MCM's Blog, page 26

Roadblock

"As usual, you're making a big deal out of nothing. Just drink your motor oil and keep your trap shut for a while, you're giving me a headache."

He stewed in the passenger seat, his head swimming with black thoughts that slipped and eddied their way through his host's rib cage and down into the well of his gurgling stomach. He'd gone through half a can and he wasn't about to let up, not with the way she was prattling on about her impending Hollywood life and the rich tapestry of glamour that awaited her at the Hollywood Hotel. He had no clue what these accomplishments represented, their promise a hollow, incomplete notion of pride that refused to touch reality. He twisted uncomfortably in his seat, resting his head at an odd angle against the passenger window.

"Stop fidgeting." She scowled over her cigarette case, her hands off the steering wheel as she rummaged through her tiny handbag, searching for her lost box of matches. "It must have fallen under the seat," she muttered. She tore a cigarette out of the case and shoved it roughly into her mouth. The Chevrolet Coach steered itself into the opposing lane, and a Ford hit its horn, the wheels screeching as it braced for impact. She grabbed the steering wheel with an audible curse and swung the coach back into its appropriate lane. Vicious swearing hailed over them as the Ford sped off in the opposite direction.

"Jackass," she said. Her cigarette dangled against her bottom lip, still unlit. "Look, we don't need to have a head first collision with a passing truck next time, so just reach under the seat and find my matches. Red case, big fat crow in the centre."

"There's something wrong," he said. He braced himself against the passenger door, his borrowed stomach making horrible squelching noises. A sense of panic overtook him as the feeling bubbled up into a painful stab that cut into his host's liver. "I'm not well. I'm not well! Pull the car over!"

"Just roll down the window."

"No, damn you, I need to get out, I need to stretch, I need…." He gulped a resurgence back, the oil slick as it seeped out of the sides of his mouth.

"Damn you," she said through gritted teeth. She turned the steering wheel hard, nearly toppling the car over as she pulled onto the side of the road. She turned off the ignition and gave him a solid glare. "Maybe you should just get out of this car and forget about California! It's not like you care about my dreams!"

He opened the door and with relieved release he spewed the overabundance of motor oil that had pooled in his host's system. The black goop was an oily mirror beneath him, and he stared into it for a long time, his body hanging half in, half out of the coach, his stomach seriously reconsidering whether or not it wanted to stay in this toxic cesspit in human form. He looked like a corpse, which in fact he was. The face was a worn grey hue, the ugly scrapes under his chin now black welts that refused to heal. Oil trickled out the side of his mouth and slid down into the puddle, a mixture of saliva and stomach acids tainting it. He swallowed it back, and wiped the oil from his mouth with the back of his hand before sinking back into the passenger seat.

He rested his head against the side of the coach cover, the thin metal a welcoming cool. He closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

Clara seethed in the seat beside him, her hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. "You are disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. Puking by the road like that, like some dirty bar-hopping freak. I didn't buy you that can of oil, you took it from the farmhouse, didn't you? You took it out of the barn when I got this car, you sneaked it away under that ugly suit jacket of yours… What else did you take?"

"It was in the back seat," he said, and brandished the now empty can of motor oil with childish glee. "No thieving involved."

"You did thieve it," she admonished him. "You stole it, right out from under me."

He sighed and slumped further in his seat, trying his best to enjoy the continued effects of the motor oil on his wounded, forced-to-be-linear soul. "You stole a whole farm to hide your murdered bodies in. So what if I have a sip too many of your black ooze, it's not like I'm working hard to illegally grow it, like you are." She raised her hand to slap him, but he stopped her with a quick grab of her wrist. She glared at him with her dark, malicious eyes and pulled her arm away, the pale skin pinched red by his grip.

"I told you the reason for that. I couldn't leave loose ends." Her unlit cigarette dangled dangerously close to the edge of her mouth, and she rescued it with a quick pucker that left red stains over its end. She grabbed the packet of matches she must have found underneath his seat, and with shaking hands she took one of them out, slashing it across the flint surface on the side. The flame sputtered into life and she contemplated it for a moment before lighting the end of her cigarette, the flame expertly sucked in. She shook its remains loose, and tossed the spent matchstick onto the long, dusty stretch of road beside them.

"It's different for me," he tried to explain to her, but she turned away, her head leaning out the car window, smoke billowing onto the road she longed to be travelling at present. "You have to understand, I don't have the same freedom you do. I have a reason for my efforts and when someone is to be killed it's due to the strict guidelines I have to follow."

"Ordained killer, huh?" She took another drag of her cigarette, her eyes still flashing with the fire she left behind them. "I got guidelines too. My own. I make them up as I go along, but there's rules I make myself follow. Like killing bastards who wrong me, that's one. I'm not into slicing up innocent people, I got good reasons for taking out the people I do. You think you're so much better than me." She flicked her ashes out the window, her lips tight as she spoke. "You know nothing."

"I know that hobo did nothing to wrong you." He pulled a kerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at the dots of oil that had spilled onto his starched white shirt. They smeared across his chest, ruining the shirt. "The facts speak louder than your muttered excuses, Clara. You kill whoever is in your way, not because they are 'bad' or representative of some societal wrong. They are merely barriers you encountered in your own life, and you selfishly remove them, thinking they won't be needed."

She let out a hissing stream of smoke at this, her cigarette have spent. "They never are."

"I wonder." He tested the strange gashes beneath his chin with his fingertips, a vague understanding that he would need to fix this, and soon. "All along this road there have been signs, pointing us in the right direction towards my target and your delirious Hollywood fantasy. There are 'road closed' signs and signs signalling gas stations up ahead. What should happen, I wonder, if I decided to remove all of them because they were in my way as I was driving down this road. Why shouldn't I go past that 'Do Not Enter' barricade and splinter it apart?" He cast a weary look back at her over his shoulder. "Because that barrier stopped me from driving over a cliff. Or are you so fond of such steep precipices?"

She finished her cigarette and tossed the small remainder of it out the window. It rolled and smouldered in the dirt, a tiny ember quickly dying out. "I'm not sloppy, if that's what you think. I plan these things, even though they look like I'm being rash."

"It's not about being sloppy."

"Says you." She tapped her well manicured nails on the steering wheel, fingers itching to dig out her switchblade and teach him exactly what she meant. He leaned back in his seat, wondering if he even wanted to bother fighting her. "I got plenty of men out there, and they like paying attention to me. I don't need to keep you around, you know. I should dump you off on the side of the highway, in some dark place, and be done with you once and for all. Ungrateful bastard, that's what you are. You should be thankful I at least understand you."

"You understand nothing."

"Ungrateful bastard!"

She was shouting now, her fury at the fore. Her face turned a vicious purple colour as she screamed at him, every vein in her neck pulsing with angry life. He shrank away from her, wondering if he had time enough to open the door and escape before the glint of her switchblade knife came out of whatever hiding place she kept it. He touched his fingers to his throat, hoping when she did finally slash him that the full death of his host would be quick enough for his essence to flee it.

"You think I don't know what I'm doing?" she screeched, her voice a high pitched crescendo that rocked the inside of the coach. "I take care of my business, and I get plenty, sure, but I take care of it! All on my own! Do you think it's easy, hanging with that crowd? Do you think they wouldn't think twice of getting rid of some mushy moll if she got too cocky? You got to be tough in this world, it's all kill or be killed, I've told you that before. This is how this world works, you moron!" She turned the key in the ignition, the engine rattling into strong, purposeful life. Fists of steel pounded each other, forcing pressure. She closed her eyes as she listened to the sound of the coach's heart, her feverish breath evening out into a regular pattern.

"You can't be judging me the way you do," she said, and her voice was sad now, instead of angry. "I'm like you more than you know. Sure, I had parents, I had a family, but they were rotten at the core. They turned me into what I am. I don't need to hang around with you, and you don't have to hang around me. We can go our separate ways, if it's come to that." She looked over at him, and there were tears in her eyes, a glassy sheen that cut into his gut more than her switchblade ever could. "But we're friends, see. And friends don't abandon each other like that. They lift each other up when no one else will. They cheer on your dreams." Her eyes narrowed slightly, and through her fragile appearance he could discern the faintest glimmer of her usual, malicious self. "You gonna do that for me, friend? You gonna keep cheering me on?"

He wasn't sure how she wanted him to answer. "I'll cheer you on when it's necessary, Clara."

She smiled at this, so he must have given her what she wanted. It was becoming increasingly difficult to navigate her odd moods, which when coupled with her murderous rampages took on a frenzied, scattered emotional highway that twisted into his own stomach into knots. "This is all nothing, don't you mind me. We're just in need of a good time. You and me, we have to blow off some steam, have us a party." She frowned as he scratched at the welts under his chin, the black lines deep rivets. "Trouble is, you don't look so good these days. I keep telling you that motor oil is real bad for you."

Clara picked up her pearls and tapped one of the white spheres against her front tooth. It was already stained with lipstick, its hue long since dyed pink. "I'm thinking it might be a good idea for you to get a new model to drive. We've gone through two motor cars already, I'd say you're due for a good trade up."

He wasn't comfortable with how that was going to happen, but he'd noticed the increasing wear on his host's body and there was little he could do to stop it from breaking apart further. Besides, it was a pain to keep himself from bumping into those broken ribs, and the damaged spleen kept leaking. "I'll trust your judgement as to who." He shifted in his seat, his scaling skin rough against the suit's fabric. "We could have used that hobo. We shouldn't have burned him."

"No way, he was too old and full of God knows what kind of diseases. Guys like that are rife with the syphilis or worse. You deserve better." She gave him a warm, genuine smile. "We'll get you something really nice. Something that fits that suit proper."

* * * * *

They drove for two hours, but there were slim pickings among the humans that had gathered here. They were hard looking, starving folk, living day to day under the looming shadow of the ever growing highway, the string of gas stations lined up in hyper competition. One promised free donuts, another free sample cans of Brylcream. Clara picked a random station, and a tow headed young boy with red hair and freckles bounced up to the car, his gap toothed smile infectious.

"Fine mornin' it is, Ma'am," he said. He nervously wiped his hands on the front of his overalls. "Fill 'er up?"

"By all means," Clara pleasantly said, her smile full of movie star radiance.

The young boy blushed and took a rag out of his side pocket. "We'll wash your windshield and all, too. This car sure is a beauty, you ought to keep 'er shining."

He diligently got to work, bringing the dark green finish into sparkling relief. Clara rolled her eyes and turned her attention on her companion, who twitched as she brought her fingers dancing along the underside of his mutilated chin. His dozing so rudely disturbed, he shifted to the right, his chin tucked tight against his neck. When he spoke, his voice had all the grit of fresh sandpaper. "It's getting worse. I think the throat is damaged now."

