, it doesn’t reach me.

I pull myself on my feet and will them to star walking away from the rip. Around me is whiteness, yet I feel the ground slope up, and the heaviness around my feet as though I was walking up a sand dune. My body has never felt this light.

I climb until the air cuts through my lungs like razors. I do not tire when I reach the top, far above the gallows and the voices and the world.

I pause to pluck Zora’s plate out of my hand. It slides out easily as though I was a ghost. I collapse alongside it, allowing my eyes to burn and wet my face. I gulp at the air like I was suffocating. The whiteness cloaks me, and, finally, when my knees are at my chest, I decide this is the place where I oughtta be.

“War, war, war!”

My eyes blink the Interweave into sharpness. Where is that chimy voice?

Gianna wraps her little arms around my neck. The weight of her body is slight, but for me it’s no less than two tonnes of steal. She’s leaned on my back and all I can do is pat her on the arm. I want to say – I can’t find the words.

So I trace two runes with my hands, one of which glistens red, the other marred with grime. Two puppets appear, more truthful than any I have ever made. The right one twirls while flame licks at her legs, the most marvellous of dresses in countless hues of red. The left glides around it, the mud swirling in patterns so that you never know if she’s facing this way or that, whether the line on its waist is straight or if it’s etched into waves and mermaids.

Gianna squeals in delight. I stop a sob from escaping.

None of this is true. Gianna is an adult, far away from any harm I can bring her. But I can pretend, at least for a while.

I make our dancers somersault into the air like trapeze artists with all their faith placed into their partner’s arms. And Gianna giggles in delight and puts her little finger on my Key.

“You can take me home,” she says.

“I could,” I tell her.

The two dancers intertwine with each other, folding themselves into one, then growing rapidly, engorged by magic, by wish, by heart.

When I first did this, I wasn’t able to stop them. I had no skill then, no knowledge. Then my little sister burst into tears and our house came burning down. Gianna ended up with scaring along her back, an unnatural curve of the spine and daily pains. And I ran away.

Before, Gianna would clap her hands at my tiny dancers and clumsily imitate them. Often she would fall straight on her ass, then pout as if the floor purposely snagged at her feet. But this Gianna–this Gianna only squeals in delight. This is not her. This is not even a child. This is one of Old Ellis’s tricks. Old Ellis trying to tempt me to bring him out of the Interweave. I crush the dancing puppet.

With one hand I snatch up Zora’s brass plate, with the other I grab the little body and yank it in front of me. It takes me a second to open its mouth and push the plate deep inside the girl’s throat.

I close its mouth and nose, forcing it to swallow. Old Ellis got everything right, down to the scar above Gianna’s brow, but what’s in my arms now is more like a rabid starved dog than my kid sister.

The creature’s bellow spreads across the Interweave, rippling it around me. The little body grows translucent, then bursts into flashes of colour, crying runes and bits of spells and the sounds are so strong my eardrums vibrate, my ears buzz wildly. I still have my hands around the creature until it bursts one last time, then fades into the whiteness.

I spit at where it was, then clamber back up.

It’s done. Tiha help me, it’s done. The combination of the inside of Interweave and Zora’s plate was too strong for Old Ellis. Even if he’s not dead, he’ll be lost in here. I can only hope no other idiot gets smart enough to open the Interweave and go look for him.

For now Old Ellis is gone–forever or folded into the whiteness, I don’t give a damn. The important thing is he is not in Verago, nor anywhere else in the world. And I did it.

As I turn to leave, a dot of colour catches my eye. By my feet is a greenish thing, a skipping stone of some sort, that looks more like jade than a piece of Old Ellis, or Lou, his vessel of a nephew. When I touch it, it spreads warmth deep inside my bones. I give it a smile, knowing exactly what I’m supposed to do. I push the stone in the wound on my ribs and run back to the rip. My sight is like cobwebs, wet and blurry, but the legs know where to go. I run so fast I almost fly.

Zora and her people are close to stitching the rip up. The space I have left is getting increasingly smaller. I launch myself over, hoping to glide through.

When I open my eyes, there is a sky above me–periwinkle with a hint of cloud streaked across it, sailing over what’s left of the gallows. Cracked in half, the two pieces are folded over each other like two fingers crossed in promise. I bite down on my lips to stop a smile. Omens have never been reliable to magicians, we’re taught to mostly ignore them, but I couldn’t help it. The broken gallows show good things coming. The glorious sight is spoiled by a crushing pain in my ankle.

“Hey, Frank,” I croak. “Could you get a girl’s foot free?”




A while later, I’m sitting on the steps of the plateau with my arms wrapped around my knees. The people in the square have reverted to their old selves–several figures collect trash, some rock themselves and cry, their wailing carried by the wind away from me. Children play hide and seek like nothing ever happened. I think I even see Smiley Val peer from the shadows. Here is where I chuckle. In spite of the wreckage, my Key half-opened and pulsing in a raw, dull pain, I can smile. I got the piece of my soul back. The greenish skipping stone nestled in my side ripples, and as it does, I feel it stitch back the bit of soul – slowly, but surely.

This time, I did not burn this house down. I kept it whole. I reached to the beams and held them in place.

Heartnell gives me a mug of hot coffee before he says somebody should see me. The coffee burns my tongue and I curse just as an old, wrinkled woman stands before me. A pendant in a shape of a ball hangs down to her waist. She looks like old leather now. I never knew she was so old. She must have expended enough magic for a lifetime.


The little woman grabs her necklace and stares at me with her one remaining eye. The white one has lost its feathery webs, and now looks like a hard marble jammed inside her skull.

“Elder? Are you all right?” I ask, stupidly. There’s a flicker of recognition in her good eye, then she speaks.

“You did good, bambina.” She smiles. “I, however, will need a long vacation.” She gestures in a way that clearly points to the ravines on her face.

I don’t know what to say so I sit there with my mouth agape like an idiot. Fear crosses Zora’s face and she grabs the pendant again as if to guard it against a thief. I call her name, and she turns to me looking like a deer in headlights.

I know very well this is what the magic cost her. And when it attacks the mind, sense and logic may never come back.

Zora begins to shiver, so I introduce myself. I tell her it’s one fine necklace she’s wearing. This makes her relax and stretch her lips in a smile that makes her face look like she was staring into a dream. She leans close, the electric smell of magic and sweat and wet wool rushing to my nose, and opens her pendant.

Two figures flicker in and out of the air, as they move into an embrace. The taller one is a man in uniform. His ears turn redder and redder as he moves his arms around a young woman with hair the colour of night. I look at Zora, then back at the couple. So this is why her sight was gone. Not surveillance magic after all.

“John’s coming soon. We’re getting married,” Zora whispers to me.

She snaps the pendant closed, and slides her palms over her clothes to straighten them. “This is no time to be sentimental. As I said, I am in need of a vacation. During that time we shall need a suitable Elder. Considering what you have done, I will put you in charge of Tiha temporarily.”

“You want me to be -”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Angela. My colleagues will help you summon a council that will choose a suitable successor. This–” she gives the space behind me a scowl, “person and what he’s done, they’d taken my all.”

I keep my eyes on the coffee and nod.

“You have shown considerable skill, and you’ve managed to take back what’s yours from the Interweave, which has only been done once before. I shall allow you to finish your schooling.”

I jerk my head up and almost spit the coffee from my mouth. I force it to go down instead. Hells. School? With tests and nonsensical rules, tomes heavier than cinder blocks. Not to mention the kids–I’ll be an old lady to them. I suppress a shudder. I raise my eyebrows and nod in fake excitement.

Zora’s face flickers again, settling into a distorted grimace of fear. Her hands wrap themselves around the necklace again. In a very soft, albeit hoarse voice she says, “I told him it’s a good, right thing to go. When is he coming back? Where’s my John?”

Her head moves left and right, frantically looking for her fiancé until a pair of arms leads her gently away and Heartnell sits next to me with a grunt. My gaze follows Zora’s confused aged body while she’s lead to a car and driven away. Just before she sinks into her seat, she gives me one wicked wink. Or maybe it was just a glint of a streetlight, slowly turning itself on.

“Why the long face?” Sarge asks.

I let out a wry laugh and say nothing.

“It’s weakened, this whole thing.” He moves his hand in a circle. “Zora and I need–what did she call them–Spinners to keep it all under control.”

I blink at him. “What?”

He answers with a stomach-heavy laughter and only says, “It ain’t that difficult to understand, kid. Zora explained a lot. And I was thinking.” He shrugs. “I should learn a thing or two about magic. Maybe I study it. The theories and all.”


“It ain’t half as hard.” He pats me on the knee with his good hand. The other one’s shrivelled to the thinnest wail of skin covering bone, torn in more places than I can count, with welts of blood and meat edged with charred skin. I clutch the mug tighter and hide my face in it.

“Is Georgia okay?” I murmur.

I want to say more, I want to explain what I had to do, and I want to tell him all about Gianna, but the words melt on my tongue. When they reached Gallows Lane, Zora and Sarge must have known what I had to do.

“We got a healer. Georgia’s as good as new, but under mandatory house rest. She almost bit my head off at that.” He laughs then and adds, “Happy to have her home saved from the rip, too. You did what you had to do, kid.”

“But if I stayed inside, if I didn’t–”

“I’d be short a friend.”

I turn my face to him and there is worry spreading over his face. He puts his good arm around me.

“You’d have a hand. Zora wouldn’t be like…like this.”

“You did your best. Hell, you did more than any of us thought you were capable of. Even Zora.”

We sit for a while, watching Verago shroud itself in purple and grey, slowly shifting back to normal. There’s much to do, but the people of Verago are a steel-nerved bunch, so maybe we’ll make it.

“There are no heroes, Angela. Just people trying their best,” he says as he lights one of his cigarettes. “Stop trying so damn hard.”

When I’m done with my coffee, he asks, “So, you gonna keep me company at the Academy?”

I burst into laughter at the picture of the two of us sitting at a school desk. When I get my breath back, I ask him a favour.

“If I were to go visit Gianna at the–” I swallow the lump down. “At the convent, it’d be great to have a friend with me.”

He nods and passes me a cigarette. Overhead, the first star appears.


Copyright 2017 Alice Brook

Alice Brook writes stories in snippets of free time, between going to work in a century-old house and shooing her cat away from the computer. She tweets irregularly @ABrookWrites.

This story has been removed by the publisher.

by L.S. Johnson   



They came near the end of the day. We thought it was thunder at first, though there weren’t any clouds. Eight of them on horseback with Bill Boyland at their head. “Eight men for a woman and her kid,” Mam muttered as she loaded the revolver.

Once they came through our gate they stayed in their saddles. I couldn’t see their faces for their hats pulled low; I only recognized Bill Boyland by his voice and the shiny gold watch hanging from his waistcoat. He told us Mam’s letter and papers didn’t matter none. Mam started arguing with him; I couldn’t speak because my voice would give me away as a girl.

“Your Pa was a squatter,” Bill Boyland said to me. He spoke slow, like I was thickheaded. “Now your Ma is right: ten years ago it didn’t matter none, because ten years ago it was every man for himself. But that was then.”

“And this is now, and you’re nothing but a god-damned thief, William Boyland,” Mam said.

“Constance, I warned you and Matthew both. This land deceives. It looks good but the dirt’s cruel. Doesn’t matter how much you pray over it, it’s never gonna be good for anything but making meat.” His hat nodded at me. “You’re working your boy like a god-damned animal, and for what? You both deserve better than this.”

“Better than our God-given home?” Mam asked. “Better than what’s rightfully ours? I have blood in this land, William Boyland, blood and ten years’ honest work—not that you would know anything about that.”

A few of the men muttered when she spoke, but Bill Boyland raised his hand and they silenced quick. “Only the Land Office can give the homes out here, Constance. You should have filed claim—as you say, you had ten years to do it in.” He hadn’t raised his voice once. “Now I bought this land fair and square, Missus Norton, and I mean to have it. I want you gone before the next full moon.”

When they had ridden away I let the knife slide out from my sleeve and Mam untucked the revolver from beneath her apron. She went in the house, leaving me to put away the loys. I made out like I was tired from plowing, but in truth I worked slow because I thought my heart might burst from beating so hard. Eight men. We had the revolver and the shotgun, but we were close to being out of cartridges for both. Mam hadn’t wanted to go to town for weeks now; she was afraid Bill would have a man watching, who would come after she was gone and rob us blind and do worse to me. But I knew now that was a mistake. Eight men and he could probably come back with double as quick as you please, and it was less than a month to the full moon.

When I finally went in she had cleared the table and pulled the carpetbag out from under the bed. It was grey with dust; even before Da died Mam and I weren’t supposed to touch it, though I used to open it when no one was looking. It’s the past, Da would say when I asked him about it. From when we thought we knew better than God. We came here to get away from that.

The way Mam was laying things out, I knew I wasn’t the only one who had peeked inside. She didn’t even have to look, just put out the candles and the fancy drawings, and even the vials that I liked best. In your hand the stuff inside looked black, but when you held them up to the light you saw that it was really a dark, sweet red.

Beside these Mam put a knife I had never seen before, with a thick handle and two round blades folded up like a flower.

“I’ll show him,” she said. “I’ll show him my god-damned claim.”

“What d’you mean?” I asked. My voice sounded funny; sometimes I went so long without speaking I forgot what I sounded like.

Mam didn’t answer. She was peering at the drawings, holding them up to the light and talking to herself.

I started cutting up the potatoes for supper, but I kept looking at that knife. Not round, the blades; more like petals, tight as a spring bud. I reached out and touched the handle only to jump when the blades snapped apart. Now it looked like jaws ready to bite.

“Leave it be,” Mam said. She bundled everything up again and went back out into the yard. Under the beech tree she began dragging her heel in the dirt, making a circle.

I followed her outside. “Mam, what’re you doing?”

She grinned at me then, not her nice smile but the way she smiled when we killed rats in the barn.

“Calling down the god-damned devil on that sonofabitch Boyland,” she said, and got down on her hands and knees in the circle.

We had nearly three weeks before Bill Boyland was to come back, but as Mam explained it, sometimes the devil takes a while. We took turns watching the circle and keeping up with the plowing. Mam said it wasn’t a circle but a kind of snare. She had put the last of our salt pork in the middle and kept adding drops from one of the vials to it, her face getting grimmer by the day. I didn’t know why we didn’t just send the devil to Bill Boyland direct, rather than bring him to us, what if the devil decided to take us all? But Mam didn’t look like she was for questioning, so instead I said that the goats might get at the bait.

“Nah, Addy. It’s devil’s blood.” She touched my shoulder, which made me feel better. “The goats are smart, they know better than to touch it.”

“The devil will come for his own blood.” My voice nearly twisted up, making it a question, but I caught myself in time. Mam was fierce with the whip when she got the rage in her.

“They’ll come to rescue one of their kind,” she said. “They won’t come for food, they can get that anywhere. But they’ll come for one of their own. Any of them within a hundred miles, they’ll smell it.”

And then I really wanted to ask questions, because I had always thought there was just one devil, the one in the Bible. Now I pictured devils like rabbits, with horns for ears and long sharp tails. I wanted to ask Mam how many devils there were, and did they come in different kinds, and what if we got the wrong one? But she was smiling the rat-killing grin again, and all those questions weren’t really what I wanted to ask: If a devil came, what was to stop him killing us as well?

That night I took a while feeding the goats. They crowded around all warm and nibbled my fingers. We had to sell most of the animals when Da died, but Mam had made sure we kept the goats and the chickens. I watched the goats being born every year, and the ones I had to nurse I named in my head, though I never told Mam. When they grew too old for milking or making babies she would walk them down the road a ways to a fellow named Tom. He had a big herd that he rented out for clearing brush, sometimes even for the railroad. In the post office there was a print of the railroad coming through, and I would pretend our goats were just past the edge of the paper, eating up the dead grass and keeping the men safe from fire.

I whispered their names now as I fed them. Isaac, after one of my favorite stories. Leah and Rachel, because their story always made me feel sad, and I thought they would have been happier without Jacob. There had been one I named Matthew, after my Da, but he was with Tom now. Cain and Abel, for twins that kept butting each other. Even a little Addy, because she came so late like I had done.

If Bill Boyland got the land, we’d have to sell them all, maybe to someone for their meat.

Isaac butted my hand and I scratched his head. I knew him by his uneven horns. I knew them all and they all knew me, they would come when I called them. Mam wanted to keep the land because it was ours, because Da had cleared it and worked it until it killed him. But I wanted to keep the land for Mam and the goats, so we could all stay together.

I looked at Mam, sitting on the edge of the circle, waiting for the devil to come. Anything, to keep us here, together. Anything.

It was six days and nights before the devil finally came.



The devil came up over the hill at sunset, hunched over and leading a lame horse. It wore a hat and coat like anyone. I thought it was one of Bill Boyland’s men, but Mam hissed at last and went behind the house. I didn’t know what to do so I just stood there on the far side of the beech and waited.

It approached slow, like it sensed something was wrong. I couldn’t see its face for the kerchief over its mouth. At the fence it stopped and waved at me. I waved back before I thought better of it, but there was nothing for it then.

Halfway across the yard it stopped again and looked around. I could see its eyes squinting, could see its nose wrinkle as it smelled the bait. It turned completely, looking back at the fence, and that was when Mam ran out of nowhere with the jaw-blades and drove them into the devil’s back, right between the shoulders, and snapped them shut.

It screamed then, its voice as high as my own, and fell like it’d been shot. The horse reared and ran to the far side of the yard.

“Get the little yoke,” Mam said.

The devil’s hat had fallen off. Its long brown hair fell everywhere, thick and snaking. There was a big stain on its back where the handle stuck out, and blood was dripping on the ground. With a moan it started to drag itself back towards the fence, hand over hand, its legs twisting up.

“Addy get the god-damn yoke!” Mam yelled.

I ran to the barn. The devil was cursing now, calling Mam terrible names, and I clapped my hands over my ears. It took me a while to find the little yoke, the one Da had made for our last, runty ox. When I came back out Mam had her knee on the devil’s backside and was holding its head down with one hand, pushing aside its hair with the other.

Her head, her hair. I didn’t know much about devils, but now that I was close I could see this one looked an awful lot like a woman.

“Look,” Mam said. She dug her nails into the devil’s neck, making her shriek into the dirt, and scraped something free. When she held out her hand to me there were shiny circles on her fingers. “Child of the serpent. You would never know it to look at her. For generations your Da’s people fought ‘em, to the death more often than not. Now she can start paying us back.”

My mouth was hanging open and I closed it tight.

The devil said something then. Mam lifted her hand away and the devil twisted her head to look at me. She looked like a woman, but her face was all hollow and a sickly gray, like she was ill. Her eyes were the same dark brown as mine.

“You’ve made a terrible mistake,” she said.

“That may be,” Mam said, “but it’s done now.” She took the yoke from me and latched it round the devil’s neck.

We tied the devil up in a stall in the barn, tying the yoke to the walls and her wrists to the yoke and hobbling her feet just to be sure. When I reached for the blade Mam slapped my hand and shook her head. The devil’s legs were still limp. She hadn’t fought when we dragged her across the yard, just looked from me to Mam and back again. Even knowing about the snakeskin she still didn’t look like a devil to me. She looked like a woman, sick and scared.

“Please,” she said now. “Please, I can’t feel anything. Just get me a doctor and I won’t tell anyone, I promise.” Her eyes looked wet. “I have family waiting for me, they’ll pay whatever you want.”

Mam just snorted and checked the knots.

“My name is Elisabeth,” she said, turning to me. She was crying; my own throat got tight. “Please, I have no money, why are you doing this? Please send for a doctor. I can’t feel my legs, oh God, why are you doing this?”

“Mam,” I whispered.

“You can save your breath.” Mam said. “We’ll let you go after the next full moon.” She jerked her head at the doors. “Men are going to come here, they’ve threatened me and my boy. You take care of them for us and we’ll let you go.”

The devil just looked at her, her eyes huge and weeping.

“If you don’t, I’ll take your blood and do the job myself.”

Still the devil just looked at her. I could see her trembling.

“Well,” Mam said. “We best get supper on.”

“Wait!” She leaned forward. “You can’t just leave me here! I may never walk again!”

Mam laughed. “If I took that blade out you’d have my throat before I could take a breath.”

“Mam,” I whispered again. She looked like she was hurting bad. What if we had made a mistake, what if we were killing her?

But Mam patted my arm. “It’s all right, Addy. Think about it. If she were what she claims to be she’d have bled out by now. She sure as hell wouldn’t have the strength to holler like that.” She turned towards the barn doors. “Come on. We’ve done a good day’s work.”

“No, you mustn’t leave me! Please!” The devil was looking at me, all wild and sobbing. “I just want a doctor. For God’s sake! I’ll do whatever you want, just send for a doctor!”

I bit my lip; I felt like I might cry too, but Mam hated tears. Only how could a devil even say God without getting struck down? “What if we’re wrong?” I whispered. “What if she’s just a person?”

Mam sighed then and crouched down in front of the stall, plucking at the old straw. “I know what you are,” she said to the devil. “Matthew’s da was an alchemist and a preacher, as was his da, all the way back to Thomas Norton himself. Matthew told me the real story of Eden, how the serpent tricked Eve so he could eat from the tree of life, and how all his offspring carry that in their blood. Mankind’s birthright gobbled right up. But it wasn’t all good, was it?” She smiled at the devil. “No, it came with all sorts of problems. Like your hunger, like how a little knife can leave you helpless. Like how even a foolish old woman can make a poison that will turn you to dust.”

At Mam’s words the devil’s eyes went hard, and her mouth became a line. She met Mam’s gaze square, and then she spat in the straw.

“That’s what I think of your fucking das,” she said. “Cruel madmen to a one. Rather like you, I suspect.” All the trembling and fear were gone. “So your plan—” she made the word sound dirty— “is to keep me tied up until the next full moon, and then what? I can’t walk, you idiot.”

“Not now you can’t,” Mam said. “But we both know it’s only the blade—”

“No, you know that,” the devil interrupted, and Mam’s face went dark. “I will tell you what I know, shall I? I know that if I don’t feed soon, I’ll be dead by the time your men come. I know that if you don’t give me time to heal after you remove the blade I will be nothing more than another bitch for them to fuck and kill. And I know you are in no way strong enough to drink my blood, not with that sickness in you.”

I stepped back, expecting Mam to go in a rage, but she didn’t. She didn’t even speak. She only stayed crouched, with her face dark and her hands twisting in her skirts, and then I was proper afraid. No one had ever spoken to her like that without her raging at them.

“Now your daughter here, she might be able to drink,” the devil continued, looking at me. The line of her mouth curled up and it was awful. “You’re as strong as a little horse, aren’t you? A god-damned mule of a girl. So your mother’s the mouth and you’re the muscle, is that how it is?”

“That’s my son,” Mam said then, but her voice was something I’d never heard before, all strained and cracked.

“I have given you the courtesy of my honesty,” the devil said. “I recommend you do the same.” She leaned forward again. “I’ve met your kind before, missus. You listen in on your menfolk, you sneak into their studies and read their books, and you think you know better than they did, and you always die worse.” She kept talking when Mam started to speak. “If you took the blade out now it would be days before I could walk again, and my belly was empty long before now; even if you hadn’t crippled me I’d barely be able to stand. I need at least three nights to heal and I need to eat. So put that in your fucking plan.”

Mam bared her teeth, then reached over and smacked my leg. “Go start supper,” she said. “Go on, now. I got business here to take care of.”

Just before the barn doors I looked back. Mam was saying something to the devil, something I couldn’t make out. What if it was true, what the devil said? What if Mam had read the book wrong, what if there was some kind of sickness in her? She was always tired, but we were both always tired, there was only the two of us to do everything.

Mam kept talking; her face was whipping mean. If the devil replied at all I couldn’t hear it, and I didn’t want to.

From the kitchen window I watched as Mam stormed out of the barn, cursing and kicking at the dirt, the shotgun in her hand. I thought to hide then but she went to the horse instead, seizing its reins and dragging it limping past the fence where she shot it in the head. I could have sworn I heard a cry from the barn but it could have been me. Just to shoot it like that, when it might have only needed shoeing. Just to shoot it. Mam stripped off the saddle and harness and as she was passing the barn she threw them in a heap by the door and then I did hear something, not a cry but the devil cursing like when Mam first stabbed her. She kept on long after Mam started the evening chores and I was making supper; she kept on until at last she just stopped, like someone had cut her throat.

“I don’t think she can stop all Bill Boyland’s men,” I said to Mam when she came in for supper.

“She will if she wants to live,” Mam said. “You just stay away from her. She’s got a mouth on her, that one.”

I stirred the soup, trying to think how to ask without asking.

“I get pains in my stomach, Addy,” Mam said then. “They come and go. Sometimes I sick up and there’s blood. That’s why it has to be this way. This land is all you’ll have after I’m gone. A woman can’t get by without money or a man. This land is as good as dollars.”

I heard her, but at the same time it seemed like she was speaking from a long way away. Tears kept coming out and I watched as they fell into the pot, making little circles in the soup. I didn’t dare sniffle or let on how I felt. It would only get me slapped.

“Maybe we should explain more,” I finally said when I could talk again. “Maybe we could pay her with some land. Maybe then she would want to help us.”

“Addy, she’s a devil.” Mam sighed. “The moment we take that knife out she’ll kill whatever’s to hand. We just gotta make sure that’s Bill Boyland and not us.”



The next day I started the planting. It felt strange to be working, but as Mam said, it would be something to find ourselves rid of Bill Boyland only to starve next winter. I carefully tossed the seed onto the ground, whispering the prayers Da had taught me. Mam had mixed the seed sack the night before, adding the special powder Da had brought with us. He had said that the powder and praying made the ground more willing. We were nearly out of the powder now, but I wasn’t sure it mattered; each year the crops were mean, enough to keep us alive but not enough to sell.

