short stories – Page 2 – Katherine Traylor

fiction, old work, science fiction, short stories, slipstream, Uncategorized

Inspiration Season

December 29, 2022 amongthegoblins

Written June 2018

I’ve tried to rework this piece several times, because I think it has strong bones, but it needs a lot more worldbuilding to really make it work and I’ve kind of moved on to other projects now. I still like it, though.

She’d hoped to go outside again before the beginning of Inspiration Season. Conditions had held good—relatively clear skies, normal oxygen levels, few hallucinations among the perimeter guards. All the labs were trying to squeeze in last-minute projects before the change of season, which meant lots of work for interns.

But now the meters showed the atmosphere shifting, oxygen levels trending downwards. The tula-trees were darkening, stretching towards the sky. Soon their great fleshy yellow blooms would open, sucking the remaining oxygen from the air.

It might take days—even weeks—before the levels got too low to breathe. Even then, you could take an oxygen tank. But it didn’t matter. No one went outside during Inspiration Season. That was asking to come back to the Bubble altered, or not at all.

It was still unclear why the Beyond was so much more dangerous in the months when the tula-trees inhaled oxygen like animals, but the atmospheric changes definitely correlated with an uptick in strange, often fatal accidents outside the Bubble. New complications appeared every year. Even if you guarded against every danger you knew, a new one could get you. People had disappeared in full view of entire departments—gone a few steps into the tula-tree forest and vanished forever. An entire expedition was once found comatose just outside the perimeter, and though they’d been sent home, they still hadn’t awakened. For a whole week last year, enormous pink flowers had bloomed in ten different sites around the Bubble, exhaling thick clouds of black spores, which had eaten through biohazard suits and caused horrible respiratory infections.

Most concerning were the people taken by the Haze. At least ten had disappeared so far after encountering the deep purple clouds, with no traces ever found again. And the Haze grew more aggressive every year, drifting towards unsecured doors as if it could sense breaches in the Bubble’s seal—which perhaps it could. No one had ever gotten close to it without being taken, so no one knew quite how it worked.

Thus, when oxygen levels began to drop, no teams were sent out unless absolutely necessary, which meant no interns were sent out at all. And from what Miranda could see, Inspiration Season was just about to start.

She turned unhappily back to the task at hand: a rack of tula-tree samples with unusual spotting, which Dr. Hobok thought might have been caused by some kind of pathogen. The project technically wasn’t complicated: check the affected areas under a microscope for signs of cellular deterioration. The problem was that every single tula-tree was unique on a cellular level, so it was hard to know which variations—discoloration, deformed or missing organelles, precancerous-looking growths—were disease-related, and which were normal. Every anomaly had to be checked against a huge reference gallery, and anything new required exhaustive documentation. The job took intense focus, and would keep her busy for many hours; she’d already been working on it all day. Even if she stayed the whole night, she probably wouldn’t finish.

But she’d been falling behind—depressed to be trapped inside, weighed down by an odd ennui that never seemed to leave her these days. No matter how much extra time Miranda spent in the lab, her work kept piling up. Worse: she was making stupid mistakes, errors that could jeopardize entire experiments, things that would embarrass a first-year biology student.

Jordan, her supervisor, hadn’t said anything yet, but she’d seen his disapproving frowns. If she couldn’t pull herself together, she was going to be in pretty serious trouble.

He’d be checking her progress tomorrow. She had to process at least thirty more slides tonight—fifty would be better. A bad report could mean Miranda’s contract wouldn’t be renewed when it came up—internships in the Bubble were in high demand, and she could easily be replaced.

But the task was mind-numbing. Tula-tree skin had lost its alien appeal long before she’d finished processing her first lot of 800 slides. And Miranda had been up late last night, reading accounts of the first explorers’ forays through the Rip into the Beyond, trying to recapture her old excitement. She was exhausted. She needed coffee—music—a break.

But those would all be distractions. What she really needed was to keep working. If she could go an hour and a half without stopping, that might be fifteen slides…

And then Emmanuel walked in, and her distraction level skyrocketed.

Even if Miranda hadn’t known him—even if he’d just been some random tech—he would have been distracting. He was so long and lanky that his head nearly brushed the doorframe as he walked in. His untrimmed hair twisted around his face and neck, brushing across the collar of his orange Facilities jumpsuit. Small handmade charms hung from bracelets around his wrists, organic objects faded to faintness by time. There was something a little uncanny about Emmanuel.

And also something very human. His eyes shone; his smile was a touch too earnest. He also needed a shave. Dork, thought Miranda, grinning. “Hello,” she said.

Emmanuel smiled brightly back. “Hello.” Advancing to a table by the window, he set down his case and began pulling out tools and chemicals. “Lovely surprise seeing you here,” he said. “Why so late?”

Miranda indicated the samples. “The usual. What are you working on?”

He rolled his eyes. “Some of those new windows downstairs didn’t get sealed right after that diamond storm last year. There are some drafts coming in—nothing big, but it could be a problem later, so I’m supposed to check the whole building and make sure there are no leaks anywhere else.” He shrugged. “It’s a little time-consuming. Do you mind if I’m here a while?”

“Of course not,” said Miranda quickly. “I could use some company.” Of course, she knew that with him in the room she wasn’t going to accomplish anything at all.

They worked quietly—for a given value of “work,” at least on Miranda’s part. Emmanuel, as always, was quick and competent. There were few enough maintenance techs here that she’d met him many times already: thanks to the randomizing effects of the Beyond, things broke down at the Bubble much more often than in other labs. Emmanuel was popular with everyone, but Miranda liked to think he paid her more attention than others.

She wanted to talk to him. It wasn’t as if she were accomplishing anything—she was so distracted she was having to recheck every sample twice. But Emmanuel was deeply involved in his work, so she just watched him as discreetly as she could: the graceful lines of his back and shoulders, his face silhouetted against the evening sky. He hummed softly, perhaps thinking she wasn’t listening.

After a long time, as if there’d been no pause, Emmanuel said, “Have you been outside lately?”

It took her a moment to understand. “Outside the Bubble?

“Of course.” He smiled. “You’re always talking about it. Everyone does, of course—they only hire… what, planetophiles? Xenophiles? To work here… but you especially seem to love the place.”

“I’ve only gone outside a couple of times,” said Miranda regretfully, “and not recently.”

He frowned. “That’s a shame. You should try to go out more.”

“Sure.” Miranda eyed him sidelong, wondering how he expected her to do that, when there were no more assignments coming up anytime soon. “What about you?” Maintenance technicians only went out when the Bubble wall or something on the grounds was damaged, and they usually went in teams, just long enough to complete the repair.

But Emmanuel surprised her by saying, “Sometimes.” He set down his tool and began running his hands around the window frame. “It’s why we’re here, right? Everyone goes outside sometimes.”

Miranda stared at him. “Everyone? Like, regularly?” Was she somehow the only one not getting the benefit of living in the Bubble?

“Sure! I mean, it’s not technically allowed, but everybody in maintenance and catering definitely goes. Probably your coworkers do, too. There are lots of really good places to explore pretty close by—I could take you tonight, if you want.”

She almost dropped her slides and took him up on it right there and then, but managed to restrain herself. “Wish I could,” she said, “damn, do I wish I could… but I’ve got to get this done.”

Emmanuel pouted. “Not even for a little bit? We could watch the sunset—what there is of it.” His tone was light, but Miranda sensed that the offer would be serious if she chose to take it that way.

She thought about it—tempted by the offer, the company, the prospect of finally exploring the alien landscape she’d come through the Rip to see. Emmanuel wasn’t quite what she’d call a friend, but he was as close as they usually got in a place where people came and went so fast. If they did go outside, she had a feeling she could trust him as a guide.

But she couldn’t.

“Sorry,” she said, “but I really can’t tonight. Rain check?”

Emmanuel’s face fell slightly. “Inspiration Season’s starting. Technically it’s probably still all right to go out, but later… it would be too dangerous.”

“Oh, said Miranda, quelled. “I guess it would have to be some other time, then.”

Emmanuel looked thoughtful. “I’m just sorry you won’t be able to go outside. But… how about a walk around the Bubble? It wouldn’t take as long, but you’d still get a bit of a break.”

Tempted, Miranda glanced at the work piled on her table. “I really need to get at least half of these done. Ideally two-thirds.”

“Maybe I could help you?” Emmanuel suggested. At Miranda’s surprised look, he added, “I’ve actually had a lot of Bio classes. I’m pretty good with stuff like this. If you wanted a break…”

She glanced up at the security camera. What would happen if she let someone else help her with her work? Best case, no one would care; the Bubble didn’t stand on much ceremony. Worst case, she’d get into huge trouble and be fired.

Assuming anyone checked the footage. But why would they? If there was no problem with the work, there would be no reason to check up on her—and with Emmanuel as smart as he was, Miranda was sure the work would be well done.

“All right,” she said, heart fluttering. It had been ages since she’d had anything resembling a date. “Sure. A walk sounds nice.”

Emmanuel’s eyes lit up. “Let’s go get something to eat first.” He began cleaning up his supplies. “Then we can see where our feet take us, shall we? Here, I’ll help you clean those up.”

Cleaning her workstation took only minutes. She worked faster with the prospect of a break. Maybe she needed one. She might be more efficient after some food and good conversation, a little time away from the lab. She smiled gratefully at Emmanuel, happy he’d had the foresight to interrupt her.

As Miranda started towards the door, Emmanuel froze. “Look.” He pointed out the window towards the tula-trees. “Look at the Haze.”

Miranda followed his gaze. Dozens of small purple clouds passed like phantoms between the tula-trees. Trails of deep color followed in their wake, staining the forest floor: not the pink-violet of iodine gas, but a much darker shade. The clouds passed and met and paused, undulating gently, as if exchanging brief greetings. Miranda had never seen so many in one place before.

She looked up at the gray sky, then back down at the Haze. They’d never gotten a sample—people couldn’t be risked going near it, and drones malfunctioned if they got anywhere close—but the Haze had been scanned repeatedly with every ranged technology available. Spectrographically, the clouds read as water vapor—just clouds, nothing unusual but their color. But they stayed on the ground, and they moved as if self-guided.

And they ate people.

“They usually stay deeper in the trees, don’t they?” she said. “They don’t usually this close.” As she spoke, a tiny cloudlet left the forest, rolling down the hill towards the Bubble.

Emmanuel nodded slowly. “Hope nobody left a window open. Come on, let’s go.”

For convenience, they went to the cafeteria. Though it was off-shift, the place was still half full, people meeting friends or taking breaks from their own overtime. Miranda recognized most of them. It was both an advantage and a disadvantage of working here: on one hand, you knew everyone; on the other hand, everyone knew you.

Several people glanced curiously at her and Emmanuel as they entered. Emmanuel, for his part, smiled unselfconsciously, waving to a group who must have been his friends. Miranda knew she was blushing. There was no reason to be ashamed, exactly, but she knew the conventional wisdom about workplace romances, and knew they’d be whispered about later.

Suppressing her discomfort, she followed Emmanuel down the line, choosing from what the machines had laid out. She saw the fungus that Hobok’s department had studied last year—unpoetically named ‘Collier’s tree-ear’ by its discoverer—as the topping on some kind of sushi. It was too brightly purple-and-white to pass for fish, or anything Earth-born. Its rippling edges seemed to writhe on what might have rice or might have been something else.

Miranda took two pieces anyway, along with a salad of the “grass” that grew under the tula-trees. The catering staff seemed to have decided that, if the native ingredients they’d been using hadn’t hurt anyone yet, they must be safe enough for now. They might be right. The tree-ear fungus, at least, had the same basic nutrient profile as an edible mushroom, and contained no known toxins or carcinogens. If if turned out later to have been dangerous… well, people would probably die. Maybe that was what science was all about? Anyway, Miranda had tasted what the cafeteria produced when it ran low on supplies from Earth, and so was willing to risk a few exotic ingredients.

Emmanuel loaded his tray with five pieces of the sushi and two of the little plates of salad and looked around for more. Miranda moved aside so he could take a dish of chocolate pudding (dusted with dried purple seaweed no one had yet managed to taxonomize). “Hungry?” she said jokingly.

He grinned. “Starving.” He plucked another dish of pudding from the counter and put it on Miranda’s tray, then led the way to a relatively secluded corner. Miranda still sensed people watching, but ignored them. She felt nervous, half as if this were a job interview, and half as if she wanted to skip dinner and drag Emmanuel off to a closet somewhere. It had really been too long since she’d been on a date.

“So,” he said, after they’d taken a few bites. “How’s work?”

Miranda laughed, startled by the prosaic question, and answered a bit more honestly than she’d intended. “I’m going to get fired. There’s too much to do. I feel like we’re working nonstop, but not really producing anything… and I feel like I’m the only one who can’t keep up.“

“Would getting fired be that bad?” Emmanuel sounded genuinely curious. As Miranda spluttered, he added, “You clearly don’t enjoy the work. If your passion isn’t in it, why stay?”

“For the Beyond,” said Miranda miserably. “If I get sent home, I’m never going to see it again.”

“Really? You’d just give up? Why not get a different job?”

“What, like—“ Miranda stopped herself from saying, like mopping floors? She remembered, blushing, that Emmanuel was essentially a custodian.

He gave her a sideways look, but shrugged. “Why not? Nothing wrong with maintenance. It isn’t glamorous, but it gets you here if you need to be here. Same goes for catering. And there’s supply management, admin, commissary sales…”

“Yeah, I guess so,” said Miranda. “But I’d be stuck inside all the time! I don’t get to go out that much now, but I’ve been a couple of times, and at least I get to work with what we bring back.”

Emmanuel grinned. “I told you, there are ways out. Honestly, sometimes I’ll just slip out for a little break—won’t even wear a suit. It feels better to just breathe the air with no plastic over your face.”

“But that’s—“ Miranda realized that clearly his outings hadn’t hurt him any. “I can’t believe you,” she said instead. “You just go outside? What if you run into something you’re not able to deal with?”

“People do,” he said seriously. “Not all those disappearances were from field expeditions. Someone stays out a little too long, looks the wrong thing in the face, never comes back… But it’s pretty safe close to the Bubble—as long as it isn’t Inspiration Season.”

Miranda shivered. “Have you ever seen the Haze up close? I’ve only seen it from the windows.”

“Once,” Emmanuel said, “when I was out by the fence having a smoke. Sometimes it shows up a little before before the numbers tick over, but it usually doesn’t come that close… I saw it coming through the trees, right towards me. I booked it, obviously, but it’s way faster than you’d think. A few more seconds and I wouldn’t have made it.”

Miranda shook her head, horrified. “You know, you’re the reason we keep having all those seminars about wearing protective gear and staying away from local wildlife,” she joked. “You’re going to get eaten if you’re not careful.”

Emmanuel laughed. “I don’t think the Haze actually eats people… but it’s definitely unnerving to watch. When it’s close… there’s this sense like something else just walked through your head. Can’t describe it. Just… eerie.”

Miranda leaned closer, intrigued. “How many people has it gotten now—ten? Eleven? They never found any bodies. Theory is they were dissolved.”

Emmanuel winced. “Ugh, nasty. Do you… ” He glanced at her as if gauging something. “Are you one of the people who thinks the Haze is intelligent?”

Miranda opened her mouth to say no. The approved theory was that the Haze was just a byproduct of tula-tree respiration, moved by wind, and possibly by magnetism or some other still-unmeasured force—just an unusual cloud formation with a few unidentified chemical components.

But Miranda—like everyone—had always been fascinated by the idea of intelligent clouds, beings so alien they didn’t even have bodies. She didn’t believe the Haze was a lifeless vapor, and she doubted Emmanuel did either. “I think it is intelligent,” she said, leaning forward. “I think it’s self-directed. I think it would have gotten you that time, if you hadn’t run. And I think we’re damn lucky it can’t get in here.”

“I think so, too,” said Emmanuel, and the last awkwardness between them disappeared.

After dinner they went to the commissary for chocolates and wine. Emmanuel wrapped his arm around Miranda’s shoulders as they left. They wandered the Bubble’s outer curve, looking out the windows. The setting sun—never quite visible—cast a milky golden glow through the eternal gloom of the sky. Beyond the perimeter, the rising crowns of the tula-trees stood out in stark relief against the sky.

“What first got you interested in the Beyond?” asked Emmanuel, stopping by a large sunward window.

Miranda considered. “I was in middle school when the Rip first opened. We heard about all the expeditions disappearing, the animals wandering in, you know, all the international teams coming to study it. My friends thought it was all kind of creepy. All of us were interested, of course, but they were happy to just follow it online.”

“Not you?”

She shook her head. “I always loved adventure stories. I used to read all those explorers’ memoirs, you know? I had this daydream that I’d go to see the Rip, get sucked in, and just have all these adventures…”

“Me, too!” said Emmanuel, grinning. “But it was more the nature side that interested me. I wanted to be where you are, working with all the specimens. I couldn’t afford school, though, so I just moved close to the Rip and started looking for help-wanted ads. Even the Bubble needs janitors.”

“Yeah,” said Miranda, at a loss. “Wow… I feel like a real asshole now, complaining about my job…”

“No need to feel bad,” Emmanuel said. “I’m here—that’s what matters.” He turned. “Come on, I know where we can have our wine, if you don’t mind walking a little.”

There wasn’t time for wine—Miranda needed to cut this date short or risk being empty-handed tomorrow. But Emmanuel’s smile was so bright, the curve of his arm so warm… Another hour wouldn’t matter. She would never catch up, anyway—and he’d promised he would help her, so in the end she might actually save time. Anyway, she knew she wouldn’t be able to make herself say no. Smiling, she gestured for him to lead the way.

But he stopped abruptly at the next window. “Look.”