"How about that one?" She pointed out the windshield to the young boy wiping down the sides of the motor car, suds staining his overalls.

"He's just a child, I couldn't possibly fit."

"He's not just a child, he's about sixteen. He's a dim little bastard, that's all. I'm not fond of him myself, but he's got healthy skin and he doesn't look like he's about to keel over from being half starved and worked to death like the rest of the people around here. Besides, you don't have to keep his appearance, you always tend to morph into what you're usually made of after a while." She grabbed her handbag, giving the area around them a good scope. "If I get him behind that gas pump over there, I can make quick work of him. You just come in and take over when the timing is right, like the last time."

"Why can't we find a gathering? Surely people drink in this part of your world, there has to be a basement still somewhere." He watched the boy as he cleaned the windshield, an insanely stupid grin on his face over the joy of hard work for little pay in the sweltering Kansas summer heat. "It was easier in Chicago, there was always someone appropriate. Perhaps there is a minister here, or another priest. I like them, they have roomy bodies and fairly healthy muscles."

"Unlike in Chicago, a priest or a minister would be missed. This kid will be, too. Folks around here aren't as expendable as they are in the big cities." Clara snatched up her jewelled handbag and opened the driver's side door. "Keep the engine running, just in case. Quick getaways are always appreciated."

"We can always wait," he shouted to her, but his voice was a strained whisper that died in his decayed, blackened throat.

She cast him a pleasant smile over her shoulder as she bounded away from the car and towards the boy, who now had his back to her. With a swift, fluid motion that was well practised, she grabbed the hammer he rested on the top of the gas pump, and with two good whacks to the back of his neck, she snapped his spine and ruptured an artery at the base of his brain, killing him instantly.

He leaped out of the passenger side, half hunched, his voice coming out in guttural, animal squeals that were his original language. The body he wore finally split down the middle and he fell out of it, the rotted skin blackened by the overuse of motor oil sliding off of his true form in patches. Clara stared at him as he slithered towards the newly deceased boy, a thick, glossy sheen to her gaze as though she were drugged. It was embarrassing, being caught in his true form like this, but there was little he could do about that now. He couldn't tell her to turn away, for he had no mouth to articulate his wishes.

He entered through the ear, and slid his way in, the fit snug but not as oppressive as his original host's had been. As he stretched inside of it, the boy's skin and bones elongated, his face morphing into an entirely different shape, one that Clara was by now far more familiar with. Buttons popped on the overalls. Seams split along the backside, revealing red polka dot underwear.

He stood before her, his usual self, now healed of his past discomfort.

She tapped a pearl on her front tooth. "You look weird with that red hair. It doesn't fit your complexion."

He unravelled the torn fibres of the jean overalls. He tested the back of his head with his palm, and was satisfied there wasn't too deep an indentation. Just a small, circular depression that fit the pad of his thumb perfectly.

His old form lay in a disintegrating puddle off the side of the gas pump. His tattered, starched white shirt sizzled beneath it.

"I need a new suit."

Tears

Goda left her to cry for a long time. When she finally lifted her face from the bed, the sun was bright in the room. It glared off her white skin as if she was lit from within, and her embarrassment grew into a raging flush of heat as she remembered her nakedness. Glancing around with swollen eyes, she located the piles of her discarded clothing and swooped onto each piece, dressing as quickly as she could.

The old woman was sitting on her bed waiting patiently. "Better?" she asked. "Are you done with your weeping now?"

"Yes," Lenka lied. Weeping filled her up. It made her whole head feel waterlogged and dull and her heart as heavy as a stone. A lifetime of dreams had broken inside her and the pain was more than she could stand.

"You didn't wake and leave him as I told you. It would have been better if you had done as I planned. But he knows now, and he would have known sooner or later. That much is done and you have to decide what to do next."

Do? There was nothing to do. He had sent her away, knowing how she loved him he had sent her back to her father's house. He wanted another woman for his wife.

"Fetch me my morning ale and cook me some blood soup. Half the day is gone."

"Yes, Mother." The fire had died again, and she took some time to raise the heat. Now, these small tasks would no longer be hers and the thought almost brought fresh tears.

"Well? What will you say when he comes back in from the field? Or better, take him his meal as if nothing has changed and be silent. Let him work over his own indignation."

"He told me to leave. I've to go back home to my father as I feared."

"Rubbish, girl. I told you he won't send you anywhere while I live under this roof. Let him plan on other wives, he's only a man. There's only ever one queen bee in a hive and that is me. I won't have his street urchin warrior for a daughter." Goda spat at the floor and took the mug of ale from Lenka's hand. "How could he think I'd have such city dregs in my home, in my son's bed, raising filth for my grandbabies? It won't happen. Now, fetch my soup and help me dress while we plan on what you will do next."

* * * * *

Dragan walked into the house, his eyes cold and steely as he considered his mother, sitting on her high-backed chair by the fire, in her best market dress, and bright shawl.

"Why am I not surprised?" he asked, but he didn't wait for an answer. "Your idea, was it? How many years have you dreamed of having Lenka as your child?"

"As many as you think, perhaps more. It shouldn't surprise you. I am your mother and I have always wanted the best for you."

"So you feigned illness and misery so she would stay in my house?"

"In my house, and yes. Not altogether feigned, but I haven't been as poorly as you might have thought. I miss your father more every day. I loved him as dearly as my own flesh for forty years, and he would be here with me still if you'd come home when you should have."

"That's your argument? It's my fault my father died and so you should choose my wife? I won't have it, Mother."

"You will because you will have no other choice. I won't have that gutter slime you dream of here under my roof. It is her fault your father died. Her fault you didn't return months before you did. Her fault you mope and waste away on the hills year after year when you should have been starting a family and raising my grandchildren." She stood slowly using Lenka's hand as a prop. In her bent old age she did not reach past the middle of his chest, and yet she used her stature to command her son as if he was a small child.

"You are the fool, boy. How long have you believed your war would end and you would bring that midden home to me? How long? Really, I want you to tell me. Because I want you to think carefully about how long it is you've loved her while she never loved you back."

Dragan's eyes went cold and his mouth formed a hard tight line over his teeth. Lenka feared him then as she had not feared him before. The flare of anger in his features told her just how profoundly that judgement had wounded him. Hardly daring to look, she raised her face only just enough to watch his answer as it formed on his mouth.

"I am a fool, then, if that's the case." He strode to the table and seized the pot of ale, gulping away a bad taste. "But it's not true. She isn't like these desperate farm girls who hover over any man. She's strong and you will learn to love her for it. Now, will Lenka leave here?" He turned his fierce glare on her and she wilted, wanting to sink back against the wall or to melt down into the floor at her feet.

"No. She will not," his mother answered, her determination just as fierce.

"Then I'll be the one to leave." Already he was moving to the chest where his clothes were folded. As he spoke he began to throw small items he might need onto the table before them. "When I'm ready, I will bring my wife here to my home. Do you understand me? Both of you?"

"Yes," Lenka squeaked.

"Good." He glared at her contemptuously and she studied the floor as her cheeks caught fire. He was leaving and her tears had not yet even begun.

* * * * *

A horse.

Freya leaned into the hollow of its neck and shoulder, breathing deep the perfume of the gods themselves. The ride would be long, but it would be out in the mountains she knew.

The fortress of Aporta stood seventy miles to the north, on the western foothills of Eumidea, in the Delian mountain range. The road which connected the twin citadels was not well used, being so far to the east of the centers of commerce; the only travelers who needed roads out here were military supply wagons and an occasional clutch of officers who made the journey in rare and extreme circumstances.

So, four days on empty roads, in clean air, under open skies. With the familiar comfort of her sword and dirk, a horse, and simple orders to follow. Bliss. If this was the discipline Paske had marshaled against her, it was worth all she'd paid. Four days there, four days back, it was more than enough time to imagine pain for him, and the thought raised a smile.

New tears deep in the scar tissue made mounting more difficult, but once seated, she was free of weights too long hanging on her, choking her. Balconies leered from every wall, and an itch between her shoulders told her somewhere up there, he was watching. She refused to look. Turning the horse to the gate, she moved away from the ancient stonework and all it had become.

The pack she carried was sealed and she had no idea what it might contain. There would be nights at camp with nothing better to do than satisfy such curiosities. It could wait.

* * * * *

From his window, standing back so dawn shadows covered his form, Paske watched her readying to leave. He had made a gift for her of all the parchments she had ruined, dried by the fire and gathered into a heavy roll. He had even tied them, extravagantly winding reams of military ribbon in scarlet and black firmly around the shaft of the scroll, sealing it deliberately with his own blood-dark signet. So official; so authoritative. He knew she would never resist the urge to judge the importance of what she carried.

He studied the sky's growing light and grinned. By late afternoon she would be nearing Galla mere. He knew it well. No traveler who would be on the road for days would pass such a perfect campsite. A chuckle rattled up from his chest. Yes, he knew the road well. He had a few hours yet to ready himself for the journey.

* * * * *

Well before evening, the forest's shadows stole the warmth of the sun, leaving the road cold and pale as it wound between dense forests and the impatient rise of the ranges. The road picked a careful line between stone and wood, and even the water that fell in rain and snow was hemmed in, trapped in narrow gullies where rock falls had halted its escape.

Around a low rise, as she rose above the crowding trees, a wide mere opened to view lipped on three sides by alpine meadow, rich and green. It was a scene of pure beauty, and somewhere deep inside her a small recognition of the fact formed, but first and foremost she weighed the convenience of flat open ground and fresh water, against the threat of exposure.

Past the verdant paddock, scattered all over with yellow field daisies and fist sized white gibbers, the far bank was rocky and part covered by the encroaching tree line. She looked up at the sky; there would be good light for a few hours yet. She had passed no one on the road all day; not a soul. Apart from a line of goat tracks disappearing into the woods, she had seen no evidence of movement anywhere along the journey. Still, life had taught her well enough that it was those you did not see who were most a threat.

Leaning forward, easing her bruised bottom, she considered the aches that came from so long away from a saddle, and with that last consideration she moved the horse down the slope and angled off toward tree cover on the far side.

In the last hours of light, she gathered a stock of dry, dead wood, best for a hot smokeless fire. She dug the fire pit under the lee of two large boulders so the light and heat would be deflected down to her small sleeping place, preserving for her the boon and disguising the flame from all sides. Then, she stripped and waded into the cold, clear water to bathe.

