Aurora Wolf

My Salieri Complex

An Untold Story of Griffin and Kemp

By M.J. Neary

(Dedicated to H.G. Wells)

(University College, London, 1884) Read the rest of this entry »

Future Tense

By

Rory Steves

     “No!” I screamed, “No! Must stop her! Must protect her!”

     The door opened, and in walked the blonde nightshift nurse with the needle. I could never quite see her face in the shadows. I pulled Read the rest of this entry »

Shaman Born

By Alva Roberts

            A thick sheet of ice and snow covered the land, the only breaks in the endless field of white were the evergreen trees, nature’s last stand against the encroaching winter. It was always cold but the elders said that there had never been a winter as long as this one. Spring should have come weeks ago. Erick Coldeye stood staring at the endless drifts wishing them away.

            Today was his fifteenth birthing day, the day when he was supposed to join the hunters and warriors as a man. If the storms came he would have to wait. His head told him it was a small thing to worry about. He had waited fifteen years. What were a few more days? But his heart yearned for the freedoms and privileges that came with manhood.

            “Erick, I have sent a runner for your father and brothers. If we hurry we will have time before the storm breaks. Follow me,” Horal, the village shaman said, his voice creaking with age.

            Horal was the oldest man in the tribe, some said in the whole world. What little of his hair remained was white as the surrounding snow. His back was hunched and he looked weak. But no man in the tribe, not the largest of them, would challenge the old man to a contest of strength. He could talk to the spirits and command the elements to do his bidding.

            Erick kept a respectful silence as he followed the elderly man to the stables. He would have to master an untrained mount before the eyes of the men of his family to be considered a man. It could take hours. The young mounts had just reached their full height, their shoulders level with the top of Erick’s head. They were young and powerful and would fight against his control for hours.

            Horal chanted in a low steady voice as Erick made his way to the fenced area outside the stable. All the young mounts were there. As Erick watched, one of the young bulls trumpeted and stamped his feet showing his sprit. He would be Erick’s mount.

            The mounts had thick brown fur, heavy ivory tusks, and long winding trunks. It was said that the mounts once had much larger cousins that could not be tamed, only hunted. The elders said a single beast could feed the tribe for a week. Erick was not sure he believed it.

            Shaking his head, Erick hopped the fence. This was not time to be thinking about the old one’s tales. This was the day he would become a man, he needed to focus his thoughts on the powerful creatures that stood before him.

            He pulled a long rope from his belt and wound it around his arm, as he watched the huge creature. He moved downwind from the mount, he could not let the half-tamed beast catch his scent. The beast’s were skittish around humans. The creature’s own smell was thick and musky. Every fiber of Erick’s being shook with nervous anticipation.

            The wind suddenly shifted. Everything Erick knew about weather told him that it was impossible, but it did not matter. The young bull caught his scent. It turned, moving surprisingly fast for so large a creature.

            “Erick run!” his father yelled.

            The bull trumpeted and charged straight for Erick. Its footfalls sounded like thunder, as its huge feet slammed into the frozen earth. Erick felt his excitement instantly transformed into terror. Death was charging towards him.

            He jumped to the side in the last instant before the beast crushed him. It rumbled past him, smashing through the stable yard fence. The bull raised its trunk high into the air and trumpeted its freedom as it made its way into the forest.

The sound echoed through the stable yard, to be replaced by silence as his father, brothers and Horal stared, shocked and unmoving. Erick crawled to his feet and brushed the snow from his hair. Shame filled every fiber of his being. He had failed. He would not become a man this day.

            “Erick, come help us repair the fence,” his father called.

            No one spoke as they worked to bring logs over. Erick did not need to hear the words. He had shamed himself, had shamed his family. It would not be a surprise if his father disowned him. Erick’s eyes filled with tears but he choked them back, he would not dishonor himself any more than he already had.

***

            The storm struck just as they finished rebuilding the fence. The wind whipped around them, driving the hard small flakes into their faces. As they rushed to their thatch covered hut, Erick could see the other tribesman retreating into their homes. Only a fool would venture out in a storm such as this.

            “Erick, how was your trial?” Erick’s mother called out as they ventured into their home.

            Erick’s father caught his wife’s eye and shook his head. She made a gasping sound and reached out to as if to comfort him, but pulled her hand away before it reached him. Erick felt a lump form in his throat.

            “It was not his fault, the wind spirits acted against him,” his father said in a cold voice.

            Fear rumbled in Erick’s belly. Failing the test was shameful but the spirits acting against him meant he was cursed. No wonder his brothers stayed clear of him while they worked. After the storm, he would have to leave before his curse was brought down on the entire Coldeye clan. He would be out cast, there could be no worse punishment. His clan was the most important thing in the world. Without them he was nothing.   

            Erick crossed the entire room, to climb into his own bed. He could feel their eyes on him, judging, and would not let them see the tears he could no longer fight down.  He pretended to sleep, listening as they ate and spoke in quiet whispers about what had happened. No one knew the cause of the curse.

            Erick feigned sleep until the only sound was that of the wind slamming into the yurt. He waited few minutes then climbed to his feet, dressing in his furs. He would not allow his shame to taint his family.

            “Erick, what are you doing?” his younger brother, Leif, asked in a whisper.

            “Shhh. Do not wake the others. I have lost all honor. I will go find the bull and return with my honor.”

            “Don’t you hear the storm? You will never return! The wind spirits are already angry with you.”

            “What better way to test the curse? If I return then I will have a place in the Coldeye clan. If I don’t…tell father and mother that I love them.” Leif didn’t say a word as Erick left the yurt.

            Erick almost retreated to the safety of the yurt the second he stepped outside. The snow was knee deep, the drifts almost to his waist. The wind hammered at him, picking up the snow in great billowing clouds.

            “Hear me Spirits of Wind and Storm, I am Erick Coldeye. I do not fear you, nor your curse. I am a man. You will not stop me.”  Erick’s voice was carried away by the wind, so that he barely heard his own words.

            The wind picked up in strength as if to prove it heard him. Erick lowered his head against the furious strength of the gusts and walked forward. Snow caked the front of his body in white. He could not see.

            But he did not need his eyes to find the stable yard. It was a trip he made almost every day. Erick was shaking with cold and his hands were turning blue by the time he reached the recently repaired fence.

            A large shape was moving near the pen. He had guessed that the bull would try to return to the safety of the stables during the storm and he was right. The mount was leaning against the fence, trying to get out of the wind. There was still a chance to regain his honor.

            His numb hands fumbled at his belt, pulling free his rope. He made a huge loop and wrapped the other end around his arm. Everything had to be done perfectly. He would only have one chance.

            Erick ran forward throwing his loop around the creature’s snout and vaulting onto his back. The mount trumpeted a loud angry warning and surged to its feet, running into the woods.

            The wind tore at Erick’s face so hard that it felt like it was burning. His numb hands threatened to release their grip. It would mean death to fall off the beast so far from the village. He held on, testing his strength and stamina against the huge creature. He rode the maddened beast for hours.

            The mount slowed just as Erick thought his tired muscles could no longer hold on. He could feel the mount’s sides heaving beneath him as the creature sucked in cold air. Erick pulled the rope to the side, forcing the creature to turn. It was time to begin training the creature to obey his will.

***

            Just as the sun shattered the gathered clouds with the light of dawn, Erick turned the mount back toward the tribe’s lands. A huge grin covered his face. He would return with the dawn, as a man.

            “You fell to my strength during one of the worst storms I have ever seen. I will name you Frostfall,” Erick shouted to his new mount.

            The village was quiet in the still morning. The only sound came from the stables as the huge creatures trumpeted the dawn. There were no other sounds, no sounds of warriors checking their mounts, and no smell of food cooking.

            Something was wrong. Erick rode Frostfall straight into the village instead of stopping at the stable. The snow between the yurts was trampled and flat, tinted red with blood.

            Erick could see arms and legs sticking out from the drifts between the yurts. There were two dozen dead and more could have been hidden by the snow. Some of them were not of the tribe. They wore clothing dyed black, a bad luck color that none in the tribe would wear. Many of the yurts had been knocked over. Erick’s mind was numb. He could no longer feel his hands or his feet. He needed a fire soon or the winter spirit would claim some of his toes.

            “Erick. Is that you?” Horthal’s voice quivered.

            Erick turned his mount, and stared down. A yurt had fallen on the old man. The large timbers pinned him to the ground. He still held his bundle of unused spears, in his weak unmoving hand.

            “Shaman,” Erick shouted and started to slide off his mount.

            “Wait! Wait. Your mount is not fully trained. It may flee if you dismount. You will need it to save the rest.”

            “The rest? What happened here?”

            “The Empire’s Slave Takers attacked as we slept. They have a powerful shaman with them. The storm did not touch them. Most were taken before we even knew what was happening. You must save them. Take my spears.”

            Horal tossed his bundle of spears up to Erick who deftly caught it.

            “What about you?” Erick asked, fear and confusion strong in his voice.

            “I am old. I would survive but a little longer if you stayed. Save the tribe, Coldeye.”

            The Slave Takers were easy to follow. They were on foot heading South toward the Empire, as they marched they left a wide path through the snow.

            Erick followed, his anger growing. He had been too shocked and scared to feel angry before, but now he let it flow through him. The powerful emotion brought him energy and warmth. He would teach the Empire men to fear the Clan of Coldeye.

            The slavers came into view quickly, they must have waited out the storm in the yurts and left after the storm broke. He could see twenty or so of the black clad men and a single sled. The entire tribe trudged behind them, chained together at the hands and waist. He thumped his heels into Frostfall’s thick sides and pulled out the first of Horal’s spears.

            It was a thrilling moment. All his life he had trained to be a hunter and a warrior. He had practiced throwing spears from the back of the tribe’s small ponies to prepare for this day. The wind swept past his face and he could feel the freedom that came with being a man.

            His first spear buried itself in a man’s chest. Erick pulled another and threw it with the same result. By the time Frostfall reached the group, four were already dead.

            The foolish slavers grouped together to defend against his charge. Frostfall broke through them as easily as he had broken the fence the day before. Black clad figures flew through the air to the left and right. Erick threw another spear.

            The captured warriors of Erick’s tribe ran forward, using their own chains as weapons. Erick turned to make another pass at the largest group of slavers when pain coursed through his body. Electricity surged around him, and Frostfall.

            The young mount fell to the ground twitching and heaving. Erick tumbled off rolling over the cold snow covered ground. A man stood over him, carrying a long staff of plain white wood, wearing thick black robes the same color as the slavers.

            “What a young fool you are. Did you think your beast could defeat a wizard?”

            The man made a complicated gesture in the air and the dead slavers rose to their feet on unsteady legs.

            “It is a simple enough spell, I learned it when I was about your age. None of the other apprentices wanted to learn it, the reanimated dead cannot tell friend from foe.”

            The bodies stumbled toward the gathered men on unsteady legs. They attacked with hands and teeth, goring and biting both the tribesmen and the slavers.

            “I’ll have to call the whole thing a wash. Perhaps I could take the ivory from your trained beasts to recoup some of the losses. Hhhmmm.”

            The wizard turned his back on Erick obviously talking to himself.

            The necromancer walked over to stare at Frostfall. He made a strange gesture, not even looking at Erick. Erick’s breath was sucked from his lungs. It felt like something thick and heavy was wrapped around his chest.

            Erick struggled to move, but his body only twitched. He could not allow this.

            Then Erick felt a presence all around.  He could hear its simple thoughts and desires. Erick also felt his own panic building as he struggled for breath.