Looking outside, Miranda gasped. The largest Haze cloud she’d ever seen was wrapped around the Bubble’s base like a vaporous purple slug. One end of it ranged back towards the forest; the other trailed out of sight along the wall. The thing must have been at least thirty meters long. “What the hell?” Miranda said. “Looks like it’s trying to get in.”

“Glad I sealed all the downstairs windows,” Emmanuel said. “I hope it can’t climb walls.”

“I don’t think it can,” said Miranda slowly. “It usually stays low, right?” She made a mental note to check with Jordan later. “Shall we go?”

Hi gaze lingered on the window. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Let’s go.”

Their destination turned out to be a small supply closet near the currently-empty B-Section labs. They met no one going up. The deeper they got into the dim, silent corridors of the empty sector, the more uncertain Miranda felt. What was she doing? She’d planned to spend the night working… But it seemed silly to back out now, and she didn’t really want to. Glancing at Emmanuel, she felt a little better when she saw him looking equally uncertain.

He stopped at a nondescript door and laid his hand on the knob. They stared at each other.

She cleared her throat. “Shall we?”

Emmanuel opened the door with a relieved smile. “After you.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Miranda slipped inside. The dark closet was oddly soundless. There was carpet underfoot. Reaching out, Miranda felt thick cloth insulation on the walls. “What’s with this place?” The words dropped echoless from her mouth.

Emmanuel followed her in and pulled the door to. “A lot of the equipment they use up here is calibrated really finely. Even footsteps outside can mess it up, so they insulate the closets. Totally soundproof.”

Miranda looked nervously at the thin crack of light around the door. “Do you have a light?”

He rustled in his pockets. Suddenly his hands were full of light—a dozen tiny, golden-white LEDs. He laid them out on the floor, a circle of fairy torches. “Have to get behind the walls a lot,” he said, “so I keep some of these on me.” He added the wine and chocolates to the circle, and the closet looked almost festive.

Miranda closed the door all the way, shivering pleasantly as lights and shadows closed around them. “I didn’t think about bringing a bottle opener. You have one?”

“Naturally.” He held up a utility keychain. “Forgot about cups, though. Did you happen to grab any?”

She shook her head. “We’ll have to pass the bottle back and forth.”

Emmanuel took her hand and helped her to sit down. “Sounds lovely,” he said, smiling. “Let’s get started.”

Leaning her head against Emmanuel’s chest, Miranda sighed—heard and felt his answering sigh, as contented as her own. She wrapped her hands in his and smiled. Finding out that her crush on him was reciprocated had been the best thing to happen to her all year.

She wanted to stay here all night. Could they get away with it? This sector would probably be empty for at least another six months, so no one should have any reason to be watching it. They could sleep here, leave in the morning, and then—

She remembered the slides.

”Emmanuel.” She whispered his name against his skin. “I have to go. Did you still want to…”

Emmanuel stirred slowly, as if waking, though his eyes had been open. “Of course.” His voice was a faint rumble, pitched as if to let Miranda herself sleep. She couldn’t believe how much she liked him. “Let’s get dressed,” he said, “and we’ll go get started. Then…” He helped her sit up, looking almost hesitantly at her face. “After that, we could maybe get breakfast, if you’ve got time? Or go back to mine and grab a nap?” He winked, and passed her her shirt.

Miranda smiled. “Breakfast sounds lovely.” They dressed and helped each other stand.

But when they opened the door, a shrieking klaxon flooded the room—a buzzing, screaming, pulsing whoop that went on and on and on. They stumbled back, taking scant shelter from the onslaught in the closet.

“What the hell is that?” Miranda hissed.

Emmanuel paled. He stared out into the hallway as if he were looking at the end of the world. “It’s he breach alarm,” he said. “Something’s gotten into the building.”

The klaxon continued for fifteen or twenty seconds, and then it stopped. A voice message played.

“This is a repeated warning. All personnel are to evacuate the facility immediately. If no exits are accessible from your location, please find a secure location and remain there until this alert has lifted. This is a repeated message. This message will repeat in five minutes.”

They stared at each other in mirrored shock. “What the hell?” Miranda said again. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” Emmanuel took out his phone and scanned the newsfeed. “There are no details, just the same announcement posted like twenty times.”

“Why wouldn’t they say?” She edged out of the closet and started down the hall, wincing against the noise, all her nerves alert. The gate to the Rip was in the basement, a long twisting way from here.

Emmanuel followed quickly. “Maybe they didn’t have time. Come on.”

The siren cut off before they got to the stairwell, leaving the hallway eerily silent. Rubbing her ears, Miranda wondered how long the alert had been playing. They’d been in the closet for… she checked her phone… about four hours. Everyone must be long gone by now.

“We need to find the command center for this floor,” she said. “It should have some hard-copy maps, maybe an emergency kit—and maybe we can check the security feed.”

Emmanuel shook his head. “We have to get to the Rip. It’s too dangerous to stay here.” He paused. “But…”

“But the gate’s probably sealed by now.” It was protocol to seal off access to the Rip after an evacuation. Miranda was sure her expression was as grim as Emmanuel’s. “Should we try anyway, or try to find someplace to hide?

He started to answer, but then froze, staring down the hall. Turning, Miranda saw the Haze.

It filled the hall—a massive wall of billowing purple fog, gliding steadily towards them. There was no way to see beyond it.

“How did it get in?” said Miranda faintly.

Emmanuel looked stricken. “It must have come through one the windows upstairs. Guess it can climb walls after all,” he said numbly. “If I’d—“

“No time to worry about it,” said Miranda. “Let’s get out of here.”

“This way.” Emmanuel tugged her back the way they’d come. “We can cut through the next hallway and get behind it.“

They ran.

The Haze followed, stately as the sun. It was odorless, silent—but it radiated chill. Miranda imagined that cold burning into her skin, wondered how long it would take to die that way.

Her steps faltered as they passed the closet. “Maybe we should—“

“No.” Emmanuel pulled her on. “If it seeped through the windows, it could seep under the door. We’d be—“ He jerked to a stop.

Stumbling to a halt, Miranda followed his gaze. At the end of the hallway, a second bank of Haze approached. They were completely cut off.

Paralyzed, she stared into the new wall of fog. Emmanuel’s fingers tightened on hers. “Oh,” he said softly, sounding more baffled than upset. “It…”

“The closet,” Miranda said. No other choice now.

But when they turned back, it was too late. The first bank of Haze had already crossed the closet door. They were trapped.

“We’re going to die.” Miranda’s voice sounded blank and strange in her ears. “We can’t get away.”

The cloud was only paces away. Now Miranda could see the vapors painting the walls, layer after layer of deep violet seeping into every surface they touched. The Haze rolled over and through itself, recycled and expanded, growing larger with every centimeter of ground it gained.

“I wonder if life insurance will kick in,” Miranda said dully. “You think this counts as death by workplace hazard?” Her mind was oddly numb. Time seemed to be slowing. This was apparently how she was going to die. She hadn’t predicted anything like this, didn’t know how to feel.

Emmanuel stared at her bleakly. “I’m so, so sorry,” he said. He stroked her hair, looking down at her as if she were a treasure on the verge of destruction, a painting threatened by wildfire. “If I had done my job…”

“It’s all right,” Miranda said shakily. “At least everyone else got out. Anyway, it was my fault, too. I was the one distracting you.” She smiled crookedly up at him. “We fucked up together.”

Emmanuel laughed humorlessly. “Go team.” He shook his head, eyes brimming. “I shouldn’t have asked you to come,” he said. “If you hadn’t been with me, you would have evacuated with everybody else… no, if I hadn’t… if I’d just done my job, it never…”

“It doesn’t matter now.” Miranda was surprised by how calm she sounded. She took Emmanuel’s hand and kissed it. “We knew it was risky just coming through the Rip—and I did come to see things like this.” She smiled. “Anyway, it was a great last night.” Emmanuel still looked stricken, so Miranda leaned up and kissed him as the Haze rolled over them.

Darkness surrounded them, and moisture, and cold. They both tensed, wrapping their arms around each other as they broke the kiss. Miranda wanted to scream—but it would mean opening her mouth, letting go of her last breath of untainted air. She kept silent, pressing herself against Emmanuel.

The Haze was cool and damp against her skin, like forest air after a night of rain. No poisonous tingling yet.

Emmanuel shifted, shielding her more with his body. Miranda folded against him, eyes still tightly closed. If she opened them, she’d only see the Haze. That was the worst part—that there was no end to it, that she wouldn’t see clear air again until she died.

Could they have run? If they’d had goggles or safety equipment—if they hadn’t panicked—could they possibly have escaped? Maybe they should be trying even now—running blind through the Haze, feeling for untainted space. Were they even now wasting their last chance to survive?

Miranda trembled. Her heartbeat quickened—her last breath grew toxic in her lungs. She leaned against Emmanuel, trying to remember his face clearly enough that it would be the last thing her mind’s eye saw. Anything would be better than that purple fog.

Still there was no pain—only damp, cool air.

Finally, her breath ran out. She exhaled as slowly as she could. Then, when she had no other option, she drew a tiny bit of the cloud into her lungs.

It felt like breathing fog—nothing worse.

She heard Emmanuel take a small breath, then felt him relax. No pain for him, either, then.

She had an odd feeling of gnosis, as if the mist were imparting something to her that she would never have thought to look for. It seemed important—but whatever it was, it was so alien that Miranda had only a vague echo of it in her mind, some poor translation of an original message.

Emmanuel was quiet. Perhaps he was receiving the same message. Probably he was better prepared for it than she was.

Finally, gathering her courage, Miranda opened her eyes. The air around them was clear. The Haze was pulling back.

“Look.” She tugged at Emmanuel’s sleeve. Her voice sounded a little richer, a little more resonant.

Emmanuel opened his eyes and drew a sharp breath, staring at the retreating fog.

The Haze fell from the walls and ceiling, wandering off in both directions, as if searching for any space it hadn’t covered. It retreated down the hall, leaving everything in its path a deep and vibrant purple.

“Look,” said Emmanuel suddenly. “Look at us.”

Turning, Miranda saw that he, too, was purple—his skin, his hair, his clothes. The whites of his eyes gleamed like enamel in his deep-violet face

“We match.” Emmanuel grinned, teeth flashing.

Miranda looked down at herself. She looked like she’d been painted. Lifting the neckline of her shirt, she found that the Haze had soaked through the thin fabric, staining her skin.

Physically, she felt unaltered—she felt great, actually. Emotionally, though—spiritually, maybe—she knew that she was changed. She felt as if she’d woken from some dream of perfect enlightenment that she couldn’t remember. Emmanuel’s face suggested he was having similar feelings.

“Well.” Leaning over, Miranda pressed her lips gently to his. He deepened the kiss enthusiastically, as if swallowing down all the fear and anxiety of the last few minutes. They’d survived—nothing could frighten them now.

Finally, Miranda broke away. They really should discuss what had just happened—they really should start to react to it. She didn’t want to, though.

Emmanuel released her reluctantly, still holding her hand. “Do you think it will come off?” He tipped her hand back and forth, smiling at her new coloration. “I kind of like it.”

“It’s certainly different.” They should be running for chemical showers, first aid kits—but the relief she felt was so intense, the strange sense of gnosis still so strong, that Miranda couldn’t muster any urgency. She wasn’t ready for the world to start again.

She was about to make some terrible joke about couples in matching colors when she realized, quite late, that they should be trying to send back word to Earth that they were alive. They must be listed as missing by now. “We’ve got to report in.” She moved towards the nearest wall console, wondering if it would still work.

Emmanuel followed, face sobering. He would be in a lot of trouble, Miranda realized suddenly, for not sealing all the windows. It would be a stretch to blame everything on him—for the Haze to have entered so quickly, there must have been other leaks somewhere—but people always looked for scapegoats in situations like this. At best, Emmanuel would be fired. At worst…

She stood by the console, uncertain. Eventually Emmanuel said, “Could we maybe just… rest, for a second?”

She turned gladly. “I don’t want to call. I just… I want…” She hesitated. What she wanted would sound crazy.

“I feel it, too,” said Emmanuel, nodding. “The calling.”

“Calling,” Miranda murmured. She couldn’t hear anything—but when she focused, the feeling was undeniable: something coming from the wilds of the Beyond, far outside the Bubble.

It was strange—not anything as concrete as intelligence, per se, but something seemed to be aware of them. The Bubble’s air, always stale, now felt almost stifling. Miranda wanted to be outside, in the wide new world she’d dreamed of for so long, the new world she was born to see. Out there, delicious mists curled over the landscape—beings waited, as different from her as she was from the Haze, as akin to her as she now was to Emmanuel. Her veins shivered like twigs in a rising wind.

“This must be what happened,” Miranda said suddenly. “The people who disappeared—the Haze didn’t eat them. They left. They’re out there somewhere.”

Emmanuel read her thoughts. “And we need to be out there, too.” He stared down the hall after the retreating Haze, visibly longing.

“We shouldn’t,” Miranda said, trying mostly to convince herself. “We’re not in our right minds right now. This stuff could really be slow-acting poison.” She looked again at her violet arms. She should be more upset, she thought, but felt only slowly rising excitement.

“Miranda.” Emmanuel’s smile was teasing, cajoling. “Come outside. Come walk in the Beyond.”

“We’re aware this is a terrible idea, right?” Miranda started towards the door. “We definitely should not go out there.”

“Definitely not.” Emmanuel followed, smiling.

“It’s Inspiration Season. Who knows what could happen?”

“Anything.” He took her hand, and hand in hand they went.

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fiction, old work, short stories, Uncategorized, writing

Summoning Dragons

December 23, 2022 amongthegoblins

Written May 2017

This story is almost six years old and was definitely inspired by the year I spent working at Borders Books after university. Let me know what you think. : )

Life as a cashier stretched long before him. His break was over. Lunch wasn’t for another hour. Jeremy wanted to do something strange—maybe dance?—but he lacked the energy.

Mark drifted by, looking as detached and bored as Jeremy felt. “Did you get those DVDs tagged?” he muttered to his coffee.

Jeremy pointed to the pile of stickered DVDs on the counter.

“Good. Call all the special orders?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“All right. Um, clean up, get things neat…” Mark glanced at the counter, found some clutter to point at: a roll of tape, a few unsorted returns. “Call if you need any help.”

“Thanks,” Jeremy said, and knew Mark wouldn’t notice the sarcasm.

Nodding vaguely, Mark started toward the cafe to scold the baristas for talking.

What would it be like to just walk out—drive home, never come back? He could stand for a while under the summer sun, feel warmth for once instead of the curdled air conditioning of the bookstore. He actually considered it for a while.

But he couldn’t quite do it. If he did leave, he’d be fired within the hour. Then what? Hard enough getting this job—there wasn’t a lot Jeremy was qualified to do with half a college degree and a drug offense on his record. If he left, he’d end up working at Wal-Mart, and he had enough trouble paying the bills as it was.

So he stayed, counting minutes, and waited for people to buy books.

A young woman entered after a while, face stormy. She looked like the sort of person Jeremy would like to talk to: black bob, chain jewelry, chunky boots. He opened his mouth to ask if she needed help—anything for a conversation. Just then another customer appeared to distract him, though, and the woman kept walking. He didn’t see her again for several minutes.

When she returned from the back, she held a book—a thin, flat hardcover, dark-red velvet—under one arm. It was one of the ones from the bargain bin—a blank book, or one of the schmaltzy poetry collections no one ever bought. She carried it oddly, though, half-hidden, and after far too long Jeremy realized she meant to steal it.

The woman saw him watching, clearly realized he knew what she was doing. Now she’d turn around, put the book back, because it definitely wasn’t worth anyone’s time to call the police over stupid shit like this.

But she kept going, still watching him, as if she couldn’t stop. As if she had to take this book.

Jeremy shifted so that he could see her path clear to the door. It only counted as shoplifting if she actually took the book outside. If she did, then he’d have to call the police.

She was almost to the gates now. It didn’t look like she was going to stop.

He opened his mouth to call her back. He didn’t want her to get arrested, not over something like this.

But then… he didn’t call, didn’t follow, didn’t watch her take the book outside. Instead, he walked to the other end of the counter, turned his back on the door, and began clearing up. What did it matter if someone stole something—stole anything? The store was about to go out of business. Soon everything would end up remaindered, and it wouldn’t really matter what anyone took. The woman was just getting an early start.

When he turned back, she was gone.

The store was almost empty. There probably wouldn’t be more than twenty more sales tonight. Maybe Mark would bite the bullet and close early. It would be nice to go home a little early, though Jeremy couldn’t really afford the hours.

Suddenly, a tingle ran through the air. Ozone flickered across the back of Jeremy’s tongue. A storm? But the weather was clear, earlier—no storms had been predicted. He craned his neck, trying to see the doors.

Mark ran past, then, coffee abandoned. “You’re in charge, Jeremy!” he shouted, and went outside.

Jeremy abandoned the register and followed.

The woman stood in the middle of the parking lot, book open in her hands. She looked at the scattered shoppers as if she’d rather not be watched, but then lowered her head and began to read.

“Excuse me,” said Mark, approaching. “Miss. I’m going to have to ask you to—“

The woman kept reading, raising her voice to drown him out.

Jeremy couldn’t understand a word. It was… a poem, maybe, but not in any language he’d ever heard. But he felt like he should understand it, if he could just hear a little better. He started to move—then stopped, as a tingle of electricity ran across his skin.

The woman read on.

Clouds gathered. How had they formed so quickly out of a clear sky? One—enormous, and almost spherical—began to pulse, as if something could burst from it at any second.

Mark had stopped talking. He kept making little abortive motions, as if to grab the book, but never quite managed.

Jeremy hovered at the edge of the crowd. (Day or night, city or suburb, there’s always a crowd.)