Her horse had grazed while she'd moved around. Then she'd tethered him well back into the tree line, and while she bathed she scanned the open sides of the lake, up toward the road. From where she swam her small campsite was invisible, and she was pleased with her efforts. But it was not water she could laze in long, the cold ate into her muscle chilling her to the core, and she soon moved back to her fire.

As she chewed the drying bread of her road rations, she weighed the pack she had been ordered to deliver. It was long but not heavy, and she shook it. It rattled with a solid thud. Resting it between her knees, she worked quickly to unbuckle the line of straps that held it secure and removed a squat leather cylinder. Again she shook it. Documents? She twisted the tight fitting lid and it slipped off so she could empty the contents out onto her lap. A roll of parchments, bound by official ribbons. Sealed. And bloodstained? Buckled and stained by…?

From where he stood deeper in the forest, her horse cried out a long welcoming whinny. Darkness was settling fast, and she dropped to a crouch, turning to peer over boulders and past the mere at the meadow and the road above. She could see nothing, no movement. Then an answer came from high in the clearing, the loud reciprocation of another mount.

When she picked out the movement of the horse, she watched as it followed shadows down from the road, tearing sheaves of sweet green grass as it sauntered toward the waterline. Riderless. It raised its head, turning sharp ears toward the place her horse was tied, and called again. Riderless, but saddled; it had thrown a man and wandered alone; or someone had cursed the broken silence, and opted for the concealment of the ground and the cover of darkness.

Freya silently took up her sword and moved back into the trees, away from the fire to higher ground, and waited. For long, cold ages nothing happened. She shifted her weight quietly, easing the aching cramps of her hips and thighs. She wriggled toes buried deep in her boots and flexed and extended her fingers. When a man stepped into the light of her fire, she was ready.

Deep in her throat she groaned; if only she had carried her quiver. She'd have slipped her first bolts through his thighs; first one, then the other. Her next, perhaps through his shoulder as he tried to flee. Then, one from close, from where he could see her eyes; she would loose one through his neck. Such were dreams of vengeance when he wore the face and carried the weight of all her humiliations. But she had no quiver.

Instead she moved with expert care across the distance between them, closing on him from behind, her sword drawn.

Editing, with thanks to Essie Holton.

Come and chat about Touchstone and the ideas behind it here.

Grabby

According to humans, yesterday happens only once. It is a fixed place in time and space that is pushed out of the existence the second the present shows up. The future outright denies it ever happened, and lives in shades of sparkling, happy pink, like the flesh of a newborn. But humans were wrong in this assumption, he knew, especially with evidence of yesterday laying in a soupy puddle in the trunk of the car and in the earth, and these two desiccated souls slumped at their breakfast table. Yesterday creeps into the present in a slow decay, poisoning the minutes and hours with deliberate enmity. It pushes its blood-soaked hands through the rosy hue of tomorrow and smears it with clotted chunks of reality. Yesterday is bitter and cruel, and it will not deny its own influence.

Clara felt no guilt over having lied to him again, and this time over such a trivial notion. That these people were long dead wasn't of any concern of his, after all he hadn't committed the deed. But the strange secrecy she held close to her concerning them nagged at his consciousness. He scratched the small indentation at the back of his head and gave Clara a quizzical frown.

She rolled her eyes and pulled a cigarette out of her jewelled handbag, which she had tossed on the dusty kitchen counter. She placed it between her thickly painted lips and fished out a matchstick, which she struck against a burner on the stove, bringing it and her cigarette to burning life. "I thought I saw someone moving around in here, and I knew that couldn't be true. So, I had to come in, and yes, I found and dealt with a little problem."

He didn't like the businesslike tone she took in these situations, especially when it usually meant there was yet another corpse he would have to lug around to whatever location she deemed necessary. He glanced at the two silent occupants in the tiny kitchen. A spiral of ants circled their empty plates. "I don't see much movement here," he said.

"It's not like I'm some monster or something," she sneered, and he had to wonder why she would say such a thing when the thought hadn't crossed his mind. "It's a logistics problem, see. This is a great place to hide my little problems when they crop up. Those two old cronies kept poking their big noses in my business and I couldn't have that. They kept upping the price, saying they were going to call the coppers and all kinds of other crazy rot. I couldn't let them get away with that, you understand me."

"I'm not sure I do," he admitted. "You said you paid them."

"You really are dim." She sucked back on her cigarette, plumes of smoke snaking above her head in a Medusa halo. "Are your ears plugged up with potatoes or something? I told you, I saw someone moving around in here, and I knew darn well it wasn't going to be those two." She pointed her cigarette towards the two corpses, the ashes from its tip falling off onto the plank floor. "No witnesses. That's the way I like it."

He sighed, unhappy with this new burden. "So now we have four corpses instead of one."

"Don't be stupid." She tossed the remainder of her cigarette into the open flame of the stove's gas burner. With one graceful reach she pulled the worn curtains at the window over and set them on the flame. The dry cotton instantly went alight, its weak red checker board pattern smouldering into ashen fireflies. Some gathered against the far wall, searing the dried, peeled yellow wallpaper. 'It won't take long to get rid of this place. Shame, though. It was a good, quiet spot to come to once in a while."

As the kitchen quickly caught alight, the fire from the curtains tearing across the walls and searing the cupboards, she motioned for him to follow her onto the back pantry. "I've never met him before. He's probably some hobo, looking for shelter and not one too fussy about the company he has to keep. Imagine, sleeping on a floor when there's a perfectly good bed upstairs. They have a nice bedroom here, real nice four poster bed, too. Comfy pillows, starched white linen, she kept the place real clean, I'll give the snoopy old Gran that one. Of course, everyone out in these parts is like that, all work, work, work for nothing but a scrap of potato out of the earth."

The heat from the kitchen began spreading into the foyer. Behind them, in the now bludgeoning roar of the fire, glass containers shattered and licks of flame roared across the wooden floors, curling up the dried twigs of bone and claiming them for charcoal. Smoke gathered in thick billows that crawled across the roof of the pantry, "He was just some bum, like I said. But he had the mouth of a sailor, so I'm guessing he's some leftover from the war. Look at that patch on his shoulder, there. Looks like an old bullet wound to me. Probably some foreign gent, coming here to America to make a fortune. Poor bastard. He should have gone to a big city. That's where all the money is."

"Perhaps that's where he was heading."

She bit her bottom lip in thought, contemplating this newest corn field acquisition at her feet. "He went down quiet, I'll give him that. If you ask me, he ran in this house to go ahead and get the courage to off himself. Why else would he have no trouble with those two back in the kitchen. It's not like they were lively company."

He could feel the heat from the burning house scorching the back of his neck. He stepped further into the pantry, nearly tripping over the hobo in his path. Clara squatted beside her victim, the glint of her switchblade catching the reflection of flames in the background. With diligent purpose she made her usual mark on his eyelids. Beneath the brow, and over the eyes. One 'x'. A swipe of her blade across the other eye. One 'o'.

"Did the farmers have these as well?" He was curious of this need of hers to mark her murderous territory. He hadn't checked the corpses in the kitchen thoroughly enough to see. There would have been notches on the bone around the eyes. Slices which connected would make an identical pattern to the one she just created.

"He'll flare up with the house," she said, not answering him. She wiped her bloodied switchblade on the lapel of the hobo's frayed coat and folded it shut. With pale hands illuminated by red fire she carefully put it back into her small purse.

It's like a surgical instrument to her, he thought. Another tool she has become an expert at wielding.

"You forgot the lye." He stepped out of the pantry and into the cool night air, a vast contrast to the burning inferno now consuming the entirety of the ramshackle farmhouse. She followed close behind him, a new cigarette already dangling from her bottom lip. "He's still in the trunk of the car. The stink of your friend is unbearable."

"Never mind him," she said. She marched deftly ahead of him, the silken, uneven hem of her dress trailing over the muck. She cursed as she pulled her skirt higher, revealing a scandalous view of her knees. "That car was great for a lark, but it's damned impractical. It's not like we can drive it in the rain, what with the top down all the time. A car for fair weather, just like him. Nah, don't worry about it, I got something better in the works, just follow along with little me. I know there's a good set of wheels just on the other side of that barn. That one, there, up on the right. A good sturdy Chevrolet, perfect for long journeys and quick getaways. Just what we need."

Behind them the house exploded into a brilliant fireball of flames, illuminating their path. It seemed odd that she was so familiar with this place, her steps in tune with every rock and twisted piece of metal that cropped up before them, her tiny, dancing feet neatly stepping over all obstacles. "You've been here often," he said.

"I'd say." She held out her arms, and spun around, the silver silk of her dress following her in wisps. She was like a tendril of smoke that had escaped from the fiery chaos behind them. "You could say I grew up here."

He glanced back at the house. A crackling snap echoed across the farm and the blackened beams of the roof collapsed inward, leaving only the shell of the house behind. "You knew those people."

"Pops and Gran. But you've probably guessed that already."

"No." He frowned, trying to piece together what she was saying to him. "They were your family, but you didn't live with them?"

"Generations move out and start their own lives," she said, shrugging. She cast him a curious glance. "Isn't that how it is with your people? Don't you have a family that you sprang from? Oh I forgot, you were just a weed." She giggled into her palm, dark eyes full of malicious mirth. "Someone threw seeds on the ground, and now here you are. A dandelion mess, that's you."

"That's not how it happens." He followed her into the barn, the light from the burning house behind them significantly dimmed. "We'll have to burn that motor car we came in. We can't leave any evidence."

She journeyed further into the barn, heading for a large, grey mass of tarp. "I suppose that will do well enough. Coppers might think it's weird that there's lye in the trunk of an abandoned car, so it's a good thing I didn't find any. After this we should head into Baxter and gas this baby up, and while we're there we might as well look and see if there's anyone having a party we can go to. " She jostled her hips and swung her pearls, her hands in front of her in a mock Charleston stomp. "I ought to have to waited before we hit the road, we could have had a proper smash up get up before we swung onto Route 66. I could have got Sousa to get more detailed, make her use her cards, too, because they're more accurate…." The pearls she swung hung back at her hips, save for one row, which she brought to her teeth and lightly tapped an incisor. "'Course, you don't get it when I talk about learning the future. For you, every damned thing is about the present."

"Now it is."

"That's not true. I've seen you when you're crawled in a can of motor oil, slicking up that body's insides. Your eyes get all rusty and your face gets strange. It flickers back and forth, like it's moving really fast through something, through a camera lens, all stop, move, stop. It's like you're slightly out of sync with the world. All shadows with some of the frames of your film missing."