            Erick toiled to understand what was happening. Out of desperation, Erick tried to let the presence know his own thoughts. The ground around them began to shake. The wizard turned back, staring at Erick with a look of fear.

            Fire began to gather around the wizard. The air crackled with energy. The wizard’s eyes glowed with an unnatural green light.

            Frostfall’s thickly muscled trunk struck outward, smashing into the wizard’s back. The wizard tumbled to the ground just in time for a huge man shaped figure to pull itself out of the ground. The elemental was made of the earth itself. The creature knocked the wizard fifteen feet in the air with a single swing of its arm.

            Erick felt his breath return in a huge gasp that tasted sweet as summer berries. He rolled onto his back gasping, then felt something wet nuzzling against his face.

            Frostfall stood above Erick, his long snout rubbing up and down his face. Erick sat up and pushed the mammoth’s trunk away. He had made a new friend in his struggles.

            “Erick, you’re alive.” Erick’s father gave a joyful shout.

            “And a man,” Erick said, gesturing toward Frostfall.

            “And a Shaman,” his father said. “You were not cursed. Those who are touched by the earth and can feel its spirits are often betrayed by the air.”

            Erick stood, shocked into silence by the statement. He knew it was true. He would develop and train his power just as he trained to be a hunter. As a shaman he would be bring more honor to the Coldeye clan than any tribesmen ever had.

            “Let’s go home,” Erick said with a huge grin.

TREE LINE

By Christine Rains

Purl dove for the hand still visible above the white sand. Her fingers did not manage to catch a firm hold before it was sucked downwards. She heard a helpless scream and realized it was coming from between her own cracked lips. Fine grains flew up to pollute her mouth as another tentacle burst upwards to latch onto her wrist.

She felt Mirage grab her around her small waist and yank her backwards. She dug her sharp nails into the slick appendage, and it loosened its hold enough so that she could free herself. The two of them tumbled over backwards and down the small hill.

Her body ached, but her tears came from the pain in her heart. Purl curled up against Mirage and cried for the loss of her brother. His muscled arms embraced her with a tenderness one wouldn’t expect from a man that looked like him.

“Hush, woman. You’ll be okay.”

Purl shook her head and pressed her face to his bare chest. Her hands balled up in fists to beat against him. “Jerboa went onto the sand because of me. Me!”

She hadn’t been thinking. She had been playing with little Coati, trying to show him how to throw his boomerang. It was his favorite toy. It only skittered a body’s length out onto the sand.  She could jump that distance back to safety.

The others in their pack crept out from the trees, but did not move farther than a body’s length from their shelter. Children whimpered and many of the women wept. A few of them held open their arms, beckoning to the pair to come into the trees.

Purl continued to cry. She hadn’t been thinking, and it cost her Jerboa.

“Jerboa knew what he was doing and he did as he intended: he saved you.” Mirage stroked her shaved head. His thick fingers followed the one thin dark braid down.

The sound of young ones crying reminded her that she had only given birth once. The child hadn’t survived, but she had many precious years ahead of her to provide for the pack. Jerboa had known her value, and he had sacrificed himself for her. Though she understood the reason why, it did not make the pain and the guilt easier to bear.

* * * *

The morning came on with a bright fierceness. Purl held vigil for Jerboa throughout the night, but the sun signaled her mourning was over. It wasn’t nearly enough for her, but daylight wasn’t to be wasted. She sucked back her remaining tears and ate the first meal of the day with the rest of the pack.

The group huddled with her treated her as if she were a fragile thing. They didn’t think her strong enough to even bury the cores from her fruit. A child had done that for her. Purl bore their treatment with silent irritation. She shouldered two large waterskins to show that she was able to do her share of the work this day.

“Let me take those for you.” A female with three braids and a new growing bump in her belly ran a hand over Purl’s head. “The children want your company and stories today.”

“You cannot do this work, Cascade, and you know so. The children can wait for their stories.” Purl forced a grateful smile to the surface and bent to kiss Cascade’s small swollen belly. She didn’t wait for any further response, but turned on her heels and walked west to follow a line of men and able women towards the water’s edge.

It took the whole morning to reach the edge of the forest which fell off into the sea. Purl swiped the sweat from her forehead and squatted by the tree line as a half dozen of the men readied the poles to dip the skins down in the water. No one dared to move nearer to the water’s edge. The creatures of the sea were more monstrous than those of the desert. The pack had no choice but to live sandwiched between the two and pray there were no floods or sandstorms.

Mirage came up behind her and crouched down so that his legs were on either side of her body. “I will help you with your skins. The water is choppy today.”

Purl peered over her shoulder at him and smiled. She appreciated the help and the fact that he didn’t try to take her work from her. There was also a physical thrill having him so close to her like this. He had started to court her a week before, and Jerboa had encouraged her to accept him. She would honor her brother’s wish, and if she bore a son, she would name the child for him. “May we do it first before the sun gets too hot in the sky?”

The large man nodded and rubbed his cheek against the back of her head before standing. “You may go first on the pole I have set.”

Though she knew Mirage was giving her special treatment, it was different than how the others had done so. His intentions flattered and excited her. Purl stood and slipped the skins off her shoulders as she approached the long dipping pole. She securely tied the first skin to it and stood back to take the handle. Mirage positioned himself behind her as an anchor.

“Ready for the first one.” She gave him the warning and began to lower it down into the sea. Her heart raced with the danger of what they did, but it was essential to their survival.

The skin sank into the water, and the pole bent as it filled. Purl said nothing as they worked. None of the pack on the poles uttered a word. She lifted it with a grunt and was glad for Mirage’s muscles. He took on the bulk of the lifting and they hefted the full skin upwards, setting it down so that she could tie it closed.

She set it back in the trees and knotted the second skin to the pole. “Ready for number two.” She nipped her lower lip as they lowered it down. She leaned back as it filled and felt Mirage’s chest against her back. A small smile quirked up her lips, but it was suddenly yanked away as she felt extra weight on the pole.

“Up!  Up!” Mirage clenched his jaw as he pulled up on the pole in hopes they wouldn’t lose it. Down the line of dippers, there was another harsh cry to yank up.

Purl dug her heels in and used added her strength to Mirage’s as they lifted the skin out of the water. A small sea beast clung to the full sack and had pierced it with its beak. It still attacked even though it wasn’t finding any meat to soothe its voracious appetite.

Three men in loincloths stood near with spears, and as the skin was brought closer with its passenger, they struck out at it. Its tentacles were no more than four feet long, but it managed to catch one of the weapons and tried to yank the man towards it. One of the others lurched in and drove his spear through its conical body. It hissed and thrashed, releasing both skin and weapon. Its fate now was no other than to feed the pack.

There were more screams from down the line. A bigger monster had taken hold of another pole. Five hunters tried to pull it free, but a thick tentacle lashed out from the water to grab hold of the head man, Oryx, as well as the wood. Blades gleamed under the sun and slashed at the slimy appendage.

Purl couldn’t help there. She was too petite to be a hunter. Once the skin had been set on the ground, Mirage dashed over to help his pack mates as she used a blob of tree gum from a pouch she carried to seal the hole in her waterskin. She dragged it over to the tree line.

The beast that had latched onto her skin was no longer moving. It was deflated and its tentacles curled up along side of it. It was a baby compared to the monster still battling for its prize. When she saw it rear out of the water for a brief moment, it was twenty times the size of the dead one. It could eat a man whole.

She shuddered, remembering Jerboa disappearing beneath the sand last night. Did he suffocate first or did he feel himself being ripped into pieces? She choked back her tears, not wanting to think about it, but not being able to stop herself.

There was a triumphant cry as the men fell back with Oryx still in their midst. The pole and skin were lost, but their pack mate was saved. They retreated with great haste into the tree line as two more tentacles searched along the shore for their prey. A few of the pack growled with the desire for battle, but there could be no victory against a monster that large. They would have to be content with the smaller one still impaled on the spear.

Once the sea creature disappeared into the water, the pack traveled south against the water current. They finished their water collection a good distance away from the previous site before heading back to the village. There was great excitement when Oryx came back with a tale of survival and the feast of the beast.

The water was delivered into the ancient geothermal desalinators and more recently converted seawater greenhouses. Purl had been fascinated with the great kettles since she was a little girl, and she had helped with the design of the greenhouses to grow food the pack needed instead of having to forage far for them. She didn’t have the skills or physique to be a hunter, but her mind was of great worth to the pack.

The feast was prepared and there was a celebration of life that night. Purl felt the sharp contrast to the previous night, but it was not one of bitterness. Her guilt still nagged at her, but she did her best to ignore it. She had to carry on and not give in to her sorrow.

The Elders led the pack in song and there was the call for one of her stories. The children still awake piped up and pleaded with Purl to tell them one. Since she had denied them earlier in the day, she took up a spot by the Elders around the bonfire. She smoothed her hands down over her short hide skirt. She cleared her voice and there was silence.

“Humans were born of the earth. They rose from the mud as small, weak creatures, but soon grew strong. They learned to walk on two legs to reach up to the trees and pick the juiciest of fruits. They had not claws or beaks like other beings, but they had keen minds. What their bodies could not do, they built tools to do the work for them.

“Humans expanded their knowledge, learning great things. The tools they built grew in size, too. They had immense villages and could travel the sea in a day. They stretched their arms from coast to coast of all the lands in the world. They took up the earth and the sea for themselves. They claimed their dominion over it.”

Her voice took on an ominous tone. “They eventually forgot they were of the earth. They believed themselves greater than it. The earth and the sea – who had always fought against one another – whispered together. They would be destroyed by the humans if they continued to take from them. They could not allow such a terrible thing to happen.

“The earth and sea trembled with their rage. The deserts grew and buried the fertile lands. The sea spread and swallowed whole civilizations. As the humans had spread their arms across the world, the earth and sea created their own hunters to stretch out and reclaim their domain. Millions of humans perished and those that survived were left with only tiny strips of forest to hide within.

“We still hide, caught between the earth’s and the sea’s rage. As long as we do not extend our reach beyond our given strip, they will not claim us as they have the rest of the world. Our ancestors’ greed had lost them their lives, but we will not repeat their mistakes. We will take care of the little we are given and we shall not stretch our arms beyond our village.

“One day, the earth and sea will forgive us. Their rage will not last forever. Until then, we use our arms only to work and embrace one another. This is the lesson we have learned.”

Children stared up at her with wide enraptured eyes and adults nodded along with her telling. A few of the men raised their mugs to toast Purl and her story. It was the oldest tale of the pack and the one most retold. None of them must ever forget.

She retook her seat on a log and the singing resumed. A few of her pack mates came up and told her how much they liked her telling. Children were carried off to their beds and the moon rose higher in the sky.

“Bed with me tonight, lovely storyteller.”  Mirage’s breath was hot against the back of her neck. She hadn’t noticed he had crouched down behind her.

“I don’t know,” Purl teased in a whisper. “I’m fair tired after my telling and hauling water around today.”

His big hand crept around her waist and tugged her back against him. “I have my own story I want to share, but only you are meant to hear it.” The tip of his nose ran along the outer shell of her ear, and it sent delightful shivers through her body.

“Then take me to hear this story. I’m curious as to what a brave hunter like you might have to tell.” Purl was led away from the bonfire and to his hut. The story he told her had no words, but he made impressive use of his mouth. They fell asleep curled together long after the moon had reached its peak in the sky.

* * * *

Mirage woke her with his lusty appetite that left her pleasantly sore between the legs. Before he left the hut to start his day’s work, he kissed her flat stomach.

“What are you doing?” Purl giggled from the feeling of his whiskers. “You cannot know if there’s a child for you to greet.”