The woman read on, voice rising and rising, until the great cloud opened and the dragons spilled out.

Like a swarm of bees, a vast colony of bats, they flowed towards the earth, descending to the streets and shopping centers—blue, silver, scarlet, all different colors, settling to the ground as graceful as the folds of evening gowns.

The woman lowered the book and squinted upwards.

The dragon that landed before her was the deep, rusting red of venous blood. Red-tinged shadows fell from its wings over the girl and the ground where she stood.

She raised her face, beatific.

The dragon lowered its sedan-sized head to nuzzle her cheek. Between its wings was something that, on any other animal, might have been called a saddle.

Two other dragons had landed here, too. One, sinuous, crouched by the Home Goods. It was gold mottled with red, an unsettling asymmetrical pattern like the spots on an alley cat.

The other, much closer to Jeremy, was almost as large as the bookstore, very solid. Its skin was a deep and satisfying black, like the tiny onyx beetles he’d played with as a child. Its head was shaped like a snapping turtle’s, less refined than the others’—but Jeremy liked it more. Somehow, Jeremy had barely noticed it land, but now it sat with its wings neatly folded, as if it had been there for hours.

It, too, had a saddle between its wings.

The mottled dragon surged to its feet and sauntered towards the store. Its gait was lazy, awkward—like a Komodo dragon, actually. Its wings stayed poised as if ready to take off.

The door of Home Goods was covered by a knot of screaming people—maybe barricaded by equally frightened people inside. Jeremy watched, mesmerized, knowing he was about to see violence but with no way to intervene. The woman by the red dragon watched, too. Her face was impassive, no more readable than the dragon’s.

The black dragon was watching him intensely. Its eyes were a deep, bloody crimson. They seemed to expect something, though he couldn’t tell what. Faintly, he could smell the dry odor of snakes, bitter herbs, cinnamon.

The yellow dragon was almost at the door. It lowered its head, as if to assault the building—maybe to assault the people. Jeremy couldn’t look away. Would it break down the door, rip it from the hinges—

Before the dragon could move, the door flew open. A young man ran out—tall and thin, stylish, with dark skin and a golden pompadour. He shoved past the screeching people and threw himself at the dragon.

The dragon froze drew back its neck and froze, oddly birdlike.

The man stood for long moments with his arms held open, as if he were barely restraining himself from hugging the creature around the neck. Finally, he stepped forward.

Someone grabbed his arm. Mark. Mark, who tried and failed to prevent the summoning, was trying to prevent whatever was going to happen next. Jeremy couldn’t hear what he was saying, but the gestures were clear: back away—dangerous—go inside. Jeremy wanted to laugh—trust Mark to bring a bit of the aggravated middle-manager into this event.

Then he looked again at the stranger. The laugh died.

The man watched the dragon as if transfixed—like a parent who’d just seen their child for the first time, or someone who’d just fallen in love. He lifted a hand, and the creature that had looked so fierce a moment ago nuzzled it like a giant cat.

The man curved his body towards the dragon. It leaned in, cuddling like a much smaller creature. They seemed bonded already, as if they were cementing some connection that had already been there before.

Jeremy couldn’t keep watching—the sympathetic emotions that were rising in him were getting overwhelming. He turned back to look at the other two dragons.

The red dragon appeared… bored, if anything. The woman, who had climbed onto the saddle, appeared to want to be gone. She would be gone soon—Jeremy was sure this summons was forever. Woman and dragon already looked like a unit—two parts of one being, inseparable.

That left the black one.

Jeremy turned back to the black dragon with… trepidation? Excitement? It was watching him as if he were the only person in the world. If the other two riders were chosen already, then the black dragon’s rider must be… Jeremy.

It felt like hours before he was brave enough to approach. Just as he started walking, a hand closed on his arm.

“Jeremy.” Mark’s voice, hoarse but recognizable—Mark’s average, muted manager voice. He stood at Jeremy’s shoulder, and clearly meant to keep Jeremy from leaving if he could.

Jeremy shook off his hand. The dragon watched solemnly, perhaps with a touch of humor. It must have seen many Marks throughout however long its time had been, would surely see many more.

“It’s dangerous.” Mark’s voice was hesitant, as if Jeremy had been compromised somehow and must be handled carefully. “There’s, like… some kind of spell on you, I think. You need to stay away… they’re too big…”

Jeremy started walking again.

The dragon inclined its head, as if it were a king greeting an honored guest or a welcome supplicant. Jeremy nodded back.

It was as hot here as under a blazing sun, though the day had been mild until the dragons came. The odors of snakes, herbs, and cinnamon grew stronger, along with a touch of brimstone now. Did they really breathe fire?

Mark made a sound of protest, but fell back. His protection apparently didn’t extend into the dragon’s shadow.

Jeremy walked until he stood between the curved, table-sized talons, and then looked up. The terrifying eyes were fixed on him.

He bowed. “I’m here to talk to you,” he said.

The dragon didn’t speak. Could it? In some stories they could. Maybe it would speak to him when it was ready.

“Are you here for me?” He knew the answer.

The dragon nodded once.

“I’m supposed to go with you.”

Another nod.

“Where?”

The dragon tipped its head—what was Jeremy doing standing, asking questions, when he could be on its back waiting to be taken away? And he wanted to go up there. Mostly. But he couldn’t leap without looking.

“Will we come back?” he said, after a brief silence. The lot was quiet; if anyone was speaking or moving, he didn’t hear. Nothing mattered in the world except this conversation.

The dragon cocked its head the other way.

This moment would define Jeremy. Would he go back in—go back to retail? Or would he sit between a dragon’s wings and be carried into the clouds? He felt that he could almost fly himself just knowing there was such wonder in the world.

But, thinking of his parents, he had to hesitate. Could he just leave without saying goodbye? They had always treated him well, supported him even now, although he’d disappointed them. And who would take care of his cat, if he left? He couldn’t just leave her. Of course, his parents would step in, but she was his responsibility. If he left on dragonback, he’d never see her again.

But it was a dragon.

As he considered, there was an odd dry huff across the parking lot, a scrape of talons on cement. When he looked up, the yellow dragon was bounding towards him. The rider, face hard and cool now, sat like a jewel between its shoulders. Like the woman, he seemed a part of his dragon, not an individual any longer. It was the most frightening thing Jeremy had ever seen.

He almost ran—but the black dragon wasn’t reacting, looked completely unimpressed, so it would be silly for Jeremy to panic. Still, it was hard to keep still, waiting for the yellow dragon to pass or kill him.

At the last second, the yellow dragon threw itself fluidly aloft, wings pumping down a hurricane wind below. Around the lot, people screamed and took pictures.

Next, the red dragon stretched, bowing nearly to the ground, back sloping upward like the side of a cliff. The woman gripped its shoulders almost absently. With a single beat of its wings, the red dragon flashed into the sky.

Then it was only Jeremy and the black dragon. Time to take his place, ride into the sky.

He couldn’t move.

The dragon leaned forward until its face was only inches from his. Its breath scorched him, but it felt comforting. The scent was everywhere—he breathed it in, and it seemed to spill out through his pores again, until he thought it would be a part of him permanently.

He leaned into the warmth. Slowly, feeling immensely shy, he laid one hand on the dragon’s snout.

The skin was bumpy, pliant, very hot. From that bare touch, Jeremy already felt a deep and subtle connection beginning to grow between them. He felt sure that if he didn’t back away now, he would never be able to.

The dragon head followed his hand with its head, quite delicately for something that size, as he tried to withdraw. Finally he pulled his arm away and hid it behind his back. The dragon lowered its jaw, great red eyes sorrowful as an abandoned dog’s.

“I have family.” With considerable difficulty, he stopped himself from reaching out again. “Parents. I have a cat.”

It looked at him as if he were insane. He probably was.

“Can I join you later?” It seemed unlikely, but he had to ask.

The dragon’s look was unreadable.

“I’m sorry.” Jeremy’s voice was rough. “I just can’t.”

He couldn’t bring himself to leave, and couldn’t bear for the dragon to leave, either. He wanted to touch it again, to feel that connection growing, but it wouldn’t be fair—they’d miss each other forever.

He almost begged the dragon to stay, but managed not to. If he couldn’t leave his family, make in a second a decision that would affect his entire life, he couldn’t ask it of the being that would have been his companion. And certainly he couldn’t ask the dragon to live here on earth—it couldn’t thrive here. Still, stepping back was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

“Goodbye for now, I guess.” Jeremy held his hands forcibly at his sides. “Good luck.”

The dragon’s look was deep and sorrowful, full of unreadable meanings. It turned and bounded away, surprisingly light, almost silent, and leapt into the air.

Instantly, Jeremy knew he’d chosen wrong. He started running, through the crowd of spectators (of which he was one, once again), past Mark (who tried to stop him), past the stricken, crying friends of the yellow dragon’s rider—waved his arms, hoped the dragon would somehow see him and return, take back his stupid decision. “Come back!” He knew it couldn’t hear him, but he yelled as loudly as he could. “Please. I was wrong. Please. I want to go, too!”

But the dragon flew on, joining its companions, and the lines of dragons, dozens and hundreds of them, rising from all the places where they’d landed, most with riders on their backs though a few without, converged on the spherical cloud that was now closing like a flower at sunset. Then all of them folded into it like shadows, and at last the cloud was only a cloud.

He wanted to curl into a ball and die—go lie in bed, never get up again.

Mark was touching his shoulder.

“Yes?” Jeremy managed to say. Was he somehow still on duty?

Mark seemed embarrassed, like he didn’t have the words to talk about what had just happened. “You made the right choice,” he said, more compassionately than Jeremy would have expected. “I’m glad you’re still here. Are you all right?”

“Fine. Thanks.”

“Listen, uh…” Mark scratched his head. Though considerably older than Jeremy, he seemed much more confused and wrong-footed by the situation (though much less grief-stricken as well).

“I’m going to go.” Jeremy took a step back. He needed to find some place where no one had heard of him, sit down for a year or ten and figure out what had just happened. “Is that okay? I can’t work any more today.”

“What? Oh…” Mark clearly wanted to keep talking, but to his credit said quickly, “Of course, sure. Ah, take tomorrow, too, if you need to.”

“Thanks.” No knowing what else to say, after a moment Jeremy left. Mark didn’t call him back.

A few people tried to stop him. He ignored them. They had no connection to him anymore. He’d never come back here again—every time he saw the place he’d remember… could it be called disappointment if you could blame only yourself? Heartbreak, certainly.

Jeremy was halfway across the parking lot, and was considering walking home, when his foot struck something on the ground. He stopped.

On the asphalt, surprisingly clean and undamaged, was a cheap-looking book—flat with a dark red velvet cover.

It was in his hand in seconds. He began to open it—then stopped, aware of the crowd, wanting to keep this piece of magic to himself. He glanced around to see if anyone had noticed him pick it up. Some people were watching him, but that didn’t mean anything: they’d been watching him him since the dragons left, probably long before.

Holding the book firmly closed, Jeremy began to run—out of the parking lot, across the street, past the bank where his paychecks were deposited, past the grocery store. There were people here, too, many more than usual at this time of day, all talking and pointing at the cloud (indistinguishable now from the others, maybe not the original cloud at all). There had been dragons here, too. Jeremy wondered if they’d taken anyone.

He ignored everyone in the lot. They ignored him, too. He was no one special here, just some kid late to work in one of the shops.

He ran around to the back of the strip and found a quiet space behind the pharmacy. He sat down and held the book a long time.

He had to open it—find whatever the girl had read, read it out loud, bring them back—but what if… what if it wasn’t there? Maybe this book would turn out to be nothing—some other thing, “Poems About My Mother” or a blank diary or something? What if it could no more call dragons than he could on his own?

“Just open it,” he muttered. He took a deep breath and opened the book.

Immediately, he was disappointed: the book was in English. He was sure the girl had spoken a different language, so this couldn’t be it. But as he kept turning the pages, he realized that the poems inside were very unusual.

“The Lay of the Mermaid.” “Under a Cursed Tree at Midnight.” “The King Approaches.” “May the Spirits of the Damned Soon Fall Upon Your Enemies.” All were different; some weren’t poems at all. Some—“History of a Lost City and All That Tragically Befell It”—were walls of text, pages and pages that his eyes skimmed over without absorbing anything. Others were extremely short. One, “Awakening,” had only two lines.

Here and there Jeremy paused, suffused with the urge to read aloud—but he wanted the first poem he spoke, if he spoke any, to be the right one.

And there it was: “To Summon Dragons from the Sky.”

It was two pages, lines laid out neatly like the couplets in Beowulf. It looked approachable—would take only minutes to read. He could choose the perfect place and time, say goodbye to everyone, find a home for the cat…

But as he stared down at the page, he found that his resolve had wavered.

With a twinge of guilt, he turned to the next poem. “Lullaby for an Elfin Child Found Sleeping in a Bower.” He was careful not to read too much of it, feeling that too much attention could unlock the magic early—but it looked like a beautiful poem, very tender, full of starlight and sentiment.

He turned to another poem. “A Song to Breathe Underwater.” Deep echoes bubbled through his mind, and he felt that someone was calling to him.

Carefully, Jeremy closed the book and smoothed his fingers over the cover. There was time to decide. He’d look at them all—beginning to end—before reading anything aloud. He wouldn’t waste this choice. He had time.

Tucking the book under his shirt, Jeremy started towards home.

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fairy tales, fantasy, fiction, old work, short stories, Uncategorized, writing

Century Fruit

December 14, 2022December 14, 2022 amongthegoblins

Written July 2015

This is one of the ones that never got much attention. It’s a quiet story, and most of the action is internal, but it meant a lot to me when I was writing it. I think the ending is a little ambiguous, so I’d be interested to know what you think will happen.

The shutters in the hearth room were already drawn. A bright fire had been laid, filling the round room with shadows and chinaberry smoke.

Bas stood by the hearth, chewing on a grass stalk. He looked up when Amir came in, then back at the fire. His face shone with sweat; he’d been out running, or pacing.

Amir crossed to the sofa and sank into the joint of its two halves. He leaned his face against the cool, cracked leather. “I’m nervous,” he said, surprising himself with the admission. A tight knot had grown in his stomach for days. He’d barely eaten anything at supper, though it had only been herbs and lentils—a simple meal meant for contemplation. Traditional on century nights.

His cousin laughed. “Don’t worry. You’re very clever; I’m sure great things are ahead of you.”

“Lots of people are clever,” said Amir glumly. “Mother’s brother was clever. A horse kicked him, and he lost half his wits. One-Eyed Ahmad was clever, and he was a muck-hauler. What if I’m a muck-hauler?” His breath was speeding up, but he couldn’t slow it. “We don’t know what any of us will see.”

Bas inhaled sharply. Before Amir could try to reorder his words into something more positive, his cousin stalked from the room.

He thought of following, but didn’t. Bas would be unapproachable until this was over. In the unlikely event that the fruit didn’t send him after Isra, he’d leave tomorrow anyway. He’d only stayed this long because he hoped that the century fruit would give him a direction to start in.

He stood and walked, running his hands over the old furniture, the hangings, the pottery. Here and there were crude objects made by generations of the family’s children. A clay figurine of an old traveler with a bird on his pack had been Amir’s gift to Grandmother three years before. Beside it was a lopsided coil-pot Aunt Gili had made when she was five or six, painted with wobbly olive branches under its cracked glaze. Other things were so old no one knew their stories. How many people had left this house over the centuries and never returned?

The adults still lingered over their tea in the kitchen. The mint was a cool thread under the tang of woodsmoke. He could hear Mother’s voice, quick and strident, rising over the rest. Again she said that this was all too sudden, too breathtaking. She’d wanted to put off cutting the fruit, at least till tomorrow, but Aunt Gili had gently reminded her that it would rot after just a day off the tree. Bas had found it this morning. If they didn’t eat it tonight, they might go another century without guidance.

He sat back down, inhaled again the familiar scent of old leather. It seemed harsh, almost crude, for all of them to eat the fruit where they could see each other’s faces. Kinder if they could take their visions in their rooms, their private spaces. He thought of the fig tree outside the kitchen, where he could sit in fragrant breezes as the sun set over the desert. He’d rather process his fate alone.

Was it fate that they would see? Mother insisted they could ignore the visions if they didn’t like them. Father said she wanted them all to stay within calling distance, but Amir was sure Adi, at least, would go farther.

He slouched down in his seat. He wasn’t sure he wanted to try the fruit at all. His family probably wouldn’t push if he refused, though they’d be disappointed. Twelve was young. But though a full century didn’t always pass between one fruit and the next—once it had supposedly only taken 20 years—he probably wouldn’t see another in his lifetime.

His muscles were tensing up. He eased them deliberately, though his heart still raced. Which would be worse: to see a vision, and have to leave the farm—or pass it up, and stay here forever?

Hani stomped in then from the kitchen, scowling. Amir straightened. “Hey, little. What’s wrong?”

His brother climbed up next to him, sliding down on his first attempt. “I’m angry,” he announced, glaring at the fire. His face looked sticky from the honey pear he’d had for dessert. At five, Hani had nothing to contemplate.

Amir smiled, but lacked the energy he usually had to entertain his brother. “Because you don’t get to try the fruit?”

Hani kicked his heels back against the sofa, nodding. His lip trembled.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Amir after a moment. “Tomorrow, when our chores are done, we can go for a long walk. All the way to the west field, if you like. Maybe we’ll find some flowers for Mother.” The adults generally preferred that the children not wander to the west end of the farm, as it bordered the desert and was mostly unguarded, but they would probably make an exception.

Hani looked marginally cheered by that idea, but his face soon clouded again. “Why do you get to eat it?” he said, kicking his heels again.