She grabbed the corner of the tarp and gave it a gentle tug. It slid off of the motor car with ease, landing in folds of grey at its side. It was an impressive vehicle, one of sturdy black steel and glass, the passenger and driver's seat covered in a case of steel and windows. Clara leaned against the hood of the car, her face reflected back at her in the shining dark green finish. "It's a Chevrolet Coach," she informed him. "I'm going to do the driving in this one for a while. I couldn't believe it when I saw it, Gran and Pops wasting money on a car like this, not when they had that old wagon out back and it still did them just fine. Refused to let me take this one out, told me it was 'unladylike'. They were so old-fashioned. Some people can't stand the rush of progress."

She kicked the tarp out of the way and opened the driver's door. The engine clattered and hummed when she turned the ignition. She turned on the headlights, bathing him in their glow. "You just going to stand there?" she asked, her red mouth smiling. "If you don't move, I'll run you down."

"I thought they were paid." He stood stock still in front of the glaring headlights, his borrowed body rigid. "You told me you paid them so they would look away."

"You said that already, or are you getting forgetful with all that motor oil swilling up your brains. You think this sort of business isn't common?" She rolled her eyes as she opened the passenger seat door and beckoned for him to join her. "Just because they were my Gran and Pops doesn't mean they were nice people. If anything, you should understand they have to be the opposite. I didn't spring from some flower garden like you did, I had my mother's well-used womb."

He reluctantly moved out of the glare of the headlights and made his way to the passenger side, his eyes riveted on Clara as she spoke. There was a new darkness welling within her at this confession, one that had little glee attached to her crimes. "I know my Daddy went on to you about how he and Mummy were 'God fearing' people. It's all rot. Truth is, Mummy abandoned Gran and Pops the first chance she got, and it was through getting pregnant with me. Daddy had to marry her, see. That's what's done, people make mistakes and they have to live with them for the rest of their lives." She pressed the gas with a delicate, bare foot and gently eased the new motor car out of the barn, the wheels squelching dangerously close to sticking in the mud. "Gran and Pops took me in over the summer months. I guess that was nice of them. But Gran liked her drink and Pops, he had grabby hands. It was no picnic for me here, I'll tell you that."

He studied her intently, her bottom lip bit deep as the car lurched over cow patties and the mounds of unknown numbers of former associates. "What do you mean by grabby hands?"

She was silent a long moment, her focus intent on the car they had abandoned, its headlights still on, its trunk still open, exposing the organic mess within. "It was weird, the way things happened. It didn't stop until I turned twelve and started changing, like girls and boys do at that age. He lost interest, just like that. No more of his… I mean, when you think about it, why would it be then, at that point in my life that it would stop? You'd think it should be the opposite, a young girl becoming a woman and all that rot, that's when a man's supposed to find her interesting." She eyed him sideways, her hands tight on the steering wheel. "I left my riding hat in that car. I ought to get out and pick it up."

She left the motor purring as she got out of the coach, the uncovered car in front of her a stylish mess of muck, rendered human remains and foul deeds committed in its back seat. Her steps were careful as she leaned over its edge and picked her riding cap out from where it had fallen underneath the steering wheel. The skirt of her dress was hiked up well above the backs of her knees, revealing the wide black band of her stockings and the garters holding them up. She straightened, the riding cap held in a bunched knot in her grip. "We have to set this on fire," she shouted to him. "There's a can of gas in the trunk of the coach."

"But we might need it for fuel on the road." A full tank didn't last very long, he knew, and even though gas was plentiful it wasn't always easy to find a filling station when one was out in the country. He'd checked the map, there were many miles between Kansas and California, and there was little hope that they would make it on only a couple of gallons.

"Baxter Springs is full of gas stations. We'll fill the coach up and get two more gallons besides. You worry too much. Besides, we can pick up your precious motor oil while we're there, too. Maybe even get word from a local if there's any action going on in town, because there always is, you just have to find it. You do that by asking the right questions and getting the right answers. I'm an expert at that, no question there." She gave him a wide grin, her teeth the colour of her pearls. "I want to be the one to light it up. You can spread the gas over it, and make sure it's good and even, we don't want any coppers coming along thinking this was done on purpose. Burned out car and burned out house–They'll figure it was a robbery gone bad. One bastard killing another here at the car and setting it alight, and then the farmers in the house witness it. He kills them and sets the house on fire, trying to hide his crime, but instead he gets stuck in the house, he's overcome by smoke and passes out. The idiot burns up with it. Death by misadventure, that's what they'll call it."

He wasn't sure if this would be an adequate explanation, but this detail didn't seem to matter. It was unlikely the authorities would care to know anything about the inhabitants, or even if they would investigate the wreckage. Her Gran and Pops had been dead for two years and not a soul seemed to mind their strange, upright grave, not even the hobo who had wandered into their morbid midst. A gutted car and a destroyed house had little to do with the outside world. As always, terrible things continued to happen here in secret.

He drenched the car in gasoline and then went back to the coach before she tossed a lit matchstick onto it. It burst into a furious explosion of gas and oil, only to simmer into a thick, smouldering cloud of black ash and white hot flames. They sat in the coach for a few minutes, watching the white leather seats turn black. Without a word, she pressed the gas with her tiny, bare foot and turned the steering wheel, bringing the coach back onto the open road. They had places to go and there was no point looking back over his shoulder, to see how visible the fiery carnage still was.

But he couldn't help himself, and he cast a glance in the side mirror, seeking out the evidence of what they had done in its small reflective circle. A tiny fleck of orange was all he could see. Clara had obliterated her past, leaving only the future to guide them.

Respect Poetry.

During high school, I remember cringing at the thought of having to write poetry for the inevitable 'POETRY' unit of every English class. I probably hated that unit just as much as I did the 'THEATER' unit where we had to read Shakespeare.

But I think it took maturity to realize that poetry can be beautiful. And meaningful. It doesn't necessarily have to be a string of colorful, overdramatic and abstract words arranged in verses, making us loft our brows and tilt our heads in utter confusion.

Actually, there are many, many different kinds of poems out there that, albeit are indeed considered poetry, share only the fact that they are arranged in verses rather than paragraphs. Historically speaking, some of the first types of stories that were ever written were poetry.

The Epic of Gilgamesh is, as the title suggests, an epic poem from Mesopotamia (originally written in Sumerian cuneiform), and is among the earliest known works of literature. It revolves around Gilgamesh, the king of Uruk, and his close friend Enkidu. The latter is a man created by the gods as Gilgamesh's equal for the purposes of keeping the king distracted and preventing him from tyranny. Together, they embark on dangerous quests while simultaneously pissing off the gods. It then eventually leads to Gilgamesh seeking out the secrets of eternal life.

Yes; epic, indeed.

Another poem I have much respect for is the epic Paradise Lost by Milton, which is a very dark, twisted version of Heaven and Hell's conflicts. Well, a much darker and more twisted version, at least. This poem actually inspired some of my writings as well.

Poems, like other forms of creative literature, tell stories. But in a sense, writing poetry is almost even more difficult, because poets must unfold a story, or a theme, or convey another sort of message in a more limited manner than other story writers. We also expect poets to be very powerful in narration.

Needless to say, it took me a while to really appreciate poetry, but when I did, I realized how much talent and creativity went into it. This is why it is my absolute pleasure to announce 1889′s first poetry collection by Gabriel Gadfly: Bone Fragments.

Set in Iraq, China, and many other places, Bone Fragments reflects the kaleidoscope of life at war, evoking the colors, sounds and sorrows of those in battle, and those left behind.

Sharply poignant and touched with sadness, Gabriel Gadfly's poetry encompasses 150 years of conflict and serves as a moving testament to human resilience in the face of tragedy. From the American Civil War to the recent upheavals in the Middle East, this anthology seizes the atmosphere of battle in the smallest of moments — a soldier pining for a love left behind, the first kill of a new recruit, the loud chattering of teeth in the cold….

————————————————————————–

And for your reading pleasure, I present two of the many poems included in this collection:

Pavlov's House – Stalingrad, September-November 1942

Yakov says the Germans

call this place a fortress.

Floral wallpaper peeled

back around bullet holes.

Teacups and waffle irons

and a front yard of smoldering

Panzers, shot through their steel

heads because they got too

close.

There is no food. There is no water.

There are bullet casings and landmines

and plenty of dead out in the square.

Not one step back, Stalin said.

Not one step back, Yakov said.

There is no where to step back to.

 

Marching Back to Selma, June 1863

Lost among pine trees and snake-burrows,

our captain put an idea into our heads:

rebels rebel and we rebels could die

if we rebelled any harder against the Yanks.

Loblollies lobbed pinecones on our heads.

Impotent mortar rounds, but I still flinched.

I kept one as a memento, to remind myself of

every dead man that died before we dead-rebels

led our tail-tucked boots back home.

You can call me a deserter; I say I'm cured.

Cross three rivers and the biggest field

of gangly sunflowers you've ever seen:

My home's still burning, but it's home.

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Be sure not to miss this collection, which will be released on July 26, 2011 from 1889 Labs.

And, of course, more poems by Gabriel Gadfly can be found at his website: http://gabrielgadfly.com

Until next time.

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"Farewell happy fields

Where Joy for ever dwells: hail horrors, hail

Infernal world"

– John Milton, Paradise Lost (1.249-51).

Promises

Lenka picked the lamp from the table and carried it to where he lay.

The light chased shadows from his skin, tanned to golden brown in the warmth of spring sunshine. His hair was thick, spreading across her clean linen, sun-blonde with dark auburn curls that coiled into ringlets behind his ears. It took all her courage to reach, but she slipped her fingers into the silky mass of it, combing it gently from his temple.

Her heart beat so loud, she was sure he would hear it. It thumped at the base of her throat making it hard to breathe, hard to swallow, hard to think. The shake in her hands ran from her fingertips, into her elbows, and up to quake in her jaw. Her teeth clattered as if she was naked in the snow, but there was no chill on her skin. It burned.

Her lips burned, too, and she slipped the tip of her tongue between them, wetting them, wishing for another sip. The lamp rattled in her hand, and the flame flashed and flared, sending a shock through her like sudden guilt. Quickly she bent to place it onto the floor.

She had moved so near. The warm smell of his skin rose to her, and she bit onto her bottom lip as she moved her face closer to him. Holding her breath, feeling her chest constricting in pure terror, she leaned and pressed her lips gently onto the taut skin of his side.

He twitched at the touch and she jumped back, tears welling in her eyes. If only he would wake and reach for her. If only he would hold out his arms to her, and smile and ask her to come to him.

That would come, she promised herself. That day would come. For now, it was enough that she should make this move for him, knowing he would follow once she set her path to lead.