“I know.” His dark eyes flashed along with his grin. “My seed has been planted within you and you will ensure it will grow. I have seen the wonders you do, woman.”

She flushed and sent him on his way. Purl scraped off the night’s sweat and went about her own work tending to the immense kettles. Their ancestors were brilliant to be able to build such things. It had taken her years to learn how to keep the desalinators working. Humans no longer had the tools to build such things any more. If the kettles were to break and they could not repair them, they would have to rely on the water provided by the greenhouses and there was not nearly as much produced by them.

Purl did her rounds with the kettles and before she could head towards the greenhouses, two children ran up to her. Sand Cat grabbed her hand and jerked on it. “You have to come right now, Purl. There’s something in the house of beans!”

Whorl was two years older than the boy, but she was trembling. “Please. You must hurry.”

“Go fetch some hunters.” Purl told the bushy haired boy. He sprinted off and she took up the girl’s thin hand. “Come. We can’t lose this crop when it is so close to harvest.”

The pair ran along the worn path and passed six other long buildings before they came to the one that housed the beans.  A crowd of women and children stood out front. Only three of the young women without any braids held spears as they stood guard by the door.

“Purl!” Cascade held her eldest child against her.

Purl released the girl’s hand and put a comforting hand on her shorn head. “Tell me.”

“Something broke in through a window on the side. None of use seen the thing, but it sounds like a warpig.” Cascade moaned with that possibility.

“We heard it snorting!” One of the older boys piped up.

Nipping her lower lip, Purl nodded and stepped up to the door to peer in through the glass. Several tables were knocked over and there was a rustling of plants near the rear of the greenhouse. “Warpigs are stupid. We can frighten it out of there.” She gestured to the trio with the spears. “You come with me. The rest of you go to the other buildings and make sure everything is secure. It will be safer for you there, too.”

No one questioned her. Purl had not seen many years, but she was wise. The majority of the group hurried away and she took a deep breath. With a silent motion, she opened the door and reached in to grab a spade. It would do as well as any of the spears. She did not plan on killing the warpig. They were rare in the forest and she’d rather chase it off so it could go on its way than kill it.

There was a round of snorting from the back as the animal found something succulent to eat. Purl used her hands to command the other women, indicating two go along one side and she would go with the third along the other. They would herd the warpig up the middle and through the door.

The mist in the greenhouse already coated her with a shimmering layer. Trickles of sweat ran down her back to mingle with it. Purl moved with care over the fallen tables and damaged plants. Most could be saved, but they had to rid themselves of their unwanted guest first.

As they neared the rear of the greenhouse, she could see a rounded spiky back. It was no doubt a warpig and one that came to just below her waist. None of them wanted to be near the beast, but it would be more afraid of them than they were of it. Purl looked across to the other two women and counted with her fingers.

At three, they hollered at the animal and startled it into flight. It veered to one side and upon seeing the spears, dashed to the other side. It nearly ran into the head of the spade, but it turned in time to run forward. The women ran after it, shrieking and barking. More damage was done with the warpig’s retreat than it had upon entering.

It swerved towards the left corner where the irrigation pipes came together. Purl shouted out a protest, but the warpig could not understand her. It smashed through the pipes and out through the glass of the side. A length of flexible piping was caught around its fat neck and the fleeing animal dragged it with it as it ran.

“Stop it!  The pipe cannot be replaced!” Purl was already running out the door after it.

The warpig’s fear gave it a boost of speed. It raced to the east, to the desert. Purl’s heart threatened to jump out of her chest. She could not lose that piping and she continued to chase after it even when the other women had stopped.

Behind her, she could hear something larger crashing through the woods. “Purl!  Purl!”

She recognized Mirage’s voice, but did not stop. The trees thinned out to nothing and there were only scrubby bushes between them and the sands. “We have to catch it! I need the piping!”

The fleeing animal ran out onto the white sand. It stumbled but picked itself up to continue onwards. It was slowed by the desert and Purl managed to close some distance. Mirage’s longer legs let him catch up to her.

“Let the beast go!”

“No! I need that piping.” She protested, speeding out into the desert.

Mirage growled with his anger and scooped her up over his shoulder. He darted back to the safety of the trees. He held her even as she fought against him. “Calm down, woman. Once the warpig realizes it isn’t being chased, it will discover where it is and flee back here to the trees. We will get your piping then.”

Purl ceased her struggling and nodded. She hadn’t been thinking. It would have been like the day she lost Jerboa. She was breathing heavily as he placed her down on her feet. They crouched down and watched the warpig from the cover of the trees. Mirage pointed to the animal, showing her that it had slowed and regained some of its senses. It made an alarmed squealing noise and hurried back towards the tree line.

She grinned up at him and gripped her spade tighter. He was the hunter, but she would help as needed. Mirage chuckled under his breath and gave her rear a pat before readying himself to strike out at the animal.

Before the warpig could get as far as the bushes, two brown tentacles burst out of the sand on either side of it.  They couldn’t get a hold at first, but they tripped it and as it rolled with a terrified screech, one of the appendages wrapped around it. The animal was lost, and Purl would have let that be if it weren’t for one thing.

“The piping!” She burst forward with plans on hooking the piping with her spade. Her stomach trembled with the memory of Jerboa being pulled under. She whimpered, but she couldn’t let the pack suffer for lack of food.

Mirage snarled and sprinted after her. His speed carried him past her and he thrust out with his spear to try to get the piping. He stabbed the warpig and slashed one of the tentacles. Blood gushed out and made the sand clump together in gory red chunks.

Another tentacle erupted from the sand and twined around his thick calf. Mirage’s spear was stuck between the ribs of the warpig and he could not pull it out while maintaining his balance. Purl felt tears burn her eyes and ran up to whack at the tentacle that held him. It didn’t loosen its grip, but the sand creature did pull the squealing beast under.

Mirage dove to one side, ripping the piping from around the warpig before it disappeared. He was flat on his stomach and tried to find traction with his one free hand. He held out the piping to her. “Take it!  Run!”

“No! Mirage!” She beat at the tentacle again, but the skin was too hard and it had a firm hold on its prey. Instead of taking the piping, she dropped her spade and locked her hands around his wrist to pull him with all her might.

The bulbous head of the sand creature crested the surface, but it found a new hold and yanked on Mirage. Hunters threw spears from the tree line, but none of them found their target. His leg was sinking downwards and Purl screamed her protest.

“Let go!” He bellowed.

“NO!” Purl could not stand to lose him after Jerboa gave his life for hers.

Mirage ripped his arm free of her hold and pushed her back so she stumbled into the bushes. She screamed again as he was sucked further into the desert. She had not seen him pick up the spade, but it was in his hands and as his body went into the sands, he plunged the tool downwards with a  fearsome cry.

The spade vanished, but Mirage did not. He scrambled out of the hole and rolled into the brush next to her. He didn’t stop, but gathered her up and sped back to the tree line. Over his shoulder, Purl could see the piping laying on the sand undisturbed.

“The-”

Mirage silenced her with a kiss. “We’ll go fishing for it later, woman.”

Darvana and Curse of the Scurlot

By Paula Ray

Graphic Art by Jack S. Rogers

They’re here, again. Leather wings beat against the tin roof. Talons scratch metal with a sinister screech. The hair on Darvana’s arms stands at attention and dread wiggles up her spine like worms. She knew the Scurlots would return. Her father, Kartu, warned her before he was imprisoned. He said it was his fault; he had summoned the beasts by accident. Kartu had a habit of toying with magic and making a mess of things.

“Darvana, take your brother to the cellar!”

“Yes, Mama!”

Seeko grips the wrungs of his crib with such force his tiny knuckles are white. Even now, he does not cry or make a sound; he never has. Darvana places him in a mofi-pouch and slips the straps over her shoulders. He grabs onto her copper braids and buries his plump face in her bosom.

“It’s okay, Seeko. We’re going to the cellar. They can’t get us there. Don’t worry.”

“Darvana, hurry!”

Her Mother, Lonisa, piles fruit and canned food onto a blanket and ties it as Darvana walks past the kitchen. Lonisa wipes her brow with the back of her hand, between shallow breaths she says, “Grab the water-bucket by the stove.”

They haul the food and water into the cellar. Lonisa sprinkles Aldero dust along the edge of the hatch, locks it and hangs a Soranea medallion from the handle. As long as they do not light a fire and the floorboards made of Tunogo wood are above them, they are safe. Darvana knows the dust and medallion serve no other purpose than to appease her mother’s superstition, even the lock is pointless. It is the wood harvested from the hillside where the great sorcerer, Tramone, once lived that provides protection.

A familiar pungent odor filters down through the cracks overhead and burns Darvana’s nostrils. Lonisa opens a jar of mint oil and rips three long strips from her petticoat. She quickly douses the rags and hands Darvana two. Darvana loosely wraps one around the baby’s nose and mouth and brings the other cloth to her nose and inhales deeply. The mint cools the burning sensation. Darvana ties the cloth and nods thank you toward her mother.

There is no light save the jars of glowing Tunogo sap lined along the top shelf. The luminescent blue creates a strange, eerie haze and time seems to stand still. Huddled closely together, Lonisa and Darvana scan the small space, glancing at one another briefly, avoiding prolonged eye-contact. Fear breeds on fear, Kartu used to say. They know the less they sense the fear welling within each other, the calmer they will remain.

Seeko has just learned to crawl and is squirming in his pouch. He pushes his fists against Darvana’s breasts so hard she’s convinced he’s bruising her.

“Seeko, stop. You’re hurting me. You can’t crawl around right now. Be still.”

The baby arches his back and shoves his hands against her, this time the straps on his pouch tear apart. Darvana gasps and tries to catch him, but he falls to the stone slab floor with a thud and crack. Blood pools around his petite skull. Lonisa gathers him in her arms and inspects his injuries. Darvana retrieves Aldero leaves from the shelf and hands them to her mother.

“Is he okay, Mama?”

Seeko looks about with eyes wild. Lonisa places the leaves on his wound and kisses his forehead. “He is stunned. I think he’ll be okay. Prepare a palette with the blanket and bring me the lantern; I need more light.

“Mama, we can’t light the lantern. Red beetles will come.”

“We have no choice, Darvana. The mofi-pouch is thick. It’s difficult for the beetles to bite through and the mofi hide will shade Seeko’s body. I have plenty of Andero leaves to shield the light from his face.  Get the lantern and matches. I can’t tell if he needs stitches or not. This must be done. I’ll work quickly. It’ll be all right, love. I promise.” Lonisa reaches over and caresses the back of Darvana’s hand.

Darvana lowers her head and bats back tears. She notices Seeko’s blood on her hand and sees Lonisa’s hand is coated, red and glistening. Seeko is bleeding profusely. So much blood from such a tiny baby.

 “But…Mama….what about you?”

“You heard me.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Seeko closes his eyes and his breathing lulls into a slow rhythm.

“Mama, keep him awake. Don’t let him go to sleep.” Darvana’s voice is shaky and hushed. Lonisa does not look at her. Instead, she takes the lantern and sets it by the baby’s head and fishes in the matchbox with frantic fingers. Darvana nudges the baby until his eyes open and she lowers her mouth to his ear and clicks her tongue. He usually smiles and wiggles his feet and hands when she does that, but this time, he lolls his head from side to side with eyelids fluttering.

“Something’s wrong.”

Lonisa gives Darvana a hard direct gaze and nods. “Move away now.”

“No. You need help.”

