Fiction

HONOR


I


Will I turn into someone different when I put on the hooded robe of a Collector?

I shivered under my blanket, tired of staying awake, tired of my mind running in endless circles like a water wheel, tired of being cold.

The hall clock bonged six times. Finally. I dropped the blanket. My fingertips were dead-blue despite covering them with the thin wool all night. I reached for my shoes, and just like everything else at this hour, their broken-in leather was frozen. A minute under my arm-pits softened them while the ice in my brain cracked, too. Of course I wouldn’t turn into any-body different. No Collector in history had changed one iota, I was sure. Ihs saw to that.

I opened my bedroom door just wide enough to squeeze through. The bottom hinge liked to screech on cold mornings and I couldn’t get caught—not today. The rowdiest apprentices in ten years had a reputation to maintain. Besides, every Collector from Big Water to Kirkwood was packed into Refuge for Homecoming. Ihs had enough voices fortifying Him this morning. He’d make it through this year’s Redemption without power from three apprentices.

I tiptoed to the next narrow door along the hallway and tapped once. Joel slid out with-out a sound.

“I’m impressed,” I whispered.

“Think I’d sleep in today?” Joel grinned, his flawless white teeth barely visible in the dim hall. “It’s the perfect day to break a rule.”

We crept to the end of the hall. Low voices trickled out every door we passed. At last I saw Clare’s blonde head poke around the corner.

“They’re all chanting on our side,” she whispered.

“Ours too.”

She melted into that goofy smile. “Good morning.” Her deep, sweet voice washed over me.

I knew my own smile was just as silly. “Good morning.” I kissed her. That first kiss of the day was like water after a penance fast.

Joel sighed. “Rein it in, you two. Let’s go.”

I led them downstairs, a model head apprentice. “These stones are so cold my feet ache.”

“My left sock has a hole in it,” Joel said.

“Because you’re too lazy to keep ’em mended,” Clare said.

“Just because you fix Amos’s for him…”

“Shh.” I stopped them at the third floor as a babel of voices hit us from another long hallway of closed bedroom doors. “Everyone’s chanting here too. Perfect.”

When we passed the door to the second-floor arena gallery, Clare reached for the door.. “I want to peek.”

“Clare—”

Wham. The noise reverberated in the complete silence. We all jumped. Clare leapt backwards into my arms.

“What was that?” No footsteps came toward the door from the gallery. Maybe we were still safe.

“I don’t know.” Clare squeezed my hands and stood up.

We ran on tiptoes down the rest of the hall and into the stairwell. When I put my ear against the main arena doors on the first floor, I heard footsteps and another thump. “Let’s go.”

We careened around the corner onto the basement stairs and took them two at a time. Nobody followed. No more thumps.

“I’ll get the lights,” Joel said from the black, windowless basement. A scritch and a whiff of sulfur, and one lamp beside the doorway glowed, then another. A third, and the desk, bookshelves, floor, and stone ceiling appeared.

I plopped into a chair and wiped sweat from my forehead. “Your fearless leader expects thanks for getting us down here. Unless you’d rather sneak back to your rooms and lose your mind in chants with the rest of them.”

“Amos, we bow before you.” Joel tossed the matches onto the desk. “You are our private Matthew. You, not that old, freaky-eyed blond, are the greatest Collector since the Last War.” He went down on one knee at my feet.

“Shh,” Clare said. “Close the door, idiot.” She did it herself, pushed Joel aside, and sprang onto my lap. “We’re free! No more beautiful summer days wasted down here learning pre-War history.”

“No more lectures from boring old Collectors on the reasons for the fixed monetary sys-tem,” I said.

“No more slaving over long division.” Joel attempted a backflip and landed flat on his back. “Ow.”

I nudged Clare off my lap and jumped up. We danced around the classroom between the rows of tables. “Real life begins today!” I twirled her in the center aisle.

The door opened. Joel leapt to his feet. We stopped in mid-twirl.

“Uh…Good morning, Patrick.”

Our teacher set a pile of folded brown robes on the desk. “You seem to have finished your chants in record time.”

“We… got up extra early.” I watched the color of Patrick’s mostly bald head. If it turned red, I’d have to do some fast talking.

“I see. Since you’re so eager to start today’s instruction, solve this problem: All three of you are sixteen at last and it’s Tuesday, November twenty-eighth. What does that mean?”

Patrick’s scalp stayed pale and I breathed again. “It means you truly are a wise teacher, Patrick, because you remembered it’s initiation day.” I bowed so low my hair swept the stone floor.

Our tableau thawed. Joel whooped and drummed his feet on the large flagstone in front of the door. Clare fanned herself with a sheet of paper.

“Obnoxious brats,” Patrick said. “It means I’m free of you. If this weren’t Homecoming, I’d pitch all your homework into the breakfast fires and run through the halls cheering.”

He tossed the box of matches at Joel and sat on the edge of the desk. “Joel, make your-self useful and light the rest of the lamps, please. It doesn’t require deep thought.”

“C’mon, Patrick,” I said. “We may not have been the best at math or history or neat handwriting—”

Patrick groaned and buried his head in his hands.

“But you haven’t had a boring day since we turned thirteen,” Joel said.

“Boring,” Patrick said. He placed one hand over his heart and raised his eyes to the ceil-ing. “May lightning strike me if I ever complain about quiet, studious, obedient apprentices again.”

“I’m going to paint you like that, Patrick,” Clare said. “It’ll be an—” she snickered— “in-spiration to your next group.”

“They might be innocent enough to believe it,” I said, “until we tell them about the morn-ing we dumped snow in your bed and you squealed like a girl hitting a high G.”

We collapsed into chairs, laughing, even though the joke wasn’t that funny. Initiation jit-ters, maybe. Patrick shook his head and circled the room, aligning textbooks on the built-in shelves and straightening stray pieces of blank paper.

I grabbed the moment to kiss Clare again. Joel moaned.

“It will be a relief to all of us when you two get married,” Patrick said.

Clare blushed to the roots of her hair and I stopped laughing to watch her. I loved it when her ears turned pink and their curves peeked through her golden waves. “Only six more months to Carnival and our wedding.”

“Enough time for you to plant a garden for me,” Clare said.

“It’ll be your present.”

“You’re my sweetie.”

Joel rolled his eyes. “Will you please keep the sappy stuff for when you’re alone?”

“Yes,” Patrick said. “Cut the comedy and the romance, you three, and get up. It’s time for your last lesson.”

I rubbed the tip of my nose—stupid nervous habit. Clare caught my eye and wrinkled her own nose at me.

We moved to our usual places in front of the lecture stand. I expected Patrick to open The Collection of Matthew like every other morning. Instead, he stood in front of us and smoothed his brown robe, pulled the hood over his head, and tucked his hands in his sleeves.

For a second I could’ve sworn the lamps dimmed, but that was stupid. Get a grip, dummy. It was stupid of me, but sometimes when a Collector wore the robe the proper way, I got the creeps. Maybe it was because the hood concealed their faces, or the way their walk changed: They became strangers. If I admitted it to myself, those were the only times I didn’t think being a Collector was the greatest way of life ever, hands-down.

Will I still be me when I put on that innocent-looking folded robe?

After a long minute, Patrick said, “Who am I?”

“Uh… you’re Patrick.” Joel said.

“No!”

Clare gasped as his mellow voice lashed at us. Joel hung his head, but I knew what Pat-rick meant. I ignored the shiver in my spine.

“You are a Collector.” Right, I was just being stupid. There was nothing sinister about Collectors. I’d wanted it more than anything ever since I turned twelve and we got a hint of what Collectors did for the world. I’d spent night after night pacing my room, pounding the stone walls and begging Ihs to make time go faster. I’d lost count of how many nights I spent like that. But no more. After today, all the mysteries would be open to me—to us.

“Yes,” Patrick said. “What have I done?”

“You saved the world.” Joel raised his head and sat straighter.

“When?”

“After the Last War, um…” Clare closed her eyes. “I know this…2196 minus 2022…one hundred seventy-four years ago. Matthew and the other Collectors left their refuge in the Rocky Mountains and found the ruins of Colorado Springs.”

“What did they do?”

“They gathered the survivors,” I said. “People back then didn’t know how to plant or harvest, or how to rebuild either, because they had things called machines to provide everything. The Collectors taught them, and they begged the Collectors to rule them.”

“Correct. We have guided them since that day and there is peace and plenty in every town. The people honor us every year on that date with Carnival.” His voice smiled. “Which is the perfect day for your wedding.” The smile vanished. He stepped forward and faced his hood toward each of us in turn.

Goosebumps prickled my neck. I wished I could see Patrick’s familiar, washed-out blue eyes. Why was he staring at us like that?

“Now you will learn the rest.” Patrick walked to the back of the room and opened the double doors. His footsteps echoed through the next two rooms.

Clare whispered, “Any idea what he’s talking about?”

“Not a clue.”

“Shh. Here he comes,” Joel said.

Patrick laid a tall, thin book on the lecture stand.

“He’s got Matthew’s Book.” Joel’s eyebrows disappeared beneath his shaggy bangs.

“Come here,” Patrick said.

We looked at each other.

“We’re not allowed.” Clare’s voice was breathless.

“Come here, all of you. Now.”

We stood on either side of Patrick and gaped. Clare reached out to touch the gold letter-ing on the cover, but snatched her hand away.

“Let us see it, Patrick.” My voice trembled, but I didn’t care. “Please.”

Patrick’s familiar, wide fingers opened the book and the room seemed brighter. That was still our favorite teacher inside the dark hood, no matter how strange he looked or acted.

“Listen,” Patrick said. “Matthew dictated to his first followers: ‘I was alone in a cave high on the mountain when the war started. I saw a vision of Ihs just as a bomb exploded. The light enveloped Ihs, even Ihs, the god who created all, and impenetrable night covered the world.’”

None of us moved.

“‘My companions did not find me for two days. I feared all were dead from the war. In that interval, I heard the voice of Ihs cry out to me. Ihs, the creator of all things, cried out to me, his servant, for redemption.’” Patrick turned the fragile page, keeping his fingers away from the crumbling edges. “‘When at last the others came to my cave, Ihs had entrusted me with the secret and only way to Collect him from the darkness.’”

“How?” I leaned forward, careful not to breathe on the ancient paper.

“‘I sent them into the city at the foot of the mountain. They braved fire and madness for the sake of Ihs, returning with three of the many evil people responsible for the war.’” Patrick looked up, with his ‘answer my question’ expression.

“Military,” Joel said.

“Show off,” Clare whispered.

Patrick nodded. “‘I instructed my companions to build three spoked wheels, ten times the size of the ones on a wheelbarrow. If we did not Collect Ihs before three days passed, Ihs would be imprisoned in darkness forever.’”

Clare said, “I don’t believe it.”

Patrick gave her a small smile. “So we all said the first time we heard this story.”

Clare shook her head. “It’s impossible. We’re talking about Ihs here. Matthew can’t have meant that.”

Patrick continued to read: “‘At sunrise on the third day, we bound the three evil ones to the wheels and performed all Ihs required of us. When Redemption was complete, as Ihs had promised me, the darkness lifted and the sun shone upon us again.’”

He closed the book, making the Sign of Ihs over it.

“Now, you three who think you are the cleverest apprentices in ten years, explain that.”

I glanced at Clare. Joel glanced at me. Clare stared at her feet, the most perfect blush on her cheeks. Patrick laughed and put a hand on Joel’s and my shoulder, then on Clare’s.

“Don’t look so embarrassed. Every single one of us had the same reaction. This is why we wait till now to open the truth to you. When you are assigned a town to inhabit, one of your du-ties will be to search out the world-destroyers.”

“Now?” Clare’s voice squeaked. “They can’t be alive now.”

Joel poked her. “He means anybody who still thinks like that. Right?”

“Yes. Matthew Collected Ihs, and through Ihs, the world. But evil is stronger than stone and more tenacious than weeds. Those who think like the world-destroyers still exist even after one hundred seventy-four years of Matthew’s Peace. You will find them.” He picked up the folded robes from his desk. “Kneel.”

This time I didn’t notice the temperature of the floor.

“Amos, Clare, Joel, this is more than your initiation day. You have learned the truth and grown in wisdom and power. You have earned the privilege of being called one of Matthew’s descendants—Collectors. Hold out your hands.”

Patrick stood in front of me first. “Ihs brought light from darkness.”

I continued the ritual. “Yet darkness consumed Ihs.”

Patrick placed the robe in my arms and I bowed my head. “Today you Collect Ihs from eternal darkness.”

I ran my hands over the wool. It was softer than any of my other clothes and its deep brown was warm and welcoming in the lamplight. I shook it out, slipped my arms into the sleeves, and wiggled it over my trousers. Next to me, Clare finished reciting and unfolded her robe. Her hair glowed against it. On her other side, Joel—for the first time I could remember—looked humble.