Grimly she leaned to the lamp and puffed out the flame. The night went dark, leaving only the faintest glow from the hearth coals. As tears rolled down her cheek, she was thankful for the darkness. It would help to hide her shame. The shame of this brazen act. And the shame of how much she ached for it.

If only he would wake.

She unbuckled the wide belt at her waist, freeing her shawl and loosening her heavy skirts. She folded her shawl over her arms and set it onto the table. Her skirts were gathered along a cord and she slipped the bow easily, allowing the thick wool to slide down the length of her legs, over the soft linen of her underslip.

Letting her held breath escape in a long slow sigh, she began to unlace her bodice. Every day of her life she had dressed and undressed, but tonight her fingers fumbled with the ribbons, bunching them into knots that slipped and caught and slipped again, until the firm hold of her basque released with sudden ease and freed her heavy breasts.

Under the loose slip, her nipples ached and she rubbed a hand roughly across them, groaning at their tenderness and the sharp stab of pleasure that grew from the touch. Without the comfort of her clothes, the cool night air touched her skin and she shivered. Carefully, she lifted the fur that draped across Dragan's hips, and pulled it around her own arms. Again he stirred, lifting his shoulder, and she shoved as carefully as she could, encouraging him to roll onto his back.

His chest was uncovered, dark against the sheet, and her fingertips trailed down over the flat muscle. Her breath was too short, her head was light and she gasped, her fingers spreading over the silk of his skin, brushing the tight puckered bead of his nipple. How often in the daylight had she wished for the courage to reach out and touch him? Now, here he lay, unaware, and her courage was still barely enough to sustain her.

There were two laces, one at each hip, that held the front of his breeches closed. She tugged each one gently until it came free.

Her shaky legs buckled, dropping her sharply to the floor and she huddled there on her knees, her forehead resting onto the pallet beside him as she sobbed silently, caught between terror and growing desire. Clutching the furs tight at her shoulders, she closed her eyes and moved closer.

She had never seen a bull or ram asleep. Tears slid over his skin as she pressed her face into the warmth of his belly. Her lips moved. Heat was growing in his flesh, and the smell of a man swelled inside her head, in her chest, and under her skin. It ran over her like a million invisible fingers, teasing nerves that cried out for his touch.

As Goda had promised, his body did not need his direction. Beside her cheek, his cock stirred itself to life. Groaning softly, she moved her shaking fingers up to stroke its length and felt it firm beneath her touch.

If only he would wake.

Sniffling back thick tears, she stood on weak knees and lifted her slip up to her waist, raised her leg across him to kneel on the bed, and positioned her hips over his. If she balked now at all, her strength and resolve would fail. With one hand clamped across her own mouth, she did her best to guide him and slowly let her weight take her body down onto his.

For a moment Lenka was frozen by awkward vulnerability. Then tears and laughter, shock and burning pleasure burst together from her lips in a muffled cry as he filled her. Relief and terror flared in her blood and she raised herself, settling again as the rhythms of nature slowly overrode her fear.

From some far off fantasy Dragan responded, straightened his back, mumbling as he slipped his hands up her thighs. Gripping her hips, he moved in time, his head back, aware of pleasure and asking nothing more of his dreams.

In the darkness below her, his throat was exposed and she leaned to kiss him there, wanting to feel the hot blood pulsing under his skin. Heat was building deep inside her as she worked against him, and every movement stoked the flame like a bellows. Instinct was driving her hips harder and faster, and he moaned, grimacing and holding tighter to her as a sheen of sweat broke over his chest.

She caught his wrists bringing his hands up to cup her breasts, and the touch sent a jolt bucking through her. She needed to feel his mouth on hers even as she gasped for air she could not find. Again the muscles of her stomach jolted, and with it a bright bolt of light burst deep inside. Her eyes went wide and closed as she slumped down against him, and her strength seeped away on a sigh.

She lay in the dark silence panting, listening to his heartbeat slowing and wishing she did not have to move. Goda had warned her not to sleep. She must move away, she was told; come to him again tomorrow, and again, as often as it was possible. All Goda hoped for was a child, and seed did not always take.

Better to be sure before she risked his anger. But the trembling in her flesh now was from joy and relief, not fear. She closed her eyes for a moment, with her cheek pressed onto his chest. Just for one moment.

* * * * *

Dragan woke in the darkness with soft warmth pressed against him and the sweet scent of cider wash rising from her hair. In that rare and comfortable silence, his first instinct was to pull her closer and drift in that warmth for a few moments longer. But the cock's crow stirred him again and sudden realizations rushed him awake.

He didn't need a second moment to know who it was there beside him, even before his movements startled her awake. Lenka drew herself away like she feared he might hit her. She slipped from the bed, dressed still in her light undergarment and holding her arms across her chest as if the linen and shadows were not enough to hide her form. He couldn't make out the details of her face, but he didn't want to look at her anyway.

His mind raced, spinning through a rash of half formed thoughts that each brought with it a confusion of emotions. Anger first, and with it embarrassment and a sense of having been compromised. He was shocked by her recklessness and, at the same time, appalled by how calculated her actions had to have been.

In the darkness by the hearth, she sobbed quietly, shuffling her feet nervously in the fresh straw. "Please don't send me away, Dragan. You can't send me back to my father. Not now."

"I can," he said with more force than he intended. "What have you done? Why?" He knew the why, or at least he recognized the pressures that were pushing her toward him. Her father, he guessed, would not be concerned. Not until he did send her back.

"Haven't I been a help to you here? Haven't you said that yourself? I can stay on now. I can look after your house and care for your mother. I'll work. I can work beside you, you know. I don't mind."

Her desperation softened something in his gut that had been tight, but it only made his irritation stronger. "No, you can't. I've told you, many times, I am going back to the citadel to get the woman I want for my wife."

"There's no need," she pleaded. "I can be a wife to you. And helper. I'll raise healthy babies, too, I promise."

He threw back furs that had tangled around his ankles and sat, angrily tying the cords of his breeches together. There seemed no point in this discussion. All the time the sun was rising and he had chores that needed his attention. Frustration wailed in his chest; he wanted to yell at her to silence her pitiful appeals.

"Wait," she begged. "I'll bring up the fire." Already she was bundling kindling onto the coals and fanning, on her knees and blowing into the flame to encourage it to burn. "I'll warm some ale. I've got yesterday's crusts, and a broth to sop." She stood too quickly, pulling a stool up for him and patting the tabletop. In the rising light she trembled like an apparition formed from pure terror.

"No, no it's not that simple. You can't stay here now and you must know that. Why would you do this to yourself?" He stood, meaning to walk to the door and away, but his feet carried him closer to where she stood.

"It's spring. Life is calling to life and soon I'll be rounding with your child, Dragan. You won't send away your child." She moved closer, taking his wrists in her hands. "I can be all you'll ever need, I promise. I promise you. I won't ever refuse you. You won't want for anything.

"And my father is wealthy, Dragan. His orchards would be yours. You could pay hired workers, just as he does, and you could sit in the hills as you've always done. And you could travel to the cities, to the markets, and wear fine sewn linen. I'll stitch it for you. I can work fine embroidery."

"Lenka, listen. I don't want you for my wife. You will make someone very happy, I'm sure, but it won't be me."

"Who? Who will be my husband? Where will I go to look for such a creature, have you asked yourself?" She wiped angrily at tears, "There are no husbands. But if there were, if there was a line of men who came to my father to ask for me, I would turn them all away."

"Then you'd be a bigger fool that I thought. I am not the man for you, I have my own plans." He started to turn away, annoyance sharpening his tongue.

But she had no intention of releasing her hold, "I'm not a fool, and I have never been a fool. If I seem foolish it's only because I waited, year after year. When you still refused to see me, I moved us both toward the best of it. I'm right, I am. If you think on it a while you'll see it, too."

She had deluded herself, that was plain, but he had never noticed her waiting. It was true, if he thought about it, she was often here when he had returned home to work. She was his mother's close companion, but he had never considered her attentions were aimed at him.

"Please, see me now. Notice me here. I've wanted no one else but you since I was a little girl. While you were away at the war I stitched and mended your clothes, and I prepared all the things a bride would need for the day she was bound. I even wove this cloth," she dragged his attention to the pallet and the fine soft linen sheet he had slept on; "—and I stitched little dresses for my babies. I never thought to do these things for any other man. Now I am not young anymore and I want to have those babies; your babies.

"I've always loved you. Did you never see me? Never?"

"No. Never." His answer was blunt but true and he hoped it would be an end to the conversation. His mouth was as dry as a witch's tit and he pushed past her taking up the jug of ale which stood on his table.

Her face broke into a mosaic of pain. Every line of her crumpled features was the mark of a deep hurt. He wouldn't have wished it for her, but he finished the ale in a gulp and turned again for the door and his work.

"Then look at me now." Desperate, she pushed the neckline of her underwear clumsily over her shoulders, dragging it down her arms. The way she stood, with her elbows pulled too tight against her sides as the shift slipped to the floor, said she was mortified by her nakedness, here in the light of the morning's fire. But she stepped forward again, pressing her bare flesh against his chest and stretching up to bring her lips against his throat. She gripped his arms in clawed fingers and tried to pull him closer.

Dragan freed her hands and forced her to step back. "I won't change my mind. I don't want you for my wife. And now," he turned to walk out of his doorway, "—you will have to leave."

Editing, with thanks to Essie Holton.

Come and chat about Touchstone and the ideas behind it here.

Intentions

Torches lit the parade ground, flaring in greens and blues by some strange alchemy, revealing the ranks of young soldiers. A blur of faces, mostly male. A small corpse of females stood to one side. They looked harder than Freya remembered being, as if they had already seen as much hell as they needed. She appraised them from where she stood at the rear of the patio in a group positioned well back behind the speakers. They were beautiful. Strong and able, the best of the empire: its hope and its future.

"Wonderful." The visiting dignitary, a tall woman trailing layers of filmy fabric, raised a fair hand and waved in the general direction of the field. She was not saying more. The Commandant, who Freya could not remember ever having seen in the flesh, had given a short speech about glory and that seemed enough for the recruits. They raised a cheer.

Her party filed from the patio into the ballroom in order of importance and Freya waited, smiling. It was theatre and she was feeling buoyant. Better than she'd felt for a long time.

She took her turn, passing by the officers in their gleaming brass and shining leather, nodding and hand shaking. The Commandant was in position beside the willowy visitor, "This is the one time warrior we spoke of, Grevinde. Sadly, she has chosen to retire from the field."

"Ah," the woman was impressed, but spoke to her companion, not to Freya. "I see. But do the women here all dress as men? Should she have a dress, some corsetry, a smock at least?"