“Move away, I said.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

From a dark corner, Darvana trembles and watches her mother strike the match and light the wick of the lantern. Lonisa washes his wound to assess the extent of his injury. She threads a needle and burns the tip to sterilize it.

The ground vibrates. Glass jars clink against each other and cans rattle. Dust falls from the ceiling like snow and Lonisa pulls a cover over herself and the baby. Darvana stares at the light coming from beneath the thin fabric covering and mumbles a prayer. Stones from the floor crumble and hundreds of red beetles scuttle toward Lonisa and the baby. There is thrashing and whimpers, but no screams. The light goes out and the beetles rescind into their underground boroughs.

“Mama?”

Darvana yanks the covering from Lonisa and Seeko and finds her mother’s dress shredded and arms and back pockmarked with numerous bites. Hair shields Lonisa’s face. The baby is wrapped tightly in his mofi-pouch and Aldero leaves overlap across his face and head. Darvana peels the pouch away from his skin and removes the leaves. He is peppered with small welps, but his skin is not broken. Lonisa collapses face down onto the floor and Seeko kicks and punches the air, as if he is fighting an invisible monster.

“Mama?” Darvana rolls Lonisa onto her back and discovers her eyes have been devoured and her breath is ragged and labored. Lonisa reaches toward Darvana’s face. One long sigh expels from Lonisa’s lungs and she ceases to breathe. Darvana panics. She attempts to resuscitate her mother, but fails.  

“Mama!” Shaking Lonisa and crying hysterically, Darvana’s stomach muscles tighten and chest clinches. She looks at Seeko, who coughs up blood and closes his eyes.

“Seeko! No!” Darvana pulls the baby to her chest and clicks her tongue in his ear. She clicks and clicks until the voice of her father rings in her head. Ever since childhood, whenever Darvana experiences extreme trauma, she and her father have been able to telepathetically communicate for brief periods of time.

“Darvana, breathe, child. Long slow breaths.” Kartu’s voice is raspy and quiet, as if it is taking every ounce of strength he has to speak.

“Father, what should I do? Tell me…” Darvana’s throat restricts as tears fill her eyes, “I don’t know…”

“You need to take Seeko to the medicine woman. Remember Shilo? I took you to see her once when you were a young girl.”

“Yes, I remember.” Darvana swallows hard. “She has a cabin hidden by moss near Gya Falls, but I can’t travel now. The Scurlots are here.”

“I know they are, love, but you must carry the baby to Shilo; his wounds are severe. She will help you. Take the Soranea medallion with you. She’ll need it.”

“Father. Mama is….”

Kartu’s voice shatters with grief. “I know, love, I know” There is a long pause of silence, “Pack food, water, Tunogo sap, and as much Tunogo wood as you can manage.”

“Father…”

A high pitched ring vibrates through her head and Kartu’s voice is no longer audible. She rubs her forehead to ease the pressure building behind her brows and sets to the task of wrapping her mother’s body in a blanket. Darvana weeps as she places a sacred amulet on Lonisa’s chest . There is no time for a proper burial; Seeko’s injuries will not wait.

Darvana loads a sack with the necessary items and tethers four jars of sap around her waist. She mends the mofi-pouch and hangs Seeko from her chest then straps the supplies to her back. The cumbersome weight makes climbing the stairs difficult. She puts her hand on the hatch and hesitates. There is no sound of talons on the roof. With a deep breath, she pushes the door open and is greeted with blackness so dense she is unable to see into the room. The stench is stronger now. She pauses and applies a few more drops of mint oil to the nose-rags. Seeko tugs her braids and she smiles.

“You are a strong boy, Seeko. You’re going to be okay. Here we go. Hold tight.”

With palms pressed against the floor, Darvana pushes herself up and into the living room of their cottage. The glowing jars cast a dim blue light, but in this home where she has grown into a young woman, she knows her way about and easily makes her way to the front door without stumbling. The door knob is cold against her sweaty palm. She presses her ear to the door and listens closely. Nothing. A gentle turn and the door creaks open.

On the porch, the wind slaps her face and makes whips of her braids. Seeko squirms in his pouch and Darvana clicks in his ear while tying a wide scarf around her head to tame her hair and keep her ears warm. She tucks the hood of the mofi-pouch securely around Seeko’s delicate skull and tries to recall the way to Shilo’s abode. 

With arms wrapped around Seeko, she leans into the wind and heads west, toward Gya Falls.  The main road is littered with abandoned transport crafts. There are no signs of bodies, dead or alive. This is the way of the Scurlots. They capture their victims and carry them back to the nest for feeding. She steers clear of the woodland, the most likely place for the nests, but the road is not safe either and she hurries toward the foot trail cleared by her father years ago. It runs parallel the river, straight to Gya Falls.

Her eyes adjust to the dim blue light and as the wind dies down, her hearing grows keen. There are screams in the distance along with sounds of Scurlot screeches and cracking of limbs. Her heart races and she picks up the pace, running toward the trail, head rotating, searching the sky for the hungry beasts.

The sound of water lures her to the trail.

“Seeko, let’s get some fresh water and rest.”

She finds a trickle of fresh spring water along the rock wall of a nearby cave. She has drank from this stream many times. The water is cool and refreshing. She drinks and gives Seeko small sips as she catches her breath. They have far to go and must not stay in one place too long.

Down the trail they continue. The familiar stench grows strong. She senses the presence of a Scurlot and slowly turns to look behind her. The odor of the Tunogo wood usually keeps them from coming too close, but this one seems brave. Darvana grabs a sap jar and holds it out in front of her. The form of a half-breed comes into view. Its mercury eyes glare at her and its human face is marred by metal spikes along its forehead and jawline. The half-breed grins and licks its lips with a green forked tongue.

Half-breeds do not eat humans, but they have been known to mutilate and torture for sport. Darvana pulls a Tunogo spear from her hip holster and waves it toward the half-breed. It flaps its giant black leather wings and backs away with a series of clucks and coos. Another swoops down and they circle Darvana and the baby, sniffing the air and scratching the ground with their red claw feet.

Seeko kicks in his pouch and she hears his straps rip again. She drops the spear and catches the baby. A half-breed lunges forward and grasps her scarf in its gnarled hand. With a yank the scarf twists around her neck and she struggles to breathe as one of the half-breeds drags her into the woods. The other sniffs the spear and whimpers then follows. Darvana holds Seeko tight and closes her eyes, whispering a magical chant her father taught her as a child. The half-breeds stop and cock their heads from side to side. She says the chant louder. They scratch and march in circles. She repeats the chant and hears a woman’s voice call out in the distance.

“Chaka Fay Chaka Fay Noo”

The half-breeds look at one other then toward Gya Falls.

Again the voice calls.

“Chaka Fay Chaka Fay Noo”

The half-breeds fly away, leaving Darvana trembling on the ground.

“We must hurry, Seeko.”

She pulls herself up and grabs her spear and secures a leather strap around Seeko and her waist.  “Hold on Seeko.”

With skirt lifted to her knees, she runs toward Gya Falls, glass sap jars clink together. Into an hour of nonstop running, her legs shake with fatigue, but she continues until the sound of crashing water brings a smile to her face. Now she must find Shilo’s cabin hidden behind moss.

A drone of night bees buzzes around the base of an Aldero bush. Darvana follows the sound and finds the Aldero’s white blossoms weeping milk. Slowly she lowers her hand between the leaves and catches drops of milk in a jar lid. The bees tickle her wrist and fingers, but do not sting. She lifts the lid to Seeko’s lips and he drinks eagerly.

“There now, you’ll be good as new in no time.” She whispers in his ear and kisses his forehead.

Leaves rustle as if something is walking nearby, something large. She lifts her nose-rag from her face and sniffs, but there is no putrid odor, only a faint sweet scent of bread baking. Her stomach growls and she searches the mossy hillside for a cave that leads to Shilo. The aroma grows stronger as she nears an opening in the rock near the falls. The rustling is closing in on her heels, but she is not afraid. If this thing meant to harm her, it would have made a move already.

Inside the cave, the darkness decreases in the incandescence of light crystals embedded in the stone. There is a worn path that leads to a red door ahead. Darvana spins around and looks behind her. Something is following her. A shadow ducks behind a boulder. She squints and stares.

“Who’s there?”

No response.

“Come out and show yourself.”

Nothing.

She continues toward the red door and prepares to knock when the door swings open with a loud creak. A rattle sounds behind her. She turns. A shadow slinks out of sight, into a corner.

The scent of baked bread draws her inside the dwelling. There are baskets and baubles hanging from the ceiling. Crates rest atop one another–four and five high on either side of the path and create a clutter that is oddly comforting.

“Shilo?”

Darvana waits, but there is no answer. She calls again.

“Shilo?”

A shuffle comes from behind. She turns and sees a large black dog with grey eyes and silver tag hanging from its neck. It bears its sharp teeth and growls again. Darvana backs away, feeling the edge of the crates with her hands, knocking a few over in her clumsiness. She bumps into something soft and turns around to see Shilo holding a crooked Tunogo staff and wearing a brilliant gold gown. Shilo’s black hair flows in loose ringlets to her waist and she has tattoos about her face in the shape of sacred symbols, but instead of marring her countenance, these tattoos enhance it. Shilo is exotic and alluring, a middle-aged woman whose beauty refuses to fade.

With a deep alto voice Shilo speaks, “You call me?”

“Yes. I met you once with my father many years ago.”

“Who your father be?”

“Kartu, the magician.”

“Magician?” She laughs and pulls the mofi-pouch away from Seeko’s face. “This your child?”

“No. No, Ma’am. He’s my brother.”

“No Ma’am? You peasants and old ways.” She looks Darvana up and down as she circles her, tapping her staff on the floor. The black dog at her heels, follows close behind. The dog sniffs at Darvana’s hem. “Why you come here?”

“Father said you could help my brother, Seeko. He has a head injury and red beetle bites on his body. Also, Father said you may be able to help me lift the curse of the Scurlot.” Darvana digs the Soranea medallion from her pocket and hands it to Shilo. “He said you’d need this.”

Shilo yanks the medallion from Darvana’s hand. “So it was your father who summoned beasts with Tramone’s magic? He not strong enough for magic of sorcerer.” Shilo stomps about raising her hands in the air, speaking in a foreign tongue with rage, she turns and holds the Soranea medallion under Darvana’s chin. “I should curse you. Avenge your father’s plague. Where he? Why he not come with you? He afraid of Shilo? He should be afraid.”

“He is imprisoned in Tambridge Towers. After the last season of the Scurlots, the guards removed him from our home.”

“How they know he do curse? They know not magic.”

“Apparently they do, because he was imprisoned for summoning the beasts.”

Shilo cocks one eyebrow and tilts her head. “They knew, but I did not? Impossible! It was you and you blame your father.”

“No. It wasn’t me. I don’t know magic.”

“Give me baby.”

“You won’t hurt him?”

“No. I hurt not child. Let me look you. Remove pouch.”

Darvana removes the pouch and sack on her back.

“Unbind hair.”

Darvana slips the scarf from her hair. Shilo grabs her braids and laughs. “You child. How old?”

“I’m seventeen.”

“Seventeen, braids like this…dress like this?”

“Undo braids and bodice. Bare shoulders.”

“My shoulders?”

“Yes, I look for markings of magic.”

“I have no markings I assure you and I prefer to leave my hair be.”

“Unbind hair, little girl.”

“I’m NOT a little girl.”

Shilo smiles and Darvana’s fingers frantically unbraid her hair. Waves of copper cascade over her hips. She tugs at her bodice and loosens the laces then slides her blouse over her shoulders. “See, no markings!”