Patrick traced the Sign with his thumb on my forehead, lips, and heart. “You are sealed with the mark of Ihs.”

When he had done the same to Clare and Joel, we all put the hoods over our heads. For a second my heart froze like the iced-over window in my room. Was I still me? Had I changed? But nothing felt any different. In fact, I felt just like I was in bed under the covers, protected against the cold.

Patrick said, “You’re used to Homecoming as a family reunion because that’s the only part you’ve been allowed to join. Today you enter into its true purpose.”

“In the arena,” Clare said.

“Yes. Ihs instructed Matthew to reenact the Redemption every year on that day.” He picked up Matthew’s Book. “This year I’ll watch with you from the second-floor gallery. That way if you have questions afterward, we won’t disturb anyone. I’ll be right back.”

Patrick returned the Book to the far room and I touched my hood to Clare’s. “You’re beautiful.”

Patrick returned too soon for me because I wanted to see her familiar face inside that hood. When he extended his hands over our heads we all knelt again.

“Ihs has done great things for me,” Patrick began and we joined in. “His power extends to those who fear him, from generation to generation.”

My gut flip-flopped. Fear? No. I was being stupid again. It was just a reverent way of talking.

“And now my head shall be raised above the evil ones who surround me.” Good. My voice didn’t shake. I finished: “And I shall Collect Ihs and his people with joy.”

Patrick pushed his own hood back just enough for us to see the huge grin on his face. “Welcome to the family, my obnoxious brats.”

Gifted

“So, you’re a prodigy?” asked Marilyn.

“What’s that?” asked Lori.

Marilyn shrugged as she lazily pushed herself forward and backward on the swing set. Lori sat next to her on the tire-swing that hung crooked where one of its chains had been broken by the older boys during their recess time. She still managed to push herself in small circles that were starting to upset her stomach.

“It’s like a genius,” said Marilyn. “But not just with math stuff. With like, art, and music stuff, too. Gifted. You know?”

Lori tilted her head back and forth as she considered. She remembered hearing the word “genius” when she was very young, stacking the blocks in a way that just made sense to her, finding stories in the letters that her parents read too slowly. She remembered some psychologist who had used the word “gifted” when her worried parents began to suspect something was wrong. By the time she had begun to sing, and dance, and paint, they stopped using the word genius, and they stopped taking her to the psychiatrist. They never used the word “prodigy.”

“I guess,” said Lori. “I’ve just got a knack for things.”

That was what her mother told her to say, if she slipped up. When she forgot to make mistakes during art class, her mother told the teacher she traced the picture from their coffee table art book. When she sang with abandon at a karaoke birthday party, her father answered calls from concerned parents the next day and claimed the mic was accidentally autotuned. She was supposed to play dumb.

“That’s really cool,” said Marilyn.

Dumb was not cool. The way she composed a rhythm with her tapping pencil during class was cool, making Marilyn’s head nod in the same beat.

Everyone noticed how cool Marilyn was, with the pierced ears she had since she was a baby, and the black eyeliner her mom let her wear, and the rings she shoplifted from the supermarket. But only Marilyn noticed that Lori was cool. No one was supposed to notice her. Lori’s parents lectured her about how dangerous it would be if someone noticed her. But being noticed felt so good.

“I can do it again,” said Lori.

Marilyn stopped swinging and waited with a smile.

Lori’s fingers hovered over the hot rubber of the tire swing. She knew she could do it again because she had done it before. When she was very little, when her parents still threw around the word “genius.” She had tapped her markers against a blank sheet of paper and saw that the cat was nodding its head with the same beat. She kept tapping, and the cat kept nodding. She tapped for hours, and then she stopped, but the cat kept nodding. And nodding. And nodding. But she was little more than a baby then. And it was just nodding.

It was not like the mistake she made when she painted her watercolors off the page, or when she sang every morning until none of the birds outside sang anymore, or when she drew circles with her feet in the sand until all the ants were swirling in circles before turning on their backs with their little legs twitching in the air. But the memory of those little ant legs that twitched so pathetically before they did not move at all stopped her fingers before they started. Her knuckles thrummed painfully, wanting release, but Lori clutched her fists.

“Maybe later,” she said.

Marilyn looked disappointed, but she could not have been more disappointed than Lori felt. She wanted to sing without sucking in the world’s music. She wanted to paint without staining her entire home, including her parents, blue. She wanted to make a rhythm that people could dance to and then stop whenever they wanted. But she could not.

The bell signaling the end of recess rang and Marilyn hopped off her swing, running towards the door.

Prodigy.

Genius.

Gifted.

It did not feel like a gift.

She remembered her parents using the word “curse.”

Lori continued to push herself in gentle circles on the tire-swing, only stopping when she noticed the other children who sprinted for the line were starting to swerve as they ran, turning gentle circles of their own before falling dizzy into the grass. They did not notice that they made circles when she made circles, or that they stopped when she stopped. They did not even look at her when she got up and joined the line at the door. Lori could have made them notice. Instead, she smiled at Marilyn when she rested her arm on her shoulder.

“She’s so cool,” whispered one of the other students.

If Lori closed her eyes, she could pretend they were talking about her.

A Strange History with Cats

October 2012

The first cat was crushed, guts splashed across the driveway, mouth a frozen hiss. Its milky eyes seemed to track Ling as she hefted herself out of the car and waddled over.

Inauspicious.

That was the word that came to her. In Chinese, a word of raindrop suddenness, a reflex.

“What is it, honey?” Raymond said, rounding from the trunk and surveying the mess. “Oh man. You go on inside. I’ll take care of it.”


In the kitchen, Ling prepared a glass of raspberry leaf tea. By the time it was steeped and aromatic, she heard Raymond entering through the garage, taking the back stairs up to the guest shower.

Lovely, discrete man.

She gazed out the kitchen window into the rolling, wooded yard of their home in Maryland. Deep autumn fire, a sparkling brook—

A kick.

Ling gasped with relief. Sophie had lain still ever since the cat incident.

She blew on her tea, sipped it, supporting her considerable weight against the counter. Sophie turned and kicked again. Ling held her belly, feeling her child’s movements.

I can’t wait to meet you.

Soon she heard the shower, felt a slight tremble from the pipes, and remembered that there had been another cat—with the realization came a wave of panic, and Sophie grew still once more.

Stone Fruit

Most would come into my home only in the summer, when my crooked hands held untold bounty of cherries and apricots and peaches, ripe and dripping with succor, and they would pull at the fruits as if they weren’t parts of my body, as if each pluck didn’t send fire down my nerves. They would stand there and take bites, big sloppy bites, laughing and talking, juice leaking down their hands and chins, and they would reach out and smear the red and orange and yellow liquid with bits of my flesh on the faces of others. There would be laughter and joy, and I would remind myself that every time they carried the stone with them there would be more of me somewhere else, and that, someday, the more of me might meet the flesh of the one I had lost so long ago, the one whom I still crave.

I can feel them again, laughing and kissing and rolling around in the grass, among my bark-covered arms, and every giggle and every sigh reminds me of what I used to be, ages ago, of why I live the way I do, destined to offer and wait and seek and move only by creating multitudes of myself, spreading far and wide, in the hope that somehow, somewhere, there would be peace, or an end, or a point to it all.


Nobody remembers my name, but everyone remembers Johnny Appleseed. When I knew him he was just Johnny, a barefoot kid with crooked teeth and freckles, while I was just a girl with ginger braids, who got in trouble for getting dirty while hunting frogs and climbing trees.

Growing up, the two of us hung out in orchard crowns, him stealing old man Wilkerson’s apples, me gorging on cherries and apricots and peaches. We often fled one of Wilkerson’s large, mean sons, who chased us with a shotgun, yelling and cursing.

“They know it’s you because your shirt is always stained,” said Johnny one day, as we hid in a wild blueberry bush off the road, a Wilkerson running past us.

“So? Yours is, too.” I suddenly felt filthy and small, and would’ve given anything to have the cherry-red fruit chunks magically disappear from my white-and-blue checkered shirt.

“Apples don’t stain.” He nodded toward my shirt. “Not like your stupid drippy stone fruits with all the color.”

“Your apples are stupid!” I jumped to my feet. “Just like you, Johnny Chapman!” I marched away with my chin up, hands balled into fists. My face was on fire.

That night, Johnny threw rocks at my window until I showed up.

“Stop it! You’ll break it,” I said, groggy and annoyed. “What do you want?”

“I wanted to say I’m sorry. I was mean. And cherries aren’t stupid.”

“Well, I still think apples are. Good night.” I shut the window with indignation, but, as my head hit the pillow, I was smiling.


After that night, we spent more time in each other’s trees, tasting each other’s fruits, getting the bits and pieces and all the juices mixed up… Until my belly started to swell and it was my father holding the shotgun, chasing Johnny away.

I never left the house, and I remember pain, so much pain, blood everywhere, the screams, and I remember hearing that the child was stillborn, and I remember the sweetness and the joy and the texture and the fear, and I remember wondering where Johnny was, and if he knew, and if he’d have liked the baby to be called Apple or Cherry or Peaches, and I didn’t even know if it was a boy or a girl, and I remember, oh so clearly remember, the feeling of that very last breath leaving my body…

Then I awoke, and had many more arms and many more hands, and I could feel the dirt and the air, and I could see the sun through the many, so many eyes, and I rejoiced at the rain, but felt confused, until I realized they had buried me in the orchard, for as much shame as I had brought upon the family, they knew who I was and what I liked, and they wanted me to rest where I was happiest…

Only I missed them all and I missed Johnny, but most of all I missed my baby, and I felt devastated because I did not know where they had buried it.

But I will find them both, my Johnny, my baby. Every time I bear fruit, when the juicy flesh gives others joy and they carry the stone seed with them, when they drop it in the grass and a new part of me grows, I get to see more and feel more and learn more, and I have known countless deaths amid my roots, but none of them are my child, and I have known countless loves amid my trees, but none of them Johnny and me, and I have touched and intertwined with countless roots of apple trees, but they were all mute, none of them were Johnny, and I keep searching, keep spreading, because I cannot fathom that I would be living on, all these winters and summers, seasons of barren branches and those so heavy with fruits they almost break, but that he would not, that he was only ever just a man, who lived a man’s life and died a man’s death, and maybe never knew what had become of me, or worse yet, that he knew but didn’t care, and went on eating the boring stupid apples, and lived a boring stupid life, leaving only those tiny seeds behind him, and that he forgot all about the mixing of the juices and colors and textures, and that he forgot all about me.

The Alien in the Attic

There was something under my bed, I was sure of it.

It shuffled and shifted, clawing at the wooden frames and murmuring ever so faintly in the dark. Once, after losing my quilted blanket to a tug-of-war match with it, I ran downstairs and woke up Mummy and her boyfriend. With a flashlight that shone like a little moon, Mummy searched the shadowy space beneath the bed and uncovered a broken toy-rocket, an empty packet of cookies and my crumpled blanket. The floorboards below were loose and damp and I told her how they sometimes creaked when the wind was still, but she didn’t check them.

Annoyed, she locked me in the attic room with that thing.

It’s hard to sleep if your blanket is constantly stolen, so on most nights I stayed up, looking out of the window into the inky-blue sky, glimmering with stars. The air was moist and chilly and I shivered, hugging my pillow to my chest. I could spell “crescent” and “gibbous” correctly and I had a book of constellations that Daddy gifted me last birthday before he left, so the night sky stretched out enticingly before me, like a puzzle to be solved.

Pluto was no longer a planet, which made me rather sad. My classmates thought it was weird that I was hung-up over a “stupid planet” but I suppose they never knew what it felt to be left out of games or have your own family pretend that you weren’t ever there, which is what happened with Daddy. Mummy even took down the family photographs where he was in the frame and I was afraid she’d throw out the book too, so I carried it with me when I went to school.

Soon enough, I was so immersed in mapping Canis Major and Cassiopeia and Cygnus the Swan with my sleep-deprived eyes, that I didn’t mind the presence that sometimes joined me. He- I decided on a whim to think of him as a boy because I didn’t really know what boys were like and the thing looked nothing like the girls from school, although now I cannot remember what he looked like, except as a vague whitish shadow that sometimes glowed- he helped me identify the constellations and explained why the moon wore a different face each night and said that his home was in a star system far away, one that our eyes could not see, a place he could never return to.

“Why?” I asked, curious, offering him a cookie. I sneakily got him cookies and milk every other night. When he licked the milk, he sort of glowed and became more solid-ish. It was all very exciting.

He said his spaceship was destroyed when it landed on earth and all crewmates but him, perished because of something to do with the radiation. I didn’t exactly get it, but it sounded like he’d have died too, had it not been for the warmth of my blanket and that safe space of dust and darkness beneath my bed, like the gap between stars.