"They are all men, here, Ma'am. Male or female, their role is the same. All soldiers are men.

"Katarin, Grevinde of Ludz-Obila Province, here is Freya Oernen, with us tonight safe and warm, not on the front lines fighting for our empire."

Freya took the slim hand in hers, bowing slightly as she said, "Here indeed, Ma'am; hiding here, where all the officers hide." She smiled broadly and opened her free hand to extend her slur to every man standing in the line. The grevinde, unsure if this was a gruff form of military humor or a great insult to her hosts, smiled tentatively and nodded.

The Commandant was not unsure, and the men who stood nearby were not unsure. Icy stares rounded on her from both sides and conversation along the line suddenly quieted. Behind them, recruits were filing into the open hall and Freya's excitement grew as the numbers swelled.

Every new spectator raised the stakes. Her superior had whitened and lost all expression, his eyes were sharply focused and cold, but the urge to laugh in the face of his fury beat in her chest. Her blood was already hot, her senses piqued, her desire for battle raging.

"I am not here by choice, Ma'am," she said, too loudly. Pulling her tunic open at the throat, and pushing back the strapping of her breastplate, Freya bared the savage purple and silver scar that gouged her shoulder. She turned her head, craning her neck away to expose as much of her torn flesh as possible, to as many watchers as possible. "If I could take a sword right now, I would." Her smiled burned brighter at the thought, "But these are our superiors, Ma'am, as you know; more and greater than we who go to fight and die for our homeland. Divinely decreed. They know best."

"More and greater, indeed." From behind, Paske grabbed the fabric of her tunic and dragged it roughly into place, laughing to break the mood as he leaned on her in subtle warning and turned her up toward the waiting tables. "But we all have our place in the defense of our empire, Ma'am." Leaving an arm around her in a gesture of camaraderie, he hurried her up the line.

"You are here as an honored guest, Oernen. Would you let your blood betray you?"

"It's only blood, it can't speak for itself. If it could…." At the top of the line, he turned sharply to the right, propelling them both from the ballroom out into the chilled night air. Still holding her too tight, he shoved until the gravel crunched under their boots crossing the parade ground.

"Remember you are not here by any order, save your own request to be kept from the front." He stopped their headlong rush suddenly as they moved into shadows. "You are an embarrassment here, to us and to yourself. You would not be on display tonight if the grevinde herself had not asked about…."

"I made no request to be here. You remember my request for discharge."

"You are not entitled to a discharge," he spat. "You have nothing; you cannot even justify the price of your food here. What little you contributed to our cartographers you negated with your little act of vandalism. There is no good place for you."

"I could teach." Dragan's logic still argued for her when shame and rage filled her chest with burning and made her words too small to defy him. If she hated it; if it was the very argument that had left her pinned against the cold stone might of the citadel, it was still the only defense she could make. All her life she'd been nothing, no one, worthless. Here she had made herself something great, and her skills had value, she knew it.

"No you can't: you're broken. Would you teach the young ones what not to do? Teach them how to fall under an enemy sword? It would be better for us all if you were never seen by our young men. If you were the hero we pretend, you would not be here at all, you'd be out there."

Tears of shame were rising and she hated those, too. Her hand moved to her shoulder, not in remembrance of her wound, but feeling instinctively for a sword that was not there. Her throat was dry and hollow; the only answer she wanted to make was in steel. Even a small knife would have opened him wide enough.

"What of all the years I fought?" she croaked. "I've dedicated my life to the defense of this empire."

"And you were fed and clothed and kept for your trouble. When you needed care, physicians healed you. Now you shirk your simple duty in the hope of gold to relieve the poverty of your contemptible old age. And for what? You will skive off into the muck that spawned you, to riot and fornicate and breed more of your despicable ilk. You are filth, born of filth. That you are left to breathe at all is a crime."

For all his self-assurance, he was slower than he should have been. The fist that snapped up under his jaw came hard, whipping his head back and forcing a backward step. Before he had recovered enough to defend, a shove against his armored chest took him back again. But the second punch was too slow and he turned his face in time to let it glance across bone.

Following her momentum, he caught her fist and turned it up behind her back. "Even the young men," he jerked it higher, "who should laud your glories laugh at you." He spat to the side and wiped a hand over his mouth.

"They laugh at a drudge scrubbing the floor; they don't know who I am, who I was."

"What you were." Shifting his weight, he pushed her back against stone. "If you cannot appreciate the honor of being raised up among us, then at least you won't embarrass us any further." Standing too close, his hot breath washed over her. The sharp angles of segmented leather on his hip and thigh pressed her pelvis back against the wall. With one arm locked behind her, the other grasped her free hand and pinned it high above her head. In the shadows, his pupils were wide and dark, his nostrils flaring. A growl vibrated from his throat, "Or so help me I will take your miserable life myself."

"If you gave me a sword you could try." Her arm burned; so did her eyes.

"I've bettered you once before tonight. Twice now." He held her there for long moments, breathing hard, studying her, close. Behind his eyes, his mind was racing, but his distraction did not affect the strength of his hold. She stood still, refusing him the satisfaction of a struggle.

At last he stepped back enough for Freya to draw breath, and said, "Yes, I'll give you a sword. I'll have you out those gates tomorrow at dawn and I will make certain you do not come back."

*****

Bowls had been piled high with liver and onions and mashed turnips, more than any man could eat at a sitting, and yet it was set before him. Dragan ate, and as he ate, he drank the sweet cider and fortified wines he'd traded from Lenka's father for fresh meat and offal.

When his plate emptied, she stood nearby to refill it. She sat, as was her custom, slightly behind him near to the fire, but while he ate she rarely took her seat. The table was a man's domain. And his mug was never empty.

It had been a good day. The stone hedges were done, the mutton butchered, and Lenka had stoked the smokehouse fire around stones all day, so he returned to the steaming comfort of a sauna and bath. Now with food and wine, he was more relaxed than he had been for months. Maybe years.

He had intended to deal with her presence tonight. He had intended to bring his mother from her bed and face them both with his decision. But his best intentions had sighed away with the steam and faded as the warm glow of cider loosened the clench of his shoulders and carried the worries that twisted his gut to a dim distance.

As he pissed a torrent against the hillside watching the steam rise into the darkness, he decided; tomorrow would be soon enough to deal with it all again. Fresh linen covered the straw of his mattress, and furs were piled in soft warmth that drew him down into dreams almost as soon as he lay down upon them. It had been a good day.

As the old woman sopped her crusts into the thick sauce, Lenka sat watching. Her hands twisted nervously in her lap and too often she smoothed the rough wool of her skirts down her thighs as she waited.

"You don't lose heart now, girl." Goda took her cup of cider in age-weakened hands, her fingers thick and twisted. "There's no more to this than's natural. You've seen the bulls and the boars and the rams. It's spring and all of life is calling to life. You don't lose heart."

"No." Lenka didn't want to lose heart. Her breath was short, struggling against her heartbeat in shallow gasps that made her mouth go dry. She sipped her wine, too.

"You've no ring on your hand, but that's of no mind. That will come."

"Yes." She'd heard this all before. Women followed after a ring on their finger, but bulls were led by a nose ring and for men, the ring was…. Her breath failed her again, and her head went light.

"Drink this. Come, child; you're not growing younger. I know you have no better course planned, and no one else to bind to."

It was true, and in the light of day, she knew this was a good plan. It was right. She would have what she wanted most: the boy she had wanted since she was a small girl. If he was just a little drunker, or a little less willing than she would have hoped, it was nothing time and care would not correct. He was no drunker than her father when he scrabbled onto her mother in the night.

Goda fumbled with the fabric of her smock, then brought her hands up and patted them down onto the table. "You fetch a little grease from the mutton if you need it," she said, then stood, holding herself upright on the table top as she limped slowly toward Lenka. "You rub a little here," her bent and swollen fingers patted Lenka's lap, but her meaning was clear enough. "It will make it all a little easier for you."

"Yes."

"You need to help nature sometimes. You want to be rounding with child, and soon." She touched Lenka's cheek and kissed her gently on the top of the head as she shuffled toward her own rough pallet. "But remember, you mustn't sleep."

"Mother," Lenka caught her hand, "What if he won't have me? What if he sends me away as he says? What will…?"

"Hush girl. You'll get yourself all tense. While this roof is over my head, he'll not send you away. Now, you clean away these leavings before you go to him. He can't know I've been up, yet. There'll be time enough for that once you're bound."

"Yes." There was nothing for it. This was how her life would be, and there were worse lives. As Goda lay down into the shadows pulling her blankets up tight around her face and turning to the wall, Lenka stood and began to gather the evidence of her meal.

Behind her, Dragan snored softly unaware of the cool night air on his bare shoulders. She stood with her mug trembling in her fingers and watched him breathing deep and regular. There was little to keep her; her chores had all been done before nightfall as her fears drove her hands to work more quickly.

She rubbed the dimpled knuckles of her hand and the backs of her fingers where no iron band marked her right to protection. If her father was enraged, his anger would soon be settled. He had been the one to send her when he knew Dragan was returning from the war. Dragan worked hard, that is all her father would care. He was old, and when he died his orchard would be cared for, his wealth saved, and his place on the river bank marked for generations to come.

There was no one in this world of war and hardship who would not understand her actions. No one would condemn her, not if they put themselves in her place. She lifted her mug of cider and drank down a deep draught closing her eyes and trying to settle her breathing.

She would be happy. He was as much as she needed, she knew that was true. The last months, while she'd cared for his needs and fussed over his house had been happy times. She liked to be with him and when she watched him work, watched the hard muscle of his chest and the tight line of his belly, her blood warmed.

As it warmed now, standing by the lamp watching him sleep.

 

Editing, with thanks to Essie Holton.

Come and chat about Touchstone and the ideas behind it here.

Blood

Sheep's blood ran as freely as a man's, and looking into the wide yellow eye, Dragan believed man and beast stared after the same vision as it darkened. Blinking slowly, but still, the beast hung by its back legs and watched as Lenka moved the bucket that caught the draining flow. Although he'd never once seen her flinch when a sword or arrow broke the skin of a man, Freya had wept more than once for the life of a dumb creature slain.

Horses were by far her most loved, but he'd known her to fret over dogs and goats left to run wild over a battlefield or abandoned after the event. She had once carried an injured pup for miles. She shared what little food she had, and would have shared his with it, too, if he'd agreed. He smiled at the memory. It was a need to love and nurture, he decided; a need for babies that every woman felt.