Shilo studies her shoulders and jabs some sort of apparatus three times into Darvana’s left shoulder.

“Ouch! What are you doing?” Darvana looks down and there are three sacred symbol welps on her shoulder.

“Now you have markings of magic. When your birthday?”

Darvana rubs her shoulder and frowns, peering at Shilo through copper strands. “I’ll be eighteen in three weeks, Aut 23^rd.”

“Not much time. Come.” Shilo scoops the baby into her arms and heads down the corridor.

The corridor leads to a large room adorned with luminescent crystal carvings and furniture fashioned from Tunogo wood with cushions upholstered in fur. Loaves of fresh baked bread line the hearth alight with a blue flame and the scent of Bantina tea wafts through the air. Shilo takes a seat by the hearth in a gilded throne and motions toward the fire. “Eat, drink. You need be strong.”

Darvana rubs her hands on her skirt and looks down at her dirty palms. A young man brings a bucket of water over and leads her to a comfortable chair. His eyes are gray and hair is black. He is wearing a black tunic and black pants. A silver chain hangs from his neck. He nods for her to sit. She does. He takes her hand in his and lowers it into the water. It is warm and soothing. She sits quietly by the fire and watches him, how gently he bathes her hands while avoiding eye contact. Darvana asks, “What is your name?” He looks toward Shilo as if he is unsure if he should answer. Shilo is busy feeding Seeko broth and doesn’t pay the young man any mind. He reaches for Darvana’s foot. She pulls it back.

“What are you doing? What is your name?”

He nods toward her foot and motions. She moves it toward him. He takes her ankle and removes her shoe and lowers her foot into the water. It feels so good she decides to not talk and just relax as he massages and bathes her feet.

Shilo looks up. “Women treasures. This something peasant mothers not teach.”

“You know nothing of my mother.” Memories of Lonisa fill Darvana’s mind and she bursts into tears, sobbing, until she can barely breathe.

“What wrong?” Shilo asks.

“My mother was attacked today by the red beetles and I left her. I left her wrapped in her mother’s quilt, abandoned in the cellar without giving her a proper burial, because…”

“Shhh.” Shilo rests the baby in a fur lined basket and moves toward Darvana, who covers her face with her hands and tries to stifle her cries. The young man moves away and Shilo draws Darvana close and strokes her hair. “You’ve come to right place, everything be okay. Hush now. We’ll bury mother. First, you eat and rest. I take care of brother.”

Darvana looks into Shilo’s eyes and sees compassion and sincerity. The young man brings a plate of hot stew and bread to Darvana and a tall glass of tea. She reaches for the food and drink and whispers, “thank you,” then wipes tears from her cheek. The food is delicious. She eats hurriedly and soon her eyelids become heavy. Shilo takes her by the hand and leads her to a feathered cot. “Sleep, morrow much you learn.”

Darvana drifts off to sleep. Images of her mother, smiling and singing, lull her to dream.

The next morning, Shilo is fluttering about, waving her hands in the air and chanting some crazy witchcraft. The young man is sitting at the kitchen table soundlessly laughing and quickly straightens himself and looks serious when Darvana enters the room. Shilo stops and faces her.

“Big day. Come. Eat.” She leads Darvana to the kitchen and sits her down at the end of the table and places a big bowl of green porridge in front of her.

Darvana grimaces and pulls back. “What’s this?”

“You need. Eat.”

Darvana lifts the spoon to her nose and sniffs. It smells foul. She sticks out her tongue and licks at the porridge on her spoon and shudders. The young man laughs soundlessly and gobbles his mush, eyeing her over the bowl.

She pinches her nose and shovels the porridge in, trying to eat it as quickly as possible then gulps down the water in the pewter goblet beside her.

Shilo watches. She isn’t amused. As soon as Darvana eats her porridge, Shilo ladles more into her bowl.

“No. I couldn’t possibly. I’m stuffed.” Darvana pushes the bowl away.

Shilo moves it back. “Eat all.”

The young man holds his bowl out. Shilo tells him, “This porridge not for you.” He frowns.

Darvana passes her bowl to him. “Here. You can have mine.”

He smiles and looks up at Shilo, who grabs the bowl and sets it in front of Darvana. “YOU eat all.”

She gobbles it up trying get it over with. Suddenly, the walls of the room appear to inhale and exhale. She feels tingly, warm, and weightless. She hovers two feet off the ground. Doing pirouettes mid-air, she discovers: the faster she spins, the higher she rises. Soon Darvana becomes dizzy, disoriented, and imagines herself in a dark prison cell.

Her father Kartu leans against a grimy stone wall. His wrists are chained and his head hangs like a church bell waiting to ring in a deserted steeple. The room is not Shilo’s kitchen, but a dungeon. Voices growl in the corridor. She hears screams in the distance and has the overwhelming sense that death is present. Darvana doesn’t know how she got there, but she knows she is invisible, an observer. Her father is unaware of her presence.

Liquid gushes down her throat and she blinks. Shilo pours water into Darvana’s mouth and begins to wrap a heavy rope around her waist and tie it to an anvil. It prevents Darvana from floating too high or perhaps away. The silent young man reaches for Darvana’s hand and guides her onto a soft fur chair.

“You took easy. You ready.” Shilo grins and kisses Darvana’s cheek.

“Took easy? Wha…”

“You have magic blood like brother.”

“Magic blood?”

“Yes. My son like brother. See.”

With blurry vision Darvana observes the young man morph into a crow. She shakes her head and blinks again and he becomes a dog and then changes back into a young man.

“This Mezulo. He Shilo son. He be whatever he need be.”

Seeko crawls toward Darvana and as he crawls he turns into a kitten and meows at her feet.

“Seeko?” She picks the kitten up and pets as he purrs. The kitten has a wound on its head just like her brother. Seeko turns back into an infant in her lap and she laughs when he licks his hands and rubs his face with his nose twitching. He smiles with gray eyes twinkling.

Mezulo tickles Seeko under the chin and leans toward him. Darvana feels the warmth radiating from Mezulo’s skin and his closeness makes her a bit woozy and causes her face to become hot. He turns and looks into Darvana’s eyes and gazes for a moment then smiles and stands up straight, gently placing his hand on her shoulder. She squirms in her seat and pretends to not notice he is touching her, but inside she feels an electric current running through her body and she likes it.

Shilo gives Mezulo a furrowed-brow head shake and he removes his hand then she smiles at him, caresses his cheek, and tousles his hair. He pulls away with a grin and shrug and stuffs his hands in his pockets. Turning her attention back toward Darvana, Shilo raises her arms in the air and in loud sing-song voice she proclaims, “Mothers of Aldero root and Sisters of Soranea bloom, permit this daughter of chosen blood to receive her gift full force that she may reverse a curse set forth by her father, Kartu, apprentice of Tramone.”

Apprentice of Tramone? Father was a sorcerer’s apprentice? He never told me that. 

A rumble sends tremors through the room and Seeko turns toward Darvana’s chest and hides his face. Shilo looks down at him and scoops him up in her arms and places him in a cradle. She motions for Darvana to stand. She does and the next thing she knows, she is holding hands with two strange women on either side of her. There is a total of six older, cheerful women with wrinkled, expressive faces. They all start walking in a clockwise circle. The women chant and Darvana feels herself become drowsy.

When she awakens, all the other women are gone, but Shilo, who sits, staring at Darvana from across the room. She is holding a black leather-bound book in her hands and is tracing the gold letters on the cover with her fingertips.

Darvana rises to her elbows on the bed, squints and sees Mezulo playing with Seeko then her vision becomes blurry and she blacks out again.

The taste of cherries brings her back to her senses. She licks her lips and opens her eyes. Shilo strokes her hair and touches the tip of her nose. “You strong. Stronger than Shilo your age. You sister now.”

“Sister? Does that mean Mezulo is now my brother?”

With a musical laugh like a tambourine, Shilo smooths her dress and puts her hands on her hips. “Why you ask?”

Darvana blushes and shrugs.

“No. Mezulo no brother to you, lovely.” Shilo winks at Mezulo and his face turns bright red.

“We go soon. Pack.”

“Go? Where are we going?”

“Scurlot home.”

“The nest?”

“Nest. Yes.”

“Nest. NO!” Darvana jumps to her feet and squares her shoulders with Shilo. The blankets fly across the room and wind knocks Shilo off her feet.

Shilo pulls herself back up and shakes her head.

“We work on that. Tantrum no good for magic. Must learn control. I teach later. Now we pack. Come. Help.”

Darvana looks toward Mezulo for reassurance. He nods and motions her forward. She steps into the kitchen and helps them pack.

“We not stay long.” Shilo whispers. “You break curse and we return home, blink of eye. Not be scared, lovely; Mezulo protect.” She eyes her son, who stands tall and puffs his chest out.

Seeko, in kitten form, peers from a Tunogo crate. Darvana walks over to him and puts her hand on the crate. He licks her palm and she giggles. “Seeko. Looks like you’re cozy in there. Nothing’s gonna get you, that’s for sure.”

Mezulo, Shilo, and Darvana prepare their sacks and strap them on their backs. Each carry Tunogo wood spears, bow and arrows, and sap. Mezulo totes Seeko’s crate and they close their eyes and huddle together as Shilo chants softly.

When Darvana opens her eyes, she can vaguely make out the shapes of large trees. She recognizes the scent of Aldero blooms and the putrid stench of the Scurlots. They are not far. She hears their screeches and the screams of their prey.

A large branch falls to the ground with a loud thud. Darvana peers in the direction of the noise. The sound of flapping wings comes from behind. She spins and strains to see. A hiss is near her ankle. She looks down and a black snack with silver eyes slithers away. Mezulo is nowhere to be found. She hears an eerie cry on her right, close by and then a Scurlot collapses on the ground. Its giant face lands inches away from her feet.

She stares into its lifeless mercury eyes and grimaces at its blood-soaked green tongue lolled out of its beakish mouth. She has never been this close to a Scurlot before. She can’t help but poke it with her Tunogo spear and take great joy at the sizzling sound as the spear penetrates the Scurlots furry swollen belly.

The snake slithers back toward her and transforms into Mezulo. She gives him a smile and he nods, as if to say, “Turn around.”

Shilo disappears into the underbrush and tucks Seeko behind the foliage of an Aldero bush. Scurlot only crave human flesh; Seeko is safe. As Shilo makes her way back over to Darvana, a Scurlot swoops down and grabs her by the arms. Shilo stabs the beast with her spear and the Scurlot drops Shilo from more than twenty feet in the air. The wind is knocked out of Shilo. She gasps for breath and looks up just in time to spy another flying toward her. Mezulo shoots a Tunogo arrow into the chest of the Scurlot then shoots another arrow at a Scurlot headed toward Darvana.

Darvana ducks as she is sprayed with yellow blood of the beast. She wipes her face and sees Mezulo change into a panther. Her mind is a whirl. Mezulo and Shilo are fighting off Scurlots and she is standing in one spot, watching the terror all around her. Her chin trembles and she feels helpless.

“Darvana. Close your eyes. Do not watch.” Kartu’s voice is strong.

“Close your eyes.”

She obeys. She hears Shilo scream.

“Keep them closed!”

She clenches the spear in her grip and squeezes her eyes shut as tight as she can.

“Repeat after me!”

“Chaka Fay Noo May Dee Lar Tu…”

She repeats her father’s chant.

“Chaka Fay Noo May Dee Lar Tu…”

She repeats the passage again.

“Don Par Ku Sen.”

“Don Par Ku Sen.” Her hands shake, but she feels stronger.

“Kichi Tay”

“Kichi Tay!”