I don’t know. Amir drew his knees up to his chest. It was a lot of pressure for someone who’d never been farther than the city—to know that in a few years he would either leave forever, maybe for someplace he’d never heard of, or settle in for the rest of his life.

Then Shani and Shai came arm in arm through the curtain to the back wing, trailing a cool cloud of perfume. Shani was whispering, Shai giggling. Fais followed, smiling. Amir shifted to make space for him, but Fais followed his sisters to the bench by the hearth, and sat closer to them than he usually would.

They might be gone tomorrow, Amir realized suddenly. Both his girl cousins were seventeen. The visions were said to fade quickly, and it was best to start as soon as possible if your path lay elsewhere, especially if details were unclear. Amir might wait three or four years, until he was better prepared, but even that was risky.

And Adi… His sister appeared then, a silhouetted against the warm light of the kitchen doorway. It was still startling to see the abbreviated outline of her hair. All the other women in the family kept theirs long, but Adi had seen something in a magazine that made her chop hers off at chin level.

She was wearing the new outfit Father had brought her from the city. To Amir, she looked very sophisticated—shoulders bare under the cropped blouse Mother hated, full silk trousers swishing as she walked. He had expected Mother to scold her for wearing something so frivolous tonight, but Mother had only sighed, and looked at Adi with a sort of desperate fondness.

Adi, too, would probably waste no time in leaving.

What would that be like? They’d never been particularly close, but Amir supposed they loved each other as much as siblings usually did. He would miss her if she left. He thought she would miss him, too, at least when she remembered to.

The adults filed in from the kitchen: Father, Mother, Grandmother, Aunt Dar, Aunt Gili, Uncle Rabi. Lutfi and Siva came hand-in-hand, whispering. They sat in the shadows a little apart from Lutfi’s sisters.

Grandfather came last of all. In his hands was the covered silver dish he’d brought out and polished that afternoon.

As the adults all sat on the couches, Bas slouched back in. He leaned against the wall by the doorway, not looking at anyone, as far from everyone else as he could stand without leaving the room.

Everyone stared at the dish Grandfather had balanced on his knees. He was running his hands along its edges, uncharacteristically hesitant.

Father cleared his throat and clapped Grandfather on the shoulder. “Here we all are.” He’d dressed especially well tonight—formal silk, beard neatly trimmed. He seemed to expect good news.

“Here we are.” Grandfather glanced at Father. Father removed his hand.

Hani slid from the sofa and ran to Grandfather’s knee. “May I open it, please?”

Grandfather hesitated, and then held the dish out so Hani could reach it. “Go ahead,” he said.

Hani’s fingers smudged the silver as he groped for the handle. At last he got hold and opened it.

The fruit might never have fallen at all, especially from a tree as high as a century tree. Its burnt-golden skin was flawless. It had a flattened spherical base with a little dome on top where the stem was. Strange. As it ripened, it had been a fig-sized green lump, high in the branches. Now his hands wouldn’t have circled it.

Hani reached for the fruit, but Grandfather shook his head. “You’ve helped enough, dear. Go sit with your brother.” Hani obviously wanted to protest, but even he wouldn’t argue with Grandfather.

Grandfather’s wrinkled hand sagged under the fruit’s weight as he lifted it from the dish. He offered it to Grandmother. “Well, my dove.” He cleared his throat. “Why don’t you cut it?”

Grandmother had laid out a plate, a fruit knife, and a pewter saucer on a tray. She took the fruit and looked around, moving her lips as she did when she counted. “Fifteen, then,” she muttered. Setting the fruit on the plate, she picked up the knife and began to cut.

Mother shifted. Always calm and reasonable, she’d been unusually agitated about all this. Father watched her, but didn’t move or speak. They hadn’t spoken much lately, and today they’d hardly looked at each other. Father, uncharacteristically quiet, had mostly sat alone in his courtyard, writing materials untouched beside him.

Bas fidgeted, shuffling and tugging at his clothes. He was sweating again.

Everyone else was rapt and quiet. Adi watched the fruit as if it were the only thing in the world. Aunt Gili and Uncle Rabi held hands.

Grandmother cut precisely, methodically. The sound was shht, shht, shht, shht, like eastern pears when you cut them. Drops of juice flew out from the blade as it sawed. Some landed on her spotted knuckles, but she ignored them.

A strong perfume floated out: apple, honey, something floral. Pears, too? He couldn’t tell.

The knife reached the bottom. Grandmother began another cut. Shht, shht, shht, shht.

The first segment finally fell away. The flesh was brilliantly white: whiter than apples with their green overlays, or pears with their brown shadows. Would it be tart like apples? Sweet like pears? Grandmother sliced away the core, coaxed out the black seeds with the point of her knife, dropped them into the saucer. Plink, plink. She offered the section to Grandfather.

He shook his head. “Cut the rest, dear, and we’ll all eat together,” he said. “I think it’s best, don’t you?”

Grandmother set the section on the plate and began cutting again. She worked so slowly, pausing each time to cut away the core, to drop the seeds into the saucer. Plink, plink…

Amir’s mind wandered. What would he see? The city? He’d been there once. It was interesting, but smelly— manure and smoke and bodies, all familiar but too concentrated. Too much dirt, too much traffic, even at night—no quiet time when the ground could rest. He didn’t think he could stay there for long.

Maybe a distant village. Even another country—Masra? The fruit was supposed to keep the family from entrenching too deeply in any one place. They had to send out their own seeds, find new soil in other places. It was said that they had kin in every village, every city—even across the border in Ardunh, and in other countries, too. Wherever he was sent, some of those scattered kinsfolk might be there.

But after so long, it was unlikely they’d recognize him. He certainly wouldn’t recognize them. Long ago it was said that the family had carried tokens to identify each other, but those were long gone; only the trees, and tradition, remained.

Maybe he would be told to stay on the farm. It was a good place. He’d always been happy heree, and his family loved him. Of course, many of them might be gone tomorrow, but… some would surely stay.

In the stories, someone always stayed. Grandfather, of course, was from a branch that had. The century grove by the western fields was said to be 800 years old. Someone had to tend it. It wouldn’t be so bad, to be that person. It was an important duty.

Grandmother stopped. After a moment, Amir realized she’d finished. She offered the plate to Grandfather, and this time he took a slice.

The plate went around the room. No one spoke. Amir turned to make sure that Hani wouldn’t take a slice after all. Incredibly, his brother was asleep.

He studied the little boy’s round face, long eyelashes, grubby hands. Hani didn’t realize, yet, that Amir might be leaving home soon. To a five-year-old, “three or four years” is the same as “forever.” But even if he stayed awhile, Amir thought knowing he was to leave must somehow alter their relationship. Who would take care of Hani, if he left? If Adi and Bas left? If all the other cousins left, and only Hani remained?

He brushed a few curls from Hani’s face, and reached to gather him up, carry him to their room as he’d done so many times—but now the plate was beside him.

It was Father who held it. He smiled nervously at Amir, as if seeking reassurance. Amir smiled weakly back, took one of the two remaining sections of fruit, and gave the plate back to Grandmother. She took the last piece, set the plate down, and nodded to Grandfather.

Grandfather closed his eyes. “May we all be blessed, whatever our futures hold. Let us partake.”

Amir lifted the fruit to his mouth. He still couldn’t trace the fragrance. Had he imagined that it was like an apple’s? It was more delicate, like a cucumber or a winter melon, like nothing in particular. Then it came back, strong as honey. Like honey—and then a tang of citrus, and then an amber scent. Then those went away, and he smelled apples again.

Everyone was waiting, eyes darting to each other’s faces. No one wanted to do this all together—everyone wanted to see their fortunes alone. The juice was sticky on his fingers. He wanted to throw the fruit away, bury it, give his share to someone else.

But he was a son of this house. As he had been privileged to grow up here, now he was bound to face his future bravely. He put the fruit into his mouth.

Juice pooled in his mouth as he bit down. The fruit was crisp, grainy, sweet and tart. He closed his eyes.

He didn’t know at first that the vision had started. He began to feel hot, firelight scorching his face, though he was far from the hearth. There was an odd mix of smells—tar, salt, rotting fish, something frying nearby.

He opened his eyes. A broad stretch of white sand… leading… to the sea.

It had to be. He’d never a lake so vast, so alive. Blue-green, rolling in white foam onto the shore.

A few ships rocked in the shallows, lazy in the sunlight. Men were loading them with crates and bags.

His shoulder ached under the weight of a heavy sack. His clothes were light and crisp. He felt full, happy. Spiced milk lingered on his tongue.

Men called to him from the nearest ship.

Blinking, Amir saw the fire, smelled chinaberry smoke, heard his family’s hushed breaths. Shutters creaked as the wind swept the desert. He could still taste the fruit, but he must have swallowed it; his mouth was empty, drawn by the tartness of the juice.

Could that have been it? Everyone else was blinking, shifting. Had they waited a century for so little?

Details were already fading. He tried to fix them in his head. White sand, blue-green sea—the shape of the shore, the brief line of ships. Smells… spiced milk… a blue sky, a punishing sun. Men shouting. He’d been a little taller, though not a man. There had been the sense that everything he owned had been in the bag he held on this shoulder.

How could he base his life on… that? Search without stopping, until he saw that scene exactly? It was said that some looked for years, even decades.

He’d never heard of anyone failing entirely. But he only knew of his ancestors, who had succeeded—who had, at least, planted their seeds, started a farm. The remains of the old farmhouse were still by the grove. The skeleton was almost full of sand, but you could see it. Eight hundred years ago, they’d come. And it was a good place.

Probably others had died before finding anything. Or—

“I’m going abroad!” Adi crowed.

Everyone looked annoyed. He knew he did, too. Couldn’t she have kept still a few seconds longer?

But the spell was fading, so he listened.

“I think so, at least,” she said. “I’m almost sure. It was night. We were in someone’s house. There was a big fire, and we were eating some sort of sweet on little plates. There were glasses of… I don’t know, it was gold, and full of bubbles. Everyone was wearing these beautiful clothes, like in a magazine. I didn’t know the language we were speaking, but it did sound familiar. My flute was in my lap, like I was going to play, or had played already. And I had this gorgeous dress…” She rubbed at her trousers.

Amir turned to see how his parents were taking this. Mother was looking at her hands, mouth tightly closed. Father smiled, but it looked forced. “Well… ah, that’s wonderful. I…” His smile faded. He looked at his own hands, then raised his eyes to Amir. “And what about you, Amir?”

Amir’s mind went blank. “Ah… what about you?” He was sure Grandfather would scold him for impudence, but Grandfather didn’t seem to have heard.

Father’s forced smile returned. “I’ll be here, of course. Playing the fool as usual. Here, forever.”

Amir wondered what Father had expected to see. Though it wasn’t respectful, he’d always thought of his father as… unfinished, somehow. Childlike. It was sad to think of him sitting in his courtyard forever, writing his rare poems, entertaining his friends with pipes and backgammon. He’d never been as close to Father as he was to Mother, but he loved him. If he left, he might not see Father again for… ever.

Now Shani said, “Shai and I are going to the city! Right, Shai?”

“Right.” Shai’s smile, strangely, was a bit sad. “It looked like a shop. I don’t know if we worked there, or…“

“Oh, you saw the shop, too?” Shani squeezed her sister’s hand. “Maybe we’ll own it. And we’ll be close enough to visit…“

“And I’ll be there, too!” Fais broke in, grabbing his sisters by the shoulders. “Isn’t it great? Probably I’ll come later—I was grown up. I think I was a student.” He turned to Mother. “Maybe I’ll be at the University, Aunt Mor. You’ll tell me about it, right?”

Mother nodded, but didn’t look up.

Abruptly, Bas straightened, crossed the room, and knelt by Grandmother. He whispered something in her ear. She murmured, and touched his forehead.

Bas bowed his head, took Grandmother’s hands, and kissed them. Then he took a seed from the pewter saucer and left the room.

The first seed. Bas would plant it, someday, if he reached his destination. He’d probably leave tomorrow.

And he hadn’t looked at Aunt Dar, or at Grandfather.

“Well.” Aunt Dar’s voice was bitter. She stared after Bas with a look of angry satisfaction, as if she’d seen exactly what she’d expected. “There goes my son. I’ll be lucky to see him again.”

Mother looked up suddenly. Amir thought she would snap at Dar—but her face was stricken, almost gray. Her eyes darted around the room—landed first on Adi, then on Hani, then on him. They looked so tortured he lost his breath. She lowered her face again before he caught it.

“Elder sister,” said Aunt Gili, formally. “You knew from the beginning that this could happen—“

“And who are you to speak?” snapped Aunt Dar. “You’ll barely be separated from your children—the city is only two days’ ride from here. I may never see my son again.”

And whose fault would that be? Amir couldn’t help thinking. Aunt Dar had disapproved violently of Isra, had been just as active as Grandfather in blocking the marriage. She and Bas had rarely spoken since.

But maybe having Bas not there to not-speak-to would be different. It already hurt Amir to think about losing his cousin. If he thought about it much more, he’d probably cry.

“Let’s try to think more positively,” said Aunt Gili, more gently. “What did you see, elder sister?”

Aunt Dar hesitated. “Lahm. I’ve been considering…” She looked around as if she felt the need to explain herself. Her voice took on an appealing tone. “My friend’s husband died. She has a farm, and… I can be useful there.” She turned to Grandmother and Grandfather. “Mother, Father,” she said earnestly, “I would never disrespect the memory of my dear husband— I will miss him until I die— but—“

Grandfather roused from his trance to smile vaguely at Aunt Dar. “You honor his memory. I am sure our son smiles on you from Heaven. And now, since you have had a vision, you must go. We will bless your path as you travel.”

Aunt Dar bowed, but then looked away, as if unnerved. There was an odd blankness in Grandfather’s expression that had not been there before he’d eaten the fruit. Grandmother looked at him, and they shared a long glance, in the way they did that seemed more intimate than holding hands.

Amir remembered suddenly that the century fruit also gave visions of death.

Aunt Gili cleared her throat. “Ah… Lutfi…” She turned to her eldest son. “I don’t want to pry, but…”

Lutfi and Siva had been smiling blissfully at each other all this time. Now they turned their smiles on Aunt Gili.

“We’re staying.” Lutfi said. “Just a few miles out, not even to the edge of the farm. The mountains were the same. And…” He looked at his wife.

“We’ll be parents.” Siva laid a hand over her stomach, as if the vision had somehow placed a child there already. “A girl. And others, too—two or three, at least.”

Lutfi’s parents were beside them in seconds, pressing their hands and patting their cheeks. Aunt Gili seemed already to be giving them advice. Uncle Rabi just smiled, though his eyes were strangely melancholy.

In the wake of all this, Amir stood, and went to look down at the saucer on Grandmother’s tray. Grandmother watched him.

Eight seeds remained: black-brown, glistening. He could take one and go, or kneel and ask for a blessing as Bas had done—or he could sit down again, and pretend he’d never stood.

Father watched him, eyes wide. Amir’s hand hovered above the saucer.

Grandmother waited.

Amir looked at Mother.

She sat hunched over, arms wrapped around herself, head bowed. A hank of her long hair covered one cheek. Her eyes were tightly closed, but there were tears in her eyelashes.

Amir bit his lip. Still his hand hovered over the seeds. When everyone who was leaving had taken one, however many remained would be planted in the century grove. No matter how many trees grew, there was never more than one fruit at a time. One tree, more or less, wouldn’t make any difference.

Mother would be all right. She had to have known, marrying Father, that this might happen. She must have known her children might leave.

He reached for a seed.

Hani shifted in his sleep.

Amir’s heart stuttered. Could he leave, never to see his little brother grow—maybe never to see him again?

With Bas gone, Lutfi would probably inherit the farm; Hani was too young. But Grandfather had considered Amir, too, especially after falling out with Bas. To live here, run things, marry and have children like Lutfi—that wouldn’t be so bad.

He thought of the sea, the rocking ships, the sailors’ voices.

Mother’s shoulders were shaking.

Amir let his hand drop. Swallowing, he smiled at Grandmother. “I’m staying here.”

Grandmother blinked, but nodded. Impossible to know what she was thinking. Amir hoped she hadn’t guessed what he’d just done.

Grandfather didn’t seem to have heard. He was looking around the room, as if seeing it for the first time, with something like fear or wonder in his face.

Shivering, Amir looked at Mother, who hadn’t responded. He thought she hadn’t heard, but finally she lifted her head, and gave him a strange, cloudy smile. “That’s good, Amir. It’ll be a good home for you, all your life.”

All your life. It wasn’t the response he’d expected. He looked around. He would be as old as Grandfather one day, might never travel as far as the sea—might never go beyond the city. He would live in this house all his life. Become an old man, and die here.

All his life.

Father was watching them with a mix of alarm and disappointment. Though Mother was smiling, it was obvious from the quality of her smile that she wasn’t the least bit happy.

Amir knew that he had miscalculated somehow. “I’m going to bed,” he said, at a loss for what to do. “Good night, everyone.”

He heard Mother stand, but didn’t turn as he left. He didn’t want to hear what she might have to say.

Bas stood outside the door, watching Amir with obvious disgust.

“What?” Amir muttered, though he suspected Bas knew exactly what he’d done.

Before Bas could speak, there was a gasp in the room behind them. Whirling, Amir saw his mother standing in the center of the room, fists clenched. Father was behind her, one arm outstretched, as if he’d tried and failed to catch her.

Mother saw Amir watching, and gave him that strange smile again. She turned one hand over, and opened her slender scholar’s fingers. In her palm lay a century seed.