I thought Mam was going to follow me with the harrow, but instead she went into the goat pen with a rope. I stopped and watched her. The goats had been upset that morning; the horse was starting to smell and it was scaring them. Had they done something? I tried to see Mam but she was bent over. There was a lot of bleating and then she stood up again, leading one of the goats out and kicking the pen shut. I could just make out his uneven horns. She didn’t lead Isaac to the road, towards Tom’s place; instead she led him over to the water pump and the half-log where Da had done his cleaning. I didn’t understand; why did she need to give him water? I had filled all the troughs fresh this morning.

I didn’t understand, and then I saw the knife and the bowl, and then Mam seized Isaac by the larger horn. An awful sound filled the air, a kind of bleating but worse, as if he was screaming. I opened my mouth but there was only the screaming. I was running and halfway to the log Mam dragged the knife across his neck and his skin peeled open and the screaming became blood.

When I reached the log the thing on it was Isaac and not, he was some other kind of animal, something that had a throat gaping loose and bloody and a tongue hanging out. Isaac, I said, but nothing came out, like she had cut my throat too.

Mam steadied the bowl under him, catching every drop of his bright, bright blood. It was so cold. Behind us the other goats bucked against the wall of their pen and bleated and I tried to say Isaac again but I was shivering too much. It was so very cold.

“Idiot,” Mam yelled, “you’re dropping seed everywhere!”

I looked down and in my hand was the sack of seed and what was left was spilling onto the ground. I got down and picked up the seeds one by one until they were just a blur. Mam hated tears. I scraped at the dirt, feeling for the little shapes. Isaac. Everything went dark and I looked up to see Mam standing over me, the bowl on her hip stinking of blood.

“I don’t dare take it to Tom,” she said. “Skin it and quarter it; we’ll figure out what to do with the meat later.”

I couldn’t speak for the pain in my throat, like there was a fist pressing everything down into my belly.

“What’s wrong?” She frowned at me and I shrank back, swallowing and swallowing.

“Tom?” I finally croaked.

“Of course Tom.” Her frown deepened. “Why, who else would we sell the carcass to?”

“I—I thought,” I said, but I couldn’t say any more. I hadn’t thought. I had never thought.

“Are you thinking of that herd he sold to the railroads? There hasn’t been anything like that for years now. More’s the pity, he charged them a fortune for the lot, said they were getting the brush cleared and a winter’s worth of meat besides.” She laughed. “Shrewd old bastard. That was a good Christmas, do you remember? You ate yourself sick on the candy your Da bought.” Steadying the bowl, she leaned over and touched my cheek. “Now be a help and skin it. I’ll clean it and make a nice stew, we still have plenty of onions.”

She went into the barn, bracing the bowl as she worked the door open and closed. As soon as the door shut I pressed my hand over my mouth so she wouldn’t hear the noises pushing up. From the pen the goats bleated softly, as if they heard me, as if they understood.

When I stood up the smell of the horse blew over me, now mixed with the smell of Isaac. The first vultures were circling. I hated the devil then, I hated her for coming and I hated Mam for calling her, I hated the land and the house and even the goats for making me like them. I took up the knife. Isaac looked small on the half-log, not much bigger than the bowl Mam had bled him into. I touched him and he was warm and his hair felt just like it had that morning. I remembered when he was born, how I had dried him and nursed him. I started crying hard, because I hated him too but I also loved him, and I wished I was the one on the wood instead of him.

The barn window was open. Mam suddenly said in her cold voice, the voice before she got angry, “you’ll drink it and you’ll like it.”

The devil started laughing. “I can’t drink that,” she said. “It’s worse than water.”

“It’s all I got.”

“Then you should have fucking thought of that beforehand!” the devil screamed. Her voice was so loud the chickens took up squawking.

There was a thump and the crack of the whip, over and over. I flinched and started to reach for Isaac, but there wasn’t any reason to protect him now.

“I don’t need you!” Mam roared, the worst I’d heard in ages. “I only need what’s in your veins, damn you!”

“Then come and take it,” the devil yelled, and there was no fear in her voice.

The barn door flew open and Mam came out. Blood was splashed all down her front; the empty bowl hung from her hands. Without looking at me she stomped back to the house, throwing the bowl against the side before she went in. It left a red stain on the wall.

I looked down at Isaac’s little body. Killed for nothing. Killed for nothing. What harm had he ever done anyone?

I pressed hard on my mouth, but the sound of crying didn’t stop. Only then did I realize that it was coming from the barn, that the devil was crying too.

It took me all afternoon to skin Isaac. I’d never done such a bad job of anything. I kept saying I’m sorry I’m sorry until I wasn’t sure if it was for letting Mam kill him, or for making such a mess of him after he was gone.

At supper I couldn’t eat. The stew was the color of dried blood and had pieces of meat and onion floating in it and just looking at it made my stomach hurt. Even worse was looking up at the cutting block, where I could still see his little feet. I tried to spoon up just the broth but pieces of meat kept coming in. The stew tasted like sick and sorrow; even in tiny amounts it all kept coming back up.

We sat in silence until suddenly Mam spoke. “Adelaide Norton, I’m only going to say this once.” She spoke quiet, like someone was sleeping nearby. “You have got to stop this. You’re not a child anymore. If you’re this soft over an animal, what will you do when Bill Boyland’s men start blubbering for their lives? You show them an ounce of mercy and they will cut you dead. That is the world, Adelaide. There is nothing out there—” she pointed her spoon at the window— “that will spare you at their own expense, not Bill Boyland and not that thing in the barn and not even your god-damned goats. This world isn’t founded on mercy. It is founded on survival, and God helps those who help themselves. Now you eat that god-damn stew or so help me I’ll make you.”

Slowly I spooned up a piece of meat, watching it shudder in its little puddle of broth, and put it in my mouth. Sick and sorrow. I swallowed it whole; when my stomach twisted I imagined the fist inside me pressing it down so it couldn’t come back up.

“Better,” Mam said. “Someday you’ll see that I’m doing this for you. Someday you’ll see just how close we came to dying out here.”

That night I couldn’t sleep for thinking. My hands felt sticky with blood though I had washed them clean. There were flies in the house and Mam was snoring and finally I got out of bed and went out into the yard.

Everything was quiet and still. There were so many stars above the black hills; their light made the grass look like silver. The air tasted like the smell of the horse, rotting where it had fallen. Something was chewing on it, a lean shadow that smacked its lips as it ate. I felt small. I went to the goat pen and watched them sleeping, and I thought of Isaac and hoped he was happy up in the stars, running and playing and eating whatever he wanted. I thought of his dark eyes and his little horns and how he knew me, he would always come to me instead of Mam. He knew me.

In the barn it was silent, but in a different way. The way it’s silent when you hold your breath.

“Are you all right?” I asked, for something to say.

She seemed to be asleep but then I saw her eyes were open. She didn’t say anything, so I crouched down like Mam had done and picked at the straw. The ropes creaked and when I looked at the devil she was looking at me. Her face was even thinner and bruised now too, and there were stains on her torn shirt and coat.

“I’ve had better days.” Her voice was rough. “Is it your turn, then? Like mother, like daughter? Or perhaps you’re like your father, you want to cut me up and see what makes me tick?”

“Da never hurt anyone,” I said. “He came out here so he wouldn’t have to hurt people anymore. He said people were supposed to make the world balanced. Like morning and night, or wild and tame things. That way God would give us His grace again.”

“Does this look like fucking balance to you?” She looked at me so hard I flinched. “Why were you crying before?”

I knew I shouldn’t tell her anything, but I felt desperate to speak. “The goat, the one Mam . . . ” I couldn’t say killed. “His name was Isaac,” I finally got out.

“I’m sorry, Addy.” And she did sound sorry, truly sorry.

I sat down completely then. “If you promised to help us,” I said, “I could try to get Mam to take the knife out.”

“I think your mother and I are past the point of bargains.” She lunged forward, so suddenly I yelped. “But we could bargain.”

Her fingertips curled towards my face and I jerked back, crawling until I hit one of the barn posts. Her eyes weren’t brown anymore; they were black and flat and huge. “Your mother needs me alive, Addy. That means she’ll keep killing your livestock, because she is desperate and there is nothing else she will give me.” Her lip curled up in the corner. “But you could give me something.”

I opened my mouth, but all that came out was “what?”

“You’re starting to bleed.” She said the word with a sigh, like it was a fellow she was sweet on. “Bring me your blood, and I’ll tell her I can drink something else—rats, or maybe chickens. Your goats, at least, will be safe.”

I gaped at her. “Why would you want that?”

She leaned back, smiling. Her teeth were bright with moonlight and it was terrible.

“It’s . . . it’s disgusting.” Just the thought made me shudder. I couldn’t even look at the rags; Mam always washed them for me.

At that her smile broadened. “But it’s part of being a woo-man.”

“Doesn’t make it nice,” I said. “Besides, nothing else does that. Only people.”

“Sadly we must live in the bodies we are given.”

“But you dress like a boy,” I pointed out.

At that the devil laughed, soft and bitter. “You meet all kinds out here.” Before I could say something she added, “but I don’t think you dress this way out of fear, do you? You like boy’s clothes.”

“Don’t you?” I’d seen the women in town, stuck on porches to stay out of the sun, talking about dresses and husbands. They couldn’t even ride horses. “I wouldn’t even know how to wear a dress now. I haven’t been a girl since I was little.”

“Did your mother decide that?”

“She cut my hair and took away my dresses when we came out here. Told Da to call me his son. He didn’t like it, though. He always said–” I took a breath; it felt funny to be talking about something so long ago. “He always said by the time I grew up there would be more folks out here, good folks, and I could go back to being a girl again.”

“Well,” the devil said, “I can see your mother once had some sense.” Her smile became sly. “Though it would be a pity to put you back in a dress. You wear those pants quite well.”

Her words made me go hot all over. For a moment I felt all sorts of strange things, things I didn’t want to think about. What had Mam said? She has a mouth on her. I got to my feet; I needed air.

“Strong as a mule and a rare kind of lovely,” the devil said, watching me. “Now we’ll see if you have any sense, eh? Bring me your blood, Addy. Bring me your rags. Because without them, you, your Mam, your goats . . .” She dragged her finger across her throat.

“I can’t,” I said. “Mam might find out, she’d whip us both.”

“Oh, you’re a clever girl—” I started walking away as she talked; she broke off and called “Addy!”

Like a fool I looked back. She was leaning forward again, just visible past the edge of the stall. She wasn’t smiling anymore.

“What did your mother do with your Isaac, hmm?”

Out of nowhere the fist filled my throat, so fast my eyes stung, pressing so hard I thought I would burst.

“Is your belly full of your little friend? Your friend who trusted you, who thought of you like you were his Mam, until your Mam cut his throat?”

And I could hear Isaac screaming again; I could see his head as the skin had come away and how when I brought him in the house Mam had slapped his body on the table and brought the cleaver up and down, up and down—

I ran out of the barn sobbing. I ran until I was at the beech tree and there I sat, crying and crying, thinking of nursing him in my lap, how quickly he had grown. Isaac, Isaac! I mouthed his name until it was nonsense and then I wept more.

It was dawn before I finally went back to bed. I felt nothing inside, nothing. I was as dead as he was.



The next day I woke up aching with my monthlies, just as the devil had said. Mam bled out a chicken and went to the barn. I felt sick inside, thinking of what the devil might say to Mam, but there were no fights or hollering. When Mam came back out the bowl was empty but she wasn’t smiling. “Sicked up most of it,” she said when I followed her into the kitchen. She was plucking the chicken so hard she ripped a wing half off. “We’ll have to try again tomorrow.”

I nodded. I had decided to say as little as I could, in case I gave away about going to the barn, but I knew that Mam was totting up the days and the animals just as I was. Put that in your fucking plan. I was, and it wasn’t adding up.

That night I watched the moon rise. Just a thin curve of white in the sky, nearly all blotted out. But soon it would grow fat and full, and then they would come, and even if we kept the devil alive that long what if she chose to help Bill Boyland instead of us? For the first time in a long time I wished, really wished, that Da was still alive, so he could tell Mam if she was doing right or not.

After supper Mam sat down at the table with the carpetbag again. She read one of the papers carefully, then opened up some of the other vials and mashed their contents in the mortar until they made a black paste. When she saw me watching she said, “poison.”

“For who?” I asked.

“For the devil, who d’you think?” She laughed then, low and bitter. “If I could get away with poisoning Bill Boyland I’d have done it years ago. Would’ve saved this whole territory a lot of grief.”

I sat down across from her. “How will you get her to take it?”

“I won’t. We shoot it into her.” She heated the tip of an awl and made a little hollow in one of the bullets. With a spoon she pushed in the paste and scraped it smooth, then put it on the table. “Let it dry. It only takes a little. Turns their blood to powder.” She squinted again at the paper as she picked up a second cartridge. “No, sand, I think it says sand. That’ll be something, eh? Cut her and watch her pour out like a sack of flour.”

“What if it doesn’t work?” I asked.

At that her face grew dark. “I got her here, didn’t I? I’ve got a god-damned devil tied up in our barn, how many times have you seen that before? When your great-grandda would hunt them he would take six men with him, and still they would get killed often as not.” She shook her head. “You need to ask less and do more. Now go to bed.”

I got under the covers, listening to Mam singing under her breath:

The Son of God goes forth to war,
a kingly crown to gain;
his blood red banner streams afar:
who follows in his train?
Who best can drink his cup of woe,
triumphant over pain,
who patient bears his cross below,
he follows in his train.

I gave myself over to thinking, about what little we had and what might happen when Bill Boyland came. Mam seemed to be fixing to break her word to the devil, and that didn’t seem like it could lead to anything good. And even if she killed the devil, even if we got rid of her and Bill Boyland and all his men, we still wouldn’t have a proper deed to the land.

When Mam finally came to bed I listened carefully to her breathing, and then I went out to the barn with my stained rags wadded in my hand. There wasn’t much blood yet, but I didn’t want to wait; it felt important not to wait. In the distance I could hear things crawling in the horse’s bones, could hear the goats nervous in their pen, but I didn’t dare try to comfort them in case the noise woke up Mam.

It wasn’t silent in the barn this time; there was a wheezing sound, long and low. In the stall the devil was slumped in the yoke. She looked all bone in the moonlight; she looked like she was dead, until I heard again the slow wheeze of her breath.

I held out the rags and her head lifted. Her eyes were slits. She opened her hand but didn’t move so I had to step close to give it to her. The moment her fingers closed around them I hurried back to the edge of the stall.

She sniffed them, and then pressed the stains to her lips and began sucking on them. It made me feel queer, frightened and kind of excited all at once. I wanted to run but I made myself stay put. After all, we had a bargain.

After a while she stopped sucking and licked the cloths instead, turning them one way and another and wetting every spot.

“Ahhh.” She licked a last spot and looked at me. Her face was less gray, though she still looked sickly. “Thank you, Addy.”

I nearly said you’re welcome. But she was a devil after all. “Will you help us when Bill Boyland comes?” I asked instead.

She leaned back in the yoke, closing her eyes. “Tell me about your Boyland.”

“He’s a big cattle rancher. He owns most of the land around here. What he doesn’t use for his cattle he rents out to farmers. He even owns the land under the inn and the bank. The lawyer says he exhorts everyone.”

“Ex-torts,” the devil said. “Him and half the men in this territory.”

“Bill Boyland says Mam didn’t file claim so he bought the land fair and square, but Mam went to the lawyer and he said she has papers showing she was here first. Only she’s afraid to go to the city for a judge because she thinks Bill Boyland will just take the land while we’re gone. She got a letter from the lawyer instead but Bill Boyland says that’s not good enough.”

“Then send the lawyer for the judge,” the devil said.

I frowned. “I don’t think we can.”

“You didn’t go to this lawyer?”

“I had to take care of things here.”

The devil pursed her lips at this, but said nothing.

“Maybe the lawyer’s frightened Bill Boyland will have him shot,” I said. “That’s what happened with the last farmer who tried to keep his land. Bill Boyland went out there with his men and they shot them all, and they shot the lawyer so he wouldn’t tell anyone what they’d done. Then they burned all the buildings so there would be no papers, so when the judge finally came there was nothing.”

“Thorough,” the devil said.

“Mam says you can kill them for us.”

At that she laughed. “Your Mam talks a lot of shit.”

“She called you here,” I said.

“She didn’t call me here. I was on my way to the city and my horse went lame. I was partial to that horse,” she added, and there was a tremor in her voice now. “You’re not the only one who lost a friend in this.”

I didn’t want to think about that. “But she baited the circle—”

“Oh, I smelled your rotten meat. When I was inside your fence, not a hundred miles away.” She smiled at me, a nice smile. “The way I hear it, I’m supposed to be descended from a snake, not a god-damned dog.”

Before I could catch myself I smiled back at her.

“Look, Addy.” The smile went quick. “Your blood will keep me alive but little more. Even if you took out the blade right now? It would be days before I could walk, much less help you fight anyone.” She met my eyes square. “If your Boyland is honest, he’ll be here at the full moon. But if he’s not? He’ll be here a hell of a lot sooner, or he’ll send men out here instead.”

“Why?” I asked, startled.

“Because that way he can kill you both, and then come back at the full moon with plenty of witnesses and oh dear, it must have been thieves, that’s what happens when women homestead without a man, what a pity.”

She was right. He could do it; I could see him doing it. She was right.

“If you truly want me to help you? I need more blood, a lot of it, and I need that damn knife out. Now, preferably.”

I hesitated then, trying to think. “Mam says she can drink yours and take care of Bill—”

“If your Mam drank my blood she would keel over dead,” the devil said, as reasonably as if we were discussing planting. “And if you drank my blood you might keel over dead, but if not? You would become a devil like me, and to be honest I don’t think you’re cut out for it.”

I hesitated again. Now I wished I hadn’t come. Mam was right, she did have a mouth on her, one that said confusing things.

“The blood you need,” I said slowly, “it’s people’s blood, isn’t it? Not chickens or goats or anything else.”

She just looked at me.

“But there’s no one for miles except me and Mam.”

“I don’t make the rules, Addy,” she said. “That’s just how it is.”

I swallowed. Horrible, confusing things, but I understood that well enough. No one made the rules about land either, or about folks like Bill Boyland trying to do you out of it.

“How long do you think we have?” I asked.

“He said by the full moon?” At my nod she smiled again. “Then I’d say it could be any time now. Right now it’s nice and dark outside, and all sorts of things can happen in the dark. It’s long enough before that he could make up a good story about where he was, but not so far ahead that they won’t recognize you. Right about now would be a perfect time.”

I nodded again, my head jerking up and down like I was one of the chickens. Right about now. I thought I could hear hoofbeats.

“I’ll try to do something,” I said, though I couldn’t think what. “I’ll try,” I said again.

The devil waved the sodden rags at me and I took them quick, swiping them out of her hand. Her skin looked gray again. Silently I backed out of the barn and into the silvery yard. I looked around before cutting across, as if Bill Boyland might already be there, ready to shoot me dead.

Back in bed I thought it through again. There had been another family, far to the east, right where they were setting the county line. Thieves had cut them up and burnt their house and barn both. At the time everyone had just said what a shame it was, but I wondered now, because Bill Boyland had bought that land at auction right after. He had divided it up and rented the lots to eight different families, where before there had only been one.

Extort. I saw now that Mam and I were nothing compared to that, nothing compared to rectangles of land where people paid just to be allowed to live.

I held my arm up to the moonlight, looking at the lines of blood under my skin. We were nothing to Bill Boyland, but we could be something to the devil, maybe enough of a something to help when the time came. I just had to figure how I could bleed myself without dying.

That night I dreamed I was crouched by the beech tree, keeping watch over the circle, waiting for the devil to come. I picked at the bark and the sap ran, only it wasn’t sap but blood; I picked more bark off and underneath was goat hair. I heard bleating then. I pulled and pulled at the bark and underneath were the goats, all of them cut up and bleeding and stuffed inside the tree like sausage meat. They were all dying and when I tried to pull them out my hands kept slipping in their blood and their screaming filled my ears until I woke up sobbing. I was lucky that Mam had already gone out to start the chores.



The next day I made my own count of the cartridges, and whatever else we could use to protect ourselves: knives, cast-iron pots, shovels and loys and Da’s two big sickles. Mam killed another chicken and bled it out. It was a waste, but if she knew what I had done with the devil it would be the whip for me. She had it out now, coiled on the ground by her feet as she wrung out the chicken.

Beside it lay the revolver. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I didn’t like it.

“Addy,” she called.

I went over and reached for the chicken but she handed me the revolver, then the bowl of blood.

“I need your help,” she said. “We don’t have time for her games and I can’t have her sicking up again.” She took up the whip and gave it a good crack. When it struck the ground it made places on my body hurt. “Keep the gun behind your back so she can’t see it. That’s it. Now when we go in there, you just get that blood down her throat. I’ll do the rest. If she breaks loose, shoot her dead.”

She waited until I nodded, then led the way to the barn, her skirts tossing the dust one way and another. As we swung the door open a buzzard rose off the horse at the noise and Mam threw a rock at it with a cry. I hated when she was like this, raging and stamping her feet and with her shoulders pulled up. Before Da died she never got angry, she had been kind and gentle, always laughing and singing. She was still kind sometimes, but more and more she was this Mam, almost like she wanted to be angry. I’m doing this for you, she always told me. I’m doing this so you won’t be afraid of anything. Fear is death out here, Addy. Never forget that.

We went to the stall and I was afraid the devil would give us away, but she only looked from Mam to me and back again. Mam held up the whip and she flinched.

“You need to eat,” Mam said in a loud voice. “Now you’re going to drink this and you’re going to like it, understand?”

“I’m doing my best,” the devil said. “There are other kinds of blood that suit me better, as well you know.”

“Don’t give me that. Blood is blood.” Mam nodded at me. “Addy, help her drink.”

“Like meat is meat?” The devil’s eyebrows raised. “I don’t see you two dining on rats, or that horseflesh rotting out there. No, it’s all chickens and sweet little goats for you.”

I stopped halfway towards her, swallowing. Mam uncoiled the whip. “Addy, give her the bowl.”

As I got close the devil looked up at me and mouthed bargain, and then she took a sip from the bowl. She gagged at once, pushing me away as she strained to work it down, just as I had struggled to swallow the stew Mam made out of Isaac. Her face became damp and she made a choking noise.

“More,” Mam said. “She needs to drink it all.”

I started to angle the bowl and the devil shook her head. “Wait,” she gasped. “Wait, I—” She broke off, gagging.

“For God’s sake,” Mam yelled. She cracked the whip and I cried out as it whistled past me and struck the devil in the face. “Addy, get it down her throat!”

But I couldn’t move for looking. The whip had opened a cut on the devil’s face, a big ugly gash that was running dark blood. Only as I watched the blood became sticky and the edges puffed up, then moved together. At first I thought my eyes were playing tricks, I blinked and blinked, but every time I blinked the cut looked better. As if it was healing right in front of me.

“Mam, what’s she doing?” I whispered.

“I told you, Addy,” she said, and there was something heavy in her voice. “She’s a child of the serpent, a devil made flesh. You can’t kill ‘em like you would a man. Right now the only things keeping her from killing us are the blade in her backside and her hunger.” She pointed with the whip. “Now get that god-damned chicken blood down her throat.”

“A devil made flesh,” the devil repeated. “You should try looking in the mirror. Singing hymns while you whip me? Plotting murders? I think you want this. I think you’re enjoying yourself. I think you like the whip and you like blood and you even like killing. I think you even like it when your girl misbehaves, you like getting her scared and making her bleed, I bet you tell her it’s for her own good—”

The whip came crashing down, over and over, lashing one way and another. I stepped out of the stall, hugging the bowl to myself and my eyes shut tight, trying not to hear the devil screaming and Mam humming under her breath.

Then all of a sudden there was silence, just the sounds of panting, and Mam said, “Addy, give her the bowl again.”

I opened my eyes and the devil looked like she was in pieces, her clothes hanging in ribbons and her face all red gashes. She had one eye swelling and her mouth hung open. I could see her heaving.

“Addy,” Mam said in a soft voice, “give our guest something to drink, or I’ll turn her blood to dust.”

Slowly I walked towards the devil. I saw now she was crying, her tears mixing with her blood, and I felt like crying too. “She means it,” I said, forcing the words out. “She knows how.”

“All she knows,” the devil muttered, “is cruelty.”

“Please,” I whispered.

She looked up at me, her good eye black and red and swimming in tears, but she opened her mouth and drank the chicken blood down, throatful after throatful.

And then she jerked away, wrenching in the yoke as she began choking. Mam ran behind her and seized her jaw, holding her mouth closed. “Get the revolver out,” she said to me. I pulled it out of my pants and held it with both hands, keeping it pointed steady at the devil’s face. Her cheeks puffed out and her swollen eye cracked open; she was gagging and mewling as Mam kept her mouth shut tight.

And I remembered, suddenly: when Da had died I was sick soon after, and Mam had given me some medicine, something foul. It was a medicine I’d had before, only it tasted like it had gone sour, but when I tried to tell her how bad it tasted she had flown into a rage. She had poured it into my mouth, more than I’d ever taken, and then held my mouth shut, and I had sicked up inside so much I nearly choked. Later she had said how sorry she was, that grief was making her act strange.

“She’ll shoot you,” Mam was saying. “She’ll shoot you dead unless you keep that god-damned blood down.” The devil was going still at last, though she looked worse than I’d ever seen her. She looked like she might even die.

“Good girl,” Mam said. Slowly she released her hands. “Good girl.” She stepped back and the devil sagged limp. “See?” She pushed the devil’s hair out of her face, then gave her a pat on the head. “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it? No more games, now. You just drink, and you kill Bill Boyland, and everything will be just fine.” She wiped her hands on her skirts. “Come on, Addy. We got work to do.”

Grief, Mam had said. But that had all been years ago. What was she grieving now? Or did she still miss Da that much?

“You’ll pay for this.” The devil’s voice was raspy. “You just wait. You think you know things? Everything you know is nothing more than the fancies of sick old men. And we took care of them a long time ago.”

Mam picked up the bowl and handed it to me, then settled about coiling the whip up neat; she’d started humming.

“But I know something.” The devil’s voice rose until it filled the barn. “I know you’re a fucking liar. I know this has nothing to do with the land because it was never yours. You’re using me to mete out some kind of vengeance. You pretend you’re just a poor old woman done wrong by, but at the end of the day you’re nothing but a pisspoor squatter and when they come they’ll hang you and good riddance!”