“Kichi Tay…”

Darvana lifts her arms above her head and feels the wind beneath her wings. Wings?

“Keep your eyes closed!”

Darvana wants to look. Does she have wings? She feels herself rising, flying, and her throat begins to burn.

“SCUR-LO-BRI-NOOM”

“SCUR-LO-BRI-NOOM”

“Look! Now! Breathe!”

Darvana eyes open and she sees the nest below. The world is bright. She can see everything for miles. Her body is covered in iridescent scales and her wings are transparent. She exhales and fire plumes from her snout. She circles the nest and Scurlots fly toward her. With one long exhale, she ignites them and watches as they descend with their leather wings disintegrating into ash.

She hears Shilo’s cry from below and dives toward the nest. A Scurlot has Shilo in its claws and a snake in its beak. She doesn’t want to burn Shilo. She looks for Mezulo. He isn’t in sight. She has to make the Scurlot release them before she can torch the beast.

A red hornet flies toward the Scurlot. It stings the beast and flies off and stings it again and again, buzzes around its face and causes the Scurlot to flap its wings and let out a shriek. It drops the snake and then the hornet attacks the talons of the Scurlot and soon Shilo is released.

Seeko. Is that Seeko?

Darvana looks toward the crate in the Aldero bush. He isn’t there. She watches as Shilo opens her hand and the red hornet lands on her palm and changes into Seeko. Shilo snuggles him to her bosom.

Darvana blasts the Scurlot with a massive flame and then turns her attention toward the others, hovering around the giant nest. All the human prey are dead, except for one little girl trying to climb out of the barricade of sticks and moss.

Shilo turns toward the stranded girl in the nest and motions her to duck down. The girl obeys. Shilo sets Seeko on the ground and waves her spear in the air. The arrows and wood from the crate levitate and move toward the nest and form a roof over the child.

The remaining Scurlots shriek and hiss. They fly toward Darvana. She waits, hovering in one spot until they are close enough and then she blazes them. Two Scurlots dodge the fire and one dives down and seizes Shilo. The other circles behind Darvana and attacks her head with its talons. It rakes its claws across her eyes and she loses her balance and spins as she tries to swat the Scurlot away. She feels herself rapidly heading toward the ground and she flaps her wings, but the weight of the Scurlot keeps her from being able to stay airborn. 

Darvana crashes into a patch of Aldero plants and flings her giant snout, causing the Scurlot to lose its grip on her skull. Once she gets the Scurlot in her sights clearly, she fries it in one breath.

Kartu’s voice booms in her head. “Now. You must speak with your dragon tongue and release the curse.”

Unsure what to say or do, Darvana opens her mouth and words pour out. Words she does not recognize. She speaks with a voice louder than thunder. She feels her heart race and her body become frigid and stiff.

Shilo, Mezulo, and Seeko stare with mouths agape. One Scurlot scratches the ground with its talons and sends out a mournful cry. Darvana hesitates when she sees another flock of Scurlots headed her way. She swallows hard then continues to chant. Slowly the Scurlots disappear, vanishing, as if they are simply being erased somehow.

With all the Scurlots gone from sight, Darvana hears Shilo, Mezulo, the little girl, and even Seeko applauding.

Kartu’s voice whispers in her head, “I’m proud of you, love, so proud of you. Now, dragon-girl, how’s about breaking your Pops out of this prison?”

Darvana smiles and responds, “Yes, Sir. I’m on my way.”

She hears his cheers dissipate into silence as her body returns to normal. When Darvana softly lands among the Aldero blooms. The sun is shining and Shilo embraces her in a warm motherly hug as Seeko claps his hands. Mezulo gazes into her eyes and shyly approaches. The little girl bursts through the Tunogo wood roof of the nest and says, “Don’t forget me!”

Shilo lets go of Darvana, picks Seeko up, and goes to the little girl.

Mezulo and Darvana face one another. He moves closer and plants a soft kiss upon her cheek.

Paula Ray’s story is one of the four stories chosen fromAurora Wolf to be in the anthology “Dreams and Screams” coming out around April.

The black and white graphic art is by Jack S. Rogers.  The art is an examle of what can be ecpected of each Dreams and Screams story.

Poseidon’s Claim

By

Aubrie Dionne

The surf churned bubbles in the sand, and whale-sung elegies rode Read the rest of this entry »

The Night of the Cloud Spectre

A Story of the Crow Witch

 

Mike Phillips

Evil passed through the land. In the form of a low hanging cloud, thick and black amid the morning mist, it drifted upon the wind. It was a thing of the ancient world, made to take this spectral form while the sun followed its solitary path across the sky, cursed to wait until the dark of night to take shape and do its dreadful work.

Full of hunger and malice, the cloud spectre hung powerlessly above the Earth, smelling the air, looking for the next likely victim. It fed upon wickedness. Every cruel act was like a bell calling it to come and eat its fill. But for now it had to wait, to watch the doings of its mortal prey, to select the ones it would harvest when the time was ripe.

A feeling of expectation arose in the spectre’s mind. In the depths of its wayward consciousness it felt the coming of a small town, a place where people lived and worked and festered in their isolation. This was a place where bad things could happen. This was a place where it could satisfy its lust for as long as the darkness held.

Across the little town and away the wind blew, and the evil thing in cloud form was swept away. But it would not forget. When the turn of the world and the bluster of the wind were in its favor, it would return.

Through a forest of broad leafed trees, then high into a rocky outcrop it went. All around it was life, the blood of the wild animals calling to be taken. The kill, it knew the horror of the chase and the cry of helplessness as the spark of life was extinguished in what was love between predator and prey. Again the wind blew and it was gone. The feeling, so electric, so thrilling, was gone too.

The mountains grew tall, but not as tall as others the cloud spectre had made its haunts in times so long ago. There was a protected lake in a valley between the peaks that looked a mirror of the heavens. Upon the smooth surface of the water a reflection of the wild sky shined. There were white clouds and the blue of the heavens in the deeper blue of the water. But it would not see itself in this mirror, could not, it knew. For all the seeming form, it was a spirit thing and did not yet exist in the physical world, not now, not until the night fell.

Over a final peak and to the waters of a lake so large as to be an inland sea it drifted. The cloud spectre was glad to be gone, lost amidst the rolling waves. The emptiness was a comfort to its tortured mind.

The night was beginning at last. When the final rays of the sun fell behind the curve of the world, the evil thing gathered. The cloud of its being coalesced, forming a kind of body. The shadows solidified and it tumbled into the water.

Under the light of the stars, the cloud spectre began to return to shore. It was far out, but not too far. The town was rich with victims and it was hungry. There would be time. For now, it would swim.

            #         

“I don’t want to go all by myself,” Jenny Bracco said, pulling her Aunt Genie’s arm, “I’m scared.” 

“What’re you afraid of?” Aunt Genie’s new boyfriend Bill said in disgust. “Come on, you’re too big for this.”

“She’s only nine,” Genie said, trying to sooth both her niece and her boyfriend.

Cursing obscurely with slurred words, Bill said, “Why did she have to come anyway? All she’s done is whine the entire time. I thought kids liked camping out.”

Bill had been drinking. He had already had too much. Jenny was old enough to know about that, even though she was nine, almost ten.

“Come on, watch you’re language,” Genie said, putting a finger to her lips. “My sister was in a bind and had to go to work.”

“She could have gotten someone else to do it. What about that neighbor lady?”

“Mrs. Morgan already watched her twice this week. My sister’s scared she might not want to do it anymore. She’s had a hard time finding anyone who’ll take a kid at night during the week.”

“So what, it’s gotta be you?” said Bill, getting angry. “I thought we were gonna party tonight.”

In her sexiest voice, Genie said, “We will, baby, I promise.”

Disgusted with the way her Aunt was looking at her new boyfriend, a man she was beginning to think an even bigger loser than the last one, Jenny stood. Such was the state of her bladder, she was barely able to keep from wetting herself.

“I got to go,” Jenny said anxiously, crossing her legs and starting off toward the restroom in a sort of half walk, half hop. It was a pit toilet, wasn’t even as nice as a port-a-jon, but she was in no condition to be fussy and there was no way she was going to have an accident in front of that jerk Bill.

Rising from her folding chair, Aunt Genie went to Bill and pressed her body against him in a way that Jenny had seen on daytime television. She said suggestively, “When we get back, if you’re good, I’ll take care of you. Just give me a minute to freshen up. Okay?”

Bill laughed greedily and pulled Genie closer to him, so the front of her jeans was in his face. “That sounds good.”

“Then we’ll be right back, baby.” She broke away from the embrace and bent to kiss him long on the lips, making loud smacking sounds that made Jenny want to vomit. “Don’t you go nowheres.”

Jenny made it to the restroom only just in time. As she squatted over the seat, not wanting to touch anything for fear of what sort of mutant diseases might breed and multiply in such an awful, dirty place, Jenny could hear her Aunt outside, humming some old country music tune they had listened to during the ride to the park.

“Jenny, sweetheart, when we get back, Bill and I need a little adult time. Okay? Do you understand? You just sit by the fire and roast some marshmallows and try not to get in the way, okay?”

“How long are we going to stay?” Jenny complained, finishing her business. “I want to go home. I don’t like Bill and he doesn’t like me either.”

“Now you just straighten up, young lady,” Aunt Genie snapped. “You just straighten up and do as you’re told or I’ll make sure your mama puts the strap to you good. You hear that? I don’t want you making no more trouble with Bill. He’s a good man if you would just stop making him mad.”

“What did I do?”

“That kind of attitude is just what I’m talking about. Keep that up and I’ll guarantee there’ll be no TV for you for a month.”

Opening the door, Jenny reluctantly agreed, “Oh all right. I’ll read my book and try not to do anything stupid.”

“Good,” Genie said, palming something in a plastic case and handing over her purse to Jenny, “now hold on to this for me. I’ll be done in a minute.”

When finished, Genie and Jenny went back to the van. Jenny took her place in a folding chair just as far from Bill as she could manage, but she needn’t have bothered. Bill and Aunt Genie were off to the van in moments, laughing and pawing at each other, must be sharing some secret joke Jenny didn’t understand.

The fire was bright enough that Jenny didn’t need to use her flashlight to read, but she did anyway, thinking it fun. In the light of the beam, she opened the book, looking at the wonderful pictures and reading the words that would be her only escape from the nearby laughter, the slow rocking of the van.

It was a story about a wingless fairy named Patrick and his friend Danny. They were trying to save a young fairy from a bad spirit called a Shathowein. Looking at the picture, Jenny felt a chill, like she was being watched by some evil spirit herself. Perhaps the pictures were a little too real.

A crow cawed. Jenny looked up into the trees and saw the bird staring back at her. She watched it for a while, the firelight shining on its black feathers, and wondered aloud, “Why are you crows always bad in stories? I don’t think you’re bad. I think you’re very pretty.”

Sighing, Jenny closed the book. She had to go the restroom again, was regretting the two cans of soda she drank with dinner. She knew she would probably be going all night long. Turning off the flashlight and sticking it into her pocket, she stood. The bird flew off. Jenny called goodbye to the crow, watching it fly off into the night, sad to see her only friend forsake her.

Thinking she might like to read on the beech, she tucked the book under her arm, making the decision to use the bushes rather than to go all the way back across the parking lot to the pit toilets. The park was deserted and there was no way she was going back there again. The smell was beyond grotesque.

Finding a suitable place, Jenny began her business, but was taken by the same feeling she had been bothered by while reading the book. It felt like she was being watched. Or maybe, it was more like being singled out as prey. Finished, she stood and zipped her jeans, seeing a strange figure arise from the lake.