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fantasy, fiction, old work, short stories, Uncategorized, writing

Over the River

December 11, 2022 amongthegoblins

Halloween story 2012

I try to write a Halloween story when I can. Someday I’d like to do regular holiday pieces and put out more of my own story collections. This story is ten years old, so it’s not representative of my current style, but I still like it. I wrote it while I was living with my mother and stepfather in their house in the woods in central North Carolina. It’s quiet there at night and gets a bit spooky if you’re the only one awake. I don’t think the story itself is that spooky, though it is a bit bittersweet. Let me know what you think.

Sabrina couldn’t sleep with the moonlight shining in her eyes.

Her friends were having no such trouble. Jenny and Mark were sound asleep, cuddled up in their zipped-together sleeping bags. Brian had been snoring for half an hour. But Sabrina, pressed against him, was as alert as ever.

She’d tried snuggling closer to Brian, and moving farther away. She’d unzipped the bag for a breath of air, and zipped it back up when she’d gotten too cold. She’d rolled over, covered her eyes, counted sheep, and tried to meditate. But wherever she turned, the halogen light of the full white moon shone through her eyelids, keeping her wide awake.

At last she couldn’t take it any more. She eased herself out of the doubled sleeping bag she shared with Brian, patting his shoulder when he whimpered in his sleep. Shoving her feet into her old yellow Crocs, she walked to the edge of the woods.

The air was cold tonight. Shivering, she rubbed her arms and stomped her feet. She’d put on sweats over her flannel pajamas, and the socks she wore were the fluffy SpongeBob ones her sister had given her for Christmas, but the wind cut through everything like scissors through gauze. Strange that it should be so cold: usually it didn’t get below fifty this time of year.

She supposed she could go into the house. It would be warmer. But the door was probably locked,and she didn’t want to wake Jenny for the key. Anyway, what if she encountered Jenny’s parents? They seemed like nice people, but she hardly knew them, and she didn’t feel like making small talk. Better to stay out here.

She could stir up the coals and roast some marshmallows, but she’d already brushed her teeth. She hadn’t even brought a book.

Frustrated, Sabrina stared into the forest. The moonlight fell in broad beams through the leafless trees, chasing the shadows from the underbrush. Far below, at the bottom of the hill, the Little River glittered like tinsel. They had walked along the shore this afternoon, before sunset, but the place looked very different at night–fairy-haunted; forbidden.

She paced restlessly around the edge of the campsite, peering through the trees for a better look at the water. Every few steps she saw a flash of moon-bleached sand, a twinkle of water. Then, suddenly, a path came into focus.

She didn’t know how she had missed it. It was a wide, straight track between the trees, leading right down to the water. It looked much more passable than the glorified deer-trail they’d followed that afternoon. She could probably make it in her Crocs without twisting an ankle. And it wasn’t that far: the murmur of the water carried clearly over the chilly night air.

She could go down now, have a little walk, and come back without waking anyone. It would only take a few minutes. She might even be tired enough to sleep when she got back. Still, it seemed wrong to go off and leave her friends without saying anything.

Sabrina turned to wake them–let Jenny or Brian, at least, know where she was going. But they were all sleeping so peacefully–and she knew they’d tell her not to go. It wasn’t safe to wander by herself at night.

Making a quick decision, Sabrina shoved her hands in her pockets and started down the trail.

—

On the shore of the river stood the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

He was a little older than she was, tall and broad shouldered, with a swimmer’s body–clearly visible, as he wore nothing but a pair of soaking-wet jeans. The moonlight was generous, highlighting muscles that might not have been visible by day. Half mesmerized by his abs and deltoids, Sabrina stepped closer.

His face would have been at home on a Grecian urn. His nose was aquiline, his complexion umber, his mouth sensuous and a little cruel. He had a satyr’s beard, and his thick dark curls shadowed his face like little horns. As she approached, he pushed his hair back, and his sharp black eyes nearly stopped her in her tracks.

“Hey.” His voice was deep and lazy.“What’s up?”

She couldn’t speak. She felt as she were being studied, as if he were assessing her fitness for some unknown purpose. She groped around for words, and finally came out with, “Aren’t you cold?”

His laugh rippled through her skin. “I’m used to it. Where’d you come from?”

“Up the hill.” She pointed toward Jenny’s house, though she couldn’t see the path anymore. “We’re having a campout. You know. For Halloween.”

“Very nice,” he drawled, sounding entirely uninterested. “What’s your name?”

“Uh… Sabrina.”

“Nice to meet you, Sabrina. I’m Cyrus.” He held out his hand. “Well met by moonlight, et cetera, et cetera.”

Sabrina took his hand, found it warm and dry and strong. “You live around here?”

He laughed. “Sure. Over the river. We’re having a party, too.” He pointed at a spot far upstream, where the opposite shore was mostly obscured by a clump of deep, dark forest.

Sabrina couldn’t see anything over there that looked like a party. She moved closer to the water, and a wavelet swamped her shoes, soaking through her socks in seconds.

Cyrus laughed as she cursed and staggered backward. “Don’t get wet.”

“Thanks.” She kicked off her shoes and peeled off her socks, rubbing her feet on the sand to try and dry them. She felt like she’d been frostbitten, and knew she should probably go back to camp. “How’d you get here, anyway? I didn’t see a bridge.”

He shrugged. “Walked. Ain’t that deep. I’m about to go back…” He looked her up and down thoughtfully. “Want to come with?”

She should say no, of course, but found herself stammering. “Uh… I… I don’t know.” She dropped her shoes and socks on the sand. “What kind of party is it?”

“Oh, you know. Just a small gathering–food, beverages, entertainment. Kind of a yearly tradition.”

Sabrina glanced back towards the house again. Would her friends wake up, if she went with this stranger? Would they find her gone, panic, and call the cops to search the river? “I probably shouldn’t. Didn’t tell anyone I was c–”

Cyrus grinned, and she stopped speaking abruptly, realizing that she should have kept that information to herself.

But he only turned away, and said, “You’re probably right. Best to go on home. Could be dangerous over there–you might meet strangers.” He patted her arm. Her whole body tingled. “So long…”

“Wait. I…”

He shook his head. “You probably wouldn’t like it. I mean, you’re already scared…”

“Scared?” She looked down at herself, as if that accusation might be visible on her shirt. “I’m not scared. I just…”

But was she? A chill was running through her veins–but she didn’t think she was frightened. Excited, maybe. Intrigued. “I’m not dressed for a party,” she hedged.

Cyrus laughed. “You look fine. No one over there’s going to care what you’re wearing.”

Sabrina stared across the water. The moonlight was so bright that in places the surface of the river looked almost opaque. It rippled so smoothly she knew it had to be deep. “Isn’t it dangerous?”

“Not if you’re with me. I can carry you over.”

He probably could, she thought, looking him up and down. He was as tall as Brian, and looked stronger, though Brian had been a football player before his injury. Cyrus looked like he’d never been injured in his life.

She turned away, wondering if he could see her blush by moonlight. “What are you, the ferryman?”

He laughed again. “If you like.”

Well, he was a cocksure bastard of the first degree, but she had to admit he was oddly alluring. Unconsciously, she moved a little closer. “How do I know you won’t drop me in the river?”

“You don’t.” He held up two fingers, a Scout’s-honor gesture. “But I swear I’ll do my best to keep you dry.” Then he lowered his hand and leaned quite close, so his breath ghosted over her face. “I’ll keep you dry,” he murmured, “as long as you pay the toll.”

She breathed in, then exhaled, distracted by the smell of his hair: moss, dry leaves, and something animal. “Wh-what kind of toll?”

“Well, what have you got?” His lips curled into a teasing smile. His face was nearly touching hers. “I can’t work for free.”

Sabrina shivered, but stepped back, trying to conceal her disappointment. “I guess that settles it, then.” She tried, and failed, to smile. “Don’t have any money.”

“Oh, it doesn’t have to be money. Could be anything. A silver coin. A loaf of bread.” He pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Even a kiss.”

Even as her whole body came alive with interest, she thought guiltily of Brian, sleeping by himself at the campsite up the hill. She should walk away now–shouldn’t even consider the offer. But the moonlight made the river seem like a different world, and Brian had no part in it. “All right,” she said, surprising herself.

Smiling, Cyrus opened his arms.

He was hot, and strong, and his warm lips tasted like river water. It was the best kiss she’d ever had.

Without taking his lips from hers, Cyrus gathered her into his arms. Despite his heat, a chill ran through Sabrina’s body. She realized, very faintly, that he was walking–wading into the water, his feet sinking into the sandy riverbed. Her heels dipped into the river, and cold water soaked the hems of her sweatpants, but she didn’t open her eyes.

Finally, when Sabrina was quite breathless, the kiss ended. They were on the opposite shore, and Cyrus was setting her down on the hard-packed sand. The cold ground was like an electric shock on her bare feet. She staggered, clutching his arms for balance, and opened her eyes.

While they’d been crossing, the moon had passed behind a cloud. The shore was entirely dark, and very quiet. Thick bushes crowded them like thugs. A strange bird cried in a nearby tree. Even the river sounded odd–its voice a sullen murmur, as if heard through a layer of ice.

She hadn’t realized, from the other side, just how wide the river was. It had looked small, and passable–an inconvenience, but not really an obstacle. From this shore, though, it looked wide, and deep, and dangerous.

She turned back to Cyrus, suddenly unnerved. He was wet from the ribs down, and the muscles of his abdomen gleamed like oil. Unconsciously, she reached out to touch them.

He pushed her away, almost gently. “That’s enough now.”

Embarrassed, Sabrina pulled away, confused by the distance that had come into his face and voice. “What’s going on?” Her voice, in her ears, was childish. “Where are we?”

“The other side. Come on, now.” He turned away, and started upstream without waiting for her to follow.

—

Sabrina was suddenly, overwhelmingly conscious of the dangerous situation she’d walked into. She opened her mouth, about to ask him to take her back, but he was far away by then. His strides were swift, unfaltering: he seemed to have forgotten she was there. When she called to him, he barely slowed.

As they walked, she started hearing voice, laughter and conversation and even song echoing out of the darkness. Far ahead, faint golden light reflected off the river. “Is that the party?”

Cyrus nodded.

Then they came around a bend, and there it was.

The shore had broadened, and the air was warm, fragrant with woodsmoke. Tiki torches had been set out in a large square across the side. Inside were dozens–perhaps hundreds–of people, sitting around bonfires and under striped pavilions.

She rubbed her eyes, but the picture just got clearer. How could they all have gotten here? This was parkland–she was pretty sure no roads led in or out. Had they come by boat? A few were tied up on the shore, but not nearly enough to have brought so many people. And the sound should have carried–why hadn’t she and her friends heard the party from their campsite? And who were these people, anyway?

They looked, at first, like a historical reenactment society with a very relaxed dress code. Their clothes spanned the last two or three centuries, and seemed to have come from a number of cultures and walks of life. Most of the guests were dressed as farmers–in shirts and homespun trousers, calico dresses, or T-shirts and overalls. A few, however, wore hoop skirts and frock coats. Some of the black people wore old cotton clothing, and had a beaten-down look that made Sabrina think of slaves. A number of the guests looked like full-blooded Native Americans, and wore beaded shirts and dresses with feather-topped hats for the men. There were soldiers, flappers, hippies, businessmen, and even a few people who might have come from Sabrina’s own street.

Then there were… others. Firelight flickered off of faces and bodies that weren’t entirely human. There were small, nude people with bald heads and jagged teeth; there were enormous men with branches that looked like clubs. A woman in the corner had three or four arms, all pouring drinks for the crowd around her. There were even people who seemed to have animal heads: dogs, cats, birds, foxes. Sabrina thought they were masks, until she saw one blink.

She turned to Cyrus, meaning to ask she-knew-not-what, but he was already gone. A moment later she spotted him across the campsite, accepting a mug of something from the woman with too many arms. Even he looked wilder here–the curls that had shaded his face like horns now looked like horns indeed. She waved to him, but he didn’t even look at her.

Despondent, Sabrina crossed the line of torches. Friendly face surrounded her immediately.

“Hello, dear,” said a little round woman, whose skin was wrinkled like tree bark. “Is this your first time?”

“Of course it is,” said the person beside her, a Native American man in a beaded blue shirt. “Look, she doesn’t even know where she is yet. Bet the riverman brought her.”

He beckoned to a young Black woman who was pouring herself a drink. She approached, handed him the pitcher, and gave Sabrina a curious smile. Beneath her calico kerchief, her eyes were large and sad.

“What is this place?” said Sabrina, helpless.

The wrinkled brown woman had produced a mug from somewhere. She held it while the man in blue poured. “It’s a party, dear,” she said, quite kindly. Her voice creaked like ancient branches. “Haven’t you ever seen one?”

Not knowing what to say, Sabrina took the mug and stared at it. It was very simple, and looked handmade–plain red clay with a clear glaze that gleamed in the firelight. Its sides were cool, and wet with condensation.

“Take a sip,” the old woman urged her. Sabrina obeyed.

It wasn’t beer–she wasn’t sure what it was. It had a strange, spicy flavor she couldn’t quite place. Was it mead? Some kind of cider? She took another sip. “I’m Sabrina.” It seemed suddenly important that they should know that.

The three strangers nodded. “We don’t use names much here,” said the girl, “but I’m pleased to meet you, Sabrina. I was Hannah.”

“I was Tom.” The man smiled.

The old woman smiled, too, but didn’t give her name.

A few feet away, a girl with red curls paused to give Sabrina a filthy look. She was very pretty, and wore a tight sweater that showed off an excellent figure.

“Who was that?” Sabrina said, when the girl had moved on.

The other sighed. “That was Kelly,” said Hannah. “The riverman brought her last year.”

“Sour grapes,” said Tom, smiling again.

The old brown woman just shook her head, and filled Sabrina’s cup.

Sabrina took another drink.

—

Time passed in a pleasant haze. Whatever was in the mug proved mildly intoxicating, and she didn’t get sleepy no matter how much she drank. From time to time she thought to look for Cyrus, but he was never nearby. He moved from fire to fire, greeting friends and smiling mysteriously at everyone. Once she saw him pat Kelly on the shoulder and kiss her cheek. Another time he seemed to be exchanging secrets with a beautiful dark woman in an old-fashioned dress. Not once did he look at Sabrina.

She soon forgot her disappointment, because it turned out her new friends were excellent company. They constantly asked questions about her life, and seemed fascinated by every answer, even things as simple as “I go to State,” or “I have three sisters.” Soon others joined them, and greeted Sabrina like one of their own. They all plied her with drink, and with food in little clay bowls: deviled eggs, cornbread, muffins, brownies. Everything was perfect, and she never felt full.

Before long she was in the middle of a large crowd of people, roasting homemade marshmallows over the largest bonfire. Its heat scorched her face, and the air was rich with smoke and sugar. Someone had remembered an old drinking song, and was teaching it to the others amid waves of laughter. “‘Twas on the good ship Venus–by Christ, you should’ve seen us…’”

Halfway through the song, Sabrina noticed that the crowd was getting a bit thin. Several of the more flamboyant partygoers were nowhere to be found, and most of the fires and pavilions had been abandoned.

As she watched, two Native women who looked like sisters embraced, sighed, and disappeared altogether. Before she could move, a little blond boy ran into the shadows and didn’t come back. Then a person in a long white cloak, whose face she’d never seen, bowed once to the crowd and vanished.

One by one, the guests disappeared. Some of them just left, walking from the torchlight into the darkness. Others faded slowly from sight, waving sadly to their friends. Others still were there one minute, then gone the next time she looked for them.

She knew, in whatever part of her brain was still active, that this was not right, but she couldn’t make herself move. The disappearing guests seemed like someone else’s problem–an unfortunate fact of nature that no one could really change. Framing a comment along those lines, she turned to Hannah–and gasped.

In the last few minutes, Hannah’s lovely oval face had shriveled like a month-old apple. Her dress hung from her body like a tablecloth, and she smelled of sweat and illness. She seemed to be dying of some wasting disease.

“What happened?” Sabrina said.

Hannah smiled faintly. “You know, I almost made it,” she whispered. “I got as far as the river–then I broke my leg. So…” With a sigh, Hannah disappeared.

Tom, next in line, was covered in blood. It poured from a fist-sized wound in the center of his chest, which must have taken out at least one vital organ. “Bastards were waiting at the river.” Blood flowed through his teeth as he spoke. “We–” Then his eyes widened, and he too faded away.

Desperate, Sabrina turned to the old round woman, who was watching her sympathetically. “What’s going on? Why–”

“Don’t worry, dear.” The woman patted her hand with broad, soft fingers. “They’ll all come back next year, you know. You will, too.”

“I…” Her brain was spinning. She shook her head, but couldn’t clear it. “What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s just the one night, you know–before the winter starts. When the veils are thin.” She yawned, smiled apologetically, and stood. “But I’d probably better go, too–I’m getting sleepy. Lovely to meet you…”

“Wait,” Sabrina said, reaching for her hand. “Please–”

But the old woman was already strolling towards the torches, nodding goodbye to the few remaining guests. Her wide back swayed, and her brown skirts rustled across the ground like leaves. Before Sabrina could stand, the woman had left the campground, and vanished into the darkness of the woods.

In a few minutes, all the other guests had left–fading like mirages, or simply walking away. Sabrina could only watch, pinned in place by shock or confusion or whatever she’d been drinking. Finally, as the sky began to lighten, she was alone, still sitting on her log beside the abandoned fire.

Or almost alone. There was Cyrus, standing at the edge of the campground, surveying the site with satisfaction.

As if a spell had broken, Sabrina finally stood. “Cyrus! What happened?” She ran over to him, tripping on feet gone suddenly numb.

He smiled distantly. “Hello, Sabrina. How’d you like the party?”

“It–where is everybody?”

“Oh, they all went home. Back to where they died, you know. It’s almost sunrise.”

“To where…” Her voice guttered like a candle.