I reached for Mam who had turned back, but she only looked at the devil, then at me with a broad smile, and I realized she was trying not to laugh.

“Seems like chicken blood agrees with her after all.” And with a chuckle she strode out of the barn, singing

A noble army, men and boys,
the matron and the maid,
around the Savior’s throne rejoice,
in robes of light arrayed.
They climbed the steep ascent of heaven,
through peril, toil and pain;
O God, to us may grace be given,
to follow in their train.

When we were getting ready for bed Mam suddenly said, “You want to ask me a question, Addy, ask me. You know you can ask me anything.”

I slowly buttoned up my nightshirt. I could just glimpse my reflection in Mam’s little mirror, that she had brought with her when we came out. It was the only fancy thing we had, with a frame made up of tiny flowers and ribbons all tangling together. From my old life, she would say when I asked her about it. It reminds me that we’re all a mix of good and bad, like your Da says. And that God wants us to live with our decisions.

I looked at myself, at my short hair and my peaky face. I was a mix of things, all right. I’d never even seen a girl like me, and I sure didn’t know what was good or bad right now. But there were things being decided that I was going to have to live with.

“What if we asked Bill Boyland to buy us out,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “We could go somewhere else and start over, maybe somewhere closer to the railroad.”

I tensed then, waiting for her to start yelling, maybe even to hit me. But she only sighed. “Addy, you can’t get caught up in wanting to change things. Change is never as good as it looks in your head. There’re always problems, there’re always men looking to take whatever you have—your money, your land, your pride. At some point even a woman has to take a stand, or you’ll always be running.”

She laid down and closed her eyes, but I blurted out, “is that why you and Da came here, because you were running?”

Mam opened her eyes and looked at me for a long moment. But all she said was, “running means different things to men and women.” She rolled over, turning her back to me.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

But she didn’t say anything; she only lay there. I knew she was awake and holding herself tight and still, like she had after Da died. All day crying and laughing over him in the field while I had walked the long, long road to Tom’s place, and then when they took Da away she had laid down just like this. Only Da was seven years gone now, and I was still alive.

Later that night I left the house again. I had my dirty rags but I also took a clean one. Outside I found the bowl and the skinning knife and brought everything into the shadow of the barn. There I hesitated, looking at the big cruel knife, but there was nothing for it, and it felt right that it should be this way. I had done Isaac wrong; I had done them all wrong, all these years, telling them they were going off to Tom’s to eat grass. Now I thought maybe I had known otherwise but I had wanted to believe it. The stew Mam made had tasted horrible, but it had also tasted familiar.

I cut my left hand at the base of my thumb. I didn’t use that hand so much, and I made the cut low so it wouldn’t rub against the plow. At first it didn’t hurt but then it did, oh God did it hurt, and it was hard not to bandage it at once but let the blood run into the bowl. So much pain. How long had Isaac suffered for, before God took him? What about all the others, the chickens and the little ox and the devil’s horse and even Da, what had they felt?

As if I was speaking out loud, something moved out by the horse, something that was picking at whatever scraps were left on the bones made blue by the starlight. There was no moon, I realized, not even the sliver anymore.

All sorts of things can happen in the dark.

When I started to feel faint, I pressed the cut closed and tied it with the clean rag, and then I took everything into the barn.

The devil was hunched over in the yoke. The whole stall smelled of sick; she was surrounded by puddles of the stuff, all sticky and shiny. When I stepped inside she flinched and tried to move away.

“Bargain,” I whispered. I held out the rags and the bowl.

She angled her head at me, as if trying to read something on my face. Her eye was open again but only just, and though her cuts had closed up I could see them still, pale lines that ran all over her.

“Bowl first,” she finally said.

I brought it close to her open mouth and tilted it, just letting the blood dribble in. She drank like she was thirsty. Her cold hand touched mine, bringing the bowl closer, and she drank it all, making me turn it until she got every drop out. I started to take the bowl away but her hand grabbed mine hard and kept the bowl close while she licked it clean with long strokes of her tongue, like a cat. When at last she let me go there were smears of blood on her face; she tried to rub them off with her bound hands and then lick them.

The lines on her face and body were gone.

I gave her the rags and she began sucking. She looked almost healthy, like she had fattened up just from that little bit of blood.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

She was silent, sucking on the cloth.

“It’s just—things have been hard since Da died.”

Still she sucked on the cloth. I was trying to think of what to say next when she abruptly spat it out and said, “I have not been beaten like that since I was a child.” Her voice sounded different, low and full. “I swore I would never be beaten like that again.”

“The serpent beat you?” I frowned, trying to imagine it.

At that she laughed, so loud I hushed her. “I have parents, Addy, just like you. A mother. A father who passed. It was my aunt who did the beating in my family, for as long as we let her.” Slowly her tongue ran over her lips. “I don’t let her anymore.”

“You have a family?”

“Of course I have a family. I also have friends, a lover, and a name. I even owned a horse once.” At the last her voice went soft.

I didn’t know what to say. She went back to suckling and I crouched down, rocking on my heels. All of a sudden I could see her people, a whole lot of people who looked like her, who might be missing her. Maybe they just healed fast because they were lucky; maybe the scales on her neck were just a rash, or a birthmark, like the boy in town who had a big red patch on his face.

“This all feels bad.” Her voice was so quiet I wasn’t sure if she was speaking to me. “It feels like more than just a land dispute; it feels like an old grudge, maybe even from before your Da.” She gave the rag a lick. “Times are changing, Addy. You can’t just go about killing a man, not anymore. The Bill Boylands can still bend the law because they have money and men, but even that’s coming to an end. There are laws now, laws and officers to enforce them. More’s the pity,” she added, smiling a little.

“Mam says a woman has to take a stand,” I said.

“A stand for what? For a scrap of land? For something that happened years ago?” She shook her head. “The past is gone, Addy. The only thing worth taking a stand for is the future, the best possible future for those you love. Take it from someone who has an awful lot of past behind her.”

I frowned. “Maybe it shouldn’t be one or the other, though. Maybe it should be about balancing them, like everything is supposed to be balanced.”

“Oh yes, I forgot, your father and his bloody balance.” She laughed softly. “God save us from—”

But she stopped short. Her head turned in the yoke, straining the ropes. “They’re coming,” she whispered.

“Who’s coming?”

“At least eight horses—? And some kind of cart, or a wagon.” She looked at me, her eyes black again. “Take the blade out.”

I stood up, uneasy. “I don’t think . . .” But then I heard it too. Faint, like the first hint of a storm coming. It made everything go cold, even the pain in my hand. My mind seemed to empty all at once, I couldn’t think on what to do.

There was a cracking noise, and suddenly a hand seized mine, icy and so strong. She had pulled free of the stall and her hand was free. And then the rag was gone and she was sucking at the cut, biting it and sucking, and I screamed then because nothing had hurt like this before, she was chewing me up and I couldn’t get free, she seemed made of stone. I flailed and pulled and my free hand set upon a fork and I swung it at her. She fell to her side but it didn’t seem to even hurt her; she just began working the yoke off.

“Take it out,” she gasped. “Addy, take the fucking blade out!”

I barely heard her. I was pressing my hand tight, too scared to even look at it, it felt so raw. Her lips were shiny with my blood. You’ll take our throats, Mam had said.

“Addy!” She was hanging off the ropes, trying to stay upright. “Addy, listen to me. I promise you I won’t let anything happen to you. I give you my word. I can stop them, I can stop them all, but you have to take the blade out. For the love of your Mam and your goats and everything you hold dear, take the blade out.”

I didn’t know what to do. Everything seemed to be happening at once. I could hear the horses and a few shouts now and Mam calling my name and the animals were bleating and squawking and I could still smell the dead horse and what was I supposed to do?

“Addy, please.”

I tried, then. I tried to see her as Mam saw her, like a rabid dog to sic on people. But all I could see was how her hands were trembling, and Isaac’s little feet, and the way the horse had to be dragged like it knew what was coming. Whatever this all was, it wasn’t balance, much less anything good or right.

I got behind her and seized the handle and pulled as hard as I could, but she shrieked and waved her hand.

“No,” she gasped. “Open it, you have to open it.”

I felt the handle until I found the bump and pressed it. She wailed behind gritted teeth and then I pulled while she gasped “harder, harder” and I put my foot on her back and rocked it back and forth like a stuck spade until it suddenly came free in a spray of blood.

With a cry I flung the knife aside and started to run for the door but she seized my ankle and I fell. She pulled me back as I screamed and hollered for Mam, then grabbed my chin and pulled my head against her chest.

“Forgive me,” she whispered.

And then she bit my neck, and the pain flared sharp and stabbing and then everything went soft, soft, like a blanket had been dropped over me. All soft. It seemed only a minute or maybe it was hours when she finally let me go and I dropped onto the ground. I watched as her boot stepped over me, only to twist and stumble; she fell on top of me and I felt her weight but no pain, no pain. She got to her knees and began crawling towards the barn door. Just before the doorway she pulled herself up using the post and carefully unhooked one of the sickles. She stood for a moment, wobbling like a newborn kid; and then she kicked the door open and fell forward into the night.



Everything was foggy, though it wasn’t the time for fog. My hand was throbbing sore and my neck ached. I got to my feet but I couldn’t see the barn doors, and then I saw them, only they kept swaying. I managed to walk to them by looking through them, at the space between them, which was glowing with a bright orange light.

I stepped out into a world on fire. Everywhere was shimmering with heat and flame; the smoke covered the stars. There was screaming, close and far off all at once, from everywhere and nowhere. I looked behind me and the barn was licked with flame, the hills sparking red.

It was hell. We had called the devil down and I had let her loose and she had brought us all to hell.

I made my heavy legs walk. The smoke caught in my throat, setting me to coughing. The goat pen stood open and empty. There were shapes in the far corner, small and still. I looked at them and I knew they were gone, yet I kept hearing them bleating like Isaac had bleated, all mixed up with the shouts and screams of the men and the echoing gunshots and a woman crying or laughing or both—


There was no more house; there was only fire, curling around the beams and the chimney Da had laid stone by stone. I opened my mouth to call to Mam but started coughing. A hand caught me by the arm and spun me around. Before me stood a man, sooty and wild-eyed. He shook me hard over and over.

“I got the kid!” he hollered.

My head was snapping against my neck; my teeth flew up and bit my tongue hard. Blood filled my mouth. He swung me one way and another, peering into the smoke and flame.

“Bill!” he hollered again. “Bill, I got the kid! Bill—”

Something bright shot across his throat and it opened up and it was full of blood. My mouth was full of blood. He tried to speak and instead he fell over, his hand still gripping my arm, his tongue sticking out like Isaac’s. I started screaming then, I screamed as I never had before. The devil swung the sickle up and down into his chest. She was covered in blood. Blood sprayed out of the man as she wrenched the sickle up and brought it down again. Cold air ran over my belly and I looked down at the red cut in my nightshirt. Someone was screaming and screaming and it was me, I was turning inside out with screaming. I tore more at my shirt but I wasn’t cut, the sickle had only caught the fabric.

“Addy.” The devil’s voice was huge and echoing in the night. She bent and reached into the blood, her hand disappeared in the blood, and when she pulled it out with a grunt there was something round and wet in her palm. She held it out to me. “See? That’s all a man is inside. No evil, no divinity, not even your god-damn balance. Just flesh. That’s why your Da and his people failed: because they could never bring themselves to believe this. This is all there is.”

Seizing my cut hand, she pressed the organ into it, still warm, and my voice broke then from screaming. I dropped it and covered my eyes, waiting to feel her hands on me. But there was nothing. I peeked through my fingers, then lowered my hands.

The devil was gone.

The man at my feet looked different. With his kerchief twisted I could see how frightened he was and how young, as young as me. Everywhere now I saw the bodies of men: men in pieces, men with heads staved in and throats cut, men sprawled and men lying so peaceful they might have been asleep.

There was no more howling now, but I heard the crying laughter again and walked towards it.

The yard was another world. Everything was gusting smoke and ash. I wiped my face and my hand came away smeared with blood and ash. The cut on my hand throbbed and my neck too. Somewhere far away a man screamed and began pleading, and I turned one way and another but the wind carried him away. Only the crying laughter seemed fixed.

Soon I came upon a trail in the dirt and followed it to the beech tree. It seemed like I had walked for miles, but when I looked around there were the ruins of the house and barn, as close as they had always been.

Under the beech tree was a body and Mam was standing over him, her skirts hiked up and her foot on his face. I saw Bill Boyland’s fancy gold watch hanging from his clothes. Her face screwed up and her leg flexed as she pressed down. She was giggling and weeping all at once.

As I drew close, something cracked, and her foot sank lower.

She looked at me and then back at the man. Her face was wet. “I never knew,” she said. “Look at how soft a man is. I never knew.”

Beneath her foot all was red and black. She took her foot away and laughed again, that strange, weeping laugh, and it was that morning with Da all over again.

“Look, Addy.” She nudged at his face with the toe of her shoe and Bill Boyland’s eyeball pushed forward. I shrieked and she laughed. “An eye for an eye, how do you like that? An eye for an eye. Sometimes God does answer our prayers.”

“Mam,” I said. I could barely speak for trembling. “Mam, we have to do something.”

“You let her out, Adelaide Norton,” she said. “You disobeyed me and you went to her and you let her out.”

“Mam,” I said again. “Mam, we need to . . .” But I couldn’t think of what we needed to do. I kept looking at where Bill Boyland’s face had been, at that one shiny eyeball.

“I had a plan,” Mam said. “I was going to tell them I had a woman in my barn, I was going to offer her to Bill Boyland as a payoff, to spare you and I. He would go in to have her and she would kill him.” She pointed at my neck. “Now you got her taint on you, and there ain’t no fixing that.”

“She couldn’t drink that other blood!” My heart was pounding. “She couldn’t drink it and you knew it! She would have died if I hadn’t—” I broke off then, because suddenly the thought filled my head and it was awful. “Or did you know I was going out there to her?”

Mam just looked at me. The fist filled my throat, pressing down so much I felt sick; I opened my mouth but nothing would come out, not words or tears. Slow and careful, Mam reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out the revolver and aimed it at me. The barrel was so large. It was as large as a scream, as large as the hole we had buried Da in.

She stepped over Bill Boyland’s legs and I closed my eyes but nothing happened. When I opened them again the barrel was pointing just past my ear, and I turned and looked over my shoulder.

The devil stood there, Mam’s whip in her hand. Her eyes were black. Two long pointed teeth filled her mouth, stained dark against the white bone.

“You’re not tainted, Addy,” she said in her strange huge voice. “But you need to walk away now. Your Mam and I have unfinished business.”

“No!” I looked from one to the other. “Please. You can go now, we said you could go when you stopped them. Can’t she, Mam?”

Mam said nothing, only cocked the trigger.

“I made a promise to myself a long time ago.” The devil was staring at Mam. “And a woman is nothing without her word.”

“Amen,” Mam said. “And now we see you for what you really are.”

The devil pointed at Bill Boyland. “Amen.”

It happened all at once, then. Mam shoved me and fired and the whip snaked out, catching Mam’s wrist and sending the revolver flying into the air. We all three cried out and fell to the ground; the shot echoed against the hills.

Mam’s wrist was bleeding. She began crawling in the dirt, looking for the revolver. “Find the gun,” she whispered. “Hurry, Addy.”

The devil was on her hands and knees, hunched over, her sides heaving; and then she staggered to her feet.

“Please,” I said.

“Addy, find the god-damned gun!” Mam cried.

“Please just go,” I said.

The devil looked at me with those black, flat eyes. She pressed her fingers into her chest, all the way inside. With a grimace she twisted and dug and when she held up her hand again it was glistening black. Blood dripped off her fingers that held up Mam’s bullet like it was something precious.

She flicked it at Mam; it sailed through the air and struck Mam in the face.

“Shitty poison by shitty alchemists,” she said, but her voice was thick like she was sick again.

“It’ll burn you up,” Mam said. She was shaking; I had never seen Mam shake before. “You’re done for, serpent! You’re going back to hell where you came from!”

“My name is Elisabeth,” the devil said, “and the only hells are the ones we make.”

The whip rose up, catching smoke as it shot curling into the sky. When it came down Mam hunched over, covering her head with her hands.

“Stop it!” I got to my feet; it was then that I saw the revolver at the base of the beech tree.

Again the whip cracked. I ran as fast I could and seized the revolver. My hands were shaking as I swung it around. She was almost on top of Mam, swinging the whip up and down.

Not once did Mam cry out.

“Stop it or I’ll shoot!” I yelled.

The devil went still, looking at me, the whip dangling from her hand.

“Shoot her,” Mam hissed. “Shoot her dead.”

I steadied the revolver, sighting the devil square in the face. “Go away,” I said loudly. “Just go. You did what we asked, now we’re keeping our promise.”

“For the love of God, Addy, shoot the bitch!”

I glanced at Mam. Her mouth was hanging funny; the whip had caught her in the face. I turned back to the devil who hadn’t moved, who just looked at me with the same steady gaze. I curled my finger around the trigger.

“Elisabeth,” I said. “Please, please just go.”

“God-damn it!” Mam yelled. “What’s wrong with you? She’s just an animal, put her down!”

There was a shot, and a second and a third, though I hadn’t done anything. I looked at the revolver and suddenly the devil was spinning me around and holding my hands and together we squeezed. The man behind us bucked and fell. The devil pointed again, squeezing my finger a second time, so hard I thought it would break. His body jumped and went still.

I looked over at Mam and she was facedown in the dirt and I knew she was dead. I knew she was dead. All the air left the world. I reached for her only my hand was all cut up still, I would taint her with my touch. Everything seemed wrong. I looked at Mam’s wet hair and I looked at the cuts on my hand. I knew. I knew.

Liquid splashed on the ground. It took all my strength to turn away from Mam and look at her. The devil had a flask and she was pouring water on where Mam had shot her. My arm rose up and I aimed the revolver at her head.

The devil went still. “Addy,” she said, “your mother was a cruel, frightened woman—”

“I told you to leave.” My voice sounded different, deeper than I had ever heard it before, almost like I was the devil now.

Slowly she raised her hands. “There will be more coming, by daybreak if not sooner. We need to strip the bodies, make it look like a robbery—”

“Go away,” I said in the same dark voice. “Go away and don’t ever come back, or I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

And I meant it. I meant every word. She looked so small from behind the revolver, how was it that we had feared her? It would be nothing to shoot her, or cut her with the sickles. Nothing to watch her bleed out like a spilled jug.

My insides ached so bad I wished I was dead.

Slowly the devil took a step backwards, and then another, keeping her hands up. She looked so small. It would be nothing to squeeze the trigger, nothing to watch her flinch and cry out and fall; nothing and everything. I dropped to my knees, the revolver huge and heavy in my hands, breaking my fingers from its awful weight. All around me was the smoke and the dead and I was as good as. It was nothing to kill a person and it was everything. All of it cruel, the gun and the knife and the whip; all of it a flat blackness like the devil’s eyes and Mam’s too, when she had stepped on Bill Boyland’s face. All of it as flat as Isaac’s eyes when the life went from him.

I looked at Mam and I knew she was dead. I crawled to her and laid my good hand on her, the untainted one, and turned her on her side so she would be comfortable. I wanted to cry but the fist was solid inside me. Instead I smoothed back her hair and closed her eyes and mouth; I put her hands together so she could pray, wherever she had gone to. I thought to sing then, like she would sing to me when I was little, but no words would come. Instead I sat by her in silence while the world burned to the ground.



It was the sun that made me move. That first gleam of light made everything visible; I saw every body stark against the ground, saw the house and the barn like they were more real now for being ruined. Smoke rose up into the sky, high enough that it could be easily seen from town.

I hurried then. I wanted more than anything to bury Mam but I couldn’t. I kissed her forehead one last time. She would have been proud of me: I hadn’t cried, not once, I had just sat there swallowing it all back and pushing it down until I didn’t even feel the fist anymore, until I didn’t feel anything at all. How many nights had Mam done the same after Da died? Pressing it down until she was empty, waking up to the same hard dirt in the fields.

In the cold blue dawn it seemed a terrible thing that Da had done, bringing us here.

I took the pants and shirt off one of the least dirty bodies, and the coat off another. I dressed as quick as I could, then ripped my nightshirt and threw it in the brush. Maybe they would think I got carried off.

The goat pen and chicken coop were ashes. I started trembling at the sight but I pushed it away until I was empty again. Instead I set about digging through the men’s pockets, taking whatever was worth something: money, watches, even their spare cartridges. What I couldn’t fit in my pockets I bundled in kerchiefs and tied to my belt.

The only horse left was the mare tied to the cart—not even a wagon, just a small cart with its wheel stuck against a tree. I came up on the cart slow, I didn’t want to spook her; she still looked wild-eyed. Only as I held out my hand I heard not a whinny but a bleating, and something moved in the shadows under the cart, and then all of a sudden little Addy stood there, sooty but bleating and bleating and I was hugging her close, smelling her good smell and her licking both my hands clean. And there was Rachel and a little one I hadn’t named, he had been born just fine and never needed naming, but now his fur was matted with blood and he hung back until I called “Joseph, Joseph” and he came to me and it was everything. I understood, then, that this was what was meant by grace, how in the midst of so much wrong there could be something that was beautiful and right.

I cleaned out the unlit torches and the corked jugs of beer from the cart and got the goats up inside. They seemed happy to be leaving. I searched the brush but I couldn’t find any of the others, and then it was time. It took the horse a little while to trust me, but I coaxed her back and forward again and she understood and that was a kind of grace too. There was a whip in its socket and I threw that away with the rest. When I saw little Addy watching me I told her “no more” and I meant it. No more of such things, ever. Together the horse and I steered the cart onto the road, and with every step I said “thank you” and I meant that too, I had never felt so grateful.

Once I was up in the seat, though, I found myself trembling again. From there the ruin of our land seemed a sorry thing, small and empty. Even Mam’s body seemed little more than a spot against the dirt. I stopped the horse so I could really look at it all, one last time. There was something white and crumpled beside her: my nightshirt had blown up against her, so it looked there was an Addy curled up next to her. So I was up on the road, alone, and down there was an Addy who had stayed by Mam to the end.

I touched my face and my cheeks were all wet, though it didn’t feel like I was crying, I wasn’t crying at all. Perhaps the other Addy got to cry at the end, perhaps Mam had let her, just the once.

The horse began walking without me telling her to and I let her have her head. I felt a little better for moving. The hills were warming into their browns and greens, and all the clouds were white against the blue sky. It was almost right, save for the aching inside me, save for how sore my throat was from holding everything in. It had all been wrong from the start, it had started wrong and ended worse. Behind me little Addy came up and nudged my elbow and I began laughing even though I was still crying, and I understood better how Mam must have felt all tumbled up inside. Maybe she had known it was wrong, only there was nothing for it but to see it through. A woman has to take a stand, but it was worthless if you weren’t standing for something right.

Behind me Joseph butted Rachel and she gave him a nip and little Addy wiggled onto the seat beside me, standing tall and proud. It reminded me of when we first came out here: we had passed by some folks camped by a river and they had been singing. The sun had lit up the water and the grass had been green as far as the eye could see and Da had said we’re gonna make this God’s garden, Addy, and the people had sung so prettily, nothing like my trembling voice now:

There let my way appear
Steps unto heaven
All that Thou sendest me
In mercy given
Angels to beckon me
Nearer, my God, to Thee
Nearer to Thee

I sang and little Addy bleated and I was sad but I was alive, I was alive, the fist loosening and my heart aching. I was alive and I had to stay alive, for now I had promises to keep, and a grace I dared not squander.


Copyright 2017  L.S. Johnson

L.S. Johnson was born in New York and now lives in Northern California, where she feeds her cats by writing book indexes. Her stories have appeared in such venues as Strange HorizonsInterzoneLong Hidden, and Year’s Best Weird FictionVacui Magia: Stories, her first collection, won the 2nd Annual North Street Book Prize and is a finalist for the World Fantasy Award. Her gothic novella, Harkworth Hall, was published in August. To find out more, visit her website.



By Wendy N. Wagner

Download EPUB With Perfect Clarity Wendy N. Wagner  Download MOBI With Perfect Clarity Wendy N Wagner

Everything about Councillor Rand is moisturized to the point of buttery softness. He even smells rich. The thick scent of coconut oil, an imported luxury I have only smelled on kept women with downtown addresses, drifts across the counter and crawls up my nose.

“It’s a simple inter-department water transfer. Why are there so many forms for such a small request?” His smile is the smile of someone used to getting his way.

I try to smile back. “Every request must be approved by the Water Council. Especially within the city departments. Because clarity is purity.”

The slogan is written on the wall behind me. The Councilor’s blue eyes scroll over it. His smile shrinks.

“But Charice Fleming is simply taking an advisory position in a different building. It’s less than a quarter of a mile from Finance to Water, and both departments are even on the same water main. Why do we need to file paperwork?”

Charice Fleming. Can he mean the same Charice Fleming, the beautiful Charice who once worked underground with me? Charice Fleming who now works in Finance?

He makes an impatient sound.

But … Charice Fleming. I have to clear my throat. “The water main may be the same, but the extra wear on the building’s pipes must be noted. Also, careful paperwork helps us predict leaks and maintenance requests.” I pause. This is all textbook information. “You’re on the Water Board. Don’t you know all of this?”

Councilor Rand’s eyes grow hard. “As head of the Water Council, I know a great deal about the water of this city, certainly more than a glorified plumber like you. If you knew who you were dealing with, girl, you would try a little harder not to waste my time.”

But I do know who I am dealing with, and the fact that he’s here in the office—in person—makes me deeply nervous. A councilor like Rand sends his flunkies to handle these details unless he has reasons to keep these transactions to himself.

Why is Charice Fleming’s water a matter of secrecy? Why doesn’t he want this request made in writing? And why is a member of the Finance Department (Charice Fleming, my Charice Fleming) coming to serve an advisory position in the Water Department unless—well, we wouldn’t be the first department to be absorbed by Finance.

