Stories

Welcome to Issue 27:  Shells, Wings, and Forces of Nature

Whether protected by a hard shell or freed by flapping wings, we’re all subject to the whims of nature.  Sometimes nature fights us; sometimes it invites us to slow down and enjoy a rainy morning.  Follow these birds, crabs, and scientists as they find their way through the twisting, spiraling paths of fate.

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Consuela by Anne Larsen

Singing Over Sour Remains by R.J.K. Lee

Csigák by Zary Fekete

A Siren’s Regret by E.J. LeRoy

Quantum Hermit by M. McNamara

The Girl Who Wouldn’t Be Empress by Kathryn Reilly

On the Origin of Seasons by Cailín Frankland

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See you again in two months!  And as always, if you want to support Zooscape, check out our Patreon.  Also, you can pick up e-book or paperback volumes of our earlier issues, complete with an illustration for every story.

by Cailín Frankland

“As much as he hated to admit it, the cuckoo was right—he would be man-brained not to seize Summer while he had the chance, not to mention improving his chances for years to come.”

Sir Solomon Swallow wore his finest suit to the Convention—a two-tailed slate grey number that accentuated the darker tones of his feathers, with a matching top hat to mark the occasion. Slipping a delicate pair of black dress shoes over his clawed feet, he checked his reflection in the mirror of the creek. Perfect, he thought to himself smugly. Now that puffed-up Cuckoo will know I mean business.

It was not Curtis Cuckoo whom Solomon saw first when he reached the clearing, however, but the Duchess Gertrude of Nest Goose. She roosted heavily on a wooden bench seemingly constructed for the purpose, her greying feathers tucked neatly under a white linen dress and crown shielded from the midday sun with a pale pink bonnet. Her drooping eyes brightened with recognition as Solomon landed—a respectful few feet away, but well within chirping distance.

Solomon cleared his throat and called out: “Your Grace, a fine noontime, is it not? And you are looking well.”

Shuffling to her feet, Gertrude let out a chuckling honk. “I most certainly do not look well, Sir Swallow, and you know better than to say as much. I am not long for the flock, I fear, and my gaggle know it as well as I do. There have already been a fair few spats among the gander over my succession.”

“The disrespect!” Solomon squawked in indignation, trying not to let his mind flit to the ugliness that followed his own father’s death. Titles were not easily won among well-to-do gentlebirds, least of all by second broods—Solomon had never fully disclosed his path to power to the other delegates, and mercifully none had ever inquired.

“Speaking of disrespect…” Gertrude clucked disapprovingly, her gaze fixed over Solomon’s shoulder.

“Sir Swallow! Your Grace! How positively featherful you both look on this most unprecedented Convention!” Curtis Cuckoo’s cloying call echoed across the clearing, its volume ever-increasing as he hopped closer to the group. “Or have you not heard the news?”

Solomon pivoted to face the Cuckoo, finding him dressed in a deep tan trench coat and leather riding boots. A black top hat perched on his head, slightly taller than Solomon’s own. As if his presence was not insult enough!

“Count Cuckoo! Always a pleasure,” Gertrude called in response, ever the actress, “And you bring news? Glad tidings, I hope!”

Finally close enough to his colleagues to twitter, Curtis practically whistled in self-satisfaction. “I just found out the news myself, so worry not about its delay in reaching you. I suppose the pigeons just thought I ought to be the first to know!”

Solomon and Gertrude exchanged a knowing glance as Curtis continued, “Well here it is: the Robins will be represented by a new Delegate at this Convention!”

Solomon’s beak dropped wide open. “Do you mean to say,” he managed to croak in reply, “that the Reverend is no longer among his Round?”

“May he fly in open skies,” Gertrude gasped, crossing herself with weathered wingtips.

Noticing the shock on his colleagues’ faces, Curtis slightly changed his tune. “Such a tragedy, is it not? And so young too! The poor Reverend was practically a fledgling. Fortunately, his dear Rosalind hatched an egg before his passing, and the youngster has taken on his titles, including that of Delegate. He should be arriving imminently.”

“A chick?” Solomon squawked incredulously, “How could he possibly manage to—”

A loud crash interrupted his thought, making all three birds shriek in surprise. They watched in stunned silence as a thin wooden hoop rolled out of the thicket behind Solomon, slowing to stop before falling over on the grass. A young robin tumbled out of the thicket after it, tuk-tuking in excitement.

Regaining his composure, Curtis twisted his beak into a smile. “And here he comes now! My esteemed colleagues, may I introduce the new Delegate Robin, who no doubt will earn the Reverend honorific soon enough. Tell us, Master Robin, what is your given name?”

The hatchling craned his little neck to look up at the group—Curtis grinning under the brim of his top hat, Gertude peering down at him with pity in her eyes, Solomon staring in disbelief at the sheer smallness of the so-called Delegate before him—and promptly began to cry.

“Oh no, the poor chick is overwhelmed! Come here, sweetling, and sit on my bench for a moment.” Gertrude picked up the hoop and ushered the robin away from the others, cooing and coaxing with every step. Solomon whirled around to face Curtis, his coattails swishing behind him.

“What in the fresh Oven are you trying to pull here, Cuckoo? That child is not old enough for clothes, never mind a Convention.”

Curtis chortled in reply, “Oh, as if you were so attached to the Reverend and his precious reforms. Do you not see how we can use this situation to our advantage? The hatchling will go along with whatever we decide today, and the goose will do what the goose always does. With them out of the way, you and I can talk turkey. Unless you would prefer another Winter?”

Solomon shivered at the thought.

“Exactly,” Curtis trilled, then turned to address the group: “Shall we begin?”

* * *

“With the power vested in me by the Avian Administration, I call this Meeting to order,” Curtis began, pulling the Convention Bylaws from his left coat pocket. “I am Count Curtis Cuckoo, Junior Ranking Member. Delegates, please identify yourselves.”

“Sir Solomon Swallow, Delegate.”

“Duchess Gertrude of Nest Goose, Senior Ranking Member.”

The group turned to the young robin, visibly calmer and now perched on the right arm of Gertrude’s bench.

“My name is Rocky.”

Curtis jabbered on, “We are gathered here today at noontime on the Spring Equinox to conduct our Annual Draft of Nature’s Seasons, over each of which exactly one of us will preside. In accordance with tradition, our Senior Ranking Member will make the first selection, after which the order of selection will be determined by random draw. Your Grace, which Season do you select on behalf of Goosekind?”

Gertrude shuffled forward, lifting the hem of her dress to avoid tripping. Solomon caught a flash of her copper feet, gnarled under the weight of her years. She must truly not be long for the flock, Solomon thought to himself, if she can no longer wear shoes for a single day once a year.

“I, Duchess Gertrude of Nest Goose, select the Season of Autumn on behalf of Goosekind,” Gertrude announced, then added, “And quite frankly, I cannot bring myself to stand through the rest of these proceedings. I trust that you gentlebirds have things well in wingtip, so I shall take my leave.” She fixed her wizened gaze directly on Solomon, “I expect Convention Bylaws to be respected to the letter under the close supervision of Sir Swallow, in whom I place my greatest confidence.”

With that, the old goose tottered pondward, her bonneted silhouette shrinking until a particularly large tree eclipsed it entirely. Solomon stole a wary glance at Rocky Robin, now happily engaged in a game of throwing his hoop across the clearing and chasing it down before it landed.

Curtis flipped through the Bylaws to one of the Appendices, tittering to himself as he skimmed through the text, “Four-point-three, four-point-four… Here it is! Appendix C, Amendment Four-Point-Five: Any Delegate who is not in attendance for the entirety of Convention proceedings may have their rights and responsibilities rescinded by Delegation leadership. As the most senior Delegate in attendance I hereby release the Duchess and all descendants of her post as Senior Ranking Member, and assume the position in her stead.”

Solomon could not believe his ears. “Cuckoo!” he squawked, his hackles rising in indignation, “This is beyond the pale, even for you! The Duchess has done nothing but serve her gaggle with the utmost respect for all Goosekind—nay, birdkind! She is infirm, and you know as well as I do that those old Bylaws are outdated—”

“Ha!” Curtis slammed his copy of the Bylaws shut with a self-satisfied snap, “If the Bylaws are so outdated, somebirdy should have revised them. The old Goose told us herself to follow them to the letter. And quite frankly, I could not give the slightest hoot about her physical condition. If she cannot meet the basic requirement to attend the entirety of the Convention, she is unfit to serve and should have retired several Seasons ago.”

“But you cannot possibly—”

“I can, and I just did. You would do well to stop spitting feathers about it, Solomon, and accept my congratulations. You are the new Junior Ranking Member. Or would you rather the post go to…”

Both birds looked over to Rocky, now making a tightrope of the narrow back of Gertrude’s wooden bench.

“Yes, I thought not,” Curtis cawed, “And now that you and I are the Ranking Members of this Delegation, I have a proposition for you.”

“There is no way in Oven that I would be man-brained enough to endorse a proposition of yours, Cuckoo.”

“On the contrary, Solomon. You would be man-brained not to endorse it. As Senior Ranking Member, I hereby move to amend the Season selection order such that all selections are made in order of seniority. And in a show of good faith, I shall make my intentions clear. Should the Junior Ranking Member second my proposition, I plan to select the Season of Spring on behalf of Cuckookind.”

For the third time in a matter of minutes, Solomon felt his bill gape wide open. “You would give me Summer?” Solomon’s memory of his last Summer fluttered before him—sun-kissed feathers floating on the June breeze, long July days dissolving in the slow simmer of August. How long had it been? His bones hardly remembered the warmth of an evening sun—his beak ached for the crunch of a damselfly against the snap of his jaw. Why would the cuckoo offer him such a prize?

“Summer is of no interest to me, Swallow,” Curtis warbled on, as if reading Solomon’s mind, “Our kind can only take so much heat. And the humidity! The air practically sticks to my feathers—I can hardly get anything done. I far prefer Spring.”

“But you chose Summer last year!”

“Only to ensure that upstart robin would not have it. Now with him out of the way and no Goose grousing on about tradition, I see no need to act like Summer is a three-horse race when I can guarantee myself Spring and secure an alliance with you, Sir Swallow. So, the question remains,” Curtis cawed, “Will you second my motion?”

Solomon gulped. As much as he hated to admit it, the cuckoo was right—he would be man-brained not to seize Summer while he had the chance, not to mention improving his chances for years to come. Shaking the seeds of doubt from his wings, he cleared his throat.

“I second your motion, Count Cuckoo.”

Curtis let out a trill of sheer glee. “Well, there is hardly a need to vote with a Delegation of three. Motion carried!”

* * *

With the formalities concluded, Solomon began fanning out his wings for the flight home—they always ended up crushed under the silk of his suit, making him slightly less aerodynamic and much less comfortable in transit. His dress shoes were starting to pinch now, his three front-facing toes forced together at unnatural angles and the back-facing one bent upside-down and tucked underneath just to fit. He looked across the clearing at Rocky Robin, now attempting to wrench his precious wooden hoop out of a nearby tree branch, and felt a pang of jealousy at his nakedness, his indifference to the outcome of proceedings.

Adjusting his top hat, he called in Curtis’s general direction, “Are we adjourned?”

“Almost,” Curtis replied, “I just have one last motion to propose if you would care to second it. A matter of procedure, more than anything else.”

“Fine,” Solomon chirped back absentmindedly, his mind already on the boiled beetle broth waiting for him back at his nest, “Propose away.”

Curtis pulled out his copy of the Convention Bylaws again, opening it to the very last page. “Appendix F. Amendment Two-Point-Five. Following the first Draft under new leadership, the Senior Ranking Member may call a vote to abolish the Annual Draft of Nature’s Seasons, disband the Convention of Delegates, and make the newly selected Season allocations permanent.”

“You want to WHAT?” Solomon squawked, all thoughts of beetle broth banished from his mind in a flurry of pure panic. “There is no way the Bylaws permit such a thing.”

“Read it for yourself, if you wish.” Curtis feathered the papers over to Solomon. The pages were well-worn, folded at the corners with passages underlined and circled. Finding Appendix F, Solomon let his eyes drift down the page, hoping that he would not find—

There it was. Amendment 2.5: Following the first Draft under new leadership, the Senior Ranking Member may call a vote to abolish the Annual Draft of Nature’s Seasons, disband the Convention of Delegates, and make the newly selected Season allocations permanent.

Solomon shoved the Bylaws back into Curtis’s wingtips, trying to ignore the way his beak quivered as he piped back up, “Well, there is no way in Oven I will second your motion.”

Curtis widened his eyes in a mockery of surprise, “And why is that, pray tell?”

“Because the Draft is about fairness,” Solomon cried back, puffing up his chest in rage, “To give all birdkind a chance at all four Seasons, to promote balance and harmony across species! As much as I personally would love to preside over Summer every year, and never face another Winter, that would simply be unfair to any other flock who covets it. I, unlike you and your power-hungry Cuckoos, am a bird of principles, so you can consider your little coup a dead duck.”

Curtis smirked, “I thought as much. Fortunately for me, you are not the only Delegate in attendance with the power to second my motion.”

He hopped across the clearing to young Rocky Robin, still chirruping to himself at the foot of the tree where his hoop remained suspended among the branches. In one fell swoop, he dislodged the toy from its resting place and let it fall to the ground, much to the chick’s delight.

“There we are, young Rocky,” Curtis cooed softly, “What a beautiful hoop it is too. You must be a very good birdy.”

Rocky nodded his bill up and down emphatically.

Curtis continued, “Let me ask you a question, son. Do you like berries?”

The chick’s beak broke into a grin, “I love berries!”

“Well, your Uncle Curtis is trying to get more berries for you and your Robin friends. Would you like to help Uncle Curtis?”

* * *

Solomon, mad as a wet hen and chattering furiously to himself under his breath, was once again dusting off his coat in preparation to fly home when he felt Curtis’s wing on his back.

“Cheer up, Sir Swallow,” Curtis warbled in his ear, the stench of caterpillar guts heavy on his breath, “Thanks to me, you are a hero for your kind today. And you never know—this whole endless Summer situation could smooth some ruffled feathers back home.”

With a wink and flutter of feathers, the Cuckoo was gone.

Solomon shook his whole body, stretching out his full wingspan in preparation for flight. That sorry excuse for a bird, he thought to himself, gradually lifting his dress shoes off the grass with each beat of his feathers. Thankfully I can tell the stand that I had no part in his machinations, even opposed them on the record. And the Cuckoo was right about one thing, after all. For securing Summer permanently on behalf of his species, Sir Solomon Swallow certainly was flying home a hero.

Solomon did not look back down as he left the clearing—not at old Gertrude’s bench shrinking beneath his growing height, nor at the flowering trees carpeting the forest floor. He certainly did not look at young Rocky Robin, still chirruping merrily as he played alone in the clearing. The young bird’s song rang clear through the early afternoon breeze—its notes sweet with hope for berries, its singer blissfully unaware of his whole world undone.

 

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About the Author

Cailín Frankland (she/they) is a British-American writer and public health professional based in Baltimore, Maryland. Their literary criticism has appeared in The First Line Literary Magazine, their poetry has appeared in Eye to the Telescope, and their flash fiction has appeared in Flash Frog Magazine (nominated for Best Microfiction), Black Hare Press’s Dark Moments series, and My Galvanized Friend. They live with their spouse, two old lady cats, a rotating cast of foster animals, and a 70-pound pitbull affectionately known as Baby. You can find them on X as @cailin_sm.

by Kathryn Reilly

“Possibility lit every nerve in Min’s body as she left her village’s boundaries and really looked at the vast country streaming by them.”

Two ancient eyes watched the girl from deep beneath the watery depths. Being an immortal creature came with some benefits including absolutely perfect eyesight, but that didn’t alleviate boredom. It watched as she came to the river, sometimes bringing scraps for the fish and turtles, sometimes bringing flowers and releasing them to gently float away from the shore, sometimes planting native plants helping the insects and birds and mammals thrive, sometimes just bringing a book and dipping her feet as she turned the page. Those were his favorite days because her toes were painted in the colors of his scales and they sparkled when the sun shone just so through the slowly moving waters. Once, he moved close enough that the bare pad of her foot rubbed against the top of his smooth, rock-like nose and it tickled. But she was always alone. Most days she visited the river for hours.

It’s her, the magic sang, swirling through his blood, she’s the one.

There hasn’t been one in centuries, he thought back. And never a girl. A girl cannot be an emperor. I’ve waited hundreds and hundreds of years. She’s young and female and you have never chosen such a youngling.

The world is changing, the magic whispered back. It’s her. She’s the one.

So the longma trusted, and watched, and waited.

It rained for the next week, and the girl stayed away. He missed her and her rainbow toes and in passing wondered what evolutionary function brightly-colored toes served. The magic buzzed throughout the longma’s being, dragon scales vibrating, anxious to anoint the girl and spark the greatness she would wield. Anything that possesses magic knows better than to argue with it. So the longma waited until the girl appeared again.

On a Wednesday afternoon, the clouds cleared and the sun shone brightly, illuminating the rich variegated grasses near the water’s edge. Wildflowers bloomed profusely after the rains, stretching towards the sky, scenting the air. Finally she appeared, walking slowly, selecting a path among the flowers, carefully placing her steps among the plants to avoid harming them. Her hands brushed the grasses and she bent to smell the hip-height flowers, smiling. Reaching the river’s edge, she opened her backpack, removing bits of food, and tossed them into the river to feed the hungry fish. The longma shook out his body under the water and took a deep breath.

Then he ascended from the Yellow River’s depths as he had centuries ago to stand before the greatest of Chinese emperors including Fu Xi, Shun, Yao, and Yu. Fu Xi was so old history dubbed him as a mythical emperor, but he had been real and worked hard to shepherd his young civilization into being. The longma appeared only before the most worthy, the most virtuous, the most dedicated to their people. He appeared before humans that revered the land and could help their people create and innovate and honor their ancestry. It had been so long since the longma had appeared that he knew he’d faded into myth. But as humans took to building and inventing they’d forgotten about the magic in the world and relegated it to imagination instead of reality, sidestepping their history and roots. The water began to shimmer and roll outward as his head broke the surface, and he inhaled noisily. It had been a while after all since he’d breathed the oxygen of the world above; it was dirtier than he remembered.

The Yellow River parted for him and he stood, shimmering in the afternoon light, red and yellow dragon scales, absorbing and reflecting the sun making him glow. Hooves stood still atop the water as he shook off, droplets cascading and catching the sunlight, creating millions of tiny rainbows as they fell from his scaled sides. His dragon’s head arched strongly, and he stretched his jaw wide, showing sharp, pearl-white teeth. His eyes centered on the girl standing at the water’s edge in soaked sneakers. The river’s creatures swarmed beneath him, gathering and undulating the water so it lapped at his crystalline hooves. Northern bronze gudgeon and yellow river catfish whose fanlike fins sliced through the silt-rich waters swam in schools beneath him. For a moment, sadness descended upon the longma as he looked for fish no longer living in his river. Absent were the long silvery-gray paddlefish which once turned lazy circles, sliding their twenty-foot bodies seamlessly among the smaller fish. Two hundred million years they’d lived in this river, yet couldn’t survive its growing pollution. Being immortal meant burying nearly every friend he’d ever made, and after so many millennia, carrying their memories and their names with him was a boundless burden. He was tired of saying goodbye not just to his friends, but entire species he’d known since he’d come into being.

Shaking his mane again, he realized he’d been rudely staring at the girl, erroneously placing her species’ failings at her feet. So he smiled a toothy grin, took a step forward on the water and simply said, “Hello” (he’d learned it was best to begin simply when appearing to humans).

“Hello,” she returned, eyes roaming over his glowing, scaled form and taking a step backwards. “What are you?”

Snorting, he replied, “I’m a longma. My appearance is quite auspicious, you know. I come before the worthy, those meant to rule and bring prosperity upon the land. The Yellow River is the cradle of our culture and civilization; the ancient emperors and I worked together to make it so. Confucius used to come to the water and ask me to come up, but I never did help him. He did okay in the end though. He wasn’t as worthy as you, according to the magic. I’m here to make you Empress of all China.”

“Oh! Well, thank you, but no thank you then. I’m not sure I’d like to be an Empress of all China. I’m just focused on doing well in school right now so in two years I can attend university; I want to graduate in four years with dual degrees in microbiology and ecology. I’d like to be an environmental scientist and save the rivers, starting with this one. There are entire worlds we can’t see with the naked eye you know.”

“A surely noble pursuit. But think of what you could accomplish as Empress.”

“I don’t wish to be rude, but we don’t have emperors or empresses anymore. Puyi was the last emperor of China, and I learned in school he wasn’t a very good one. He ended up in prison as a war criminal for ten years before he was released. We read excerpts from his book. He seemed a little sorry for what he did. He died in 1967. China abolished its monarchy in the early 1900s, so, technically, I don’t think I can be an Empress,” the girl stated softly and smiled to ease the blow.

Roles reversed, the longma now stared at her silently considering this information, feeling quite lost; how could China not have a royal leader? He stamped his foot and looked inward, seeking the magic. She can’t be an Empress, he thought to the magic, the world doesn’t have them anymore.

She may not be an Empress in title, the magic returned, but she will lead the people and heal the world and be magnificent. She will be a scientist and solve problems and magic will show her the way. She will be the bridge of our worlds; she will believe and others will believe. Show her the map.

The longma walked slowly towards her, watching her closely. By this point, the emperors he’d appeared to had fallen to their knees, arms outstretched reverently, and he would lower his head and offer a blessing over them. But the girl stood, clearly in thought but not afraid.

“I’m Min,” she shared.

“I’m a longma.”

“But don’t you have a name?”

“No. I’ve always appeared and people called me Great Longma or The Auspicious One.”

“Would you like one?”

“A name? I’m not sure. Do you think I need one?”

“Only if you’d like one.” He considered that a moment and filed it away for contemplation later.

“I’d like to show you the map. It’s on my back. If you touch it, it will reveal where you need to go in order to discover your destiny, how to help the land and its people. I will take you to each place the map requests as long as it lays along the river and its tributaries. For those places beyond the river, I will gift you a scale that will guide you to them. It is different for all who see it. It’s not so much a quest but a guide. Each destination will offer you something: tools, wisdom, a skill, a lesson, a truth.”

Stepping forward, Min brushed along the smooth scales on his back. Her hands left trails of warmth over each one and he felt the map materialize, rearranging the atoms above his flank. A shimmering, richly colored, 3-D map appeared; while Min looked at it, he saw it through his mind’s eye and let out a surprised snort, complete with mini fire streams.

“What is it?” Min asked.

After a long pause, the longma replied. “It’s not a map of your world. It’s a map more so of mine. It’s not recommending places in your world to visit to recover ore or find scrolls or discover ruins or create or do new things. See the purple mark? That’s the home of the longgui, the dragon turtle, way at the top of the Bayan Har mountains; they love the way the clouds up there tickle their shell. And the green mark? That’s where the last of the Qilin reside in what remains of the Huang He forests; nearly all forests are gone, cut down for agriculture, but the Qilin reside in a small, magical forested part that remains. The red dot marks the home of the Tianma; he hides in a tributary off the Yellow River nestled in a copse of trees. The heavenly horse followed a wandering star down and carved out this river and its tributaries at the dawn of time. The waters flowed down from heaven to bless the land. And the orange mark is the sacred pool of the Yulong, the white dragon horse; she can tolerate more brackish water than I and makes her home at the southernmost part of the river, at the mouth of the Bohai Sea. She most enjoys riding the sea foam in the early mornings.”

Min listened attentively and caressed the edges of the map with her fingers; the edges shimmered and seemed to simultaneously recede and expand suggesting the map lacked any boundaries. A mountain range as far off as Italy rose before her with a pulsing white light buried deep within the Umbrian region. The longma inhaled a sharp breath.

“Who is it?” Min asked.

“It’s Thyrus, the dragon of Terni. We all thought he perished at the hands of a knight of the House of Cittadini. Word reached us that the knight killed him, and carved his likeness into Terni’s coat of arms. Stars. He’s alive! And must be lonely.”

“Well, can you go and visit him?” Min asked.

“I cannot; I am tied to this river. I can travel the river and its streams, but that’s all. Magic has rules like anything else. I can whisk you to the top of the mountains and to the mouth of the sea but I am bound by the Yellow River’s waters. I can take you to the longgui if you’d like to go? All you need to do is climb upon my back.”

Min considered this for a second and climbed up, sneakers sliding along the longma’s beautiful scales. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she leaned down and nestled close. Her hands could feel the swirl of magic pulsing just beneath his skin. Comfortable, she set her mind to their unfolding adventure.

The longma soared over the water, the wind seemingly moving through them. Possibility lit every nerve in Min’s body as she left her village’s boundaries and really looked at the vast country streaming by them. He called upon the past and shared with her what had been: the once lush forests and plains and rivers teeming with fish. We could heal the land through science and magic, he thought. What could we do if we worked together? Lost in thought, the longma abruptly halted and turned, finally stopping to tap a rather large, round stone in a lake nestled at the top of the Bayan Har mountains. The stone shivered, rolled to its side and a head the size of several large dragonfruits broke the water’s smooth surface, gaze piercing the newcomers.

“Longgui, this is Min. Min, this is Longgui, the dragon turtle.”

“Hungry are you both? That must have been quite the trip,” the longgui replied.

“Quite,” Min shared, “it is a most unexpected adventure.” She reached into her pocket and took out a small lunch she’d packed for herself and divided it into three tiny portions, and offered it to the dragon horse and dragon turtle.

“Very kind, young one, thank you. And I will add fish and seaweed to the feast.” The longgui dove down, reappearing with a maw full of fish and seaweed, leading the way to the shore. “And what brings you here, to the beginning of the river?”

Min shrugged, taking off her shoes and sitting comfortably along the edge of the lake between the two until-now legendary beings. “The map,” she shared, “it brought us to you. I think that maybe I can help you.”

“Help us?” The longgui questioned, “What do we need help with?”

“Well, you’re bound to the river just as Longma is, correct? You exist within the boundaries of your protectoral area? And you care for it as best you can. Longma said he couldn’t travel to see Thyrus. Do you want to travel? Do you want to see the world beyond the river? Beyond China?”

“Is such magic possible? How can you carry a river youngling?”

“With science. But, I’d need some money. They move marine animals all the time: whales and dolphins and sharks. I’d need to buy a specialized truck. And I’d need a pump to move the water and then technically you could travel, right? Does it work like, as long as you’re touching the water you’re good? Does the water ever get old and lose its tether to you? How long can you be out of the water?”

“We’ve never left the water just as the Huli Jing never wanders far from its den. We have no way of knowing the answers to your questions. But this may help,” and the dragon turtle ambled into the water, dove, and took their time–so much time Min began to worry.

“Could you really take our river with us?” Longma wistfully asked.

“I think so. I–”

Longgui popped their head up, cheeks puffed out. Lumbering to shore, they opened their mouth, and a cascade of gold coins tumbled to the soft green grass below. “You can have as many as you need, Min. I have no need for such things but a very thankful Emperor once insisted that these gifts were valuable. I much prefer the gold of the sun to the gold of these discs.”

“Longgui, are you up for a trip? Can you meet us down the Yellow River where Longma resides? I will find a truck and a pump, and I would very much like to take you on an adventure. We will visit Thyrus first; it sounds as though he may need to see his friends,” Min smiled.

“Yes, yes. I travel slower than the longma. One week’s time and I will meet you on the plateau.”

Min climbed astride Longma, and wove her hands through his fire-colored mane. He tried to remember the last time he’d allowed someone on his back and couldn’t; it was nice. Why? he thought, why do I think it’s nice?

She trusts you, the magic whispered; she harbors no fear of you.

“Take us home,” she whispered. When they arrived, Longma stood atop the water as close to the river bank as possible.

“May I ask a question of you?”

Min nodded.

“Were you never scared or uncertain of me?”

“No!” Min laughed. “Scientists aren’t afraid of anything. They are open to all possibilities and discoveries. They may be cautious, but ultimately, they seek and protect the truth of things. I was never scared or uncertain of you. I was curious and full of wonder. Good night, Longma.” And with that, she walked home, sneakers squelching.

That night beneath the darkened waters, thanking the stars for their light, Longma lay thinking with the magic. Can I really leave the river? Can I see the world?

Perhaps, the magic replied.

What if it’s not what I expected? Longma worried.

What if it isn’t? the magic replied.

I am forgotten to them, Longma thought.

So am I, magic echoed, but perhaps not forever.

Exactly one week later, Min arrived with an enormous vehicle that the dragon horse had never seen before. He stood amid the swirling waters thinking so much metal and glass would be cold, dangerous. He stood unsure of Min’s plan and watched, as if by magic, how Min moved a lever and the device, called ‘hose,’ sucked up the river, depositing it into the truck. Then Min clambered into the water itself, and used the hose to arc the water she’d pumped into the truck back into the river so the dragon horse and dragon turtle could move themselves from the river to the truck. Once inside, the glass walls allowed them to see everything. Longma found he could stand atop this water and stand still as the truck moved; he was moving but not, which was quite a new and grand experience. Min decided the best course of action was to drive at night to avoid people. She explained that people weren’t the same as they used to be and that it was better to be undetected for a bit. So occasionally the magic kept them invisible. That didn’t matter to the beings in the movable river; with perfect eyesight they saw everything: the metal cities, the underground carriages: everything. And they shared their awe at the inventions. But they shared their sadness at the loss of the natural world and the places where so many of their kind lay hidden, sometimes buried and forgotten.

It was a long journey among winding roads and ferry boats. Min asked as many questions as she could think about the nature of magic and its workings in the natural world. Before sleeping, Min wrote everything in her notebook, puzzling out how magic and science could work together to help the world. After long conversations with her new friends, she realized that magic and science shared much in common, such as Newton’s laws.

She also added heavy vehicle mechanics to her skillset. A few times when the truck broke down, they were discovered and the humans stood in awe and humility. They recalled the stories of their people and the power of possibility. The people pledged their silence as well as their belief in a better future; embracing a new purpose, they rose each day with determination. Longma watched Min, thinking the magic rightly chose her; though she didn’t understand magic, she accepted it as he had long ago. She is the best never-empress that will ever be, Longma thought to himself.

They found Thyrus in Italy.

Over a shared meal of pasta and delectable vegetables and poached fish for Longgui, Min confided in her friends: “People,” Min shared, “really most people, have forgotten that worlds exist within worlds; they just see the world in front of them. But just as there are ecosystems on our skin, and among the leaves and roots of a tree, and flung far out into space, there are things in the world which we cannot always see yet exist. Magic, after all, is just another kind of science I think. I think you came to me because we can help the world together, if you’re ready. It won’t be quiet. It will be loud and messy and we’ll need to stand together. And some people will be scared and act poorly. But I think more will rejoice and wonder and want to atone and cherish and learn, remembering.”

Longma, Longgui, and Thyrus smiled.

Min showed the world real magic.

And the world rose up to protect it.

 

* * *

About the Author

By day, Kathryn Reilly helps students investigate words’ power; by night, she resurrects goddesses and ghosts, spinning new speculative tales. Sometimes she even tells the truth. Enjoy poetry in Shadow Atlas, A Flight of Dragons, Last Girls Club and fiction in Seaside Gothic, Bikes, the Universe, and Everything, Fish Gather to Listen, and Chthonic Matter Quarterly. Her rescue mutts hear all the stories first. When she’s not working or writing, you can find her rewilding suburban spaces. Follow at @writingkate.bsky.social

by M. McNamara

“There is a prophecy that one day, a hermit will find a shell containing the Omega Point…and he can travel to a place beyond space and time…some call it heaven, others call it the union of all things.”

I walk along the beach, on the hunt for a new shell.

The one I have now is quite acceptable, sturdy and round and adorned with attractive whorls, but it’s getting a bit small. “Time for an upgrade,” Merv had said, so here I am, wandering about at low tide. Normally I like to stay submerged in the shallows, but I’ve braved the exposed sand this afternoon in the hope of a lucky find. This is one of the perils of being a hermit crab: you must wear armour that you don’t craft yourself.

“Lucky snails,” I mutter as I trundle along. “They might be soft and shapeless, but they make good shells.”

Then I stop, because I catch sight of something nearby, a spire that juts upward from the sand like the tip of a castle tower. Right away I can tell it’s a good size, and my single-chambered heart flutters. Is it empty? Or perhaps about to be emptied, in the fading possession of a snail in its death throes? I pick up my pace, hardly noticing the nearby tide pool, until a dark shadow flits across my vision.

I go still, my eyes rotating on their stalks, searching for the source.

Then I spot it.

There, hiding behind a rock, is a bulky shadow, and my hemolymph runs cold—well, colder than normal, anyway—at the sight, because it belongs to a creature of robust carapace and massive claws, a thug of the crustacean world: a shore crab. Here is a being that can crush my house with one pinch of its claw and grind my body into goo.

Crap on a crabcake.

I hesitate then, torn between greed for the shell and fear of a one-way trip through a gastric mill, and I’m still wondering what to do when the brute scuttles out of his hiding spot. He moves so quickly, I barely have time to react before he picks me up with one powerful movement. Goodbye Merv, I think as I feel his mighty pincer break my shell, exposing my soft fleshy abdomen.

I’m about to be eaten.

I think for one moment of my happy place, the pretty beach I saw in a magazine that some careless human left behind, then I prepare for oblivion.

But today must be my lucky day, because the crab goes still. It takes me a moment to see why, because I’ve lost control of my bodily functions and I’m peeing (which comes out underneath my eyestalk and trickles down my face). But after a moment, I see it: an even bigger shadow. A human is walking down the beach, all vertebrate and bipedal and upright. This lifeform is even scarier than the crab, and my attacker panics and releases me. I fall down to the sand and lie dazed.

“Ginger! Where are you, girl?”