It looked human, but it showed none of the effort that she felt while walking in deep water. The thing was ponderous and slow, but relentless as it moved forward. In the faint light of the stars Jenny couldn’t be sure, but thought that it wore no clothing. She did get a good look at its hands, large with long fingers splayed outward as if ready to grip someone’s throat with a deadly strength.

The man, for Jenny could see no characteristics that would mark it as a woman, went straight out of the water toward the campfire. As she got a better look, firelight glowing dully on gray skin, Jenny was suddenly struck by the notion that it wasn’t human at all, that it only was trying to look human in the way a tiger tries to look like grass.

She watched in growing fear as the cloud spectre left the water, but she could do nothing. She was too scared to move, too scared to shout a warning to her Aunt Genie as the spectre lumbered closer to the van. It was like her will had been conquered, like she had fallen under the evil thrall of the Shathowein in her storybook. Soon the evil thing disappeared behind the van, but she was still powerless. A deadly silence fell. The cloud spectre opened the van door and entered.

Touched on the shoulder, Jenny gasped, only now remembering to breathe. A petite woman with black hair was looking at her with the darkest, most penetrating eyes Jenny had ever seen. The woman was wearing a simple, but well made dress of black gingham, long and flowing like the summer dresses Jenny had seen her grandmother wear in old photographs.

The woman said something that Jenny didn’t understand, but she instantly felt cured of whatever the thing from the lake had done to her. The woman then said something Jenny understood, “Have courage, child.” And she did.

“Miss Weigenmeister, it’s you,” said Jenny, looking guiltily down at the book in her hand. “I’m sorry. It’s only two days past due. I’m going to bring it back, honest, just as soon as my mom can drive me to town.”

“Yes, I see,” the librarian replied condescendingly. “I’ll renew it for you first thing in the morning, but you will still be obliged to pay the fine.”

Jenny blushed. “Thank you.” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

“Here,” said Miss Weigenmeister kindly, handing Jenny a silk handkerchief, which the girl accepted gratefully. “Now, time is short and we must being going. I think perhaps this creature is attracted by wickedness, but that doesn’t mean that it will pass up other opportunities.”

“But what about Aunt Genie?”

The van door opened and Miss Weigenmeister took Jenny firmly by the hand. The cloud spectre appeared from the far side of the van, walking slowly in the direction of the bush in which they sheltered. It was covered in blood.

“Run! Run with me and don’t let go,” shouted Miss Weigenmeister. “Bless me, if only you could fly, but running will do. Let us go!”

And they were gone. Holding tightly to the librarian’s hand, Jenny felt the pull of the world upon her, trying to press the rules of gravity and speed, but to no avail. They moved in a blur, passing through thick forests, hardly seeming to touch the ground at all as they went. If she wasn’t so frightened by the thought of the wicked creature that followed, Jenny would have cried out with the joy of it.

“What was that?” Jenny said excitedly when they came to a stop.

They were in the driveway of an old, two story farmhouse. There was a scraggly oak tree and a fenced in garden, a gravel road that looked only barely wide enough for two cars to pass. Though she had no idea how far from the park they had come, Jenny felt safe. It was a place where evil could not come.

“Did I scare you?” said Miss Weigenmeister in return. They started toward the house, the gravel crunching under their feet, the stars shining in the night sky so that the faint outline of distant mountains could be seen.

“Scare me? No, that was great! Can we do it again?”

“No, I’m afraid the effort has left me quite fatigued.”

“Can you teach me how to do it?”

Laughing Miss Weigenmeister said, “We would have to train you up a bit first. It took me some time to learn how, and there are other skills to master first. No, I am sorry, but I don’t think it likely.”

“Oh,” said Jenny, disappointed. “Where are we?”

“At my home,” Miss Weigenmeister replied as they came to the steps. “Come inside. Are you hungry or thirsty?”

“But is that thing still after us?” Jenny asked as she followed, looking nervously over her shoulder as if expecting the cloud spectre to appear at the mailbox.

Opening the door with what looked to Jenny like a genuine skeleton key, Miss Weigenmeister said, “If it could find us, yes, but I think that there are other victims, perhaps, that are closer and more easily had. Let us get inside all the same. We have things to accomplish and time runs short.”

“What is that thing? A vampire?” Jenny looked inside, finding a cozy little foyer with a hat stand and a table. Cut flowers were in a porcelain vase. Family portraits lined the walls. She was charmed. It was like no other place she had ever seen, like something out of a fairytale.

“I think not. No, I have the ability to turn the mind powers of a vampire to more friendly purposes. And your Aunt was wearing a gold crucifix, blessed too if I don’t miss my guess.”

“My grandma gave my mom one like that for her confirmation.”

Frowning at the memory as it touched her heart, Miss Weigenmeister cleared her throat and went on, “Though I know it isn’t a vampire, it is a supernatural being of some kind.” Closing her eyes and concentrating, she said, “I am not able to touch it, not like many of the other evil things in the world. I felt something strange today, passing me by as I worked in the garden, but even then I couldn’t fix my mind upon it. When darkness came, I felt something terrible, something that I had never felt before, so I decided to find out what it was.”

Jenny said admiringly, “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

Bidding the young girl inside, Miss Weigenmeister said, “Yes, I have a certain talent for finding troubles like yours. I have been told it is a gift.”

“What do you think?”

“Why don’t we see how this night turns out before I answer that question?” Closing the front door, Miss Weigenmeister proceeded to the sitting room, motioning Jenny to follow.

“Was that you as the crow?” Jenny asked, trying with some difficulty to match the librarian’s quick pace. “I thought I saw something more than a bird.”

“Yes, that was me, and thank you. No one has ever called me pretty before, but you must promise to keep my secret. Will you do me that favor?”

“Yes, I’d be glad to.”

“My thanks. Now, have a seat and I’ll collect a few things that we may need.”

“Need for what?”

“Why to take care of that thing, of course. We can’t let it hurt anyone else.”

“Why don’t we just call the cops?”

“Any police officer would be the next likely victim. You surely realize they aren’t prepared for such an enemy.”

“But what can we do?” Jenny protested.

“Have courage, child,” said Miss Weigenmeister, saying the unintelligible words and putting a hand to the girl’s shoulder as she had done in the bushes. Jenny relaxed and the panic she felt was gone.

“More than you think, perhaps, but that too we will see. Now have a seat, mind, and don’t go poking into any corners while I’m gone. A few of my things are perilous.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good.”

As Miss Weigenmeister went about the house, collecting what they would need for the inevitable confrontation with the cloud spectre, Jenny sat on the davenport and tried not to let her curiosity get the better of her. Most of the furniture was ordinary, if not outdated, and not very interesting. But there seemed to be a voice, quietly tempting her to look in the bookshelf or the china cabinet. Thankfully, Miss Weigenmeister returned, or else Jenny might not have behaved as well as she had pledged.

“What is that?” Jenny said, pointing and giggling at what looked to be some ancient firearm. The barrel was funnel shaped and inlaid with scrollwork. The stock was carved wood, made to look like a dragon. The thing looked foolish when compared to the modern firearms she was used to seeing.

“This, my dear, is a blunderbuss, and it is all the weapon that I’ve ever needed,” Miss Weigenmeister said, slinging a rather large purse over her shoulder.

“Okay, but seriously, you’re not going to use that, are you? My mom has a shotgun under the bed and a pistol in the closet. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you borrowed them, since it’s for a good cause and all.”

“Not knowing exactly what it is, my plan is to use the tried and true to dispatch it. In short, a silver bullet will generally do the trick.”

“Wow, where do you get those?”

With a regretful sigh, Miss Weigenmeister explained, “In this case, I melted down a few of my silver pieces. It was from my family set, passed down from one mother to the next for generations. Dessert forks, the lot of them, and though I thought I was going to be able to find more, I haven’t been able to.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Yes, but sometimes these sacrifices have to be made.” Miss Weigenmeister gave her young friend a bow and swept out her hand, saying, “Now, shall we go?”

Miss Weigenmeister led Jenny through the house and out the kitchen door. There was a single stall garage out back, with a wide field in the distance. Walking at a brisk pace, they came to the garage door, which Miss Weigenmeister wasted no time in lifting to the top of its track. Inside the garage was an old Volvo, boxy and black and a big disappointment to Jenny.

“What? No broom?” said Jenny.

Opening the car door, Miss Weigenmeister said, “Really, do children get all of their information from the television these days? No one ever travels by broomstick in the real world. Even the thought of it is absurd.”

#

The headlights of the old Volvo made a cave of the canopy of tree branches overhanging the road. Jenny felt trapped within the gloom. The trunks of the trees and the thick bushes seemed to meld into one, imprisoning her, giving her nowhere to go should the cloud spectre suddenly appear. Even the occasional low hanging branch did nothing to settle her fears, not knowing what lay beyond the feeble light, deep within the forest. The spectre could be anywhere.

“Courage, child,” said Miss Weigenmeister for a third time, taking Jenny’s hand. Jenny turned to her and smiled, feeling the fear leave her. “They say that soldiers are all afraid before going into battle, but once the fighting starts, once the anticipation is over and there is no longer time for thinking, courage serves us best.”

“I’m not scared,” Jenny said impudently, pulling her hand free. “We’re going to get that thing, give it the what for.”

“Yes, perhaps, when the time comes we will.”

“You bet we will,” Jenny crossed her arms and fixed her gaze upon the windshield and the world outside the car.

For a long while, neither said anything. Fearing the silence would lengthen into terror, Miss Weigenmeister said, “Why don’t you tell me something about that book you’re reading. Did you like it?”

Instead of talking about the book, Jenny said, “How are we going to find that thing? It must be miles away from the park by now. I’m sure it wanted to get out of there after what it did.”

“I think that whatever this creature is, it has little to fear from mortals. Though it may not flee the scene in fear like some common criminal, it’s likely to move on, to go in search of more victims.”

“Back to the park then?” Jenny said, swallowing nervously. The thought of seeing the van or the camp made her feel sad in a horrible way.

“That would be a good place to start,” Miss Weigenmeister admitted. “Though I haven’t the ability to touch it, I can see many other things that happen in the world. I’ll try to see the negative, if you understand my meaning.”

“Don’t look for it, but look for what it has done.”

“Your understanding of the situation is quite sufficient.”

“You could change into a crow and try to spot it from the air.”

“If that is the only way, then yes, but I don’t anticipate too much trouble finding it. If I may say so, I do run into these sorts of troubles with very little effort. My guess is that it will make for town. The road from the park to town is, more or less, a straight line. We should spot it easily enough.”

“But people live out there,” Jenny said, a protective rage overcoming her.

“Yes, indeed, but a house is more than four walls and a roof. A house, like a church or a synagogue or a mosque, offers protection from such evils of the world. It has been that way since time began.”

“Like not inviting vampires in.”

“Precisely.”

After many turns through deserted back roads, they finally came to the park. Finding tracks in the gravel at the entrance and the road’s shoulder, they followed.

“I feel it,” Jenny said, shivering. “We’re getting close. Are you sure we shouldn’t call the cops? I see the cell tower. It’s dead at the park but I’d bet there’s signal here.”

“The things young people know about,” Miss Weigenmeister said with an amused laugh, slowing the car and taking the blunderbuss in her lap. “No, I’m certain that involving the police would provide no benefit. Besides, I don’t have a cell phone.”

“What?” said Jenny in disbelief. “Who doesn’t have a cell phone?”

Piqued, Miss Weigenmeister said, “Do you?”