On my next birthday, Mummy invited some of my classmates over, but no one showed up. I didn’t mind as long as Daddy turned up. I was sort of hoping that he might sneak in from the window when Mummy was baking. I even kept an eye out for him when we curled up on the threadbare sofa and watched a show about the solar system on Discovery Channel. Apart from the chocolate cake with frosting that looked like tiny stars, I didn’t get any other present. Daddy had promised me a book on the moon and I couldn’t tell Mummy about it because she got sadder whenever Daddy was brought up.

Later I told Po (we were discussing Apollo 11 and he nodded gleefully at the second syllable, and that’s how the name stuck) about how I wished to go to the moon like Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, rather than to the beach over the holidays, and when Mummy and I returned, suntanned and laden with sea shells, I found a brass handheld telescope sitting on my dusty bed.

For one delightful moment I thought it must’ve been Daddy who came to the house when we’d been gone and had helped himself to all the cookies, but I noticed my missing blanket that I’d neatly folded before we left and was a little disappointed. Then, I started fiddling with the telescope and realized just how powerful its lens was, pinpointing my eyes to the farthest reaches of space, and I felt a rush of gratitude and affection for Po. I was crying even during dinner and Mummy thought I just missed the sea.

Together, each night Po and I wandered among the stars and followed golden-white comets as they streaked from one galaxy to another. I quickly got bored of the moon and her grey shadows and instead was mystified by the iridescent colors that danced on Saturn’s many rings and the glimmering mountains of ice on one of Jupiter’s moons. But Po guided me to distant stars and galaxies that had numbers instead of names, where clouds of gas and lava swirled deliciously in bewitching patterns, where his home lay, a home he dearly missed and longed to return to.

Whenever his home was mentioned, he sort of dimmed, like a star snuffed out. It was a cue for me to get another cookie. At times, he worried that his home may no longer be there as he explained that it took a long time for light from distant galaxies to reach us and when we looked up at the night sky, we saw the universe not as it is but as it had once been. I tried to cheer him up, saying that when I was old enough and got better at math, we’d build a spaceship together and find out for ourselves. To this he’d give a sad nod and patiently teach me how to map the stars. We filled the backs of my notebooks with a dozen charts.

He wasn’t completely hopeless though because he told me once, that after he died, his spirit would soar among those vast stretches of black emptiness, till he found his way home and how if I looked through my telescope carefully, I’d see a new star in one of those distant galaxies, shining brightly than the rest, because he’d remember me and light a beacon.

Even with the cookies, he must’ve known he wouldn’t last long, because barely a week after he said that, he died.

I’d knitted a new blanket for him, as I was tired of sharing and going cold each night, but when I crawled under the bed to surprise him, there lay a pool of milky-white water. I screamed and ran down to fetch Mummy but by the time she came up, there was nothing left but a dark wet stain, as though the universe had soaked it up. She blamed me for spilling water and shut the door.

It never struck me before just how lonely the universe was.

The stain is still there, like an ugly shadow and maybe because it is under my bed no one tried really hard to scrub it clean. I searched the sky each night for his star but there were so many, it was hard to tell them apart, without Po to guide me. In vain, I reread our star-charts and tried to plot new ones, till the math made my head dizzy (Po was the one who did the calculations) and tears blurred my vision.

I asked questions in school about lightspeed and quasars and blackholes, that annoyed my classmates and teachers, but I was determined to not give up. I repeatedly cleaned the glass of the telescope and bought new notebooks that I quickly filled with more maps and equations. By then Mummy had a new boyfriend who got me a library membership and my head was crammed with the names of scientists and astronomers that I found very difficult to pronounce.

Po’s departure had left in my heart a gaping hole, that swallowed everything I put in it.

On sleepless nights, I gazed into the sky imagining how long it would take for a spirit, without a body or a spaceship, to sail from earth, through the silent ocean that glittered darkly with stars and moons, to follow the curve of faraway light-beams, looking for home. I dreamed of building a spaceship that could travel faster than light, putting on an astronaut’s suit and following Po, in a cat-and-mouse chase among the constellations.

It was all that kept me alive, kept me glowing.

Then one night, while fiddling with the brass knobs of the telescope to adjust the distance, I finally saw it. The star, Po’s star, tucked away in a distant galaxy that hadn’t yet been named or numbered- a beacon beckoning to me.

Aesthesis

With the new Flinch&Wince™ integrated tech, the Aesthesian2040i reacts just like a real person! With over 1000 screams, cries, moans and groans in the sound library, you can fully customize your Aesthesian’s responses to any and all sensation. Our standard model now also cries tears at only the touch of a button. Want them to bruise? Want them to bleed? For only a little bit extra…

“Bleeding? Sounds a bit messy doesn’t it,” Wilmien said, cutting her gaze toward her husband. He was the anal one when it came to cleanliness, applying the same meticulousness to the sanitation of his house as he did to his court cases. Hannes glanced back at her, his brows puckered in their customary frown. Twenty years ago she hadn’t been able to look away from his wide and easy smile and the divots it left in his cheeks. Now she couldn’t bear to make more than a few seconds of eye contact. It wasn’t the beginnings of the beer-boep straining the buttons of his shirt, the bald patch no amount of comb-over could hide, or the fact turning forty had instantly transformed him into his father. None of those were the reason Wilmien cursed herself for not getting out sooner, for not having the courage to be honest with herself before she invested soul and emotion in a relationship to make others happy.

“Our compounds are all vegan and organic.” The salesdroid flashed a set of even, if too-small, teeth. The name on its badge read ‘Max-4,’ the generic moniker for all such bots. “The excretions wash out of most fabrics and off most surfaces with warm, soapy water.”

“And the rate of regeneration?” Hannes asked.

“That depends on the extent of the damage,” Max-4 said with annoyingly perfect diction. “All our models come with an extensive breakdown of recovery times.” The droid produced a glossy pamphlet and passed it to Hannes. “Basic fist-induced damage, for example the equivalent of a heavy session with a traditional punching bag, will take less than three hours to fully heal.”

“What about bullets?” Hannes asked and Wilmien stiffened.

Max-4’s eyes quivered for a moment as it processed the request. Wilmien tensed, half-expecting even a droid to stand in judgment, but Max-4’s face remained inscrutable. No, she was projecting again. Droids like this weren’t capable of expressing emotion.

“Getting hit with a round of twenty-two at about a hundred meters would take approximately an hour,” Max-4 said, words delivered matter-of-factly yet still landing like a fist in Wilmien’s gut. “A nine-mil slug to the head point blank could take anywhere between twelve and twenty-four hours to fully regenerate. Not that we recommend shooting your Aesthesian in the head,” Max-4 added, lips twitching in an ersatz grin. Wilmien might’ve missed it if she hadn’t been staring at the droid’s lips, if she hadn’t been imagining what it would feel like being kissed by smooth silicon. Would those lips taste of plastic? High-end Aesthesian mouths could be flavored.

“The standard warranty doesn’t cover deliberately induced head trauma,” Max-4 continued. “And should you wish to terminate your contract with Aesthesis Inc. pick-up can be arranged at no extra cost. All parts of the Aesthesian are recyclable.”

Wilmien narrowed her gaze at the droid and Max-4 seemed to notice, pale eyes flicking between her and Hannes. Whatever Max-4 parsed from her expression it caused the droid to correct its own. Its quirked lips smoothed into blank docility. Wilmien wondered how sharp Max’s teeth were. Would they nibble; would they bite and leave her bloody?

She coughed and turned away, letting her gaze rove over the rows of racked Aesthesians. They came in an array of skin tones with various hairstyles. Some were dressed in company-standard gray jumpsuits while others were garbed like fashion house mannequins. Most stood with their heads bowed and eyes closed. A few stared straight ahead, unblinking. Awake, but seemingly unaware.

Gender expression ranged from the traditional binary to complete androgyny, and biological attributes were fully customizable. For quite a bit extra, Wilmien could even have the android custom-sculpted. Previously, it’d been possible to have an Aesthesian modeled after celebrities, but that caused one too many social media fiascoes and expensive lawsuits. Options had since become more limited and ethical. At the moment, the trend—in certain circles—involved replacing a dead partner with an Aesthesian facsimile.

Tantamount to taxidermy. Wilmien glanced at Hannes, imagining having a droid in his stead. Didn’t she deserve an upgrade in the spousal department? In the dark and quiet of 4am, forced awake by Hannes’s whiskey-induced snoring and her own squirming thoughts, in those moments she plucked the truth from her heart and held it in the gentle cage of her fingers, letting its fragile wings flutter against her palms.

She never should’ve married a man—let alone this one. But he was safe and came with the stamp of family approval.

While Hannes continued to discuss various specifications with the salesdroid, Wilmien wandered closer to the inert Aesthesians. One caught her attention, beautiful even in standby. Something in the face, the bow of the sultry lips and the wide-set eyes reminded her of the girl she’d known when she was sixteen, the girl she’d spent two years dreaming of undressing; the girl who’d gone with Wilmien’s older brother to his Matric dance.

Shevani. The name was a thorn catching at the fraying tapestry of her memory, a soul-scouring what if.

She reached out a tentative hand and touched the arm hanging slack in its socket. It was oddly warm, soft to the touch and dusted with fine, dark hairs. She squeezed a little harder, digging her purple nails into the synthetic flesh. Its eyes opened, pupils constricting. It tilted its head to focus on her. The eyes were a shade too light, the hair chestnut instead of mahogany, but the rest was uncanny. Some people sold their faces to companies like Aesthesis Inc. especially young students always desperate for cash.

Tingles laced up Wilmien’s spine and a welcome if unfamiliar ache began between her legs. The crescent marks her nails had made were slowly fading. She swallowed and licked her lips. As much as she might want to deny it, her daughter’s proclivities certainly hadn’t been inherited from Hannes.

This is for Crystal, she reminded herself, trying to ignore the bayonet of jealousy skewering her ribs. For the child she’d never really wanted but felt obliged to beget. For the little girl that had torn screaming into Wilmien’s world and demanded love she didn’t even know she had to give, needed to give. Motherhood had been all-consuming, suffocating at times, and yet a welcome reprieve from the marriage she already regretted.

Was Crystal’s disposition Wilmien’s fault? Didn’t every parent blame themselves for the failings of their children. Not Hannes, he refused to believe his child might harbour darker tendencies. Sullen, withdrawn, and prone to violent outbursts, that’s how Crystal had been described by the doctor Wilmien had taken her to—before Hannes put a stop to the visits. Wilmien understood only too well. Crystal was a mirror, the reflection cracked and tarnished. It was one Wilmien didn’t like looking at now that the corners of Crystal’s cupid-bow mouth were snagged with a familiar cruelty. All the “I hate yous” and “leave me alones” punctuated by slamming doors left Wilmien bruised and exhausted. At least with this purchase, Crystal would have a more resilient target for what Hannes had decided was teenage angst.

But there was no reason the Aesthesian couldn’t provide catharsis for more than one family member, surely? The thought eased the envy prodding at Wilmien’s heart.All our models are sex-capable. The words from the brochure scorched a trail through her mind before Hannes’s grumbling drew her attention.

“…for a little bit extra, no doubt,” Hannes said with a harrumph.

“You get what you pay for, sir,” the droid said. “The Aesthesian range is state-of-the-art synthetic tech. Of course, if finances are a concern we do offer payment plans for—”

“That won’t be necessary.” Hannes puffed out his chest, oblivious to how easily he was falling for the sale’s pitch.

Wilmien glanced back at the Shevani lookalike. It was still looking at her; the marks she’d left on its arm mere memory. Her heart hammered a little faster in her chest as she imagined the patterns her teeth could make on a canvas so easily renewed.

“I’ll give you a moment to decide,” Max-4 said.

“We’ll take one like that.” Wilmien pointed to the droid. Its eyes had closed again. “But with darker hair and eyes to match, please. I think Crystal would prefer it,” she added when Hannes squinted at her with eyes like a highveld winter sky. His hair—what was left of it—was a near translucent blond. When they had sex—not for months now—it was long, black hair Wilmien imagined knotted in her fingers.

“An excellent choice,” Max-4 said after a moment’s hesitation. “I’ll have one customized and delivered within three work days. Now, if you’ll come this way, we can discuss the details of your package.” Max-4 gestured toward a private cubicle. There were several others sat at similar partitions with their Maxes, all identical and smiling while the humans signed contracts and even wiped an occasional tear from leaking eyes.

Wilmien held her breath while Hannes scoured the fine print in the contract with his attorney’s gaze. She exhaled only when the delivery date had been secured.

The car started for home on autopilot—easier to let the AI navigate five ‘o clock Joburg traffic—as she scanned the papers Hannes handed her. He seemed content to stare across the vehicles trundling bumper to bumper toward the northern suburbs. Wilmien searched the manual until she found what she was looking for. She crossed her legs, tight, grateful for the rigid seams of her jeans, and memorized the requisite code.