I have to get more information so we know how to handle this.

I put on my most obliging expression. “As soon as the paperwork is finalized, we’ll make this request our first priority.” And my work-calloused hand slides a ration request form across the counter.

His eyes narrow, just for a second. Less than a second. Then his face goes bland again. “Thank you, Water Keeper. I commend your attention to detail.” He takes the form off the counter.

Then he walks away, his back stiff. A cold finger, like a trickle of water from a faulty pipe, runs down my spine. There have been changes in the city lately, and now they seem headed my way.

At the end of my shift, I fill out my paperwork and then hurry to the staircase leading to Shaba’s basement office. I need to tell her about Councilor Rand and my suspicions about the Finance Department.

Beyond the boiler room and the storage areas, Shaba’s office is a hinge connecting the world of undercity to the one above. The door is open, the yellow glow of her desk lamp spilling out onto the concrete floor. I hesitate in the pool of light. There is a pipe running along this wall, and I can feel coolness radiating from its sides. The water within waits patiently for someone to need it. It is only a matter of time before someone—a Water Keeper moistening his mouth before beginning the next shift at the Request Office, a secretary dehydrated from running errands, or even Charice Fleming, taking her first sip of our department’s water—needs a drink. To be human is to need water.

A pen scratches on paper. Shaba’s voice is too soft to echo, but I can hear it softly, the one-sided track of a phone conversation. But if she didn’t want me to hear it, she would have closed the door. I slip between door and frame, hesitating, and she gestures me in.

The space is barely larger than a closet, every wall filled with maps and notices. A stack of record books slump on a filing cabinet beside her desk. Shaba waves at me and turns her attention back to the phone in her hand.

“Yes, Border Master. I’m working on it.”

Her low voice is a comforting rumble. I let my gaze wander back to the maps on the wall behind her. The very battered geopolitical map of New America with its brightly colored city-states has been mostly buried beneath more relevant surveys of our region; now that communications are so spotty, the other city-states might as well be on the moon. Our city, our region: that’s what we have to protect.

On the biggest map, the borders of our watershed are drawn in thick black ink; the wastelands beyond are patterned with dots. Here and there along the border, someone has used a pencil to draw in gray patches, like scabs dotting the surface of a body afflicted with a disease it cannot quite keep at bay. It is not easy to fight against the desert. No one knows that like a Water Keeper.

“At this stage, it is impossible to know the full extent of the loss. I have to do the math.” She pauses. “Border Master, I will contact you tomorrow. Believe me, I’ve got my best people on this.”

She hangs up the phone and lets out her breath. Then she takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes. There are dark circles beneath them and swollen pouches that make her round face froglike. I have never seen a frog, but as a child I loved reading about them in the library’s older books. Like me, they belonged in neither water or air.

Then Shaba settles the black glasses back on her face. “What takes you away from your pipes, Yalan?” She takes up her pen and makes notes on a piece of paper, but she is listening.

She knows me so well. When I first came to train with her, only a few years before she was appointed Executive Water Keeper, her quiet unnerved me. It took my ears time to become accustomed to the language of water, and then I realized how much she said by letting the pipes speak for her.

Even aboveground, listening is the secret of all communication. There is always more to a citizen’s request than its first murmur.

“Councilor Rand came to the office this afternoon, Shaba.”

She lays down her pen. “Did he make a request?”

“He did not file paperwork, but he made a request. Someone from the Ministry of Finance is taking an advisory position within the Water Department.”

“The Ministry of Finance.”

I have to clear my throat. “Charice Fleming. You may remember her from her time in Electric.”

She rolls the pen across the pad of paper on her desk and rolls it back again. The folds of her face become severe as she thinks—she is not a beautiful woman, no Charice Fleming. But beauty is two-edged blade, and the tools Shaba has used to carve her way through the ranks of Water Keepers are far more practical: intellect and insight and a deep understanding of humanity. To her, these things are spanners and screwdrivers. I wait without speaking. We are only in a basement, but I can hear water moving in a pipe someplace nearby.

“Do you know where Councilor Rand started out? Where he first served as an apprentice?”

I shake my head.

“He worked at the City Bank. Now that trade between cities is so difficult, the bank is a very small appendage of the Ministry of Finance, but once it was very prestigious work. Members of the former bank board oversee almost every department of the city. Even the Ministries of Defense and Justice have staff who once worked within the City Bank.”

“The Water Council must seem like an unimportant post to a man like that.”

“But Councilor Rand is a very ambitious man.” She picks up her pen and turns it over and over. I can not see her face as she watches its plastic case catch glints of the yellow light from her desk lamp. “He has not cut his ties with the Ministry of Finance.”

I can’t help but glance back at the map behind her. The gray patches marking the desert incursions are not the only afflictions notated on the city’s face. Red pushpins bristle at certain corners, corners where water poachers have broached water lines or been apprehended with illegal water stores. I have been to most of these sites. My duties undercity are not limited to mending pipe and reading meters.

Water poachers are not the only ones who see water as a source of revenue. I do not trust the Ministry of Finance.

“Water must be free.”

“It is a human right.” She sighs. “Charice Fleming. I remember her from Electric. She was very pretty, very popular with everyone who worked underground.”

I have a sudden memory of Charice, petite, blond, smiling, her cheekbones casting hollows in the dim light of undercity. “She spent a week shadowing me as part of her initial training. She was …” So smart. So charming. How quickly she’d learned the twists and turns of the undercity. Once she knew the main paths, the routes Electric needed her to learn, she’d turned her dimples on me until I’d finally shown her the deeper, darker ways that only Water Keepers use. Only with her at my side, those paths had seemed as bright as the sunniest day aboveground. I’d never laughed so much in my life as I had down there with Charice.

I catch the tilt of Shaba’s eyebrow. “A friend,” I finish. “She was a friend.”

She nods. Of course she knows this already. Shaba knows everything. Whether it is information about undercity or aboveground, if it affects the flow of water, she makes a point of knowing it.

“When Electric was transferred from the Resource Ministry to the Ministry of Finance, I was surprised she was sent to work above.” I hesitate, not wanting to bring my personal affairs into the matters of water. “I haven’t seen her since Electric was disbanded.”

“Disbanded.” Shaba’s voice is strangely dry. “That’s what they call it when an entire department that once provided for our citizens is ripped apart and swallowed by an organization that counts pennies. Pennies, Yalan. What is a penny compared to the ability to turn on a light switch or keep your food cold?”

I open my mouth to answer, but see it’s a rhetorical question. She isn’t done.

“Do you know how much the average household spends on electricity now? How much do you yourself pay for basic service?”

“I live in the Water Keepers barracks, Shaba. You know that.”

“But for how much longer?”

I try to fill my mind with my duties and my belief in Shaba, but Councilor Rand’s cold eyes stay with me, and somehow I find myself aboveground. One moment, I’m patching a hairline crack on an old pipe and the next I’m climbing up through the network of drains beneath the downtown highrises.

When I emerge, no one says anything, not even the concierge in her red velveteen jacket and matching pillbox cap. My gray coveralls and dirty hands mark me as a Water Keeper, as invisible as floor tiles. I walk right out the “Residents Only” sign at the main door and then stand for a moment, blinking at the sun. I wonder if Rand lives nearby.

A woman shouts after a passing pedicab, running past me to wave down the cab. She blocks my way, and I can’t stop staring. Her long blond hair catches the breeze and floats in it, momentarily gilding the air all around her.

I don’t need to see her face to know her.

Charice Fleming.

She doesn’t notice me. She sees only the pedicab trudging past. Her lips have compressed into a tight line that makes her whole face look hard. I remember the soft smile she always had for me when we shared lunch in the big break room below the Pipes Office. Where has it gone?

I step forward, my mouth opening to speak, but Charice’s eyes run over my gray shape like they would a piece of concrete, a lump of dirt, a rock. Something inside me tightens like a vise grip closing on a broken pipe.

She’s so close I can smell coconut oil and shoe polish. Her high heels are new. They gleam like her hair.


We both turn. A man waves from a pedicab whose driver is trotting toward us. I can see sweat trickling down the driver’s cheeks, and her shirt front is soaked. She has been running hard a long way. But tired or not, she swings her cab up to the curb precisely beside Charice Fleming.

Counselor Rand leans out to of the cab offer her a hand up. “I’m glad I caught you. I thought we could have lunch before our meeting with the Council.”

He doesn’t notice me at all.

Charice slips inside the pedicab and kisses him. “Lunch would be great. Henri’s?”

“Bien sûr.” Rand raps the pedicab’s frame. “Driver, Henri’s and make good time!”

The driver’s eyes meet mine. She gives a little head shake—what can you do?—and takes a long, deep breath. Then she’s off.

I make my way underground slowly, thinking about that pedicab driver and the long hours she spends walking the hot, dry streets. People like Councilor Rand have probably never thought about how much strength it takes to pull a pedicab all day or how sore the driver’s feet must get or how good it must feel to rub her skin with a cool washcloth after dragging rich people around the city.

When a pipe beneath New American Street ruptures, I beat the other Water Keepers to the call. It takes me far too long to close the decrepit valve, and water pours over me as I work. I feel a twinge for the wasted liters, but as I crouch frog-like in the cleansing flood, I do not think about Charice Fleming or the Ministry of Finance or soft, soft Councilor Rand, and it is bliss.

Three days later, I am reading in my room and the alarm bell rings. Not the bright chiming of a break or a flood, but the ugly clang of the Keeping bell. Someone is adding another red spot to Shaba’s map. I pull my thick denim jacket on over my coveralls and grab my biggest pipe wrench. The first time I ever hoisted it on a poaching mission, my hands trembled and my stomach churned. But after so many years, there is only calm, or perhaps an eagerness to see the work carried through.

Outside my room, the Pipe Master, Grandla, waits unsmiling. In the cold fluorescent lights, her silver hair sparkles against the deep brown of her skin. Her jacket, like mine, is peppered and splotched with dark stains, the kind that never wash out. She’s brought a pry bar, her favorite tool on these missions. But I like the weight of the pipe wrench. The symbolism.

We run out of the barracks. Our boots thud on the concrete floor, the steps growing louder as the rest of the Keepers fall in behind us. Each of us is one drop of strength, but together we are a troop, a river, a flood of righteousness no poacher has ever been able to withstand.

We turn into the tunnel that runs under the westernmost edge of the city. Beyond this, there is only desert. We alone stand between the city and that fate with our toolboxes and our ration tokens and our strong arms. Only us, the Water Keepers.

I see the woman kneeling beneath a pipe only a Water Keeper should touch, a dozen or more jugs at her feet. The blood of the city spills out onto the dusty ground.

A roar bursts from my mouth and resounds from the throats of my fighters. We are upon her in seconds. My pipe wrench weighs nothing in my hand.

Afterward, no one meets anyone else’s eyes. Someone rolls up the remains in a piece of oilcloth and drags it away. The others drift away, one by one or in pairs, leaving Grandla and I. All that is left of the poacher is a dark spot little different from the damp place beneath the newly repaired pipe.

I help Grandla gather up the poacher’s jugs. There’s something pink stuck to Grandla’s cheek, moist and fatty-looking. I brush it off and wipe my fingers on a dry patch of my jacket.

Her lips tighten. “It’s for the city, you know. What we do.”

“We keep the water. It’s what we do.”

She swipes her cheek with the back of her hand, then reaches for one of the filled water jugs. “We’d better get this back to the reservoir.”

The containers slosh and glug as we walk the long, dark path to the reservoir. We don’t speak again until we reach the barred doors of the reservoir entrance. Only Shaba has the keys, and she will join us soon: It’s a long walk from the Water Building’s basement to this corner of the city.

I have been on many Water Keeping missions, and Grandla was already a veteran when she and Shaba took me on my first, but no matter how many times you go out to protect the water, it never gets easy. I try not to remember the details of the woman’s pinched, pale face, the o of her mouth huge and dark when she saw us coming. There is always the chance I might remember her from the Request Counter, asking for a repair or an extra ration of water.

“Where’s Shaba?” Grandla drops the jugs on the ground. “She should be here by now.”

The water jugs give one last slosh as I set them down beside hers. I no longer carry anything, but I feel heavy. There is a rock in the pit of my stomach that weighs more than any water jug. Shaba has never taken this long to come to the reservoir.

“Where is Shaba?” Grandla asks again, and her voice echoes against the steel doors of the reservoir, the cold walls of the tunnel.

The investigators say it was an accident. That Shaba slipped on a wet stair hurrying from her office. No one will be punished, no blame assigned beyond the incrimination of a “wet stair.” As if any pipe could go unmonitored long enough to make a spot wet enough to slip upon. No Water Keeper would allow water to be wasted like that.

So Grandla and I have gone to the site. The pipe has been repaired, but Grandla points out the chipped paint, half-hidden in the curve between the pipe and the wall: the shape of a small wedge, cunningly applied. It had made a small crack, barely noticeable, and just large enough to wet the stair in the hour or two after the last Keeper’s round.

Someone clever must have made that crack, someone who knew Shaba would need to run down the little-used staircase connecting the Water Offices to the passage leading to the reservoir.

Grandla and I stand here studying the tiny mark in the porcelain. It is hard to make it out in the faint light. Light from the bulb at the top of the stairs barely reaches this point, and neither does light from the landing below. This particular step is the darkest point of the entire stairwell. Someone knew that.

Grandla reaches out to trace that terrible little mark. “Whoever did this knew the undercity.”

I can not bring myself to respond. All the moisture has gone out of my mouth, and my tongue, dry, clings to my hard palate. It takes years to know the undercity the way whoever had chosen this spot must know the underground.

“Who could do such a thing?” Grandla asked.

I can think of one person, but I refuse to imagine her doing it.

The bell on the counter rings. It’s been two days, but I can’t stop thinking about Shaba and what happened to her. Between patrons at the request counter, I have to lean against the wall and push down the feelings welling up inside.

The bell rings again. I force a deep breath, turn around, and fix my eyes on the plaque on the wall. I draw strength from the words: Clarity is purity.

I drop my eyes to the requestor. “How can I be of service?”

Councilor Rand smiles. Not a grudging smile, but a positive beam of happiness. He lays a sheet of paper on the counter and gives it a firm tap. “Just turning in my request.”

“Request?” My head spins. My stomach turns along with it.

His smile broadens. The tips of his canine teeth are unusually pointed. I hadn’t noticed that about him before. “It’s a personal request. I’m adding someone to my household.”

I pull the form toward me. It looks complete, with all the addresses and names in the right places. I touch a box and look up at him, sick inside. “Charice Fleming?”

“The plumber can read,” he sneered. “But can she also file? You’ll find my paperwork is quite in order.”

I can’t look at his face any longer. I glance over the forms, whose every box is checked and every line correct. “The Water Council meets to grant approvals tomorrow,” I manage to say.

“I think we should manage to address a few requests, despite our busy agenda. It’s a great weight on the Board, of course, Shaba’s loss. But we’ve got to look to the department’s future.”

The Council will vote for Shaba’s replacement tomorrow, then. I had wondered how long it would take them.

“Thank you, Councilor,” I say. He has turned away already. He doesn’t bother to reply.

The form looks up at me with its pale, flat face. Charice’s name stands out against the other words. I blink back a second wave of tears. I had spent so much time showing her around the undercity, carrying her tool box, sharing my lunches when she forgot. Had she been using me that whole time? Was that the only reason she put her hand on my knee and looked up at me with those beautifully sparkling eyes?

I throw open the filing cabinet and find the Fleming file. Five, ten, a dozen overages. Three ration token request forms, asking for extra water for visiting friends. So many friends using so much water. She’d clearly been just as popular aboveground as below.

I can’t breathe. I am so angry I slam shut the cabinet. If Shaba were here, she’d tell me to set Charice aside. She’d remind me that what mattered was Water Law and its clarity. That nothing mattered more than keeping the water.

Even thinking of Shaba’s wisdom doesn’t help. My stomach tightens around itself like fingers around the handle of a pipe wrench. Still, I file the request form in the appropriate basket. Procedure must be followed.

Water must be free.

The door to Shaba’s office is unlocked, but it takes me several long minutes to find the switch for the lamp on her desk. I have never seen this room dark before. Even before she’d been named Executive Water Keeper, Shaba could be found in here, reading old paperwork by the light of the battered desk lamp. Her predecessor had encouraged it, perhaps even depended upon it. Most everyone undercity had depended on her for something.

For the first time, I walk around to the desk chair and sit down. The cushion has flattened out in the center from years of her bulk pressing into it. I never thought about that, not in all the time watching her take a seat on that dusty thing. Why hadn’t I ever gotten her a replacement?

I cover my mouth with both hands. Pain rises up my throat like the tears that fill my eyes, a flood of pain, a torrent of longing. I blink it back. I don’t deserve to open that tap.

“I thought I’d find you here.” Grandla leans against the doorframe. Her brown face has grown ashy and dark patches float beneath her eyes. If Shaba’s death has been bad for me, it must have been many times worse for Grandla. They trained as Keepers together. They spent years living in the same hallway of the barracks, sharing meals in the mess hall and shifts in the office. Even Shaba’s promotion had failed to separate them.

“The council plans to vote on Shaba’s replacement tomorrow.”

Grandla follows the golden light to the desk and sits in the stiff wooden chair Shaba kept for visitors. “I know.” She closes her eyes for a moment. “A friend from Sanitation heard something today. The Ministry of Finance announced its intention to absorb the Water Department into its administration.”

I slap my hands against the desk top. “How? How can they do it? It goes against the city’s constitution.”

“They claim the city’s water is an asset, and that they are obligated to manage all such assets. They maintain the Water Department has reduced the value of water to absolute zero.”

“But water must be free. It’s a human right.”

She swallows. “There’s more.”

The beds of my nails go white as I press down against the worn wood of Shaba’s desk. “Of course there’s more.”

“Councilor Rand has already named a candidate for Executive Water Keeper.”

“Charice Fleming.”

Grandla nods. “She will support Finance’s decision.”

Shaba’s pen lays on the desktop. I squeeze the pen in my fingers. Its ancient plastic cap is prickly, the plastic surface smashed and battered by Shaba’s constant process of thought. I wish I could think half as clearly as Shaba did.

“Charice Fleming killed Shaba.” My eyes are dry and hot. “No one from Water would have done it. And Charice knew the undercity as well as any of us.”

“That’s the same conclusion I came to,” Grandla whispers. “And I hate it.”

“I hate her, Grandla. She knew us. She knew the undercity. How could she do this to us?”

“Even disbanded, water will still need plumbers.” Grandla attempts a smile, but it only makes her face look sicker than before. “At least Charice will keep us on for that work.”

I get to my feet. “We’re not plumbers, Grandla. We’re Water Keepers.”

Grandla stares up at me. “What are you thinking, Yalan? What are you going to do?”

I don’t answer her, but I give her shoulder a squeeze. The golden light of Shaba’s desk lamp pools around her small figure, and her shadow stretches long across the floor. My shadow stretches still farther, a long dark stain against the concrete.

I walk through the undercity in the dark. I don’t need my hand torch or a map. The water guides me, even though its murmur is quieter than I’ve ever heard it. I know that the city’s heartbeat slows in the later hours, but I never realized how quiet everything becomes. The pad of my bare feet against the concrete is the loudest sound in my ears.

At the end of the tunnel, I climb the ladder mounted on the wall. It follows the slender pipe running into a basement, and there’s an entry hatch beside it that allows a worker to check the overflow drain. Most people pay little attention to their basements, and Councilor Rand is no more observant than any other person.

The drain is narrow, but I am used to compact spaces. I slip my toolbox inside ahead of me and squeeze through the little hole in the floor. The basement smells musty and stale, like laundry long forgotten. My nose crinkles.

I leave the tool box, but I take what tools I need and put them in the pockets of my denim jacket. The pipe wrench, I pull tight against my body as I make my way upstairs. I do not dare risk it bumping anything and making noise. Like the pipes below me, I will be quiet.

It only takes me a few minutes to find my way to the bedroom, its big bed nearly as large as my entire room in the Keepers Barracks. Two shapes lay still in the center of the bed, two faces show in the faint light coming in through the window.

Tonight the councilor’s face is slack, his mouth open, his long eyelashes a fringe of darkness across his closed eyes. He hardly looks like himself.

Charice Fleming is curled around him like a spoon. Even though it’s night, I can still see the traces of her makeup, a little smudge beneath her eyes, a glimmer of glitter across her cheekbone. I can remember our one kiss, tender and a little sad as she said goodbye and walked out of the undercity.

If I walk out of this room, then at this time tomorrow, this woman will be my new boss. She will take over Shaba’s office and move all of it—the maps, the files, the ugly lamp—up into the bright dry world that is hers. I close my eyes for a second, imagining what would come next. How long would it take Finance to get rid of the ration credits and start issuing bills, just as they did with Electric? How long would it take for people to start missing their payments and then losing their water? I know ways for people to live without electricity, but water cannot be done without.

That’s why I am here, for those who would lose their water. Not for Shaba, who had been killed for this woman to secure the Water Department, and not for Grandla and the other Water Keepers. Not for me or the pain that still presses against the back of my eyes when I think about Shaba or the time I spent with the traitor who killed her.

I am here to safekeep the water.

I raise the pipe wrench. Charice stirs a little in her sleep, and my heart gives a squeeze, the same squeeze it gave every time I saw her when we worked down below. She is so beautiful. I can’t believe she left me for this man and the world aboveground.

The pipe wrench has never felt so light in my hand. I have to remind myself: This is for the water.

The screams begin as red spots dapple the wall like the pushpins in Shaba’s map. They don’t last long. I’ve been trained to do this quickly.

For the water. Of course.


Copyright 2017 Wendy N. Wagner

Wendy N. Wagner is a full-time nerd. She is the managing/associate editor Lightspeed and Nightmare magazines, and has published more than forty short stories about heroes, monsters, and other wacky stuff. Her third novel, a sci-fi thriller called An Oath of Dogs, was recently released by Angry Robot Books. She lives with her very understanding family in Portland, Oregon, and you can keep up with her exploits at

by Ian McHugh


Part One: To The End of the Earth

“Which way did my mother go?” Rhy-lee asked her father one day.

“North,” he said, and pointed without looking. Young as she was, she could see the small collapse that happened inside him when he heard the question, knowing that one day she, too, would leave him. ‘Distant heart’, her name meant. Her grandmother and aunts made sure that Rhy-lee and her father could hear when they said that her name was well chosen.

Rhy-lee loved her father. But even so, in her quiet moments, she took to climbing the ridge above the village, where she would sit with the warm red-and-white brush of her tail curled around her legs and just the inquisitive tip of her nose sticking out from the hood of her parka. She would look out from the top of the steep north face of the downs, over the forest and the bare plain beyond, all the way to the horizon.

Rhy-lee watched the plain change its colours, season by season, white to green to yellow to brown and back to white again. She wondered what her mother, that mysterious woman, had found out there, and whether she was wandering still.  Her mother’s name, Tiere-lene, meant ‘never turn’.

As she grew older, Rhy-lee began to set out on treks of her own. Some curiosity would catch her – a circling hawk, a distant crag that she had never climbed – or she would be taken by the simple urge to walk, and she would be off. For single days, at first, then for one night, then two. She knew her father fretted while she was gone, and that her grandmother and aunts would mutter among themselves where he could hear. But her wandering heart would not be stilled.

She tried to resist it, for a time, and become so miserable and ill that her father chased her out the door. When she returned, tired, filthy and elated by the things she had discovered, her father chucked her under the chin and said, “Come, tell me your stories by the fire.”

Once, she was away for three nights and returned with a bloody gash on her forehead that would certainly scar. In her hands, she carried a pair of antlers. She had been to the forest, she said, where she had been startled by a stag who accused her of coming to hunt his harem. She had tried to retreat but the stag had blood in his eye and insisted on a fight. She showed her father her knife, broken just above the hilt. The antlers she offered him as a gift, but when she saw his sick look and the tears in his eyes, she dropped them to the ground and hugged him fiercely.

“Soon, now,” said one of her aunts, where Rhy-lee and her father could hear, and the others nodded in sage agreement.

“Well enough that it happens before she marries and has a man and children to leave behind,” said her grandmother.

So they were dismayed when a young man of the village named Culm-mane, a homebody like her father, offered her his shawl and she accepted.

Her father refused any dowry. “You know what she is,” he said. He addressed himself to Culm-mane, but his eyes were on Rhy-lee. “She has her mother’s heart. Make best of the time you have with her, and live for what children she gives you.”

Rhy-lee and Culm-mane were married and, in due course, Rhy-lee gave birth to twin sons. Yfan-wyn and Aoin-rhys they were named, when they reached their second year – ‘secret path’ and ‘safe haven’ and, like Rhy-lee, their names reflected their natures. Yfan-wyn was an explorer from the moment he could wriggle out of his bassinet and squirm across the floor. Aoin-rhys was his father’s son and would watch from the bassinet, his nose tucked under the fluffy tip of his tail, while his brother went about his business.

Rhy-lee loved her husband and adored her sons. But still, she obeyed her wandering heart. Every so often, once her boys were weened, she would give it release for one night, or two, or three. But she always came back. She would touch her nose to Culm-mane’s and pick up her two boys and it was enough.

As he grew older, she began to take Yfan-wyn with her. He would come back, his eyes as bright as his mother’s, and regale his grandfather and father and brother with his adventures. Aoin-rhys preferred to stay at home with his father or, when Culm-mane was out tending the village flocks, with his grandfather.

And then Culm-mane was killed. He was out searching one night for a missing ewe and her lambs and found the animals being butchered by a company of wolves, one lamb already spitted over the fire. The wolves caught Culm-mane and tossed him over a cliff.

“Wolves,” Rhy-lee snarled. For a week, she stayed home and grieved with her boys. Then she went out. She took her bow and iron traps and hunting spear. She was gone for six nights.

When she returned, she had three wolf tails hanging from her belt. She would not speak to her sons of what she had done, just touched her nose to each of theirs and held them and, later, sang them to sleep with a cracked and weary voice. Afterward, sitting with her beside the fire, her father chucked her under the chin, which he hadn’t done since she was a child, and looked at her with serious eyes.