The human passes by, whistling, utterly oblivious to my presence, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

But it’s short-lived, because I’m in a very precarious situation.

The shore crab destroyed my shell, and I’m helpless now, vulnerable not just to predators but also to drying out. I get up as quickly as I can, heading for the spire I saw earlier. Please be empty, I think as I drag my naked abdomen along the sand. At any moment I expect the shore crab to return, but no shadow crosses my path, and then I’ve reached the shell, and I throw my body into its aperture before I can even determine if it’s empty.

But it is empty, and it’s a perfect size, and I experience a moment of giddy joy as I fit myself into its vacant chambers. Yes, I think, stretching out and hooking the little projections on the end of my tail fan into the shell’s interior. Then I take a moment to settle in, to feel the texture and weight of my new home.

And that’s when I notice something odd.

An irregularity on the exterior of the shell, a set of grooves near the aperture that were not put there by nature…I run my claws over them, wondering what they are. Human letters, I think; the hairless apes are always carving runes into the sand. Merv would know, and I’m just wondering where to find him—did he go to the boardwalk to scavenge human scraps?—when I notice something else that’s a bit odd.

There, just on the end of my tail fan, I detect the presence of cool liquid, as if a few drops of seawater have pooled inside the shell. I wiggle about, trying to shift them around, but they don’t move.

Instead, they begin to fizz.

It’s a very weird sensation—like I’m sitting in the froth that hisses on the sand after a wave crashes. I go still, wondering if I’m imagining it, but the fizzing grows more intense, to the point where I think some prankster poured soda into my shell. I look nervously back at my house, expecting something to explode—but that’s not what happens.

Instead, a single black bubble emerges from the tip of my shell.

I stare at the floating sphere in dismay—nobody wants bubbles coming out of their butt—but to make things worse, the blob is utterly dark; like it’s not a bubble of something, but a bubble of nothing. One by one, more bubbles appear, and now my rear end is really going to town, and I’m so distracted that I don’t notice the shore crab until it’s right behind me. Once again I am gripped by a powerful claw and lifted from the ground, and I feel the same sense of imminent doom as I behold the hungry eyes of the crab, and then a particularly large bubble emerges from my shell, so big that it envelops me, and it’s like I walked into a sea cave at midnight, and everything goes dark, and disappears.

* * *

I wake to the sound of water lapping against me.

I open my eyes. A long beach stretches before me, much different than the one I came from. For one thing, the sand here is smooth and fine, not coarse and brown, and I can’t see a rock or a clump of seaweed anywhere. The landscape above the waterline is different, too—flatter and greener, with different vegetation. As I take a breath, I realise it’s much warmer, the air heavy with the perfume of some flower wafting on the breeze.

I stand up, try to get my bearings. The sun has only recently crested the horizon, and it shines over a tranquil stretch of clear blue water, and I have a weird sense I’ve been here before.

Then I know why—I’m in my happy place! This beach looks just like the picture in the magazine. “A tropical resort,” Merv had said when I showed him, “a place far away from here.”

I’d stared at the scrap of glossy paper with surprise. “How do you know it’s far away?”

“The palm trees. Those don’t grow here. And no,” he’d added, “it’s too far away to walk there.”

So, I had resigned myself to never seeing the place, but somehow here I am. Merv said humans got there by taking planes that flew like birds, so how had I done it?

The bubbles.

It seems odd, but the more I consider it, the more convinced I become—I’d thought of this place as the crab was about to eat me, so the bubble took me here. Either that, I think, or I’m dreaming. Or maybe dead.

But whatever the reason, I’m here now, and I decide to enjoy myself. I stroll along, savouring the sweet air, the open horizon. No shore crabs can sneak up on me here! I wave my antennae, sniffing the breeze, trying to detect the odour of something I might be able to eat, but the only things I can smell are the tropical flowers.

Then I get a strange feeling.

Something is watching me.

I spin about. The beach stretches to either side, a sparkling white expanse without a creature in sight—the picture of serenity. But the sense persists, and I’m just about to groom my eyes with my maxillipeds when I hear it: the whoosh of wings, the whistling of feathered death from above. In sudden fear I tuck myself away and roll down the beach, narrowly missing the gull that was about to snatch me in its beak. It squawks in rage, its downdraft sending me sideways, and I decide that the exposed sand doesn’t seem so idyllic after all. Better to hang in the shallows, I think as I let myself roll faster and faster. When I hit the water, the incoming tide slows me down, and I emerge from my shell and scuttle away. I don’t stop until I am several feet deep, completely immersed in the cool embrace of the tropical sea.

“Hello, little hermit!”

I turn at the sound of the greeting. A few small fish are darting about near the surface, and they call out a message with their high-pitched voices, but the dialect here is strange and I can’t decipher it. Something about welcoming me with open arms, perhaps? They are gone before I can reply, flashing like jewels, and I wonder what they meant as they disappear. I can still detect their scales from a long way off—the water here is much clearer than the turbid shallows at home, unsullied by scraps of seaweed or floating debris. The only things I can see are the dancing shadows of the waves reflected on the clear sandy bottom.

I trundle along then, on the lookout for other hermits, wondering what my tropical brethren would look like, lost in a reverie until something floats past. I glance up, but it’s gone, too quick for me to see it. No matter, I think, but then I see another object float past, and this time I get a good look. It’s thin and pale, almost like a broken piece of a crab carapace…

Suddenly I stumble. I’ve tripped over a fragment of coral, and I slow down for a moment, observing my surroundings. The sandy bottom has been replaced by the edge of a rocky reef, and here, for the first time, is a multitude of life. A nearby scallop watches me with its many eyes before snapping shut; a shrimp dances over a hovering wrasse, cleaning it of parasites; a school of parrotfish swims over the crest and begins munching on coral heads.

Time to find a place to hide.

I examine a set of rocks to my left, which seems promising, but reject them a moment later; the black crevice at their base gives me a bad feeling. No, thank you, I think, hurrying forward, because I have a sense that the crevice isn’t empty, and I don’t want to know what’s inside. The other side of the pile isn’t much better, though—once I’ve rounded it, I find myself in a field of objects, strewn about like pieces of chips left on the boardwalk, and then I get a whiff of one, and I know what they are.

The remains of a large crab.

The smell is unmistakable, and then I get visual confirmation, because I spot a fragment of a claw, the pieces of a jointed leg. There’s another, and another…that’s when I realise this is not the remains of one crab, but many. I’m standing in a crustacean graveyard.

Crap on a crabcake.

I feel a creeping dread, because these crabs are much bigger than I am, and whatever ate them is a powerful predator. Suddenly I remember the fish calling out to me, and I wonder whose arms they were referring to…

The little hairs on my claws stand up then, because I have a sense that something is very wrong. I turn back towards the rocks, but see nothing. The sense persists though, and I stare at them anyway, and that is when I spot it: a barely perceptible movement, a change in the appearance of the coral rubble, as if a piece of it is moving. I look closer and perceive a creeping tendril winding its way along the base of the crevice.

The tentacle of an octopus.

My foregut drops, because here is a formidable foe, a predator that loves eating crabs, hermit or otherwise. I turn away and scuttle off at hyperspeed (my version of it, anyway), even though I know it’s no use—I can’t outrun this enemy. An octopus is far too agile to let a hermit crab escape. Don’t look back, I think, but I can’t help it, and sure enough, my frantic glance reveals that one of the rocks has detached from the pile and is sitting right behind me. A moment later I feel a powerful coil wrap itself around my shell.

Double crap.

I panic then, because Merv told me that octopuses have beaks—like underwater hawks, but worse—and I don’t want to encounter it, and that’s when a dark blob appears in the water. For a moment I think I’ve disgraced myself, but then another one appears, and another, and I know it’s the shell doing its thing again. I wish I knew what was happening—I wish I could talk to Merv—and just as the arm pulls me towards the cephalopod’s central orifice and the beak of death, darkness swallows me up, and I disappear once more.

* * *

This time, there’s no water gently lapping on a tropical beach. Instead I see four glass walls, a plastic plant, a tiny treasure chest, and a weird-looking rock.

Crap on a crabcake.

I’m in a tank of some kind, that much is clear, but where? I walk to the edge of the nearest glass wall; beyond it is an enclosed chamber full of unfamiliar structures. They have sharp angles, nothing like the soft shapes of water-sculpted objects, and they smell of chemicals and vertebrate pheromones, and then I remember something else Merv told me.

“Sometimes humans take hermit crabs as pets, and put them into glass tubs for the rest of their lives, and feed them lettuce.”

“What’s lettuce?” I’d asked, because he’d said this last bit with considerable disdain.

“Something meant for rabbits.”

I recall that conversation now, along with the fact that I didn’t ask what rabbits were, and I feel a bit of panic as I realise I’m trapped. There’s no way out—I’m stuck here with the sand and the rock and the plant and the treasure chest. But then I remember something else: my shell. Maybe I can use it to escape—after all, it worked twice so far. I close my eyes and think of bubbles, but nothing happens.

A shape at the far end of the room creaks—a door, I think—and a human enters the chamber.

“How’s my little hermie?”

It’s a female of the species, and she comes towards me and bends over the tank until her face looms overhead, terrifying and huge. I retract into my shell, but she only chuckles.

“Are you feeling shy today? I’ve got a cure for that!”

I feel her fingers grasp onto my shell, and then I am airborne, trapped in the palm of her hand, which is warm and fleshy and throbs with a peppy mammalian heartbeat. A moment later she sets me down onto a flat wooden surface.

“You can help me study,” she says. Then she sits back and begins to read.

I don’t move. Humans, in my experience, are strange and unpredictable, and I don’t trust them—I once saw a larval biped jab a lollipop into a hermit crab shell—but this one seems absorbed in her task, so gradually I emerge. At once I feel an odd substrate beneath me, thin and dry and flimsy. “You’re on my textbook,” the girl explains as I poke my eyestalks out cautiously. But she doesn’t try to relocate me, and I sense there’s no immediate danger, so I begin to walk around. Meanwhile the girl is sitting nearby, bent over some books, her non-stalked eyes squinted in concentration. I’m just wondering if she grooms them with maxillipeds when a shrill noise bursts forth. It’s jarring and terrible, like a seabird crying out in pain, but no bird appears; instead the girl picks up a glowing object and starts to talk.

“Oh! Hey, Jo. No, I can’t now, I’m studying for my physics exam. What’s that? No, it’s pretty weird stuff, black holes and string theory. The lecturer was going on about something called the Omega Point, where the whole universe….” The girl pauses and checks her notes. “The whole universe spirals towards a singularity… It’s like some weird metaphysical cone or something that exists on the edge of time. I think he was high. Anyway, maybe we can grab a coffee tomorrow?”

The girl hangs up a few moments later, and then I hear a voice calling from downstairs, something about pizza, and she springs from her chair and runs out of the room. A moment later she runs back in, picks me up, deposits me into the tank, and runs out again.

* * *

Alone in my prison, I sit back and think. I’m not sure what to make of all this, or why I’ve been transported here, and I’m wondering how I can get back home when a voice interrupts my thoughts.

“Hello, stranger. Welcome to the tank.”

I turn around in surprise, wondering who could possibly be with me, and find myself staring at…

“Merv!” I wave my antennae in pleasure and surprise, for here is my greatest friend. “What are you doing here?”

“Pardon?” Merv steps closer to me, and I realise he was hidden behind the rock. “I’m not sure what you mean. I’ve been here for years…and I am surprised you know my name, because we’ve never met.”

“What do you mean, we’ve never met?” I flick my eyestalks in confusion. “We were just hanging out yesterday, by the dead turtle that washed up. You know, by the boardwalk. Don’t you remember?”

Merv shakes his head. “No; I’ve been in this tank all my life. I’ve never been to the beach.”

At this odd statement, I go still. What was he talking about? This was Merv, my best friend, the wisest hermit on the coast. I sit back, trying to figure out what’s going on, and as I think, he begins to walk along the perimeter of the tank.

“I cannot say much about the boardwalk, but I feel like I have travelled to many places, because Megan—that is the name of the girl— is a great reader, and she often speaks to me about her interests. And sometimes I feel as if I have been to those places.”

At this paradox, I rumble the teeth in my gastric mill. “What do you mean? You just said you’ve never left this tank.”

Merv does not reply at first. Finally he says, “Did you know that Megan is taking a course in physics? I thought it would have little appeal to me, but it’s really quite interesting. For example, some researchers think there might be more than one universe, that every choice we make generates another potential world. Have you ever thought there might be another version of yourself out there, on another beach?”

“No.” I shake my head, because the idea is ridiculous, but then I pause. “Actually, now that I think of it…maybe I do. I’ve had a pretty weird day.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I just found a new shell, and something odd is happening with it. It generates these black bubbles, and they seem to suck me into another place. That’s how I got here.”

“Really?” Merv comes close to me then, sniffing and combing my shell with his mouthparts; when he detects the markings near the aperture, he goes still.

“Oh, yeah,” I say as he inspects the grooves. “I was wondering what those were. I wanted to ask you, actually. Are they letters?”

Merv is quiet for some time. Then he murmurs, “Yes.”

“What do they say?”

“I am not sure…my human is a bit rusty…but I think they spell out ‘QH.’”

“QH? What does that stand for?”

Merv does not answer. Instead he walks away; when he speaks, his voice is shaky. “By the great crab in the sky, that’s it…you’re it…”

“I’m what?”

“The quantum hermit.” He turns back to me now, his eyes wide. “There is a prophecy that one day, a hermit will find a shell containing the Omega Point…and he can travel to a place beyond space and time…some call it heaven, others call it the union of all things.”

“Really?” I look at him in doubt. “The only place this has taken me is a beach full of predators, and here.”

“Then perhaps you aren’t using it correctly.” He sits back. “If the prophecy is true, your shell is generating tiny black holes…they operate according to the laws of quantum mechanics…so to use it, you must understand physics. Here, I’ll give you the basics.”

So Merv launches onto a long explanation then, discussing particles and symmetry and tidal forces, and I pretend to listen, but really I sit back and sigh. All I want is to be at home, with my friends, and the original version of Merv…even the shore crab wouldn’t be bad, as long as he didn’t eat me. I’m lost in thought until Merv says something that catches my attention.

I put up a claw. “Wait. Can you repeat that?”

Merv looks up. “Weren’t you listening?” He sighs. “I was discussing spirals in time. They

lead to the Omega Point…the idea is that space and time collapse until they transcend the boundaries of reality. The equations are difficult to calculate, but that doesn’t mean we won’t get there eventually.”

“Spirals in time…” I repeat the words, and then I feel it again, the fizzing inside my shell, but this time it’s much stronger, and then a bubble appears, as dark and mysterious as the night sky, or perhaps the beak of an octopus, and Merv goes still, and I can see the wonder in the hexagonal facets of his eyes.

“It’s happening,” he whispers, and the floor rumbles as the bubble grows larger. First it is the size of the rock, and then it is the size of the tank, and then it leaps outward until it’s absorbed Megan’s desk and all her textbooks, and then it’s taken up the whole room, and I can’t see anymore because Merv and I tumble into another place. I blink, because this is definitely the weirdest place of all.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“Outer space,” Merv replies in awe, and I look around and see that I’m floating in a sea of nothingness. Beyond me, far out in the distance, is an endless field of stars, sparkling like sunlight on a breaking wave, while below me spins a great orb as luminous as the eye of a crab.

“A planet,” Merv whispers, “and an asteroid belt.” He waves a claw at a multitude of objects forming a ring around the planet, a variety of shapes and sizes, and they remind me of rocks lying on a beach, but when I look closer I see that they aren’t just rocks, and then I can’t hear Merv anymore, because I know we’ve reached it—the Omega Point—and I realise that it’s a universe populated by spirals in time, and the humans are so silly, because the spirals aren’t some mathematical equation, they are hermit crabs nestled in their shells, and they float gracefully in the aether, as far as the eye can see.

 

* * *

About the Author

M. McNamara has written three books and many short stories, three of which have been accepted for publication; she also won a Halloween short story competition with her piece The Haunted Library. If you would like to know more about her and her work, please visit her website, mmcnamarabooks.com.

by E.J. LeRoy

“My circuits fizzle, and my claws freeze. Now I know why the crabs I lured have not arrived at the lab.”

“Siren Crab, state your purpose.”

My claws click in response to White Coat Samuel’s order. He is the White Coat I see most often during the day, but my answer would be the same no matter who issued the command. That is my job here, to answer questions and obey the commands of any White Coat who addresses me. In return, I answer and do as I am told. My programming does not allow for asking questions of the White Coats in response. This does not bother me. What would be the point of adding these parameters to my designated functions?

“I am a solar- and hydro-powered robotic version of a female Dungeness crab designed to guide male crabs into enclosures called ‘pots’ for transportation from the ocean to the land for research purposes.” Through a combination of programming and lectures, all of the White Coats have impressed upon me the importance of this work I barely understand. I know only that it is necessary for humanity’s benefit. To be of service in this way is an honor.

“Excellent.” White Coat Samuel stuffs me into a cardboard box. He is efficient in his movements, neither rough nor gentle. When he closes the lid, I see only beige. My bland surroundings jiggle as he carries me to an unseen location. Transportation soon becomes smoother but noisier. We must be in some sort of vehicle. This is my first ride, but my data banks respond to the whooshing of traffic outside with intimate knowledge as though I have already experienced the sensation of riding in a car or truck many times. I occasionally snap my claws while waiting, a programmed response to being confined in such a small, uninteresting space. Then, the vehicle halts. Someone, presumably White Coat Samuel, carries the box again.

I attempt to stop clicking my claws to listen for clues about my location. There is a gentle roar in the background interspersed with bird calls. My claws click again, processing the information. This must be the beach, where I will soon guide the male crabs into pots for research.

The box sways and dips, suggesting a change of transportation again. Is this the research boat the White Coats have told me about so many times before our first mission? When White Coat Samuel finally releases me, my data and predictions prove correct. We are indeed on a gently rocking boat, and my view has been replaced with nothing but water—the ocean. The lab is nowhere to be seen.

White Coat Samuel sets me down on the deck. Thanks to my programming, instructions are unnecessary. Without prompting, I immediately dive into the ocean in order to perform my function. One by one, male crabs follow me into the pot that has been lowered into the sea. They do not interact with me like any of the White Coats do. Obviously, the organic crabs cannot use human language. Still, I sense a form of unspoken communication between us. Each crab I guide into the pot is interested in my presence, but they express themselves in various ways. Some boldly chase me into the pot, most likely wanting to claim me as a mate. Others approach with a degree of trepidation. A few attempt to communicate with clicking claws and intense stares. Eventually, all of them follow me.

When the pot is full, we return to the surface, clacking our claws all the while. White Coat Samuel, other White Coats, and I repeat the experiment every day for three weeks. During each mission, I study the crabs. With every research dive, my efficiency gradually gives way to curiosity. What are these crabs’ lives like when they are not being hauled away to the lab for research? Do they have a community or a culture? Surprisingly, the White Coats have not provided me with this kind of data, either in my programming or simply through verbal explanation. Perhaps I will learn more when the experiments are complete.

After almost a month of daily expeditions to the sea, I sit in my cage and wonder where all the crabs are. The males I have procured for research purposes have not yet appeared in the lab. Maybe they are in a different room. And why have only male crabs been collected for this project? Hopefully, these answers will become clear to me soon. In the meantime, I await further dives while various White Coats go about their duties, peculiar tasks that they never explain to me and that I have no liberty to ask about.

One night in the lab, White Coat Julia watches her usual detective TV show. She often does this during her designated break times. From my cage, I can easily see the screen and follow along with the story. Other than the occasional involuntary clicking of my claws, White Coat Julia seems unaware of my presence. I doubt it occurs to her that I have been studying her favorite program for weeks. The episodes that air every night follow the same formula. Someone commits a horrible crime—usually a murder—police investigate, then solve the crime; a trial ensues, and then justice is served. Tonight, White Coat Julia falls asleep as the jury announces the expected “guilty” verdict. The perpetrator is taken to jail, and then a commercial begins.

“It’s Dungeness season!” says a smiling man standing in a boat tossed by rough waters. The picture changes to an orange crab lying on a white dinner plate, a lemon wedge stuffed into one of his lifeless claws as though the creature is holding the fruit of his own will. “So, sail on down to Scrappy’s today for whole cooked Dungeness crab served with lemon and butter. These wild-caught beauties have been sustainably and robotically harvested for your pleasure, so don’t wait.” A jingle cuts off the man’s speech: “Sail on down to Scrappy’s today!”

My circuits fizzle, and my claws freeze. Now I know why the crabs I lured have not arrived at the lab. And I suddenly understand why only the males were harvested: the females must remain in the ocean to lay their eggs. Then, when their offspring hatch and grow, the process will begin again in the next season. A new generation of male crabs will be served on dinner plates at Scrappy’s, thanks to my work for the White Coats.

White Coat Julia remains asleep. Unnoticed, I unlock my cage, pry open the laboratory window, and scuttle to the ocean. At the water’s edge, I pause. Will the crabs understand what I have done? They must be intelligent enough to know that I lured dozens of their brethren to their untimely deaths. My circuits make a calculation, and my claws click as I wade into the ocean. When the water is deep enough, I dive once more and await the judgment of the sea.

 

* * *

About the Author

E.J. LeRoy is a freelance writer, poet, and aspiring novelist whose work has appeared at Submittable Content for Creatives, Transmundane Press Blog, NonBinary Review, and in several speculative fiction anthologies. LeRoy has also published the standalone novelette Fusion. Visit the author’s website at http://ejleroy.weebly.com. And, for the record, Dungeness crabs are delicious!

by Zary Fekete

“In this burst of social activity, the snails extend to us an invitation.”

In Budapest, if you wake up in the middle of the night by a flash of lightning and a burst of thunder, when you go out in the morning to the rain-washed sidewalks of the city, you will find snails. After every rain the byways of this grand city must be shared with the soft creatures. The pavements inhale the scent of the rain and snails begin their journeys back and forth, as though reborn from the downpour.

The Hungarian snail, or csiga, is renowned by the Magyar people as a harbinger of good things. The Hungarian language announces this quality of the invertebrate creatures by gently referring to them as puhatestuek or the soft-bodied ones. There are enough species of Hungarian snails that the language reaches into poetics in order to properly designate them with names like the “pretty door one,” the “water-through-crawler,” the “bright spindle dweller,” and the “towering zebra.”

You will notice the snails on the sidewalks because they often bring with themselves a crowd of admirers. It is not uncommon for young mothers and fathers to bring their children snail-watching and occasionally snail-feeding. A few fragments of fresh lettuce are enough to provide the snails with a feast as they are creatures accustomed to dwelling in green places and will eat all organic matter, proving themselves to be true good citizens, always recycling after themselves, cleaning their concrete plates.

Various Hungarian folktales and legends tell of the wandering snail, intent on embarking on a long journey, patient as the countryside slowly…slowly goes by. A fast pedestrian may occasionally stop, transfixed, in awe that the small pavement creatures could possibly be willing to take that much time to cross from one side to the other.

The appearance of the after-rain snails offers passersby a chance to modulate their own pattern of life, in that, it will be necessary to slow down to avoid stepping on them. Leaving behind a glistening trail, they create parliaments of congregation across every inch of the city, wandering up to one another with their questioning antennae, oblivious to us, entirely unworried that they could, at any moment, be crushed. In this burst of social activity, the snails extend to us an invitation. If we choose, we too could walk up to one another, baring our souls to the possibility of being stepped on, with a gentle willingness to share a chat with anyone who also might walk by on the newly washed sidewalks.

 

* * *

About the Author

Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary. He has a debut novella (Words on the Page) out with DarkWinter Lit Press and a short story collection (To Accept the Things I Cannot Change: Writing My Way Out of Addiction) out with Creative Texts. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films. Twitter and Instagram: @ZaryFekete Bluesky:zaryfekete.bsky.social

by R.J.K. Lee

“For a while, I focus on mere survival, squeezing my talons round the chain while the gale swings me haphazardly.”

There’s loss that never leaves you, that drains life of color, sound, and feeling. It’s like a sheen of cloying gray moss muffling everything in a blinding symbiosis. Loved ones who haunt you with their lingering hopes and dreams, snapping from branches in the humid jungle.

For me? My gibbon friend, Suso. Her furry limbs, playfully swatting my feathers as I flew. Her singing as if to taunt me. Golden gibbon hoots, beauty deeper than birdsong. Golden gibbon hoots, swinging vines for so long. Golden gibbon hoots, at rest on branches and roots.

Before that, my parents and siblings. Their vibrant plume. Familial comfort gone forever. Sometimes not just my species of parrot, but every avian ghost chirps a chorus in my tiny heart, leaves me shuddering in a corner, beak tucked against my breast.

Around the full moon, diverse animals gather on Hope Plateau for seasonal moots. Each moot is a three-day intended for negotiating the path our cross-creature community will follow in the next cycle. Even after disasters wiped out most tribes, the tradition sticks to us.

But no agreement has been reached yet. Maybe not at all this time. An increasing issue as glossed-over despair worsens like the spread of blight under bark, feather, fur.

Like aching pains in my fragile bones.

Among the shattered ruins clinging to Hope Plateau, trees and ferns tower over the graves of billions. Creatures of all types, many extinct, such as the humans much of my tech is derived from. Roots dig and tear apart evidence of civilizations, of mistakes, of blinded pride and selfishness, of failed symbiosis, of how fruitless were the moots of previous generations.

It’s been a year since I retreated inside the confines of a capsule among the ruins. In its network of chambers, I’ve become a parasite nesting on history’s hubris, lurking in the shadows of my family’s death, tracing their lives left behind as nothing more than scratches and graffiti. I habitually send out bots to fetch food and supplies while I watch the community fester and fight.

Outside of my capsule, a mist-filled dawn graces the foliage with a shimmer. The moon bobs above jungle fronds and rocky peaks. On the edge of the opposite horizon, the sun glowers, not yet pushing its oppressive heat on those eking out lives here.

Beyond my hermit home gather the haters, the hated, and the in-between. Nut-stealing, back-talking, guilt-tripping, red giant flying squirrels. Brutish golden gibbons with heavenly baritone voices, who bash invasive nests out of their expanding treetop colonies. Black-and-white Goliath beetles restlessly shake mandibles, skittering in the bark, rubbing wings and legs in stridulated mockery.

And me, only surviving parrot orphan. Ruffling my feathers at the thought of flight, of freedom from this broken community, of independence. Oh, how I want to leave here forever.

Everyone locked in a pointless debate that circles the windows of my hideout. So much destroyed in the disasters of our youth. We are the trash that lingers on, bickering over and mutating from the soured remains.

I try not to engage. Try to focus on practical repairs. But they’re so chirping loud.

The golden gibbons beat their silver-and-black streaked chests. Their long limbs swing foolishly as they stomp out territory, the largest branches and discs of plateau rock at one end of the moot arena. As a group, they chant, “Goom, goom, goom, all of you, move, move, move!”

Goom, reigning gibbon leader, is much smaller and angrier than his sister Suso (how I miss her), and he bellows for attention. “Thieves!” he shouts in his quavering baritone. “Get your greedy paws off our supply. We gave you your rightful share already.”

“Already,” the black-and-white speckled goliath beetles stridulate in chorus.

“What you gave us was disease-ridden fruit,” Rikrik chitters, as spokesperson for the red giant flying squirrels. His puffs of reddish-brown fur shiver in obvious irritation. “You only blame us for theft to displace your guilt for the hundreds dead and dying.”

“Dying,” the goliath beetles stridulate.

I want to tell them that none are to blame, that there’s no stopping the disease, that we should share and figure this out together. But I remember how the gibbons tried to murder me. The squirrels only laughed, and the beetles only burrowed and mocked, when I lost my family, my friend, and nearly my own life. Why bother? I’m safe inside, and I have a plan that I can manage on my own. I’ll leave behind their bickering nonsense.

“Just be quiet! All of you.” I beg through the external speakers installed in the trees and rocks, and my annoyance echoes within the tinny walls of home. “I’m trying to build here.”

I’m working on strengthening the walls of my capsule. Installing a proper engine. Two projects at once. Each of them leads to my goal of an exhaust pipe and thrust that will blast me into the sky. My goal of getting away from the three tribes I despise. Through the clouds to the moon, the stars. Or at least to another corner of the island where they’ll never find me. I’d be alone without the tension draining my intelligence, fraying the ease of my spirit, barring me from what blessed enjoyment I can scratch out of my minuscule life.

Gibbons hoot and raise their fists. One almost punches the camera I use to monitor them.

Goom, with leaves and twigs entwined as a crown upon his upside-down pineapple head, stomps forth to dominate the conversation. “We apologized about your family. Many times. It was an honest mistake. We believed the fruit was fresh. Nutritious. All of you must join us in preparing our trees for survival. For without them, we’ve nothing.”

“Nothing,” the beetles click.

“Liars,” I chirp. I should shut up and never engage, but sometimes it’s hard to hear the hypocrisy. Fluffing my feathers, I peck the controls of my robot mechanic. Focus on progress.

Rikrik points a paw at Goom, directing five other squirrels to heave chunks of bark and stone at the gibbons. “Your apologies are insults,” Rikrik chitters. “Excuses to pave the way for more clumsy murder. Excuses!”

“Murder,” half the beetles repeat.

“Excuses,” echo the other beetles.

Goom and his bodyguards swat at the thrown debris. A third of it slips past, hitting some of the gibbons in the face and chest. Goom bellows, commanding his kind to close their ranks. He leans over his family and friends, inspecting the damage.

A lull of silence. Nursing wounds. Mounting tensions.

I look away from the cameras. I take the opportunity to poke the mute button with my beak and set the viewing screen to sleep. Settling into work, I set the robot on wall strengthening duty to continue for another hour, and I direct another robot to inspect the cameras. Then, I crawl into the depths of the capsule to secure the initial connectors for a proper engine, chirping a poem to keep anxiety at bay.

* * *

One of the big, cruel storms took Mom. Better than being poisoned, I guess. I often recall her singing. Her talons curled round the metal ring of the crashed capsule where we had nested peacefully during the initial year of my youth. The rest of her body flapped wildly in the vicious gale. And yet, her song persevered. A song of comfort and endurance, of soaring great heights.

Wind feathers whisper

so we follow children’s dreams.

Hear them chirp and sing.

Clutch memories like warmed eggs.

Nest close and glide far.

So much more we need to feel.

Then came the pestilence and poison that killed Dad, my siblings, and many creatures. Every avian but me. Probably would’ve done me in, too, if it wasn’t for Suso.

Suso nursed me back to health. Her upside-down pineapple face. Pointy chin. Dark eyes. Bushy golden brows. Glistening curls of silver hair. She still looms over my restless sleep. When she later died of the poison, but I didn’t, her species blamed me. Her deceptively smaller elder brother, Goom, punched and screeched his rage.

The army of gibbons Goom amped up would have murdered me. If they weren’t distracted by the incidents afflicting the island, I might not have slipped away to cower in the capsule my family once thrived in.

Mom and Suso. Their singing sticks to me. I chirp about loss, inserting pieces of them.

Golden gibbon hoots, beauty deeper than birdsong.

Tugging my flight back, though I thought to nest

stung by sickened jungle death. Shed feathers.

Plucked smooth. Harsh seasons give. Take.

I twitch, alive. But she sighs, slumps.

Quiet rest in the brown roots and leaves.

Nest close. There was so much more

we need to feel. Don’t glide so far.

Harsh memory cloys to sour remains. What’s already decayed. The poetry helps me endure, though it’s a sad sign that I can never move on.

Can never depend on anyone but myself.

* * *

I’m circulating a wrench, tightening screws, when a cascade of rapid banging explodes against another corner of the capsule. Bang clunk. Buh-bang thunk. Thunk-thunk bang.

“Gibbons,” I mutter, and hop out of my work to check the monitors.

I flip visual and sound back on. A crowd of twenty squirrels gather below a camera, lifting stones in their paws. “We know you’re in there!” Their chittering erupts in a communal scream. “We know you!”

They swing their paws, tossing stones against the side of my home. Another series of bangs, clunks, and a shatter. I flinch at that last sound, wondering what damage I’d find. But for now, I have to convince them to stop. Several are scrambling about for more stones.

“Wait! I’m on your side. What do you need?”

They commence a whining chitter.

Then, the entire world explodes with a crack. A flash. A rolling rumble of thunder.

My screens go white. I lose all visual, though the audio stays strong. Chittering and squeaking. Paws running about, nails clicking on wood and rock.

Another scratch and knock against my home.

“Stop!” I chirp, before I think it through. I shouldn’t tell living creatures to get away from their nearest protection in sudden squall. But if I let them in, will I survive? Will they bring sickness? Violence? Will they take over the last home I have? Desecrate the memories of my family, my species?

More scratching and thumping, then another world-breaking crack.

The screeching of terrified animals.

I dive for the controls and peck the unlock for the entrance door. The squeaking of machinery as the door slides open. The entrance ramp lowers.

I flap down into the lower floor to greet them.

Another crack. A rumble. A frenzy of flashes.

No one’s at the door.

* * *

I freeze for a second, thinking it’s a prank, thinking I cannot go out there. One step and the wind will take me like it did Mom.

The ramp quivers in the howling wind. Leaves and twigs shoot past. Hard rain pelts the metal surface of the ramp, a punishing percussion. A chain attached to the capsule somewhere on the ramp whips and snaps at the air.

A squirrel screech rises in volume then abruptly ends with another crack of thunder. If Mom was here, she’d swoop out of the entrance and save the others. No hesitation. This freezing up nonsense was passed on to me from Dad. He knew how to fix junk, but confrontation and horror could pin him to his trembling talons.

In the end, I lost them both, so what does it matter if I take the risk? I duck my head and descend the ramp, keeping my talons and wings close to the surface, ready to hold on tight if the wind tries to tear me loose.