“Well, no, but my mom said I could get one for my birthday next year.”

“No matter. Wait, I think I see it.”

“Where?” said Jenny, straining. Then she saw it, a dark shape walking in the center of the road, gray skin luminous in the headlights.

They came to a stop some fifty feet from the cloud spectre. Leaving the car running, Miss Weigenmeister set the brake and popped open the door. Taking the blunderbuss with her, she stepped onto the pavement and proceeded to the front of the car. She was standing just a few steps away from the front tire, hoping the headlights would hide her from view, but she knew the undead were not ruled by the limitations of human sight.

Miss Weigenmeister shouted a challenge, but the silent form did not turn round to look at her, just continued on its way as if it were unaware that it were being pursued, or perhaps it was unconcerned. She shouted again, this time using words of power in command. Slowly, what might have been painfully, the cloud spectre turned toward her.

Its face was misshapen, hardly human at all. It had bulbous eyes and a long, crooked nose. Its ears stuck out too far from its head. Now that she had a good look, Miss Weigenmeister would have said this thing was not of the undead, that which was once human, but something else entirely. The cloud spectre made a sort of smile which seemed meant to hold scorn, but the smile looked to the librarian more like the gaping maw of some bottom feeding fish, born in the deep darkness of the ocean. Stretching out its arms, it began toward her.

Raising the blunderbuss to her shoulder, Miss Weigenmeister cocked the hammer and took aim. She pulled the trigger and the flint sparked, igniting the powder in the pan with a flash, but the gun did not fire. Something had gone amiss.

Hurrying, she lowered the blunderbuss to her thigh and pulled back the hammer. After clearing the pan with her thumb, she took a small horn from her purse, thinking to prime the pan once again for another try.

Her enemy did not wait. The cloud spectre came closer and closer, each step slow and deliberate, but relentless. The distance between them shortened to forty feet and then thirty as the Miss Weigenmeister fumbled with the gun.

The car door slammed shut. The engine revved, shrill and piercing as the clutch popped and the tires squealed. The old Volvo shot forward, close enough to Miss Weigenmeister to blow her skirts with the rush of air.

Jenny hit the cloud spectre with the front bumper, sending it sprawling onto the pavement, first the front and then the rear tire rolling over the body with a satisfying thump. Only after the second bump did Jenny take her foot from the accelerator, coming to a stop and turning in the seat to have a look at what she had accomplished.

The false man was stretched out on the pavement. For a few moments it did not move. But then it rolled over and put two hands upon the road, seemingly little harmed but for having been run down. It pushed its torso up, rose to its knees, and stood.

A deep tire tread, steaming with gray smoke, flattened and marred the thing’s body from its groin all the way to its head. Venting more of the gray smoke, the man-thing’s chest inflated like a balloon, returning to its previous form, if not noticeably diminished from what it had been before.

The car engine revved. Bucking under an inexpert hand, the Volvo rolled backward, running the cloud spectre over once again. Coming to a stop, Jenny opened the car door and shouted, “Get in.”

Breathless, Miss Weigenmeister said, “Young lady, if you think that I would condone, no less encourage, an underage and unlicensed driver to operate any sort of motor vehicle in the public right of way, no matter the present circumstances, you are sadly and most definitely mistaken.”

Frowning, Jenny unbuckled the seatbelt and slid over. Handing Jenny the useless weapon, Miss Weigenmeister sat in the driver’s seat and shut the door. By the time they had fastened their safety belts, the cloud spectre was coming toward them. Hitting the gas, Miss Weigenmeister ran the creature over for a third time, missing it with the tire, the rake of powerful fingers upon the undercarriage desperate and foreboding.

They had not made their escape. After only traveling a few hundred yards, the car engine began to sputter and then quit altogether. “It seems we have a problem,” Miss Weigenmeister said as she pumped the accelerator and turned the key, the starter motor cranking but the engine failing to turn over.

“Don’t look at me,” said Jenny, “it was working fine.”

“Yes, that is most humorous. Pardon me for the moment if I fail to laugh.”

“I smell gas,” Jenny said. “You think he could have done something?”

“I don’t know.”

“You think he’s following us?”

“I’m certain we aren’t on the top of its social register.”

“Hey, I think you made a joke.”

“Yes, I am capable of some wit.” Opening the car door, Miss Weigenmeister said, “We should be on our way. It may move quickly when agitated.”

“Is this gun of yours any good? Should I bring it?”

“There’s a good thought, and don’t forget your book. That’s public property and a privilege that you obviously undervalue. In ancient times men killed and died for books. Now, I will admit that men are in general foolish creatures, but that does little to negate the emphasis that I place upon the matter.”

“Okay, okay, I’ve got it,” said Jenny as she stuck the book under her arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Yes, the new day will soon be dawning, which may or may not be our salvation, but we have to survive until then.”

#

The road was bordered by a thick forest. Not yet seeing the cloud spectre in pursuit, they made their way in amongst the trees, hoping that it would come after them so that others would be safe, taking a winding path through the underbrush both to confuse and to delay what followed.

“I know a place we can go,” Jenny said as they emerged upon the edge of a hay field. It was newly mowed and the sweet smell of cut grass gave them strength. “It should be safe and it’s not too far away.”

“Then let us go. I need to find a place to have a look at this thing,” Miss Weigenmeister said, meaning the blunderbuss.

Coming over the rise of a little hill, they saw the town in the distance. The street lights were still bright in the fading darkness, the shadow images of the old buildings looking like piano keys. There was a dirt road at the far end of the field, with half a dozen houses and a commercial building or two in a cluster.

A dog began barking. The noise woke other dogs, and they too began to warn their sleeping masters of the coming danger, loud and fierce. Looking over her shoulder, Jenny saw the cloud spectre standing at the little rise of a hill they had just come from.

“Quick,” Jenny said, starting to run, “here it comes.”

Taking each other by the hand, they crossed the remaining distance to the road, coming to the first of the commercial buildings. It was the Finnish Hall, a cinderblock structure with a cedar roof and few windows. Jenny led them at a jog to a formidable steel door with a single, rectangular window.

Pulling at the handle, Miss Weigenmeister said desperately, “It’s locked. We’ll never get in. We’ll have to find something else. Let’s go. I don’t see what protection a public building will offer us against that thing anyway.”

“You’ll see,” Jenny said, jumping at the top of the door and trying to set her fingers into the groove above as if looking for something. “My grandpa used to take me here all the time. There’s a key somewhere.”

Standing on her toes to feel above the doorframe, Miss Weigenmeister’s eyes brightened as she found a key. She inserted the key into the lock, turned it, but was unable to open the door. “It’s stuck.”

“Here he comes!” said Jenny, pushing Miss Weigenmeister aside and jiggling the handle. “It’s tricky sometimes. You got to work it.”

The door came open. They hurried inside as the cloud spectre lumbered across the parking lot toward them. They had only just made it inside and locked the door as it arrived. Carefully it tested the handle, but found the door immovable. Wasting no time, the cloud spectre punched its hand through the small window, reaching over the broken glass to feel for the knob.

Jenny screamed. Taking the library book in both hands, she frantically beat the spectre’s arm, driving it deeper and deeper onto the broken glass. Before she realized what was happening, the hand fell to the ground.

The hand was utterly different from a human’s hand with skin, muscle and bone. It was solid, like a manikin’s hand. It soon became misshapen, melting. Seeing the hand turn to rot, Jenny screamed and wretched as she backed away in fright. The hand withered, turning to gray vapor, and was gone. All that remained was the pungent stench of sulfur clinging to the air.

Seizing Jenny’s hand, Miss Weigenmeister said, “We need to escape from this place. Is there a back door?”

“I can do better than that.” Wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her jacket, Jenny felt the fear and nausea leave her. She was now a brave girl who had faced a most terrible monster and had dealt it a grievous injury. Her heart swelling within her, Jenny sprinted down a wide hall, dashing through the open door of the first room she came to.

The cloud spectre put its other hand through the broken window, showing no concern over the loss of the first. Finding no opposition, it reached down and took hold of the knob, turning it with the same careful deliberation it showed walking. The lock clicked, the door swung open, and it was inside.

“Here it comes!” Jenny shouted from the doorway of the room she and Miss Weigenmeister had taken refuge in.

They had turned on the light, but being able to see the spectre better caused her no comfort. Just the opposite, as Jenny watched the vacant features, the lumbering gate, and felt the horrid intent of the thing approaching her, her courage failed. Her blood froze just as it had on the beach. She was again powerless and held in its thrall.

Entering the room, Miss Weigenmeister’s mouth turned in a mischievous grin. Now she understood why the girl had taken them here. This was a place of safety beyond all others, except perhaps the loving embrace of the hereafter. Not sparing a moment, she began work on the blunderbuss, clearing the chamber of the wadding, silver balls, and powder. All she could think to do was try again. Silver has a power over evil, undead or not, and she hoped the same would hold true for the creature that pursued them now.

The cloud spectre walked toward Jenny, its awful mouth agape, its bulbous eyes lit with malice and contempt. Each step toward her was like a wave upon the ocean, strong and irresistible, coming closer and closer as she felt herself go mad with the desire to run. But she could not run. She could not resist.

Satisfied with the results of the cleaning, Miss Weigenmeister retrieved the small powder horn from her purse, packing the salvo tightly into the barrel. Cocking back the hammer, she raised the weapon and took aim in what she knew to be the general direction of the door. What she saw filled her with dread.

Jenny stood blocking the doorway, as still as a stone. The cloud spectre was in the hallway beyond, a few paces from where the young girl stood. Its arms were outstretched and its mouth hung open hungrily. She was in its power, but Miss Weigenmeister would not give her up so easily. Using the enchantments of her voice to invest the word with command, she shouted, “Ready!”

Spinning around like she had been struck, Jenny realized what was happening and dove to the floor. The cloud spectre continued on its relentless path untroubled. It tried to take a step into room, but found that it could not. Some force kept it from entering.

“See, I told you he couldn’t get in here,” Jenny shouted triumphantly.

Dismayed, the cloud spectre looked uncomprehendingly at the interior of the room, unable to grasp the reason why it had been refused entry, knowing no law of the ancient world that could have stopped it. Then it looked up to see the image of an enemy against which it had no power.

This was a holy place. In a time not long ago, the room had been meticulously cleaned and given a fresh coat of paint. Thick, scarlet curtains hung upon the walls. Pictures told the life and trials of a single man from long ago.

At the far end of the room was a simple table covered with a white cloth. There was an ornately carved box standing against the wall. The old church Jenny had attended since birth was finally being remodeled. The Finnish Hall had become the temporary home of its congregation.

Finding Jenny safe upon her utterance of the command, Miss Weigenmeister took aim and pulled the trigger. But even as she did so, the sun began working its daily miracle, bringing light and heat to the dying world. Though none of the still feeble rays shined within the walls of the improvised church or fell upon the spectre, the power of the sun could not be denied. The silver balls flew through the air, but struck uselessly against the far wall. The cloud spectre had become gray mist once again. For another day it was cursed to watch and wait, to drift upon the wind in search of victims.

The Floating Head Employment Agency

By Rory Steves

      Cold, incredible cold, was the first sensation I had upon awakening. Bone-numbing cold, it was so cold I couldn’t even feel myself breathing. Read the rest of this entry »

Never Happened

By Hugh Fox

Art by Maria Costa-Fox

      It was just luck that he’d gotten into the building at all. He didn’t want to ring from Read the rest of this entry »

Curing a Plague

By Jeff Bowles

Death had always been a common thing on the moon Edain. It had been Read the rest of this entry »