He held her while she wept. He did not comment – and growled at Rhy-lee’s grandmother and aunts for their comments – when Rhy-lee tanned the three wolf tails and sewed them onto her parka.

After that, Rhy-lee returned to sitting at the top of the ridge, gazing north. Yfan-wyn would sit with her, the two of them silent side-by-side, tucked up in their parkas and with their tails around their knees. And the urge grew in Rhy-lee – long delayed – to go, to walk and not stop and fill herself up with the world.

Aoin-rhys stayed home and sat on his grandfather’s lap by the fire. “Mother will leave soon, won’t she, Grandfather?” he said, one day. “And Yfan-wyn will want to go with her.”

“Yes,” said his grandfather.

“And I will stay here with you.”

His grandfather smiled with tears in his eyes. “I would like that.”

So, when the day came that Rhy-lee had to go, her father said to her, “Take Yfan-wyn. Aoin-rhys will stay with me.”

Rhy-lee started to shake her head. “It is dangerous, out in the world.”

“Then better if he wanders with you than being left to wander on his own,” said her father.

Rhy-lee recalled the nights she had lain awake as a child, camped out in the open and staring at the sky, trying to find some memory of her mother, wondering why she couldn’t have waited, just a little while, and taken Rhy-lee with her. She looked from one son to the other. Aoin-rhys hugged her hard, then Yfan-wyn took her hand.

When they were packed, Rhy-lee’s father chased her aunts and grandmother back into their houses, then he and Aoin-rhys accompanied her and Yfan-wyn to the top of the ridge.

“Thank you,” Rhy-lee said to her father, touching her nose to his.

He chucked her under the chin. “Come back one day,” he said.

Then Aoin-rhys and his grandfather watched while Rhy-lee and Yfan-wyn picked their way down the steep north face, stayed until they had splashed across the river and disappeared beneath the eaves of the forest.

And then they went home.

Yfan-wyn stuck close beside his mother as they went deeper into the forest. He was not so frightened, yet, but she had never before taken him beyond its fringes and he knew the story of the antlers above the mantel in his grandfather’s house.

Rhy-lee chose a path where the locked branches of the trees were most dense and so the undergrowth the sparsest. The leaves on the trees were brown and brittle. Many had fallen already, breaking up the canopy with patches of light. Underfoot, the moss that coated the rocks and the exposed roots of the trees was brown, too, and powder-dry.

At a creek crossing under open sky, pushing through thick bracken, they came face-to-face with a doe and her fawn. For an instant all of them froze. The doe and fawn looked at them with enormous, frightened eyes. Rhy-lee raised her hands, showing her empty palms. She caught Yfan-wyn’s arm and led him into the creek to splash across.

Yfan-wyn stumbled, staring at the deer, and Rhy-lee had to drag him upright. He took in the deer’s narrow faces and frail-looking arms with their short, black-hoofed fingers, the barrels of their bodies poised on spindle legs, tensed to spring and flee on all fours. He couldn’t make them fit with the frightening tale of the stag his mother had fought in her youth.

Then they were out of the creek again and the deer were lost behind the bracken screen.

At night they rested in the high boughs of a tree, where wolves couldn’t reach.

“The stalking cats won’t trouble us,” Rhy-lee said. Those beasts would take a deer, but avoided people who were eaters of meat.

“It feels strange to not be going home,” said Yfan-wyn, not quite willing to voice his fear.

“Yes,” Rhy-lee agreed. “It does.”

“It feels good,” he said, because it felt like that, too.

He saw the flash of her teeth and eyes. “Yes.”

He was quiet a moment, reassured by her smile. Then the magnitude of what they were about welled up again, so much greater than any of their past wanderings together. “How far do you think we will go?”

His mother looked past him, as though seeing past the trees and over the horizon. “Who knows?”

“I miss Grandfather and Aoin-rhys,” he said, softly.

“Yes. Me too.”

“I miss Father.”

“Yes.” The word was a rasp of air, with barely any sound.

Yfan-wyn hesitated, then confessed an idea that he had been nurturing since before his father died. “Perhaps we could find the end of the earth, so we can go back and tell them.”

She reached across to chuck him under the chin. “I think they would like that.”

When they came, at last, to the far side of the forest, Rhy-lee stopped and looked out over the vast brown plain, speckled with the first dusting of snow. She felt Yfan-wyn slip his hand into hers.

“It is a long way to the end of the earth,” he said.

“Yes. It is.”

Rhy-lee took in the distance to the horizon and filled her lungs. She felt bigger somehow, as though life in the village had kept her small, and now at last, out here, she had the room to grow.

They walked throughout the day. When Yfan-wyn began to lag, Rhy-lee slung her pack around to her front and carried him on her back. They shot hares for their dinner, and Yfan-wyn was very pleased to have shot his own, cleanly and on the first attempt. The animals’ fur was speckled white, their winter coats already growing through. Rhy-lee and Yfan-wyn camped in a little hollow that would hide the light of their fire from curious eyes.

In the morning, they awoke to find snow falling thickly. There was a rumble in the earth beneath them. They sat up and saw bison streaming past, a vast herd of them, jostling and lowing in their simple tongue, more than beasts but not-quite people. The steam of their breaths hung in a cloud over the creatures’ backs.

Another movement caught Rhy-lee’s eye. She gasped and grabbed at Yfan-wyn, but it was too late to duck out of sight. Stooping grey figures loped towards them – three in a staggered line, their lean bodies clad in rough furs, heavy hunting spears dangling from bony paws and round shields slung across their backs. Their yellow eyes were fixed on the bison herd. The closest wolf almost stepped on Rhy-lee and Yfan-wyn before it glanced down. Its eyes met Rhy-lee’s, the flat gaze of a predator, with no recognition of one person to another.

And then the wolf was leaping over their little hollow, accelerating.

A surge went through the herd, and the bison were running. The wolves yipped and whooped. A bison bawled in pain, crying out for help. Wolves closed in from all sides.

Rhy-lee clutched at Yfan-wyn’s parka. Her heart rattled. She lifted him, pushing. “Move,” she said. “Move!”

Quickly, they gathered up their packs and weapons.

“Don’t run,” said Rhy-lee, but she hurried him, nonetheless.

She didn’t let Yfan-wyn slow until the wolf pack and their kill were far behind, long lost in the veil of falling snow. They forded a river where it sprawled over shallow beds of rounded stones. Yfan-wyn slipped over and had to be pulled up spluttering from the water. On the far bank, Rhy-lee scooped out a hollow in the settling snow, and made a low mound of the stuff for a windbreak. Yfan-wyn sat and shivered while she lit a fire, his teeth chattering so hard Rhy-lee could hear them over the sound of the river. He stayed there, huddled in his parka and sheepskin blanket, with only his sodden tail visible, drying in the heat, while Rhy-lee went back to the ford with her spear and fished.

The land around the river was so flat that it seemed the banks hardly rose from the water at all. The horizon was lost from view, and the grey-white land and the grey-white river and the grey-white sky all blended together.

Rhy-lee stayed awake after darkness fell. During the night the snow stopped and the clouds rolled aside. She watched the stars wheel overhead. A few hours before dawn, she awoke Yfan-wyn to take his turn.

He yawned himself alert while she rolled up in her blankets and went to sleep. Yfan-wyn pushed back his hood, hoping that the cold around his head would keep him awake, and the better to listen. His ears twitched, searching for any sound over the chuckle of the river as it played with its stones. The land about was still.

In the morning, there was a blue sky and ice floes on the river. On the horizon to the north, they saw that the land rose and cracked.

Yfan-wyn took a turn at fishing, this time. There was a curious restfulness in it, standing tense beside his mother with the icy water rippling against their shins, spears poised to strike the instant any silver shape darted away from their shadows. His feet were numb with cold. All he could feel was a dull sensation of the rounded pebbles underneath.

Sitting down for a hot breakfast, he spoke the thought that had been turning in his head since the previous morning. “Mother, how did you kill three wolves?”

Rhy-lee didn’t answer immediately, but sat and looked out to the horizon. At length, she said, “Let us not waste a good day.”

When they reached the cracked upland, late in the morning, and climbed its slope, they saw that they would not be able to make their way along the top. It was so broken apart by the criss-cross of cracks and ravines that there was no way across.

“Through the ravines, then,” said Rhy-lee. Before they descended, she looked back over the plain. There was a herd moving along the river in the distance, of bison or caribou, dark against the snow. Closer at hand, white herons waded in the shallow water, fishing with their beaks. She saw no other movement.

It was slow going through the ravines and tiring. Sometimes, when they seemed to be turning too far from their course or came to a dead end, they scrambled up the crumbled, heath-covered sides and along the top to a crack that better met their needs. Occasionally, one or other of them had to climb up just to get their bearings, then back down into the deepening shadows below. At nightfall, they camped on a stub of ridge top that was sheer on three sides. Rhy-lee took first watch with an arrow nocked loosely to her bow.

Yfan-wyn was woken by grey pre-dawn light. His mother still sat watch. She looked at him with red-rimmed eyes.

“What is it?” he asked.

“We have been followed,” she said.

Yfan-wyn felt a chill of fear. “By the wolves?”

“One wolf,” she said. “Alone and therefore sick or mad. Probably driven out by the pack we saw. It would have crossed our trail while it was still following them.”

“What will we do?”

“We shall have to kill it,” she answered. “Today. We will find a place to ambush it.” She reached over to squeeze his hand.

Yfan-wyn followed her through the ravines with his ears pointed backward, straining for any sound of steps behind. He looked back frequently, dreading what he might see. Whenever he turned his attention to the placement of his feet, the fur stood up along his spine. When, inevitably, he stumbled, Rhy-lee picked him up by his parka and set him in front of her.

“I will keep watch behind,” she said.

She called a halt not long afterwards. They were in an unusually long, straight stretch of ravine. “Here,” Rhy-lee said. She pointed up to the ridge top ahead, where the ravine bent to the right. A clump of snow-capped boulders perched on the rim. “I will hide there and shoot when it comes past here. You,” she said, turning to look up the scree beside them, “hide up there. Once you hear me shoot it, jump up and shoot it from behind if you can and I haven’t killed it cleanly.”

Yfan-wyn chewed anxiously at his lower lip, his tail curled up behind his legs. “I want to stay with you.”

She shook her head. “You’ll be safer this way. It might have a shield. If I don’t hit it cleanly and it comes at me, I don’t want you close.” She knelt in front of him and held his shoulders. “And if you’re behind it, you can shoot it if it charges me.”

He swallowed, then nodded, wide-eyed.

They went past the bend in the ravine to climb up, so that the wolf wouldn’t see where they had ascended. Rhy-lee lay her spear beside her feet and stood with her bow ready at the place she had chosen. She watched Yfan-wyn scamper along and throw himself flat where she had told him to hide. He looked so tiny, carrying his bow and cut-down spear. He was tiny, she thought.

She squatted down behind the boulders and stilled herself, bow across her knees. She listened.

For a time, she heard only the wind, humming softly along the cracks in the broken landscape. Then a clink, a scrape of grit over stone. A low cough, half caught words – the wolf, muttering to itself. Mad, she thought.

Then silence.

Rhy-lee strained her ears. Nothing.

There was a clatter of falling rocks, a loud growl, a scream from Yfan-wyn. Rhy-lee leapt to her feet, raising and drawing her bow in the same motion.

Yfan-wyn sprinted towards her along the ridge top, his weapons abandoned. The wolf bounded after, gaining quickly despite a lopsided gait. Rhy-lee glimpsed ragged clothes and patchy fur. It was armed with a stone-headed axe, but no shield or other weapons.

“Get down!” Rhy-lee cried.

Yfan-wyn was too panicked to hear. The wolf ducked lower. With a curse, Rhy-lee dropped her bow and grabbed her spear. She charged. Now Yfan-wyn threw himself down in the snow. Rhy-lee vaulted over him. The wolf snarled, showing rotted teeth. Its skin was covered in scaly growths where it was bald. One eye was grown shut and tears of pus streaked its cheek.

She ducked under a wild swing of the wolf’s axe and stabbed at its belly. The wolf batted the spear upwards with its free hand. Rhy-lee’s momentum sent her crashing into its legs. She pivoted, using its own weight to fling it to the ground.

Yfan-wyn scrambled to get clear. The wolf’s axe flailed and he squealed. Rhy-lee didn’t see where it struck him.

Rhy-lee stabbed at the wolf’s chest but it moved at the last instant and she missed its heart. The wolf mewled like a hurt child. Again Rhy-lee thrust the spear and again the wolf moved and cried out. Rhy-lee screamed in anguish and struck once more. This time she struck true.

The wolf gripped the shaft of the spear, holding its head and shoulders clear of the snow. Its tongue flickered between its teeth. Its last breath rattled out in a fitful cloud of vapour. The wolf spat blood.

Its head fell back and it lay still.

Rhy-lee sank slowly down onto her haunches. The aftermath of the struggle, with her blood still hot, made her shake.

She wiped her face and looked up. Yfan-wyn sat a short distance away, regarding her with unblinking eyes. Blood seeped between his fingers, clamped around his calf, and speckled the snow beside his foot. His lips were pale, peeled back from his teeth.


She rushed over to him, hugged him, gently pulled aside his hands to see the wound. The axe had caught him above the top of his sheepskin boot. She pulled up his trouser leg to reveal a gash just below his knee. The sparse fur of his leg was matted with blood.

Rhy-lee made herself take a slower breath. “Let’s wash it and see how deep it is,” she said.

She hurried over to her pack for her water bottle and medicine kit. Kneeling again beside Yfan-wyn, she carefully slid off his boot, then splashed water over the cut. She peered anxiously into it. The gash was wide, but not deep.

“It’ll bruise around the joint,” she said. “You won’t be able to bend it or stand on it tomorrow.”

Yfan-wyn didn’t respond. His gaze was fixed on the dead wolf. It was good for him to know what killing was like, she told herself, the awfulness of it. But still, his shock was distressing. Rhy-lee tried not to think about how badly things had almost gone.

“This will hurt.” She unrolled a parcel of lime from inside the medicine kit and pressed a handful onto the wound. Yfan-wyn gasped. Rhy-lee quickly rinsed her hand, then bandaged his shin.

“The body will draw attention,” she said. “We need to be away.”

Yfan-wyn got himself back down into the ravine, then Rhy-lee carried him as far as she was able. They camped early and watched the crows descend in the distance. Their gathering would be visible for miles around.

“We can go home, back to Grandfather and Aoin-rhys, if you wish,” she said.

Yfan-wyn shook his head. “We haven’t found the end of the earth yet.”

Rhy-lee found a laugh in that, just a breath. She sobered. “I was afraid, when I saw the wolf chasing you.”

“Do you want to go home, Mother?” he asked.

Part of her did, the small part that feared the cost of her wandering, feared losing Yfan-wyn, never seeing her father or Aoin-rhys again. The greater part of her answered. “No.” Hearing herself say it made her more certain. “No. We will find the end.”

She let Yfan-wyn take his turn at watch, once he had rested, and fell into an exhausted sleep.

As Rhy-lee had predicted, Yfan-wyn’s leg had stiffened and swollen by morning and would not take his weight. Again, she carried him. She was thankful when, before noon, they reached the end of the cracked country and climbed up to find themselves on a plateau. This land was not so flat as the river floodplain they had left behind, but contoured instead with hummocks and hollows and low folded ridges, dotted with boulders large and small, left behind by the ice of ages past. Low heath bushes grew wherever the landscape offered the tiniest shelter.

The snow was deeper on the open ground, though, and soft with a new fall overnight. Rhy-lee was unable to carry Yfan-wyn far.

She found a cleft at the bottom of a ridge, partly hidden by a screen of heath and deep enough to shelter them from the wind and any casual gaze. “We’ll rest,” she said, “and see how your leg is tomorrow.”

“I can walk,” said Yfan-wyn – and indeed he could put his weight on it and hobble about.

Rhy-lee chucked him under the chin and said, “You will walk better tomorrow or the next day. There will be rabbits hereabouts, probably not all hibernating yet. I’ll set some snares.”

Once that was done, she opened the dressing on Yfan-wyn’s leg and checked the wound, then they took turns to nap through the afternoon. In the evening, she went out to check her snares and came back with a pair of rabbits, which she gutted and skinned. Yfan-wyn had set a fire, but Rhy-lee waited until full dark before lighting it. They sat close to watch the rabbits char, their noses dry in the heat of the flames and the fur of their tails hot to the touch, wrapped around their feet.

A soft sound, a clink of two hollow things bumping, made Rhy-lee’s ears twitch. She listened. When it came again she reached for her spear.

A massive silhouette rose up above the edge of the cleft. Rhy-lee froze. Bear.

A gust of wind brought its scent down to them, a pungent aroma of maleness and carnivore. Yfan-wyn gasped, only now noticing the arrival. Rhy-lee put her hand on his forearm to hold him still.

The bear stepped into the light. Rhy-lee’s gaze travelled up from his black claws, hanging over the edge of the cleft, each one as long as her hand. The bear’s limbs and torso were covered in a pelt of yellow-white fur that her spear and arrows would probably not even penetrate. He wore an apron made of the long bones of old prey and vanquished enemies, bound together with leather thong and decorated with feathers, claws and teeth. A girdle of wolf scalps bound the apron at his waist. He leaned on an iron-headed spear that Rhy-lee and Yfan-wyn would have struggled to even lift between them. Black eyes peered down at them from a startlingly narrow head.

Slowly, Rhy-lee stood. She picked up the spitted rabbits and held one up to the bear. She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Please, won’t you share our meal?”

Blood pounded in her ears. She waited for the bear’s response. Then he made a rumble deep in his throat – an approving sound, Rhy-lee thought – and stepped carefully down into the cleft. Just as carefully, he lowered himself to his haunches. The rattle of his bone apron put Rhy-lee’s hackles up. Their little fire looked tiny between his enormous feet, a spark. This close, he seemed to block out the stars.

He reached out and took the rabbit, so delicately that Rhy-lee barely felt the brush of fingers large enough to crush her head. “Thank you,” he said. The deep growl of his voice put her in mind of waterfalls in the canyons of the highlands.

Rhy-lee resumed her seat. She offered the remaining rabbit to Yfan-wyn. He didn’t move. The whites were visible around his eyes, his fur standing up all over. She took the rabbit off the spit and snapped its spine, then lifted Yfan-wyn’s hand and closed his fingers around the hind portion. He blinked, looking down in surprise.

The bear observed in silence. His rabbit dangled, untouched, from his finger and thumb, his acceptance of their hospitality not yet consummated. It was a morsel for him, barely a mouthful.

“You are far from home, little foxes,” he said.

“Yes,” said Rhy-lee.

“You have wandering hearts, as I have heard your people say. I have seen others such as you, over the years.” He lifted his chin to scratch his throat, seeming to be musing more to himself than them. “It is a curious affliction for a people who thrive when closed behind walls of stone.”

Thoughts of her mother boiled up. Rhy-lee wondered if this bear had ever met her. Might he have killed her, if he had? The bear noticed Rhy-lee’s reaction. She said, “My mother came this way, when I was a child.”

“And you seek her still.”

Rhy-lee shook her head at that, but inside, she could not be certain that it wasn’t true.

“I found your wolf,” said the bear. “That was well done. A mad wolf is a threat to young bears, who are wont to stray.”

Rhy-lee inclined her head but kept her eyes on him. The bear’s smell was overpowering. He examined his rabbit, but still did not eat.

“You have killed wolves before, I see,” he said.

“Wolves murdered my husband,” she replied.

“Ah.” He regarded her a moment, then added, “Yet you did not take the tail from this one.”

Rhy-lee said, “This was necessity. A mercy, even.”

“Rather than passion,” the bear said. He tipped his head to one side and his top lip curled up, a quizzical smile. His teeth were thicker than Rhy-lee’s fingers, and as long. “Mercy for wolves?” He harrumphed, then chuckled. As he dipped his head, she saw the scars that crisscrossed his muzzle and brow.

The bear sniffed, looking at Yfan-wyn. “Your son?”

Rhy-lee’s heart lurched. “Yes.”

The bear nodded slowly. “I have a son. He is grown, now, and left his mother.”

“I have two sons,” said Rhy-lee. “The other stayed home with his grandfather.”

“Ah,” said the bear, returning his gaze to her. “He has not your wandering heart.”

“No. Only Yfan-wyn.”

“‘Yfan-wyn’?” the bear repeated. He addressed Yfan-wyn again, “It is a good name. I am Inanakurekuri – ‘the death of all wolves’. Where does your secret path take you, little fox, if not in search of your lost grandmother?”

Yfan-wyn stared up at the gigantic being, his lips peeled back in terror. Rhy-lee answered for him, “Yfan-wyn wishes to see the end of the earth.”

“Aha!” The bear slapped his knee, making them both jump. He smiled broadly, a terrifying sight. “It is a fine ambition. A pilgrimage well worth the journey.”

Wonder made Yfan-wyn’s eyes even more huge. He forgot his fear long enough to gasp, “You have been there?”

He shrank back as Inanakurekuri’s gaze turned back to him. “I have.”

“Is it far?” asked Rhy-lee.

“Further than you have come, I expect. But not so very far,” Inanakurekuri said. He shrugged. “Further for little legs.”

Rhy-lee met his eyes in silence for a moment and felt no sense of threat. “I am Rhy-lee,” she said.

Inanakurekuri nodded. “Thank you, Rhy-lee of the wandering heart, for the hospitality of your fire.” He lifted his rabbit, peered at it briefly, then stuck the whole carcass in his mouth, holding it behind his teeth while he pulled out the skewer. He chewed three, four times, then swallowed. “I will rest.”

With that, he lay down his spear and shuffled around to lie with his back to them, filling half the cleft. Rhy-lee and Yfan-wyn sat still, listening to his deep, steady breathing. With excruciating slowness, Rhy-lee turned to Yfan-wyn. She carefully slipped the sheepskin blanket from his shoulders, then rolled it and placed it in his arms. Then she reached behind him and picked up his pack. She held the straps for him to slip his arms into and handed him his bow and spear. She picked up her own gear and, moving as silently as they could, they padded out of the cleft.

They hurried across the moonlit plateau, Yfan-wyn skip-hopping on his injured leg to keep up.

“Was he really asleep, Mother?” he asked.

“No,” said Rhy-lee. “No, he wasn’t.”

“Why did he pretend?”

“For his honour. Because he had decided not to kill us.”

They saw bears twice more over the following days, but only at a great distance. Each time, they slunk low and hurried on their way. Winter’s march reversed, briefly, as the skies stayed clear and the sun offered a last burst of summer warmth. Some of the snow melted, and everywhere there were tinkling rivulets of water, that pooled in the lower ground. Rabbits and other small creatures were out to nibble up the exposed grasses and heath, their coats caught between summer brown and winter white. Geese flew over in formations that spanned the sky. Rhy-lee and Yfan-wyn stopped to watch, shading their eyes with their hands.

They hiked for short days while Yfan-wyn’s leg healed, starting late and camping in the afternoon, until he said, one day, “I can keep going,” when Rhy-lee made to stop.

She surveyed the land ahead. A line of hills, steep but low, marched across in front of the horizon. Rhy-lee pointed to a gap between two hills. “Can you get that far?”

Yfan-wyn eyed the distance doubtfully but nodded. “I think so.”

As it turned out, his leg began to ache before they reached the hills, and his pace slowed. He was determined, though, and Rhy-lee let him go on, even though it meant that it was nearly dark when they reached their goal.

Yfan-wyn’s leg was stiff again when he woke the next day. His mother smiled at him and chucked him under the chin. “A short day’s walk, today,” she said.

He grinned, feeling sheepish, but still pleased by yesterday’s effort. She gave him a little while to hobble around the campsite and loosen up before they set out.

The valley curved gently to the west at first, then doglegged back to the east. The hills were wider across than they had looked from the south. The hills of the valley grew steeper, smooth and nearly vertical.

“This is a made place,” said Rhy-lee, softly.

Yfan-wyn’s hackles stood straight up. “Made?”

She nodded. “Let us see.”

Her ears were up, showing no sign of fear. Yfan-wyn’s wanted to lie flat against his head. His mother did not slow, though, and he scurried after.

Another turn pointed the valley almost directly northward. Here, it widened out, and here Rhy-lee and Yfan-wyn stopped.

Wooden posts flanked the path – whole tree trunks stripped of leaves and branches but otherwise uncarved. More posts surrounded both sides of the space. On top of each post had been placed a skull. Yfan-wyn moved closer to his mother.

“Hunters,” she said.

Alarmed, he turned to see. “Where?”

“The skulls,” she said. “Look – wolves, panthers.” She pointed up at one of the posts nearest to them. The skull on top of it was broad and heavy. “That is a bear.”

Yfan-wyn looked up at the other near post. “What about that one?”

It was a similar shape to the panther skulls, but much bigger and with bizarrely oversized fangs, like scythe blades.

“A sabre-toothed lion!” his mother exclaimed.

“I thought they were only in stories,” said Yfan-wyn.

“So did I,” said Rhy-lee. “It has been here a long time.”

All of the skulls had the decayed, crumbling look of bones that had been out in the weather for many years.

Yfan-wyn took a step away from her and looked around with renewed wonder. “What place is this? What could defeat all of these hunters?” He thought of Inanakurekuri and the others like him that they had glimpsed. It seemed to him that a white bear should defeat any person or creature in the world.

“I think I know,” said Rhy-lee.

She strode past him. The ground inside the ring of posts was filled with low hillocks, covered in heath and moss. Yfan-wyn thought he spied pale rocks peeking through the plant cover. No… Not rocks.

Dry wood?

His mother reached the closest hillock and, with a heave, pulled aside the heather branches. The object was covered in moss and so large – longer than his mother was tall – that it took a moment for Yfan-wyn to realise that it was another skull. Long tusks descended from its jaw, their points buried in the earth. Rhy-lee pulled aside more heath, revealing a rib cage the size of a shepherd’s hut.

“A mammoth,” Yfan-wyn breathed.

His mother nodded. They looked around. The other hillocks – all of the hillocks – were really enormous, overgrown skeletons.