"More'nough for blodwurst, with the tongue and backfat." Lenka moved her full bucket safely aside, replacing it with a smaller bowl while Dragan turned and skinned the carcass. With hands on her hips, she watched and waited as he opened the gut and let the entrails drop. "Half to Pa," she reminded him, fishing through the fallen mass for the liver first. None would go to waste; the intestines and caul for sausage; the stomach, heart, lungs, and sweetbreads for hoggva; the liver and kidneys for tonight's supper. She worked at dividing the treasure evenly into her trays.

Blood stained the white skin of her arms and a smear crossed her cheek.

It was illogical. Food was needed and a beast was slain, but the slaughter and the butchery went hard on him, much harder than they should. For those like him who worked the land, meat was easily come by, and it was rare to go to sleep on an empty stomach. There were people all over the empire who had little enough to eat at all, and any kind of meat was a luxury seldom seen.

But it was blood. There had always been so much, and now, here in the peaceful green of the farm, a dam of blood seemed to break in his mind: years of life flowing out across the green fields and freezing in the rocky passes. He'd seen too much blood. This silent rush was just the last in a scarlet wash that never had an end.

His mind's eye flashed up the face of a man numb with horror, iced with sweat, lying propped against a stone, and holding his own innards. Between the gore soaked mail and piss stained breeches, a waterfall of lifeblood washed in pulses over his hands and gut, as fresh and red as any mountain poppy. He was staring after something, something only he could see, his breath coming in sharp, heaving jabs.

Dragan recalled that face, the crinkled lines creased deep in the corners of his eyes where through too many seasons he'd laughed in the face of his calling. He never knew his name or where in the green earth he had come from. Never knew his past or any of his hopes. He knew he was good at what he'd done; the hair at his temples was turning to white, so he'd survived more seasons than Dragan had himself.

But he remembered that man. He recalled his death as clearly as if he hung there before them from the bier rafters. It was the first time he'd begun to wonder why they killed these men who tried with all their might to kill them back.

He had to think of other things. As always, he thought of Freya.

He worked and slept and ate more than he'd eaten in years. Food enough to fill the emptiness, enough to sleep on a full belly every night. As he worked and order began to emerge from the chaos he had inherited, the days warmed and lengthened and seemed to drag out the time until her release. He marked them down.

Every morning brought restless energy to drive him from his bed. There was always so much to do. But every day that restlessness plagued him with visions of her impatience at being trapped in a world she hated, counting down the long days with him, but alone and a long way away. The thought left him cold. Every day he feared her impulsiveness would drive her from the safety he had wanted for her.

Lenka brushed her hair back with a gory forearm drawing his attention. He said, "My mother is much better now. You should look to your own needs, and go home to your father's house."

She didn't look up but paused in her gut raking. "She needs me here a while yet."

"I think she is relying on you being here. She's poorly because she knows you will stay. If she has to get up and get on with life she will be better for it."

"No. I don't mind helping." She moved a lobe of liver straightening it neatly in the tray. "Your father's death went hard on her."

"But it's not your place. I'm here now, I can care for her."

"Shhht," she laughed, like the idea was ludicrous. "I like to have a man to care for."

"I told you. I will be bringing a wife home, soon."

The smile dropped from her lips, and she went back to her work, stripping the contents from the intestines in silence.

It was tempting to let the silence grow. He had tried once to discuss Freya with his mother, but she had refused to hear him, refused to respond. She liked the idea of Lenka for his bride. She may have carried that hope with her for years, and she would not discard it easily.

He'd carried his hope just as long. Recalling her face was as easy as closing his eyes and letting her light fill his mind. Always smiling; through snow and ice or blistering summers when they stood on mountains too close to the sun.

*****

Dawn was always restless. Afternoons were heavy with fatigue, whether it came from walking, fighting, or boredom from the lack of both. But dawn was always restless.

The sun brought, every day, a tightly coiled sense of urgency that burned in his stomach. There was uncertainty for what the day would bring, and with it, the need to leap up and begin. And always there was frustration at the ball that lay curled in her cloak. Over rocks or in tussocks of grass, it never seemed to matter to Freya where she slept, as long as she could go on sleeping.

The sky was silver and plumes of frost leapt from his lips on every breath. A grand, heavy silence weighed on everything around them, broken only by her snores. He nudged her again, "Freya, wake up. Time to move."

At the fire, he worked to raise a flame without too much smoke. Around the camp, others were stirring. Sixteen men, most he'd known for a season or more; some so new their leather squeaked when they moved.

An arrow hit stone and skidded past his feet, the first in a hail of shafts, and all across the camp calls went up. Most were an alarm, some were cries of pain. He bolted toward his gear, his shield and sword, crouched under a dense knapsack of supplies. Before he'd cleared half the distance, his partner was beside him with his shield held up, their sword belts dragged between them, and together they gained refuge in the rocks and ice-tipped bushes.

"You're awake." Dragan peered through the half-light to the rock piles further up the slope. They were cover, not a lot, but that was where the first threat was centered.

"You started without me." She was grinning.

"Four or five," he guessed aloud, but Freya paid no heed to the archers or their place.

Her attention was divided between the half-light of the downhill slope where the next threat would likely emerge and a trio of their own men, unarmed and huddled in a clump of spiny gorse. Dragan stood, spinning his heavy pavise through the air like a monumental discus so it skidded over the gravel at their feet. He took her lighter shield as she handed it up, and holding it above their heads he covered her when she dashed to a cache of weapons and quickly threw them toward the trapped soldiers.

As they took up arms, sheltered from the arrows above by the heavy leather-bound planks of Dragan's shield, they stood to face a rush of infantry. Attackers burst from the tree cover and swarmed over the camp like a torrent of blood hungry ants. At his side, Freya clamped her teeth into the stubby haft of a dirk, watched for the deadly rain from above to cease, and moved into the fray with her sword drawn and ready.

There was no time and no need to speak. Wherever he moved his proficient steel, through a mass of sweat and muscle, she was beside or behind him. Fast; a blur of pale skin and leather. They had only a moment to dent the number of infantrymen before the archers from above could muster on the field in support, and Dragan slashed wildly to injure, maim and slow. Death could be left to his partner.

It was in those first few moments that a fight was won or lost. For all their strength or skill, no battle could last past the endurance of men who were cold and exposed, underfed, and weighed down by the only protection they could carry. And so those moments gushed with blood. It sprayed in wild jets across the field; it muddied sandy ground and made the boulders slick under his feet.

Where frost was shrinking back from the rising sun, the heat of life flowed over his ankles and into his boots. Warm and thick and salty, it splashed into open mouths that gasped for breath or sucked between gritted teeth on every bite of steel. And sweat ran over his skin in his body's vain attempt to cool and wash away the gory stain.

When the archers dropped down to meet them, they were still outnumbered but closing the gap. In their wisdom, the powers trained young men as archers first; it gave them a season or two with a chance to survive. It held them back from the hand to hand combat while they learned the face of warfare. And when they did run in, it sent tender boys into a charnel house.

They were fresh and wielding razor sharp blades; they were fair game.

Muscles in his back and shoulders burned, but adrenaline fortified the hot blood; his ears caught every thump and grind. The morning light was magnified, shining on crisp clear movement; on clean gashes and bone chips; on faces known and unknown enemies.

And when the frenzied movement finally stopped, when there was no one else swinging swords or axes, air rushed into his chest like a vast wheezing bellows and he flashed an assessment over the field.

They had survived.

Freya was doubled over, her legs were straight but she hung head down, gasping for air. The hands on her thighs were shaking like she was gripped by a fever and she coughed and spat.

"You okay?"

"I need a pee."

He grinned and nodded, "Of course."

The scene was grim and his smile set hard for a moment before it twitched and fell from his cheeks. Four others stood. Two of theirs lay injured.

Every other body lying in mud was dead. Even if they continued to breathe, they were dead men. There was never a time they'd brought in prisoners. To lose your feet here was to die, sooner or later. Freya straightened, arched her back and made the same observations he had. She wiped a hand down her face, breathed the stench deep, and kicked herself into action.

Somewhere in the mess were the two small blades she always carried. Used together in one quick action, their razor sharp edges crossed each other just under a chin, and the light in a man's eyes dimmed and faded. She was swift, even gentle. And she always spoke to the man at her feet. Dragan had never asked what she said to them.

"Back to base?" he asked.

She nodded. Two others nodded. It was decided. They'd carry their wounded back to the camp they'd left the night before last.

 

Editing, with thanks to Essie Holton.

Come and chat about Touchstone and the ideas behind it here.

Fiction Friday, with Sharon T. Rose

"Where is my son?!"

Lord Digycos lal Rilaughe burst into the dark drawing room, eyes adjusting to the low firelight and searching the figures standing within. He quickly recognized Morerver val Asiaugh standing by the fireplace. The young man was as disheveled as ever, barely dressed in his habitual shirt and trews with not a coat or sash to be seen.

The lord's eyes ranged again, finally picking out a silhouette standing by the far window, looking at the night-covered grounds.

"Eudainudas val Rilaughe! Explain yourself! Where have you been–"

"My lord!" Morerver, hands raised in placation, stepped up to the furious nobleman. "All will be explained, but I beg you to be seated first."

Lal Rilaughe halted, turning his hot gaze to his son's dearest friend since childhood. "And you! You knew where he was all this time, and you told us nothing!"

"I did, my lord, and I told you nothing for two reasons," Morerver replied humbly, deftly guiding his friend's father towards the wingbacked chairs. "One was that Eudainudas bade me not to. Another is that I did not understand what was happening; in truth, I know little more now than you do."

"Take a seat, Father."

The quiet words brought the lord's head around with a near-audible snap. Lal Rilaughe's eyes narrowed as his brow creased. Eudainudas sounded … weak. In the darkness, it was difficult to see him, to assess his health after a full season of unexpected absence. His coat hung loosely from his shoulders, as though he had been very ill the past twelve weeks. And his tail, that evidence of his adoption from the heathen southern lands, did not flick with its customary vigor. Instead, it lay limp against the floor, its muscled tip still.

"Eudainudas … are you well, son?" Soft concern replaced heated anger inside Lord Digycos. The young man was over thirty-five turnings in age, yet he was still the tiny elfling the nobleman had rescued from the waters after the seaquake destroyed the forested wetlands so long ago. The courtiers of Besir had scoffed at lal Rilaughe's decision to make an elf, from lascivious Sato Ome no less, his son, but that had stopped nothing. Eudainudas had grown up as wanton as his heritage promised, yet he was for all that a gentle man, caring of his adopted family.

Which made his abrupt disappearance the more terrible for them to endure.

The narrow shoulders lifted slightly. "I am … not ill, Father. Take a seat, and I will explain what I now know."