Travelers’ Crossing

A strapping spaceman, greased black hair visible through his fishbowl helmet, was climbing through some twisted wreckage. Maybe it was alien plants. Who can say but the artist? Behind him a spaceship that looked an awful lot like a cruise ship with three bumps on top hovered in perfect profile. The cover story was titled Secret Weapon, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the astronaut was the eponymous weapon. Doubtful. Still, something like that would make a nice souvenir. The art was nice enough. They let us take little things like this with us, as long as we don’t go overboard and we don’t try to sell them. I counted out the extra dimes, handed them to the kid behind the counter, and walked out with my brand new April 1968 copy of Analog, as well as the day’s newspapers.

With lunch over I had little else to do but head back to my dingy hotel room. The day had been like most: eat breakfast at the diner, ride the bus uptown during rush hour, walk around aimlessly – never the same route two days in a row – until lunch in the park, then ride the bus back to the hotel. I’d taken to getting the newspapers at the shop by the bus stop closest to the hotel, whether or not that was the stop I got off at. Walking around was a great way to bump into people and overhear what they were talking about, a tried and true method.

Timmy spotted me crossing the road to the hotel and ran over from the apartment complex across the street. He had his baseball glove and ball in hand, as usual.

“Howdy, Mr. Smith! Got your papers again?”

“You bet.”

“Boy, you sure are predictable.”

I mocked surprise, “Am I?”

Timmy fell in step and we walked together toward the hotel entrance. “So, what’s going on around the neighborhood?” I asked.

“Same old boring nothing. Ain’t nothing ever happening around here.”

“I wouldn’t say that. In my experience there’s always something happening everywhere. After all, if nothing happened anywhere then where would anything ever happen?”

Timmy curled his upper lip. “Huh?”

I couldn’t help but laugh and give him a poke with my elbow.

“Hey, what’s that?” Timmy had the copy of Analog pulled out from the middle of my newspaper stack before I knew what had happened. It must have slipped out when I nudged him.

“That’s just some light reading material. I thought it might help me fall asleep tonight.”

He eyed the dashing spaceman with jealousy. I held my hand out to reclaim my souvenir and he reluctantly relinquished it. “Do you think men will walk on other planets? Like after we go to the moon and set up moon bases and stuff?”

How could I tell him? How do you tell a kid in the 1960s that no, mankind will never walk on other planets. That we’ll stop after sending a dozen men to prance across the surface of the moon. That the dreamers of a generation will see their hopes dashed against the rocks, obliterated by cynical politicians and a disinterested public.

I tussled his hair with my free hand. “How would I know that, silly?”

Timmy scrambled to straighten his hair, “I don’t know. You seem pretty smart. Like Mr. Donovan. He tells me a lot of cool stuff.”

“Oh, and who is Mr. Donovan?” I thought for a second, “Oh, is he the new guy that showed up a few days ago? The guy that took the room at the end of the hall?”

“No, he’s at the top of the stairs,” which, I should point out, are at the end of the hall. “He’s from the future!”

I blinked for several seconds at that. “Come again?”

“Mr. Donovan is a time traveler sent here from the future! He’s told me stuff about space ships and something he calls microcomputers and how I’ll live to see them change the world!” Just then Timmy’s mother called after him and he ran off waving goodbye before I could say another word.

As I crested the stairs to the second floor I paused. I should knock, I thought. No, it’s silly. By force of will I continued down the hall to my own room. Once inside I dropped the papers in the arm chair before checking my recorder. I’ve never had a problem with one of these, nor has anyone I’ve ever known, but it doesn’t hurt to check. There was several hours of new footage on its drive. I flipped through a few clips idly, checking sound and tracking – again, needlessly. That’s when I realized I was still holding the magazine. The worrying part was that my hand was shaking. Throwing the magazine on the table I dropped down into the armchair, removing the stack of newspapers unceremoniously from my underside. The stained ceiling lay before me, the same stain that kept me silent company whenever I was frustrated. A genuine concern overcame me as I reflexively groped at my stomach. I could feel the small disc a half centimeter under my skin.

Don’t do it, I thought. It’s stupid and a waste of your time. How’s it going to look if you’re wrong and, let’s face it, you can’t be right.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I was standing before Mr. Donovan’s door, my fist prepared to knock. Well, I thought, it’d look doubly ridiculous if I didn’t knock at this point. So I did.

There was an immediate muffled reply. I couldn’t make it out so I responded in a generic way. “It’s Mr. Smith, I’m your neighbor from down the hall.” It suddenly occurred to me that “hotel neighbor” was a ridiculous concept, but maybe he would take it in good spirit.

There was the distinct sound of the door unlocking and before me stood a short plump balding man in a cheap suit. He would fit in anywhere in the city just as well as me in my tweed jacket and slacks. “What can I do for you, Mr. Smith?”

What the heck was I planning on saying? Hi, I’m wondering if you’re actually a time traveler because the nine year old I talk to said you were?

His questioning face told me I had to say something. “Do you know Timmy next door?”

The man stuck his head out in the hallway, looking away from the stairs.

“Sorry,” I injected, “not in the next hotel room. He lives in the apartment building across the street. About so tall, usually carries a baseball mitt?”

“Oh, yes. The energetic young lad. Yes, I’ve spoken to him a few times. Quite chatty, that one. Boy after my own heart.” His eyes were jovial. “Would you be the father?”

“No, nothing like that. I guess you could say I’m a friend of his.” Then it came to me. I’m looking out for the boy. Seems you told him you’re a future man. You shouldn’t fill his head with such nonsense or something like that. “Well, I’m just wondering… he told me you were from the future.”

“Did he?”

“He said you told him you were.”

“But you’re not his father?”

“No.”

“Then why do you care what I said to him?”

This was going nowhere. I may as well go for broke and maybe the guy would just think I was crazy and would leave me alone. Hopefully forget about me. “Well, he said you used the word microcomputer.”

The small man gave me a sideways glance. “Do you know much about microcomputers?”

“Yes. Quite a bit actually.” May as well go all in. “Microcomputers and wireless networks.”

His eyes grew wide. Next thing I knew he’d grabbed my arm and yanked me inside his room; he was pretty strong for a little guy.

He just stood there staring at me, like I was supposed to do something. I reached into my chest pocket and removed my cigarette case. I slid my thumb from end to end to release the latch, my DNA unlocking the security mechanism. Instead of cancer facilitators the open case revealed a full color, three dimensional projection in all its illuminated glory.

The man was clapping and squealing like a toddler at the zoo. He recomposed himself before presenting me with a hand, which I shook. “John Donovan.”

“Mathew Smith.”

“I assume that is –”

“Not my real name, no.”

“Same here, but it will suffice. Really, what are the odds?”

The relief was too much. I started laughing like a child. “Astronomical! To encounter another Traveler, and one staying in the same hotel!”

“I know! It’s unbelievable!”

“Hence my concern!”

He clapped me on the back and invited me to have a seat at his modest desk. In turn he sat on the edge of the bed.

“So when are you from?” I asked.

“Well now, I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you.”

“Please, I have to know.”

“Really, I couldn’t –”

“Here, I’ll make it easy. I’m from 2118. There, now you know.”

His face changed subtly. “Well now, that is interesting.”

I waited for him to reciprocate. My face prodding him. “Well,” he finally began, “let’s just say I’m upstream of you a ways.”

There was the slightest clench in my stomach. “How far?”

“Far enough. That’s as much as I’m prepared to say.”

“Of course,” was all I could respond, though I think it came out little more than a mutter. Then, after clearing my throat, “I’m sure you understand that I’m very surprised to encounter another Traveler here. It makes me believe my mission was a failure, that perhaps my life is in danger.”

“How so?”

What kind of a question was that? “Well, my chip, of course,” and my hand automatically went to my stomach. “I’ve been syncing it every day. Even if there was data loss I would still make an oral report. I can’t believe they sent you back here to the same place and time as another Traveler.”

My eyes must have been questing for answers because he waved me away. “I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about your mission, and I’m just as surprised to encounter you as you are to meet me.”

“Then can I ask your purpose here?”

“The standard; to study the reactions of the native population to recent events, to get the man on the street’s opinion, so to speak.”

“That’s much the same as my objective. What is your specialty?”

“I’m a sociologist. I’m studying how a culture deals with an unending conflict in the shape of the Vietnam War. My dissertation was on the Forever War of the twenty-first century. Yourself?”

“Mass psychology. I’m studying the contemporary public’s perception of the war and the cultural tumult surrounding it.”

Donovan waved his hand again, “See? Entirely different specialties. That explains why we’re both here.”

“Well, not entirely different…”

“Say, how long have you been here?”

“I’m two weeks into a four week stay.”

“Four weeks! Well, I’m only here for one week and I’m already three days into that. Say, how about you and I pool resources?”

Such a thing was unheard of. Two Travelers from different presents engaging in any appreciable interaction was unprecedented. As it was our interaction was likely the longest known about in my present.

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely! Your participation would be extremely beneficial to my work. What do you say? I take it you have a recorder capturing all the local television and radio stations? Yes, of course you do. We could add your recordings to my data. Three weeks worth for the price of one!”

“But those should already be in the Time Vault…”

“Redundancy never hurts.”

My brain was yelling at me to get up. Get up and walk out of the room. This is a bad idea. You shouldn’t be here. You should never have come here. Go to your room, gather your things, trigger your bungee and report back. That’s all that matters. Report back.

“Yes. Yes, I think we should work together,” was what I said instead.


Most of the cars in the parking lot across the street were from the mid to late 1940s. Granted they made them to last back then, but it mostly served as an indication of the poverty that gripped the neighborhood. From what Timmy had told me there were a good number of single moms living in the apartment complex, along with a lot of immigrant families just starting out in America. I smirked at the thought of calling this country America. Goes to show you how effective infiltration training is in altering one’s thought processes. “The Former United States” was what I’d have to write in my official report. I remember thinking it would probably just be easier to write “America” and do a find and replace search later.

Of course, that’s if I ever wrote my report. That ball came back in the pit of my stomach, the same one that for two hours had been forcing away my appetite to the point that I’d all but decided to skip dinner. Why didn’t Donovan know I’d be here? I’d spent a half hour considering the idea that he was lying about his origin, that he was actually from my past. In the end I couldn’t work out a reason why he’d lie about that. He’d have to know I’d figure it out when we started working together. He undoubtedly would have a computer of a make and model that I’d recognize. Besides all that, if he was from my past then I’d know he was going to be here – my mission would never have been approved otherwise.

It was time to think it through from the beginning. Time travel does not allow us to move to the future, that’s the first law of time travel, “the inclined plane of temporal mechanics,” my professor had called it. The metaphor is apt because although it is possible to shift mass backwards in time – with a massive expenditure of energy – to shift it forwards in time requires an astronomical expenditure. Something like the entire energy output of the Sun for a week to move the mass of one human being forward one year. The consequence is that no Traveler has ever gone to the future.

That begs the question, how am I getting home? That’s where the tachyon bungee comes in. The physics is way beyond me, but it is (evidently) possible to tether an object to its point of origin in both time and space through the use of tachyon particles, some sort of weird matter that I’ve been told won’t give me cancer even though they are streaming through me all the time. That’s where the disc in my belly comes in. It functions as the anchor for my tachyon bungee. I trigger it and it snaps my whole body back to the very instant I departed. I’d spend four weeks in 1968 and not even a nanosecond would pass in 2118 for my whole trip. The bungee technology has been in use for decades, with every time traveling researcher using one. The early models could be a problem – some folks came back missing some extremities – but the worst that had happened in years was a woman that came back needing a skin graft. To outright die is a near impossibility – or so I’d been told.

But it’s worse than that. Though its a near impossibility, no agency wants to take the chance of not getting the data from an endeavor like this, so along with the tachyon bungee each disc contains a wireless data storage device that houses the records from the mission. Synced nightly with my cigarette case hand computer, the onboard micro-storage is radiation shielded and encased in titanium. The disc constantly monitors my vital signs. Any significant problems and it snaps the bungee so no local coroner finds the advanced tech. My hand computer has its own bungee remotely synced to the disc. The whole kit and kabootle will go to 2118, taking my corpse with it. No fuss, no muss. Even if nothing but a smoking mass makes it back to 2118 my report would still be filed in the Time Vault.

Which brings me to the Time Vault. Built to withstand anything short of a direct hit from a nuclear warhead it houses the records of every time traveler since the program began. The data storage technology has been tested to last at least 10,000 years – that’s right, they sent one back to 8,000 BCE, but don’t ask me where it’s buried. When I get back my recordings will immediately go into the Vault to be followed a few days later by my official report and video debrief. Even if my records were destroyed there should at least be a mention of my trip in the Vault. “Sent Agent to March 1968 etcetera, all records lost for unknown reason.” That would have to send up a red flag for anyone wanting to go to 1968. Anyone like Donovan.