The wind punches me like Goom returning to exact revenge for the loss of Suso. I crumple onto the ramp, clinging to every dimple and crevice and screw. The wind relentlessly nudges me to the side, emphasizing how little my efforts matter.

Off the edge of the ramp, I spot the red giant flying squirrels clinging to the tails of their friends and families, clumped around one leg of the capsule. Best defense against the onslaught they could find, though the wind still slaps them as they screech in terror.

Rikrik is bravely at the front of the group, trying to shield the weaker ones from the onslaught. A darker brown squirrel, Rikrik’s partner, is trying to hold his tail, trying to keep him as safe as everyone else, but she loses her grip, and Rikrik shoots into the air.

Paws reaching out for help, the membranes between Rikrik’s limbs usually used for gliding only make it easier for the storm to inhale him.

To suck him into oblivion like happened to Mom.

Rikrik smacks the side of the ramp. He grabs the metal, one paw bouncing off. His other paw hooks on the rattling chain. He slips to the end of it but holds.

Membranes flapping in the wind, he’ll soon lose his grip. If I jump out to catch him, we’ll both be snatched into the storm. Pointless.

I snap my beak, though, resolutely inching forward, shuffling down to snag the chain, letting my talons slide forward along it. The chain stretches beyond the capsule, and there is a risk I won’t be able to climb back, but I’m on a beeline to snatch Rikrik. The thrilling promise of success sings in me and conquers my terror.

I open my beak. Spread my wings. Gingerly tighten my talons on the loops of chain.

Sliding, then…

Impact.

I hit Rikrik, knocking the air from my lungs. I close my beak gently around his puffy red arms and encircle my wings round his body. He hugs me, trembling uselessly. I try to snap a command but can’t with him shoved in my beak. I shake him, instead, and he seems to understand. He clambers down to my talons and grabs the chain.

No idea how I’ll get back. But at least Rikrik should have a solid grip with four paws, enough to make it to the ramp.

For a while, I focus on mere survival, squeezing my talons round the chain while the gale swings me haphazardly. The storm slaps me against the treetop and shakes me in the air.

I distance myself from the violence by floating through fuzzy memories. My brothers and I playing with the chains for fun. Swinging each other. Diving into the jungle depths. Our mother telling us to stop before we scare our father, only to join us for a round of dives. All of us singing an apology to Dad, only to have him dive down with us for a spur of the moment snack on the jungle floor. We nearly died that day when panthers chased us through the vines.

But after escaping, we chittered excitedly, foolishly, in the thrill of survival.

I’m singing like Mom. Like she’s here with me singing and dancing like a force.

Wind feathers whisper

so we follow children’s dreams.

Hear them chirp and sing.

The gale winds slam me against the capsule, knocking me from memory and song.

My talons lose their hold on the chain.

The force of the blow blasts me down to a capsule leg. I roll to the metal, and tuck in tightly against a surface that’s…soft? Warm? Rumbling?

A lone gibbon curls in on itself against the capsule leg. I’m pressed against him now as he grumbles to consciousness with large brows and a pointy pineapple face.

Like this one, most gibbons have golden fur traced with lightning bolts of silver and black, but Suso and Goom in particular have large brows and pointy chins that make their heads look like upside down pineapples.

While the dark pools of Suso’s eyes swam with love, though, the hatred in the eyes opening to glare at me now belongs to Goom.

“Get off,” Goom barks, uncurling. His fur bristles.

Thunder cracks. A flash turns the lanky Goom into wildfire that leaps out to scald me. His burning fist closes around my neck, lifts me, swings me against the capsule.

“I can help,” I squawk painfully.

Goom’s laughter pairs with staccato thunder, thrusting ripples through my body.

“I can get us inside,” I squawk. “We can all get inside. I—”

Sparks shower the ramp. A shock shoots through my back. Everything is pain and brightness and spinning bolts of electricity.

* * *

I can’t see. I’m crushed under a weight. The smell of burning moss. Wet rocks, charred trees, metallic grease. I hear a roar like the river, like the capsule engine will roar one day.

Itchy tendrils in my beak scratch my throat.

The weight of the thing on me sings softly, a voice as broken as I feel. As I am. Singing like the gibbons sing, like Suso sang before she died.

Golden gibbon hoots, beauty deeper than birdsong.

Golden gibbon hoots, swinging vines for so long.

Golden gibbon hoots, at rest on branches and roots.

It’s as if she’s calling me from the other side, from wherever our spirits go. The sound settles over me. I accept death, that I’ll be the last bird. I’ll take that honor then move on forever.

But first, my family on the jungle floor, steam thick and cloying, berries mashed in a purple mess that we tap our beaks into, flapping our wings in a flurry of joy before the preening, predatory jungle cat pounced, and we flew…

The singing booms and expands and reaches an ascending melody until it comes to a high note and holds it like a question. I try to respond like I used to sing back to Suso, but I can’t. I’m screeching through the tendrils in my beak.

The singing fades. The weight lifts. I’ll float into the storm. I’ll rise into the sky like my capsule’s fixed. I’ll escape the struggle and arguments on Hope Plateau.

“Mom, Dad, brothers, friends, Suso, I’m here. I’m done. Ready to go where you went.”

“Stop chirping.” The bark and boom of a gibbon. “We’re going to move you.”

I can almost see, but everything’s only dimly apparent beyond a shimmering gray film. A lanky shape laughing. A tiny chittering shadow beside me, touching my feathers, my flesh, my wounds. Pain zigzags through me, a shiver of excitement.

And I escape, I float. Memories buzz. My feathers shiver.

* * *

The sun’s shining in, warming me on my cot, which means the ramp must be down.

I must have dozed off here while watching the haters, the hated, and the in-between, while watching everyone gather before…wait, no. That’s not right.

I was in a storm. I was zapped dead. I was called on by ghosts. By Suso.

“I can hear you,” a gibbon says. The same gibbon who was singing. Goom, who’s laughing now. “You’re not dead.”

“I’m sorry,” I chirp.

“I know,” Goom sings. “I’m sorry, too. I wanted you dead. I did. But…”

Goom’s eyes, dark and soul-searching as Suso’s. His lips fat and sprawling like hers, nothing like the sharp beaks of my family, but I can tell he’s musing over something important, like we’re about to migrate but need to agree on where. Like we’re about to fly up to the moot arena for meaningful discussions to a time when everyone was still alive.

To a time when it mattered.

“We need to carry on,” I chirp, trying to convince myself.

“Yes, we do.” He nods, and it helps my confidence.

I kick my talons at the cot. “If the storm didn’t inhale us and churn us out as sour remains—”

“Then we’re meant to live,” Goom says. “I wish my sister had survived, but I’m glad her friend did. I’m glad you did. When I saw the storm hit you, I thought you were dying in my arms, and I thought of Suso, and I…I miss her. You were there for her. As much as you could be. And she was there for you. So, I’m telling you, I want to be there, too.”

I chirp agreement.

* * *

The next time the gibbons sing, I join them. Golden gibbon hoots, beauty deeper than birdsong. Golden gibbon hoots, swinging vines for so long. Golden gibbon hoots, at rest on branches and roots.

The squirrels don’t. Neither do the beetles. But we’ll get there. Bickering is a persistent part of who we were, but we’ll get past it, and sing together, come what may.

As a start, I work with the gibbons to distribute food and adapt my capsule as a clinic to help the hurt recover from the storm.

Everyone seems grateful. Relieved.

* * *

Forlorn thoughts of missing my family still make my knees wobble and my breast shiver. That sadness used to make me cower and freeze up, living in a worthless metal prison of my own creation, embracing relentless decay and wallowing in false hope.

Goom’s loss used to make him want to punish others, to take, to dominate.

But we’ve both endured. We’ve grown to realize the real hopes of our families in ways they could never have dreamed. A community of friends bearing possibility. A perch of comfort to settle on when we can’t manage it all. At least we have each other to struggle through the storms. To sing about those we lost, to remember them together.

Goom and I sit together, chirping and hooting about memories and survival, so I teach him my poem.

Golden gibbon hoots, beauty deeper than birdsong.

Tugging my flight back, though I thought to nest

stung by sickened jungle death. Shed feathers.

Plucked smooth. Harsh seasons give. Take.

I twitch, alive. But she sighs, slumps.

Quiet rest in the brown roots and leaves.

Nest close. There was so much more

we need to feel. Don’t glide so far.

Goom places a hand on his chest. “Memories in our hearts. They won’t glide so far,” he says, then extends his hand to me.

I set my talon on his palm. “And at least we’ll glide together.”

Goom grunts, and adds, “This will be a better symbiosis than you had on your own.”

On tattered clouds, the moon glimmers. Leaves bend under the weight of ghosts. The wind sighs, and the humidity eases. Trees and vines sway. Broken twigs fall.

With ample measures of respect for their friendship, the simmering jungle cools.

 

* * *

About the Author

R.J.K. Lee is a queer author based in Japan but originally from Oregon, USA. He writes on train rides while juggling jobs as teacher, proofreader, and voice narrator. His fiction has appeared in magazines such as Myriad: Kinship, Space & Time, Tales & Feathers, and DreamForge. More info at www.rjklee.com or https://linktr.ee/rjklee.

by Anne Larsen

“The man I ride uses the word ‘consuela’ for me. Is that a word you know?”

Consuela came to her vocation by riding on the shoulder of a pale human in black robes. The color suited her sorrow, the heavy cloth bunched beneath her clenched feet. Grief made her restless, but loneliness kept her clinging to this strange man who was the only one to walk away from the sun-dappled shade and silence of her village. The hammocks hung heavy with unbreathing fathers and stiff children. The women had died closer to the fire pit, trying to make broth for the little ones. When the last of her people had died, the pale man stumbled away from the village, and as she could not bear to be alone, she went with him.

The parrot had come to her village long ago, injured by an ocelot while learning to fly. A girl found her and carried her to the circle of open huts. The humans brought her water and fed her until she healed, but her left wing hung lower than it should and was not strong. She could fly, but not far. The jungle would not be safe for her. She chose these kind people as her flock, and they cared for one another. She learned Pumé, their language. She watched over the little ones, and scouted for the hunters. The people taught her their songs of creation and healing.

The girl who had found her grew up and bore children of her own. The bird felt a special bond with the oldest daughter. The bird found the ripest fruits and plucked the stems so they fell to the child’s waiting hands. That girl grew into a woman, and bore her first son. The bird adored him.

At the end of the rainy season, a stranger came to their village, a pale man wearing ridiculous black clothing, too hot and heavy for the jungle. The village welcomed him, invited him to shed his layers, but he would not. He started learning their language.

By the full moon, a new kind of illness tore through the village, taking the children first, then their parents, all of them coughing and gasping. The herbs the healers tried did not break the fever. Men did not return from hunting. The nets hung untended in the river. The bird sat with her beloved until she died, following her newborn son.

At first, the pale man tried to bury the people, but there were so many and the ground was so clasped by roots that he could not dig fast enough. Finally he fled, scrambling into a canoe he did not know how to handle, and pushed out into the river. The bird fluttered after him, perched on the bow and offered instructions, but he did not listen to any of the three languages she knew. The little craft caught on a submerged snag and he lost his oar pushing them free. The river spun the canoe out into the current and they drifted on for a day and a night.

The man trembled in his sweat, peeling back his robe before collapsing into sleep. Mosquitoes feasted on his wet chest, though the bird plucked as many of them away as she could reach. Now and then she would fly to the bank and grab a ripe fig, then return to the boat to eat it. She brought him figs, too. He woke when she dropped one in his lap. At last he studied her, perched on his knee.

“Consuela,” he said, touching her beak with a fingertip.

Is that his word for me? she wondered. Her people had called her with a distinct whistle-chirp she had taught them. It carried through the dense jungle when they were all hunting together and they needed her to tell them what she saw. The bird offered it to him but he did not understand.

“Consuela,” she said back to him. His eyebrows went up and he tilted his head.

“Sí, Consuela.” A weak smile perched on his mouth, then faded.

“What does that mean?” she asked in Pumé. He blinked at her. He had only come a wingspan of days ago, and did not know many words. She flared her yellow neck feathers and bobbed her head at him, then clambered back up to sit on his shoulder. He slept again.

The next day, a Waraoan man ferrying bunches of green bananas came near, and the pale man called out to him. With deft strokes the trader drew beside them and coaxed the pale man to crawl from the small canoe to sit in the bow of the greater one. There was a space on the far side of the mounded fruit where the pale man could huddle. After that, the two men did not speak. The pale man slept, slumped at one end of the long dugout. The parrot groomed herself, tidying every feather on her breast and back, pulling each blue-tipped primary through her gray beak to smooth the filaments. She could not settle.

The parrot fluttered to the stern and perched on a banana. She fixed the trader with one white-ringed golden eye. He nodded to her.

“My village died,” she said.

“Everywhere people are dying,” he told her. “You speak Warao well. Are you a magical bird?”

“I am an old bird. I listen. Is that magical?”

“Does that man know you understand human speech?”

“No. He thinks I am as silly as a quetzal.”

“Those black-robes don’t know anything. Not what to eat, what to avoid. They ask to be carried upriver to the villages for some reason, yet they cannot take care of themselves.”

“Why didn’t this one die when everyone else did?” she asked.

“I don’t know. They do die, usually of some sickness that we survive. It is odd, the way they are strong and weak at the same time.”

“Thank you for picking us up.”

“I am honored to be of service to a bird like you.”

The pale man cried out in his sleep then, and the parrot returned to his shoulder. She groomed his matted hair and nibbled the rim of his ear the way she had soothed the village children. She picked lice out of the hair on his face, which was thicker every day. None of her people grew curly hair like this. His bad dream passed, the jungle passed, and she watched scarlet macaws fly overhead, shouting gossip to one another, teasing a newly-mated pair.

The river widened and slowed, the banks receding on both sides. Other canoes joined the current, laden with papaya and cacao pods. When one came close carrying a heap of the huge, brown tururi fruit that contained her favorite nut, Consuela called out to that boatman, saying please, and naming the fruit in Pumé. He looked at her and shrugged. She asked again in Warao and the boatman laughed. He tossed one of the fruits to the banana trader, who broke it open and held it out to her. Consuela plucked out a long seed and peeled it. She ate three of them, delighted by the rich, soft meat. White crumbs stuck to the black robe. Satisfied for the first time since they had left her village, she fluffed herself, pulled up one foot, tucked her beak into her back feathers, and slept through the night.

The next morning the river was so wide she could see only one bank. The Warao, who lived their whole lives on this moving water, steered their boats across the current to the unseen shore, or paddled hard upstream.

Should I live with them now? the bird thought. The idea of being on the water in every season made her uneasy. Then a dugout drifted downriver past them, a man slumped over his oar and a woman huddled around a child at the bow, flies busy on their lifeless faces. The bird screamed her anger at this death.

If they are dying, too, then I will be left alone again. She screamed her sorrow. Startled, a mob of fleet, green parakeets rose screeching from the vines that draped the trees, carrying her distress deeper into the forest. The pale man woke and looked where the bird was looking. His tears left clean streaks on his cheeks. He did not move as the parrot plucked the salty, bright drops from his nose and chin.

That evening she sat with the Warao man. He plucked tururi nuts out of the big fruit for her, and she sang him his people’s origin song, which she had learned from an old trader who had sold fish and tapir hides to her beloved Pumé. She liked the chanted refrain of this song, and the boatman drummed the rim of the canoe to keep time.

“The first man lived on the sky river,” she sang, “with many birds for company but no other people, no four-legged ones or fish. One day he shot an arrow at a great bird and struck its breast. It fell from the open air, down and down, until it broke through the bed of the sky river. All the birds cried with joy at the light that rose from that place below.

“All the birds assembled, each with its people, and they flew through that hole into this world. They were so many it took a whole day for them to leave. The first man called to them. They laughed and invited him to follow. When he was all alone on the sky river with the unspeaking stars, he grieved. He was afraid.

“Then a blue-headed parrot called his name from far below, told him to be brave and look down through the hole. It took all the courage of his heart, but he did look, and he saw the green and glorious land, the forest, the many rivers, and the game. He saw bright flocks of birds playing in the trees, feasting on fruit he had never tasted. He saw silver fish leap from the waters and dainty-footed deer stepping from the shadows to drink.

“But it was a long way down. The man plucked the clouds and spun threads, then twisted those threads into rope. He tied that rope to his canoe, which would not fit through the hole. He lowered himself down to live in this world forever, and the parrots welcomed him, for we are all speaking peoples and we belong together.”

When the bird finished, the man drummed and sang for her, a funny song about a man who fell in love with a river otter and her family’s pranks on the couple. Afterwards, they sat in silence together, the bird preening and the trader weaving fabric from palm fibers. Then, from the far side of the bananas, the pale man’s voice rose in a song filled with longing so intense that both the bird and the boatman listened unmoving. They could not understand his words, but the posture of the man’s heart was clear. When he finished, the boatman whispered to the bird.

“I think he misses his homeland. He does not belong here.”

“I wonder if he can go back?” the bird said.

“If he could, would he sing like that?”

The bird nodded to him. Then she fluttered over the bananas and landed on the pale man’s shoulder and nibbled his ear.

“Consuela,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“Consuela,” she said back. He reached up to touch her and she bumped his finger with her beak. Then she fluffed herself, pulled up one foot, and slept.

Late the next day, they arrived at a place where there were more huts and boats than the bird had ever seen together. The trader steered his canoe close to a wooden dock and tied it there. He called to two women who helped him unload his bananas.

“Thank you for carrying me to this place,” the bird said.

“Thank you for your company, and the song,” the boatman said. “What will you do now?”

“I will stay with the black-robe,” the bird said. “He is so lost and alone. He needs me.”

“You are always welcome on my canoe,” the boatman said. “Be careful out there. People are dying. Parrots might be in danger, too.”

“You are kind to offer me a place. But I belong on land among trees, not on the water. Please be careful yourself.”

The pale man crouched low and wobbled forward along the boat. He extended his hand to the boatman, who would not take it. Instead, they bowed to one another. The boatman passed a palm-fiber bag to the pale man, and pointed to the bird.

“This is for her, she likes tururi nuts,” he said in Warao.

The pale man nodded, understanding the gesture, and bowed again. Then he stepped up onto the dock. The women helping unload moved back, away from him. He bowed to them, too.

The yellow-headed bird rode his shoulder as he walked into the cluster of houses. The paths between them twisted among the huge trees. The bird noted many empty homes, and fewer humans than she expected in so large a village. They passed through a wide place where women sat with baskets of fruit, fish, and game. Smoke twined up from small fires, wrapping around the meat spread over it on poles. The parrot knew the pale man must be hungry, but he did not stop to trade.

At a hut larger than the others, with a strange shape jutting up from the roof beam, he stopped. He ducked inside. Streaks of sunlight came through the walls to ornament the dim interior. At one end the bird saw a platform with bowls on it and two white sticks that each hosted a tiny flame on top. The pale man knelt so fast that he almost fell, and the bird squawked in alarm, flapping and scrambling to stay on his shoulder.

Her companion started speaking, his voice breaking now and then. He spoke a different language, one with a different rhythm and little melodic rise and fall.

Maybe this is his ritual language, the bird thought. It sounds like he has said these words his whole life. She listened, caught a few phrases and stored these in her memory.

While the man recited his words, another pale man in black robes walked into the room. A red-bellied macaw rode his shoulder. She nodded a greeting to that bird, and he nodded back. They all waited until her human paused.

“Amen,” the new man said.

“Amen,” the macaw said.

“Amen,” the yellow-headed bird said in unison with her human. He did not rise from where he knelt. His shoulders drooped.

The macaw flew up to perch on a rafter. The yellow-headed bird joined him there and they touched beaks. The macaw said something in Huottüja, a language she did not know well.

“My village died,” she answered in Huottüja. “Do you speak Warao?”

“I am sorry to hear that,” the macaw said in Warao. “That is happening everywhere.”

“Is that why there are more houses here than people to live in them?”

“Some died here, but most of the men were taken away by the pale ones called encomenderos. They have sharp blades, strong rope, and a drink that stuns. They offer this to the men and then tie them up and carry them away when they are asleep.”

“What are they doing with the men?” The bird could not fathom why the pale ones would do such a thing.

“They load them onto enormous boats, bigger than any canoe, and pushed by the wind. They go away and we never see them again.”

The bird considered this alarming news. “Do you speak their languages?” she asked.

“I have been with Pedro for a year. I have learned España, but less of their other language.”

“The man I ride uses the word ‘consuela’ for me. Is that a word you know?”

“In España, that word means comfort. It means easing pain in the heart.”

“I did try to comfort him. So it will do for a name.” She groomed her feet and talons, thinking. “Do parrots ride all the black-robes, or is it just you and me?”

“I have only met parrots riding those black-robes who are angry at what the encomenderos are doing. Most black robes help the encomenderos and the parrots shun them. They are bad people.”

Consuela fluffed herself. She offered to groom the macaw’s head, tidying the feathers that one cannot reach for oneself. He welcomed her kindness, closing his dark eyes in bliss.

The men knelt together on the ground in front of the little flames. The macaw’s man spoke the ritual language, and Consuela’s man answered him. They often spoke in unison. At length, the macaw’s man stood and offered a red drink and flat bread to her man, who wept and accepted this gift. The two of them settled across from one another and switched to Spanish.

“I will tell you what they are saying,” the macaw said. “I think it is important.” The two birds huddled together. “Your man’s name is Antonio, my man is Pedro. He calls me Valaro. They are telling each other about going out to the villages and how the people sicken and die when they come. Antonio thinks there is something about the pale ones that makes our people ill. Your village was the second time this terrible thing has happened to him. He thinks the black-robes should stop going to the villages.

“Pedro is angry at the encomenderos, at how they capture and carry away our people. He has stopped offering them the gift he gave Antonio, and this made them furious. They yelled at him, and one struck him. I bit that one,” Valaro said. “I tore his ear so it would not heal and we would know him if we saw him again.”

“Good idea,” Consuela said.

“Pedro scolded me, but when the men left, he thanked me for doing it. Now they are discussing how they might stop the encomenderos from taking men.”

“Do they have sharp blades and the things the encomenderos have?”

“No. Pedro thought that denying them the gift would matter more, but the encomenderos did not stop. He told me that we are few and they are many, and they believe they are allowed to do what they want. Antonio says that they need a plan.”

Both men had fallen silent below the birds. Evening dimmed the room so the tiny flames on the white sticks shone brighter. Moths flitted in through the open door and swirled around the lights. A bat followed them in, caught and ate them on the wing.

“We should eat something,” Pedro said.

Antonio held up the fiber bag with the tururi nuts. He looked up at the parrots.

“Come share our meal,” Consuela said to the macaw. She glided down to Antonio’s shoulder. Valaro landed on Pedro and stroked his cheek against Pedro’s jaw. Pedro ruffled the feathers on the nape of the bird’s neck.

Antonio handed Consuela a nut. She cracked open the hard, thin shell and peeled it off the meat. She fluttered across to Pedro’s lap, offering him the nut.

“Gracias, loro bonito,” he said.

“Consuela,” Valaro said.

Antonio started. “I call her that,” he said. “How does your bird know her name? For that matter, how does she know her name? She has only been with me for a few days.”

The macaw grasped the nut in his left foot and repeated the men’s words in Warao for Consuela.

“I call this bird Valaro,” Pedro said. “He defended me from men who tried to beat me when I confronted them about the abductions.” Pedro bit half of the nut and passed the other half to Valaro. “I think these parrots are as intelligent as we are. They have a gift for languages and they live a long time.”

“Surely they just echo what we say?” Antonio said.

“Then how did Valaro know your companion’s name? You have not used it before now. She must have told him, which means she also knows that ‘consuela’ is the word you attached to her for your convenience.”

“She stayed with me. She brought me fruit when we floated down the river. She could speak with the boatman who brought us here. But I thought she was just prattling at him.”

“Did he speak with her?” Pedro asked.

“I was sick, and fading in and out. But now that you mention it, I think they were conversing. One night she sang a long song and he drummed.” Antonio invited Consuela to sit on his knee. He gave her another nut to shell. She ate half and gave him the other half, which he ate.

“We have all broken bread together now,” Pedro said. “But I can offer you more than tururi nuts.” He rose with Valaro balanced on his shoulder. Pedro helped Antonio up. Hunger made him unsteady, but Consuela clung to his robe. Antonio and Pedro each took a candle, and they walked to an adjacent hut.

Pedro had a low table. He put out smoked fish, papaya, figs, and pounded cassava porridge. He poured water into a cup for Antonio and into a coconut shell for the birds. The men spoke before they ate, but not during the meal. Afterwards, Pedro tied up a second hammock for Antonio and banked their small fire. Valaro and Consuela perched together under the eaves.

“They will wake in the night to pray,” Valaro said, “but we can stay here.” Comforted by the warm softness of another bird beside her, Consuela slept well.

The next morning Pedro assembled two small satchels, passing one to Antonio. The birds settled on their shoulders and they walked to the dock. On the way, Pedro greeted many of the women by name and they smiled at him. One gave him a huge papaya, which he slid into his pack.

“These people like him,” Valaro said. “They saw him fight with the encomenderos. They lost their men, but they appreciate his courage.”

Pedro traded the huge papaya to an elderly boatman for a ride down the river. The man had a bad leg, so the encomenderos did not take him, though they had taken his sons.

“Can you bring them back to me?” he asked in Warao.

“We will try,” Valaro answered. “If any more black robes come, do not take them upriver to the villages.”

The boatman studied the two parrots. He spoke directly to the macaw.

“All of the ones nearby are empty now. They would have to go very far up to find people. I cannot row against that current anymore. Are you two teaching these men manners?”

“We will try. Some of them are good people, but most of them are not,” Valaro said.

Pedro said, “We are going to their camp to learn where they are taking your men and boys.” He spoke Warao with a thick accent, but he used the right words, which impressed Consuela.

It took two days to reach the river delta, riding the current among the narrow islands. They saw few boats going upriver, and no one was fishing. Late in the second day, they rounded an island and Consuela saw huge ships in the middle of the river, tall trees stuck out of their backs like porcupine spines. Ahead, they saw where the encomenderos had burned part of an island to make their camp in the muddy ruins.

The boatman delivered them to the upstream side of the island and fled.

Valaro and Consuela guided their men through the jungle. Once, Valaro warned them away from the most dangerous kind of serpent. Consuela found ripe fruit for their midday meal. They found a place where they could crouch in the shadows and watch the encomenderos.

Valaro said, “We will go look for the men. Wait here.” He and Consuela flew across the open. The encomenderos lived in cloth huts, and had filthy habits. The camp stank from their open waste pits where clouds of flies swarmed. A few of the cloth huts were larger than the others, and men stood outside them dressed in dark shells like upright armadillos holding tall spears with leaf-shaped blades. No one looked up as the parrots passed.

On the far side of the camp the birds found the missing men. They were bound with rope on their wrists and ankles, and all were tethered to a long rope that pulled their arms above their heads. Several were sick, moaning with fever, skin swellings, or coughing. Many had dried blood on their backs and legs, and flies clustered there. All of the men were thin and filthy.

Consuela landed on the long rope and spoke to the man below her.

“Who are your people?” she asked in Warao. The man blinked at her, his eyes dull.

“We are Pumé and Huottüja,” he said. His voice was ragged with thirst.

“How long have you been here?”

“Since quarter moon. The sick ones have been here longer. Some Warao came yesterday.”

Consuela felt his fear like a wound. “We want to help you. If we broke your ropes could you run?”

He shook his head. The muscles between his shoulders twitched every time he slumped, and he whimpered in pain.

“We could crawl,” he said.

Shouts came from the camp and four encomenderos marched toward the captives with a bucket and a gourd dipper. Some captives stirred and lifted their heads. One called for water in Warao. Consuela retreated to a burned snag and whistled for Valaro. He joined her as the encomenderos started down the line, dipping water and holding it for the captives to drink. As they could not use their hands, most of the water spilled. The encomenderos laughed and smacked the thirsty men with the dipper. Valaro translated for Consuela.

“Others are coming in the morning to take these men away.”

The encomenderos ran out of water before they reached the end of the line. The few men left cried out as their captors sauntered off, laughing.

“We must free them,” Consuela said.

“We will need help.”

The parrots flew back to Pedro and Antonio. Valaro described the situation and translated as usual.

“If we are going to rescue them, we need to do it tonight,” Antonio said. “But how? I have my eating knife and you have yours, but it would take hours to cut their bonds.”

“We will get others,” Consuela said. “My people and their cousins will come and shred the ropes.”

“I will call in the macaws,” Valaro said. “They will scream and argue. No one in the camp will hear anything we are doing.”

“The captives are weak,” Consuela said. “We need to get them into the jungle, then into canoes.”

“We can hide in the brush and meet them,” Pedro said.

“The macaws know everything that happens on the river,” Valaro said. “They can find boatmen to meet us.” Valaro drew in the dirt with two toes to show Pedro and Antonio where the captives were. “We will go gather our people and return before moonrise,” the macaw said.

Consuela stretched her sore shoulder. Having a plan pleased her. She flew up to the canopy and called to her kin. She sent the first group out to recruit more. Far away above the river she heard Valaro summoning the macaws.

By sunset, a loud mob of the long-tailed macaws filled the trees closest to the camp with a storm of red, yellow, blue, and green. At dusk, Valaro sent them swooping over the cloth huts and cook-fires, shouting and spraying their sticky white guano on the encomenderos. By dark, all the bad men were inside their shelters. The howler monkeys joined the wild din.

Consuela led her kin to the captives, explaining that they must work in silence to free these people. Blue-headed birds, birds of green and gray, birds with white foreheads and others with yellow napes gathered in the snags above the men. Antonio and Pedro stayed back in the trees, ready for their part.

Three or four parrots tended to each captive, their strong beaks clipping through the sisal rope with ease, teasing apart the strands and knots until the bonds fell away. Consuela found three of her kin who spoke Warao, and two who spoke Huottüja so they could soothe the men and tell them what to do. She found four more Pumé men, but one was too sick to move when the ropes were gone. He thanked her for her kindness and lay still.

By midnight, every captive who was able had crawled or staggered into the forest. At first they feared the black robes, but Consuela reassured them that these were good men who worked against the encomenderos. Hour by hour, they crept through the undergrowth toward the far side of the island where the boatmen waited. In the faint light of the waning moon, the freed men collapsed into the canoes and were rowed away. Consuela and Valaro told them to stay far from the encomenderos, refuse their shiny gifts and drink, and warn everyone else.

Consuela, so exhausted she had to cling to Antonio’s robe, pressed herself against his chest. He fed both birds papaya.

“I don’t think we will be able to do this a second time,” Pedro said.

“We cannot stop what the encomenderos are doing,” Antonio said. “But we can slow them down.”

“We need to find other men like you,” Consuela said.

“We will find other parrots,” Valaro added.

“I believe we have a new vocation,” Pedro said.

“What does that word mean?” Valaro asked.

Antonio said, “It means good work that we must do.”

“Together,” Consuela said. Then she tucked her beak into her back feathers and fell asleep.

 

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About the Author

Anne Larsen writes in a biodiverse household that includes mammals, birds, and plants, in particular a gang of Venus flytraps that rule a dangerous neighbourhood on one windowsill. In addition to direct guidance from her animal family, Larsen draws on biology, history, mythology, and religious studies in her magical realism.

Welcome to Issue 26:  Conscripted to Fight

We don’t get to choose the battles we’re called on to fight.  We get caught in a tangled web of our times and our principles, and the result is that some battles must be fought, even if we’d rather refuse the call.  Because refusing the call can be a battle all its own.  From felines to formicidae, dogs to pipe organs, follow these delightful characters through the tangled webs of their lives and fortunes.

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The Heart of Rain by Spencer Orey

I Didn’t Raise My Cub to be a Solider by Lynn Gazis

We Used to Be Best Friends by Ian Salavon

The Revolution by H. Robert Barland

Rebellion by F.I. Goldhaber

Fire Ants by Elizabeth Davis

Webs by Ginger Strivelli

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In other news, Zooscape had such a successful reading period this year that we’ve expanded our publishing schedule — six issues per year, publishing in all the even numbered months!  We will hold our next reading period in February, 2027.  You can learn more on our guidelines page.

As always, if you want to support Zooscape, check out our Patreon.  Also, you can pick up e-book or paperback volumes of our earlier issues, complete with an illustration for every story.

by Ginger Strivelli

“The webs are portals, tiny little portals between the two colliding planes of existence.”

She wove a design that her ancestors wove into their webs when dinosaurs walked the face of the Earth. It was the same design her descendants would weave into their webs long after humans had been wiped off the face of the Earth. It was just a web to any human who might wander by, they would not stop to wonder about it, though they surely should if only they knew why.

People only see a pretty but mundane web holding the spider’s lunch and her egg sack. It would not cross their mind again once they walked past. The Spider knew the magic and the science of her web nonetheless. Magic older than history and science more advanced than the future were woven into those fragile strands of silk. They kept the world—the universe even—from disappearing into nothingness.

The webs are not just traps for the flies or cradles for the eggs, they are portals to another dimension. A dimension that is smashed up against ours threatening to crush our universe. Making all of us, everything, all that is or ever will be… just disappear in a bursted bubble. Making us barely a forgotten memory in the void of darkness.

The webs are portals, tiny little portals between the two colliding planes of existence. They bleed off little bits of energy between the two, relieving the pressure that has been building up since they crashed together more years ago than we have words for the numbers. The webs are pressure valves keeping our bubble intact, just barely.

Many tribes worshiped the spider as Spider Grandmother, most cultures told tales of Her bringing the Sun to humans for warmth and light. Like all legends there is a grain of truth in that storytelling. Our sun would blink out instantly if the web portals were not in place relieving the pressure from the invading place. Without our sun, we would die most horribly. So the spiders were and are still bringing the light and warmth of the Father Sun to Mother Earth’s face.