Cyrus laughed. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you didn’t guess?”

“You mean they were…”

“Sure.” He gave her a pitying look. “You already knew there was no one over here–no one human, anyway. Where’d you think they all came from?”

Sabrina shook her head, sure there must have been something in the drink. “But… How do I get home?”

“Oh, you don’t.”

“What?”

“You are home, now.” Cyrus gestured around him at the abandoned campground. “You paid the toll, remember? Drank the brew, ate the food? It’s a one-way trip–you’re one of them now. If I were you, I’d just get used to being dead.”

“I… but…” Dead. The word echoed in her mind like a church bell. “But… you didn’t… I didn’t… why did you bring me here?”

“Because you wanted to come,” he said, smiling. He leaned close, and pressed a chaste kiss against her cheek. “I’m an equal-opportunity ferryman–I’ll take anyone over, as long as the toll gets paid.” He patted her cheek, then stepped away. “And it was a good party. But it’s over, now.”

Her mouth opened. The words fell out of her head, and she just stuttered. “I–but–we–”

“It’s not so bad, being dead–from what I hear, anyway. And you picked a good place. The river’s lovely, and you might even find some company if you look. If all else fails, you’ll see them all at the next party.” Then he yawned, stretching his exquisite muscles like a sleepy cat. “Afraid I’ve got to go. Got a drowning to take care of tomorrow–today, that is–and then a suicide after that. No rest for the ferryman.” He grinned. “Later, Sabrina.”

She reached for his hand, but he was already gone.

It was getting lighter, and fog was rising from the dawn-touched river. Sabrina watched the moon set behind the trees, and listened to the calls of awakening birds. The torches went out one by one, and the embers of the bonfires slowly turned to ashes.

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fiction, horror, old work, short stories, Uncategorized

Under Glass

December 7, 2022December 7, 2022 amongthegoblins

Written 2010/edited Halloween 2011

I wrote this during a mini writers’ retreat with my friend Brittany Harrison back in 2010. We’d decided to do a Frankenstein-style writing challenge, since it was spooky season and our isolated rental cabin in the Smoky Mountains of North Carolina was very conducive to imagining horrors. When I decided to put out a few short stories as an ebook a couple of years later, this was one of the ones I included. I think I’ve grown quite a lot as a writer, and I wouldn’t call this representative of my writing now, but people have enjoyed it and I think it has some good moments. Let me know what you think!

“But you said I could go!”

“I said you could go if you kept your grades up, young lady, and I told you what would happen if you didn’t.”

“But Aunt Laurie–”

Adie’s mother folded the report card and set it down on the pristine kitchen counter. She clearly would rather have thrown it on the floor. “I will call Aunt Laurie myself and tell her why you’re not coming,” she said. “Or you can explain to her why shopping with your friends was so much more important to you than your visit next month.”

“That’s not–”

“Don’t you raise your voice to me, young lady, or you’ll regret it.” Her mother pointed out the door. “Now go upstairs and do your homework. Dinner’s in an hour.”

Adie glared. “I’m not hungry.” Her stomach rumbled as she spoke. The air was heavy with the aromas of baking bread and homemade tomato sauce, and she hadn’t eaten anything since lunch. But some things were more important than her mother’s spaghetti, and New York was one of them.

Adie’s mother looked heavenward, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “All right. Then go upstairs and go to bed. I don’t want to see you until morning.” With that she turned back to the cutting board and began dicing celery with harsh, uneven strokes. Adie knew that the conversation was over.
She grabbed her backpack and stormed from the kitchen, down the hallway and up the towering stairs. She made sure to stomp hard on each beige-carpeted step. When her mother didn’t come out and yell at her, she stomped even harder. All right, she would go to bed– and then she’d get up early tomorrow, eat breakfast and leave the house before either of her parents woke up. Right now she wasn’t sure if she wanted to see them ever again.

The trip to New York was a long-delayed birthday present from her Aunt Laurie, who had been one of Adie’s dearest companions until she’d moved away last fall. The thought of calling to tell her aunt that the trip was off was enough to make her gut clench. Tears blurred her vision as she opened her bedroom door. She threw her backpack on the floor, then went down the potpourri-scented hallway to the bathroom to brush her teeth. She would go to bed. Right now she’d rather be dead than face the knowledge that her own stupidity had lost her New York.

In the bathroom, Adie squeezed a healthy glob of toothpaste onto her toothbrush and shoved it into her mouth. She winced as it rammed the backs of her gums and bruised the inside of her cheek. As she brushed (tops… bottoms… insides… outsides… twice all over…) she watched the reflection of her face in the mirror.

The girl in the mirror was an unfashionable sixteen. She had frizzy hair and an awkward nose, and her shirt was stained from a spill at lunch.. Her cheeks were wet with tears; her eyes were red and swollen. This was the kind of face you had when you were hopeless. When you weren’t going anywhere. When you would spend Christmas break alone with your own stupid parents… and when, worst of all, you weren’t going to New York because you were stupid.

She spat her toothpaste into the sink, then spat again to clear the remnants from her mouth. Now the girl in the mirror had little dribbles of toothpaste foam all over her lips and chin. Her nose had begun to run. She looked ridiculous.

Adie wrapped her arms around herself and stood staring at the girl in abject misery. So stupid. Why had she ever even thought she would make it to New York? She was probably doomed to stay here and rot, like an unharvested pumpkin in the world’s worst field.

A little more toothpaste ran down the chin of the girl in the mirror. Despite her foolish appearance, there was a glint in her eyes that Adie didn’t much like. She looked mocking. Mean. She could understand why people wouldn’t want to be around a girl like that. She wouldn’t want to be around herself, either. She just made everyone angry. It was probably for the best that she wasn’t going– Aunt Laurie would probably have regretted inviting her even if she’d gone.

Adie glared at the girl, and the girl glared back. “Fuck you,” Adie whispered. She wiped the toothpaste from her mouth with an angry fist.

The girl in the mirror watched her dumbly, as if she hadn’t understood what she’d said.

On a whim, Adie licked a fingertip and wrote– in big, neat block letters– on the surface of the mirror: FUCK YOU.

Then, to make it even clearer, she wrote it backwards.

When she looked back at her reflection, her stomach dropped. The girl was not looking at her. She was looking at the message Adie had written, and her lips moved as she read the words. When she’d finished, her eyes widened. Slowly, she lowered her eyes to stare at Adie.

It was not a nice look.

More than an hour later, as Adie lay shivering in bed with the blankets over her head, her mother came into her room. She knew that it was probably her mother because she could smell her mother’s neat floral perfume over the faint tang of her own unwashed laundry. Well-pressed chinos swished efficiently to the center of the floor and stopped.

The woman who was probably her mother stood quietly for a long time. Adie lay in the warm darkness under her blankets and wished that she could be sure. “Still mad?” her mother said finally. The sound of her voice was blessedly familiar.

Adie shrugged. She hadn’t actually thought much about the argument since seeing what must have been a hallucination in the bathroom mirror. She still shuddered just to think of the malice in her reflection’s eyes.

“Do you want to talk about it?” her mother continued in her calm, reasonable way.

Adie snorted. Tell her mother she was hallucinating? Sure, that would smooth things over.

Her mother sighed. It was a soft, gusty sigh, quite restrained: the sigh of someone who has too many troubles to welcome another one. There was also that extra trill of exasperation at the end that had always been reserved for Adie. That, more than anything, convinced her that it was safe to come out.

Adie pulled the covers from her face and sat up. The air was a cool shock against her face after more than an hour between the blankets. Her mother, who had already started to leave, stopped in midstride, looking surprised. Adie didn’t usually get out of a sulk until at least a day after she’d started it.

“Still mad,” she said quickly, lest her mother wrongly assume that all was forgiven. “But I’ll… I’ll come downstairs.”

“All right,” her mother said, looking bemused. “Go wash your hands and then come set the table.”

Adie approached the door to the bathroom as if it were a dragon’s cave. Her heart was pounding. The light was out, and since the room had no windows it was as dark as a real dragon’s cave would have been. Adie snaked her arm around the doorframe and felt for the switch. For a harrowing second she was sure that something would bite her hand off, but then she found the switch and light flooded the bathroom.

Her hair stood on end as she crept inside. There was something wrong with the mirror. At first Adie couldn’t make sense of what she saw. There was a strange crosshatching over the surface of the glass, so thick in places that it almost looked frosted. It covered the entire surface of the mirror, top to bottom and edge to edge. It took her a moment to realize that the marks were scratches, gouged into the surface of the glass as if with a screw or a nail. They grew larger and wilder the farther down they went, until at the bottom they were a nest of angry gouges that took up half the mirror.

Adie reached out automatically to touch the glass. The scratches were quite deep, rough to the touch. It would have taken a lot of work– and a lot of anger– to produce them. Gradually her mind found patterns in the chaos– and then it all clicked into place. From top to bottom, side to side, the scratches spelled out the same two words, written over and over again until they culminated in a ragged scrawl across the bottom:

FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU

Something moved behind the glass, and drew Adie’s eyes to her reflection. The girl behind the mirror was almost hidden behind the destruction she had wrought, but it was clear that she was pleased with herself. She smirked at Adie, and mouthed two words. Though Adie could not hear them, she understood them clearly.

“I just don’t see how you did it,” Adie’s mother said the next Saturday. “You were only up there for an hour– some of those scratches were a quarter of an inch deep!” She was leaning against the kitchen counter, overseeing Adie’s punishment breakfast of cold cereal and milk. For Adie’s parents there were pancakes and coffee and fresh-squeezed orange juice. The smells in the kitchen were a glorious torture to Adie, who usually looked forward to Saturday breakfasts all week.

She watched wistfully as her mother sliced fresh cantaloupe and poured real maple syrup into a jug for the table. “I didn’t do it,” she muttered for the thousandth time.

“Then who did, Adie?” her mother snapped, clearly losing patience with Adie’s protestations of innocence. “Only you and I were in the house, and I promise you I didn’t carve ‘Fuck you’ all over your mirror. Are you suggesting that some criminal broke in and did it?” She looked as if she wanted to throw something.

Adie rather wanted to throw something, too. She shrugged, looking down at her plate. What could she say?

The new mirror for her bathroom was delivered within a week of the old one’s demise. Under her mother’s direction, Adie had cleaned and polished the bathroom to a sparkling sheen, and the air was heavy with the remnants of chemical vapors. The mirror itself was larger and more elaborate than the other one had been. It had a beveled edge where the other had been plain, and a border of frosted-glass roses that Adie wanted to run her fingertips over. She stole glances at the glass as her father installed it, and as her mother polished it to a brilliant clarity. There was nothing unusual in their reflections. Adie began to hope.

After dinner that night, she crept toward the bathroom with butterflies in her stomach. Once again she reached through the doorway first to turn on the light. New mirror or not, there was no way she would ever set foot in that bathroom without the light on. Across the flawless counter, she laid out her things: toothbrush, toothpaste, dental floss, mouthwash. Then she looked up.

For a long, still moment, Adie stared at her reflection, and the reflection stared back at her. Neither of them moved. Around them, the house was quiet. Downstairs she could hear the news, and over it her parents’ quiet voices. Nothing was out of the ordinary.
She slowly let out the breath she must have been holding for ages. In the mirror, the girl let out a breath, too. The two of them smiled at each other, then reached for their toothbrushes.

But as Adie squeezed toothpaste on her brush, her reflection continued to smile. The smile grew until it was a savage grin, full of sharp white teeth much larger than Adie’s own.

Adie shrieked and leaped backwards. She hit the wall hard, and a towel rack jabbed into her back. The thing in the mirror shrieked, too, and then began to laugh. As Adie doubted her senses, the thunder of footsteps began coming up the stairs: her parents, coming to see what the matter was. Adie wanted to tell them to hurry, please, help her– but the thing in the mirror had wrapped its fist around the toothbrush in its hand, and was advancing towards the mirror. Adie covered her face just as the mirror shattered.

When her parents reached the bathroom doorway, they found Adie crouched amid a sea of broken glass, still covering her eyes and weeping hysterically. Of the thing in the mirror there was no sign– only a little flicker of motion in one of the shards of glass that littered the floor.

This time the mirror was not replaced. Instead, her parents began to talk about “special care” and “seeing a therapist” when Adie was around the corner. She barely heard them. She was too busy finding, to her horror, that reflections were everywhere. She caught glimpses of herself in windows, in pot lids, in the blades of table knives. Though she kept her eyes lowered, and tried to avoid anything reflective, it always came to her, anyway: a flicker of motion where nothing was moving; a flash of teeth in the corner of her eye.

One night, as she was going up to bed, she paused in her bedroom doorway. Across from the door, next to the closet, was a full-length mirror that her mother had bought for her at a flea market years before. It was very pretty, with a carved wooden frame the color of oxidized copper. She had always loved it, but since the night the first mirror was defaced she had kept it well-covered. Now the sheet she’d hung over it lay on a pool on the floor, and the mirror stared back at her unguarded.

She was stopped by her reflection. It had grown pale and drawn from many nights without much sleep, and the skin under her eyes was so dark that it looked blue. Her hair was an unkempt mass, and her clothes were out of place: she never checked her appearance anymore. It was no wonder her parents had taken to talking about her in hushed voices from around the corner. The changes in her appearance startled even her.

Just as she remembered that she should probably look away, the girl behind the mirror stepped forward.

Adie was out the door and halfway down the hallway before she’d registered what had happened. She had just enough presence of mind to sneak back and yank the door closed. Something seemed to tug against it when it was almost shut, and she gasped and held back a scream as she wrestled it into place. When it was closed, she grabbed a handful of blankets from the linen closet, minced back across her doorstep, and pounded down the stairs as fast as her legs could carry her.

Her parents were in the kitchen, talking in low voices again. They stopped when they heard her go into the living room. “What are you doing, Adie?” her mother called, in that careful, sweet voice she’d taken to using when addressing Adie personally..

Adie spread the lightest blanket across the old tweed couch. “I’m sleeping down here tonight.” She’d given up explaining her actions; they never believed her explanations, anyway.

She heard a flurry of whispers. “Uh… all right, honey,” her father said. She heard him close his paper. “Good night.”

She stacked most of the throw pillows at one end of the couch, then spread the other blankets on top of them. As she curled beneath the covers in her makeshift bed, chairs scraped in the kitchen. A moment later, the kitchen light went out. Now the living room was black and infinitely vast, but Adie didn’t care: it was a familiar darkness, and felt safer than the compromised space that had been her room.

With her vision thus lost, Adie’s ears grew sharper. She listened as her parents climbed the stairs and continued down the hallway to their room. They were still whispering, as if they thought she didn’t know what they were talking about. Someone stepped on the creaking board outside her bathroom. She heard the hallway light click off, and the darkness around her deepened. A moment later, her parents’r door squeaked open and shut.

Now the living room was an alien wasteland, alive with black shadows that moved when she tried to see them. She pulled a blanket all the way over her head. It had the same vague odor of mothballs as everything else in the linen closet, although Adie’s family never used mothballs.

She tried to reassure herself that everything was safe. Her parents were probably still awake. They always sat up for a while after they’d changed into their pajamas, talking and reading and settling down to sleep. She could see the clean white light of their reading lamps in her mind’s eye, and could nearly hear the placid murmur of their voices. It made her feel a little better to remember that they’d hear anything out of the ordinary.

Then she remembered the menacing stare of the thing behind the mirror. It had come from the bathroom to her room so easily– had haunted the kitchen and the car and the corners of her mind. What was to stop it from traveling to her parents’ room, as well? Reassurance twisted into regret, and she wished that she could go and warn them.

The house grew very quiet, and into the silence there came a dream. Adie was walking, holding in her arms a long wrapped parcel: the mirror from beside her bed, safely covered once again in a sheet with little hearts all over it.

Something was thumping and thudding against the glass inside the parcel, struggling to get out. There was a sour, unhealthy smell coming from the sheet. Adie knew that if she didn’t lock the mirror away it would get her, and then maybe it would assume her face and go and kill her parents, too. She tried to shoulder open the sliding door of her closet, and as she did so fingers rose from beneath the sheet and began to pinch at her arms and shoulders through the cloth. She screamed, and shuddered, but at last the door slid open.

“You are nothing,” hissed a voice inside her ear, just as she was wrestling the mirror inside. “You are food.” Sharp teeth bit into her neck just as Adie hurled the mirror into the corner. She heard it crack, and saw the sheet start to fall. Heart pounding, she leaped backwards and dragged the door shut just as something began to emerge from the shower of broken glass.

For a moment, there was silence. Then something began to scrabble against the door.

Adie screamed herself awake– and then was not sure she’d woken up at all. She lay paralyzed in the darkness, soaked in sweat, listening desperately for some sign that what had happened wasn’t real. All around her there was breathing: sharp, harsh, desperate, as if the lungs of an animal had been ripped from its body and left to die on their own. Her heart pounded against the inside of her chest.

Gradually the breathing slowed, and Adie finally realized that it had been hers all along. The last black shreds of the nightmare soon lost substance and fell away. Adie realized that she was still curled up beneath a nubbly, scratchy blanket that smelled vaguely of old mothballs, on a couch that under usual circumstances she’d get in trouble for sleeping on. She was in the living room, not in her bedroom at all, and nowhere near the mirror or the closet into which she really should have put it earlier.

Her mouth felt like it had been wiped out with cotton balls. She swallowed, but couldn’t get rid of the sour taste that lingered in the corners. Taking one last, deep breath, she pulled the blanket off her face. Cool air rushed over her skin, drying her sweat and giving her goosebumps. Adie peered into the darkness, trying to assure herself that nothing was amiss.

The house was dark and still, and around it the neighborhood was silent. Even the crickets weren’t chirping. It had to be late– maybe three or four in the morning, she thought. She turned over uneasily, meaning to go back to sleep, but quickly realized that she quite desperately needed to pee.