Could Donovan be from an unregistered time travel outfit? What would be the purpose in that? Could he be a time criminal? No, that’s ridiculous. The energy cost alone would eliminate any gain. The past can’t be changed, that’s a physical fact. Call it time travel law number two. The past is the past. Any Traveler sent back was always sent back and will always be sent back; they’re part of the timeline and always have been. Besides, Time Crime just doesn’t pay. The resources needed to construct and utilize a time machine are so immense that any time criminal would already be one of the richest people alive.

I was left with one set of facts: Donovan was from my future and he was a time traveling researcher like myself. That’s it. Maybe I did file my report. Maybe Donovan knew I was here. Maybe he didn’t. He was undoubtedly lying to me, but I had no clue what about or why. My only option was to get close to him and try to find out. My life was at stake, because either I don’t make it back to file my report, or Donovan came here to intercept me for some unknown purpose. Either way, I’m in a lot of trouble.


Donovan easily established his credentials as a sociologist. His read of the public’s perception of the war was spot on, though he seemed to lack familiarity with some of the references I’d used in my own preparation. In our conversations it became clear he had never read Mark Bowden’s award winning Hue 1968, which I found invaluable for an understanding of the Tet Offensive. In general he felt well read on some nuance, and less so on others. I don’t purport to be all knowing or all remembering, but the gaps in his knowledge continued to trouble me. When I would prod him about these gaps he would give me that jovial smile and wave of his hand and dismiss it as evidence of his poor memory.

One evening we decided to get take-out and go over the day’s newspapers together. A few hours in I handed him a page six story concerning the Pueblo.

“What’s this about?” he asked.

“It’s an update on the Pueblo Incident. Not really any new information, but it’s interesting in that the reporter’s professionally neutral tone carries an undercurrent of questioning the official story of how the Pueblo was captured in the first place.” I rubbed my bloodshot eyes as I spoke. “Actually, it’s a very nice example of the Credibility Gap. After all, this is the decade that birthed not only the term, but the concept.”

Donovan’s eyes skimmed the article twice. “This has nothing to do with Vietnam.”

“Not directly, no, but it speaks to the overall feeling at the time. Like I said, it reflects the Credibility Gap.” Confusion was plain on his face, so I elaborated. “It’s the idea that the White House has a lack of credibility, that they can’t be trusted concerning exactly where the Pueblo was when it was captured, and similarly can’t be trusted about the Vietnam War. Had the boat crossed into North Korean waters before it was intercepted, or was it actually in international waters like the White House claims? Was it a legal seizure for trespass or wasn’t it? The public doesn’t know who to trust, and the reporter’s tone carries that – it’s subtle, but it’s there. I think that’s a large reason President Johnson is about to announce that he won’t seek reelection.”

Donovan was nodding slowly as I spoke and continued after I’d finished. Eventually he placed the newspaper back on my pile and muttered a barely perceptible “interesting” before going back to his own stack.

I watched him for a minute before checking my wrist watch. “Sorry to do this, but I’m feeling pretty tired. Do you think we could call it a night? It’s almost 10:30.”

He responded with his usual jovial smile. “Not at all. I would like to scan this material before I leave, if that’s all right.”

There had to be a dozen Sunday editions laid out on my meager table, not to mention the various news magazines we’d picked up. “I’m probably going to crash as soon as you walk out the door. If you like I can help you carry these to your room.” I really hoped he didn’t want that. I wasn’t even sure I was going to make it the meter and a half to bed.

“No need, I’ll just be a moment.” From his jacket pocket he removed a small cylindrical cigarette lighter. After a rapid gesture my tired eyes couldn’t follow he’d extended the cylinder to triple its original length and broke it in half along its axis. The two halves were connected by a translucent screen, on which were characters I recognized as some variant of Chinese, though I couldn’t place the dialect. I could make out Latin characters interspersed with the logograms. My recognition was made all the harder since I was looking at the characters from an angle behind the translucent screen.

“Donovan, what language is that?”

He feigned ignorance of my question with a distracted “Hmm?”

“The language. Is that a Chinese variant?”

He snapped the hand computer closed and with a swift gesture it was a normal sized cigarette lighter. “Oh, that’s just my horrible handwriting. Good evening, Mr. Smith.” He made for the door.

“But you didn’t scan any of the papers!” My exclamation was unintentional. After seeing his hand computer I had pressing questions.

“Yes I did. I told you, it would only take a moment.”

I was on my feet, arms waving impotently at the stack of folded papers. “But you could only have imaged what’s on top…”

Donovan waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, I see your confusion. My scanner images holographically on a molecular level. I’ve copied every page, inside and out. It will take some processing power to reconstruct the image, but I’ll do that when I get back to my own time. Good night, my friend.” Donovan bowed slightly and let himself out.


The lunch talk at the diner was largely concerning Johnson’s announcement the day before that he was officially out of the presidential race before it even began. Apart from the private minutiae of daily life I overheard people speaking of little else. I knew my cigarette case was recording more than I could hear from its position on the counter in front of me. Back in my room I could order it to reconstruct the conversation from any point in the room with near-perfect acoustics.

But imaging an entire stack of upside down newspapers… I’d never seen a device that could do that.

I’d drifted off to sleep that night telling myself that advancements in technology were to be expected. Who knows, there could be scientists in my present working on just such a piece of equipment. Another decade or two and it could maybe be miniaturized, depending on what principles it worked on. I’d seen kids play with something like that transparent screen of his. Current technological vogue put them out of style for serious work, but maybe they’ll come back.

I rolled my coffee cup between my hands, letting my eyes skim the morning paper. Sometimes I read it, sometimes I used it as something to stare at while concentrating on the conversations of the people around me. It all depended on what the topic of conversation was. That morning I kept falling back into the printed page. The local paper had chosen to reprint Martin Luther King Jr.’s complete speech at the National Cathedral in Washington D.C. the day before. My eyes fell on one paragraph in particular. It read,

“First, we are challenged to develop a world perspective. No individual can live alone, no nation can live alone, and anyone who feels that he can live alone is sleeping through a revolution. The world in which we live is geographically one. The challenge that we face today is to make it one in terms of brotherhood.”

This was my third trip through time, and I’d always been able to maintain the air of the observer that they drill into us in training, but there was something about reading the words of such a great man and knowing they had been spoken only yesterday. That if I ran out of this diner, I could possibly find him and shake his hand. I wondered what he’d be like. I mean really like. In person. Just to speak to him alone. It’s silly, but I wondered what it would feel like to shake his hand. Would it feel special? I’d shaken a President’s hand once, I mean my President, the one I voted for in 2108. She came on a tour of the training facility my third year of classes. I wish I could say it was exciting or even interesting, but when one is training to travel through time little else holds interest. I hadn’t even dated these last few years. Everything took a back seat to my training.

The preceding two weeks I’d really come to enjoy reading the daily newspaper and the connection to the world it gave me. My first assignment had been as a medic in the American Civil War. I was there recording the history that few survived to record. I remember thinking, “Nobody back home can imagine what I’ve seen here.” Not that we don’t have wars, but there’s a minimum number of casualties where I’m from, and wholesale suffering during war has been alleviated to a large extent. That’s one thing globalism did right: we’re all so economically and culturally interconnected that large scale global conflict is inconceivable. Anyway, I didn’t have much opportunity to read the newspaper from the battlefront in 1863. Ditto my second assignment to observe the tumultuous 2016 presidential election in Florida – not a lot of relevant information was consumed from newspapers that year. I resolved to try and read the newspaper more when I got home. Presumably a few still exist…

My contemplation was broken by a tap on the shoulder.

“Hello, my friend.” Donovan wore his usual smile. “You mentioned this particular haunt the other night and I thought I’d join you for lunch. Do you mind?”

“Not at all. In fact, I’m happy to see you. I stopped by your room several times yesterday but you didn’t answer. Is everything all right?”

Donovan took a seat on the vacant stool beside me, which necessitated a short hop to raise him up to its level. “Oh yes, quite all right. I spent the day at the library scanning documents.”

“I imagine you could scan the whole library in just a few minutes after what you showed me the other night.”

He pulled a menu from the holder between us. “Sadly, no. It takes some time to save the data between imagings and the field of view is relatively small. Plus a level of discretion is of course required.”

“Of course,” was my noncommittal reply.

“Speaking of archival data, I was hoping to stop by tonight and copy your audiovisual recordings as we discussed. Adding a further two weeks to my report would – how do you say – shine my resume.”

Any opportunity to see his computer in action could only shed light on my mystery. “Of course. We can do it after lunch if you’d like.”

“Splendid.” He swiveled on the stool to gaze around the room. “I see the lunch rush is still ongoing. Might be worth hanging around a bit.” He pulled his hand from his trouser pocket and gingerly placed his lighter on the table. I wondered if it was recording visual as well as audio with some sort of omnidirectional lens. I turned away from it, suddenly uncomfortable with the thought that I would be the subject of observation and scrutiny by a team of future historians. “Visible here,” the most senior would begin, “is the Unknown Traveler. A man who claimed to be from the year 2118 though no record of his transit exists in the Time Vault.”

I downed the last half cup of my coffee and stood up. “Actually, Donovan, I’d like to get going. You’re welcome to stay for lunch or come with me, whatever your schedule requires.”

I busied my eyes with counting the change for my tab, but there was detectable pain in his voice. “No worries. I’ll come with you if you’re still willing to let me copy those files.”

“Yes, of course.” I collected my cigarette holder and he his lighter.

Donovan and I walked in silence for several blocks until I asked, “How many trips have you been on?”

“This is my fifth,” was his reverent reply. “It has been a true honor.”

“Do you expect this to be your last trip?”

“Who can say? If there is one constant across time, it is the enigmatic logic of bureaucrats.”

I found his jocular tone insulting, given my uncertain future.

“You say my records will impress those bureaucrats, maybe even help secure yourself another trip?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Yet you still won’t tell me when you are from.”

Donovan shook his head. “I sympathize, but you know I can’t divulge information about the future.”

“You divulged information to Timmy. You told him about computers and space flight.”

“I told the boy nothing that he couldn’t have read in a science fiction story and provided even less to back up my claims. Knowledge of the future won’t help you, same as it can’t help prevent what’s going to happen in less than a week. I saw what you were reading when I approached you at the diner; his picture accompanied the speech. You and I – separate or together – are incapable of altering what is to come.”

“I’m not talking about a fixed historical event. I’m talking about my life.”

“How are they different? How do you know that your death isn’t historical fact for me? You suspect I was sent back here knowing you would be here. I tell you I knew no such thing.”

“So my report wasn’t in the Time Vault.”

Donovan once again shook his head. “I have no answers for you, my friend.”

“Then perhaps I have no records to share with you.” We had stopped walking at some point, but now my trek resumed. Donovan scrambled to catch up.

“Let’s say for arguments sake that your report doesn’t make it to the Time Vault. Don’t you feel some obligation to complete as much of your mission as possible? To preserve some record of your accomplishment?”

“So I die tonight, is that it? I don’t make it back but you’re leaving tomorrow. My disc malfunctions or something and you’ve come to get a record, to solve a mystery that’s – what – fifty, a hundred years old?”

“Smith, I can’t provide you with any answers. If you believe nothing else, please believe that.”

“I don’t know what to believe, but you can stop calling me your friend.”

Donovan’s pace slowed and he fell in behind me. I could just hear his concessionary reply.

We turned onto the street that lead to the hotel. I could hear Donovan’s heavy footsteps following me several feet behind. Timmy was playing in the parking lot with a few of the other boys from the apartment complex. I watched them play in a focused effort to not think about Donovan or my uncertain fate. If today was to be my last day then I would live it in the present. If not my present, then the present of the people I find myself meeting.

The boys were playing catch, throwing the ball clear across the vacant parking lot. I realized that all the boys should be in school, and I resolved to ask them why they were not.

Then it occurred to me. Let them skip school. They were having fun, and really what does it matter? Either they go to school or they don’t, it won’t change the future – it can’t change my past. If the past is immutable then so is the future.

“Donovan,” I called over my shoulder, my tone blithe, “I do believe you are making me a nihilist.”

“I believe this job does that after a while.” His tone was uncharacteristically somber.

I was startled by the loud crack of a ball on bat. One of the boys had nailed what would have been a home run on any field, far outpacing the parking lot. Timmy ran headlong straight at me to catch it, just as I heard a truck round the corner Donovan and I had come down minutes earlier. I turned to face the truck. It was one of those big box trucks, the cab bright red in color – I don’t know why I remember that part so clearly, but I do. It was a candy apple red, all shiny. I knew the driver couldn’t stop in time; he’d taken the corner faster than he should have, probably running late in his deliveries. My head jerked back to Timmy. The boy was already in the street, running backwards, eyes at the sky to track the ball. His gloved hand was stretched out in anticipation of the catch. His friends were screaming, not in panic but in joy – they believed he would catch it.