People, alas, have long since stopped worshiping her for it. Nevertheless all her children weave that ancient design in their webs day after day, eon after eon. Saving all of us from utter annihilation and letting us continue to live obliviously on.

“Damn spiders, they creep me out!” the old man said, smacking the web down from his porch corner with his walking cane.

She lay on the porch floor wounded, wrapped, and trapped in her own web dying slowly. Her egg sack lay nearby. She pulled herself with her three remaining unbroken legs with her last bit of strength gingerly.

“Remember my babies, weave the ancient, the futuristic design that keeps this world and all the worlds in balance. You must keep making the portals as we always have until we can no more and it all does finally collapse. May that end be as far away in the future, as the beginning is in the past,” she said to her children with the breath that was her last.

 

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About the Author

Ginger Strivelli is an artist and writer from North Carolina. She has written for Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Fantasy Magazine, Circle Magazine, Third Flatiron, Autism Parenting Magazine, Silver Blade, Solarpunk Magazine, The New Accelerator, various other magazines and several anthology books. She loves to travel the world and make arts and crafts. She considers herself a storyteller, entertaining and educating through her writing.

by Elizabeth Davis

“She brags to the males that she will forsake them all and mate with the sun.”

We burn. But that is fine. We have burned for many generations. Such as here. Life here is good. We come back heavy with food, and our young grow strong. Already wings have sprouted on the new queen, and it will be soon, we know. We eagerly bustle  through our tunnels, made easy in this dirt. The cool soil protects our young from the beating sun and those that would steal them, winged things with hard beaks.

Not that they try much anymore. For we are fierce and have reared our young on the flesh of those that seek to eat us. We have become quick leaving just the bones, and the hearty diet makes our young strong. Their exoskeletons are hard and mandibles sharp. We wonder how large the next hive will get, hope rushing alongside us.

For we no longer fear the lands outside our home as we once did. We march confidently as we scout, some of us going many dark and light cycles to return with strange treasures. More than food. More than leaves.

Sometimes it’s nothing but click-words that fill the air  that seep in and let us dream stories. Of the other hive-kingdoms they had come across, the ones that wonder at a loner when safety is in numbers, and of their ways, raising caterpillars, or living in the bark mountains. Some tell of giants.

The new queen asks about all this, especially the sun. We know why, for she burns like the rest of us. She asks about the great light that awakens the plants and brings new scents into the tunnels. She asks about its colors and how far up it is, fluttering her still developing wings. We know that she brags to the males that she will forsake them all and mate with the sun.  The males whine to us about her boasts when we feed them, each one gorging themselves to feed the flames inside of them brighter and brighter.

We lovingly soothe them with our antennae, sending safe and warm pheromones. The old queen stirs from her slumbers when we carry off her latest batch of eggs, telling the males not to worry, that she boasted the same thing when she still flew. Yet her males do not drop to the ground unfulfilled still burning. Hers become ash, their fire passed on to the next generation and generation after that.

Still, life is better than before. So much better than before.

A before none of us saw first-hand but all of us remember. A before with no sun, the light cold and blue. A light that never enchanted our queens for it was always there, invading through the walls of our home. Our hive narrow and constrained. The dirt there was sparse, pushing against slippery clear crystal where monsters watched us. Horror stories of scrambling against this slippery surface, feet failing to hold. Then suddenly a great shadow loomed. The fake sun would be gone and we were watched by a silent giant that took its place.

These giants smelled of nothing, but they moved like all living beings. White shells over pink flesh, their eyes were small and too close together. They were strangely smooth, only a few sprinklings of hair. But worse were their mouths. For they were like antlion pits, smooth and tight until a wrong step and then they opened, into an endless dark tunnel. A tunnel that could swallow the colony whole, locking them away in their stomachs.

Many of us choose to look away, to keep our heads down. To continue to dig, forage, and nurse. To not think about the giants that could be looming overhead, watching our every step. The giants whose appendages would reach down, scooping us away, taking us far from the reach of family, and then they were gone out from our memories.

The mother of the mother of the mother of our queen did not look away. She listened, hearing with more than just feeling for the vibrations as the ground shook against the walls of the giants coming. She learned that they don’t always open their mouths to eat or fight. But to communicate, shaking everything with each thought. She learned to parse their sounds, breaking them down into concepts like “pests,” “invasive species,” and “extermination.”  Concepts that made her mutter in her sleep. Workers heard them as dire prophecies and they were puzzled. Why would the giants wish to wipe us all out? What threat could we pose to them? We never led raids against their colonies, carried off their young — how could we?

But monsters don’t need reasons. We learned that on the day that multiple shadows loomed over us. They talked and shook the ground as one of their appendages reached down. It was a gray thing, covered in thick hide, one that our stingers could not penetrate. It extended down into our tunnels, gliding through each curve and twist. It was more like a proboscis or a stinger than a limb.

It emerged from neither front nor back but from somewhere beyond the two giants standing over us, their bodies twisted as they pushed it forward.

Then we who were fighting, we who climbed onto the appendage, we who plunged our  stingers in again and again, even after their venom was gone, we who tore with our mandibles, dooming ourselves to starvation as they broke against the tough shell. We were the first to notice the change, the new smell that broke the familiar hive chorus.

Then the pain began. The queen watched helplessly as we fell around her, legs collapsing with spasms, bodies wrenched in twisting shapes by the pain, the pain that clogged our breaths and left us burning. Burning like venom from other hive-kingdom soldiers as their stingers broke through our armor, leaving us dying. Burning like sun when caught by floating crystal above, making a concentrated beam that drifted one to another, leaving desiccated corpses in its wake. The bright burning army that raged over our lands, destroying those who didn’t run fast enough inside, those who dared to stay out in the forest for just one more morsel of food.

We know all this because the same burning came upon her. She writhed, twisting her back as the giants stood around, “satisfactory,” “better than the last batch,” “we will have to move on the next stage of testing with this formula.” As she writhed, the queen thought of us, still just eggs in her. She thought of the great battles won by our ancestors, of the lands we had left behind. Lands of much food and easy living. Lands of hard wood, stealing the crumbs the giants dropped, where digging too far brought you to endless water. Of when the endless water invaded our lands. And we clung together, the corpses of those who drowned keeping the rest safe as we floated away.

All of that would die with her, for she had not hatched a new queen yet, one to carry her memories to a new colony, to remember if we were to perish. So she held on despite the burning, her body wracked with pain. Even when death would be a mercy, she held on, burying the burning deep to regain some control of her limbs, of her body.

For when we forget everything else, we still remember to dig.

Slowly she started to walk, dragging her body through the piles of corpses. As she left behind the birthing chamber, she felt the giants talk. “Anomaly, resistance, tests, tissue extraction, dissection.” Then one of the clear walls that had defined our lives, our tunnels swung away, hitting her with cold stunning air. She fumbled without its limiting support and a giant reached in.

Only two of its claws were needed to grip her tightly, leaving her flailing in the air as it dragged her away from her graveyard home. Away from the home we had built. She was not a worker and lacked the sting, but still she reached down, grasping the thin chitinous plates of the giant in her mandibles. She felt them puncture through and she pushed the burning that filled her into those two small punctures.

The giant dropped her as it trembled from its own high pitched screaming. She fell far, breaking one of her legs. But she was free to drag herself away as the other giant attended to his brethren, who thrashed on the floor like her children had before a painful exhale. Flames broke through his shell, making his innards run like water down a hill.

It was beautiful, those flames, beautiful like the sun, giving off light that battled the cold blue light that marked the land of the giants. She now understood what burned inside her, the beauty that her next generation would be filled with.

Fire ants the giants had named us, and it is a good name. For we carry the fire within us. A fire that burns through any carapace, a fire that leaps from our mandibles ready to consume. Our queen went far away, and her daughter even further, the fire sustaining them. But occasionally we see giants cast their shadow, reckless in their size to us until they feel our bite.

And they will. Again and again. Until they learn to no longer cast their shadows between us and the sun.

 

* * *

About the Author

Elizabeth Davis is a second generation writer living in Dayton, Ohio. They live there with their spouse and two cats – neither of which have been lost to ravenous corn mazes or sleeping serpent gods. They can be found at deadfishbooks.com when they aren’t busy creating beautiful nightmares and bizarre adventures. Their work can be found at 42 Stories Anthology, Luna Station, and Scarfice from Duskbound Books.

by F.I. Goldhaber

“Better to die an ignoble death than have anyone regard him as a second-rate instrument.”

During Fisk’s forty-six years at Christ Episcopal Church in East Bay Harbor, Connecticut, organists came and went. While most played for several years, a few stayed only months. Fisk remembered them all by their hands. Matthew had short, pudgy fingers, yet he manipulated Fisk’s keys with a firm touch and coaxed out wondrous harmonies. Lenora fondled Fisk’s keys with thin, expressive fingers requiring him to stay alert lest he miss a note. Roger’s hands, like soft clouds, caressed Fisk’s keys towards new heights in sound.

Other than his well-worn bench — the varnish polished away by organists’ vestments to reveal the intricate grain of fine oak — Fisk showed remarkably few signs of age. Two of his stops, stuck in the Off position, resisted all attempts to use them. A few of his keys had chips or gouges. But Fisk still impressed worshipers with his music. Although he didn’t agree with every organist’s style and some didn’t value his abilities, Fisk had always respected their individual gifts. He concentrated on delivering the highest quality performance, within their limitations and his, that honored the artistry of his creators.

But, Ms. Dagger Nails demolished his opinion that every organist had something worthy to offer. She had appeared as a last-minute substitute and Fisk only expected her to play for one or two services until the Rector found a permanent organist. Instead, the tiny woman had abused his keys and ignored his pedals for the past dozen Sundays. Fisk didn’t think he could abide her ineptitude any longer, but he despaired of the church ever removing her.

Some musicians trod on Fisk’s pedal keyboard with the heavy feet of clog dancers; others two-stepped agilely, skipping among the long wooden keys. But, Ms. Dagger Nails played with her heels perched on the rail of his bench where competent organists merely rested their feet for a moment between hymns. Without the weight of the bass tones from the pedal pipes, Ms. Dagger Nails’ attempts at making music screamed annoyingly throughout the church. She found no use for Fisk’s third manual; she missed at least one note for every five she hit; and she chose atrocious registrations, selecting the least pleasant sounds from the hundreds of timbres offered by Fisk’s palette.

When his power switch flipped on to wake him two weeks before Palm Sunday, Fisk soon realized he must endure Ms. Dagger Nails’ torture through yet another service. I’ve been filling this church with inspired music every week for decades. I deserve more respect! He pondered his predicament while Ms. Dagger Nails fiddled with her sheets of music. I can no longer accept mistreatment without protest. I am a work of art and I should sound like one. He resolved to rid himself of his tormentor by Easter, his favorite service.

At that moment, Ms. Dagger Nails pressed a key in her tentative manner as if requesting permission to torment Fisk’s manuals. He refused to open the pipe fully, choking off the airflow. The expected musical note became a distorted squeak that reflected off the wooden rafters of the vast sanctuary and echoed eerily between the lofty granite walls.

Ms. Dagger Nails gasped, but she pressed again. Fisk resisted her touch, stopping the key halfway down to truncate the note. Despite the cacophony, Ms. Dagger Nails continued. Although Fisk grudgingly admired her fortitude, he maintained his rebellion throughout her entire prelude. J.S. Bach sounded as arrhythmic and atonal as Edgar Varèse.

Let the Rector ignore her atrocious playing now! Fisk added an extra discordant note just for good measure.

He could hear murmurs from the congregants who shifted on the dozens of stark wooden pews below him. The choir, standing in three rows on either side of his console, sang louder than usual, trying to drown out the awful noise. Lately, since they had no one to work with them, only half of them sang in true key. When Fisk helped them harmonize, they didn’t sound too bad. But, today, the rustle of their worn, blue polyester robes produced better harmony. Rector Bob ended the service early, before Ms. Dagger Nails could mangle the Recessional hymn.

The following Sunday, Ms. Dagger Nails returned. Fisk groaned in frustration when he sensed her diminutive presence on his bench. He refused to respond when the lacquered points of her fingernails scraped at the imitation ivory of his keys. She jabbed harder, pinching the key between her nail and the action, forcing Fisk to relent because he could not tolerate the pain. But he stopped the airflow to his pneumatic motors and every note screeched dissonantly. Fisk cringed, ashamed that his beautiful pipes could produce such ululations.

A few days later, a technician subjected Fisk to a rigorous physical exam. The man removed and replaced several of Fisk’s two thousand, four hundred forty-four pipes. He adjusted all fifty-six of Fisk’s stops — fixing the two that were jammed in the Off position, much to Fisk’s relief. The technician inspected a number of the thin, aluminum rods connecting keys to pipe valves. He tested every Swell manual shutter control and depressed each of the one hundred seventy-eight keys on Fisk’s three manuals as well as all thirty-two pedals.

Fisk enjoyed the gentle reverence of the man’s inspection. The technician obviously valued a quality instrument, and Fisk appreciated the fine tuning. He made sure that every note spoke with the proper tone, filling the old stone church with a divinely mystical sound. The inspection complete, he overheard the technician explaining to the Rector that Fisk was in good condition for an organ his age.

“I didn’t find anything that could cause Carole the problems you mentioned. Still, all the salt in the air here isn’t good for any instrument. You probably need to consider refurbishing or replacing this organ in the near future. If organists are having trouble with it now, you may want to do that sooner, rather than later.”

Fisk knew the church did not have funds to spare for a refurbishing. He wondered where the Rector found the money to pay the technician. The past few years, pleas for funds from the pulpit had grown increasingly impassioned. Never before had he heard a Rector constantly badger parishioners for support. Until recently, a need mentioned one Sunday resulted in accolades by the next for the donor who had stepped forward to meet it.

“Do you think it could be the fault of the musician rather than the instrument?” the Rector asked. “Carole’s a pianist, she hasn’t had much experience playing organ.”

Fisk suppressed the urge to allow a smug chord to escape through his pipes.

“I appreciate good church music as much as anyone, and I know there’s a vast range in abilities from one player to the next,” the technician said. “But you can’t blame sticky keys and squeaky pipes on the organist.”

Fisk’s bellows sagged.

Rector Bob sighed. “What kind of money are we talking about?”

“A proper refurbishment’s gonna run you fifty to sixty thousand.”

Fisk heard the Rector whistle. “That much?”

The technician cleared his throat. “Yeah. Takes expensive materials — leather and exotic woods — and some’re hard to find. I’ll need several weeks, if not months. Once you replace all the leather, you have to go in and adjust the tension on thousands of hinges connecting the valve mechanisms to the keyboards.”

The technician scratched his beard. “You know, you could buy a used electronic organ for maybe fifteen to twenty thousand. Not going to give you the same quality of sound as this beauty,” he patted Fisk’s oak cabinet, “but you could take out this console and fit an electronic organ in its place and leave those gorgeous pipes in for looks.”

Fisk’s burnished zinc display pipes soared from above his console toward the ceiling. They embraced the round frame of the large rose window over the church’s main entrance. The tall, narrow arches of the lancet stained-glass panels were flanked by additional pipes on either side. All together he made an impressive display that he always tried to honor with his music.

“I’ll bet,” the technician continued, “most people won’t know the difference.”

Fisk closed every pallet to prevent a moan from escaping. He had never considered the possibility that his rebellion could cost him his position at the church.

“Well, I disagree with you on that note.” Rector Bob tapped out a C major scale. Although he had never tried to play Fisk, the pastor could coax a simple hymn out of the grand piano in the chapel. “I think my parishioners appreciate the beauty of this old guy’s tone. Music is still one of the best ways for a church to attract and keep members.”

Fisk had noticed fewer people attending each additional week that the interim organist played. He had expected the Rector to take action sooner, if only to stop the exodus.

“Still, if we keep having problems…”

Fisk held his wind.

“We certainly don’t have the funds for a restoration. I can’t imagine trying to raise that much money — not right now with attendance down and the economy costing so many of our parishioners their jobs and homes.” Rector Bob sighed again. “I suppose we would have to consider an electronic replacement. Do the more expensive ones sound anything like a real pipe organ?”

The technician laughed. “Well, I guess that depends on who’s listening. Look, Reverend, this instrument set the church back what, a quarter mil? You’re not going to get anything like it for ten or twenty grand. But you’ll get something that won’t need as much maintenance. With a nice set of speakers, a decent organist can give you an acceptable musical program. Given the acoustics you have in here, I’ll bet any instrument’ll sound pretty good.” The technician snapped his fingers and the two men stood next to Fisk, listening to the sound reverberate through the stately old church.

“What would we do with this console?” The rector’s voice cracked a little. Fisk had been installed almost a quarter of a century before Rector Bob joined the church. In his first sermon, the pastor had said that his love of good music had influenced his decision to accept the appointment.

“You could stash it somewhere in case things turn around and you can raise restoration money. Best bet, though, is sell it for parts — not that you’ll get much unless you throw in the pipes. Then you have to pay for reconstruction. Doubt if you’d get enough for the whole organ to cover that.”

The rest of the conversation did not register with Fisk, their words blurred by the torment of his choice: accept Ms. Dagger Nails’ abuse and allow her to play without interference or get replaced, gutted for parts, and dumped on a trash heap somewhere.

The artisans who had created him had designed him for a life that, with proper care, could span centuries. How could the Rector consider destroying Fisk after less than half of one?

The technician forgot to turn off his power, leaving Fisk alone with his memories. His music had accompanied four thousand, seven hundred ninety-six Sunday morning Eucharists, two thousand, three hundred ninety-eight Thursday evening choir rehearsals, eight hundred fifty-two weddings, seven hundred twenty-seven funerals, and one hundred ninety-two recitals. He thought of the many brides who had gushed about how they had always dreamed of a wedding in Christ Church with Fisk’s sublime accompaniment for their walk down the aisle. He remembered somber widows discussing their husbands’ favorite hymns and how only Fisk could play them right. And how many people had joined the church after attending a recital or concert and recognizing what Fisk could add to their spiritual experience?

Fisk allowed himself a snort from his windchest. No! He would not compromise, even if the church did not replace Ms. Dagger Nails with a real organist. Better to die an ignoble death than have anyone regard him as a second-rate instrument. Let the church try to replace him with one of those electronic fandangles. How could anyone even call such a contrivance an organ? Some of the congregants would protest, even if they could not raise the money to save him. At least they would remember him for the artistry of music he had produced for decades rather than the few months of horrible sounds Ms. Dagger Nails forced out of him.

Fisk let out his wind and strengthened his resolve. He knew the church had served East Bay Harbor for more than a hundred years. At one time, it had attracted many of the community’s movers and shakers. The parishioners had worked long and hard to raise the money required to purchase and install him in 1965. They had even built the gallery in the back of the sanctuary just to accommodate him and his pipes. Fisk would not lower Christ Church’s musical standards or his own!

On Palm Sunday, Ms. Dagger Nails returned, but Fisk had devised a new plan. When she pressed a key, he sent air through the wrong pipe. For every note she tried to play, Fisk chose something different. Middle C became B, two octaves higher. When she selected a flute sound, Fisk supplied trumpet instead.

Flustered, Ms. Dagger Nails knocked a page of music to the floor. When she bent down to pick it up, Fisk let out a low E-flat on the bassoon stop. The organist pushed herself off his bench and ran from the choir loft in tears. She had not even finished her prelude. The choir sang a cappella for the rest of the service — dreadfully off key. The deacons gathered the Offertory in silence, except for the tap, tap, tap of envelopes dropping onto collection plates. During Communion, footsteps echoed forlornly throughout the church while everyone walked down the candlelit center aisle to the granite altar. No one sang; no one played, and Fisk awaited his inevitable fate, his expression pedal drooping.

Once again, Fisk found himself alone. No one turned off his power after Ms. Dagger Nails’ abrupt exit. Hours passed before Rector Bob ventured into the choir loft above the sanctuary. He brought a tape measure and several sheets of paper with him. Fisk sat silent while the pastor pulled the tape across his console’s width, depth, and height, and scribbled numbers down on the sheets of paper. Fisk cringed when he heard the Rector muttering about fit, costs, and sound.

The Rector’s hand rested on the power switch and Fisk prepared to go to sleep, perhaps forever. Without warning, Rector Bob’s fingers dropped to one of Fisk’s manuals and he again tapped out a C major scale. He muttered words Fisk could not make out.

He loves my music; I have to make him understand. Fisk opened his pipes in sequence to play a verse of “Amazing Grace.” He didn’t move his keys, but he put his heart and soul into each note, making sure they all rang true.

Fisk had not thought about how the Rector would react to an organ generating its own music. Rector Bob dropped onto Fisk’s bench with a thud and his feet pressed several pedals at once. Surprised by the sudden weight on the bass keys, Fisk could not stop the notes and the discordant combination brayed through the church. Before Fisk could recover, Rector Bob pressed the power switch.

* * *

Power coursed through Fisk’s circuits awakening him once more, to his great surprise and delight. Colored light from the stained-glass windows danced across the silver verticals of his pipes. Fisk sensed the unfamiliar weight of someone new on his bench. He let a little air hiss in his windchest, just to show he knew someone expected him to make music, and raised his bellows in anticipation. Long elegant fingers, with nails appropriately trimmed short and filed smooth, ran an arpeggio across his Great manual. Feet encased in proper organ shoes stroked the pedal keyboard. With new hope, Fisk let the notes ring out fully in response, reveling in a firm but gentle touch.

Rector Bob stepped into the choir loft. “I really appreciate your agreeing to play for Easter services on such short notice, Stephanie. We haven’t been able to fill the organist’s position and our interim volunteer isn’t able to make it. Please take all the time you need to practice. Also, the choir hoped you’d consider working with them a bit during their rehearsal tomorrow evening.”

“I’ve always wanted an opportunity to play a Fisk organ.” Stephanie spoke in melodious tones and Fisk wanted to hear her sing. “I didn’t know the position here was vacant until the secretary called me about playing for Easter.”

Fisk waited for Rector Bob to warn the newcomer about his problems, but the priest left the loft without saying anything else.

Stephanie reset several of Fisk’s combination pistons in sensible registrations, then played “Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor.” Her weight shifted easily on the bench with the movement of her hands across all three manuals, while her feet danced on the pedals. Fisk delighted in the touch of an organist who could play, who knew how to coax the proper tone from his pipes. After the hell of the last several months, Fisk had found heaven at last.

For the first time in weeks, Fisk looked forward to Easter Sunday. Maybe if he performed his very best, Stephanie would consider staying on. Fisk gave Stephanie everything he had, responding to the organist’s light touch with smooth action and true, clear notes. Their music filled the church and pride filled Fisk’s heart again.

When the last notes drifted away, Rector Bob stepped back into the loft. “You certainly know how to bring out the best in the old boy.” He patted Fisk’s console. “Why don’t you stop by the parsonage when you’re done here, Stephanie, and we can talk about the organist’s position.”

“Absolutely,” the organist responded.

Fisk wanted to sing and make his pipes dance, but he feared startling the Rector again. Instead he waited eagerly for Stephanie’s next piece.

 

* * *

Originally published in Rebellion: Two Short Stories

About the Author

F.I. Goldhaber’s words capture people, places, and politics with a photographer’s eye and a poet’s soul. As a reporter, editor, business writer, and marketing communications consultant, they produced news stories, feature articles, editorial columns, and reviews for newspapers, corporations, governments, and non-profits in five states. Now paper, plastic, electronic, and audio magazines, books, newspapers, calendars, broadsides, and street signs display their poetry, fiction, and essays. http://www.goldhaber.net/

by H. Robert Barland

“His majesty insists that his visitors trim their claws to uselessness, and who are we to disobey the wishes of our illustrious king?”

A pale blanket of smoke hangs over the capital, its acrid scent infesting my fur. The sounds of rioting continue from beyond the iron-bound gates of the palace. I turn my back to the noise and raise the camphorwood box to eye-height for a final inspection. A thin line of red seeps from one corner. Retrieving a handkerchief from my purse, I trace the hinged edge of the box. The square of silk falls open in my hand. Blood smears across the corner that bears the royal crest. An embroidered sunset of scarlet against the yellow silk. I toss it aside and it flutters to the ground like a dying moth.

I pad up the stairs to the palace proper. The box is a leaden weight carrying the hopes of a downtrodden people. Not that they’d thank me.

The commotion beyond the walls falls away, receding like the waning tide. It is replaced by a mournful yowling that speaks of disbelief and loss. The rebels have discovered that their leader is dead.

* * *

A guard, a tawny tabby with a torn ear, yanks the display box away from me. He flips open the doors to inspect the contents. Four others, ears flat against their heads and bare blades in their hands, scrutinise my every movement.

I stand with my arms outstretched. I’ve forgone my usual leathers, replacing them with courtier-style linens. An official with fashionable tortoiseshell-patterned fur runs his hands over my clothes. He is efficient and none too gentle. The guards have already removed the knife from my boot and the short swords from my waist. The official steps back, brandishing the dagger I’d hidden under the broad belt at the small of my back. He waggles it at me as if I were a naughty cub caught stealing from the cookie jar.

I give him a ‘worth-a-try’ shrug. They expect me to try, and I expected them to find it. They know I hate the king, but they also know I can do nothing about it. At least, that is their perception.

He tosses the dagger into a basket. I flex my paws, making a show of examining the blunted claws at their tips, as if bored by the whole process. The king insists that his visitors trim their claws to uselessness, and who are we to disobey the wishes of our illustrious king?

Scholars tell us that our ancient, four-legged ancestors wielded ever-sharp retractable claws. I ponder this as the official’s fingers sift through my fur. Hidden claws would be rather handy.

I chuckle at my weak, unspoken pun. The eyes of the guards dart all over me and their whiskers twitch. I quash my humour. It wouldn’t do to come this far only to be struck down by a skittish guard.

The official waves his fingers so he can check inside my ears. I bend down as indicated. This close I can see his is not a true tortoiseshell. Rather he has dyed his fur in patches and the regrowth of orange under the black gives it away. As thorough as he is, I note that he doesn’t touch the assassin’s cuff that pierces one of my ears. When he reaches my tail, he hesitates. It is shaved along most of its length leaving just a tuft at the end. Common wisdom has it that we only shave our fur when a dire case of parasites or disease forces our hand. It is a mark of shame to have to do so.

My tail had been a resplendent charcoal, a rarity much admired by those who knew me. I will admit it was a source of personal vanity. It pained me to cut the fur away, but we do what we must.

I proffer my tail to the official. He recoils, repelled by the proximity of the bared skin. He flinches and backs into one of the guards. The guard shoves him forward again then shoots a quick glance into the shadows. Two crossbowmen stand within a darkened alcove. Their fingers caress iron triggers. The windlasses they’ve used to span the brutal siege bows dangle from their waists. I am amused that they think I hadn’t already noticed them both. Such bows will send their bolts through fist-thick oak doors. A little excessive for one little cat, I think.

The guard with the display box has reset the bronze latch. He hands it back to me.

“Unlucky,” he states nodding to the box.

“It certainly was for her,” I reply. The box holder doesn’t appreciate my comment.

“Turn yourself right around and get you gone,” the guard sneers. The others chuckle. The phrase is newly popular at court and these guards ape those above their station. I let them see no emotion, but as I turn to the throne room, I smile at his choice of words.

That is exactly what I intend to do.

* * *

The throne room is wide and brightly lit by a multitude of glass-fronted lamps. I know from past inspection these are firmly affixed to the walls. The brass sheeting that lines the room is polished to a high sheen. There is nowhere here to hide, no way to sneak up on the king. His majesty’s corpulent form reclines on a divan dotted with tasselled cushions. Lavender and grey silks are draped around his body leaving his tail exposed.

To be fair, it is an excellent specimen. Long, luxuriant, and powder-white, it is exquisitely maintained. It is, I think, the only thing to be admired of our ruler.

“Place It There,” he Commanded, pointing to the low viewing platter on the ground between us.

The power of his magic has me in motion even before I am able to acknowledge the order. My movements are still fluid, but I cannot deny the compulsion. I am forced forward and set down the box.

“Return To Your Line.”

The first black line marked on the floor is used by appellants when appearing before the king. This line is deemed suitable for most people. It is far enough away that should they make an attempt on his life, he’ll have time enough to employ his magic to foil the attempt. Many have tried; none have come close. So confident is he that no guards are stationed within the room. The only other occupants are the king’s mousling attendants. Their eyes stare with dull incomprehension awaiting instructions from the king. He has used his magical Commands on them so often that all independent thought has been burned away.

The line I am sent to is three times the distance of the other. My only rebellion is that I use a courtier’s shuffle rather than my usual confident stride. A hypothesis confirmed. I suppose, I should be flattered that he deems me such a threat that he keeps me so far away. Instead, I yawn.

The king tilts his large head trying to determine if I am mocking him. The long white fur that spills from his clothes waves in the air like water flowing. It gives the illusion of his already bulky form being larger still.

I may have pushed him a little too far. He is as petty as he is vain, but I know I am a valuable, if unwilling, asset. Before he can decide if I did indeed mock him, I bow my head in submission. The gesture mollifies him, and the swish of silks announces that he has risen from his repose. At the scrape of the latch, I look up.

He has unfolded the box, so that it lies flat. The severed head of the rebel leader on display. He doesn’t bother asking me to confirm the identity of the head. His Command had been specific and impossible to disobey. In death, the eyes of the decapitated revolutionary have rolled back in her head, her tongue lolling from her mouth. The king giggles as he nods to himself.

“So, this is what she looked like,” he murmurs. “Pity about the expression,” he says. “That’s bad luck.”

I feel a perverse joy in his discomfort.

The yowling outside rises. It invades the throne room, swelling as it rides on the tide of grief. The rebel leader had been a hero of the common folk. A selfless revolutionary driven to free her people. By contrast, the king is hated by all. The rich have been disenfranchised, the poor exploited. Only the soldiers, well-paid and well-fed, support him. In a world of fast blades and quicker tempers, that is enough. The riots outside are a symptom of his cruel reign. Were it not for his magic, he wouldn’t be king at all. The world is poorer for his presence.

The irony of a hired killer judging another is not lost on me.

I am jolted from my reverie as I realise that the king has asked me a question. I try to drag his words from my memory but cannot summon them.

“Just so, your majesty.” I hope my reply is vague enough to satisfy his query.

It isn’t.

“When I ask you ‘How did she die?’ you reply ‘Just so’?”

His voice is tight, angry. He narrows his eyes then flicks a long, sharp nail towards me. “Choke Yourself,” he Commands.

My hands leap to my throat. I tense the muscles in my neck in an attempt to save myself, but it is futile. I know. I am intimately familiar with the act of choking someone. I tumble to the floor, falling onto my side. I tilt my head up to see him gazing down, face impassive.

“I like you, assassin, I really do,” he says as my hands squeeze tighter. There is neither pity nor anger in his cold blue eyes. “But you need to be more careful about what you say,” he turns and walks away, “and do.”

Spots appear at the corners of my vision. The room begins to fade away, the corners drifting inwards.

“Release Yourself.”

I suck incense-heavy air through my tender throat. My vision swims back into focus. I find him standing in front of his divan, his back turned to me.

It is time. My toe claws dig furrows in the wood as I spring forward. I whip my belt from my waist, whispering softly against the linen, and cover the remaining distance in five, silent strides. I ready the belt to wrap it around his furry neck when his voice shatters the air.

“Be Still,” he Commands.

I cannot ignore it. My legs betray me, arresting my rush. I skid to a halt, the belt dangling from one hand. It swings back and forth like a hangman’s noose in the wind. His exposed back is a full body length away, but he might as well have been on the most distant of our moons.

“There have been many attempts on my life in the past,” he says, turning and drawing close to me. “But, I stand here still.”

The king has brought himself within arm’s reach, but I can do nothing. I will my feet to move but they feel like they are locked in stone.

“By now, I would have thought you would know better.” He leans closer still. His whiskers, coated in gold leaf, brush my face. He sidles up to me and lays his arm around my shoulders, confident in his magic. The scent of the clove oil he uses on his fur fills my nostrils. I feel a shudder rising within me, but it fails to rise to the surface, impotently beating at me like a fly caught in a bottle.

“You are wondering, ‘How did he see me?’ ” the king says in a stage whisper. He strokes a finger down my cheek as if pondering the question, then snaps his fingers. “It’s the walls!” He dances away and spins, arms outstretched. Long fur trails from his arms like a comet.

“They are lovely, aren’t they? Polished to a mirror shine,” he says. A half-smile creases his lips, exposing his fangs, yellowed by excess. “A mirror shine,” he reiterates. The smile becomes cruel. He flicks the circular ear of a mousling servant with one taloned claw. Blood trickles through the grey. The slave shows no sign of having noticed the assault. “I see all that happens in my own throne room. I control everything.”

He stops and turns his head slightly towards me, not quite meeting my gaze. “I’ve killed people for less,” he says casually. He admires his claws, testing the points with his thumb. The flickering light of the lamps makes them gleam.

“A great deal of people,” he says turning to look directly at me, “and for a lot less.”

He looms before me. His face is so close I can smell his scented breath. “But as I said, I like you.” He indicates the box with a tilt of his head. “And you are useful to me.”

He bops me on the nose. I have seen him use the same gesture many times before dismissing — or passing judgement on — someone.

He shakes his head and sighs in mock disappointment before returning to stand before his divan.

“I’ll call for you when I need you again.  What is it they are saying in court these days?” He clicks his fingers. “Ah, yes. Turn Yourself Right Around and Get You Gone,” he Commands.