For a split second she thought of waiting tilll morning. The house was vast and black and chilly, and in her nest of blankets she felt relatively safe. The pressure on her bladder, however, was too powerful to ignore, and at last Adie relinquished her safety and staggered wearily to her feet.

Clumsy with sleep, she toddled towards the bathroom. The hardwood floor was chilly under her feet. She wished she’d thought to bring sleep-socks. From the kitchen she heard the hum and groan of the refrigerator, the rattle of ice falling into the machine. Outside the kitchen window, a bright streetlight showed that no strange shadows were lurking in the street. Everything appeared normal.

It wasn’t until Adie had almost reached the bathroom that she remembered: Her bathroom might have no mirror anymore, but this one most definitely did.

Frost crept up her spine as she stared through the pitch-dark doorway. She almost retreated right then and there, but she knew that she’d never be able to wait until morning. A brief thought of going back upstairs was quashed by the memory of what she’d seen in her room. Downstairs it was.

Anyway, if the thing was in her bedroom now, then maybe it hadn’t come downstairs yet.

Somewhat cheered by this thought, she reached through the doorway and turned on the bathroom light. Its cheerful yellow beams spilled into the hallway, shrinking and clarifying everything they touched. Now she could see that the bathroom was, after all, just a bathroom. There was the striped wallpaper that her parents had picked out together. There were the gleaming brass fixtures her mother had shined, and the white tile floor that her father had laid down one sweaty afternoon a few years before. There was an unlit purple candle among the bath towels on a shelf above the toilet, and it filled the room with the faint mixed scent of lavender and roses.

Just to be on the safe side, she kept her eyes lowered as she stepped quickly past the mirror. Nothing flickered in the corners of her eyes, and nothing hissed or muttered as she raised the toilet lid and sat down on the icy seat. She concluded her business without incident and got up to wash her hands.

A morbid curiosity compelled her to look up this time. She raised her eyes fearfully to her reflection– but there seemed to be nothing to fear. She saw only herself– the same old Adie, frizzy hair and awkward nose and all. She smiled, and her own shy smile came back. When she lifted her arms, the reflection’s arms went up, too. She did a little dance, and the mirror mirrored it without a trace of mockery.

The thing must have been somehow confined to the upstairs– or maybe she’d even defeated it when she’d trapped it in her dream. Tomorrow she would ask her dad to take the mirror out of her room. Maybe a priest could even come to bless the house– she’d ask her mother about it.

Adie grinned at her reflection, happy that the end was in sight.

Her reflection grinned back, and turned off the light.

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fiction, short stories, updates, writing

New old fiction

December 7, 2022 amongthegoblins

Hey, all! Over the next few weeks I will be posting some older stories here for the “Free Fiction” section. You can check the “Older Stories” list at the bottom of that page to see what’s coming up.

How is your week going?

Public-domain image of a hand holding a pen, apparently writing, at a sunlit desk with papers and a white coffee mug on it. The sleeve of a cozy gray sweater is visible.

books, daily life, fiction, movies, short stories, updates

Friday Update

August 6, 2021 amongthegoblins

Another quiet week. More people are coming back from vacation, but I only had to teach a few lessons this week, and really enjoyed the free time. I finished my submission for writers’ group early, which was a nice treat; usually I’m up late Friday night to get it done.

Re: computer: We looked at parts to build one, and it made my brain ache, so for peace of mind I went with a laptop. Hello, new Acer. May you prosper.

Fran’s mom is visiting. Met her for the first time yesterday and it was lovely. We don’t really have a common language (even if I spoke more Italian, I wouldn’t understand Sicilian), but I’m picking up bits as fast as I can and making Fran translate the rest. Got to taste proper Italian sausage yesterday (of course her mom brought a lot of food in her luggage ^_^). Did you know they sometimes put vegetables into the sausage casing? I did not, but I support it.

Went to a giant craft store the other day. Bought way too many craft supplies and had a great time.

Cold Comfort Farm was funny but had a lot of flaws: the parody was clunky, and I don’t think the author quite managed what she was going for. But I started watching the movie just now, and it seems to do the job much better. Quite funny; will see if it holds up.

Besides the new section of VOID, I started two new projects: a short story for submission, and another one for Halloween. “But Katherine,” you say, sounding rather exasperated, “every week you tell us about a new project you’ve started. Very rarely do you mention a project that’s finished.” Well, I’ll tell you that that’s an entirely valid point. Wish me luck.

Love all. Miss most of you.

Kate

fantasy, fiction, flash, short stories

Short Story: Picnic

July 26, 2021 amongthegoblins

*I wrote this piece last month, and started submitting it right away. It got rejected three times, very quickly, and I realized there was probably something fundamental that wasn’t working. I think, in retrospect, that 1) it’s too on-the-nose, and 2) it probably should have had a slightly longer ending, and a bit more introduction of the main conflict in the opening lines. Rather than rewrite it, I’m going to put it here as it is, and I hope someone enjoys it. : )

I’ve been eating for hours, but the table is still covered with bright porcelain teapots, serving plates, baskets of muffins and scones, and anything else a child could want. I’ve drunk four cups of tea (Lady Grey, hibiscus, chamomile, and mint) and sampled all the snacks within reach. I’m getting full. I study the cream puff in my hand, wondering if it’s all right to put it back. I feel guilty thinking about it, as if I’ve betrayed someone’s expectation of me. In the end, I eat it.

There’s no one else here. I’ve been alone for a while. I keep eating and waiting as others get up (tall, stately, ladylike in their long tea dresses and broad-brimmed hats) and leave the picnic, walking from the party to the garden trails, going to places I can’t see. Nothing keeps me here. I could go, too. But I’m afraid to take those unknown trails, to leave this beautiful table for whoever may come next. The women who’ve left have not come back. I think it might be better to stay here in this soft garden chair, helping myself to tea and sweets while the wind plays with the brim of my yellow straw hat. It’s better to enjoy good things when you find them. If I leave, I might not find such good things again.

The sun has been bright all day. When I first sat down (ages and ages ago), I felt a little hot. I took a seat in the shade of a lush, leafy oak branch that reached its armful of acorns across the table. But now that time has passed, the light doesn’t hurt so much. The breeze that blows the branches of the trees has kept the tables beneath them cool and fresh. I feel a little foolish now to be hiding under an oak bough, when all the other girls who’ve sat at this table have faced the sun bravely with smiles on their faces. One by one, they’ve stood and walked away, tall and graceful and grown. I still wait in my oak-shaded seat for the moment when it will feel right to leave the party.

“Hello.”

A girl in red sits down across from me, right in the full sun. She smiles at me as she stacks a plate with scones, sandwiches, éclairs, petits fours, and everything else in reach. Her hat is as red as her sundress. I think she’s around my age.

“You’re the only one here,” she says after a moment.

“The others left.” I am looking at her dark eyes under the scarlet sun hat. They seem a little older than I thought. “People come and go here. No one stays long.”

“Except you?” The girl eats a small bunch of grapes, looking at my plate. “You look as if you’ve been here a long time.”

“I don’t know where else to go.” The paths are easy to see, but I can’t guess which to take or where any of them will lead.

She looks at me, and then at the nearest trail. “Go where you like. Just get up and pick a direction.” Her voice sounds lower than it did a second ago. Her face is sharper, too. The cut of her red dress seems to change by the minute. Looking at her face again, I can see that she’s older than me.

I look at the garden paths again. There are seven or eight of them, maybe more. Trees grow close around their entrances, and the light doesn’t reach far inside. “I don’t know which direction to go,” I say slowly. I know somehow that once I’ve chosen a path, the others will be gone, at least for me. There is only one chance to make this choice. “What if I choose the wrong one?”

She shrugs. She has cleared a few plates of cherries, watermelon, tarts, and little sandwiches. Now she’s looking at her half-empty cup of tea as if deciding whether to put it down. “Just go and look. All you can do is try to make a good choice. Just do your best, and keep doing your best after that.”

I am starting to resent this girl’s coolness, her rose-red confidence. How can she know what’s going to happen to either of us? What gives her the right to advise me? “Is that what you plan to do?” My voice is snider than I meant it to be. I take a defiant bite of cherry cream cake, though the taste is starting to cloy.

The girl nods. Pushing away her plate, she drains her teacup and springs to her feet. She is fully grown now, with power in her broad shoulders, the tilt of her lovely head, the length of her muscular legs. Her dress is short, her hat jaunty, her face exquisitely painted. She glances at each path and makes her decision. Before I can ask her to wait, she runs down the nearest path and is gone in seconds under the trees.

So I’m alone again.

I look again at the teapots and serving bowls, the undiminished cakes and pies, the vast assemblage of butter, cream, and jam. Everything is as lovely as it ever was: the food as fresh and well plated, the flowers as bright and welcoming in their vases as when I sat down many hours ago. Steam still rises from the teapots, and I know that if I pour another cup, the tea will be perfect.

But I’ve lost my appetite. It’s time to go.

I stand up. Then I nearly fall down. I’ve grown much taller since I’ve been here. My dress fits awkwardly, as if it weren’t cut for me. I feel as if I’ve been given the wrong limbs.

I wobble and stagger before finding my new balance. The tables and chairs are far below me now, so obviously child-sized that I’m not sure how I ever felt comfortable here. This is clearly a children’s picnic. Shifting on my shaky fawn’s legs, I wonder where I should go.

I begin looking down the pathways, one after another. They all have a certain beauty, and something draws me towards each one: a branch twined with ivy, a wall of wisteria, a shiver of birds in a hedge. The trees that line the paths are tall and graceful, ancient in their grace. Slowly, I begin to move towards the nearest trail.

A burst of laughter, distant but clear, floats up the trail towards me. I remember that these paths aren’t empty. They’re peopled with people who know much more about the world than I do.

I turn towards another path, and again I hear women’s voices: talking, whispering, laughing. The girls who were my companions at these tables are now far ahead of me. The space I am about to enter is their space. In my awkward dress and awkward manners, I will only be a half-welcome newcomer at the end of any of these trails.

There is little I know about these paths, but I know all at once that I don’t want to take them.

So I begin to look not at the paths, but between them. There are places along the edges of this clearing where the trees grow so close, the vines twine so tightly, that no pathway could be formed. Examining these places, I see, in the darkest and richest intertwining of trees, that the green shades and rustling hollows are as lovely as any garden trail. Though the tangle is thick, there is sunlight to be found there. No human laughter echoes from the woods, but there is other laughter there, softer and more inviting than any I’ve heard before.

I take off my hat and put it on the table. Then I take off my shoes, which are so tight I don’t know how I ever got them on. I shiver gratefully as my toes uncurl, already feeling healthier and stronger. I peel off my lace-trimmed socks and drop them like dead petals beside the shoes. My bare toes burrow in the dirt like the roots of a plant starving for water.

The dress I’m wearing is too tight, so I unbutton it until I can breathe. Then I step back from the table into the shadow of the trees.

The picnic is still spread for company, its child-sized tables bright under the summer sun. I bid the place a nostalgic farewell, and then I walk into the forest. My bare feet find their way surely through the roots and undergrowth. My legs, long cramped, unfold into this new exercise. I wonder what I will be when I come to the end of this pathway, and what tables are waiting deep inside the wood.

Image credit Jill Wellington.

fiction, short stories, Uncategorized

Short Story: The Church of the Star

February 13, 2021February 13, 2021 amongthegoblins

Scroll to bottom of post for content warnings.

She wakes on an altar, with words in a language she doesn’t know ringing in the air above her. She opens her eyes and looks up, sees a figure in white and black standing over her. He holds something in his hands: book, murmurs an awareness she didn’t have a moment ago. Book. Priest. Man. Church. For the echoing vault that stretches into shadows above them is surely a church, whatever that is, though she can feel that the building is cold and empty, closed for the night.

She identifies muscle groups one by one, takes control of them, gathers herself, and sits up. She is naked. Beneath her skin, the altar (marble, whispers that strange awareness) is unyielding and cold. Frowning, she pushes herself up off the slab and stumbles to the floor. The shock of the ice-cold stones beneath her feet wakes her for a moment, and she remembers that she is human.

Or something like a human. The echoes she hears are more resonant than they would be for human ears. She remembers the distinction from before.

But what was before?

She has lived other lives. This body is familiar: the height of her head above the ground, the length of her arms, the size and strength of her hands. She vaguely remembers using these hands to do… something. What was it? What did she do, here in this world, where the night is dark and cold? And why (she is sure of it now), why did it end so soon?

It’s too cold here. She doesn’t know why she has come back, when she was somewhere so much better. She can’t remember details, but drifting veils of memory she cannot grasp show light, warmth, happiness. Surely she does not want to be here.

Still, there is something poignantly charming about this realm of beating hearts and tumbled emotions. There’s joy here, mingled with the sadness, and other things you cannot see in brighter places, things that only shadows illuminate. She didn’t want to come here, but, if she is here, she may as well live awhile. There’s time enough to die, in the fullness of a mortal life. She need not yearn too much for heaven, when she’ll be back again so soon.

She hears a sound behind her: belated footsteps, as the man who called her back into this world moves to guide her through it. She knows him by his step before he comes into view.

“John.” Her voice emerges as if from a crypt. “Where are we?”

“Safe.” His voice is breathless. “You’re safe here. Are you feeling well? Are you…” He trails off.

She studies the man as her vision sharpens. She always knows John when she sees him, no matter how far he has wandered from the place where she saw him last or how much his face has changed. He’s decently handsome in this lifetime, in an everyday way, black-cassocked though there is no one here to see his priestly dress. Not too old, but not young. Experienced. He is the kind of man you feel you can trust.

Learned instinct, deep in her golden bones, makes her wary of the feeling.

“Alethea.” His voice shivers as he says her name. “Do you remember anything?”

She shakes her head slowly. “What happened? How did it end this time?”

He avoids her eyes. “Not well. But I think we’ll do better this time. Now that you’re here, we can talk about what went wrong.”

She is unsettled by a flash of resentment as she listens to his speech. Why should he look at her so expectantly? She has just awoken. How can he pin hopes on her so soon?

Memories brighten like constellations on the blackness of her mind. Where she was before, she didn’t need memories; she had more elegant ways to think. But these are the memories she had before, returning with all the other tired features of mortality: breath, heartbeat, and fragile brainwaves.

These flashes of life appear one by one and in clusters. Some are bright (morning sun glinting over high treetops) and others harder to perceive. There are snatches of conversations murmured in various languages, swift flashes of violence and wonder and grief. A man speaks above muttering crowds: something terrible is about to happen, something too big to stop. And John (brown-robed, gray-haired, humble and uncertain) stands in a corner, watching, as it all begins to happen.

He is always there, in every memory. He has been a part of every life she’s lived, every brief ill-fated facsimile of mortality she’s experienced. She can see him at all ages–in all ages–face after face, all different but all indefinably, undeniably him. Though he’s usually younger when he calls her back into existence. She wonders what’s kept him this time.

She blinks, disoriented, as her vision shifts back to the present moment. Beside her stands a different gray-haired man, in different robes, wearing the same furtive expression as before. He isn’t looking at her just now. Something in his own memories has made him ashamed, something he hopes Alethea won’t remember.

She tries to get her bearings by looking around at the empty church. It’s the kind of vaulted, high-spired building that was slipping out of fashion the last time she was alive. History has worn it down: the floor tiles are scuffed and pitted, and the varnish on the great sleeping pews is dark with age. But the walls are clean, unmarred by candle-soot, and the metalwork gleams.

Alethea walks down the aisle, putting distance between her and John. Light from strange, steady lamps half-illuminates the stained-glass windows, showing scenes from the lives of saints and martyrs. Why do churches hide the outside world with colored windows? Do they fear their congregations, once distracted, will leave their shepherd?

The air is cool, fragrant with incense. She has missed the scent. Wherever she has been, there was no incense.

She feels herself beginning to solidify, to settle into this restrictive new physical form. Against the surface of her mind she sees a sort of picture: a delicate insect unfurling wide, wet wings, newly emerged from its protective shell and nearly ready to sail on the world’s wind. She knows that she is like the butterfly’s wings: great in potential but not quite ready, not quite firm enough yet to face the world alone. She must wait just a little longer.

(…Quoth the Star, “And if they shall come to me, in the fulness of their trust like lambs to the shepherd, then I shall lead them beyond the gates of heaven into the country of gods…”)

She hears him come up behind her–that tread she’s known for dozens of lifetimes–and shivers at the sound. A rustle of fabric makes her turn: he offers her a robe. She takes it uneasily, slipping it over her shoulders.

“We’ve waited a long time for you.” He studies her with quiet satisfaction. “I tried to call you back more than once, but you never answered. I had to call again and again–it was almost like you didn’t want to come. I was almost ready to despair. But…” He smiles, and touches her cheek, pulling back sorrowfully when she flinches. “You’re here now. You’re safe. We can start again.”

Again she feels a flash of irritation. Why can he not let her breathe–let her simply live in this new world a moment, before he starts asking for things? Every heartbeat is so precious in these short lives. Can he not leave a few heartbeats for her alone?

“So you have a congregation?” says Alethea, concealing her annoyance. “How long did it take you to build one this time?”

John laughs. “Oh, decades. I took my time–I’ve learned my lesson. Of course, cult-building is safer these days. They don’t kill heretics anymore, at least in most places. But lives are longer now, and I thought I might invest my time in building something grander.” He gestures at the church, which must seat several hundred people when full. “We’re thousands strong now, and the core group is in its hundreds, all of them zealous. We await only you to guide us, O Star.”

They are speaking a language that is no longer spoken anywhere in the world. They always default to this tongue when they are alone together. It’s a comfort for them, a single remnant of the first world they knew.