I threw up my arms, waving them wildly. I should have screamed, but in the moment I couldn’t. My legs weren’t as frozen as my throat, and I lunged into the road to grab him, not daring to look at the oncoming truck. The horn blared – my God, it sounded like it was right on top of me. I willed my arms to reach for Timmy, only to find myself thrown to the ground. I hit hard, a shock radiating from my elbow into my shoulder. A moment later I heard an impact and then a scream. I looked down at my prone body to see what had dropped me and found Donovan’s arms wrapped around my waist, his face buried in the back of my knees. I looked up and saw Timmy’s body laid out in the road, motionless. Children were yelling and from somewhere a woman appeared, screaming frantically. Some time later Donovan tried to help me up but I shoved him away.

“Why did you do that? I could have saved him!” My fists were balls of rage, but Donovan’s voice was as calm as ever.

“There was nothing you could have done.”

“What are you talking about? I was right there! I could have reached him in time!”

“But you couldn’t have saved him.”

“Yes, I could have!”

Donovan shook his head, “No, you couldn’t have. We can’t change the past.”

I took a deep breath. I wanted to strangle him, exchange his life for Timmy’s, but I couldn’t make such a scene. “Donovan, we’re part of the past. We can’t change anything big, we can’t kill Hitler or save Lincoln, but nobody would have noticed this one boy.” The last word choked in my throat and I realized my eyes were filling with tears.

“Nobody would have noticed him?”

“Exactly!”

“Then nobody will miss him.” Donovan walked on toward our apartment complex. I turned back to the scene and saw Timmy’s playmates crying on the curb, hugging one another. I was witnessing the birth of a mass of regret and blame that would carry forward through time. I saw his mother running from the apartment complex – screaming and crying – past Donovan as he continued his nonchalant march across the street.


I spent a long time in my room after that. Crying, punching the wall, kicking the furniture, productive stuff like that. Eventually after, I don’t know, a few hours? I went over to Donovan’s room. I was honestly surprised he opened the door for me. In retrospect I think it was his generally jovial nature. That and I now believe he really was a nihilist.

He was packing his meager possessions into a period appropriate suitcase. On the bed was a single newspaper, painstakingly folded just so. I picked it up and noted it was the latest edition.

“Souvenir?”

“Yes. Maybe it’s a bit unimaginative.” His tone was somber.

A small smile crossed my lips, I’m not sure why. “I got myself one of those old pulp science fiction magazines. Seeing it is what prompted Timmy to tell me about you.”

“My, life is full of coincidences.” His tone was almost mocking.

The slightest trace of the smile melted from me. “Timmy is dead now.”

“Yes. An historical fact.”

“It didn’t have to be.”

He pushed a folded shirt into the suitcase with more force than was necessary. “Please. Leave it be.”

“No!” I was enraged again, ready to punch the wall but considering substituting Donovan’s arrogant face. “It did not have to be. We could have saved him – I could have saved him, but you stopped me. Why?”

“Do they teach you nothing where you are from?” There was a harshness, a raw hate on Donovan’s face that I’d not believed possible. I stepped back instinctively, as if a friendly dog had just bared its teeth at me.

“The past can not be changed. Stop being such a baby and accept your role in this. We are observers, nothing more and nothing less. We are not participants in this time. We can not alter any events.”

“Says who?”

“Says physics.”

“But we’re here. I’ve eaten their food, I’ve talked to –” my voice caught. “I’ve talked to them. They’re good people.”

“So what?” He spit the words. “Their being good doesn’t affect the chronometric equations. There is no `good person’ factor in the equations that lets you alter the timeline.”

“But I’m here. I could have saved him without altering the timeline. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I could have saved him because I’m here.”

“Then go save Martin Luther King.” Donovan’s tone was mocking, his hand jabbing toward the door. “Go on, then. You’re here, after all.”

“You know I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll fail.”

Why?

And that was it. I’d fail because I’d have to. Because Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated on April 4, 1968. That single event was part of a chain of dominoes that fell forward through time, triggering other events in an immense tapestry that was mathematically unalterable. I couldn’t save him because it would unquestionably alter the past.

“You don’t know that saving Timmy would have altered the past.” My tone was little more than a whisper. It was all I could muster.

“I do now. Because I stopped you. Something would have stopped you. If I hadn’t jumped you then maybe the bus would have killed you along with him. Then you’d disappear in front of all those people. Wouldn’t that have violated a non-contamination rule where you come from? We can’t tell people about the future and we can’t show them our technology. We may not be able to alter the past, but don’t forget what happened in Roswell.”

“Don’t lecture me on temporal accidents. I know how to handle myself.”

He straightened himself, his face one of questioning disbelief. “Do you?”

Once again I found myself backing away from this short rotund man. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I know what you’re afraid of. Believe me, I know. But you have no idea why I’m so mad at you.” He took two steps toward me and I steadied myself against the desk. “You couldn’t save that dumb kid just like I can’t save your sorry life.”

“So I do die here.” The resignation in my voice surprised me.

“I have no idea.”

“How is that possible?” I found my vigor had returned. Indignation rejuvenating me. “You say you can’t save me then claim you don’t know what happens to me? Why is my report not in the Time Vault?” I screamed that last bit.

“I have no idea what’s in the Time Vault!” As soon as he said it he regretted it. That much was plain on his face.

I think I just stood there for several minutes. Could have been seconds, could have been hours. Finally I gasped out a question along the lines of “When are you from?”

Donovan slumped onto the bed. His head was cradled in his hands like a child who just awoke from a nightmare. His voice barely escaped.

“You would call it 2457.”

I knelt down beside him. “But the Time Vault… it can last for 10,000 years. Donovan, I don’t understand. Why didn’t you access it?”

“It was destroyed.”

My heart was trying to escape my chest. Between breaths I gasped, “How?”

Donovan raised his head from his hands, his face white as the sheets. “The War.”

“What war?”

His face hardened. He swallowed hard. “You’ll see.”

I don’t have clear recollection of what happened next. I remember grabbing Donovan. I was shouting questions, demands. I don’t think he said anything. He may have wept, but that could have been me. I think I punched him a few times. I must have, because I recall I was on top of him one second, then he was gone and I punched the floor.

After I calmed down I realized that his suitcase was gone as well. It must have had its own bungee. His souvenir newspaper never made it inside.

Dreamgrowth

“Where’s Ghenn?”

My question drew a blank look from Daoris. The senior governess, she had charge of the younger children fostered to the royal household. She should have known each one.

“Tiaghenn Nysteri-avin,” I said.

“She must be with the others,” Daoris said. “If she isn’t, I’m not going back.” She flitted a look across the courtyard as if expecting the castle to melt. “The carriages are ready to depart. No one will miss her.”

This might be true. The island of Nysteri had vanished four years ago. The fostering system was designed for the king to influence the next generation of leaders, and–without an inheritance–Ghenn had no place. Another child might have made herself one, but Ghenn was shy, tangled up in her own thoughts.

The courtyard was a chaos of sound and stench. The young nobles fought their fear by complaining or clinging to dignity.

“I’ll miss her,” I said. “Though I suppose I’m not anyone.”

Daoris looked flustered. It didn’t help I was two heads taller than she. My clan ran tall and wiry, and urban folk found our pale eyes disconcerting.

“Don’t worry about her, Lira,” she said. “We need to get to the mountain retreat before the city is consumed.”

“I have plenty of time to find her,” I said. “It will take the mages a while to complete the barrier.” Assuming it would have any effect on the mysterious storm advancing across the kingdom. No one who entered the storm emerged again, whether royal scouts or villages in its path. It had taken Nysteri years ago, prompting the royal mages to encase the island in a magical dome. They thought they had succeeded … and then a few months ago, the storm surged across the ocean, crossing miles a day.

“I wouldn’t risk it,” Daoris said.

“If I don’t come back, the king can always find another taster.” I strode away before she could make the obvious reply: not one like me.

I slipped into the castle halls. I relished the cool scent of the stone as I headed for the rotunda. Nursery, academy and everything in between, it was where young nobles learned to serve their kingdom. For some, it was also a prison. The king gave his vassals no choice. Each child came to the castle and did not return until he decreed.

The rotunda’s heart was a grand marble dome onto which multiple stories opened, lined with balconies. A glass skylight let in the lurking bleak of clouds.

I entered Ghenn’s room. Whether the children were from the richest territory or poor farmland, every room was equal at first. The wealthier heirs loaded down every inch with finery. Ghenn had nothing but parchment and ink, but her drawings flooded the space with personality. She sketched the people and places around her, but she also sketched dreams, images that stepped sideways from reality. She laid down more brush strokes than she ever spoke words.

I inhaled deeply. The acrid tang of ink, the sweet decay of paper, a trace of lavender. It was comforting; I spent my free time in the library. I could have wrapped myself in books, but no one wanted my mind. They wanted my nose, a sense of smell so keen I could detect poison without putting my tongue to it. It had saved my life a few times.

I searched the room. Ghenn’s sketch kit was missing. The garden, perhaps? It was rich with inspiration. The stables? Horses were another popular subject.

With the impenetrable storm shrouding the landscape just beyond the city walls, there was really only one place she could be.

I ascended to the top floor of the rotunda. I ducked into the servants’ nook, pulled down the ladder and climbed onto the roof. The handholds notched in the dome were for maintenance. Servants came up to clean the skylight. I moved cautiously, fixing my gaze ahead. I couldn’t make myself forget the drop.

Halfway up, I saw a bare foot swinging in the air. A few more notches, and the rest of her came into view, splayed on her stomach with the sketchpad under her chin. She stared towards the storm.

Ghenn was slight and slender as only a child could be, her hair a straight shield of onyx. Her skin was peppered with freckles, her eyes a few shades darker.

“Ghenn!”

She twisted up on her elbows, startled. “Lira?”

“We need to be gone,” I said. “The storm is coming.”

She shook her head. “I can’t leave yet.”

“You have a good memory. You can finish your sketch in the carriage.”

Ghenn swung upright. Her drawing was not of the storm, but of buildings in the city around the castle, an attempt at a map.

“I saw the sparkle of a dream tree in the city. They grew in the groves at home. I miss them.” She would have only been five years old, but she sounded as wistful as an old woman remembering her girlhood. “I’m going to find it.”

“No, you’re not,” I said.

“Are you going to carry me?” This was not a threat. It was a request for information.

“That would look ridiculous.”

She smiled a bit. “Yes.”

“I’m expecting you to walk. To safety.” I looked behind me. It was a mistake. The ground plummeted out of my visual range. I hated heights. I was really going to hate being in the mountains.

“We don’t know it’s safe.”

“We know it’s better than that.” I nodded to the obsidian whorls that formed a quivering, flickering wall on the horizon. It stretched from the ground to far above sight. Dark clouds–normal clouds–drifted into the field and vanished. I smelled the change in the air, rain coming … and something else, something that snuck past my nose in flashes of color.

Until a week ago, the mages had confidently promised the storm would never breach the city. Those who believed them or had no place to go remained; the more affluent had taken refuge in the country. All the while, the royal court planned their escape. If their magic was not strong enough to cloak an entire city, it would be reserved for the king’s mountain estate.

“We don’t know that, either.” Ghenn’s eyes lifted to mine. “Please, Lira. I just want to take a piece of my home with me.”

She had lived here a stranger for years. She had no trace of Nysteri: as a precaution against the calamity that struck the island a month after she arrived at court, the mages had insisted on burning everything she owned. I had only been at court for a few months myself, and I knew a little of her loneliness. We bonded.

She mattered to no one else; Daoris had reminded me of that. It seemed cruel to deny her something she could hold onto.

I also remembered the dream trees had been unique to the island. Legend had it their branches captured people’s memories and wishes, fragments flavoring the leaves. If there was a dream tree here and it had retained a trace of Nysteri, might it help the mages unravel the secrets of the storm? I might accomplish something other than passively waiting for poison, which was all that had ever been expected of me.

“Where did you see it?” I asked.

“In the public gardens. I’ve only been there once, so I was trying to draw a path through the city.”

“Have you seen it before?”

“No. I think it must have reflected off the storm. That’s a long way for something to sparkle.”

I really didn’t want to look down to find the gardens. I forced my eyes to concentrate on the pattern of buildings, the line of streets between. I pulled my attention to Ghenn’s feathery map.

“That looks right,” I said. “Another turn here and here …”

Ghenn dashed down lines where I indicated. “We have a good map, then. Let’s go.”

“Slow down,” I said. “I haven’t agreed yet.”

“You haven’t?” There was mischief in her eyes.

“This is not a game, Ghenn.”

“We still need to laugh sometimes.” She went still, face as clear as ice. “I understand, Lira.”

My memory of the route to the garden was hazy; I doubted I would have been able to find it from memory. I studied the makeshift map. The path was straightforward, through neighborhoods that would either be quiet or deserted. The surge of panic and fury when it became clear the mages could not stop the storm had subsided in the past few days. The public garden was also reassuringly far from the churning wall.