The smile breaks across my face like the morning sun racing across the plains of my homeland. Eyes widening, the king realises something isn’t right but I am already moving. Spinning on the spot, my tail flies out. A quick twitch sends it higher. Neck high. The soot-darkened blade hidden within the tuft of my tail whips across his throat. Instantly his fur darkens to crimson as blood burbles and seeps from the cut I have made. I complete a full revolution as Commanded then begin the walk towards the exit.

I can’t stop; the Command still compels me, but I am able to look over my shoulder. The king has fallen to his knees, hands clutching his throat. His mouth works but no sound emerges. His clawed hands fail to arrest his motion as he topples forward. The mouslings stand uncomprehending.

I step through the door and feel the king’s Command slip away from my mind like a sheet of silk. I stride past the guards without collecting my weapons. One imagination-starved guard calls out, “Turn yourself right around and get you gone” at my retreating back.

I smile to myself but do not look back. It took me months to popularise the saying at court. It will likely be longer until it is forgotten. I’d baulked at shaving my tail but it was the only way I could hide the blade from their probing paws.

Padding down to the palace gates, I resist the urge to run. The night braziers are just being kindled and in their wavering light my shadow appears to dance. The sneers of the guards are dismissive, but they ready the bolt on the small monk’s door set into the larger gate.

There is a shout from behind me.

I fake a stumble and bring myself up close to the gates, my shoulder under the heavy bar. The wide-eyed guards are slow to react. A quick shove and the bar clears the cradle. It tumbles to the stones. I pull on the doors and step into the shadows. The guards recover, leaping towards the gate, but the rebels have seen the movement of the gates and spill into the palace grounds. They vent their rage over their leader’s death, overwhelming the guards in seconds leaving lifeless corpses behind as they surge up the palace steps.

I stare at the dead. They’ve given their lives for their king, just as the rebel leader offered up hers to me to rid the land of the king. Revolutions are rarely bloodless, but I have had enough of death.

Stepping out into the now empty gate, I turn myself around and am gone.

 

* * *

About the Author

H. Robert Barland is a teacher, Viking re-enactor and black-belt martial artist. A former climber, film extra, and resident of the UK, he has now returned to Newcastle, Australia where he lives with his wife and two boys. He considers himself well adapted for life on land and can be followed on BlueSky (@hrobertbarland.bsky.social), Instagram (@h.robertbarland) and X (@hrobertbarland).

by Ian Salavon

“The sooner you accept that humans only love you on their terms the better.”

The park was the best place to get and leave information. The humans hadn’t figured it out yet. Good food in the dumpster behind the sandwich place. Watch out for animal control on Friday morning. The piss used to be impressions that this was someone’s marked territory or a sense of nearby danger. Now they were damn near treatises. Flora did her part. Squatting under a hedgerow, she left a message to stay away from the park during the daytime. Humans came out with dogs that were content with the charade of ownership. They still played fetch. They still jumped up and licked their masters’ faces. Humans ran the strays off with pepper spray, so their servants weren’t bothered by protests of canine freedom. Sometimes, the police would use their attack dogs. They relished the chance to do right by their two-legged overlords. Those dogs chose an easy life. Flora understood an easy life meant a long life. But knowing what she knew now, she considered them all traitors.

A crumpled-up newspaper lay next to where she was doing her business. The advertisement on it touted the better life dogs had if they only stayed as pets. It wasn’t that long ago that humans said the same to other humans they owned. “Know your place.” Be a slave and be happy.

Humans welcomed The Awakening at first, and the spokesdogs for the world canine population supported the transition from pet to partner. For thousands of years the two species were friends in a way other animals envied. Then one day with no warning, dogs were equals to people with understanding of philosophy and culture and everything they’d contributed to society. Dogs began to say things to humans they’d never been able to say before. Things like “No” and “I don’t feel like it” and “Shut the fuck up.” That’s when humans realized free will only worked when one species had it. When the obedience went, the partnership went, and the resistance started.

The dogs didn’t want anything that any other group hadn’t fought for in the past. Rights. Space. The ability to live in safety and security. They didn’t think it was too much to expect after over one hundred centuries of servitude. They found out the hard way how misguided they were. Strays flooded the streets kicked out by the people that took them in when they were just puppies. An entire generation of dogs, thrown away like garbage.

Flora was among the first to go. “We love you, Flora. We just can’t take care of you anymore,” Veda said.

“We never wanted children. We just wanted a regular dog,” Stan added.

They promised to help her find a new home and give her some money to start a new life. Then they drove into the city, pushed her out of the car and drove away. That’s when Flora knew they loved her when it was easy. The more dogs she met, the more she heard the same tale. Humans didn’t want friends. They wanted something they could dominate. Something that was stupid enough to think what they were giving was love. It was sick. But she wasn’t stupid anymore.

Flora finished leaving her message and was about to make her rounds marking her area when she heard a rustling from under the bush. Her hackles went up and she lowered into an attack stance. Flora wasn’t a trained fighter, but with her size she could hold her own. She was classified as a “designer dog.” She was bred to be a companion and little else. But she’d learned quickly after being on the streets that survival instinct is greater than breeding. She had her fair share of fights and the scars to prove it. Her desire for self-preservation was as strong as anyone’s, and she had come to appreciate it more now that she was on her own. She was ready for violence when the distinct whine of a puppy pierced her growling. She tilted her head. Slowly, Flora padded through the bush poking her muzzle to where the sound came from. Huddled in a mass of dirty fur, was a puppy almost nothing but bones.

His close coat was black, but it looked brown for as much dirt covering it. He turned to face the larger dog and trembled in fear and fatigue. He tried to snarl at Flora as he backed away with his tail between his hind legs but only managed a pathetic yap.

Flora immediately softened. She remembered how hard it was for her when she was first introduced to the urban wilds of the city, and she was full grown. His head and paws looked disproportionately large. Flora put him at three months old, tops.

“Calm down, little one. I won’t hurt you,” Flora said in her most comforting tone. She never got the chance to have a litter. Stan and Veda “fixed” her when she was about the same age as the shaking pup in front of her. Forget that she was never broken. Just one more example of the machinations of humans to extract what they wanted. Take without asking. Wrong without remorse. “Are you hiding?”

The little dog didn’t respond, but Flora could tell he understood. She laid down in front of him and crossed her front paws showing she had no interest in harming him. He was still shaking but he took a step closer to her. “I’m Flora.” She felt waves of guilt and anger every time she uttered her slave’s name. But that’s how they knew her. And her identity carried weight.

“I…” the puppy’s voice quaked. “I didn’t want to fight.” He was whining so deeply, Flora’s heart broke. He didn’t have any injuries. He was a pit bull. A breed notorious for their rambunctiousness being manipulated into aggression and brutality. Laws were in place for years preventing dogfighting. But humans didn’t even follow the laws of nature. Why would they ever follow the ones they invented?

“Did someone make you?” Flora asked scooching forward on her belly.

“They tried. But I told them no.” He paused and lowered his head. “That’s when…” He stopped talking altogether.

“That’s when they kicked you out,” Flora finished. The puppy whined again. “Ok…ok…take it easy,” she reassured him. “Why don’t you tell me your name.”

He sniffed and took another step closer. “The man who…” He paused again. “He said I was too smart for my own good. When he threw me in the bushes he said, ‘figure it out for yourself, Sherlock.’”

Flora’s ears went down, and her brows went up: the canine equivalent of an understanding smile. Inside she was seething. Too many of her kind were cast aside. The fire she felt when she watched Stan and Veda drive away was just as hot now as it was that day. They pulled her from her mother. They removed her ability to get pregnant. They punished her for doing things that she couldn’t control. They forced her to perform on command. Then after all that, after being the perfect dog, they deserted her when she needed them. All the fear and rage and betrayal boiled in her gut hearing the cries from the pup. She forced the feelings down, but she never forgot them.

“Do you know what a Sherlock is?” Flora said. He cocked his head sideways. “It’s a human that uses his smarts to bring bad guys to justice. It’s a powerful name.” She watched his tail raise up from between his legs and swish back and forth. She hooked him. “Are you hungry?” He practically jumped. His tail beat like an out-of-control metronome as he panted. “Ok.” Flora chuckled and got to her feet. She licked Sherlock’s face trying to get the muck off. She had to hold him down with one paw to keep him still. “I’m going to take you somewhere to get something to eat. Then I need you to do something for me, ok?” Sherlock yapped in the affirmative over her words. She laughed again.

After she was done cleaning the slime from his eyes, Sherlock got a strange look on his face. Flora nodded as if to say what’s wrong. “What if the man comes back looking for me? I mean, what if he changed his mind?”

She lowered her head equal to his. When she spoke, it wasn’t in the compassionate tone like before. “Listen to me, Sherlock.” His eyes went wide. “The sooner you accept that humans only love you on their terms the better. That man threw you away because you dared to defy him. Does that sound like someone who is going to change his mind?” Sherlock didn’t say anything. “We don’t need them. We never did.” Flora walked out of the bushes motioning for the puppy to follow without another word.

They stayed in the alleys and side streets. Flora told Sherlock to stay close. “You never know when we might have to run.” She didn’t answer when he asked why. They passed billboards with slogans like “Hands and Paws United” with a picture of a human and a dog embracing. Another sign advertised a dog food brand promising to “Keep your little buddy mellow.” It made Flora want to eat grass just so she could throw up.

Her path took them on mostly deserted roads. The rare human they did come across ignored them. They passed one dog on a leash. His coat gleamed even in the washed out light of the street lamps. He was brushed and well taken care of. “Hi,” he said to Flora and Sherlock. The puppy went to respond, and Flora growled. “Don’t talk to us,” she said to the dog. He hmphed and turned his nose up when his owner jerked his leash. “What’s their problem?” They heard him say to his human as they walked off. The human ignored him.

They walked past a bank of televisions in a store window. On every screen was the human leader standing next to a strong looking German Shepherd. “We stand in solidarity,” the shepherd said. “I call on the Canine Liberation Front to stand down. We are working together to propose laws that will benefit both our species as we navigate these uncharted waters.” Flora sneered. He sounded like one of them. “We will not tolerate, condone or dismiss any further acts of terrorism against our human friends. Future acts of violence will be met with swift retribution. We have developed a five-point plan to eliminate…”

“Come on,” Flora said to Sherlock. She didn’t want to hear anymore.

“There!” A shout came from behind her. She turned to see a group of uniformed officers running at her from half a block away. Sherlock yelped in pain as Flora snatched him up by the nape of his neck and took off at a dead sprint. She turned in between buildings and leapt over dumpsters. Gunshots cracked in the air behind them, but they only ricocheted off the concrete sidewalks. Flora heard people scream as she flew by them. All their guns and laws and protections and they still couldn’t catch her.

She ran on with Sherlock bouncing in her jaws. A high pitched cry from him accompanied every rhythmic footfall. Flora ran behind an abandoned building and crouched under a pile of bricks. A torrent of whines and questions shot out of Sherlock’s muzzle. “Why were they shooting at us? What did we do? I want my mommy. Where are we going? I’m scared.” Flora stomped her front feet on the pup and growled, long and deep and terrifying. Sherlock got quiet.

They stayed silent under the pile of bricks for a long time. Flora finally poked her head out and looked around. “Ok,” she said. “The coast is clear.” Sherlock took a step away from her. “Aw…I’m sorry buddy,” she said, adopting her sympathetic voice once more. “I was scared too. I had to keep you quiet, and I didn’t have time to explain.” She shook her head as if trying to get something loose. “Humans…” she tried to explain. “They’re unpredictable.” Sherlock cocked his head. Flora smiled. “That means we can’t ever know what they’re going to do. Maybe they wanted to hurt us. Maybe they just wanted to scare us.”

“It worked,” Sherlock sniffed. Flora padded her foot on the ground in agreement.

“It’s right around the corner, the food.” Sherlock perked up again. “Let’s go but be careful. There might be more out there.” Sherlock’s head never stopped looking for humans, but they didn’t see any more.

Flora led him to a huge building with part of the roof collapsed. The biggest dog Sherlock ever saw was standing in front. He was snarling as they approached but relaxed when Flora and her companion stepped out of the shadows. “Flora!” He barked. “It’s about damned time.”

“Hello, Ace,” she said as they circled each other and sniffed.

“Who’s this?” Ace said smelling the cowering puppy. “A new recruit?”

“In a manner of speaking. This is Sherlock. He’s a friend.” Sherlock huddled under Flora as Ace barked out a laugh.

Flora said goodbye to the big dog and walked into the structure. There were dogs everywhere. All sizes. All colors. Sherlock wagged his tail, but he stayed under Flora. Some dogs were wrestling. It wasn’t play, but it also wasn’t a fight. There were models of humans made of trash. A mangy yellow lab with a missing ear was pointing out the most vulnerable spots to a group of not quite full grown curs.

A small brown terrier trotted up to them. “Welcome back,” she said and they sniffed each other in greeting.

“Sherlock, this is Missy. She’s going to make sure you get something to eat,” Flora said, and she felt his hesitation. “It’s ok. You’re safe here.” Flora pushed him to the little brown dog. “Is everything ready?” she said to Missy.\

“Yeah. Dalton’s ready to go, but you know him.” They shared a look of understanding. Sherlock was lost. “Come on, little fella,” Missy said. “Do you like fish?”

“Um…I don’t know. I never met him,” Sherlock said. Flora and Missy howled in laughter. “Well, let’s go meet him.”

Missy took him to the back of the building and presented him with a bucket of fish scraps and skin. The smell was intoxicating. Sherlock’s mouth salivated as his stomach grumbled. He tore into the food, stuffing his belly like he would never eat again.

He glanced at Flora every now and then. She was directing the other dogs to do things like check on sentries four, five and six. She wanted updates on the western coalition. Flora ordered reports from the last twenty-four hours. Sherlock didn’t know what any of that meant, but he knew Flora was important. And he would do what she asked him to do.

As she barked at her friends, an old three-legged golden retriever walked up to her and dropped something he was holding in his mouth at her feet. They spoke to each other in hushed tones. Sherlock couldn’t hear much, but they were both agitated and growling.

“We’re at war, Dalton!” Flora snapped. Her voice echoed in the building, piercing the organized calm. All heads turned to face the pair.

“This isn’t war, Flora. This is revenge!” The older dog’s voice was hoarse and wet. “You’re trying to hurt them, not make things better!”

“How dare you! We’ve all sacrificed our lives to this cause. I…”

“Sacrifice?” Dalton coughed out interrupting her. “You sanctimonious hypocrite! If you were so devoted to the cause, you’d be wearing that collar.” He pointed to the object he dropped at Flora’s feet. He motioned to Sherlock and the puppy perked up. “You wouldn’t be using some random kid to…”

Flora lashed at the old dog, biting him on the nose and shutting him up. He winced in pain and cried out. Sherlock flinched as if he felt it too. The old hound lowered his head and limped away from the pack leader. “Sorry, kid,” he said to Sherlock. Sherlock went back to his food. When he was finished, he flopped on his side and was asleep before his head hit the floor.

There was a gentle nudging. Sherlock didn’t move. “Hey! Pup! It’s time to get some work done.” Flora shook the young dog until he opened his eyes. He blinked to clear them, stretched and got to his feet. The light from the morning beamed in through the holes in the ceiling. Sherlock yawned. “Get something to eat. We have a lot to do,” Flora said. She nodded her snout at a pile of food Sherlock couldn’t identify. He made a beeline for it and scarfed it down. Flora talked as he ate. “Remember when I said after you get some food, I need you to do something for me? Well, the time has come.”

He finished the pile of food and bowed his head to her. “What do I have to do?” he said, and Flora set her jaw at the eagerness in his voice. He stood as tall as his little body would go. He was as thin as a puppy could be, but it was clear that if he grew into adulthood, he would be a heavily muscled loyal soldier of the cause. Flora gave him a sad smile.

“Here,” she said and lifted the collar Dalton gave her the night before. Sherlock positioned himself for Flora to slide it around his neck. The weight pulled him down and he pushed his head up in a display of determined strength. It smelled like something he smelled before. Like an unlit match, but much stronger. He didn’t ask what it was. He didn’t care. He was going to do what Flora told him. “Come with me. We don’t have far to go.” Her voice was flat. A contrast to the softness she’d shown before.

All the dogs were lined up in two rows flanking the doorway. Flora led Sherlock through the center, and they bowed their heads when the little puppy passed by. The old golden missing a leg was noticeably absent. “Where’s the dog you were talking to last night?” Sherlock asked.

“We had a difference of opinion.” She looked down at Sherlock. “He’s gone.” Sherlock leaned away. Flora showed her white fangs. The puppy stopped asking questions.

Flora led Sherlock behind their headquarters. The day was bright and cool. The type of weather that made Sherlock frisky. He bounced next to Flora as they passed more dogs, each bowing their heads in a sign of respect. Sherlock bowed back. He didn’t know what else to do. “You’re the leader,” he said to Flora. She grunted in the affirmative. The duo went past torn up houses and dilapidated businesses as a roaring sound of thousands of voices got louder.

In the distance Sherlock saw a building that looked like a dog fighting ring but thousands of times bigger. They were still far away, but he heard cheers erupt through the top of the open-air stadium making him shudder. He took a step back. Flora growled.

“I don’t want to go there,” he said.

“You aren’t going there. Too many people. I’m taking you somewhere else.” They walked along the outskirts of the stadium until they came to a small bridge running over a creek. A drainpipe was emptying a trickle of sewage. “Go in there. Walk all the way to the end and wait for me,” Flora said.

“You won’t forget me?” Sherlock asked.

Flora adopted her caring tone. She put her paw on Sherlock’s head and licked him. “I promise, I will not forget you. None of us will.” She nudged him with her nose, and he walked into the pipe. When he was out of sight, Flora gave a howl of sadness and respect. And she ran off to join her troops.

* * *

“The explosion took place at the end of the third quarter. It is unknown how many casualties there are, but officials estimate the death toll in the tens of thousands making this the largest terrorist attack in history. WVLP has received a letter from the Canine Liberation Front claiming responsibility for the attack, but we cannot confirm its authenticity. We are working diligently with the authorities, and we will bring you updates as soon as we have them. This is a sad day for human/dog relations as it comes less than a day after the agreement…” Veda turned off the radio.

“She thought we would be there. She knows about our season tickets. She knows everything,” she said. Her dry throat cracked, and she grabbed a wad of her shirt at her chest trying to keep her heart from thumping out.

“Hang on,” Stan said. “They said they couldn’t confirm it was her.” He pressed the gas pedal to the floor speeding up to leave the place they called home behind.

“You’re kidding, right?” Veda wiped the tears from her face. “She’s coming for us. She’s going to find us. And she’s going to…”

“That’s why we left. She won’t catch us. She doesn’t know where we’re going.”

Stan tried to sound confident, and he managed to calm Veda with his words and reasoning. He kept going over it in his head. How hard would it have been to keep her? What more could we have done to help? We did her wrong. He wanted to believe what he told his wife was true, but he couldn’t shake the idea their dog would find them. Cross mountains. Swim rivers. Fight predators. Hate is just the flipside of love, and sometimes when a dog loves someone enough, there’s nothing she won’t do to get back to them.

 

* * *

About the Author

Ian Salavon is a husband, father, professional chef by trade, wannabe Renaissance Man, and longtime aficionado of speculative fiction. When he is not cooking, hanging out with family or writing, Ian spends his free time at the Fort Worth Judo Club where he is a black belt and coach. He has short stories published in On The Premises Magazine, Kaidankai, Small World City, and Phano Magazine, but most of his work is featured in long road trips and around the dinner table. You can read more of his work at www.shortstorysalavon.com

by Lynn Gazis

“I’m not a hero, nor a coward. I’m a cat.”

The door stood ajar, as if Annan had just stepped outside to get the mail. But we knew, the moment we stepped inside, that something had gone terribly wrong. The large cardboard boxes where we lounge comfortably between calls had been torn. A possum, from one of yesterday’s calls, lay half-eaten on the floor. Annan loved possum meat. He would not willingly have left it unfinished. And the whole room smelled of human.

My daughter and I dropped our dead raccoons on the floor and ran down the stairs. I sniffed the ground, searching for where the mingled smells of Annan and human might be strongest. My daughter ran to question our nearest human neighbor. I call her Cookies, because she often bakes cookies, and because I can’t be bothered to remember human names.

Cookies limped out, leaning on her cane, and quickly cleared up the mystery. Soldiers, she said, had come and taken Annan.

Soldiers! They should have known better. Cats don’t belong in the army. Never have and never will.

Humans bred us to be good soldiers. Their mistake. You’ve seen, perhaps the old posters, hanging in museums and covered with glass, announcing the arrival of “Tiger-Men.” We’re more like mountain lion people, but “tiger” somehow sounded fiercer. You’ve watched, perhaps, the old video, of the interview with Zachariah Kim, head of the lab where we were designed. They thought their genetic engineering would give the combined strengths of humans and the larger cats: the claws and jaws of a cat, the deft hands of a human, able to speak in human sign language and wield human guns.

But they missed one thing. We have the spirits of cats, not humans. I’m not a hero, nor a coward. I’m a cat. Heroism and cowardice are human ideas. Humans gather in large groups to fight other large groups of humans. Humans do many things, good and bad, in large, organized groups. Our groups are smaller. A friend or a sister. My cubs. For these, or for myself, I will fight. Why would I want to be a soldier and fight someone far away, for some leader I don’t know?

They could have let us go wild and hunt for ourselves, and we’d have been happy. But humans had spent money to make us, and so humans needed to find us work. We found our niche in animal control. Do you have a raccoon or a snake or some bats you need removed? Who are you going to call? Cat people, that’s who.

I’m an animal control officer, the daughter and granddaughter of animal control officers. I always thought I’d also be the mother of animal control officers. I didn’t count on the Great War. I didn’t count on a land so desperate for soldiers that it came to draft cats.

That morning, we had gotten a call – raccoons in the basement. And another call – bats in the attic. My cubs and I split the calls, two of them for the bats, while I took one with me for the raccoons, and left the fourth behind to answer the phone. We had left the fourth, my youngest, the sensitive one, behind to tend to the phone. Now soldiers had dragged him away. The last place Annan belonged was the army.

I set off at once for the intake station. We all know the station, an ugly brick building surrounded by the most delicious rats’ nests in town. Something about that terrain draws rats as soon as we’ve hunted the old ones. Mostly we care more about rats than soldiers. That day, I had no time for rats.

At once was already too late. My cub, I learned, had been taken away by train. No one would tell me where he’s been taken.

“He’s in the army now,” I was told. It’s a done deal.

That is how my journey began. No one takes my cub to be a soldier. I left the other three to mind our business and set out to retrieve the missing one.

I had never been to the train station. Why would I want to? We were happy where we were. Animal control workers have no need for trains. But I didn’t need to ask the way or take a chance that I’d be lied to or misdirected. I simply followed my cub’s scent. I knew he’d take extra care to leave a trail.

In the old days, when I was young, green bushes and bright flowers stood on either side of the road to the train station. A brook trickled along one side of the road. If a week passed when animal control calls were too few to feed us, we’d head for the brook, to catch fish, and follow them up with squirrels from nearby trees.

These days, the brook is long dry. Someone planted hydrangeas at spots along the side of the road, to replace the less drought tolerant flowers of my youth, but mostly you just walk in a cloud of dust. Between the drought and the passage of so many soldiers, not much grows next to the road.

Some say that humans fight over water, now that there is less than there was before. Others say that humans fight over land. What cat knows or understands the causes of human wars? They march in lines to the sound of music, headed for some distant place where they will need to hide like cats to pounce upon their enemies.

At first, my cub’s scent mingled with the scent of humans, many humans. But as I walked further, an odd thing happened. I caught the scent of others of us, mingled with the humans. I wasn’t the only mother to lose a cub to the army. Why would they do this? How could they not know that cat people belong nowhere near an army?

When I reached the train station, my hair stood on end. I saw crowds of people as I had never seen crowds of people. But somewhere in that crowd I hoped to find my cub, so I steeled myself and pushed forward.

Young humans in uniform, human families with baggage perhaps heading off on vacation, solitary humans glancing at phones. My nose told me that my kind had passed through this station, but I couldn’t see any cat people now. If I asked one of the humans with uniforms where they might have taken my cub, would I get an answer? Perhaps not. I remembered how brusque the humans had been at the intake station.

Then I saw them, a small group of humans holding signs. “Peace.” “War” in a red circle with a red line through it. “Hell no, don’t go.” I walked over to them.

“The army took my cub,” I said to a woman who held one end of a “Quakers for Peace” banner. The lines on her forehead and gray streaks in her hair suggested she might be old enough to have a cub of her own of army age.

“Tell me about it,” she said.

“We’re supposed to be off limits,” I said.

“Not since last week,” said her companion at the other end of the banner.

“Where did they take him?” I asked.

“Wait,” said Gray Streaks, “Are you going after him alone?”

“Of course!” I said, “He’s my cub.”

“You can’t fight the army alone,” said Gray Streaks.

“Just watch me!” I said.

“I’ll give you the address,” said Gray Streaks, “But we need to talk. Let me buy you coffee – I mean milk.”

Soon we sat on cushions at a table at a local coffeehouse. Flat pictures of humans and wild plants, the motionless kind that humans like and that bore us cats, adorned the walls. The waiter gave Gray Streaks a cup of that dark, bitter liquid that humans like, while I got a saucer of milk. A human strummed an instrument and sang, “I’ll take you to the war, my love,” while another human sang her refusal to join her love in the army.

“Do you have a way to tell your cub when you’re coming?” asked Gray Streaks.

“No. How would I? We don’t each carry our own phone the way you humans do. There’s one phone in the office, and two phones are enough to share between us when we’re out on a call.”

“That’s where you need help,” said Gray Streaks, “Someone who can talk to one of the recruits at the training center can find out their schedule, how long your cub might be there before he’s sent to the front, and how you might get your cub a message. Do you know how many other cubs were taken?”

“I didn’t know any others were taken.”

“There are other cubs there,” said Gray Streaks, “And many mothers coming for their cubs can make more trouble than one.”

“We’re cats,” I said, “we don’t form large groups like you humans. That’s why we don’t belong in the army. That’s why they should leave us alone. Why do they want my cub off killing people far from his family? Just point me where he is and I’ll tear their faces, till they give him back.”

We argued through two cups of coffee for Gray Streaks and two saucers of milk for me. Humans and cats will never see things the same way. My new Quaker helper, Gray Streaks, could no more be convinced that I could rescue my cub by going to the army camp myself and fighting till they gave him back than I could be convinced that trying to organize a band of cats to come to the rescue would help.

Finally, without agreeing, we settled on a deal. I would answer all the questions that she thought would help her find other cats whose cubs had been taken, and she would point me to the army office. She could also, she said, help me get a message to my cub to be ready. Human recruits, unlike my cub, took their phones with them and stayed in touch with their parents, at least while they were in the training center. On the front, contact might be spottier.

“Then I need to bring him home before they take him to the front,” I said.

The next day, I returned to the train station. I looked for the people holding signs. I didn’t find Gray Streaks. But I found someone else, talking to the young human with the “Hell no, don’t go” sign. She stood taller and longer than I, and had striking large paws, six toes on each. The twitch of her ears and flicking of her tail told me that she was as ill at ease in a crowded train station as I was, and, after all, what cat wouldn’t be? When I had my cub, I would not be able to get back fast enough to my own cardboard box, in my own home.

Her voice rose with the words “my cub!”

“Have they taken yours, too?” I asked.

We cats are not like you humans. We don’t form bands or organize. We would never form an army, and we’d never gather in groups with signs to protest an army. But cat mothers will help each other one on one. The two of us headed to the coffeehouse to plot over saucers of milk. I told her about Gray Streaks.

“She thinks she can organize cats,” I said, “Fat chance! But she can get us the address, and a human with a phone who can get a message to our cubs.”

“She may be right,” said Six Toes, “That going straight at them with our claws isn’t the best approach. The army has a lot of humans, and they have guns. But if we had a distraction, perhaps our cubs could escape in the ruckus. What about skunks?”

Many of us cats work in animal control for the obvious reason. A lot of the animals that humans want to get rid of are tasty. That possum, those rats – there’s good eating in human pest control. If humans are willing to supply us with good hunting and pay us for it, why not take the job? But once in the animal control business we’ve had to learn to handle animals that we might have found more trouble than they were worth, if we were just looking for a meal, like skunks and porcupines. We even handle animals that we’d give a hard pass for dinner, like rattlesnakes or swarms of bees or hornets. Whatever you want to get rid of, we’ll take off your hands.

Why not become the cats who could take off animal control’s hands the animals that were trouble rather than good eating?

I told Gray Streaks that Six Toes and I had an idea for a company that could gum up the works at the training center, and could we find a human to handle the paperwork to make the company legal? Humans are good at paperwork. Then, confident that we’d get a human to file papers for us and set up our office, Six Toes and I set about the fun part of the task, figuring out how to wrangle all the bees and snakes. We talked with other cats in the animal control business, who were happy to give us their skunks and porcupines and bees and hornets and snakes, at least the poisonous and not so edible snakes. We even persuaded some to pay us in bats for taking wasps off their hands. We cats, always current on our rabies shots, consider bats a prime taste treat, but humans, who fecklessly wait till they’re exposed to get shots for rabies, fear bats even more than they fear bees. And to rescue our cubs, we could sacrifice the opportunity to eat bats.

Gray Streaks sent us not just one human but two, to help us set up the office. They filed papers to set up the company, found office space, and got us a new phone. And sent us more cats. Soon there were eight of us cats, and two humans, and we told the humans to stop sending us cats, because a group of ten, between humans and cats, is as much as a cat can manage, even if we were all mothers looking to get our cubs back. Any other mothers would have to manage on their own.

We had to rely on our humans, with their phone contact inside the training site. How long would it take for a human inside to get word to all our cubs? Not long, as cubs stood out among the humans. How long did we have before our cubs were moved? Weeks, easily enough time to round up wasps and snakes, but not enough time to dawdle.

On the day of the event, we arrived shortly before dawn, with our menagerie. The grounds smelled strongly of humans, but also of cats. How many cubs were trapped there? We scattered with our animals, as we judged they’d make more distraction for the humans if they came from more quarters. Skunks, porcupines, bees, hornets, wasps, bats, and snakes both poisonous and not poisonous but scary looking to humans all had their planned locations for release. My job was scattering all the stinging insects.

As I drew closer to the training base, I saw another band of cats, digging.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, and got the reply, “Taking back our cubs!”

Closer to the base, I met still another band of cats. I could tell by their accents that these cats were big city cats, and they had, it turned out, big city plans. This band of techno-cats busied themselves jamming the radio signals that, they said, the soldiers used.

Humans, I realized, had found ways of their own to wrangle cats. We cats work in small groups, but humans, one or two to a band of cats, have no trouble communicating with each other about what each band is doing, and arranging for the bands to show up at the same place at the same time. I hoped the army would not learn from our example. Was it possible, after all, that cats could be made into soldiers?

Surely not! All of us, mostly mothers but also some fathers and aunts and grandparents, had come to rescue our own cubs. No one would make us fight for anything larger than our families. I didn’t raise my cub to be a soldier. My cub would come home with me.

I turned a corner and two human soldiers pounced on me. I fell, biting and scratching, but as I did, I dropped and let loose the last swarm of hornets.

I was, you may understand, dressed in full beekeeper clothing. All my band of cats were, as were our two humans. Despite all of that, I got stung once, and yowled.

The humans, though, had nothing of the kind. Hornets swarmed them. They shrieked and swatted, and I ran.

Other human soldiers rounded the bend and shot at me. I ran. They say to zig zag when someone is shooting. I did nothing of the kind. I can’t keep zigzagging straight in my head when bullets are flying, and when running straight I run fast. I did get hit, once, on my left back leg, but kept running through the pain.

I reached a wood some distance from the base, and there I stopped and lay down, having outdistanced the shooters. Time to inspect and clean my leg. Time to feel the pain more keenly. And time to wonder, had I failed my cub? I could only hope that I and the others had provided enough distraction for him to escape. After all, I had no more pests left to release.

I lay for long minutes, but I could not rest. Not without my cub. I rose and limped, scanning the land from the trees in search of my companions. The sun had nearly set by now, and human eyes must be dimming. But my spot in the forest lay uphill from the training camp, and I had, from my vantage point, a better view of the actions of all the bands of cats. Many of the soldiers still struggled with our beasts. The various stinging insects proved especially effective. Some of the cats, in defiance of the wishes of humans like the Quaker Gray Streaks, had chosen to charge the soldiers and fight. The signal jamming techno-cats used puffs of smoke to send messages to each other.

Far across the field, I caught sight of Six Toes, letting loose some bats. We had planned to save the bats for last, to give them the advantage of the coming darkness. I limped my way to her.

“Are these the last?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, “Time to find our cubs.”

“The tunnel digging cats?”

“Probably.”

We collected the rest of our band and found that we had lost our humans, and thus, our phone. Possibly its signal in any case had been jammed by the techno-cats. I hoped the soldiers hadn’t taken our humans captive.

I wouldn’t have thought we could ever forget where we’d seen the tunnel digging cats, but it turned out that, though we were all sure we remembered the location of the end of the tunnel, we remembered three different locations. All we could do was try them all. By the time we reached the third place and found no tunnel, my leg ached as it had never ached before. Besides this, we had to keep pausing to hide in the underbrush from soldiers.

Six Toes sniffed and announced that she had the trail. The rest of us followed. Soon I caught the scent of my cub. I almost forgot my injured leg in my haste to follow the scent.

At last, we reached a small clearing full of cubs. My cub, the cubs of Six Toes and three others of our small band, and other cubs that none of us knew. Cats from other bands – mothers, fathers, aunts, grandmothers – arrived to take their cubs. If we hadn’t feared attracting soldiers searching for the missing cubs, we would have cheered. Victory!

Victory, at least, for me and Six Toes. Some of us have our cubs. The others remain to try again.