As they speak, something of the present moment falls away. Alethea can imagine them as they first were several millennia back, when John (mispronouncing one of the names of God) suddenly found himself with a young Star seated on the clay altar of his humble shrine. He was father and brother and guardian to her then, in those first days when she could barely speak. She knew so little about the world then that any ill-intentioned person could have led her astray, and she trusted him absolutely.

It’s hard to remember that innocence now, with the weight of all their lives between them. A thousand years is nothing to a Star, but all her brief sojourns in the human world have made her sadder and more cynical.

She wonders, as she often wondered before, if John’s congregants can sense the tissue of his former lives hanging about him when they look at him. Do they ever guess what an uncanny thing he is: the everborn priest with his apocalyptic visions and his guiding star pulled ever-more-reluctantly back into life? And if they do know, are they frightened? Or only convinced that they have found the right mystic to follow?

She looks again at the church. It’s certain that John didn’t build it. He’s a visionary, in his way, but not a builder. His influence was always insidious, slipping into established movements and corrupting them from within. A story here, a small doctrinal edit there: he’d make these little changes until the faith was quite transformed, and then place himself as a minor leader and use the wedges he’d set in place to create a schism.

She wonders what faith he has corrupted this time: whether it’s the same one they knew before, changed for the era, or whether some wheel has turned and the faithful pray to different gods now. It doesn’t matter: John can make their doctrine fit in any setting.

However he got it, the church is well taken care of. Row upon row of candles burning above the altar illuminate a tile mosaic of a single blazing star. The altar is well-tended, its cloths expensive, and the candles are white and smooth: this world has moved beyond beeswax.

Alethea feels a strange sense of home. If she hasn’t been in this church before, then she’s been in many very similar ones. She trails her hand along the edges of the ancient pews, trying to remember the faces of the people who must have sat here, but her mind is blank. This is only a building, with a high ceiling and echoing walls. If she wants to see people–to know for sure what her place could be in this world–then she must start by getting out of here.

Looking for an exit, she notices for the first time that all the bright windows are similarly themed. There is a young woman, different in each scene, but always with a star floating above her head. In some pictures, she is speaking to seated crowds; in others, she performs miracles. A cliff shears from a mountainside. A forest catches fire. A child rises from a swollen river, lifted by unseen hands. Alethea remembers these small crises in soft, swift flickers like moments from a dream. How long it must have taken John to remember all the details of her many lives, to have these windows made. He seems to have made a saint of her: slipping her story into the lore of some great religion, duping the faithful into adding her to their canon.

She looks again for an exit, but all the doors are out of sight.

(…And the Star spake again, and her voice rang like the trembling of a mountain shaken by avalanche. And she called aloud to the people who had abandoned her, and in sorrowful tones did say, “The world is wicked, and the children of the Star are few in number. Long days may pass away before the gates of heaven should again open. I will pass away, for a time, into the country of gods where the people of the Earth cannot follow. But if my people are strong in faith, and wait with patient hearts and open minds, then I shall come again…”)

John has followed her gaze. “Aren’t they beautiful? They were made by one of my first converts, an artist I knew as a young man.” He smiles. “I was born into a good family this time. They encouraged me to study whatever I liked: art, religion, folklore… When I was still just a boy, I found one of our old hymns in a book of folk songs, and it all came rushing back.” He peers into Alethea’s face with undisguised eagerness. “Do you remember everything yet? Sometimes it doesn’t come back for you all at once. Tell me if you have any questions–I can help you to bring it back.”

Alethea has not remembered everything, but the most important memories are coming back. Still, something restrains her. “No. I don’t remember much at all.”

Disappointment slides behind his eyes, but he hides it quickly. “You’re the Star,” he says, “the chosen child of Heaven, come to Earth to lead humankind into the country of gods. You’ve lived a hundred lives before, and each time we get a little closer. This time… this time, Alethea, I think we may succeed.”

It’s all she can do to hide the visceral stab of revulsion his words inspire in her. No, says a voice as deep as her whole being. Not this time. Not after last time. No. Unsettled, she pulls away, and when he reaches for her arm she does not let him touch her.

He seems to sense that he has misstepped. “Things are better now,” he says. “It won’t be like last time.”

Ignoring him, Alethea walks to the nearest window, bare feet sure on the cool stone floor. She reaches out an unscarred hand to trace her fingers down leaded panes chilled by the autumn night wind outside. There is a picture in the glass: a woman, a man, a small flock of sheep. The tree above them holds secrets in its branches, and a flat blue sky presses down on them overheard. In the center of the sky is a large white star.

Alethea wants to see the sky–the real one, not this facsimile. If she can look into the vault with her own not-so-human eyes–look long enough, hard enough–then perhaps her gaze will pierce it, and someone beyond will condescend to give her a few answers. She wants out of here. Out of this. Out of all of it.

She feels the feather of John’s touch just brush the space beside her face. He’s always wanted to touch her more than she allowed. Did he dare, in those moments when she lay cold and breathless on the slab–did he dare then to touch what was not his? If she doesn’t repel him, will he try it again?

She will repel him. She has learned the technique, over time.

“What are you thinking of?” he says.

She doesn’t answer. Everything is echoing. Her breath comes back magnified by all those colored windows, all those breathless saints and martyrs reflecting her own dead selves. Time is catching up to her. The past, in all its ugliness, unfolds inside her head.

And then, at last, she remembers the last time she died.

They almost succeeded. John is right about that. Their sudden schism, their powerful second sect, rising without warning in a society sleepy with tradition, nearly upset the social order and set the Star at the head of its faithful. If they’d had a few more weeks, a few more months, to stir their followers to the necessary point of fervor (to the point of violence), then the Star might have led the world to its salvation. (Or to its damnation. John was always certain of Alethea’s holiness, but she herself is beginning to have doubts.)

In the end, their followers lacked the necessary physical courage, and Alethea and her miracles were ultimately insufficient. And in the end…

“They burned me,” she says quietly. “Did you know that? They tied me to a stake and piled the kindling up… The whole town was there. All our people were in the crowd. I kept thinking, surely someone will stop it. These people, who said they loved me–surely they’ll come forward and stop this, surely someone will let me go. But they lit the pyre…”

Flames roar against the wall of her memory. She remembers the crackle of the kindling, a forest of broken wood in flames around her. At first it was only warm, then hot. Smoke rose, infiltrating her eyes, her nose, her mouth, until there was nothing but smoke, no air to breathe. Then the fire caught the hem of her shift. For the first shocked moment, the smell of her own flesh charring was worse than the pain. Then the pain was much, much worse.

“It was the worst death I ever had,” she says, turning away. “I never dreamed anything could hurt so much.”

A hand falls on her shoulder. “You’re here again,” John says, frowning as she flinches, “alive and well. We weren’t quite as strong as we hoped, last time, but this time will be better. This time–“

“How many of them died?” she interrupts. “After I was gone, how many of the others did they kill?”

John lowers his head. “None. You know how it was in those days. They… were frightened. They wanted to protect themselves, protect their families. They all knew it was over when you died. So they…”

“They kept their heads down.” She watches him closely. “And you? Were you able to get away, or did they come for you after they’d killed me?”

John is too quiet. Alethea peers at him through the candle-dimness, and realizes: “You were there, in the crowd. You watched them do it.”

He raises pleading eyes to her. “Alethea. There was nothing left for us once you were gone. You are the key to Heaven, the heartstone of our faith. When our people saw you… lost… their faith went with you. It was all I could do to hide myself, to bear witness to your death and slip away to record it. With you gone… what else could I have done?”

“You could have fought for me,” she snaps, “as I always fought for you. Stood by me, as I’ve stood by you so many times… I gave my life for that cause you always said was so important. Could you not, just once, have given your life for me?”

For she remembers now that it always goes this way. Every time he brings her into the world, she stands and fights and dies for a new generation of his brave little movement. Other deaths, earlier but just as ugly, are floating into her mind: stoning, drowning, strangling, beating. Witch, they always said, as her powers frayed the world. Witch. Demon. Monster.

She draws harsh breaths of the incense-scented air, and feels that monstrous power begin to seep back into her chest.

John inhales sharply, as if something had raked its claws across his skin. Perhaps he, too, feels her power awakening–and covets it, as he always did. For who would try to call upon the name of God who did not covet a god’s power?

“Alethea.” His voice is faint. Perhaps he knows he’s already losing her. “Look around at how strong we are. Look–here’s your story!” He gives her a leather-bound book, fragile with age. “When I survived, I wrote your stories down. I saw them safely hidden and safely found. I taught your songs to likely children. I made parables of your truth and taught them to your enemies. With my life, I ensured that your story wouldn’t be forgotten. And now we can start from a position of such strength! Your people already know the tales. They’re only waiting for you.”

Alethea opens the book. Fine-printed scriptures blur past her eyes as she turns the pages, but her awakening power lets her read them at a glance.

…And the young Star, in her virtue, did call upon the people to be as gods, and to do as she did that they might learn her ways. And the faithful, heeding, did spend their days in searching after knowledge of the sky, and watching the workings of the sun and all her planets, until they knew the heavens as well as humankind may know them. And when they had thus watched for many days, the Star going down among them said…

…Now the Star, being weary, did make a place among the trees and lie down to sleep there. And she said unto her followers, “Come, and rest, and be not afraid.” But her followers did not trust, and did not stay; and they went instead to a nearby town, and found rooms there for the night. But on the morrow, when they returned to the grove of trees, they found the Star asleep, enclosed in a chamber of crystal that rang like a thousand bells…

…And the clergyman, going in among the trees, did happen upon a young woman who spoke to the earth as if it might listen. And when she had finished speaking, a spring of water did flow forth from the ground, and the woman did cup her hands and drink of it; and when she saw the clergyman among the trees, she did call unto him and say, “Come, and drink, and be refreshed.” But the clergyman, thinking that her power came from an evil source, did say unto her, “Witch, thou witch…”

…But being grieved by their faithlessness, the Star did bow her head and weep. And as she wept, she cried unto her followers, saying, “O, my beloved, o my treasured ones, why have ye no faith?” And the master of the town did take up his sword…

Reading the book, Alethea doesn’t recognize herself. The woman–the being–whose deeds are recorded here existed only in the head of the man recording them. The Star as she truly is could never be encompassed by ink and paper, certainly not in the hand of a man who sees her only as his instrument. If Alethea dies–and she will, sometime or other, and sooner if she follows John–then the world will never truly know the Star at all.

And who is she, really? Her mind holds a great emptiness at its center. She has many memories of her early lives, but they are all so full of John and his ideas that she herself is only a glittering shadow, devoid of character, notable only for her power. Of the place between death and life, where she was until a few minutes ago, she remembers almost nothing. She is a shell, not a woman at all, though she resembles one. If she lives another lifetime at the head of John’s “movement,” it will only be another story in his holy book, another incarnation of a saint. If she wants to know anything about herself, she’ll have to leave him.

She sets the book on the nearest pew. “John,” she says, “I can’t do it this time. I’ve been your sacrifice a hundred times. I’m not going to do it again.”

John looks pained. “You’re not a sacrifice. It’s not supposed to happen that way. It’s the world that does it. Not us. Not me.”

She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she says, though of course it does. “I’ve lived and died and lived and died so many times, and never seen more of the world than your fool’s campaign took me through. And I’ve stood by you in all my lifetimes, and never known another soul except as a potential convert. You’ve kept me so close, John, that I hardly know anything about this world, though you want me to lead it into some shining new era. I think I’m owed a lifetime or two to get a grasp on things.”

Anger flashes in his eyes–quickly hidden, but audible in his voice. “And who called you back,” he says tightly, “to live those lives again?”

She peers at him, surprised by his shallow pettiness, and realizes that he’s degrading. Time, and death, and disappointment have dulled the focus that once made him such a reckoning among priests. Once, his dream was to carry his flock into the heavens–to ensure their salvation through force of will, if that was what it took. Now he’s growing petulant. You can see in the twist of his lips that pride is as great a motivator for him as faith. He wants to be her priest. He wants to be her priest. He wants to usher in the new era where the world will be governed by the philosophical faithful. After all this time, all these lives, he feels that he has earned the right to guide the Star to victory.

(…Yet there were those among their number who in their pride had lost the spirit of their prayers; and though they wore the garb of the faithful, yet they had become her enemies…)

And because it is his pride that leads him now, he has lost the right to guide anyone at all.

It begins to be clear to her how terribly, terribly lonely he has been in the years–the lifetimes–when she was not in the world. His devotion to his faith has always been entire. No worldly things distracted him; he had few friends, few physical pleasures, and no social or political affairs to speak of. Art held no meaning for him where it did not further his cause. In her mind’s eye she can see him rising from his cold bed, dressing and eating alone, performing all his solitary rituals morning after morning and night after night. No one greeted him when he retired, alone and silent, to the darkness of his bed. If some rare spark of joy escaped a dream of heaven and lodged in his fading memory, he padded it carefully with doctrine and added it to his treasury of lore, its mystery rendered tame and soon forgotten.

In her mind’s eye, she can see the dark, quiet room where he sleeps alone, contemplating his life’s mission and all the names of God. His clothes smell of dust and incense. His skin is translucent. He has nothing to live for, or hope for, but her.

And now, though he hasn’t realized it yet, even that one hope is lost. There’s nothing holding her here, no bond of love or friendship. Death has washed clean that portion of her heart. If she were to meet this man on the street, she wouldn’t glance at him.

He is still speaking, unaware that her judgment has been passed. “Who brought you down to earth,” he says, “taught you to live among people, showed you the injustice you were born to right and the ignorance you were born to correct? What is the meaning of your life, without us to center and focus you? What purpose can your life have if you don’t know what you’re here for?”

“The same purpose as any life but yours,” says Alethea, “Mortals don’t know their life’s purpose when they come into this world. They’re born with nothing. If their lives have meaning, it’s meaning they’ve intuited or designed themselves. I’d like to see what I can make without you there to tell me what to think.”

With these few words, John’s shoulders slump. When he speaks again, his voice is defeated. “Please,” he says. “I beg you. Don’t leave all I’ve built here. I have given everything I am to bring you back. Every life I ever lived, I lived for you. We have a chance to do it right now, Alethea. You are so strong–you have so much potential. I know it will work this time–this will be the last.”

“It’s never going to be the last,” she says. “You’re not going to stop until you somehow die forever.” She regards him speculatively, wondering how she should deal with him. He is not strong. He’s allowed iterations of her to fight his battles for him for thousands of years. If she wanted to destroy him, there would be little he could do.

But there is still hope for him, perhaps, and so she only says, “I am not a saint, John, and you are not a prophet. Whatever you do with the rest of your lives, don’t call me back again.”

She takes off the robe he gave her, wraps it around her hand, and smashes her fist through the window.

The first pane breaks easily. Beyond the broken glass, a waning moon blazes in the ice-black sky. Its brightness steadies her: beyond this chapel, at least this one thing is real. The moon is no legend–and neither is she.

She moves to the next pane. John tries to stop her, but she bats him aside, her strength much more than human. She straightens the cloth on her bleeding hand and breaks another pane, and then another.

More slices of sky are revealed with every painful strike. The wind-swept night comes clearly into view, and below it a line of rustling trees and a quiet, orange-lit street. As they appear, the woman and the man and their flock of sheep are vanishing.

“Alethea,” John says. “Please don’t do this. You don’t have to do this. Please, leave me something…”

But if she leaves him something, then this will all happen again.

Systematically, she destroys the window, knocking away each chip of glass, each fragment of color, leaving only the leading strips behind. Shatterglass drifts grow beneath her feet. They cut her soles and slick the floor with blood. She feels the pain only distantly. She has other things to think about.

The highest panes of glass are out of her reach. For the first time in this new life, Alethea summons a miracle. A shiver of suggestion wells from her chest, and with a wave of her bloodied hand the other windowpanes shatter, falling from the window like icicles from a roof. Alethea doesn’t duck or flinch, knowing that her power will protect her. It is the first miracle of many: in this life, she will use them liberally.

When all the glass is gone, Alethea grips the leading strips in bloodsoaked hands and rips them from the window. Thus are the vague forms of her destiny destroyed, dismantled, discarded. With each soft clank of fallen metal, her resurrector’s groans grow softer. In the end, he is quiet.

“Don’t follow me,” she says softly. “It’s best if we stay apart. I’d rather not hurt you, but I will if I have to. Don’t follow, and don’t call me back again.”

John shakes his head morosely, so diminished as to be pitiable. “Please stay. How can I do anything without you?”

Disbelieving, Alethea indicates the centuries-old church. Her voice is more pitying than angry. “You have all the resources you need,” she says. “With all the lifetimes you’ve had, think of how you could have helped the world, if you’d only wanted to. You could have been a beacon.”

He shakes his head sullenly. “The world is beyond help,” he murmurs. “It can only be remade.”

He is only a little kind of villain, one who thinks he’s doing right. The most common and most dangerous kind, perhaps. Even if she never sees him again, she’ll face his kind many times in the world outside.

Time to get to work, then.

She waves her bloodied hand again, and all the other windows shatter, raining diamond dust onto the pitted floor. A third wave blows the candles out.

“Don’t follow me,” she says again. “If we ever meet again, we’re going to be enemies.” Then, naked and unafraid, Alethea steps barefoot through the shards and climbs out the empty window into the living night.

As she begins to walk away, she hears a soft sound in the desecrated chapel behind her: the delicate chink of glass shards being picked up and set in order.

Image credits Pexels, Tama66, Tama66, congerdesign, bniique, sick-street-photography, minamunns90, Hans, Cparks, 412designs, Mitrey.

Content warnings: Description of death by burning, cuts/injuries/blood, allusion to possible assault, probable gaslighting.