“We will go,” I said, “but if we can’t find your dream tree, we head directly for the mountains. Deal?”

“Deal.”

She tucked away her sketching supplies into her bag. We descended the dome to the ladder. I climbed down first, tasting ease as the roof closed over me.

We exited the rotunda and headed for the main courtyard. The remaining castle guard were set on watch to make sure angry locals didn’t break down the gates. I wasn’t sure how hard they would try to prevent it: they had been left behind, after all.

Ghenn hesitated in the hall. “Will they let you leave?”

I slowed. “Maybe not, if they recognize me.”

“You could dye your hair with my ink,” she said, “but you wouldn’t stand out so much as a boy.”

I was halfway there: I had few curves and always wore trousers. “Good idea.” I ducked into a storeroom, found a sack, and used it for binding. Ink deadened the color of my hair. It felt sticky like blood and smelled worse.

“You look perfect,” Ghenn said.

This was definitely not accurate, but I had no vanity. I strode across the courtyard with Ghenn at my side. “Need to go down into the city.” I didn’t have to drop my voice much to sound masculine.

The guard captain squinted, but I got only the briefest look, and his eyes never lowered to Ghenn. “You sure?”

Not particularly, I thought. This was as much risk as I had taken since arriving in the city, even though it was measured. “Got business.”

“Sorry to hear that. Crack the gates!”

As soon as we passed, the gates slammed shut. I clamped down on my nerves. The identity I’d hidden would get us back, or Ghenn’s would.

We descended the castle mount into the high quarter. The wealthiest homes were eerily silent or in regimented control. Many denizens had already left, and the rest prepared for departure in any direction but west. The winds washed me with a cloying melange of florals.

Swamped with that aroma, the trace of smoke struck my mind like a knife. I grabbed Ghenn’s shoulder.

Around the next bend, flames lit up an estate. Their spears and smoke escaped the top floor, heralding a collapse in the roof. Shadows of people flitted inside; their shouts battered my spine. Robbery gone wrong or revolt in the house guard?

“Don’t look,” I said. “Keep walking.”

The high quarter trailed off, giving way to shops. The buildings were locked tight or broken and empty. Wary eyes watched from inside. I smelled the vestiges of trade, fresh carved wood and the perfumes that protected fabric. The silence was worse than screams.

“We’re halfway there,” I said.

“See? I knew we could do it.”

I wondered wryly how it had turned into her reassuring me. “We may not find anything.”

“Or we may. That is what dreams are about.”

Her face shone bright enough to make the city less lonely. I was surprised how much it meant to her, the promise of this dream tree. It seemed like such a small thing.

And what if we didn’t find it? What if she had to leave behind everything she knew once again, without a scrap to hold onto?

I wanted to promise that wouldn’t happen, but it was outside my control. Unlike Ghenn, I was old enough to know I couldn’t will it into existence.

The shops bordered a warehouse district. I had planned to detour: unsavory types used them as bases of operation, and surely more so now.

A handful of people hurried out of the shops. I halted Ghenn and crouched against the wall. Their mood was focused, excited. They chattered among themselves. This was not what I expected.

I waited until they passed. Ghenn scurried in my wake, flashing a curious look after them.

Two streets later, we crossed paths with another group. I halted sharply. Ghenn bumped into me. Like the last group, they were energetic, friendly, and anticipating something.

A broad man slowed, turning to us. “Going to the speech?”

“Of course,” Ghenn said before I could open my mouth. “What speech?”

“The Renewer,” he said. “She wants to prepare us for the new city.”

“Everything will be better in the new city,” a woman said.

“Opportunity for all.”

“Where is this new city?” I asked.

They looked at me as if I had sprouted wings. “This is the new city,” the woman said. “After the storm has scared off all but the chosen ones.”

I understood now, and by the way Ghenn gripped my arm, she did as well. She quivered.

“There’s nothing after the storm,” she said. “There will be no new city.”

The group shifted. Eyes narrowed; scowls crinkled their faces. They pulled together, mood darkened.

“Unbelievers are not welcome,” the man said. “May you be cast to the storm.”

Ghenn emitted a little cry. I shielded her with my body. “No one deserves that fate,” I said. “Except maybe those who wish it on others. Go on your way.”

The man snorted. “Better our path than yours.”

He turned away. The others followed. If the city was not enveloped by the storm, the royal court would come back to something with its own rules. I had heard rumors of how the king dealt with rebellion. I didn’t want to be in the middle of that. I had never needed to choose sides.

I pulled Ghenn around for a hug. She burrowed into me. I understood her distress even if she didn’t: if there was a way out of the storm, it meant her parents hadn’t come back for her.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

She leaned back, a deep breath fleshing out her frame. “You aren’t going to get me to turn back that easily.”

I ruffled her hair. “Of course not.”

We continued along the detour. It added to our walk, but I didn’t want to run into the Renewer and her people. A cold wind stirred my skin, carrying the iron scent of rain.

The Lily Gate rose into view. The stone sculpture atop the arch identified the entrance into the public gardens.

Ghenn sprinted towards the gate.

“Wait,” I said. “We should go cautiously -”

I spoke to myself, and even I wasn’t convinced. I rushed after her. She disappeared through the Lily Gate.

“Ghenn!”

By the time I reached the gate, there was no sign of her.

My heart pounded. It drove the tumbling scents of earth and flowers out of my nose. I reasoned with myself. Who would start bloodshed in a garden? The morbid side of my mind pointed out it was an excellent place to bury a body.

If I rushed around hunting for Ghenn, we could miss each other a dozen times. I decided to look for the dream tree instead. I knew what it was supposed to look like. If I located it, hopefully she would, as well.

I let the garden sink into my senses. The public garden had been designed by a royal architect generations ago. Hedges formed boundary lines between terraced flower beds; flowering trees from every corner of the kingdom provided shade. The garden boasted six gazebos. The song of artificial ponds and waterfalls trickled in the back of my mind.

The path was lined with lilies of every color, delicate white breaking up the line between firebursts and stars. Their aroma ranged from faint to cloying, the press of clean pillows and sweet morning.

Hematite danced on my tongue. Startled, I huffed out air. I sniffed, but it was gone.

I wrapped my arms around myself and pushed forward. Still no sign of Ghenn. I reminded myself how large the garden was. Lucky we were searching for a tree, not a flower.

A chartreuse aroma swept past me. I spun to follow. I couldn’t see the color, but it flooded my nose and told me the direction of the wind.

The path ended at a hedge wall. If I hadn’t gone straight for it, I wouldn’t have noticed the gap. I squeezed through into an older part of the garden. Dead leaves cluttered the grass. The skeleton of a broken trellis pulled my gaze upwards.

I saw only iridescence at first, breaths of opal that formed a hundred delicate silhouettes. As I focused, I realized it was branches. The angular leaves looked heavy even though their veins were the faintest echo of green. Easy to believe its boughs could cradle the most intangible bits of human experience.

Of course, Ghenn was already there, embracing the trunk. My smile shattered as a noxious odor blinded me. My senses tumbled, muddling together, and when I managed to focus, I stared at the occluding haze of the storm, swirling over the grass. When had it entered the public garden? It seemed to be only a tendril, like fog settled in a valley. The obsidian field ended an armspan from the dream tree.

“Ghenn, move away,” I shouted.

She blinked as if waking from welcome slumber. She pushed off the trunk and examined the roiling layers of onyx and oak. My terror lurched to a halt when I realized the storm was not moving. Whatever had spawned its numinous finger, it was static.

She should have been as scared as I was–more so, because she had lost so much to that storm. But her lips were soft with wonder, and she extended her hand.

A different fear doused me. “Ghenn,” I whispered.

The storm smelled like sunset, fading into darkness. The last thing I wanted was to run towards it, but my need to protect her overcame the ice in my limbs. I rushed up, wrapped my arms around her. She gasped in surprise, twisting.

“Ghenn.”

The repetition of her name calmed her. “How did it do that? It must want the dream tree.”

“We have to be cautious,” I said. “We stay as far away from it as possible.”

Ghenn nodded, expression reluctant.

“Let’s find seeds and go before -”

The storm quivered, a spasm of illumination. Two figures stepped out. They were human, two dark-haired men in tunic and tattered trousers, and I relaxed even through my shock.

Then I blinked, and everything changed.

One was now female, the other thinner and older, red-haired. Ghenn pressed against my side. I broke my attention to look down at her, and when I lifted my head again, they were children, feral and fanged.

They advanced on us. My shoulders hunched, my body hummed with the need to run.

Ghenn pushed away from me, shoulders straight, chin set. “I am Tiaghenn Nysteri-avin,” she said, “and this tree is my birthright.”

The pair hesitated. Their lips moved, their voices coming as winds, toneless and formless. As they brushed my skin, I smelled images.

Her name, outlined in gold. Brighter, fiercer.

An infant cradled by her mother. A wall of soldiers defending them.

I started to have a sense of dialogue. They recognized her name; they had orders to protect her. Somehow, they spoke in scent. My nose was keen enough to understand it.

Winds scattered the soldiers and dashed the infant to the ground. The wind arced around the dream tree, forming a silver shield.

Inwardly, I translated. To guard the tree, to protect her … these things contradicted each other. Anyone else would have had no sense of their dialogue, but I did.

“She is no threat to the tree,” I said. “You know who she is, and you know she is right.”

Their attention shifted to me.

Lightning, wild, spiraling.

Gold spangles. Recognition of my words.

Shadow and silence, wreathed in smoke.

“I can understand you,” I said. “If you don’t know what to do, let us speak to someone in charge.” I wasn’t sure I wanted to meet any more of these beings, but if they went to retrieve a supreme, it would give us time to act.

A joining of hands.

If I had had any doubt of the meaning of that, the two individuals–an old woman and a burly man in furs–turned swiftly and disappeared into the storm.

My breath rushed out. My plan had worked. “Grab some seeds,” I said. “Then we run.”

Ghenn did not move. “People came out of there.”

“Not people like anything we understand. Their world is trying to devour ours. We need to go.”

The words hit the blank of her eyes and bounced off.

“Ghenn. Please.”

Finally, she nodded. She stretched up and snagged a branch. She pulled it down, running fingers between the leaves.

Acid burned my nose in warning. How could the creatures have moved so fast?

Four creatures emerged from the storm, their forms changing every time I shifted my attention. They parted before two figures I instantly knew were human. None of my frantic blinking proved otherwise: they remained exactly as they were. The woman was tall and strong with ebony hair, its sculptured wings inverse crescent moons about her pale face. The man towered over her, his eyes sea green. Something about them seemed hazy, as if they were backlit by illumination I could not see.

Ghenn’s breath whirled out in a cry of delight. She bolted to the pair. The man swept her up into his arms and spun her about with a booming laugh. He stopped whirling as he faced the woman. Ghenn vibrated joy, her body bright like dawn.

The woman embraced them both and kissed Ghenn’s brow. “I’m so glad you’re safe.” Her eyes swept to me. “Who is this?”

“This is my friend Lira,” Ghenn said. “She’s the only one who stands up for me at court.”

“Lira,” the man rumbled. “Pleasure to meet you. I am Karil Nysteri-ver, and this is my wife, the Lady Fuilyn Nysteri-arl.”

“I am honored.” My mind gyrated, bumping off thoughts. How was this possible? “And happy to see you reunited. Do you live within the storm?”

“You might say that,” Fuilyn said.

“I can’t wait to see our home,” Ghenn said.

“We left our home a long time ago, dear one.” Fuilyn’s gaze cleaved me in two, bared for her examination. “Stay with your father, Ghenn. I need to speak with your friend.” She strode over, the kick of her stride assured.

“We thought you were dead, vanished into oblivion,” I said.

Fuilyn regarded the obsidian mist. “Does that seem like oblivion? On the other side is a realm of dreams, created by intuition and the deepest currents of the mind. My husband and I did not die. We found our true selves.”

Was the storm only a border? My heart lightened. If that were true, they were still alive: those who had attempted to scout and never returned, the mages who had tried to divine its secrets, and those too stubborn to leave their homes–or unable to.

Except … “Why hasn’t anyone come back?”

“Humans cannot cross back over,” Fuilyn said. “Both my family and Karil’s have dreamblood running through our veins. We have never been truly human.”

“I think that’s a state of mind,” I murmured.

Annoyance flickered in her eyes. “You are wrong. Though if that were the case, I would choose otherwise. You have taken good care of Ghenn, I see.”

Unnerved by her first statement, I almost missed the second. “The credit goes to the royal governesses.”

“I doubt that. I remember my time in the rotunda without fondness. The fostering system only serves beauties and bullies.”

I couldn’t argue with that. “I can understand why you came to rescue her.”

Fuilyn inhaled sharply. “We did not come for her.”

“If you assumed she was dead, that makes sense.” I hurried the words out. “The king has been known to punish children for their parents’ sins.”