“It is a graveyard,” said Rhy-lee.

Yfan-wyn stared at the monstrous skull in front of him. He tried to imagine what these greatest of all people had been like when they were alive. Even one as fearsome as Inanakurekuri would have had to yield to these. He felt a sudden thrill of fear.

“Mother, we should go. Before any mammoths come.”

Rhy-lee shook her head. “There have been no living mammoths here for generations. This is an old place, long forgotten.”

It was true. The decayed skulls on the posts and the overgrown skeletons said as much. He could feel, too, the weight of time and long years of stillness.

“But you are right, we should go,” Rhy-lee said, after a while. “This is no place for the likes of us.”

Quietly, they picked their way across to the other side of the graveyard, where the valley opened out once more onto the surrounding plateau.

Rhy-lee paused to look back. She put her hand on Yfan-wyn’s shoulder. “Now that was a rare thing,” she said.

It felt wrong, somehow, to just scurry away from the place. After a moment’s thought, she took an arrow from her quiver and went back to lie it at the foot of the nearest guardian post. Yfan-wyn followed her, uncertainly, and laid a second arrow across hers.

She reached out to scratch him behind the ear.

“Are there any mammoths, anymore?” he asked.

“Not in this part of the world.” Might there be somewhere else? Now that would be a wonder. “Perhaps in the east,” she said, “where the land stretches on. Perhaps there might be some there.”

“Perhaps we will go there one day.”

She looked down at him with a smile. “Perhaps.”

By the end of the day, the plateau had started to rise. It continued to slope steadily as they continued in the morning. The sky grew leaden again, clouds heavy with snow. As they neared the crest, Yfan-wyn saw that the rise broke off along a ragged edge. Beyond, he could see a white horizon, a perfectly even, barely perceptible curve. His ears caught a sound, and he saw from their twitching that his mother’s did too, a low rumble, a crashing and hissing that rose and fell but never stopped. He caught a scent – salty, but more than that.

And then, suddenly, they were at the edge. Below, water smashed and boiled over the feet of black cliffs. A few crags and broken spits of rock scattered out from the cliffs but, beyond them, there was no more land, only chill grey water and floating ice.

“The end of the earth!” Yfan-wyn breathed.

He filled his lungs with the heady smell. The wind tugged at his parka, snuck underneath to lift it from his shoulders and fill it with cold air. Beside him, his mother laughed aloud. Behind them, to either side, lay all the earth that was theirs to walk.

“The sea,” said his mother. “It is the sea!”

Movement in the water caught Yfan-wyn’s eye. Tall black fins broke the surface, piebald backs curved out of the water and under again. A blunt snout broke the surface, jaws agape to show pointed white teeth.

“What are they?”

“Hunters,” said Rhy-lee. “What their name is, I do not know.”

Yfan-wyn took a big, shuddering breath. “What will we do now?”

“Now?” She smiled. “Now we will wait for the clouds to lift and darkness to fall. Then we shall see.”

They lit a fire, back a way from the lip of the cliff and somewhat out of the wind, and huddled up together to wait. Yfan-wyn dozed on Rhy-lee’s shoulder while she chewed mutton jerky.

It snowed, briefly. Then, just on sunset, cracks appeared in the grey blanket to show a pink and mauve sky. Rhy-lee watched the sun touch the horizon, turning orange, then red, before sinking below. She glanced at the sky behind her, then nudged Yfan-wyn awake.

“Now,” she said and turned him around.

Yfan-wyn gasped.

Curtains of light rippled across the northern sky. Ghostly, dancing, never still.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It is the souls of the dead,” said a deep voice, “dancing before they are reborn into the world.”

They turned. Inanakurekuri approached, leaning on his spear to climb the last stretch of slope. This time, Rhy-lee felt no fear.

“You forgot your snares,” he said, laying a handful of rabbit corpses by Rhy-lee’s knee. He sat.

“Thank you.” She turned her gaze back to the sky. “My people say it is the birth light of the world.”

Inanakurekuri rumbled deep in his chest. “It is that, as well.”

“You followed us,” said Yfan-wyn, peeping around Rhy-lee.

The bear smiled at him. “I did. I found I had a notion to see it again, too.” He was quiet for a time, then said, “I am not one who finds sport in hunting little folk. Some do. Wolves I hunt, for necessity and satisfaction, both.” Another pause. Rhy-lee looked up at him, sitting as still as a mountain, his eyes on the lights in the sky. His black tongue came out and he licked his teeth.

“Years ago, I was badly injured and starving, unable to hunt or even gather herbs to clean my wounds. A fox found me. By then I was mad with pain.” He touched a ragged scar on the side of his belly. “This wound had turned sour, and the sickness was in my blood. In my fever, I tried to drive her away. Or kill and eat her, I do not know.

“Rather than leave me to my fate, she brought me food, herbs to cure my sickness and lime to clean and seal my cuts. When I had the strength, again, to walk, I followed her to her campsite, but when I reached it she was gone and had covered her scent. She left me a last gift of salmon, caught from the river. I left a token in exchange. When I came back, it too was gone.”

He held out something to Rhy-lee. The half-jawbone of a wolf, she saw, its teeth still attached. Angular letters were etched into its surface. “It is the Word of Inanakurekuri,” he said. “While you carry it, no bear will harm you. Most wolves will think again. Perhaps you will find another wanderer who carries my Word. I cannot say that she will be your mother, but she will be a kindred heart.”

Rhy-lee felt her ears tremble. It was known that, on a rare occasion, a white bear might carve their name as an honour gift, a mark of respect when a fine deed had been done. But what had she done?

Her tail curled as she asked, “Why?”

Inanakurekuri shrugged a huge shoulder, as if not quite certain himself. “Because I like the thought of a fox who hunts wolves,” he said. Another shrug became a shake of his shoulders and head and he added, “Because my heart, too, is often distant. It would please me, if your quest was successful.”

Rhy-lee felt tears come, unexpected. A great balloon of a sob rose up from the pit of her belly, squeezing her heart on its way through her chest and bursting out between her teeth. Another followed and a third. Yfan-wyn held onto her hand with both of his.

Inanakurekuri looked at the sky. “The birth light of the world,” he said.

Yfan-wyn touched the carved jawbone. “Will we go home?”

Rhy-lee felt it, too – a longing for her father’s reassuring stillness, for Aoin-rhys’s comfortable warmth in her arms. “Yes,” she said. She wiped her eyes. A slow smile tugged the corners of her mouth. “Yes. But we will go the longer way.”

Part Two: The Long Way Home

The bull elk stood over them, hoofed fingers planted on either side. He bent his head to peer at the half-jawbone, etched with sharp-angled letters, that Rhy-lee held up for him to see. Rhy-lee’s heart battered the inside of her ribs. Antlers as wide as tree branches fenced her and Yfan-wyn in. One swipe would be enough to kill both of them.

The elk snorted. “The Word of a white bear,” he said. “Though this elk does not read such marks. This elk has little time for bears.” He growled deep in his throat and lifted his head to bellow, “Bears kill young elks!”

Rhy-lee flinched as he shook his antlers. Yfan-wyn squirmed underneath her. He had tripped when the elk charged suddenly out of the river – having watched them, seemingly unruffled, for several minutes while they filled their flasks. What had triggered the elk’s sudden change of mood, Rhy-lee had no idea. Hearing Yfan-wyn’s cry, she had turned and flung herself over her son just as the elk reached the shore.

“It is the Word of Inanakurekuri,” said Rhy-lee.

“‘The death of all wolves’”, said the elk. “This elk knows of that name.” He harrumphed and withdrew a short way. Cautiously, Rhy-lee got her feet under her and stood.

“It is a good thing to kill wolves,” the elk mused.

The gigantic head lunged back towards Rhy-lee. She yelped and fell over Yfan-wyn. “This elk sees that this fox, too, is the death of wolves,” said the elk, nudging his nose at the wolf tails sewed to Rhy-lee’s parka. He withdrew once more. “This is unusual for a fox, who this elk knows is littler than a wolf.”

The elk shook his head again and grimaced, as though trying to dislodge a stuck thought.

“Mother…” Yfan-wyn gasped.

Rhy-lee hissed at him to be quiet.

“A bear kills elk. Wolves kill elk,” the elk said. His voice rose with each sentence. “A bear kills wolves! A fox kills wolves!” He punched the pebbled beach. “A fox is a friend to bears! A fox–”

Rhy-lee cut him off, “You said you knew the name of Inanakurekuri.”

“Hmm?” The elk blinked at her. “Yes. This elk has seen the Word of this bear before. Or at least,” he frowned, “this elk recalls that was what the fox said who carried the bear’s Word.” He looked hard at Rhy-lee. “Perhaps this fox was that fox.” He nodded to himself. “Yes, that must be the case, for bears do not give their Words freely, this elk knows.”

“No,” said Rhy-lee, getting her feet under her again. “That wasn’t me–”

“This fox was that fox,” the elk declared. He turned and splashed back into the river. “Though this fox had no youngling with it when it was that fox.”

“Which way did she–” Rhy-lee began, then stopped. Her mouth worked silently while she reframed her question. “Which way did this fox go, when it was that fox?”

The elk dipped his muzzle into the water and snorted, making bubbles. He lifted his head again and answered, “East. And now this fox has returned from the west. This fox is going in circles.” The elk chuckled to himself. “Perhaps this fox is not so clever.”

Rhy-lee stared at him for a moment, then stooped to haul Yfan-wyn up by his collar. She hurried him across the pebble beach to the edge of the trees.

“Mother,” he exclaimed. “He’s seen her!”

“We don’t know that it’s your grandmother,” she replied, gruffly. “Inanakurekuri didn’t promise us that. And we don’t know how long ago.”

She was not inclined to press her luck by asking the elk any further questions. But still, her mind burned with the same need to know that she saw lighting Yfan-wyn’s face. Need, but also fear. What if it was her mother? Did she really want to meet that woman who had left her behind so long ago? Who had not thought to wait for her, as Rhy-lee had waited for Yfan-wyn, before she let her wandering heart take her.

“East takes us towards home,” Yfan-wyn said.

Home, Rhy-lee thought, where she had left Aoin-Rhys with her father. Aoin-rhys, who did not share her wandering heart as Yfan-wyn did, preferring the sameness and solidity of stone walls around him, like his grandfather. Like his father, Culm-mane, had done, she thought with a pang.


She nodded, dragging herself back to the present, and chucked him under the chin. “We will go east,” she said. “Perhaps we will build ourselves a raft and make our journey easier for a while.”

She was pleased to see him smile at that. Yfan-wyn fidgeted with his parka. His wrists stuck out further from the sleeves than they had done when they set out from home. “You have grown,” she said.

Building the raft took most of the rest of the day and when it was done it was a rough and rickety looking thing. But it took their weight well enough to keep them dry. Rhy-lee cut long poles to push them along the shallows and fashioned rough paddles of bound twigs for when they reached the deeper water. They poled down to where the forest river emerged from the trees and camped there under the leafless eaves, looking out over the still-white plain. The forest river meandered out to join the greater watercourse that looped across the plain, both rivers fat and smooth with the first snowmelt of spring and reflecting the darkening blue of the sky.

A breeze had come up by morning, that wrinkled the water and sent bits of cloud scudding overhead. Rhy-lee and Yfan-wyn poled the raft out onto the great river. Rhy-lee could feel the strength of the flow underneath, but the current was not fast. She unwrapped the fish they had smoked a couple of days before and they ate that for breakfast as they drifted along.

Around noon, Yfan-wyn stood up and pointed at a triangular ripple that was spearing across the current towards them. “What’s that?”

Something swimming, Rhy-lee thought, but not a fish. The river had curved away from the forest and the country was too open for beavers. Her fingers had just closed around the haft of her spear when a blunt, brown furred head popped up at the side of the raft. Stout fingers caught hold of the logs. Long whiskers and small, round ears twitched. Black eyes fell on the spear in Rhy-lee’s grasp.

“Foxes on a raft,” said the creature, with a little chuckle. “I am alone. May I share your perch a while?”

Keeping her eyes on it, Rhy-lee nodded. “You may.”

The creature laughed and pulled itself up from the water, revealing a long, sleek body and short, thick limbs and tail. It – he – wore shorts made of some hairless animal hide and had a heavy wooden club slung from a thong around his neck. Other weapons were strapped to his thighs. An otter, Rhy-lee realized, but far larger than any she had ever heard of, almost wolf-sized in his length of body and breadth of chest. She wondered if allowing him aboard might have been a mistake.

“Where are you from, friend otter?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light.

The otter grinned, showing sharp, black-stained fangs. “From the sea.” He took an oilskin parcel from his pocket and unwrapped it to reveal dark-coloured leaves. The otter squeezed some together and stuck them into the corner of his mouth to chew. “And what of you, little fox?”

“We are wanderers,” said Rhy-lee. “Returning home.”

The otter’s interest sharpened. “Oh? And where is home?”

“The downs,” said Rhy-lee. With the sudden intensity of his stare, she felt oddly uncomfortable to share even that much.

He stretched himself up to peer that way, to the ridge of bare hills in the distance beyond the forest. “Ah,” he said. “A pity.”

Rhy-lee frowned, wondering what he meant. Out of the corner of her eye she could see that Yfan-wyn’s ears were flat to his head.

The otter shivered suddenly, but not from cold, Rhy-lee thought. “But east,” he said. “You are headed east, where the river wills?”

Rhy-lee shrugged warily. “For now.”

The otter nodded back, seeming pleased by that. He leaned forward to hawk a black gob of spit into the river.

Rhy-lee chewed her lip, considering, then reached into her parka and brought out the etched half-jawbone. The otter’s eyes glittered, watching.

“It is the Word of Inanakurekuri,” she said.

The otter scratched his throat. “Is that your god, little fox?”

“God?” Rhy-lee repeated, confused.

He chuckled. “I do not know this Word. It looks like a wolf’s jaw to me.” With a sharp bark of amusement, he slipped back off the side of the raft, making it wobble. The otter clung to the side a moment longer. “Go east, little foxes. Let the river take you and you will find the sea.”

Then he was gone.

Rhy-lee watched the ripples of his passage speed ahead of them downriver. She suppressed a sigh of disappointment and looked at Yfan-wyn.

“He was very strange,” said Yfan-wyn. “I didn’t like him.”

“Mm,” said Rhy-lee. She showed him a lopsided smile. “It seems it is a day for strange meetings.”

They had no more unusual encounters on the water, although they passed by wading herons and a herd of caribou, paused to drink at the water’s edge. The caribou eyed them with dumb incuriosity, having not even an elk’s simple intelligence. The river curled back towards the forest and, by evening, they were close enough to the trees that Rhy-lee decided to pull the raft ashore and make their beds up in the branches.

They had just dragged the raft up out of the shallows and onto a stretch of sloping bank when the wind shifted for a moment. Rhy-lee whirled to see tall, grey-furred figures stalking out of the trees.

“Wolves!” cried Yfan-wyn.

It was too late to flee. Rhy-lee reached slowly into her parka and brought out the Word of Inanakurekuri. The wolves fanned out, a dozen of them including two old grandmothers with white in their fur and a trio of half-grown cubs. They wore vests and kilts of roughly tanned hide, sewn together with gut, and carried spears and round hide shields. At their belts were stone axes and looped leather slings.

One she-wolf strode forward ahead of the rest. Rhy-lee’s hackles went up when she saw that this one’s vest was made of fox skin. In her hand, the she-wolf carried a rusted iron axe.

The she-wolf circled them. Rhy-lee turned with her, keeping her back to Yfan-wyn’s.

“I see you are a wolf-killer,” said the she-wolf.

“And you a fox-killer,” replied Rhy-lee. She was amazed that her voice was steady.

Several of the wolves growled. The she-wolf sneered.

Rhy-lee held up the etched jawbone. “It is the Word of Inanakurekuri.”

The she-wolf stilled, glaring at the jawbone with yellow eyes. A wolf’s jawbone. Her fingers tightened around the haft of her axe and for a moment Rhy-lee thought she was about to attack.

The she-wolf snorted. “This Word is known to me,” she said. “The name of this bear is known to be true.”

“The bear is far from here,” said a large male, with a ridged scar from his right eye across the top of his scalp and over his left ear.

The she-wolf rounded on him, baring her teeth.

“The ears of a bear hear far,” said one of the grandmothers.

The scarred male growled at her but was shouted down by the rest of the pack.

“There is no sport here,” the lead she-wolf declared, turning back to Rhy-lee and Yfan-wyn. “We will trade. You will give us metal.”

Rhy-lee worked her tongue around her mouth, trying to generate some moisture there. Carefully, using only her forefinger and thumb, she pulled her skinning knife from its sheath. “I will give you this,” she said. “If you will answer my question.”

“A question?” The she-wolf’s ears came up in surprise. She eyed the bright blade of the knife. “Ask it.”

“Have you seen another fox who carries the Word of Inanakurekuri?”

Rhy-lee’s heart thudded as the she-wolf gave a quick nod. “There is one who has returned to these parts for many years – since I was a cub.” The fingers of the she-wolf’s free hand twitched. “She often shelters in the forest in the winter.” She thrust out her hand. “Give it to me.”

She. Rhy-lee handed the knife over. “Has she been seen this season?”

The she-wolf grinned slyly. “One question, for this blade,” she said. “More metal for more questions.”

Several of the pack yipped their appreciation of her cunning.

Rhy-lee took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. She. “I will give you wire snares to trap rabbits,” she said.

But the she-wolf’s gaze had shifted beyond Rhy-lee. Her brow furrowed. Rhy-lee started to turn. The she-wolf’s eyes snapped wide. Behind Rhy-lee, Yfan-wyn cried out in alarm.

She spun to see long-bodied figures burst out of the river, heavy clubs raised over their shoulders. Otters! Several of them lifted narrow tubes to their lips. The wolves howled and charged. Rhy-lee grabbed Yfan-wyn and lifted him bodily, away from the fight, then pushed him ahead towards the trees.


Something bit into the back of her neck.

She ran another dozen paces before her legs gave way underneath her.

“Run!” she cried to Yfan-wyn, and then her tongue was too thick to say it again.

Her vision darkened as wolves fled past. One stumbled and fell. Otters bounded after. Then the darkness was complete, and she knew no more.

Yfan-wyn was under the trees before he realised that his mother was no longer with him. In horror, he stopped to look back and was knocked off his feet by a fleeing wolf.

He scrambled quickly back up. Otters bounded towards him. He couldn’t see his mother. Something whisked past his face. He saw an otter lower a dart tube from its mouth.

With a sob, Yfan-wyn turned and sprinted after the wolf.

Even with its canopy bare of leaves, the forest still grew dark before the open plain at the end of day. Yfan-wyn could hear the otters behind him, whistling to each other in the gloom. They seemed to be falling behind. He slowed, listening hard.

A hand closed around his arm, another clamped down on his muzzle, preventing him from crying out. Yfan-wyn found himself dragged, struggling, towards a tree trunk – hollow, he discovered, when he was pulled through a narrow gap and inside.

“Be still,” his captor hissed. “They are close.”

Yfan-wyn stopped fighting. He could smell that his assailant was a fox. She released her grip on his mouth.

“They will smell us,” he whispered.

“No,” the word was barely a breath. “Their noses are dull, as are their ears. Only their eyes are sharp. Be still. Their ears are dull, but they are not deaf.”

Yfan-wyn heard movement outside the tree. A loud whistle, close at hand, made him jump. Others responded, further away.

The otter’s claws scraped over dirt, just outside. Yfan-wyn could smell its wet fur. He held his breath.

Then the otter moved off.

Yfan-wyn listened to the whistling calls move away.

“They are giving up the chase,” said the other fox. She shifted away from him and he felt her rummage about.

“My mother fell,” Yfan-wyn said. His lip trembled.

Flints sparked in the darkness. “Then she is alive,” was the reply. “And that is all that can be said for her.”

A light flared from the sparks, and the other fox closed the side of a small glass and tin lantern. Yfan-wyn looked at her face. She was old, he saw, with the white on the sides of her snout spread across her cheeks and forehead. The pupil of her left eye was milky pale.

“Better to forget her,” she said.

Yfan-wyn could only shake his head in horror.

“Where is home for you, little one?”

“The downs.” Tears were coming. He tried to keep them in, but couldn’t. He hung his head, hiding his face behind the sleeve of his parka.

“Of course. The downs.” There was an odd heaviness in the way she said it. “I will take you through the forest, to the foot of the ridge.”

Yfan-wyn shook his head, more vigorously this time. “No. I need to go back for my mother.”

“And do what?” the old woman said harshly. “Be caught yourself?”

Yfan-wyn glared at her.

She sighed through her nostrils. “So be it.”

“My name is Yfan-wyn,” he said. “My mother is Rhy-lee.”

He thought he saw her start, ever so slightly, on hearing his mother’s name. The reaction was so small that he wondered if he had imagined it. He stared, searching for some resemblance to his mother. Could this really be his grandmother?

She turned her face aside, so that he could see only her blind, milky eye.

“I do not need to know your name,” she said. “Rest here tonight, at least. They will not have gone anywhere in the dark.”

Yfan-wyn stared at her. Are you my grandmother? he wanted to say. But how could she be? How could she hear her child’s name and turn aside? The pressure of the words stuck inside him escaped in a tiny whine. Her ears twitched, but she did not look at him.

Rhy-lee woke up to find her wrists and ankles bound together with rope. She raised her head. The she-wolf lay less than an arm’s length away, bound as well, staring at Rhy-lee with yellow eyes.

The she-wolf bared her teeth but said nothing. Then she rolled over so that her back was to Rhy-lee.

Rhy-lee twisted her neck to look around. She wriggled onto her belly, then awkwardly pushed herself up onto her knees. Also lying bound on the riverbank were four more adult wolves and the three wolf cubs. There was no sign of Yfan-wyn. Otters armed with clubs and dart tubes stood guard around them. Beyond them, on the river, was a sight that caused Rhy-lee’s jaw to drop open in amazement.

It was built of timber and floated on the water like a raft, but was larger than any house Rhy-lee had ever seen. Its sides curved upwards, higher than a bear’s head. Rows of oars stuck out from holes set near the tops and wooden ribs arched overhead. At the vessel’s front and back its sides came together and rose to carved peaks. The front peak was fashioned into the shape of an eagle’s head, the rear carved to resemble a feathered tail. A high pole rose from the centre of the vessel, a long crossbeam near its peak wrapped around with the loosely tied, pale canvas of its sail. Similarly bundled canvas joined the wooden ribs at their peaks – a roof for inclement weather, Rhy-lee realised.

“A ship,” she exclaimed aloud. She had only heard them described in traveller’s tales. The sea, the first otter had said he was from.

The sea. Rhy-lee’s stomach tightened.

She called out to the nearest guard. “What will you do with us?”

The otter lifted its club and snarled something in a language Rhy-lee didn’t understand. Another barked, “Silence! Property does not speak unless it is told to.”

Property? Rhy-lee stared at him blankly for a moment, wondering if he had misspoken. Then understanding hit: the otters were slavers and they would take her away across the sea.

Sometimes, among the villages of the downs, if a person committed a crime, their punishment might include a period of bonded service, but slavery – the owning of one person by another – was something she had only heard told of as a distant myth of barbaric lands, far away. Panic rose up inside. She clenched her fists, digging her claws into her palms until she was sure they would bleed.

Yfan-wyn had escaped, she told herself. Yfan-wyn was safe. They were near enough to the downs now for him to find his way home.

Further along the bank lay the bodies of the two old wolf grandmothers. Too old for slaves, Rhy-lee thought, tightening her fists even more, holding her terror inside

Yfan-wyn had escaped, she repeated. He was safe.

Yfan-wyn watched from the branches at the edge of the forest while the prisoners were loaded aboard the otters’ gigantic, high-sided raft. He saw the flash of his mother’s red fur among the grey bodies of the wolves. He clutched helplessly at the hunting spear the old woman had given him.

Not his grandmother. He could not believe that she would let his mother be taken away if she were.

The oars along the side of the giant vessel were rising and falling, turning it to point the carved eagle head downriver. They were leaving!

Yfan-wyn slithered down from his perch, barking his shins and falling the last little way. He sprinted through the trees, keeping the vessel in sight but staying under cover. For a while he kept up, as the river meandered away from the forest and back again in a lazy loop, but then his strength began to falter and the river began to veer away from the trees in a long, steady curve. Yfan-wyn’s lungs and legs burned but he was left further and further behind.

Almost, he let himself stop and collapse to his knees and give up. But his mother would not have given up on him. Whimpering, despairing, he left the trees and kept on going in a ragged jog.

They would stop for the night, he told himself. The ship would stop, and he would catch up.

And then what?

He squashed the hopeless thought. She would not give up on him.

He ran on, as best he could. Now and then, the snow drift deeper and he would stumble and lie, panting and exhausted, with his pulse pounding in his ears and his vision turning black, wondering if he would rise again. Then the freezing cold of the snow would begin to soak through his fur, waking him from his stupor, and he would struggle up and get his feet back under him and moving again.

Sometimes he would get a stitch in his side, or a cramp in his legs, and he would lean on his spear and hobble on until it passed and he could run once more. And always, the ship faded further and further into the distance, until he wondered if he was only imagining that it was still in sight at all.

The blue of the sky began to deepen ahead. Yfan-wyn’s shadow began to stretch further ahead of him, as if it, too, would leave him behind. The sunset painted the snow golden, then crimson, then mauve. Then the sun was gone, and only the stars lit the way. Still, Yfan-wyn ran on.

At last, long after dark, he caught up.

The otters’ vessel was stopped again by the far bank, held against the current. From within its high-walled sides, Yfan-wyn could hear the frightened, confused cries of bison. A dull red glow rose from within the sides of the vessel. The smell of cooking meat wafted across the water.

A wolf howled. It sounded close. Yfan-wyn wondered if the wolves were following, too.

He eyed the otters on guard at the front and rear of the vessel and wondered, doubtfully, if he could sneak aboard. There was a large hummock in the snow closer to the riverbank. Yfan-wyn thought he might have a better vantage – and be better hidden there, too.