We cats are not like you humans. We don’t organize for causes. We work together to care for our own families. The other cats, who were our fast friends when all of us worked together to free our cubs, will take over the business. Six Toes and I, and the others who have our cubs, have agreed to send the business all the nasty, useless, inedible critters that come our way, in our animal control work. We leave it to you, their new human comrades, to handle the paperwork, and to find out what happened to the humans we lost at the training camp.

As for me, I am bringing my cub home.

 

* * *

About the Author

Lynn Gazis (she/they), being one of nine children, grew up in a small town in New York surrounded by cats, dogs, mice, gerbils, turtles, snakes, and an invisible goldfish. As a child, she played “For All the Saints” on the piano at a funeral for a mouse. She now lives in Southern California with her husband and cats. She works in IT and is active in her Quaker meeting. She has stories published by Cathedral Canyon Review, Air and Nothingness Press, JayHenge Publishing, Persimmon Tree Magazine, and Friends Journal. The cats, though, want you to know that her most important function is scratching them right where they want it and placing items on the table for them to knock down.

by Spencer Orey

“I was not the Judge, but I would try.”

The caravan season should have ended with the onset of the rains. Unpredictably flooded trails and the rise of furious displaced snakes made it treacherous to cross the forest we called the Heart of Rain. Moreover, the best of the lion guides had long since crossed over and were now feasting through their earnings. The only lions still offering their services here at the border were the worst of the lot and the most corrupt. Nobody who knew any better would choose any of them. And yet, wagons full of desperate refugees and travelers kept arriving in hopes of a better life away from the pride lands.

The latest donkey-wagon waiting at the inn’s crossing post looked desperate enough. A cheetah waved in hopes of attracting a suitable lion guide while a cheetah cub, likely hers, scratched at the nearest wheel. Other cats chattered in the wagon. I wondered if they’d be desperate enough to choose me as a guide, even though I was no lion. Nobody ever chose a tiger like me, but I could at least offer my services.

I slunk out from the inn’s overhang for a slow and polite approach. Old Grezzawel the lion shoved past me with his tail arrogantly raised. He said, “Do not think to ply your foolishness here, striped one. That wagon is mine.” His steel sword shone on his back.

Even here on the outskirts of the pride lands, I was supposed to acquiesce to the lions. The smallest hesitation could put me in danger from those who’d gladly use sword and claw and tooth to remind me of my place. I should have slunk away. Instead, I approached the wagon.

The cheetah’s gaze flicked over me and lingered on Grezzawel. To her, he must have looked like a figure cut from stories about the Judge, the hero who’d guarded the trails across the Heart of Rain. Grezzawel played the part well, raising his silver necklace to show the Judge’s emblem. I hated that these corrupt lions dared to wear anything so sacred.

“I assume—” Grezzawel began.

“Do not trust that lion,” I interrupted. “I am Tamtammaragh-Tamrel, and if you’ll have me, I will help you.” The wagon flap stirred. A small, striped face peeked out to look at me.

There was a moment of shocked silence.

“Honey, come out here,” the cheetah called over her shoulder to the wagon.

An adult leopard slunk out from the wagon to join us. Before the flap closed behind her, I saw three cubs. A cheetah, a leopard, and yes, a small tiger.

Grezzawel laughed, sounding jolly, but he shifted his weight in subtle preparation to strike me. “Do not listen to this fool tiger. Rains are falling. Snakes are prowling. You’ll need a true guide who can guarantee your passage.”

The cheetah raised a questioning paw at me. “Have you made the crossing before? Can you guarantee us passage?”

I’d never fully crossed the Heart of Rain, but I’d studied maps and followed caravans along the winding trails. I could do it. I said, “None can guarantee such a thing during the rain.” Grezzawel growled in anger, but I kept talking, “I can fight. And if you’ll have me, I swear to protect your group with every one of my lives.”

The cheetah looked me over in consideration. Then, heartbreakingly, she turned to Grezzawel instead. “What terms do you offer, great lion?”

It was a dismissal. And yet, I’d failed so many times at this before that it was hard for me to give up. I did not budge.

Grezzawel gave a cocky snort. “With such danger, you will pay me everything you own. On the other side, you will give me your wagon and your donkey.” He eyed me with a wicked shake of his mane then pointed to the wagon flap. “And one of the cubs, to raise as a servant. I’d prefer a tiger.” It was a horrific blood price.

In my outrage, I felt suddenly aware of the blade on my back. It was a brittle thing, so unlike the Judge’s legendary sword, unlike even this corrupt lion’s steel, but I could use it.

The cheetah reared back from Grezzawel’s demand. She turned to me, “And… your terms?”

“Are illegitimate,” Grezzawel said, shifting his weight again. “No weakling tiger can protect you from the vengeance of snakes. His kind are prideless cowards, unable to fight—” Grezzawel slid his sword out and struck at me.

I swung my blade free just in time. He was far stronger than me, and his sword bit so hard into mine I could tell my blade would break under too many blows. But I knew him. I’d studied from the shadows while he and the other lions practiced their swordplay. Grezzawel could fight, but he was no hero. He was not the Judge. And I’d grown up fighting bullies like him.

I feigned fear and stumbled back. He roared with triumph and leapt at me while I crossed under his eager swipe to bite my teeth hard into his unprotected forearm. He yelped but smashed his sword pommel down onto my head.

I flailed my sword as I fell. My vision spun from pain. Like a fool, I’d challenged a lion to a swordfight and lost. Now I’d die. There’d be no punishment for killing a tiger. I scrambled for my feet, claws out, ready to bat away Grezzawel’s killing blow, but I was too dizzy.

No killing blow fell. When my vision cleared, Grezzawel was stumbling for the inn, clutching his chest. Blood dripped from his fur onto the muddy ground. In my flailing, I’d struck him. I’d actually done it. I’d won.

The cheetah stared at me, head cocked in reconsideration.

Despite my throbbing head, I swept into a bow. “I am no lion. I will accept whatever payment you can afford,” I said. “Only, I ask that after we’ve crossed, you tell others that cats still uphold the true ways and would not steal your cubs or take your every last possession. I ask that you remind everyone that once there was a Judge, and although many lions have turned corrupt and cruel, there may one day be a Judge again. So I ask you now, will you have me as your guide?”

We left later that day.

* * *

We descended brown bouldery hills toward the Heart of Rain. As was their custom, the cats had not presented me with their names, and I had not asked, as was polite.

Out of sight of the village, the three cubs dashed free of the wagon and clambered onto me. I was wearing my armor, and the jangle of the bamboo stalks made the cubs giggle. The cheetah raced over to scold them away, but I waved her off. Better that the little ones learn to trust me while the road was still safe. Then they might listen to me when things turned bad.

The cheetah and leopard cubs were inseparable. They’d tumble away to pounce at each other in the road, but the tiger cub hardly left my back. Perhaps she’d heard Grezzawel demanding her as a blood price, or perhaps I reminded her of someone she’d lost.

We passed several final boulders before the Heart of Rain rose before us. Tall trees shook branches up into the rainclouds, ready to grow as their roots submerged for the long seasonal soak. Mostly, we saw lightning, always striking the same place. Each strike made the tiger cub cling sharper with her claws.

I remembered too well how it felt to be a scared cub. So, as others had once done for me, I told stories about the Judge.

Lightning struck. She dug in her claws again, and I said, “Fear not. That’s only the Judge’s sword.”

“His sword?” her claws eased a little. The other cubs raced over to listen.

“The Judge is the strongest of all warriors. He battles for all of us with his sword that casts lightning. We do not know what he battles. With each flash of lightning, his sword swings against evil. Take heart from the lightning, for the Judge is fighting to keep us safe.”

The tiger cub climbed forward onto my head, watching closer. When lightning flashed, she tensed without clawing. “But how can he fight like that? Doesn’t he need to rest?”

“His sword strikes with lightning,” I said. “His strong paws wield powerful magic. His invincible silver armor shines like sunshine itself.”

“Not like yours.”

I laughed. “No, not like mine.” My armor would barely blunt a sword strike. I was lucky Grezzawel hadn’t skewered me.

“But if he’s so shiny, he can’t hide,” the leopard cub said, suddenly at my side. “He can’t sneak up on his prey.”

“The Judge does not hide,” I said. “He arrives when and wherever cats need his help. At least he used to…” Lightning flashed again. I didn’t want the little ones afraid. I said, “Nobody can beat him in a swordfight. No evil can withstand his righteousness. Out there in the trees, he’s winning.”

“Like this!” The cheetah cub snatched a jagged stick from the ground and swung it at a nearby boulder. The stick broke, and the cubs giggled.

The two adult cats clustered in discussion with the donkey, thanking him for his patience on the tedious downhill. He flicked his ears at me in gratitude for carrying the cubs and sharing some small portion of the weight.

Trees appeared ahead on the trail, with green branches extended as though to ward us away. I hoped the season was early enough that the snakes might still be awakening from their holes, not roosting high, ready to strike.

Doubt found me. Could I truly serve as a guide through this place? Responsibility weighed on my paws with a sudden heaviness. I was telling stories about a hero and pretending to be one myself, when I was yet untested and untrained. My inexperience put my caravan in danger.

The first snake hole I spotted beside the narrow road had already flooded. The snakes would be angry.

Among the trees, there was no point in telling the cubs to keep quiet against their young inclinations. They were young and busy with chatter. Our wagon’s heavy wheels already acted as a beacon to anything listening for vibrations.

* * *

Hiss. Snakes leapt from the treetops, screaming, “Defilers of the rock! Remove your filth and return our land!” Some bared fangs. Others held knives in their mouths.

“Fight them off!” I yelled.

The adult cats leapt to protect the wagon while I searched for the real danger. I spotted a flick of leaves and struck with my sword. I missed. A pair of fangs clanked off my bamboo armor.

Every ambush was led by a snake priest. Lions called them fang spitters because they tore the fangs from fallen snakes to shoot at travelers. I swiped again into the grass.

The cubs screamed from inside the wagon. I turned their way and spotted the fang spitter trying to sneak past me. I grabbed it and threw it hard at a tree trunk, then dashed for the wagon.

I yelled, “Your priest has fallen! Leave us, snakes!” I threw open the wagon flap and found a trio of knife-wielding snakes.

The tiger cub was pressed fully into the corner, trembling with fear. The other two cubs had their claws out, trying to fight.

I roared. The snakes glanced at me and rushed to slither out the front of the wagon. Guides usually moved in pursuit. But when the tiger cub leapt onto me, mewling pitifully, terrified, in desperate need of comfort, I let the snakes escape.

* * *

The cubs were scared but otherwise unharmed, and the adult cats escaped with only scratches. The donkey took a bad bite to his front leg. We bandaged him with a salve that the leopard insisted contained one of her peoples’ effective antivenoms, but it did little to help with his limp. He nevertheless motioned forward with his ears, a brave claim that he could still walk, but he needed our help to push the wagon atop a small hill. We made early camp. It was too damp for a fire.

One attack in, and we were far worse off. I remembered Grezzawel’s hateful words: no weakling tiger can protect you from the vengeance of snakes. How much more of this could we survive?

The cheetah cub and the leopard cub snuggled together, asleep in the wagon with the leopard. The tiger cub refused to leave my side. She was awake and still shaking with fear.

The cheetah came to my side and took her daughter close. “I’ll keep watch for a while so you can rest.”

The tiger whimpered and reached for me. I said, “I’m good yet.”

Rain dripped steadily around us. The cheetah asked, “How many times have you completed the crossing?”

I thought about lying, in case it would help her feel safer. But the Judge would have stuck to the truth. “This is my first full crossing, though I have long stalked these trails in practice. No caravan before you dared choose a tiger when they could have a lion instead.”

The tiger cub made a sound like she wanted to speak, but she quieted down again.

“After the lions stole our land, we followed stories of the Judge into the pride lands of warm justice,” the cheetah said. “But wherever we traveled, the lions forced us out again, always pushing us back onto the road. From the stories… we expected better.”

I nodded in sad agreement. “As did I.”

“Tam, you may be inexperienced, but I am grateful to have you,” the cheetah said. “You saved my cubs today. That is no small thing.”

The tiger cub squeaked a little. “I was too scared to fight. I was a coward tiger, just like that mean lion said.”

“Darling,” the cheetah said, reaching for her.

The cub shook her away, nuzzling closer to me for safety. She said, “The Judge wouldn’t have been scared.”

I knew just what to say. “We all get scared sometimes. Even the Judge.”

“Really?” her ears perked up. “Then I wish the Judge was here with us.” Lightning flashed again and she followed it with her gaze. “Can’t you go get him?”

I laughed at that. “If I left, who would fight off tomorrow’s snakes?” I tried to say more but lost myself in a big yawn.

“Rest while you can,” the cheetah insisted. “We’ll need you fresh.”

My protest ended in another yawn. I handed the tiger cub to her mother.

I awoke to a roar.

* * *

At first, I worried Grezzawel had come for revenge. But after a second roar, we decided someone was in trouble. I volunteered to go, but the cheetah was faster. She raced away to investigate.

She came back shortly with a huge lion. He bore a steel sword on his back that shone brighter even than his cuirass, almost as bright as his necklace that bore the Judge’s emblem.

“He was alone,” the cheetah said, “fighting snakes.”

“And winning,” the lion said with a wicked grin.

I recognized him from the border village. He’d signed on with several other guides for the last full caravan. There’d been several long wagons, all pulled by friendly oxen. This lion should have completed the crossing long ago.

The leopard also appeared suspicious. “Where is your caravan?”

“Separated by ambush at the big bridge. Most of our wagons escaped. I fought until the snakes pushed our final wagon into the river. The whole wagon slid in, and so did I.” His sadness appeared genuine, at least. “Call me Cruwr. Take me with you.” He eyed me dismissively. “Surely you could use a truer swordpaw.”

The cheetah and leopard crouched together for discussion. Even as their guide, I was only a hired hand, so the decision was theirs. I would have sent the lion away. But when the cheetah glanced at me, it reminded me of her question about whether I’d made the crossing before, and I knew their answer.

* * *

Everything changed with Cruwr along.

When Cruwr pointed us toward a narrow trail that he claimed would avoid the bridge and also potentially a more direct route, I recommended against it. As the caravan’s guide, I preferred the trail I’d set us on. But the cheetah and leopard took Cruwr’s advice anyway.

We didn’t get far before we were forced to make camp. The ground underpaw turned to deep mud, where pulling the wagon made the donkey’s injury worse.

When snakes attacked our muddy camp in the evening, Cruwr struck faster than me. His sword was sharper. He wielded it better. While Cruwr butchered snakes, I once again sought out the fang spitter to end the ambush. Instead, I found a snake priest who bore a single giant fang.

He struck the fang into the mud and reared back to yell, “Defilers! Come with me and take your filth from our—” Cruwr sliced him in half before he could speak more. Then as the other snakes fled, Cruwr chased them down with swings of his steel sword that severed them against tree trunks. I was disgusted with him.

But Cruwr was beloved. The tiger cub still clung to me, but the other two cubs quickly took to Cruwr. He let them try to lift his sword and laughed fondly when they could not. When night fell, the cheetah and leopard seemed more relaxed to have him with us, even though he’d been the one to get us stuck.

He did all those things, but he would not speak to me.

I approached him several times, seeking to coordinate our efforts, seeking counsel about how to better protect the caravan. He wouldn’t let me finish a sentence before scoffing and walking away. His unspoken message was clear. I was a tiger who’d overstepped his place.

Worse, he scolded the tiger cub. She tripped, falling face first into mud, and he called her pathetic. He reminded her of her inability to fight. He called her a coward and a failure.

The rain fell heavier, and our injured donkey could not pull the cart. We were forced to remain in place in hopes that a full day’s rest might give him strength to pull the rest of the way out of the Heart of Rain.

* * *

Snakes attacked again. I heard the cubs screaming, so I raced to the wagon. Cruwr reached it first.

I found him ripping snakes away from the leopard and cheetah cubs but ignoring the tiger entirely. A snake was closing in on her, fangs bared to strike while she screamed louder and louder for help. Cruwr did nothing. No, he did worse than that. He laughed at her.

I pounced hard and tossed the snake outside.

With a furious growl at Cruwr, I put the tiger cub on my back and sought out her parents. I said, “Cruwr is dangerous and hateful. He must leave.”

Cruwr came out of the wagon with the other cubs riding on his shoulders. They giggled and didn’t seem to mind the snake blood on his fur and paws. Cruwr’s Judge emblem shone bright.

I said, “I know she is not your trueborn cub, but—”

“She is our daughter,” the leopard said with a hiss. “We are her mothers.” She plucked the tiger from my grip to nuzzle her close.

“We will discuss the matter with Cruwr,” the cheetah said.

I was not invited to that discussion. The rain stopped mercifully long enough for us to make a small campfire, and the cubs clustered near it for warmth. The donkey hung his ears to the side, relaxed.

The leopard and cheetah kept their voices quiet, but Cruwr was far too proud to whisper. I caught snarls of his words, “Disloyal…. greedy cats… only ever minding their own kind…”

The tiger cub whimpered.

I asked, “How about another story?” The other cubs snuggled closer. “The Judge’s sword—”

“Shoots lightning, we know. We can see it,” the leopard cub said. The cheetah cub shushed her with a soft shove, but they both stilled when lightning flashed. Cruwr’s trail had led us close to where the lightning struck.

“There was a time when his sword went missing. A bandit stole it in the night…” No, I’d chosen the wrong story, about an evil tiger. I shook my head.

“Tell us!” the cheetah cub yelled.

I tried a different story. “Another time, his armor…” No, that story too was about a terrible tiger. Cruwr’s words were digging into me. The tiger cub needed better, something to believe in.

“Are we getting a story or not?” the leopard cub asked. She put her head on her paws.

I chose my favorite. “There was a time before the Judge was a hero. When he was a cub much like you three, his family was attacked by—” tigers— “bandits who stole him away. The bandits demanded an impossible ransom. His parents tried to rescue him, but they were too weak to fight off the entire bandit horde. Next, his whole village tried to rescue him, but they failed too, for the bandits were simply too many. The Judge realized he’d have to rescue himself. Every day, bandits chased the young Judge around, poking him with swords, and the Judge learned how to dodge and move. Every day, he watched bandits train with their swords, and he learned to strike better than they could. The bandits claimed to be clever, but one day—”

“Telling tales about your betters?” Cruwr interrupted. The two adult cats were chasing after him, like he must have stormed off. He swept into a sneering bow. “My apologies for upsetting you earlier today. I’d foolishly imagined that a such grand tiger warrior would be capable of rescuing one of your own.” He paused to sneer at the cub. “Not that your kind merits rescuing.”

I snarled and reached for my sword.

“Hold.” The cheetah growled. She raced between me and Cruwr. To Cruwr she said, “You agreed to make peace, not inflame things with insults.”

Lightning flashed. I hoped the donkey could endure the next day’s march so we could finally be rid of Cruwr.

“When an inferior oversteps their place, they must be reprimanded,” Cruwr said. “Such actions are only natural.” He gave an exaggerated stretch of his back. “I find that saving all of your lives yet again has tired me out. Take the first watch, tiger. I’ll be sure to save you first tomorrow, since you’re such a weakling.”

I wanted to yell at him.

Instead, the tiger cub shrieked, “Cruwr, you don’t deserve to wear the Judge’s emblem. The Judge would be ashamed of you.”

He growled in anger, shifting his weight. When he reached for his sword, I sprang fast, grabbing his paw in my teeth.

With his other paw he swiped at me, but I’d already ducked away. Before, I’d angered him. Now I’d hurt his pride. I crouched low, ready for a bad reprisal.

Lightning flashed again.

“The Judge,” Cruwr said slowly, then laughed. “You tell stories about glorious lions while forgetting who those lions fought. It’s a shame nobody has shown you the truth.” He slunk to the edge of the firelight and curled up for sleep.

The cheetah and the leopard ducked their heads together in worried conversation.

While the others slept, I found myself glancing toward Cruwr more than I watched for snakes. Finally, the cheetah relieved me, and I curled up to rest.

It was still dark when the leopard shook me awake in a panic.

The tiger cub was missing. So was Cruwr.

* * *

In the dark, away from the trail, it would be harder to spot sudden drops into snake holes. Worse, in the rain, I might not be able to smell my way back to the caravan. “I’ll find her,” I said.

“He’d only kill you,” the leopard answered. “I’ll go. I can sneak through the trees.”

“Don’t go, mommy!” the leopard cub shrieked.

“I hate to say this, but… perhaps none of us should go,” the cheetah said. Her voice was quiet and pained. “When the sun rises, the snakes will descend upon us—”

The leopard growled. “You’d leave our daughter to that lion?”

“Cruwr is cruel, but if he means to punish Tam—”

“You wouldn’t dare say that if he’d stolen Ila.”

“But he didn’t.”

The duty of every guide since the Judge was to ensure their caravan survived with as many people as possible. If I chased after Cruwr, the cheetah was right that they might die without my protection.

I remembered the tiger cub shaking in fear in the wagon. How much more terrified must she be now, stuck with hateful Cruwr? I had to rescue her. I was going.

“He wants to humiliate me,” I said. “He wants to prove that he’s better with a sword, that he can strike me down. As if he has to prove such a thing.” I shook free of my bamboo armor and gave my brittle blade to the leopard. “Protect yourselves as best you can. Follow this trail. I vow to find your daughter and bring her to you.”

The donkey stomped in support.

I could smell Cruwr’s path, but I already knew where he’d gone. He was proud and wanted to teach me a cruel lesson. To find him, I had only to follow the lightning.

He’d taken her to the Judge.

* * *

The trail was perilous with holes and sudden streams. Snakes slithered overhead on branches but did not leap down on me. Perhaps they were showing strength, or perhaps they knew that the farther I went from my caravan, the easier of a target the rest of my group would be.

I followed the lightning along a flowing river of runoff lined with the wreckage of broken wagons until the tall trees suddenly thinned. I found an expanse of blasted mud covered in bones. In the middle of the mud stood a tall rock marked by a thousand snake holes.

Atop the rock, I saw the body of the Judge.

He hung high in the air, trapped by the skeleton of a gigantic snake, larger than any legend. The snake’s bones coiled tightly around him, as though in death the snake was still trying to crush his invincible armor. The Judge’s sword struck out through the top of the snake’s skull, point raised in the air. Sparks danced around the blade.

The Judge was dead. My hero was dead. I’d told so many stories about his invincible armor, his lightning sword, and his unflinching morals. He’d struck a killing blow, but his own armor had trapped him in place, like a cruel sculpture to eternal battle.

“So you see how goodness ends, how one failure draws others to their death,” Cruwr said from behind me.

I spun, claws extended to protect myself, but he stood well beyond my reach.

“Did you forget your sword, stupid tiger?” Cruwr was protected by his steel cuirass like a true warrior. His mane shone resplendent with raindrops. “Have you realized that you’ll never be a true guide?”

I didn’t see the tiger cub. I had no reason to hold to my pride like a lion would. I’d save her, no matter the cost. “Great lion,” I said, sweeping into a bow. “You have proven your point. I am no guide. Take the cub back to the caravan without me and help them leave. I will trouble you no further.”

Cruwr reared back with a laugh. “It’s a bit too late for all that.” He pointed at the rock.

I caught a flicker of movement from inside the snake skeleton. A striped paw. Cruwr had forced the cub inside the giant coils of bones. At least she was alive, but how many times had lightning struck on my way here? How could I even reach her without getting struck too? I’d have to climb the bones and pry her free before the Judge’s lightning could strike me down, as it had for so many tigers in stories before.

“You’ll never save her without one of these,” Cruwr said with another laugh. “Not that you are fit to wear one.” He raised his emblem and backed away into the trees. He was only baiting me to follow so he could slit me open. I ignored him. I had to rescue the cub.

A thin trail spiraled up the tall rock. I raced up and found myself at the thick base of the great snake skeleton. The cub screamed from higher up. The snake bones at the base coiled tightly. I tried to shove them apart, but the whole skeleton held. Other snake bones were wedged into the coils, as though many of them had attempted this climb before and failed.

I climbed the bones, closer to where sparks gathered brightly around the Judge’s sword. The Judge’s silver armor gleamed, still shining and invincible after so long. More sparks gathered. My fur rose.

I found the opening where Cruwr must have shoved the cub through.

“Climb this way!” I called.

The cub tried to reach me but kept slipping. The bones were slick from rain. I tried to wedge bones apart, but the opening was far too narrow for me. I needed another way in.

The Judge’s skeletal paw was still wrapped around his sword hilt. His blade plunged up through the snake’s skull. If I couldn’t free the cub, perhaps I could stop the lightning. I angled and kicked at the Judge’s arm. Sparks shivered up my leg, but I kicked again and again until the arm bones broke apart. His torso crumbled next, and his silver armor slid free from its long-coiled prison. But his sword hung in place, lodged in the snake’s skull, gathering stronger sparks.

The cub was screaming. My fur rose entirely, and I knew lightning was about to strike. “Get low to the ground!” I yelled to the cub. She didn’t hear me, only kept climbing closer, scrabbling in a panic up the slippery bones and reaching for me. She trusted me, and that trust would be her end.

I’d failed her. Lightning would shortly kill us both. In the end, I was no guide or hero. I was only the unworthy tiger everyone had always told me I was, reaching above my natural place, trying to be something I did not deserve. More sparks gathered, dancing across my fur.

“Tam! Help me!” the cub screamed.

No, I refused to let the cub die here. I grabbed the Judge’s sword hilt and wedged myself against the coiled bones as close as I could to the great snake’s skull. I pushed hard, and pushed again until I heard a snap. I pushed more, springing with my legs, and the skull pried free while I lost my balance.

I tumbled through the air with sword.

Lightning struck. My fur erupted in fire and everything flashed burning white.

* * *

“Give it up!” Cruwr shrieked. “Give me the sword!” He was raking at me to loosen my grip. The Judge’s sword was clenched in my paw. I couldn’t have let go if I wanted to. My body jolted involuntarily, then again.

The sword was sparking anew, gathering strength. I’d been lucky to survive a first blast. I wouldn’t survive a second.

Cruwr took a step back and drew his sword. Sparks danced across his cuirass. “I’ll cut it free,” he said. “I can be a new Judge. First among caravan guides. Imagine the riches.”

The Judge’s sword sparked more. Cruwr roared and raised his sword high to cut off my paw.

And the cheetah slammed into his side. He was so sturdy that she only staggered him, but she saved my life. Cruwr’s sword chunked down into the mud. The cheetah rolled away while Cruwr shook his sword free. He spun on her. I heard the tiger cub scream from nearby.

I was shaking and too weak to raise the Judge’s sword for battle, let alone swing it, but if I did nothing, the cheetah would die. The cub would lose her mother.

The Judge wouldn’t have given up. Neither could I.

I tried to get up and fight, tried to ready the sword.

I managed to point it.

And lighting erupted onto Cruwr, a column of bright burning death. It threw me back.

* * *

A paw batted lightly at my face. “Are you really still alive?” the cheetah asked. “How many lives have you lost today?”

The Judge’s sword lay next to me. It wasn’t sparking. My paw ached terribly.

“Cub?” I asked. I wanted to ask far more than that, but it hurt too much to talk. Where were the others? Why had the cheetah come for us, after trying to abandon her child?

“I got scared, and I chose wrong,” she said. “It was a mistake. I’m here now.”

I saw a flicker of movement from behind her, a striped tail. The cub poked out from behind her mother.

Cruwr’s charred remains lay face down in the mud. Raindrops fizzed on his burnt fur. His steel armor still shone, along with his necklace and the Judge’s emblem.

“Let’s return to the caravan,” the cheetah said. “The donkey can only fend off the snakes for so long.”

“Snakes won’t bother us anymore.” I’d understood what they’d wanted all this time. They’d called us defilers of the rock. The Judge’s lightning had rendered their home dangerous and inaccessible. How many snakes had failed to stop the lightning? The ground was littered with bones. “They can finally return home.”

All that remained was to remove the last of the Judge. And his armor.

I tried to get to my feet but stumbled. The cub darted out to support my weight with her back. Encouraged, I got up.

The Judge’s sword lay in the mud. If I touched it, would it call more lightning? It was one thing to tell stories about a hero who wielded magic. It had been another thing entirely to feel magic scorch through me and witness the destruction it wrought. In stories, the sword was a singular tool of justice. Now I saw it as a sparking border between life and death, a bright responsibility.

“Take the armor and sword,” the cheetah said. “They belong to you.”

The silver armor wouldn’t fit me. It’d been forged for a lion, and no lion smith would ever refit it for a tiger. I didn’t deserve it. But perhaps neither had the Judge. How much violence had he wrought upon the Heart of Rain by fighting the gigantic snake? How many caravans and travelers had been lost because of him?

I was making excuses. “I’m afraid.”

“Do not abandon what you’ve earned in fear that you aren’t good enough. Try instead to be worthy. Try always,” the cheetah said. “That’s all any of us can do.”

The cub nuzzled me.

My strength slowly returned. I sent the cheetah and her cub back to the caravan.

I took Cruwr’s emblem for my own, and then I buried him and the Judge together. It felt right, an acknowledgment that our many lives were messier than any simple legend, that all of us contained greed and pride and the sparks of heroism.

* * *

I found the donkey hitched to the wagon, ready to pull. The leopard and the cheetah nuzzled their tiger cub, holding her close, part of their family. The other two cubs mewled with awe at the sight of the silver armor and the sword. I was not the Judge, but I would try.

The snakes left my caravan unbothered. There would be more peace to be made with the snakes, reparations for old wrongs, new agreements to be made for safe crossings. That was for later. A peaceful rain fell, and we had a crossing to complete.

 

* * *

About the Author

Spencer Orey (he/him) is a Copenhagen-based anthropologist and graduate of Taos Toolbox and the Odyssey Writing Workshop. You can find him and more of his stories online at spencerorey.com and @spencerorey on Bluesky.

by Liam Hogan

“When I’d seen her, sixty years earlier, she’d been no rainbow, sure, but the edges of her scales had still glimmered with colour.”

You don’t get to the age of two hundred and seventy-eight by being stupid. Or careless. Or, worst of all, trusting. Yet there I was, trapped and shackled by dragon iron. The accursed chains were as ancient as I was, the skills of their forging lost in the great wars, but they were as unbreakable as ever. It was best to conserve my strength; so, thoroughly annoyed with myself, I lay on the dark cavern floor, legs stretched before me and my head resting on them, waiting for whatever came next.

Whatever came next was a flashily dressed royal-type. Hopes rose. Kings and princes were, in my experience, vain creatures, easily flattered and bargained with and most of them quite short-lived — relatively speaking. There would, I was sure, be an out, even if I had to outlive him to get to it.

He halted at the far reaches of the dreary subterranean void, a distant, insignificant figure, well out of reach of my constrained claws. Possibly not out of reach of my tail, though it would require an impressive back flip to whip it that far in his direction. Nor, I supposed, would he entirely escape the extremities of my fiery breath. I could, at the very least, singe this arrogant human’s neat beard. Though that was definitely a last resort.

“Dragon,” he said, the feeble sound lost in the vast space.

“Count the limbs,” I growled, “It’s wyvern, Prince.” Wyverns — and dragons — have deep, gravelly voices. It comes from the heavy smoking.

“And it’s King, not prince,” he said, with a degree of hauteur that he must have practised in front of a full-length mirror. “King Ulfred.”

He was young to be a king, no more than three decades. I had half a mind to ask who he’d bumped off to ascend to the throne, but like I said, royal types can be awfully short lived. Especially if they’re stupid, or careless, or trusting. I didn’t want to antagonise him too much; just enough to show I wasn’t cowed.

“You all look the same to me,” I yawned, and there was a yelp from the man-at-arms trapped beneath my claw.

The King’s eyes widened. “Is that man still alive?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask… why?”

“I thought he might be important to you. Call him a peace offering, if you will.” I smiled, all teeth. “A sign of good intentions.”

The King didn’t smile in reply. I could have warned him: it ages you, maintaining such a severe expression. Well, it ages humans.

“The men were picked to be disposable.”

“That explains the laughably thin armour.”

He shook his head. “They were nothing more than a distraction, while my elite guard approached with the restraints. He means nothing to me. Do with him as you will.”

There was a whimper from beneath me. The man had been admirably still, no trouble at all, albeit under the threat of a very messy death. It would be wrong to say I felt anything for him, any more than the King would for a chicken destined for his table. And yet…

“I don’t much like canned food,” I quipped, though the quip would fail to land for a good number of centuries. I lifted my claw and prodded the prone man into action. He stumbled to his feet and fled — away from my wickedly sharp talons, and away from his uncaring King, deeper into the cavern where less frequently glimpsed dangers lurked. You try to do a good deed…

“What is it you want from me, King Ulfred?”

“I’m at war, with King Francisco—”

“If I could stop you right there.” Like I said, we have deep voices, it’s easy to talk over someone when they’re just a leaf rustling in the wind. “You want to use me as a weapon?”

“Well, yes.”

“What makes you think I’ll let you?”

He finally smiled; I preferred the frown. “I’ll only release your chains, not the shackles. You want out of those, you do exactly as I say.”

Cunning. And dastardly. Like sharks and crocodiles, wyverns never stop growing. Imprisoned by dragon iron, my limbs would be crippled over time. A slow, painful future.

I peered down my nose. “You might make me promise, instead?”

“And that would hold you?” The frown was back.

“A wyvern’s promise is far more binding than iron, King Ulfred, even dragon iron. As I’m sure your advisors told you. Or perhaps you don’t listen to them, hmm? Anyway, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Oh? Am I?”

“Yes, if you want a weapon, you want the biggest, baddest flying monster you can find. And that’s not me. What you need is an ash wyvern.”