“We did not come here for such a petty matter as a child,” she said.

Your child, I thought, but the words stuck on the roof of my mouth. I felt like a coward as I swallowed them. “Then why are you here? Why is this here?” I waved to the storm.

“The people of the dream realm conquered Nysteri to claim its dream trees, which allowed them–allowed us–to nourish and grow the realm,” Fuilyn said. “Karil and I were afraid, of course we were -” though her tone never wavered, barely inflected “- but when we embraced its wonders, we realized that this world, this bleak and boring world, could become something more.”

The conclusion came to me between the words. If the dream trees were connected to the growth of the dream realm, study could also reveal its weakness. The denizens would not want to allow that. It was why the storm had sent forth a tendril to the garden. It was why the dream creatures had emerged to confront us when no one had seen even a hint of life from the storm before.

I realized, too, that this Renewer who spoke in the city had been correct, though surely not in any way she had ever imagined.

“Besides that,” Fuilyn continued, “do you understand what a tyrant your king is? I will not be content until his rule is unseated. As to this particular place and time, I came for the tree. It does not belong to you.”

“I don’t need anything from the tree,” I said. If I could take a seed to the royal mages, would I? The coldness of Asteri’s lady made me wary, and she was wrong about the king being a tyrant … wasn’t she? He could be cruel and heavy-handed, but that was not tyranny. My position had already been decided for me: I was a member of the court, however minor. “Now that Ghenn is reunited with her family …”

“That is what I wished to speak to you about. She will remain with you.”

My thoughts stumbled. “I’m not her family.”

“We are at war,” Fuilyn said. “The battlefront is no place for a child. And the conflict will not end soon: your cowardly king will keep finding ways to defend himself.”

It was valid reasoning, but I couldn’t help the rising sense it was an excuse. I fought my instinct. These were her parents. I glanced over at Karil and Ghenn. He sat cross-legged; she pressed her forehead to his. They whispered in conference, the perfect pair.

“What about your home on the other side?” I asked.

Her face retreated into stone. “I hope you’re not picturing Nysteri as it once was. The dream realm is more elaborate and sophisticated, shaped by one’s will. Ghenn is only a child. She would not be able to find her way.”

“I know your daughter,” I said. “She is more self-possessed and poised than many adults.” Sometimes, I thought I could include myself in that. “If it is a question of will, she has it.”

“It does not matter,” Fuilyn said. “Ghenn is too human to adjust without fear and anxiety.”

She kept changing her objections. “That doesn’t make sense.” The words spilled out. “If you both have dreamblood, and she’s your daughter …”

“You don’t understand how dream heredity works, or what it is like on the other side. Even grown humans -” her tone morphed into scorn “- have difficulty, which has caused so much clutter in the landscape.”

I had trouble wrapping my mind around it. “How …”

“People would like to think they can create castles with the blink of an eye, but the best most can do are vague rocky bulks. Humans are inferior, but they will eventually adapt to a better world.” Fuilyn sighed to dismiss it. “Karil and I want our daughter to have the best circumstances until she is old enough to take care of herself.”

“That’s with you.” Karil drew my eyes again. If he felt differently …

“My husband and I are of one mind in this,” Fuilyn said. “The royal governesses are capable of the basics, I suppose, but a tender girl needs more. Support, guidance and belief. A listening ear and guiding hand. You will be that for Ghenn, with or without the royal court.”

The words were dry, lifeless. The dream realm might come from intuition and imagination, but it seemed it did not come from empathy. They were also a command, not a request.

I could have taken the order without thought. It was how I had lived, simply accepting my place in the royal court, risks of poison and all. But I recognized the importance of what Fuilyn was asking, even if she did not–even if she seemed to take it for granted that she could foist her child off into the hands of another. Could I be those things for Ghenn? I wasn’t sure, but she needed someone to try, and that … that was something I could promise. I couldn’t handle the thought that no one else would.

“I will,” I said.

She nodded. “Then your time here is done. You will leave to rejoin your cowardly king.”

“Aren’t you concerned about what I’m going to say?” The question escaped me before I could stop it.

“This is the last dream tree on this side,” Fuilyn said. “There are no others you can destroy to hinder us. Tell the king to be ready for war. I know better than to believe he would accept the possibilities of the dream realm. Will you tell him about us?”

We both knew that would put Ghenn in danger. I shook my head. My eyes flitted up to the tree. If I could grab a branch …

Fuilyn’s fingers encircled my arm, spears of diamond. She guided me over to her husband. Ghenn hopped upright, flashing a luminous smile.

Karil lumbered to his feet. I pulled out of Fuilyn’s grip and spoke in a whisper. “If you want your daughter with you, we can figure it out.”

His eyes swept through me like a blade. “You know that’s not possible.” His tone was gentler than his wife’s, but without compromise. Ghenn’s head swiveled, eyes curious, but it was clear she couldn’t make out what had been said.

“Give us a moment of privacy,” Fuilyn said.

I did, stepping aside. If I had entertained thoughts of creeping up on the tree, the flat expressions of the guard creatures dissuaded me. Fuilyn knelt to explain to Ghenn. Her gasp of shock cut through my spine. Her voice lowered, spiraling through denial, dismay … and finally acceptance. The family embraced.

New scents blasted my nose–orders to the guards, the scorch of ash. The barrier swelled, parting to allow the lady of Nysteri and her entourage to pass. It swallowed the tree, writhing with lightning, then went still.

I thought my heart would break my ribs open. I couldn’t catch my breath.

Ghenn’s hand slipped into mine. “They promised they’d come back for me.”

Her voice calmed my world. I turned to face her, her brightness only a little dimmed … and I knew I would never tell her. She didn’t need to know her parents had simply ignored her existence, then used every excuse to leave her in my hands.

I was going to make sure that was the right choice, in spite of them. I knew what side I had chosen in this conflict: hers.

“I know they will,” I said. “Let’s go back to the castle.”

Ghenn stared at the barrier, expression thoughtful. “I’m not afraid of it.”

“I don’t think I am, either, but it’s not our world.”

“Not yet.” She tugged my hand and headed for the path.

We had descended into the city for a piece of the dream tree and failed to get it. That would have been enough of a disappointment when we started, but now I knew it had bigger implications. I pushed the thought aside. We could deal with that once we rejoined the royal party and reached safety.

“I’ve got five seeds,” she said. “Would you like to have one?”

I stumbled to a halt. She held them in her other palm: perfect orbs, otherwise ordinary apart from a faint shimmer of silver.

“How did you get those?” I asked.

“I plucked them while I was with my father,” she said. “He picked me up, and he’s so tall I was in the lower branches.” If she was more human than her parents, she was also something of the other side. She might, more than the seeds, end up being the key.

“I would very much like one,” I said.

She placed it in my free hand. I folded my fingers around it, feeling a trace of the future there. Then I tucked it in my pocket.

Ghenn sobered. “What happens after the city disappears? When the storm comes up the mountains?”

“No matter what happens, I’ve got you,” I said. “I promise.”

Eternal Rotation

Ekon

Red heat lamps cast their glow and penetrating warmth through the blanket draped about me. The warming room was crowded, at capacity. Other than one man grumbling under his breath, no one said anything. At the edge of audibility there was classical music. I recognized the piece: Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony.

The hibernated must be awakened once every one hundred years, at minimum, to reduce health risks. That’s the technology aboard the Carthage, anyway. By now, 600-some years from port, certainly things had changed back home.

My shivering had at last stopped and I was warm enough to drop the blanket to the floor. A knee-high quadrupedal bot entered and handed me my watch, data speks, and clothes. It was a serve bot I had a hand in designing centuries ago, I noted with a touch of amusement. The watch displayed a message as soon as it felt the skin of my wrist: LUCIUS, CONFERENCE ROOM 7b, AS SOON AS ABLE.

My data speks indicated this was not my routine hibernation emergence. I stood, stretched, donned my clothes.

Of Ashes & Tears

Every step I took along the meandering trail obscured the path behind without revealing what lay ahead. Gusts of wind tossed my hair about and swung the lantern in my hand. Its swaying glow did little to dispel the shroud of gloom cast by a moonless night as I made my way through the snow-covered underbrush.

“I can barely see,” I grumbled, mostly to myself.

On my shoulder, Pito, my familiar, peered into the shadows with oversized rodent eyes and seized on my uncertainty. “It’s too dark to be walking alone through the woods, Brynn. Let’s go home and come back in the morning.”

The little coward. “Quiet,” I hissed at him. The tiny squirrel recoiled out of sight and onto my nape. “I’m not letting ma die because I’m scared of the night.”

Minutes passed with only the crunch of icy twigs under my boots to punctuate their passage, until guilt got the better of me. “Are you pouting?”

“Why would I?” Pito said. “It’s not like you called me a coward.”

“I didn’t.”

“You thought it.”

I sighed. “Fine. I’m sorry. Happy?”

“I’d be much happier if you stopped for a moment and thought through what you’re doing,” Pito said, inching outwards along my shoulder until I could see him again in my peripheral vision. “Tywyll isn’t known for his charitable ways, how’re you planning to pay him for the elixir?”

Pito had me there, and knew it. When old man Aeron’s newborn son fell sick with the coughing fever two springs past, Tywyll demanded a gold sovereign for the few drops of elixir that brought the infant back from the brink. We had neither Aeron’s gold, nor his silks. “I’ll bring him firewood for as long as it takes to pay off the debt.”

Pito snorted. “Look around you, what need has Tywyll for firewood in the middle of the woods?”

“Then I’ll do anything he asks. I’ll sweep his hut. Fetch his water from the stream. I’ll cook his meals. Rub the bunions on his feet. Anything.”

“Your ma wouldn’t want that for you, Brynn,” Pito said. His gentle reprimand grated more for being the truth.

“Well, ma isn’t here, is she? She’s bedridden with black fever and if I don’t do something soon, I’ll lose her. Can you understand that?”

Pito didn’t answer. Instead, he shuffled his tiny feet over the fine hairs of my nape, sending shivers down my spine. His eyes had grown wider still, staring ahead with unconcealed apprehension. I followed his gaze to a column of milky blue smoke rising above the snow-clad canopy of silent poplars.

A hundred strides later, I shifted the lantern to my left hand, steeled myself, and knocked on Tywyll’s door; timidly at first, then with growing urgency. I took a step backwards when the door creaked open revealing a darkness like ink framing the grey outline of the magic peddler. Tywyll stank of ash and stale mead. My belly grumbled.

“Brynn.” Tywyll tilted his head, and looked past me at the winding path that led back to the village. “Your mother’s not with you?”

I pushed down on the rising bile. “Master Tywyll, ma’s ill. She’s hot to the touch, and covered in rubicund welts. She won’t eat or drink, and mumbles to herself in delirium when not passed out.”

My entreaty didn’t at all resemble what I had rehearsed in my head, and I blamed Pito for the divergence. Still, Tywyll’s eyes gleamed with understanding. He ushered me inside and latched the door behind.

A fire crackled in the hearth. I suspected Tywyll mixed in some herbs or aromatic weeds with the firewood, but rather than mask the heavy miasma of ash and spoilt brew, the spicy fragrance accentuated the stench.

Tywyll shuffled to the hearth and eased himself into a wooden chair polished to a high sheen with frequent use. “Ill, you say? Shame, that. Fetching woman in her day.”

He seemed lost in his memories until I cleared my throat. “A little elixir will see her right as rain, I’m sure.”

Tywyll regarded me with penetrating eyes, reflecting the shimmying flames in the hearth. “Great is the need for the elixir and precious little is the supply. What have you brought to trade? A family heirloom perhaps?”

I swallowed noisily, suddenly wishing I had followed Pito’s advice. “We don’t have much by way of heirlooms,” I stammered, and raised a hand to stave the brushoff blooming on Tywyll’s face, “but I’ll bring you three chickens, heavy with eggs.”

“Chickens? Eggs? Are you daft?” Tywyll bellowed, rising off his creaking chair.

“How about firewood? Bone dry oak or birch, every eventide, for three years?”

“I can get that myself,” Tywyll grumbled as he ushered me towards the door.

“Wait, Master Tywyll,” I pleaded as he reached around me to unbolt the door, and shoved me out. “Ma’s going to die without the elixir. I’ll give you anything. I’ll do anything, if you save her.”

“Brynn, don’t,” Pito squealed.

“Anything,” I insisted.

The door stopped in its arc short of sealing. Tywyll pushed his head through the gap with a calculating look in his eyes. “Surrender me your familiar.”

“My …,” I trailed off uncomprehending.

“That’s the price,” Tywyll said, “come back when you’re ready to trade, but don’t wait too long. The elixir will do your ma no good dead.”

I rushed the closing door, reaching it as Tywyll bolted it from inside.

“Ask for anything else, but I can’t part with Pito. Anything at all,” I said, pounding the door. “Please.”

No answer came.