It was only when he neared it and the hummock suddenly moved that he realised his mistake. Only then, as an enormous hand lashed out to close around his body, crushing the breath out of him, did he smell the bear.

The bear’s narrow head came up from where it had rested, chin on the snow, and turned to look at him. The jaws opened, displaying fangs longer than his hand. Yfan-wyn would have screamed, but he had no breath to do so.


The bear paused. Yfan-wyn twisted to see. It was the old fox woman who had saved him in the forest. She held up the half-jawbone of a wolf for the bear to see the letters etched into its surface.

“It is the Word of Inanakurekuri,” she said.

The bison packed into the bottom of the ship lowed incessantly, confused and distressed by the smell of one of their number being barbequed by the otters on the forward deck. Rhy-lee hunched in the shadows beneath the ship’s rear deck, manacled alongside the captured wolves and a half-grown bear who hiccupped softly as he tried not to cry. The chains that joined their cuffs passed through thick iron rings bolted to the keel of the ship.

The bison were all juveniles, too, Rhy-lee had noted when they were winched, unconscious, into the ship. They ranged from newly weaned calves to pubescents. Young, scared, easy to train, she thought. What did it mean for her and the adult wolves?

She spoke to the she-wolf. “Will those of your pack who escaped come for you?”

The she-wolf stared at her in silence for a long moment. Rhy-lee wondered if she would reply at all. Then she stretched her jaws in a wide yawn and said, “The pack will choose a new leader. We are dead to them.”

Dead, thought Rhy-lee, and wolves did not attend to their dead. She leaned across to the bear, catching his eye. “What is your name, young one?”

The bear sniffled, his dark eyes flitting from Rhy-lee to the wolves. “I am Babuk, born of Nuganaksaramun,” he said.

“I am Rhy-lee, born of…” Rhy-lee hesitated over her mother’s name, “Tiere-lene.” It felt strange to say it, so long unspoken. She asked, “Did your mother escape the slavers?”

The bear cub nodded. “I was not with her and Megi, my sister, when they caught me.”

“Then she will come for you,” Rhy-lee said, because it was certainly true.

Babuk glanced up at a pair of otters walking along the central gangway, overhead. The ship’s hold was largely open for most of its length, the areas of solid decking at the front and rear connected by the central gangway and narrower platforms along the high side walls. The gangways were joined by broad-topped ribs that held the rowing benches, above the backs of the frightened bison.

“But they are so many,” said Babuk.

“Too many, even for a bear,” said the she-wolf.

Rhy-lee wondered if that were true. Could the darts of the otters pierce the thick fur of an adult bear?

“Then we will need to help ourselves, as well,” she said. But both the she-wolf and Babuk had turned away from her.

Rhy-lee looked down at her manacled hands.

She wondered what had become of Yfan-wyn. He would have kept going, she told herself. He would find his way home. She had to push the thoughts back down, in case the fear undid her – that she would never see him again, nor Aoin-rhys or her father.

She watched the sparks from the otters’ cooking rise up into the night, past the ribs of the ship’s open roof, quickly fading. She would never know if that other fox, the other who bore the Word of Inanakurekuri, was her mother.

No, she told herself. She was not beaten yet.

She began to work her hands around in the manacles, trying to find a way to pull them free.

The otters’ vessel was a small red glow across the blue-white snow. There was a bank of cloud to the south, deep shadowed underneath and silver-lit on top, but directly above the skies were clear. With the moon not yet risen to outshine them, the stars formed a sky-spanning river of brighter and fainter sparks.

Yfan-wyn trudged after the bear, his ears twitching at the soft rattle of her bone apron. His perhaps-grandmother walked beside him, a barrier of unasked questions in between.

The bear slowed and growled a low inquiry. A snowdrift shifted off to their right. A young bear stood up, only half-grown but already several times larger than the two foxes. She carried a heavy iron spear and bow and arrows like her mother, but wore a girdle of tanned hide rather than an adult’s apron. Her mother held out a paw and the young bear ran to her, tucking herself against the larger bear’s side.

The mother bear faced Yfan-wyn and the old fox, her face in shadow as she peered down. “I am Nuganaksaramun,” she said. “The name of Inanakurekuri is known to me, as it is known to all bears.” She paused a moment, then added, “My son, Babuk, is aboard the slaver ship.”

Yfan-wyn’s tongue was sticky inside his mouth. “Yfan-wyn, is my name,” he said. “My mother, Rhy-lee, is aboard the,” he hesitated over the unfamiliar word, “ship.”

The old fox cleared her throat. Her voice was taught when she said, “I am Tiere-lene.” Yfan-wyn’s heart jumped. It was his grandmother’s name. She met his gaze as he stared at her. “My daughter is on that ship.”

“Can we get Babuk, Mama?” asked the young bear.

Yfan-wyn watched Nuganaksaramun’s head sink lower and his hope fell with it. Nuganaksaramun pulled her daughter tighter to her side. “I do not think we can, Megi.”

A whimper escaped between Yfan-wyn’s teeth, a wail bursting to follow. “What will happen to them?” he said.

“In the morning they will go,” said Nuganaksaramun. “They hunted the bison herd this afternoon and their ship is filled.”

“They will be taken to the south, to the cities of swine and dogs and fowl, where lions rule,” said Tiere-lene. “They will be sold.”

They were silent for a moment, their eyes all fixed on that distant glow.

Nuganaksaramun said, “In the tale of Inanakurekuri, he was taken by slavers as a cub, and he escaped and returned. But his is the only such tale.”

“Is there nothing to be done?” said Megi.

Her mother shook her head.

A wolf howled, sounding near.

Yfan-wyn’s grandmother said, “If we can distract the slavers, then Yfan-wyn and I are small enough to sneak aboard the ship and cut the prisoners loose.”

“How will they be distracted?” asked Nuganaksaramun.

“With an attack,” Tiere-lene replied.

The bear thought about that a moment, then said, “Megi and I will not be able to do that alone.”

“You will not be alone,” said Tiere-lene.

They smelled the smoke of the wolves’ campfire long before they spied its glow. The wolves had dug out a hollow in the snow, piling it around them. Their huddled bodies further shielded the fire’s light.

Yfan-wyn stared at his grandmother’s back as she walked ahead of him, the pressure of questions crowded up inside his chest almost unbearable. She had offered nothing, though, and he did not know how to begin.

Every so often, one of the wolf pack would lift their head and howl to the night. The sound made Yfan-wyn’s skin crawl.

Nuganaksaramun led them towards the camp from upwind. The wolves remained unaware of their approach until the great bear loomed up close beside them. Then there was a flurry of growls and startled activity as the wolves lunged for weapons and peered wildly into the darkness for other threats.

Nuganaksaramun raised a broad hand. “I have not come to fight.”

The wolves crouched behind their hide shields, weapons ready.

“There is a slaver ship on the river,” said Nuganaksaramun.

“We have seen it,” said a wolf. “It has not troubled this pack.”

“It has troubled other packs,” said Tiere-lene, stepping into view at the bear’s side. “There are captured wolves aboard.”

“That is of no matter to us,” said the wolf.

“The slavers have weapons and tools of iron,” said Nuganaksaramun. “We wish to attack the slaver ship and rescue our kin, but we have no interest in the slavers’ wealth.”

Yfan-wyn peered past his grandmother’s shoulder. The wolves cast sideways glances at their leader. Several licked their muzzles as the thought of iron riches took hold.

The leader straightened, lowering his weapons. “Even together, we would struggle to overcome them,” he said. “Slaver darts will pierce our skins and then we too will be as the dead.”

“We can beat them if we are cleverer than they,” said Tiere-lene.

Yfan-wyn shivered at the freezing touch of the river. The water rippled around his bare shins as he waded after his grandmother. They had left their clothes and gear on the shore, carrying only their hunting knives on thongs around their necks. His grandmother showed no sign of discomfort at the cold. The breeze ruffled the sparse, greying fur on her back and shoulders.

Tiere-lene launched herself into the current. Yfan-wyn braced himself and plunged after with a splash. His breath whooshed out at the shock of the water closing around him. The bears and wolves were meant to have crossed further downriver.

Teeth chattering, Yfan-wyn paddled downstream towards the red-rimmed silhouette of the slaver ship.

Rhy-lee gritted her teeth, bracing the manacle with her feet and her free hand. The first cuff she had wriggled her hand out of relatively easily, but this one was bent tighter. Blood trickled along her fingers from where she had skinned her knuckles on the metal. She twisted her hand, smearing it over the inside of the cuff, making it slick.

She pulled again. Her knuckles ground painfully against each other, but her hand started to slide through. The wolves and the young bear watched in silence, their nostrils twitching at the smell of blood. A nearby bison calf stamped its hoof.

With a sudden wrench, Rhy-lee’s hand came free. She flexed her bruised knuckles, wincing. She was free. It would be easy enough, she thought, to jump up onto a rowing bench and over the side before the otters could react. They could swim better than she, but she thought she could probably lose them in the dark.

Babuk and the wolves watched her in silence.

Rhy-lee hesitated. Her first thought should be to get free and find Yfan-wyn. But could she leave them to their fate? She knew the answer before she even asked herself the question.

“Can any of you get free?”

It was immediately obvious that the wolves, including the three cubs, were stuck, with their broad palms and bony wrists. Young Babuk had a bear’s thick forearms, but his hands were not so flexible as hers.

“Try,” she said. “I will get the key if I can.”

Exactly how, she did not know.

She slunk to the edge of the overhung deck and peered up. An otter sentry stood on the high gangway at the side of the ship, peering out into the night. Rhy-lee could not see if he carried a key on his belt or not – not all of the otters did.

Suddenly the otter staggered backwards. He stepped off the edge of the platform and fell. Rhy-lee barely had time to duck out of the way. The otter landed with a thump, a white-feathered arrow almost as long as Rhy-lee was tall protruding from his chest. A roar echoed across the river. Bear!

Young Babuk lifted his head and bellowed in reply.

On the forward deck, Rhy-lee saw otters dash for the anchor chains, only to be driven back by a hail of rocks. Slingshot, she thought. Wolves! A heartbeat later howls joined the roars of the attacking bear. The captured wolves howled back. The bison began to bawl and tug at their shackles.

A trio of otters leapt down after their shot fellow, clubs ready and barking angrily at the prisoners. Their eyes fell immediately on Rhy-lee, standing unshackled in front of them.

Yfan-wyn was so cold clinging to the slaver ship’s anchor chain that he wasn’t certain he would be able to climb up it and into the ship.

“Soon,” said his grandmother. “Hold on just a little longer.”

Yfan-wyn’s teeth chattered, making it hard to speak. He tried anyway, the words suddenly coming unstuck inside him. “Why did you leave?”

She glanced at him, just briefly. “Because I had to. You understand that,” she said. “But why didn’t I wait for your mother, you mean, as she waited for you?” She was quiet a moment, then continued, “She loved her father so much, and he her. I could not part them. And there was much of him in her, besides.” Another, smaller hesitation, then, “Does he live, still, your grandfather?”

Yfan-wyn nodded. “Yes.”

“That is good,” she said, her voice distant. “I did not think her heart would take her far, not as a child, anyway.” Her teeth flashed, suddenly – a smile, perhaps, but one without mirth. “If I had waited, then she would never have had you, would she?”

A bear roared – Nuganaksaramun, launching her attack. Wolf howls joined in a moment later and the ship erupted with barks of alarm from the otters and cries from the prisoners within.

“Up!” said Tiere-lene, giving him a boost.

Yfan-wyn almost slipped straight off the chain, but he gripped tight with his legs and fingers and hauled himself up. He kept his eyes fixed on the side of the ship, expecting to see an otter appear at any instant and raise the alarm, but the slavers were evidently all occupied with the attack from the shore, on the opposite side of the vessel. His arms burned before he was even halfway up, but he kept going.

Fingers cramping, he raised his head to peer through the hole where the anchor chain fed through the ship’s side. A rock arced out of the darkness and banged into the planks directly below the hole. Yfan-wyn jerked back, almost slipping.

He clung hard to the chain, while his grandmother demanded to know what was wrong.

Heart clattering, he looked again.

A pair of otters sprawled on the deck close by, one with a bloody face, the other with an arrow through his back. A brick fireplace stood with a spit-roasted bison unattended over its flames. On the far side of the deck, a group of otters crouched under cover, hauling frantically on the other anchor chain. All along that side of the ship, otters leapt up from cover to fire their dart tubes and bows. Yfan-wyn couldn’t see where the prisoners were held, but he could hear their shouts.

“Is it clear?” said his grandmother.

“I think so.”

“Then go!”

Yfan-wyn pulled himself up and over the side, drawing his knife as he landed on the deck, expecting to be spotted immediately by the slavers. Tiere-lene was right behind him. “Go! Down into the hold!”

She pushed him towards the edge of the deck where, down in the bottom of the ship, he could see the captive bison pulling against their bonds. He ran that way and leapt into the space below. He landed heavily and rolled into the legs of a bison calf, which bucked and kicked him painfully in the hip.

His grandmother hauled him upright. “Quick! Out of sight.” She pushed him ahead of her, between the rows of bison. “Hush,” she said to the bison, “we are here to free you.”

Yfan-wyn stopped. “They are chained,” he wailed. “We cannot cut their bonds.” His mother and Nuganaksaramun’s son would certainly be chained too.

Tiere-lene swore. “Then we will need a key. Go forward, we will find your mother first.”

Rhy-lee stumbled back from the otters’ clubs. There was a roar and a tearing, popping sound. Babuk had ripped the bolt that held his chains free of the ship’s keel. He lunged at the otters, ignoring the blows of their clubs, grabbing the head of one in both paws.

Rhy-lee leapt onto the shoulders of a second and heaved backward with all her weight, setting the otter stumbling off balance and towards the chained wolves. She hit the planks with the otter on top of her. His shrieks mingled with the snarls of the wolves as they caught hold of him. Rhy-lee wriggled out from under, expecting to confront the third otter or to hear him raising the alarm.

Instead she found him lying dead and a naked, greying fox standing over him with a hunting knife in her hand. Rhy-lee stared at the other woman. Memories of that same face crashed over her – that face, red-furred and with two good eyes, seen from below, a small child’s memories.

“Rhy-lee,” said her mother.

Rhy-lee’s legs gave way and she sat down sharply.

A small face peered around the Tiere-lene’s arm. “Mother!”

Yfan-wyn launched himself at her. Rhy-lee caught him reflexively, held him fiercely, then pushed him away to look at him, scarcely believing the evidence of her eyes. “I thought you would have gone home.”

“We need a key for these cuffs,” said Tiere-lene.

“There!” said Yfan-wyn. He started to reach for the belt of the otter that Babuk had killed, but looked up at the young bear, with his bloody hands, and thought the better of it.

Tiere-lene plucked up the key ring and unshackled Babuk.

Rhy-lee gathered herself together. “And them,” she said, indicating the wolves.

Tiere-lene hesitated, then tossed the ring to the she-wolf. Rhy-lee watched the wolves fumble awkwardly with the keys. “We must go,” said Tiere-lene, as Rhy-lee moved to help them.

Mother, filled Rhy-lee’s thoughts. Mother, mother, why did you leave? Why did you never come back? She pushed it down. Later, she told herself. When we’re clear of this and safe.

“How will we get out?” asked Yfan-wyn, looking at Babuk. “They will see us.”

“We fight,” said the she-wolf, picking up an otter’s club.

“No,” said Rhy-lee, her mind focused now and racing. “I have a better idea.” She pointed along the side of the boat furthest from the attackers on the riverbank. “Go up behind the bison. Once we have unlocked them, we need to get them all on the other side of the ship.” To Yfan-wyn and Babuk, she said, “Stay hidden.”

Glancing up at the otters lining the side of the ship, their attention still focused on the riverbank, she ran out between the chained lines of bison. The young animals stopped bucking, with the wolves moving among them. They stood shivering, their eyes rolling. She unlocked the first pair of chains and started to pull them free. A hand grabbed the chain beside hers. She looked up into her mother’s eyes, one clear, one clouded.

“Keep unlocking them, I will pull the chains free,” said Tiere-lene.

Rhy-lee moved on. The bison they had just released surged away from the wolves, towards the side of the ship where the otters stood. Those still chained watched Rhy-lee and Tiere-lene tensely, their ears flicking. One older calf gulped an enquiry in its simple tongue. “We are setting you free,” Rhy-lee answered.

She looked up at a yell from above. An otter tumbled backward, short limbs flailing. He bounced off the back of a bison and hit the planks beside Rhy-lee. He struggled to sit up, a bloody gash across his brow from a slinger’s rock. He saw Rhy-lee and froze.

Tiere-lene lunged past her, knife arm extended, but not before the otter let out a piercing whistle of alarm. He was answered from above as his comrades turned to see.

“Now!” Rhy-lee cried.

The wolves charged towards the freed bison. The terrified animals tried to scrabble up the side of the ship. The ship leaned abruptly with the sudden shift of weight. The otters yelled. The last few bison still chained bucked and kicked. Rhy-lee and Tiere-lene dodged among them, releasing the remaining chains. A bison tripped, bowling Rhy-lee over.

She scrambled up as the ship tipped even further. Darts shot down into the confusion of bodies. Rhy-lee saw the she-wolf leader clutch at her neck and sag. The ship rocked, halfway over. A couple of otters fell backward over the side. A couple more were dragged down from their perches by the wolves.

Not enough weight, Rhy-lee thought. There weren’t enough of them to get the ship over. There was a roar. Something huge thumped against the outside of the ship. The head and shoulders of an adult bear appeared over the side.

“Mama!” yelled Babuk.

The ship began to topple. It was going over.

“Yfan-wyn!” Rhy-lee cried.

She saw him, clinging to Babuk, the young bear’s arm locked around him as he charged up the side of the ship and leapt overboard. The bison surged after, sweeping the otters ahead of them. Rhy-lee saw the she-wolf struggling to follow as water poured in. In the manner of wolves, none of her fellows stopped to help her.

Rhy-lee ran to intercept her. She caught the she-wolf as she stumbled, pulled her backward into the water. They went under. Rhy-lee kicked furiously. Then she felt the she-wolf kick too and they broke the surface, gasping at the cold.

Still clinging together, they swam for the shore.

The otters had evidently already tried to force their way onto the riverbank. Two of their number and a wolf lay dead at the edge of the water. The rest of the wolves were off along the bank, harassing the otters who were now swimming away downstream. Babuk was in the arms of his mother and another juvenile bear. Yfan-wyn sat shivering close by. Rhy-lee could hear the frightened bawling of the bison calves as they fled into the night.

Rhy-lee gathered Yfan-wyn up.

“We need to get warm,” she said, after she had held him for a time.

The she-wolf crouched close by, ears raised and nose twitching, staring after the departing pack. Her fellows who had been captured with her were gone with them. She swayed unsteadily, even braced on hands as well as feet, with the otters’ dart potion in her blood. She noticed Rhy-lee’s gaze.

“I will not run under another pack’s leader,” she said. Her words were slurred. “And I am twice-dead.” Her lips curled back from her teeth in an expression of anguish. “I do not know my place, anymore.” She drew a deep breath, and nodded to Rhy-lee. “I will remember you, little fox.”

With that she rose, weak and unsteady as she was, and walked away in the opposite direction to where the other wolves had gone.

An enormous hand engulfed Rhy-lee’s shoulder. She looked up at the mother bear.

“I am Nuganaksaramun,” said the bear. “Come, we will light a fire.”

Rhy-lee nodded, looking out over the water.

“Where is she?” said Yfan-wyn.

Of Rhy-lee’s mother, there was no sign.

In the morning, the wolves returned to loot the half-sunk slaver ship, shouting and squabbling over their treasure.

Nuganaksaramun presented Yfan-wyn with a carved piece of antler.

“You are brave, little fox,” she said. “You will carry my Word truly.”

Rhy-lee had to laugh at her son’s incredulous expression as he stared at the gift in his hands.

They found Yfan-wyn’s gear where he had left it on the on the opposite bank. Tiere-lene’s clothes and possessions were gone. Her tracks led away across the thinning snow.

“Will we follow?” asked Yfan-wyn.

Rhy-lee shook her head.

“Do you think we will see her again?” he said.

She gazed out across the plain, wondering why her mother had run away once more. Too afraid, she thought, and wished it could have been different. She chucked Yfan-wyn under the chin, swallowing her sadness.

“Perhaps one day,” she said.

They went home, then, across the plain and through the forest, up along the first ridge of the downs. That was where they found Aoin-rhys and Rhy-lee’s father – sitting tucked up in their parkas with their tails around their knees, staring out over the plain, the way Rhy-lee and Yfan-wyn had used to sit together before they left, daydreaming of the wide world.

Aoin-rhys saw them first. He leapt up and launched himself at Yfan-wyn, bowling him over and tumbling with him a short way down the slope. The two brothers wrestled and laughed in the new spring flowers. Rhy-lee’s father got stiffly to his feet. She was surprised by how old he looked, when only a season had passed.

He touched his nose to hers, then pulled back.

Rhy-lee could barely get words out past the lump in her throat. “I found her,” she said.

She saw his expression change, ever so slightly – just a fractional tightening around his eyes. He held her gaze in silence for a long moment. Then he said, “Come down into the warm and tell me about it.”

Weeks later, Yfan-wyn came out of his grandfather’s house and happened to glance up to the ridge top above the village. A person stood there – a fox – ears upright and parka hood thrown back, leaning on a hunting spear.

Yfan-wyn stared. His heartbeat tripped.

He crashed back through the door into the house, getting a yelp from Aoin-rhys.

“Mother! Mother! Grandfather, come and see.”

His mother caught him as he barrelled into her, knocking the air out of her with an “oof!”

“What has got into you?” she gasped, trying to get enough air to laugh.

He wriggled free. “She’s here!”

“Who is here?” demanded Aoin-rhys.

Yfan-wyn turned. His grandfather stood in the kitchen door. “She’s here.”

His grandfather nodded. His ears were up and his tail was straight, but his expression was peculiar. He didn’t speak, just took a deep breath and started walking towards the front door.

Rhy-lee caught hold of both her sons, saying, “Shush, now.”

She let them tow her to the door, then stopped them on the step. Yfan-wyn watched his grandfather disappear between the houses, and re-emerge a moment later, climbing the slope of the ridge. His grandmother, having come partway down, stopped.

She waited while her husband climbed up to meet her. For a long time they stood still, and it seemed to Yfan-wyn that they were not even speaking, just staring at each other.

“Mother…” he began.

“Shush.” Her hand on his shoulder was shaking.

Then his grandfather leaned over and touched the tip of his wife’s nose with his own.


Copyright 2017 Ian McHugh

Ian McHugh’s stories have appeared in publications including Asimov’s, Analog, Beneath Ceaseless Skies and (this year) The Year’s Best Science Fiction. His debut short story collection, Angel Dust, was shortlisted for Australia’s Aurealis Awards in 2015. His full bibliography and links to read or hear much of his previous work free online can be found at 


 By Octavia Cade


Bletchley Park

Helen woke to a room grown smaller than before. It was no illusion, no result of short sleep and poor light, a head grown soft and malleable under code. Her knees knew before her brain. They barked up against the bed that lay beside her own, the iron of its railings, the thin mattress and the covers all smoothed over.

It had not been a large room to begin with. There were too many men, too many women, and all the billets were taken, all the houses filled. Helen never minded sharing – she’d shared with her sisters all her life, six of them, and sharing a room now with only one of them – and that her twin, the closest of all – was a marvel of quiet and space in comparison. Even if it were only a small room, even if it were only two feet between cots and one of those feet gone now: the walls coming inwards, the beds inching closer together and that was something they had tried before, her and V., cuddling together for warmth and comfort when news of bombs came in, and battles.

But the two beds pushed together made it harder to get through the door, so Helen and V. had pushed them back into place, the little narrow beds, and gone to sleep with their arms stretched across the gap, their hands clasped together in darkness. It wasn’t the same, but it was hard to balance themselves together on a narrow bed and sleep when concentration was required of them in the waking hours, in the shifts before Colossus, in the codes and ciphers and breaking of Bletchley. Now, the beds were somehow shifting towards each other again.

The door opened then and V. was there, her face fresh-scrubbed and more open-eyed than Helen had ever seen her – Helen who had learned talking with her, and walking and running down hills with kites streaming behind. “Do you see it?” said V. “It’s the same all along. The rooms are getting smaller. Everything’s getting jumbled up together.”

“But why?” said Helen, still stupid with sleep and rubbing at her leg. “Is it a new regulation?” There were so many: rules thick as branches and woven all about, rules to keep them quiet and safe. To keep them all locked in together when the geography of their isolation did nothing to keep others out.

“Strange if it is,” said V, fond and patient at once. She slid between the cots and sat beside Helen, their sides pressed close that Helen could feel, through her nightdress, the warmth of her sister’s body. “I’m sure we’ll hear about it if we’re supposed to.” It was the constant refrain, the determined avoidance of question. Bletchley was a place of packages, of little separations, and it was not the place of WRENs to open up every one.

“I wonder if it will happen again,” said Helen, eyeing the bed across, the tiny distance between. The way it reminded her of home.

Los Alamos

The Lodge inched closer to the horizon than it should have done. When Frank, atop his horse, held his hand out at length he blotted out its stories with a single knuckle, and the growing distance between them made his stomach clench in a way that was more than war, that was more than absence. The only thing that approached that hot, tight gut-sink was the news of his twin, dead on far fields and never coming home now, the sense of unlocking, of dislocation – the uncoupling of Frank from his former life, from the world in which he was embedded. He was an island now, a brother that was, that had been, and no more. In that he was not alone – Los Alamos was a place of isolation, an island in a dry land, weighted down with distance. He was not the only one so cut off – it was the undercurrent, the ties that bound together and underpinned as ignimbrite the mesas of this new life. All there had left someone behind, had gone on ahead in secrecy and in silence, leaving universities and family homes, leaving that family behind, sometimes, on a continent blackened with war and with no help to come. No help, unless, unless…

Frank had gotten used to it, the sense of insulation, of, isolation: the dream state of Alamos. He had tied himself to work and rock, found the island as a place to stand and then the island shifted and he was outstripped. The Lodge moved further from the laboratories, and further still, until the land between unravelled as if its elastic had been lost, as if the isolation weren’t enough. As if the country around was determined to see him truly alone, a man without a brother left to stand in an empty stretch, with all the landmarks gone and all the world in silence.