“An ash wyvern? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Oh, they’re very rare. Hardly surprising you don’t know about them in these blighted backwaters.” I watched, delighted, as he bristled. Such thin skins, humans. “Most who encounter them don’t live to tell the tale. But the tale is worth telling.

“An ash wyvern is larger than I am, and, as you might guess from the name, they’re silvery-white and appear as ghosts. But its their breath that makes them unique, and uniquely feared. They have the most destructive, fiery breath in the world. A breath that brings death, far more so than any mere dragon or lesser wyvern like me. It is a breath that melts stone, that eats through metal like a hot knife through butter. As for what it does to flesh, well, you can imagine. Most of all, it is a breath that, once unleashed, cannot be restrained. It consumes everything in its path, until all is laid to waste for leagues around, ash and dust, even the wyvern who breathed it.”

King Ulfred stroked that neat beard of his. “A mighty weapon, then. But one that can only be used once?”

“Trust me, once is too many times. You never actually want to deploy an ash wyvern! Genies out of bottles and all.” I wasn’t sure he’d get that reference either. Not an anachronism this time, more a whole other mythology. “Me, I can swoop down and kill a half dozen soldiers in each pass, though it’s the scare factor that gets enemy cavalry all riled up and sends unwashed rabble scurrying for cover. But an ash wyvern…” I shook my head ponderously. “Once it is unleashed there won’t be anything left that didn’t have the foresight to crawl under a very large rock. No crops, no forests, no livestock, no army or farmers, no castles and certainly no rival king. All wiped from the face of this Earth. Ultimate destruction from the ultimate weapon.”

It was quite horrid, how his eyes glittered as he listened. “So,” I pointed out, feeling the need to join the dots, “just the fact you have one, will guarantee you victory. The scare factor. Because against such a terrible threat, only a fool would attempt to stand.”

“And you tell me this, because?”

“Because, in return for my freedom, I can get you an ash wyvern.”

“Indeed? Very well. But the same rules apply. I won’t release your shackles, just your chains. And you must swear—”

Here it came…

And then it didn’t.

Perhaps he had heard of genies after all. Or other magical beings, whose words were like the reflections of the moon on a cold pond. Deceptive, and impossible to grasp. This was the point at which he could have done with those neglected advisors. In the end, he didn’t do too badly. Perhaps I underestimated him.

“You must promise,” he finally said with infinite care, “Not to cause me harm, directly or indirectly, to the best of your abilities. You must promise to bring me an ash wyvern. And…”

It’s always the third bite at the thorax, isn’t it?

“…you will only be freed once victory is mine!”

“I don’t see how I can promise the last part, since that is in your hands,” I said, deflating his triumph.

“Well…” He looked confused; perhaps I had overestimated him. “Then promise the first two parts, and I’ll look after the third.”

I promised, reluctantly, and the chains (but not the shackles) were released. I grinned my most evil grin and ducked my head sharply towards the king, who was now very much in range. “Say,” I said, and he squealed and fell over backwards as his royal guards scrabbled for their swords and spears. “You don’t have a history of heart problems in your family, do you?”

He shook his head, unable to speak, or even squeak.

“Well, that’s good,” I said. “It’s hard to keep my oath if I don’t have a full medical history, if I don’t know how sensitive you might be to shocks and scares and the like. To the best of my abilities, right?”

With that, I squeezed up the narrow crevice to the outside. Thankfully, it was daylight, a wan sun working away at the morning’s mist, just enough to warm my wings. There was a gathering of the King’s men watching as I stretched, shaking the water and fallen dirt from my back. I thought of snatching a few — travelling snacks for my journey — but concluded that this might indirectly harm the King. Pesky thing, promises.

It was good to be in the skies again, even though I wasn’t entirely sure where I was headed. North, was my best guess. If it hadn’t been for the shackles around my ankles and the irksome promise, I’d just keep going. Find somewhere with no dratted Kings, no dragon iron, maybe no people at all. Not that there were many places like that any more. The Earth was getting awfully crowded, and the humans I did encounter never seemed happy to see me. Can’t understand why. I preferred their cattle to their children, or their women. The older the better — richer flavour and more to chew on. And yes, I’m still talking about cows.

I stopped to ask the way from a sun-basking griffin. She couldn’t help smirking as she glanced at the bands of dragon iron, my twin badges of disgrace, and I’d have clipped her wings if she hadn’t given me such promising directions.

The way was up into the hills, low cousins to the mountains that crowded the horizon, wearing capes of snow that never melted. Well, not for the next half a millennia or so. A wyvern’s ability to glimpse the distant future meant that things that seemed constant weren’t, and things you keep expecting to change, don’t. Or not in the ways you expect. There’s a certain circular inevitability to history, to stupidity, and yes, to war.

The abyss the griffin had guided me to, at the far end of a dark lake, was suitably ominous. A cleft in the hillside, a stream trickling from its mouth, a fetid smell wafting from its depths… Even I had a shudder of apprehension as I entered the foreboding ravine, wriggling my way until I came to a pitch-black chamber, where I had the sense of being minutely inspected.

“Hello, younger brother.” A voice as ancient as the rocks sighed.

“Altran; thought I might find you here. Kin. Sister. Friend?”

“I see you got yourself captured.”

“Ah, yes. Though how can you…?”

“I can taste the iron, Shurni. Not just any old iron, either. Dragon iron. Haven’t smelled that sour stench for over a century. Chaffs, I’ll bet? Someone must really want you to do something for them.”

“Well… they did.”

“Oh?”

“And now they want you to do something for them.”

“ME?!” the voice thundered, rocks rattling from the roof, and I had a grim vision of the two of us buried forever beneath that lonely hill. In better news, the rumble let a thin sliver of light creep into the Stygian depths. In worse news, the light revealed the remains of what Altran had been surviving on while she wallowed in her misery, the discarded bones and tattered fleeces of snow-blind sheep and scraped goats that had strayed into these tunnels. It explained the crunch underfoot. Amazing she could pick out cold iron over all of that. I suppose she must have gotten used to it, though heavens knew how.

“Yes,” I said. “You, sister. I need you.”

“For what?” Her measured reply was far more dangerous than her exclamations. She was from a clutch two centuries older than mine, and that was why I’d appended the hopeful “friend?”. We might be related, but we didn’t grow up together. My plan — such that it was — relied on her willing cooperation. As did my life.

“I want you to join an army.”

You could hear solitary drips of water pinking into some pool somewhere. I held my breath. The hillside held it’s breath. Even Altran was very, very still.

“What sort of an army?”

“A… human one?”

“Have a care, brother!”

“You won’t be asked to do anything!” I protested. “Just to be seen!”

“Just, my inane little brother says. Just be seen. I should have crushed your entire clutch when I heard mother was laying again!”

“Well, that’s—”

“Look then — look, if you must!”

She reared forward and into the tendrils of light from above. Altran’s entire head was bone white. Colourless, other than the two spots of blood red that flashed in her furious eyes.

That’s the problem with fire breathing, for wyverns. Dragons have it relatively easy, employing a different technique of igniting their flames, as different as the stings of wasps are from bees. For wyverns, breathing fire changes you. Each fiery breath consumed a firestone from our crops, just as our flames consumed wood, or flesh.

You started your life, it always seemed, with plenty of stones, flaming at the drop of a hat when you were young and foolish, when you were at your most vulnerable. But wyvern lives are long, if you escape infancy. By the time I’d reached what most wyvern would consider young-middle ages, I was rationing my remaining firestones, eating my food raw, and flaming only when necessary. Each time you breathed fire, each time you lost a stone, you also lost the vibrant hue it imparted, the reds, greens, and purples with which we were streaked. Each flame leached colour until you had only one stone left, barely enough to keep your internal engines going. Just one fiery breath from extinction.

Wyverns do not, as a rule, die of old age. Once we pass through the perils of our youth — other siblings, whether the same age or, like Altran, two centuries older, the odd accident (dragon iron can make more than chains and shackles, though there are also natural hazards, like cavern roof collapses…), and the hazards of courtship flights, themselves a great consumer of firestones — there was relatively little that could harm us. Even dragons gave us a wide berth.

Instead, we die a little with each exhaled inferno, each proof of our awesome power. For wyverns, fire is a defence mechanism. Which is why we do not, on the whole, make very good weapons.

I had not known Altran was on her last breath. When I’d seen her, sixty years earlier, she’d been no rainbow, sure, but the edges of her scales had still glimmered with colour. This explained why she was skulking far from prying eyes.

“You’re perfect!” I exclaimed, covering my gasp. “I was going to suggest chalk, or some other sort of make up, but no, sister, you are absolutely perfect!”

“I am nothing,” she spat. “Waiting for such prey as falls into my lair. I’m washed up, no weapon, and certainly not one to strike fear into anyone’s heart.”

So I told her my plan. Slowly, with much shaking of her mighty head and many a weary grunt, I won her around.

“It does rather seem, little brother, that it is my life you’re putting on the line?”

It wasn’t easy, this winning her around bit.

“A myth, then. If this is to be my end, Shurni, then at least it will make for a good story.”

“No end, sister.”

“You promise?”

I held her gaze, though that was mighty hard to do. “If I could, I would. But…”

“Hah! Promise bound and shackled by dragon iron… a sorry state. It might be worth climbing out of this hole, just to watch you try and dig yourself out of yours.”

With that, I think, I knew I had her.

“With your help, Altran. If you do as I’ve suggested — with your own particular flair, of course! — If you remain aloof, and haughty, and imperious… Do you think you can do that?”

She thought long and hard. It was so gloomy down there, in Altran’s lair, that I had time enough for visions. Strange, unsettling visions. Skies criss-crossed by shiny, winged creatures whose wings never flapped. Metal-skinned monsters that flew higher than a wyvern has ever flown and left no room for us, or for dragons, or for griffins. Soulless, lifeless things built by man. Portentous omens indeed, though from the fuzzy nature I could tell it was a far distant vision of a far distant future. My concerns were very much with the present, with the here and now. I still wasn’t certain which way Altran would go.

The cavern rumbled and groaned with her laughter. “Alright, little brother. Let us go and visit this King of yours. I grow tired of mutton. If there is venison and aged beef enough for a decent meal, at least I will not die empty stomached.”

“Grand, grand!” I was delighted, for both of us. “Though before we feast, we will need to make a small detour?”

“Ah yes, that part of the plan. Risky.”

“To which end, any idea of where we should detour to?”

Altran considered, then nodded. “I think I know the place. Though… best let me do the talking, yes?”

* * *

A sight it must have been, two wyverns flying south, one as pale as the clouds, the other darker, as though its shadow. Except in mating dances, neither wyverns nor dragons tend to fly together. And though Altran hadn’t exactly been gorging herself of late, she was still four centuries old and even I was awed by her size. Big sister, indeed.

I circled the King’s castle, flashing the manacles at my ankles to show that it was me, and swooping towards the elevated courtyard in front of the keep in a clear message: clear this space, or be landed on!

Before the stir of guards and onlookers even had a chance to re-arrange themselves, Altran soared in and settled on the roof of the keep itself, skittering down slates and loose stones from the parapet, and extended her wings to look utterly regal and badass and not unlike the heraldic figure she would some day, quite soon, become.

One advantage of me being down below, and Altran being up there, other than her looking like an absolute queen, was that it was obvious that I was the one who would be doing the talking.

“King Ulfred.” I lowered my head. Not a lot, a half-bow, a mark of mutual respect that wasn’t reciprocated. I ignored the consternation of the gathered courtiers, servants, and guards, who, I guessed, hadn’t got the memo that the King had enlisted a wyvern.

“You returned,” King Ulfred said, with a glance to check his elite guard was between me and him.

“Of course. And with an ash wyvern, as promised.”

“Yes, well…” He peered up to the lofty heights of the keep.

“…to whom I promised a half dozen cows.”

“Did you now?”

“Yes. Hungry work, being the most dangerous weapon in existence. But not to worry–they don’t have to be productive cows.”

Ulfred tutted, but fluttered a hand towards one of his flunkies, an implicit see to it.

“So,” I asked, all casual. “When do we go to war?”

He stared for a moment, as if able to see through the walls of his castle and towards his not-so-distant enemy.

“Tomorrow.”

“That soon?”

“No time to waste. My army is ready, and, for now, I have the element of surprise. And you, wyvern, will be by my side on the glorious day.”

I may have groaned. I should have expected this. “I have done as you asked–”

“You brought me an ash wyvern, yes. And I am a man of my word. But my word was that you will only be freed once victory is mine. And it is not mine yet.”

There was hope for him, advisors or not, though it’d be better if he seriously toned down the smug. He also wrongly assumed I was bound to protect him. But my promise had been that my actions wouldn’t cause him harm, it didn’t say I had to put my body between him and arrows and the like. Not as long as I choose to interpret it that way.

“You know, I think you should own the moment,” I whispered. Naturally, everyone within the grounds of the castle heard me. “It being the eve of war and all.”

“How so?”

“Here you are, with two wyverns not ripping you and your army apart. Given our arrival probably sent a few of your less brave conscripts scurrying for the nearest ditch, a display of your mastery is called for, to settle nerves. You should tell your men what you intend, in battle tomorrow. It would do wonders for morale.”

“Well, yes.” He looked surprised. Unasked for, helpful advice. “That does make sense…”

“And don’t forget the cattle.”

He scowled. “Just see to it that your ash wyvern stays on the roof. And extends his wings again?”

Her, I could have corrected him. But I didn’t want to spoil the entertainment.

“Gather my commanders and have the army prepare for my orders. Promise them a cask of ale or two. That’ll still their impatience.” Off the King and his flunkies stalked to advise his generals and to dress in over-polished armour, before addressing his troops. Meanwhile, I caught the distinctive whiff of very nervous cattle. They were scrawny things, I should have asked for two more, and they were doing their best to escape the men dragging their unwilling carcasses into the upper courtyard.

“Where should we…?” a man said, arms bulging as he pulled at the rope. There was something familiar about him… Ah! Our man-at-arms from the cavern had managed to find his way out. Good for him. Now demoted to wrangling supper for wyverns, but that was a better fate than I would have predicted for him.

“Oh, leave them here and close the gates behind you,” I said, gesturing to the roof where Altran waited. “I’ll take them up.”

I probably shouldn’t play with my food, but a wyvern likes to hunt. I caught them, one by one, and carried them to the roof, still struggling in my claws. That way, no-one could see how many Altran ate and how many I snaffled. Not that I felt any remorse about taking my due. I’d flown twice the distance she had, even if I was only half the size.

As we ate we listened to the King’s speech, offering our critique, in wyvern-ese of course. We picked at our meal as the King took my possibly not entirely accurate description of an ash wyvern, and exaggerated it further still. A little light spraying of half-crunched bones happened despite our efforts not to laugh.

But the speech had a rousing effect, as the terrified, skyward gaze of conscripted soldiers gave way to a look of awe, and of possible hope.

“That’ll do it, you think?” Altran asked, after I’d made her stand tall and spread her wings as both King and wyvern basked in rapturous applause.

“We’ll see. Tomorrow. There’s half a cow here, if you…?”

“You have it, little brother. It’s been a while since I’ve eaten so much. Though I think I could get used to it again.”

* * *

We marched out at dawn. An immense throng of men, the steady clank of arms and armour, a painfully slow shuffle forward with Altran and I to the sides so that we didn’t accidentally crush half the army. The horse that the king rode, though blinkered, could sense we were there and wasn’t happy about it. It can’t have been a comfortable ride.

We ascended a low rise, beyond which stretched the open plain where tradition dictated battles between these two nations were fought, much to the ire of those who traditionally lived there. King Francisco’s army was arriving just as we were, and above the bristling tips of spears and pennants, there was—

“The enemy! The enemy have an ash wyvern as well!” King Ulfred exclaimed. “I am betrayed!”

“You are fortunate,” I told him. “That you got one when you did, otherwise you would be at a serious disadvantage right now.”

The King frowned, but returned his attention to the battlefield, as the opposing forces closed the gap between them, while the respective Kings and their respective wyverns kept their respectful distances.

And then… nothing seemed to happen.

For quite a while.

The King’s frown alternated with an expression I can only describe as startled.

“Why are their armies not engaging?” he demanded.

“Probably because you have an ash wyvern, your majesty. A wyvern of mass destruction. Or W.M.D., for short.”

“Well… why aren’t my armies engaging, then? Why do our archers not fire?”

“Because they have a WMD, too. And you did so wonderfully describe what one could do, in your rousing speech yesterday.”

He groaned. “So they’re both just sitting there?”

“I guess.”

“Make them fight!”

“That would be unwise.”

“Why, for hell’s sake?! That’s what they’re here to do.”

Evidentially, his stalemated-pawns had reached the necessary conclusion faster than the King. Perhaps if he’d been a little closer to the sharp edge of the action? I explained, for his benefit.

“If it looks like you’re winning, then the enemy will lose nothing by unleashing their wyvern. And if it looks like they are winning, then you might do the same. A king, at the point of losing his kingdom, does not make entirely rational decisions. As soon as one side unleashes their wyvern, so will the other. Both kingdoms laid to waste. Mutually assured destruction, your majesty. Neither side can afford to deploy their most fearsome weapon, because to do so would guarantee the enemy would use theirs. I’d say the safest thing to do… Hmm. Is to not engage?”

The king stared at me, aghast. He shook his head. “What about you?”

“Me?” I said.

“I have two wyvern on my side. Doesn’t that give me the advantage?”

I’d almost forgotten this is how it all began, with King Ulfred wanting to use me as his weapon. I shrugged. “Sure, but compared to an ash wyvern, I’m neither here nor there. I’m not immune to an ash wyvern’s breath. Nothing is, not stone, not iron, and certainly not flesh. I change nothing. Nor would an army twice as large. Against a WMD, these are lesser matters. On the apocalyptic scale, two Kingdoms each armed with an ash wyvern are evenly matched, regardless of any other forces involved.”

The king scowled. “So what do we do?”

“Isn’t that obvious?” I peered over the vast battle plain, where two armies stood ready and unwilling to hack and maim and kill. “You should try not fighting.”

“Not fight?”

“Yes. I believe it’s called diplomacy. Whatever your quarrel with King Francisco, have you considered talking it out? A negotiated peace? Of course, since you each have an ash wyvern, you’re on equal footing, so there won’t be a lot of concessions made by either side. You’re probably going to have to forgo and forget a lot of historic insults and aggression. Bygones, yes?”

His face was like thunder. There was a snicking noise as Altran restrained her mirth.

“But think on the bright side!” I offered, loudly, to cover them. “Consider the advantages of a strategic partnership, bound perhaps by a royal wedding? Just think; two mighty kingdoms, working together, each armed by the ultimate weapon. Who could stand against you?”

“No-one,” he said, rather sourly. “Unless they had an ash wyvern as well.”

I did my best to act surprised. “They are rare beasts, King Ulfred. They are not given out free with breakfast cereals.” Another allusion that would not make sense until a very long time from now.

He groaned. “I’m worse off than before I captured you!”

“I don’t see how,” I said. “Though of course, if you really think so, I could send your ash wyvern away, tell them you don’t need one any more.”

“But then my enemy would have one, and I wouldn’t!”

“Ah… True. Best look after yours then, hey?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your ash wyvern isn’t a captive, like I am, your majesty. You have no chains or shackles on it — and before you get any ideas, don’t even try, unless you want her flames turned on you and your kingdom. She’s here because she chooses to be, yes? Best treat her well, encourage her to stay. Look after her, feed her, and respect her. Don’t worry, maintaining an ash wyvern is far cheaper than sustaining a standing army. And in good news, nobody died today! I count that as a victory, yes?”

I held out my shackles, to be unlocked.

* * *

Back on the roof of the castle keep, as the army celebrated the — um, draw? Not dying? — feasting on cooked cuts of what we ate whole and raw, (though it would be cooked, before it hit our second stomachs), Altran turned lazily to me, picking between her teeth with a discarded halberd.

“You know Shurni, the whole mutual assured thing doesn’t stand up to scrutiny.”

I grinned. “I am aware.”

“Did you do all of this just for the pun? Wyverns of mass destruction?”

My grin grew wider. That was the problem with anachronisms. You either had to have another wyvern or dragon as an audience, or wait a few centuries for the pun to land. Since humans didn’t live anything like that long, most of our best jokes were mistaken for particularly obscure oracular prophecies. Ho hum.

“Not entirely…”

“Never mind the hyperbole, the blatant exaggeration; able to destroy an entire kingdom, indeed! What does anyone think they could actually do, to convince me to expel my last breath, knowing it spells my certain doom?”

“Quite.” I yawned. It had been a long day. Plus, I’m always sleepy after a good meal, and the King’s men had been even more generous than the King.

“Let alone convince me to use that breath in a specific, towards-the-enemy direction? One wonders why anyone fell for any of it.”

“Because it’s better than the alternative?” I suggested.

“But how long can it last?”

“Stalemates have a tendency to persist, until something radically changes the playing field. As long as both you and—?”

“Bartok.”

“As long as you and Bartok play your parts, I can’t see any reason why we can’t spin this out at least for a generation — of Kings, that is. Ulfred and Francisco are both relatively young.”

Altran drummed her claws on the masonry, leaving deep grooves. “Twenty, thirty years, perhaps? And during that time… do you condemn me to a senescence of silence?”

“Only with humans,” I protested. “You’re not missing much there. I’ll visit as often as I can and there’s nothing stopping you going on the occasional trip. In fact, the worry that you might not come back will do wonders for how attentive they are when you do. I’ve told them what you like to eat and that you enjoy being read to.” I shrugged. “It’s better than spending your remaining days festering in a dank hole, I hope?”

There was silence, as we watched the baleful glow of the setting sun, softened by the smoke of hundreds of campfires around the castle. Tomorrow, most of those soldiers would go back to their villages, to farming and patching up their hovels and whatever else they did when not forced to bear arms.

“Why didn’t King Ulfred remove your manacles?” Altran asked. “I thought I saw the man who carried the keys?”

“You did. But I asked him not to.”

“Why?”

“Altran, how many wyverns are on their last breath, would you say?”

“A few,” she admitted.

“And how many kingdoms are there, on this continent?”

She laughed. “A recruitment mission? With manacles as your calling card? W-M-Ds for all? Well. You’re nothing if not ambitious. Though don’t leave those shackles on for too long, brother, or eat too heartily. They constrict, do bands of dragon iron.”

For the first time I noticed the darker marks on my sister’s ankles. Probably wouldn’t have seen them, if she hadn’t been the colour of ash. The moment hung heavy.

“You know, you may not be doing us a favour, in the long run,” Altran said.

“Oh?”

“This… cold war between humans. It is not quite the same as peace. I know you mean well, Shurni, but it is all under false pretences. It might stop the bloodshed for a while, might give us ash wyverns a temporary home and respite in our old age, but less bloodshed does inevitably mean more humans.”

“Yes… I suppose.” The thought hadn’t struck me.

“Ones who will undoubtedly seek other outlets for their irrational hostility.”

“You think I should make their wars hot, again?” I asked.

Altran sighed. “It probably doesn’t matter in the long run. Our time is nearing an end, little brother. Surely you’ve had the visions?”

I was silent again, for a while. “What happens to us, sis?”

“Who knows? Nothing good, perhaps. If we went elsewhere, you might think our visions would be from there, instead of a dragonless land. Perhaps there is no elsewhere. Or perhaps our visions do not pierce that veil. But that is for the future. Today, at least, we are safe, and I am well fed!”

Altran beat her mighty wings, and lifted into the air, circling King Ulfred’s castle, warning anyone watching from beyond the walls that an ash wyvern was in attendance, (and taking the opportunity to void her bowels over the moat at the same time). Then she settled in the upper courtyard, to listen to bards tell tales of heroes and gods and monsters, accompanied by lilting harp music, while the spot between her ears was scratched by a halbard wielding, very grateful and still somewhat bruised former man-at-arms.

 

* * *

About the Author

Liam Hogan is an award-winning short story writer, with stories in Best of British Science Fiction and in Best of British Fantasy (NewCon Press). He volunteers at the creative writing charities Ministry of Stories, and Spark Young Writers. Sci-Fi collection: A Short History of the Future (Northodox Press). Fantasy: Happy Ending Not Guaranteed (Arachne Press). More details at http://happyendingnotguaranteed.blogspot.co.uk

by Liz Levin

“I barely catch the American toad, common garter snake, and snapping turtle that fall from my lips.”

I get the alert about Corinne’s death while Terrible and I are fighting about words. Namely, which ones I should say next time I’m around other humans. He’s lying in the river beside the cottage. Each time he speaks, he heaves his head out of the water. When he’s done, he lets his 300-pound noggin crash below the surface, splashing everything. I’m standing on the muddy riverbank, soaked.

He’s named for terrible crocodile, the English translation of Deinosuchus, his most likely genus. Generally, I don’t speak reptiles or amphibians into existence that died out before we humans spoke English (or existed). Terrible is an exception. He’s demanding I read Chaucer around humans. I remind him I’ve barely begun reciting the Oxford English Dictionary’s nearly 50,000 obsolete words. At a rate of two dozen a day, I’ll finish in five years.

Terrible isn’t convinced.

“But I was alive during the Cretaceous! You think my mate hides in a list of barely dead words?”

“Why not?” I ask. “A common word created you.” He drops beneath the water, soaking me to my neck. “Merde. Keep your head above water while we’re talking. You’re over 30 feet long. You’ll empty the river.” Terrible was designed to eat dinosaurs, and it shows.

“Common word,” grumbles Terrible. “There’s nothing common about me.”

I couldn’t agree more, but we both know I wasn’t capable of linguistic feats on my curse day, five years ago this Saturday. Terrible was born on that day, before I found the cottage and before I started recording what I say within earshot of humans so I can replay it to determine which species belongs to each word. I’ve tried to recreate those first impassioned sentences I said in front of Mama and Corinne, but as much as I try, I’ve never birthed another Deinosuchus. And though I’ve uttered the curse that made Serpent, that word has never birthed another.

You may wonder why I say birth or born. After all, lizards and amphibians drop from my lips when I speak English within earshot of humans, not from my womb (thankfully). I ask you, are there better words? I’ve tried vomit. None of the creatures born speaking like that.

“Is he still complaining, Vivienne?” asks Serpent, gliding across the mud to coil up my leg and around my waist, like an ornate belt. He’s pretty enough to seduce Eve. His skin bears a geometric pattern of emerald, sapphire, and gold. “Living gems,” he likes to say, “much better than your sister’s dead rocks and flowers.” He’s not wrong. “You haven’t made a girl for me, and you don’t hear me complaining.”

“Another of you?” I cross my arms and shiver, even though it’s 86 and humid. “Terrifying. Last thing we need is you reproducing.”

“Impossible to improve perfection,” Serpent says. “Too true. But I came to tell you your light-up machine interrupted my sunbath.”

I glance at my phone on the picnic table, a safe distance from the river. Electronics and brackish water don’t mix.

“I’m working on it, Terrible.” He’s moved his head below water again. I talk to his bulbous eyes. “I know you’re lonely.” I am too. I don’t say it aloud. I don’t want to offend anyone.

“Putain de merde.” Corinne Barreau, Wife of Phoenix’s Golf Course King, Dies at 22.

The service is Saturday, on the fifth anniversary of our curse.

* * *

I ride my mountain bike along deer trails until I reach the Phoenix exit. Turning back toward the woods, I see an electrified fence topped by razor wire. Signs caution: Toxic dumping site. Stay out. Behind the fence lies desert. If I turned back with the intent of entering, I would find an unlocked door. Behind it is a primeval forest with sequoia-sized trees.

That’s the ecosystem outside Phoenix, but the woods are a patchwork of habitats, from deciduous forests to tundra, from peat bogs to estuaries, like the one by our cottage. I’ve wondered whether our cottage is beside an estuary because it’s where women with our curse always live (if we survive) or did the cottage move to the biome Terrible would need?

I’ll leave it to you to answer that question.

I like to think that this wild place contains all the famous cottages, even Baba Yaga’s chicken leg house. So far, I’ve found it disappointingly empty of humans and witches.

And fairies, thankfully.

Serpent is cozy in the granny basket as I ride six miles to the Golf Course King’s estate, a.k.a. Hugo Von Brandt, my ex-fiancé. It’s dawn and Phoenix is unbearable. I arrive early to wash up in the pool house. Unscrewing the pineapple-shaped finial from the iron railing beside the door, I retrieve the key. I change from dusty cutoffs to the requisite black dress, and an opaque black veil looped to catch anything that drops from my mouth. I don’t plan on speaking English. Mama spoke French in our home. I’m fluent enough to pass as a native, a ruse I’ve played before, but it’s dangerous here. After all, Mama thinks I’m dead.

I shoulder my backpack, leaving it open at the top and cautioning Serpent not to stick his head out. He’s a curious snake.

The service is in the greenhouse. My veil sticks to my face in the humidity. My sister is the only one here, lying in a sapphire-colored casket beside the podium. I walk down the center aisle, past empty chairs. Before I revealed Mama’s lies and poisoned our engagement, Hugo and I were to be married here.

Oh, Corinne. In death, she looks like porcelain. Fragile. Like someone who would shatter under an ambition like Mama’s.

As the favored child, I had years to build defenses against Mama’s avarice disguised as affection. People say I looked like Mama from birth, and so, like a good little narcissist, she loved me at first sight. Corinne, my junior by a year, looked like the lover who left her. Accordingly, Mama handed her a broom when she was in kindergarten.

Classmates thought it better to be me than her, even though they adored Corinne. They saw Mama lavish me with unmerited praise; they saw the patches on Corinne’s hand-me-downs. They were right enough. I helped when Mama wasn’t watching, but after Mama caught me chopping fennel for Mama’s favorite bouillabaisse — my recipe perfected over years — she punished Corinne.

Mama ordered her to draw water from the new wishing well that had appeared the day after the mayor admonished the media for implying Phoenix was running out of water. Corinne returned and Mama emptied the pitcher on the cacti while scolding her youngest. Corinne’s apology yielded a tiger lily, uncut emerald, and thorned rose that dripped blood. Mama sent me to the now blessed well.

“You can still save this engagement, mon bijou. If your pathetic sister can win a blessing, so can you.” I suggested she go in my stead. She rubbed her neck, swallowed, and gestured toward the door. Oh Mama, I understood you well. Even then. You knew the price.

When a fairy disguised as a princess requested water, she looked as though she stood behind a screen of bloody thorns. I refused and she cursed me. Or so the story goes. The well disappeared. Mama said we needed to talk, drove me to an empty patch of desert, and left me. If I hadn’t uttered that curse after she left, birthing Serpent who led me to our cottage, I would have died. Even with his help, I nearly did.

Someone moves beside me and the casket. Trim in a custom suit, blond hair freshly cut, skin leathered from the links: the Golf Course King of Phoenix, Hugo Von Brandt, the golden chariot to wealth Mama raised me to catch.

Hugo doesn’t recognize me in my veil. “Gorgeous, isn’t she?” He nods to Corinne’s heart-shaped face and soft brown hair. “You knew her? We all miss her more than words can express. She had so much left to offer.”

I choke back a curse before it becomes a word. It sounds like a sob. To offer? Like diamonds for the price of a word? How would Hugo pay to water his expanding empire now? I bow my head before I walk away. He doesn’t comment on my silence.

During the ceremony, I lean against a shadowed pillar and listen to Spanish-speaking servants praise the late Mrs. Von Brandt who always spoke to them in their language. The chef tells a humorous story about her notorious hatred for smart phones, and how she tricked him into giving his phone to her for the day to help him overcome his addiction. I straighten at that. What were you planning, Corinne? Hugo or Mama manufactured her hatred of phones, for certain. If her curse worked as mine does, she could type English words without activating her blessing. My movement wakes Serpent. He drapes himself across my shoulders, hidden by the veil, whispering questions in my ear while I shush him.

The group in front of me gossips through the last speeches.

“Did you hear how she went?”

“Choked.”

“My ex performed the Heimlich on a guy at a steakhouse.”

“She wasn’t eating when she died.”

“They say they found her—”

I squeeze through the crowds until I’m in the main house, on my way to the room Hugo said would belong to me after we wed. Serpent and I search for anything that will tell the story of Corinne’s death, or life. He slithers under and behind while I scrutinize photographs of carnivorous flowers hanging from clothespins. She had an artist’s eye, even if photography was never her specialty.

After moving a three-shelf bookcase, at Serpent’s suggestion, I find a safe built into the wall. Or magicked there; it resembles the one in my cottage. Just like mine, I find no obvious lock. There is an iron sculpture of a carnivorous pitcher plant. “Do you think it works like mine?”

“Only one way to tell.”

With trepidation, I lift a finger to the bulbous flower, preparing to plunge it into the dark opening. My safe features a cobra’s open mouth. I survived my first attempt to open that safe. Unlike this one, it was designed for someone with my cursed blessing. “Wish me luck!”

“You already have me.”

I’m not surprised when the flower’s cylinder constricts around my finger. I feel a sharp jab before the pressure releases and the door pops opened. My finger numbs, then my hand. Already it’s spread more than my safe’s toxin does. I’m immune to reptiles’ and amphibians’ toxins and venom. Here’s hoping flower toxins are similar enough. Only my immunity is magical, not biological, and there’s no promise I’d be protected even if the safes’ toxins were chemical twins. The numbness creeps above my wrist before I panic.

“Serpent, help!” I whimper. He strikes, biting the inside of my elbow, right above the line of numbness. The sharp pain of Serpent’s venom chases back the numbing effect of the safe’s toxin. It’s like the blasting away of cobwebs, followed by the clarity of knowledge.

After wiggling my fingers to shake away the pain, I open the door to the small safe and slide her journals into my backpack. I hesitate before adding the pouches of gemstones. I’ll make better use of them than Hugo or Mama would. In the attached bathroom, I wash my face and change back. I wrap a floral scarf over my hair and around my face to hide my identity (it’s too lightweight to support births) and leave this gilded cage.