It was as if he existed at the midpoint of a landscape defined by war: by the gouge and stretch and pillage of it, and Frank at a place of beginnings, an epicentre. All around him waves spread outwards as if a pebble dropped into a pond, and those waves pushed the world away and left him grasping: a single man upon a mount, riding past a pond that he had thrown stones in so many times before. Ashley Pond, that he might have thrown a stone across in summer, had his aim been good and his arm strong. Ashley Pond, that now belied its name and had the appearance of a lake, perhaps, or a small inland sea though it did not have the salt for it, though its growth was untainted as yet by tears.

There were plenty of those, more now than ever. Frank had seen, in the stables, a WAAC being comforted, her face blotched and being blotted, a handkerchief clutched in one hand. He had squeezed her shoulder himself, a silent gesture to reach across the gulf between them. Contact, on the mesa, had become a precious thing.

Bletchley Park

Helen had never been so prim. With all her sisters, there had never been any room for primness – or privacy, or personal space. She was used to encroachment. It was natural, something to be expected – it was why she and V. had adapted so easily to the crush at Bletchley, to the close quarters of people who lived in each other’s pockets, to the quick tempers and easy forgiveness. Not everyone had been so lucky, not everyone found it so natural.

It was always so simple to tell the only children. To pick up on the small things, the little cues that spoke of space and silence and the expectation of room around. Helen had never had that, had never missed it – until now.

Now she sat apart, or as apart as she could when the walls were pressing closer and the rooms shrinking, when even the manor house was assuming the aspect of dolls. She wasn’t the only one. They were all the same now, and everyone sat with shoulders drawn up, hunched in, trying to make themselves smaller in turn. Trying not to touch one another. Touch, now that it was so difficult to avoid, had become a thing of rudeness, of flushed cheeks and muttered apologies.

Helen and V. no longer wanted to share a bed at night. No matter the news, the long lists of friends killed, of acquaintances missing, there was no comfort in clinging. Where once V. would have laid her head on Helen’s shoulder, cried a little perhaps, they turned from each other, balanced on bed ends and slept poorly, kept awake by nightmares of crushing and darkness. Of entanglement, of being trapped by tree roots and buried alive.

“It was different before,” said V., her voice flat and exhausted. Helen couldn’t see her face. They were on night shifts now, but with the windows blocked as if for black-out there was no hint of expression. “We chose to be together then.” To sign up together, to go through training together and request a posting where they wouldn’t have to be parted.

“You’re so lucky to stay with each other,” their Dad had told them. “Most of you young ones are shipped off with strangers. You look after each other now. Your Mum and I will be depending on it.”

It had been such an easy promise. “Of course we will,” they’d said in concert, for who else could do it better? And now their relationship was one of shrinking, of trying to make a distance between them because closeness had become a thing of horror. How could they explain? How could Helen write home and hint at schisms – confess that when she reached behind her at night, reached for her sister’s hand, their flesh passed through each other because closeness was gobbling them up? Because the walls were moving in and the space between was so thick it could hold both of them – all of them – at once.

“You make me feel like a ghost,” said V.

Los Alamos

“I’ll never see my family again,” said Doris. Frank’s handkerchief was clutched in one hand, damp and crumpled.

“You don’t know that,” said Frank. Even to him the sound of his voice was shot through with uncertainty, and fragmented. He wished he were a better liar. He didn’t have much experience with crying girls, and all he knew to do had been to offer her his handkerchief, to take the reins from white-knuckled hands and settle down next to her in awkwardness. It might have been easier, but he was dizzy in his isolation, in the way that he was being dragged from a close-knit and often cramped community to one where the gaps were breaching friendships and forcing insularity. He shifted on the bale, uncomfortable. The straw made him want to sneeze.

“I’m sorry,” said Doris. “It’s difficult for you too, I know. It’s difficult for everyone. And I’ve been trying so hard to be cheerful. And the horses make it easier, somehow.”

“You’re not the only one to think so,” said Frank. There weren’t enough of them, not really, and with the distances in Alamos increasing the horses were ever more important. They were a comfort, too, as well as a help. More than once he’d come into the stables and found someone with their face buried in mane, with soft wet little sounds and stifled breaths. He’d laid his own cheek against one of those long smooth necks more than once, let his tears fall silent into hair. “I’ve done it myself.”

“That does makes me feel a bit better,” Doris confessed. “Terrible, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” said Frank. “It all seems terrible lately. Sometimes I feel…” Too much. He felt too much, and he didn’t know how to stuff it down or make it come out and share it.

“Who was it?” said Doris, and her hand on his was warm as horse’s hide.

“My brother,” said Frank. “In France. And sometimes I think that if there are more miles in Alamos than there should be then well. So what? There’s more distance out there than that, isn’t there, and it’s not so easy to cross.” There was a long silence.

“My husband’s in France,” said Doris. “I lie awake at night and wonder if it’s the same for them as it is for us. If he goes to sleep at night with his men and wakes up to find himself alone in the trenches. If he has to go calling for them. If they’re too far away when he needs them.”

“It’s only here, as far as I’ve heard,” said Frank, turning his hand palm up to squeeze her own. “So far it’s only Alamos.”

“Do you think we’re causing it?” she said, the two of them joined by hands and absence and clinging. By loneliness, by the experience and expectation of grief. “What we’re doing here. Is there something we’re doing that’s making the world all move apart?”

“I don’t know,” said Frank again. He hoped not. If it were true, the only thing to do would be to stop, and he didn’t know if they would stop. If they could, even, or if they should. It was too late for his brother but there was still a war on, still hundreds, thousands of brothers out there even if they weren’t his.

And wouldn’t it be a funny thing, if what they were building at Alamos could save the lot of them and push them away from each other, all at once.

Bletchley Park

In Bletchley Park, Helen dreamed of the man who would have been her brother-in-law. She had never dreamed of him before, even in her fascination at the person who would marry the girl who looked and thought and loved like her, but was not.

The courtship had been a hasty one, born out of leave and the desire for life amidst the bombs, the desire to connect with more than carnage. V. had begun spending her evenings apart, coming back with her face flushed and her blouse slightly askew and Helen would tease and giggle and make sure she was all straight before inspection, would cover for her sneaking. It was easy to cover when they had the same face, the same body – although their paths were diverging, it was still a small divergence as yet.

Then the leave had ended and the telegram had come, addressed to Miss Veronica Halliwell, and that divergence was cut off at the roots, cut off when it had barely begun to bloom and V. was alone with nothing but Helen and memory.

“You can talk about it if you want to,” said Helen, and that was something she had never needed to say before but V. hadn’t cried, had kept her lips shut and pressed together and Helen had wanted to make the invitation explicit. To give V. a chance to grieve in a way that wasn’t alone.

“I don’t want to,” said V. and her ring was put away, the pretty blue-stoned ring that she and Helen had gasped over and admired together. “Alright?”

“Alright,” said Helen and that was the end of it until she found herself dreaming in a room smaller than before. She was in a private room at a dance, or near one, with music and laughter coming through the door and a blue stone on her finger, and she was kissing the man who was to marry her sister, kissing him until she was breathless and feeling his hands come up under her blouse and he was kissing her neck and saying “V., I love you so.” And that had been enough to shock Helen into almost waking, into pushing him away and seeing on top of that same body a different face, the face of a boy Helen had danced the whole night with, the night that V. had disappeared with her boyfriend and come back to the dance with a ring on her finger.

Then she was awake, sat up sudden and straight and gasping, with V. pressed too close on a shrinking bed, their flesh merging where they brushed together and shocked awake herself, staring at Helen with a strange sullen dislike. “Those are my memories,” she said. “Mine.”

Los Alamos

Frank dreamed of a world he never saw. Dreamed of seeing his own face in a mirror, muddied about the edges and him scraping away the hair with a blunt razor with the trenches rising about him and water in his boots. He knew at once the face was not his own. There was no sense of dislocation, of entrapment. Their ways had parted a long time since, and there was normalcy in separation.

“Sure you should go to college,” his brother had said. “If I had your brains I might go too. Course, I got all the looks so I can’t really complain.”

It was an old joke, and Frank had never understood how the same face could have such different personalities, such different minds behind it. They had diverged early, with Frank more and more at school and his brother working at the shop, making up bundles and delivering packages, flirting with the girls that came in and taking them out every weekend while Frank was in his dorm, marking time with equations and homework instead of bra straps and soda pop. Then the war had come, or they had come to it, the sea between no longer enough to keep their country out, and Frank had been sent to science on the southern mesas and his twin had been sent overseas, tall in his uniform and neither of them knowing he’d never come back.

When the telegram came, the one that told Frank that he had been cut off forever, that he would never come together again, he had been patted on the back and comforted. There had been friends around, other scientists who had their own families and too much imagination and they had bought him drinks and the girls had come and hugged him as they’d always hugged his brother, because he was a twin alone now and that made it extra-sad, apparently. Frank had carried on, had borne up wonderfully, they said, but all the pats and drinks and hugs couldn’t make up for what the telegram didn’t say.

It never told him how his brother died. A bullet, a grenade… did he suffer, was it quick? Was anyone with him, and did that even make a difference when the only one who should have been with him was home safe and learning to ski in his off hours, exploring the old pueblo, horse riding? Horse riding, for God’s sake, while somewhere his brother’s heart was stopping, while his guts were spilling out, while he was drowning in his own blood.

Frank dreamed all these deaths, one after the other, and in each new end his brother was further away, the space of trench between them lengthening out until Frank couldn’t reach him, until he could barely see his face, the face that shaved in that beaten little mirror and even running couldn’t keep up.

In the last dream, the dream that woke him, his brother had been ripped apart by an explosion, his legs torn free from his body and when Frank tried to go to him he realised that it was his own legs, dressed in a uniform like his brother’s. His legs were blown off, blown far – tens of metres away and receding fast and there was nothing below his hips but separation.

He woke screaming.

Bletchley Park

When Helen finished her shift and returned to her room to change, V. was waiting for her at the door. Not inside, for inside was too much for them now, too close, and that closeness had become so stifling that they’d changed shifts, worked opposite hours so not to see each other, so not to be forced into touch.

“You need to see this,” said V. She waited while Helen slipped out of her uniform, looked away as she donned another dress – and that was another measure of the distance between them, for they had never bothered to look away before. What good would it do, when all they would ever see was themselves? There was no need for privacy when you shared a body, shared a face, but V. looked away and her hands were behind her back, an image of parade rest in a world where long lines and organisation still held meaning.

“I’m ready,” said Helen, and if she didn’t comment on V.’s stance or gaze it was because she fell into a distance of her own, a half-step behind until the corridor was passed and they were disgorged into open air, into the lawns around Bletchley, the manor gardens less smooth now than they had ever been with the house full of people, the temporary tacked-up buildings around. Less smooth, and smaller – but smaller was no longer something to comment on. Smaller was all around, the slow contraction of life under war, of rationing and lack and loss. It was boundaries of claustrophobia and silence a lawn all covered-over in footprints, because the space between treads was lacking.

“It’s here,” said V., herding her up to hedges, through trees and broken earth and the brief scattering of others, for V. had not been the first or only to notice, and the boundaries of Bletchley were no longer empty places. A dozen other people stood there, hands outstretched or stuffed into pockets, and as they stood back, too-careful to let the sisters through without bumping, Helen thought she saw shimmering, a slight glistening in the air.

“Gone all solid,” said one of the men, and Helen recognised him as one of the drivers, someone too leaden for mathematics but mechanically competent, someone used to fixing things. His palms were stained by wrenches, and there were tree branches round his feet, and crowbars. “There’s nothing that goes through it.” He looked at them, pale and disturbed, almost pleading. As if there were something they could do. “I’ve got nothing,” he said again, curiously blank. That was what Helen remembered afterwards, as if through prisms: how they all stood there, polite in their confusion and keeping careful distance. And quiet, because what if this was something that was planned, something that was meant to happen and they weren’t meant to know about? Something that shouldn’t be talked of, and they were all old hands at that.

When Helen reached out to touch it, her palm left little waves on the surface. She couldn’t push her fingers through, and the texture against her was strong and thin and flexible, like the surface of silk stretched loosely over frames. It made her skin itch, and when she took her hand away she could see V. scratching at her palm.

Los Alamos

Frank woke from trenches and disembowelling to a cold hand in his. “Mike,” he said, “Mike,” but the hand was too small, too unfamiliar. It looked nothing like his own. When he looked up, he could see Doris above him, her face shining in the moonlight and her hair was heavy about her face, as if it had dried from wet without styling, the strands roped together and limp. “What the devil are you doing here?” he hissed, and disappointment made him harsher than he would have been otherwise.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” said Doris. “But you need to come with me.”

“Keep your voice down!” said Frank, still annoyed but with a hold on himself now. He turned his back, pulled his trousers on over his pyjama bottoms because he didn’t want to ask her to turn her back, didn’t want to try wrapping the sheet around him in preservation of modesty. Even as he said it he felt her roll her eyes – the room he shared was the size of a large hall now, his room-mate pressed up against a distant wall and undisturbed. He fumbled with his shoes and even before they were fully on he was being tugged out of that cavernous room, down a corridor that stretched ahead and down stairs much longer than they needed to be, out into the dark.

“The stars look so bright here, don’t they?” said Doris, but all the stars that Frank could see were lower down, the lights on in the labs – only the true night-owls in them now, and the ones too exhausted to sleep – further away than they should have been. “I was in Ashley Pond” – “At night?” Frank interrupted, and he was even less interested in stars then, for their brightness on the mesa might be enough to show how his cheeks flushed – and Doris giggled. “Yes, Frank, at night,” she said, and he would have liked the way she sounded if there had been anything about her that was his, that could have been his if only things were different. “I was swimming. Floating, really, on my back and looking up. And I felt… I felt…Well. It’s easier just to show you.”

It was a long, quick-stepping walk to the Pond and when they arrived, Doris let go his hand and began to unbutton her blouse.

“Frank?” she said, smiling up at him from where she had bent to get out of her shoes. “Get on with it, will you?” There was something in her voice that sounded like a challenge, and for a moment Frank wondered if he should shrink from it, from vows that weren’t his but were vows nonetheless, but there was a little voice in his head then – a voice that sounded like his, the same tone and timbre and lilt. A voice that wasn’t his, warm and teasing in its familiarity.

“What are you waiting for?” that voice said, and it was a voice he’d never hear living again, that only came to him now in dreams. “Don’t make the lady ask twice, you idiot.”

He didn’t ask twice, but holding his tongue didn’t stop all the reservations in his mouth and they crouched there, heavy on his tongue as Frank stood in water up to his neck, feeling his feet in the mud, his flesh cooling in dark water, weighted down with wanting. Doris was almost pressed close to him, close enough that his brain stutter-started and all thought of wedding rings were gone, her hands resting on his shoulders because the water was too deep for her.

“Touch me,” she said and Frank reached for her, one hand lost in darkness below around the smooth flank of her waist, the other reaching up through the water and there she was in his hands, the smooth round flesh of her, the way her nipple felt in his palm. “Not like that,” she said and he jerked his hand back then, his face hot all over and perhaps if he’d done what his brother did, spent less time studying then he’d never have needed the instruction here, never have got it all so wrong and even if taking his brother’s path meant death in France, meant blood and slaughter then at least there wouldn’t be such embarrassment in it, such humiliation. But “It’s alright,” she said, and held his hand to her, forced his fingers open and encouraged his hand back to her breast, arched into him as if it were alright, really, and when she breathed out again, slipped further down into water her other hand slipped cool and wet over his face, closing his eyes to her. “Like this,” she said, and in the new darkness he felt her skin change. “Do you feel it?” she said. “Do you?”

Los Alamos

There were times when Helen wasn’t quite sure if she were asleep or awake. She existed in a shrinking world, one where beds were vanishing, merging into each other as the boundary on the edge of Bletchley tightened, drew ever closer. No-one was willing now to share beds, to become so entangled with their partner, to share flesh and bone and brain and dream. Instead, they slept in shifts and corners, and Helen woke once on one of the last cots to find a Colossus nudging against her mattress, its own bed-frame form fusing with the iron stead at the foot of her own.

For a time she and V. had kept themselves separate, on opposite shifts and their sleep cycles timed so as not to coincide. It didn’t make any difference – Helen was beginning to see through more eyes than her own and consciousness was no barrier. When she slept, she dreamt that she was transcribing code, checking tables and winding paper tapes onto machines, her fingers smelling of the French glue that kept the tape circling for decoding in giant speeding loops. When her fingers smelled of glue in truth, the letters blurred before her waking eyes and there was V.’s ring on her finger, a dream-state of love and naked flesh with nothing for her to do but clamp her legs together under the little desk and try to pretend that the pulsing between her thighs was a figment, a distraction from an often-boring job and not her sister’s sex.

And that still wasn’t the worst of it. V. was first and easiest, for all their caution, for they had been one to begin with once and this was just coming back together again, a natural thing. But every day there were different dreams, different persons coming all the way into her as the borders slimmed and deadened down to nothing, down to dregs and secrets and silence. As they were all opened up to her, laid bare.

Los Alamos

Her body was a puzzle to him. Frank had learned the shape of it first, the taste and heat and smell of it and on one level it was no longer a mystery to him. Still exciting, still forbidden and that made it even better, making sure not to get caught, not to be seen in betrayal. But when he closed his eyes Doris became a puzzle to him, a problem he couldn’t figure out, he who could use equations and models to map almost anything, to feel his way around the building blocks of cosmos. When he closed his eyes, he didn’t feel flesh – but his brother’s eyes were gone now, closed for good in the mud of trenches so it was no wonder that his sight was coming out all wrong for their eyes had been the same.

“I was floating in the Pond,” she said, “and I was thinking of how nice it was, and how nice I felt and even when you’re alone it can be lovely, the way it feels. And I got so caught up I forgot to worry about it, about any of it – France and Alamos and the bomb, and Harry out there all on his own. I wasn’t thinking at all. And I closed my eyes and I could feel it – the water and the way it held me and how my own fingers moved so nicely” (Frank had blushed here but hadn’t looked away, had wondered about repeat experiments, how it would feel to watch) “and then I felt other things.”

Rock. Ignimbrite, the dusty surface of mesa, the small green prickles of pine. Frank felt them too, over the surface of her body, over the surface of his own.

“They can’t both be right,” he said, afraid it was his mind – her mind as well, maybe all their minds, twisted somehow in the shadow of the bomb, a cruel consequence of physics. After all, when his eyes were open his hands felt what they should feel and that was soft, pliant, absent of geology.

Doris sat up in his bed, wrapped the sheet around her. Frank’s roommate was gone for the day, wrapped up in his section, in a flurry of calculation and breakthrough and the distance between rooms come too disturbing for casual visits. Most stayed in the crowds, now, where contact was an easier thing. “Close your eyes,” she said again. Then, “hold your arms up, that’s right. In front of you. Now walk.”

“Where?” said Frank, as if it mattered. As if there was anything in this room, the size of a baseball field (the room that was once so small it had seemed too tiny for two) that he could trip over. “Anywhere,” he heard, and so he walked forward, confident in the space around, and in three paces his hands hit a wall.

When he turned around, Doris was curled up on his bed, a hundred yards away.

Bletchley Park

Helen’s world had walls now, in a way that she’d never had before, back when she had believed the world was an open place, a place for her to be open in. Certainly, there had been times when she felt cooped up, locked in – so many sisters, such an omnipresence of her face – but she’d always been able to go out into the garden, look up at night and see the stars. See infinity, with her life at the centre of it and space all around.

Then she came to Bletchley and that was a world that was circumscribed, where the walls were more than the walls of her bedroom: temporary, and with windows. She learned stifling there, and suffocation, but even so it was a considered thing, a place where she could still exist under starlight, for Bletchley was a microcosm, a line between. She was there, and V. was there and all the rest, for purpose – so that the world outside would still be felt, would still exist in ways that mattered more than telegrams and casualty lists and radio transmissions.

“One day, this will all be over,” V. had said to her once, when Helen had come off a long shift, her head swollen and aching from cryptography, from the cramped and crucial efforts of code. “One day we’ll look back and think this was fun. We’ll laugh.”

“We won’t,” said Helen. “Because we won’t talk about it.” Because they had signed to say that they wouldn’t, because they had given their word. But their silence would be the silence of the world that they would go out into, the nature of their binding invisible.

And yet it was not temporary. Bletchley shrank, and the walls were hard up against them, brick and plaster and wood part of their bodies now as they were part of each other, as they were part of all the bodies at Bletchley, and all the glass and all the code, and pressed up against the outside of them was a world they could never reach, never fully be part of again. A world without their density, a world without their weight, where their presence was a shadowed thing and felt in absence. Outside, the world was fish-eyed: skewed around, bent as if in lenses. Helen could see the places that Bletchley had been, the places it had touched, and they were separated from her: the empty pits in London where the bombs had dropped, the memorials, the safer seas. All this she felt, at distance, and could not say how it was that she knew it. Bletchley was heavy, dense, a black hole in the Buckinghamshire countryside and on its edges was Whitehall, was Dollis Park, was the sinking, shrinking orbit of everything around, everything affected.

She could see the dome of Saint Paul’s from her bedroom window, from the windowless rooms where the Colossi were kept locked in and blacked out. She could see London bridge at the manor gate.

On clear days, Helen could see that she was surrounded by ocean.

Los Alamos

As the mesa stretched around him, Frank wondered whether it would crack in the stretching, whether it would become thin as eggshells and as fragile, baked under the hot summer sun of New Mexico, baked in the shadow of a different sun. Whether it would crack under his footprints, able to be levered up then and the old world underneath, the world that existed before the energy of atoms came to change it.

Doris, he thinks, would have called that an unworthy thought. “You know what we’re doing here,” she had said, naked against him and her wedding band shining in the light because she never looked away and there was no shell thick enough for her to hide her adultery beneath, no shell she wouldn’t have cracked to keep the truth from being buried under. “You know what we’re doing here.”

No. It wasn’t a shell. He watched Alamos stretch, watched the distances between their labs and themselves and knew that the new world they were creating wasn’t one that could be dug up again. It didn’t come in layers – distinct, with edges that cut. It came with softness, with sympathy, and so thin now that Frank could see through it, as though the essence of Alamos had spilled over the steep walls of the mesa, bleeding through into other lands, other countries.

When his time at Alamos was over, he carried it with him. He saw the labs superimposed on college campuses, the calculations carved into rock. All the scientists he ever met wore pork pie hats and everything he ever touched was gritty, as if overlaid by sand.

It made secret-keeping a mockery, really, when the secrets were so open, blasted into prominence on islands across the Pacific, and handed off on little bridges. Always, always there was that little bridge, on the edge of sight and on it stood a man who Frank worked with, sometimes, and never really knew. His name was Klaus, and he carried Alamos in his briefcase as Frank carried it in his eyes, in his touch – carried it to give away to outsiders on bridges, and to cover the world over with Alamos, to spread it wide and thinly so the holocaust that first ignited on the White Sands could spread everywhere, could spread all over.

Frank had never been a spy, never been a traitor, so he never took himself off to Moscow, to any of the cold countries come up with the end of one war and the beginning of another, but he saw photographs, sometimes, and the Lodge was there, pressed cheek by jowl first against the Kremlin then other buildings, other governments, and he wondered, sometimes, if when Stalin breathed in of a morning he could smell pine trees and mesquite.

Frank existed in two worlds, as if his twin had come back to him in ignimbrite and undercurrents. He spent his days walking between old landmarks and dust and white sands followed him all his days.

Bletchley Park

The thing that had been Helen – when she was Helen, when she was a separate creature, one who had boundaries and who understood islands, and what it was to be one – had only sensations of weight, and pressure, of rapid mental blinking. Bletchley now was so heavy, so massive, that it drew them all in together, bound them with its own gravity, stamped secrecy on their bones. They had signed in blood, all of them, or good as, and even when the outside world pressed against them that thin signed sheet left smears of ink along what had been cheekbones and glass valves and precedence, and kept silence.

A thought came: It’s like being in trapped in glass, but all the glass was smashed when the Colossi were destroyed, the machines broken down into little pieces no bigger than a fist. And that thought wasn’t Helen’s, that blink had never been hers – but neither was the feel of a blue-stoned ring on her finger, the sensation of another moving inside her and these had come to be her own. All of them had come to be her own, with Bletchley compressed down, smaller and smaller and oh, so heavy.

Perhaps we’re the size of a football now, thought one and she didn’t know if it was her. Perhaps we’re the size of a cricket ball. Perhaps we can fit on the head of a pin. A strong pin, not to buckle under. Not when there was such injustice in the squeezing.

Not fair, thought another when news came in from the outside, news of another computer – one called ENIAC, and feted as the first. Not the first, not the first! And Helen wanted to cry out in protest as much as the rest of them but space was not their friend, nor secrets, and Bletchley was so dense, the space between so tiny that there wasn’t any shouting that could breach the barrier, that couldn’t be pulled back by weight. And even if there was a way, even they could, they had made promises and that made the silence heavier than anything else.

No good. It was no good. There were some boundaries that couldn’t be crossed, some experiences of closeness, of bringing together and insularity, that could never be communicated. That could warp away, that could shift space-time and keep them enclosed in pockets, away from what was once familiar and which had become untouchable.

V., the thing that had been Helen thought. V. And it was cry and recognition at once, for V., was with her, pressed against and inside and the two of them closer now than they’d ever been in the womb, with all the space between them, between each separate atom of them, each cell divided away from each other, gone away. V.

I’m here.


Copyright 2017 

Octavia Cade’s stories have appeared in Clarkesworld, Asimov’s, and Strange Horizons, amongst others. She has a particular interest in science history, and this story is one of a series that she’s writing that are linked to the WW2 cryptographic work at Bletchley Park. She lives in New Zealand, and attended Clarion West 2016.



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