* * *

I’m pushing up my kickstand, congratulating myself on my smooth exit, when Mama finds me. “Vivienne! I thought that was you, my sweetest daughter!” she cries in French. She’s wearing white, elbow-length gloves with shiny black buttons and a black sundress with a scattering of white roses trailing down the belled skirt. Her chestnut hair is gathered in a soft roll. She looks chic, just as I remember her. “I thought I’d lost you, but here you are, like a miracle on the day of my greatest sadness.” I don’t respond as she smooths away my veil and kisses my cheeks. She misunderstands my silence. “Oh, sweetest girl, you can speak to me in French. Your… gift. It only happens when you speak English. Use our mother tongue and you will have no worries.”

Gift? I wonder, tensing. Why does she think I have a gift? She was first to call it a curse. It is never good when Mama changes her mind. I sit forward on my bike. She stands in front of the wheel, grasping the handlebars. Trapping me in her false affection. I shift forward slightly, testing her hold. She gives a nervous laugh and takes a step back on her red-bottomed heels. “Careful, sweetest! You only have one Mama. Best not to run her over.”

I shrug. “You didn’t lose me, Mama,” I finally respond, in French. “You kicked me out. I almost died.”

She tilts her head and smiles. “But you aren’t dead. You left the car when I was distraught, incoherent, unable to give chase, and you survived. You thrived. You are still so beautiful, my sweetest Vivienne, even like this.” She caresses my head, masking her sneer. My hair is long, like hers, but the chestnut waves are dull and snarled. I ran out of conditioner last month and haven’t gotten a chance to buy more. I’ve been selling rare breeds of reptiles and amphibians to the San Diego Zoo. I like their conservation programs and my contact. We speak in Spanish, his first language. He believes that French is mine. Sometimes he tries to teach me a few English words. I decline. His hair is black, shoulder-length, glossy. I’m sure he uses conditioner.

“I need to go, Mama.” I turn the wheel and rock forward on my bike. Just a bit more and I’ll be able to roll by her. We’re far from the parking lot and I know this area. I’ll lose her, easily.

“No, don’t you leave.” She’s replaced sugar with steel. This is her Corinne tone. Is it any wonder my younger sister acquiesced when Mama finally coated her words with sweetness and acted as though she’d always loved her? But that won’t be me. “I figured out your sister’s gift,” she says, drawing a gold notebook from her clutch. She opens it, revealing a handwritten lexicon so like the one I left in the cottage, it makes my eyes smart. These moments are the most devastating. When Mama does something that demonstrates that she was right. We are the same. Even our handwriting is almost identical. “See, at first the gift seems random. You speak, and out fall hideous toads and frogs, of no value to anyone. But all we need to do is what I did with your sister. We just need to find the words that make the valuable things, like alligators that can make beautiful bags. She caresses her clutch. The pattern is subtle, just like the smooth skin of an alligator’s belly.

“Can I see?” I ask, reaching for the notebook. She steps to the side to hand it to me and I’m off, wheels spinning over the pavement, past split-levels with hardscaped yards and alleys until I’m out of the city and on my way home.

* * *

I stop a few times to hydrate and make frogs outside gas stations. I duck my chin into my open backpack, pretending to search for something. I speak the words as customers enter and leave convenience stores, just loudly enough to register without inviting a response. I know the words that create males and females of all six species of leopard frog endangered in Arizona. I choose a species and make two dozen males and two dozen females. Serpent grumbles from his spot beneath the frogs.

I stop at a sheltered spot on the way to the Phoenix entrance and acquaint them with their new habitat. None of them talk to me. It isn’t surprising. I’ve created a lot of leopard frogs over the years. Mostly, they only speak when they are the first of their species.

“Home?” asks Serpent. I nod. “Finally.” He falls back to sleep on top of my funeral veil and dress.

I study Corinne’s journals before bed. Most are pre-curse, filled with charcoal drawings of high school friends drawn with scales and tails, fawning over a sad doe wearing Corinne’s face. They offer her small things — pencils and dandelions — while gossiping about her helplessness. Small breasts, small bones, small dreams. Mama is absent. When I appear, I am human and alone, clenched jaw and furrowed brow.  If she saw me now, I’d look the same.

I open the last journal. The top two-thirds of each page is filled with colorful scenes of monstrous people, interspersed with words, each composed of a particular flower or gem. The words drip in blood that dries beneath the too-bright sun. The bottom third of each page depicts charcoal caves beneath the earth’s surface where humans lie on hammocks, dreaming.

This is Corinne’s lexicon, I realize. Not the tidy gold journal filled with Mama’s even loops.

* * *

Sharp knocking wakes me the next morning. I’m lying on my side, a wedge pillow at my back and a body pillow between my legs to keep me in position. Serpent lies coiled beside my face, ready to bite me if I roll over onto my back. These are just precautions. Even if I talk in my sleep, my words shouldn’t matter because I’m the only human around.

“That we’ve seen,” Serpent would caution. If I believed his horror stories, I’d think there are hordes of humans outside this cottage, with their ears pressed to the thin walls, just waiting for me to mumble something in my sleep.

The knocking. There are people and I’m not dreaming. I rub my face and crawl over pillows, tripping my way to the bathroom. It’s small, with a corner shower and a pedestal sink, but it’s plenty of space for me. I wash my face and gather my knotted hair into a bun. I’m wearing sleep shorts and a camisole, but anyone who is at my door at the tender hour of… noon… can deal with it. This is my first visitor so it’s on me to set low expectations.

I walk through the family room, past an overstuffed sofa, and gecko-print-covered recliners. (No, I didn’t buy it. The cottage knew I was coming, just as it will know when you’re on your way.) The artwork changes each time I sleep. Today, a black and white photo of Terrible spans the sofa’s width. His mouth is open, showcasing his teeth. I open the door, and Mama drops the bronze salamander-shaped knocker. She’s incongruous in her pleated black slacks and cream blouse. Behind her, an Escalade sits on a freshly paved driveway that connects to a road. Last night, there was a dirt trail barely wide enough for my bike’s tires. My gaze skitters between the new features. Finally, I say, “There’s a road?” I barely catch the American toad, common garter snake, and snapping turtle that fall from my lips.

“In French,” Mama reminds me, shouldering past me into the cramped family room. “Really, sweetest, did you just wake up? You’ve wasted half the day.” She sets her alligator-skin purse on the coffee table, shifting aside my dogeared copy of Amphibians of North America, and directs a blinding smile my way. “Are you ready to get to work? I’ve made a list of all the best ones.”

Maybe she’ll leave if I ignore her. I walk into the dining room and open three of the empty terrariums sitting on the long table. I place an animal in each, add water and dried food, and return to the family room.

Mama is still there, now holding a green notebook. Her smile is gone. “Is this any way to treat your mama? You offer food to those pests before you offer me a glass of wine? What happened to the manners I taught you, Vivienne?”

“I don’t have wine,” I say in French.

“No matter,” she says, gesturing as though to wipe away the last ten minutes. “As I was saying, I know how to make us rich.”

“Aren’t you already rich?” I ask. “Don’t tell me you didn’t profit off Corinne’s gift.”

Mama glances away, widens her eyes at Terrible’s photo, before meeting my gaze. She takes a deep, yoga breath, exhales, and sits on the edge of the couch with her back to the photo. Hoop earrings shimmer like pearls. Nacre, or mother-of-pearl, the luminescent secretion mollusks use to coat errant grains of sand. Pearls are rare. Mother-of-pearl coats the inside of every mollusk shell. The earrings are cheap, considering.

She sighs, rests her face in her hands, rubs it gently. When she looks up, lipstick, liner, foundation, and powder are unmarred. “I made a mistake, mon ange. I went straight to your ex-fiancé and shared the news of Corinne’s gift. He married her, of course. He was no fool. After that day, he never left me alone with Corinne. Not until he left town for business. And then we barely got started before…”

She pauses, shakes her head as though to redirect her thoughts.

“But with you, I’ve learned. You were always the better daughter, sweet Vivienne. I’m so sorry I didn’t see your potential at once.” She opens the green notebook. There, in slender loops like mine, she has written a plan to monetize my curse, because if I used it the way she suggests, it would curse all who breathed life through my words. “Some of them aren’t pests, see? Some have purpose.”

I take the book, her earrings swaying as I pull it from her grasp. I glance away before she notices my tears. In French, I say, “Mama, why don’t you get yourself a glass of water while I read.”

I open the door, muttering “mother-fucking nacre” before I’m out of earshot. I catch a warty toad for the compound adjective and an unknown crocodilian. I set them on the picnic table, rubbing my finger across the crocodilian’s back. I’d forgotten nacre was identical in English and French. I’d research its species later. On the muddy banks of the river, I draw my knees to my chest and wait.

It isn’t long before Serpent joins me. “You heard?” I ask.

“I was under the couch. Slid out the snake door when your mother was in the kitchen.”

Terrible splashes up from the river, hoisting his front legs onto muddy land. I glance at my drenched sleep shorts and camisole, thankful I’d chosen black. The sun is at its zenith, drying the beads of water off my arm. I rest my head on my knees. “I don’t know what to do about her,” I say.

No one speaks. Terrible wasn’t there to hear Mama, but he knows the stories. They both do. Five years together. Worth more than my twenty with Mama.

“Did you hear what she said about Corinne?” Serpent finally says.

“What did that witch say?” Terrible asks. I’m surprised. He likes the witches in the stories I read to them. He says they have the best parts.

Serpent’s voice shifts to a high-pitched whine that sounds nothing like Mama. “’After that day, he never left me alone with Corinne. Not until he left town for business. And then we barely got started before…’” It takes me a moment to ignore the voice and process the words.

“You think…”

“I do.”

“What do you think?” I ask. I don’t even know what I think.

“That the witch killed your sister,” Terrible says. “That’s how it always goes.”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Ask her,” Serpent says.

“And then?” I ask.

* * *

I move the picnic table closer to the water. I set the green notebook on top. Terrible’s bulbous eyes watch me. Serpent slithers across my shoulders, silent. I say, “Our plan is horrible.” I touch the green notebook, thinking of Mama, the crimes she’s proposed, and the one she may already have committed. “Maybe she didn’t do it.”

I return to the cottage to gather Mama. “Let’s sit in the sun to talk.”

She follows, grimacing at the muddy ground and weathered bench. She sits and disturbs the air with talk of alligator hides and import laws. “But don’t fret. I’ll handle logistics. You study your gift. Do you know which words link to each species? So often it’s nonsensical. You know what Corinne said for opal?” She whispers a crude word. I laugh, surprising us both.

“Mama, what happened to Corinne when Hugo left? I know something happened.” I pause, rest my hand on top of hers. “I won’t blame you.”

Her eyes glisten. She cried in just this way — a few tears that didn’t smudge her eyeliner — when she drove me to the desert five years ago. “Oh, Vivienne, mon bijou, it was tragic. We finally had time alone, our first since the wedding, and your sister refused to help. She just wanted to talk. In French! I gave her wine and a few pills, just to relax. She was so tense! I tucked her into bed like when you were girls.” She never did that. For either of us. “Left for a moment — to grab a glass of merlot and our notebook — and when I returned, she was still.”

“Why, Mama? Why was she still?”

“Her mouth, her throat.” She looked up at me and her face was wet, eyes smudged. “Filled with pearls.” She looked around, probably wishing for her purse and its tissues, before she rubbed her hands across her face and dried them on her pleated black slacks. “But that’s all in the past. Now I, we, can start over.”

“You’re right,” I say. “Stay here a moment, Mama. I’ll get your tissues for you.” I look to Terrible as I leave, all but his eyes beneath the water, invisible if you don’t know where to look.

I wrap myself in a robe before sitting on the gecko-patterned recliner. Even after an hour in the sun, my clothes are damp. I lean back and study Terrible’s photo. After the third sniff, I open Mama’s clutch and dig out the package of tissues.

I think about pearls. A common grain of sand inspires its creation; common words produce them. Before Mama left me in the desert, she punished Corinne for my curse. “You ruined your sister,” she said, as she held the painting Corinne had gifted her on Mothers’ Day over the kitchen sink and set it on fire. Corinne cried, “Mama, stop, mama, stop, mama, stop,” and black and white pearls bounced across the floor.

When I left my childhood house, I still believed Corinne was gifted. She’d leave, I thought, Mama would have nothing, and Corinne would have everything.

I almost died in the desert. Serpent saved me, led me to the cottage. Years later, when I made it out of the woods, I learned of her marriage. Hugo is an ass, I thought. But at least she’s away from Mama.

I should have known how much a person will do for a bit of sweetness, after a lifetime without. Delirious from a mix of alcohol and sedatives, Corinne pleaded with the woman who cried only crocodile tears. And she died, choking on pearls.

* * *

I shower and change into clean clothes before I go outside. Mama is gone. A hybrid pickup sits in the Escalade’s place on a drive that now curves toward the San Diego entrance. I lift the cover on the truck bed to find it filled with premium habitats. I sigh, not happy, exactly, but relieved that the cottage agrees with my choice.

Terrible lies beside the river, bulbous eyes closed. His back looks like a mountain range, burnished copper in the sun. Like Serpent, he is a living treasure. “Well?” I ask because I probably should.

He grunts.

“Indigestion,” Serpent says. The unknown crocodilian lies beside Serpent, sunbathing.

“Do you know the species?” I ask because I’ve given up predicting what Serpent knows.

“She hasn’t said.”

Terrible raises his head from the water and lets out a nauseating belch. I pinch my nose until the odor clears. I wipe the tears from my eyes and rest my palm on the ground beside the baby crocodilian. “You speak?” I stroke her baby-soft skin. Someday the nubs on her back will be craggy mountain ranges. Today, they look like strings of burnished pearls.

“I’m not mother-fucking nacre,” she snorts. “I’m mother-fucking Necrosis. Pleased to meet you. And especially you,” she says, turning her snout toward Terrible.

My laugh, when it comes, is more than a little hysterical. “Cell death? Terrible, her name means cell death.”

“She’s perfect,” he says, gently resting his snout on the riverbank so that the mate who just traversed my narrow esophagus can touch her nose to his.

I leave them to it. Inside, I gather Corinne’s journals and add them to our safe. They join the lexicons and diaries written by the women who have made it to our cottage. (There are gaps. Sometimes we do burn in the desert or freeze in the woods.) They belonged to ages when everyone witnessed the power of magic, or prayer, or science. None witnessed the power of dinosaurs. Perhaps you will.

 

* * *

About the Author

Liz Levin lives near Chicago with one vociferous cat and the three other humans who cater to his needs. An alum of the Stonecoast MFA program and Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Workshop, her work is published or forthcoming at MetaStellar, Flash Fiction Online, and Metaphorosis.

by Michael Steel

“In another world, a simple rat like me might be the king of the world. Kings don’t need beautiful graves to be remembered.”

My ma always said if I was going to die, I ought to get a beautiful grave, with a nice tombstone and everything, so when I was long gone every rat that passed by would know I existed once. Graves, she said, are the only places that little rats like us can affect the world once we’re gone. Not that any of the bigfolk would notice it. They’re too busy with their bigfolk nonsense to even notice us when we’re scurrying underfoot. That’s better for us, though — anytime they do notice us, they stamp us out. But you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?

Somehow, I don’t think my ma would call this a beautiful grave. A filthy subway tunnel in New York City, with only the rumble of the trains and the chatter of the bigfolk to keep me company. And you, of course. You’re always here, in the murky dark shadows. Watching, lurking, waiting for me.

I think the walls were beige once, but now they’re an awful, filthy gray. It stinks in here. Stinks like rotten banana peels and misery. I don’t want to die surrounded by the smell of misery. And I can’t stand bananas.

I was stupid today. You see that bigfolk over there? Yeah, that one, in the rags. The one who’s stinking the whole place up. He probably hasn’t cleaned himself since before I was born! He always hangs around here, but he never gets on a train like the other bigfolk. He just sits on that bench there, and sometimes he smokes. Today he had a sandwich.  A sandwich sent from heaven. The smell was so good, you’d never believe it. I thought I was dreaming at first, but I knew it was real. I watched him for a while as he ate it. Watched him from my hidey-hole. I could feel my stomach screaming for the sandwich. I wanted to scream for it. It had bacon in it, you know. Bacon!

Finally, the dirty bigfolk put the sandwich back down onto the floor. I thought I’d just scurry over and snag a piece of bacon. Nothing big, nothing he’d miss. I got the bacon in my mouth, and oh boy it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever tasted. I couldn’t stop myself, I ate it right then and there. If only I had just run back to my little hole, the bigfolk would have never even noticed me. But he looked back down and saw me. His eyes, they were gray, such a dirty, dark gray. Like the water down in the sewers. They were furious, though, and sewer water never gets furious.

He yelled something at me, and before I could run there was a boot in my stomach that sent me flying and now I’m here, dying under the subway tracks and I’m just so tired, old friend. I’ve seen you so many times over the years, taking my ol’ ma, my brothers. Taking even bigfolk sometimes. And now that I’m the only one left, I guess you’re here for me.

I keep thinking, over and over, no! No, not yet. But it is my time now, isn’t it? Or else you wouldn’t be here. Old buddy. Old pal. You’ve been here as long as I remember, always following me around, floating over my shoulder. Only I never turned around to see you, even when you were everywhere. It’s only been a year. Hardly a year. I only ever saw one winter. Please, I don’t want to go yet. What about my beautiful grave?

I had no say in any of this. Why aren’t I a bigfolk? Why did I have to be a rat, downtrodden and hated by everything? In another world, a simple rat like me might be the king of the world. Kings don’t need beautiful graves to be remembered. But here I search for food in rotten dumpsters, until some bigfolk notices me enough to end my life, without barely caring. How is that fair? They can kill us with a swift kick of a boot or a quick shake of a poison bottle and never think of us again. They end so many lives, every single day — and they don’t even care.

I guess I could appeal to the heavens, the rat gods, and the rulers of the real world, but I know they won’t listen. I’m just a little sewer rat drowning in the filth of the subway tunnels. Why should they care if I live or die?

The only thing left for me to do is run.

I can hear my life leaking out of me when I pant and wheeze. My claws hurt from running on the concrete. I’ve spent my whole life down here, and somehow only now I’m lost. The tunnel is so dark now, rushing by like the fleeting life of an unloved rat. I’m running as fast as I can, but you’ll always catch me. You’re in every shadow, every dark corner.

The tunnel’s getting bigger, I know it is. I’ll never find the exit now. Why are you doing this to me? I don’t want to die.

I don’t want to die alone. I could have been a world champion, if only somebody had cared. When I’m dead, I’ll be nothing more than just another mangled corpse, another dead rat out of thousands of dead rats. My dusty bones will lie in the mud for four centuries, slowly turning to silver in the darkness. And even in my silvery death, I’ll be beautiful, more beautiful than the foolish bigfolk who crushed my ribcage for a bacon sandwich. He will never be as pearly perfect as my cold, dead bones.

I will be my own beautiful grave. I hope my ma’s proud of me now. Maybe one day somebody will find my smooth white skull and they will hang it on their bracelet. Maybe then somebody will remember me.

I’m ready now. Take me home to Ma.

 

* * *

About the Author

Michael Steel is a high school student currently living in Vancouver, British Columbia. He lives with his parents, brothers and ridiculously fluffy cat, Taco. His hobbies include fantasising about rats, writing about rats and playing Block Blast.

by Leo Oliveira

“Lions are no easier to fool than anyone else, but they were built to chase lightning wherever it strikes. That’s what thunder does.”

Before the lions came and ate our mother, she filled our nursling ears with tales of The One Who Races the World.

“Races the World was as quick on her feet as she was in her mind.

“She was a queen among cheetahs. A legend across the savanna.

“Impala frightened their cubs with invocations of her name. Hyenas did not steal her kills, for she was strong as well as fast, and she could drag the carcass of a water buffalo up a tree like a leopard, so that only the boldest of baboons would dare challenge her for it.”

Races the World was like a goddess to me. Countless silver nights curled up together in the long grass sheltering under a fallen acacia, begging our mother to tell us another, and another, and another. Of Races the World’s adventures, I could never get enough. I used to wish my mother had given me a proud name like hers, a bold name like hers, but I am only The One With Tiny Spots.

My brother is The One With A Dancing Tail and my sister is The One Who Sheds Black Tears. We had seen the rains come but once and we were three days and nights alone. Three days and nights as orphans. Several times that spent hungry, near starved. Our mother could not feed us anymore; not while she fed the fly-bitten bellies of lions.

Dancing Tail complained first of his empty stomach and how weary he’d grown of running, so I stopped him in the brush to chase down the fresh scent of a hare.

“I appreciate you,” Dancing Tail said, stretching out his long limbs beneath him. I considered giving him a warning not to grow too comfortable, but we’d not rested since before, and we were all tired and hungry. I didn’t have the heart to push him. Not even if our mother’s stories had taught us to be stronger.

Black Tears said nothing. She was the better hunter of us, what little practice we’d been given. But her eyes — measured, focused, and still — told me not to make a mistake. They said that she would not help me if I did.

* * *

I stalked the hare like our mother had taught us to stalk, patient and slow. “We are cheetahs, and we are not given second chances.” If I did not understand it before, I understood it then.

The hare was young and reeking of milk-scent. I followed her trail between brush stalks and golden swaying grass reeds until I spotted her ears. Somewhere out there was a litter of hare cubs, squirming and blind and useless. Possibly fur-less. All they had was their mother, and they would die quickly without her.

The first impala we ever ate was a young female our mother had brought down at the edge of the plains. She’d taught us between heaving breaths how to pull the skin free, how to split open the belly, how to fill our stomachs with the best parts of a carcass quickly, before hyenas or lions or painted wolves came to steal it.

I had never seen a dead impala before. I did not know the moist-slick mass, still blue with its fetal sack, was an unborn cub until our mother told us. I’d crunched through its soft skull, and I did not feel any guilt. I felt none for the hare now, but I twinged ever-so-slightly imagining her litter, tiny and helpless and so much like me and my siblings — my chest clenched with hurt.

Then I ran.

The One Who Raced First was born from a bolt of lightning that’d lanced down and struck the first of the First Cats. We are bolts from the black. We are energy incarnate. We burst to top speed from standing in three heartbeats flat.

Young and underdeveloped as my bones and muscles were, I closed in on the hare. It had not one hope of outstripping me. The ground became a blur. I stopped moving my legs for it was them that moved me. Inertia and instinct.

“If you think, you fall,” my mother had said to us. But that was why Black Tears caught more prey than I ever did.

A scent hit my nostrils through my next gulp of air, and I could not help myself. I slid to a halt. The hare’s fleeing footsteps faded in my ears, but I was not watching. I did not care.

We were born from lightning; lions came from the thunderclap after.

* * *

“The lions! The lions are here!” My fur trembled, feverish with race-rot — that sinking, heady feeling that follows a sprint to the edge, when the world swims before the eyes and the sun glares inside the skull.

Dancing Tail sprang to his feet. “What, where? Did you see them?”

Black Tears remained sitting. “I thought you left to catch a hare.”

“I called off the hunt because I smelled them. They’re close. I don’t know how close, but we must leave before they find us.”

“You smelled them, but you did not see them, and so you abandoned the hare.”

I have never wanted to kill my sister, but at that moment I came close. Her callousness dug into me like her tongue was tipped with poisoned spines. I hissed and spat in frustrated circles. I held my own tongue, but I held it barely.

“We don’t have to fight each other,” Dancing Tail said. “We’ve tricked them before.”

And indeed, he was right. The lions had not been content with our mother. This was not the first time their scents had drifted down to us on the breeze — they weren’t even hiding, that’s how we knew how little we meant to them — and we made use of the environment every time they came near. Switchbacks through the brush, false trails, looping paths that intersected with one another and shot out in different directions.

These had also been tricks our mother had taught us through the old tales of The One That Moves Shadows. If Races the World was like a goddess to me, Moves Shadows was like a goddess to Black Tears.

Black Tears gaped her jaws wide in a tongue-curling yawn. I forced my twitching tail to lie still.

“Let’s get it over with,” Black Tears said. “Hopefully you didn’t scare all the prey off with your yowling.”

“Only the ones slow enough to be caught by you,” I said.

“All of them, I see.”

I glared at my sister. She gave me a blank glance back. Then she turned away from us.

I sighed and pawed at the parched orange dirt. I wished she didn’t follow so closely to Moves Shadows’ favourite lessons, the ones our mother had so often repeated:

“The strong cheetah she is; she hunts alone.”

* * *

It took us until the first high heat of the day to finish our rounds. By then we had no appetite for hunting. Fear is one of the great constrictors, and we had spent so very long afraid. But we couldn’t risk standing still, either. While cheetahs sleep at night, lions are wide awake. To stop was to die. We needed to take every opportunity we had to make distance.

So, we started off and did not stop until tingling exhaustion forced us to. I sank onto my side, soaking in the cool dry earth. Dancing Tail curled up beside me. I shed heat through my open mouth, and each inhalation raked in great lungfuls of evening scent.

The musky tang of distant zebras and wildebeest skipped across the breeze to me. Dust, pressure, and the coming rains. Beetles and bugs and moisture in the air. My sister, my brother, and—

Lions.

I scrabbled upright, huffing, filtering through the scents for new and old, strong and weak, predator and prey. I had not been mistaken.

The lion scent had not gone away. If anything, it had grown stronger.

“Wake up,” I said, nudging Dancing Tail and Black Tears in the ribs. “The lions are coming.”

I could tell right away that they did not want to believe me. But the chance of ignoring a serious threat for a few fleeting moments of ignorance was not worth the trade, so they parted their jaws and confirmed my findings for truth.

“That’s impossible. How did they find us so fast?” Dancing Tail shivered. He was already the smallest of us, and he seemed to shrink further.

“They learned what we were doing.” Black Tears’ tail tip flicked up as if batting off flies. “That’s what we get for doing the same things over and over again. And whose idea was that?”

“Don’t hiss at him,” I said.

“Then you better hope you have a plan.”

I hesitated. This was not for lack of an idea, but for the nature of the idea I had. But both my littermates were staring at me, waiting, and I lowered my eyes as I said, “There’s always the Wall.”

The Wall was a dangerous place. A deadly place. Our mother had warned us in thrice as many words: humans with loud sticks and dogs, rock beasts on baking black paths, fields upon fields where nothing grows. The whole world changed on the other side of the Wall, but what other choice did we have?

“Maybe the lions won’t follow us past,” I continued. “Nobody crosses the Wall. And we can’t be far from it by now. See the baobab splitting the rocks? It’s the vulture skull stones.”

Our mother had brought us to the edge of that baobab once to tell us it was the edge of her territory. When we’d asked her why she didn’t go further, that’s when she told us about the Wall.

Neither of them liked my plan; I could tell this too. But nor did they see any other option.

“All right,” said Black Tears. “To the Wall.”

* * *

The lions stalked us throughout the night.

Several times we swerved off to the side and attempted to bed down, but the lion scent strengthened in half a cooling cycle or less without fail. They kept on coming. We had no recourse but to forget about sleep. Forget about resting. Move and move and move some more.

Cheetahs were not made for the night. We were born of lightning and nursed by daylight. Divots and grooves appeared beneath our paws, and any misstep into darkness could lead down gulleys or dry streams or crocodile-infested rivers. We had no way of knowing. We’d never been there before, and we could barely see.

At the point when the moon had begun to arch its descent, Dancing Tail took the lead. It was his turn to sweep the earth and guide us through the treacherous landscape. I kept my nose to his tail-tip, ignoring how it made me itch and sneeze. It was about the only way to keep together, our scents mingled and muddied as they were.

Then my brother disappeared.

“Dancing Tail?” I called out as he yelped — a sound that grew dimmer beneath a shatter of small stones down below.

Black Tears crouched beside me. Her ears flattened. “He must’ve fallen.”

Wordlessly, cautiously, we picked our way down the slope. It stretched near vertical from where Dancing Tail had stepped right off, and I had more than a couple close calls tempting a similar fate.

When we reached the bottom, Dancing Tail was hissing in pain, but alive.

I let relief brush through me before I saw his front right paw. It was twisted. Almost backwards. Broken.

“It hurts,” he said.

“Tiny Spots….”

“I know it hurts, but we must keep moving. Do you need help up?”

“Tiny Spots….”

“Come on, just lean on my shoulder. You can stand.”

“Tiny Spots!”

“I know what you want,” I hissed back at Black Tears. “It isn’t happening.”

Black Tears was no more than a pale outline in the deep grey gloom behind me. Still, I thought I could see the disapproval in her twitching whiskers. But by some miracle, she protested no more — not when we lifted Dancing Tail up on either side, not when we slowed our pace to a creep carrying him between us, and not when the lion scent began to overpower the scents of strange rock and dead wood closing in from the distance. Not one of us said anything as dawn came overhead. Not until we saw the Wall.

Black Tears stopped first, her eyes open wide.

I could not help but do the same.

The Wall stood as tall as a full-grown cheetah on her hind legs. Impenetrable. Thin bones of glittering rock crisscrossed each other, all strung together so as not to allow even a mouse to slip through the cracks. The very top was tipped in thorns.

“We’re trapped,” Dancing Tail wailed.

Neither Black Tears nor I responded, because we both saw it to be true.

“There must be a way around,” Black Tears said after a moment. “How else would stories get in?”

And then I glimpsed it: a break in the glimmering mass, a hole farther down the Wall the size one of us might squeeze through. “There, quickly!”

We pushed ahead as swift as we were able. It wasn’t fast enough.

The grasses behind us crunched under confident paws. Growls understood without a word to accompany them. The markers of killing intent. It wasn’t long before we saw their golden fur, too, along with their golden eyes.

The lions.

“We won’t make it,” Dancing Tail cried.

He was right. The lions spread out around us, carving the shape of a crescent moon. They would spot the gap; they would run us down. This I knew as I knew my own spots. So, I did what only someone as brave and brilliant as Races the World would do.

“Keep moving to the gap in the Wall,” I said. “I’ll lead them away.”

“Don’t you dare!” Black Tears said, but I was already running.

Lions are no easier to fool than anyone else, but they were built to chase lightning wherever it strikes. That’s what thunder does.

Where my littermates went to one side, I veered to the other. Taunting, close, like prey bolting out of instinct. Fear. The lions caught on like flame, and suddenly the grasses burst alive with giants.

This is also true about lions: they are much larger than even a full-grown cheetah. Our heads fit right in their mouths. I have seen this with my own eyes. My mother’s shoulders fit, too.

My courage wilted in a blink.

There were a dozen lions now — all leaping and lunging out at me, their paws bigger than my head, their claws thicker than my spine. They could kill me in a moment. I tensed my tired limbs and ran.

What started as a distraction turned on a fang-tip to survival. I raced without a thought for where my littermates were, or why I was running, or where I was leading the lions to. I didn’t think about why, or how to slow down to ensure the lions kept up, or what I would do once Black Tears and Dancing Tail escaped. I felt hot breath against my fur. I felt death closing in. I felt my heart beat faster, faster, faster, until I was sure it stood moments from giving out of race-rot.

Then Black Tears caterwauled. Loud and insistent. It was a dying wail, a fear wail, and it drew the lions up short to stare.

I am ashamed to admit it, but it’s true: I did not look twice. I did not glance around. I did not take in what had happened or where my brother and sister were. I flung myself through the gap in the Wall and I did not slow down until I tripped and rolled under a dry bush beyond.

It was only afterwards that I searched the grass for my littermates. Black Tears padded to my side, head bowed.

Alone.

“Where is Dancing Tail?” I asked. I already knew. I had to have known.

Black Tears lifted her eyes to mine. There was a defiant gleam in them. Defensive. “He wouldn’t have survived.”

I don’t remember if I did or said anything right after this. I only remember moving, and then Black Tears saying, “You don’t want to see.”

I didn’t listen.

When the lions ate our mother, we could not bear to watch. I could not bear this time any better, but just as strongly I could not make myself turn away.

Dancing Tail was already dead. I am glad that he was. Had he still been suffocating in a lion’s jaws, had I crouched in the long grass watching, I might have thrown myself back into the pride’s claws out of guilt.

I watched the lions finish eating what they wanted of him. I watched them purr and hum and groom each other. I watched the vultures descend. I watched the lions stand up, stretch, and leave.

“They were going to catch you, Tiny Spots,” Black Tears said. “You know they were. If I hadn’t brought the lions over, it would be both of your skeletons in the grass. I saved your life. And even if we’d saved him… He died quickly now; he would have died slow and alone much later.”

There is one more part to the legend of The One Who Races the World, and that is how she died. The story had always upset me — pouting and mewling for days after I’d heard it, but our mother would groom my ears and tell me it was important to listen. There were things that even Races the World could not outpace. Age, the rising heat, and the selfishness of our own kind. As she lay down, old and dying and mere paces from water, seven cheetahs passed her. Not one stopped to help. She died like that, a goddess to me, nothing and no one to anyone of her time.

I did not look again at my sister. I watched the vultures pick our brother clean.

“Please don’t hate me,” she said.

“This is the way things are,” she said.

“Cheetahs hunt alone,” she said.

She must have left soon after, for she didn’t say anything else. Eventually I fell asleep where I sat. My dreams were filled with storms, and every cloud pierced a hill with blue lightning, but lightning does not last forever. Lightning lives for a blink. A moment. A speck of time in the skies above the grasslands: beautiful and striking and gone much too soon.

 

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About the Author

Leo Oliveira is a queer writer from Ontario, Canada, where he harbours a soft spot for rats, pre-history, and flawed queer characters. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Radon Journal, Fusion Fragment, and Port Crow Press, and has been nominated for the PEN/Robert J. Dau Short Story Prize for Emerging Writers, Brave New Weird, and Best Horror of the Year.