Finally allowing val Asiaugh to lead him to the upholstered seats, Lord Digycos did not take his eyes from his offspring by choice. Therefore he did not miss when Eudainudas turned to face the firelight. "Great Yos protect us!" The oath slipped out as lal Rilaughe's eyes threatened to burst.

His son had become a woman.

Under the loose coat, Eudainudas' body was shrunken, yet unmistakably feminine. His face was leaner and subtly changed, though none would mistake that visage, even were it not so obviously unhuman. Elves were slender creatures with tapered ears, richly dark hair, and sharp features. Their long, thin tails ended in muscles that gave them the look of leaves; those tails aided their love of tree-climbing. Lord Digycos had numerous memories of his child, from tiny boy to grown man, darting through leafy limbs.

The womanish figure of his son walked out of the shadows. "It would seem, Father, that my race has yet another difference from humans. This was not my choice nor my doing; I did not seek this out."

"Do …" Lord Digycos cleared his throat. "Do all of your people … go through this?"

Eudainudas' lips curled softly. "I have vague memories of the change being rare, so I will say no. But it does explain a great deal of the … rumors about Sato Ome elves, does it not?"

Lord Digycos frowned. "It does. Do you have any idea why this happened, or how?"

Eudainudas sighed, settling into the other chair. Morerver leaned against the carved mantelpiece, arms folded. "I can guess. You recall that I did not feel well this past Winter? So erratic was my behavior that Morerver came to check my health early in Thaw. By that time, I was insensible, knowing only that I needed my tree, here at the Summer House. So desperate was I that Morerver insisted on coming with me."

The young human nodded. "I found him babbling, my lord, and determined to put himself on a horse. It was all I could do to set my gelding after him. We rode without stopping, nearly killing our mounts. When we arrived, Eudainudas lept into that big tree of his and climbed to the top. The last thing he said was that he mustn't be wakened or moved, lest he die. My lord, I didn't know what to do, save watch over him." He shrugged, helpless.

The elf continued. "I awoke three days past to find the old giant dead and myself thus. The change obviously requires the life energy of a great tree, which may be why I always favored it over all others. To why this happened at all, I am what elves call a shaman."

"But you could already do magik, Eudainudas; what makes this any different?" Lord Digycos continued to frown.

His son-turned-daughter looked at him with solemn eyes. "The paltry spells of Sulcash's Wizards are nothing compared to the Ilo, Father. This power is my Master now; it teaches me every moment, wakening my memories. To make me capable of wielding it, it remade me in body and mind. While I am still very much the same person I once was, I am not exactly who I was. I am still your child, Father, but I can no longer bear a man's name.

"So perhaps you should now call me Eudainudeu." She arched her brows, looking from father to friend.

——————————————————————————————————————————
Source: Swords and Sigils by Sharon T. Rose
headline image by Bracketing Life

Cemetery

A thoughtful cow nudged his shin, her nose leaving thick smears of mucous on his trousers. He had finally changed out of his priest's robes into a suit jacket and matching pants, with a heavily starched white shirt itching the human skin beneath it. Clara, in her pushy wisdom, had thought of everything, including this current get up, the means by which she obtained it as obscured as her understanding of truth. The suit was tailored to him well, though the arms were slightly too long, and the hem of the pants partly uneven. A blind seamstress had put him together in this new form, he thought. Zigzag stitches and lines that refused to run perfectly parallel matched his own imperfect fit.

She leaned against the shovel he had used to dig the shallow grave, her pearls scraping along the wooden handle, the silk rustle of her dress trailing in cow muck. With her city party clothes she looked as out of place here as he felt, a lone statue of modernity against the oppressive, suffering hard work for little gain that surrounded them. "I'm already tired of the country," she complained. She rested her chin on the handle of the shovel, her red lips pouting. "I need to go to a party. Take me to one."

"I doubt there are any here," he said, snatching the shovel from her. He nodded to the decrepit farm in the distance, its roof full of holes, the house the farmer and his family lived in not faring much better. "The people here don't have much money, from what I can see. Is everyone outside of your city this poor?"

"Chicago was never my city," she said. She folded her arms across her chest, her willowy form a thin profile against the stark, dry stalks of corn. "I'm not an in-the-middle kind of girl. I like New York or Los Angeles. One coast to another." She opened her cigarette case to take one out, but the rustle of a torn curtain in the farmer's house stopped her. She discreetly tucked her opal case into her handbag, her bottom lip bitten in frustration. "Nosey Parker," she muttered.

"We are burying a man on their property," he reminded her.

"They got twenty bucks for the privilege. That's no small change, they'll be living large on that for quite a while around here." She pointed to the house, with half its rickety windows boarded up with thin pieces of flat, worn wood. "These aren't city folks. They're just scraping by. These people are so poor they can't afford running water. Something so basic as that and it's beyond their means. Weird, isn't it, when you think about it. Here they are, living free in the wide wilderness, feeding a nation, you'd think it would give them an edge. But only city folk are rich. This family can't afford to give us a cup of coffee, let alone a free meal."

He bristled at this. "We're hiding a body on their property. I imagine they feel they have given us hospitality enough."

She braced her back, her graceful neck stretched long towards the setting sun behind them as she yawned. "I don't know. I'm hungry, myself."

He evened out the earth he had dug up with the shovel and surveyed the hole he had dug. It would fit the corpse laying in wait in their trunk. Flies scurried thick along the hood of the car, their fat sated bodies longing to procreate. The human body disintegrated quickly beneath the soil, Clara had assured him. Frankie would be nothing but bones within a week, and less than that within a year once the wild animals started digging bits and pieces of him up. Rib bones for coyotes. The cows walking over his soft grave would pulverize his bones into clay shards. She knew about these things, having had experience.

"I thought you wanted to take him to the caverns," he said to her.

She held her arms outstretched, her silk dress capturing the twilight breeze. "I changed my mind."

He glanced back at the rickety house. A torn curtain fluttered again, and was still. "These people are witnesses."

"They saw nothing."

"But…."

"I told you. They saw nothing."

But there was doubt in her expression, and a shiver of fear coursed through him at the thought of what could happen should the weight of her switchblade find her palm. He kept the shovel tight in his grip, its end dripping a foul mixture of cow manure and mud. He headed for the back of the motor car, where the trunk was already partially open. Flies, thick as a black blanket, buzzed and feasted in a frenzied infestation. He swung his arm at them, and they buzzed around his head, biting into his scalp, believing him to be more of their vile buffet. He pulled the trunk open and released a thick cloud of the bluebottle exhibition, their thirsty, fat bodies blindly bumping into the corners of his mouth and eyes.

"I'm not sure how I'm going to get him out in one piece," he admitted. He poked at the body experimentally with the tip of the spade. A gash suddenly opened up in the former Frankie-Who-Wasn't-Frankie's side, a vile black ooze seeping out of it. "He's pretty much liquid," he told her.

She swore and placed her hands on her hips as she stormed over to the car, her shoes miraculously avoiding every cowpat and puddle. "We'll never get the stink of him out now," she complained. She gestured to the spade. "Look, there's no use waiting for a solution when you've got one in your hand already. Just shovel what you can of him out. We'll have to use lye on the rest. They got an outhouse about a mile up there, past the house. That tells me they have plenty of lye to go around."

Reluctantly, he sank the spade into the thick goo that was once a human being, sheets of skin sliding off as he brought the pools of him out. He tossed the remains into the grave where they landed with a wet plop. He felt sick doing this, not out of moral reprehension which had long since been silenced in Clara's company, but because of the eerie similarity to his own physical body. Within his host's frame he slid behind broken ribs and injured kidneys, his own liquid form keeping the battered human form solid. As he shovelled into the squelching bits of the man she had called Frankie, he could feel a sympathetic jutting into his own protoplasmic ooze.

The skin on his upper arm rippled as he inwardly shivered.

He tossed the shovel to her feet and she stepped back, avoiding its rancid splash. "I can't do this, it's too revolting. The body I'm using is retching and if it keeps it up I'm going to end up spilling out of its nose."

She scoffed at this, hands still on her hips. "You can't believe that I'm going to dig in and pop him in that hole like he's pig slop? This dress is imported China silk!"

"Murder is often a messy business," he said. He leaned against the open trunk of the car, where the millions of flies had returned to feast. "You told me so yourself."

Cursing, she kicked the spade back at him and then turned her back, to storm off in the direction of the outhouse. "Finish what you can, damn you, I'm getting the lye!"

"I needn't do a thing," he shouted to her. "He's oozing out of the trunk and onto the back wheels." He poked the spade back in, and drew up a collection of fabric and bones. He rested the shovel onto the stinking remains and stepped away from the motor car, turning his back on the whole affair. She was already a swinging speck of grey silk on the horizon. The torn curtains flitted from one side to the other, the occupants never visible though the movement of the curtains betrayed them. They were an elderly couple, Clara had told him. They made a good living on the side using victims of Clara and perhaps Georgio's enterprises as fertilizer.

He contemplated the gooey remains in the hole. Who was this man? He had no real name, for he'd already learned that it was himself who was Frankie, not the other label she had given his host. He was Frankie. This organic mess in the shallow puddle at his feet was also Frankie. Two people divided into separate entities. He'd heard of such things, humans were known to call twins, and surely this was the clearest implication, that this slimey mess was another extension of his host's self. Clara had never said otherwise, and little else made sense.. He was familiar enough with the phenomenon, he wasn't immune. As he thought on his true form that gooey mess and he were now, at least in outward physical appearance, one and the same. But he had never had this Frankie's experiences, and he couldn't tap into that portion of his mind that held the measure of his memories. His host, who may be this man in the puddle, had been shot in the back of the head, the bullet lodged deep somewhere in the centre, the hole it created still open but hidden neatly with a few tufts of hair. He reached behind his head, testing the tell-tale depression with his fingertips. It made a strange ache in his gut, not quite unpleasant but not quite well, either.

But perhaps he was complicating the issue, and there was no conspiracy of human twins involved, that cellular splitting a ruse meant to shove him off the true path. Clara could not be trusted. The reality of what had happened was far more simplistic and linear, a straight line of one lie leading into another. This unknown man was yet another anonymous fellow countryman who had the misfortune to cross Clara's path, and he paid the usual, fatal price. He'd known her for such a short period of time, and in that time span alone he knew of half a dozen such corpses left in various basements and hideaways in Chicago, slowing rotting away in back alleys and under the floorboards of several underground speakeasies.

No, this former person in the trunk had not splintered from his present host as he had first suspected, this he was now sure of. Whoever he was, he had information for Clara about her own targets in Hollywood, an annoying segue that she refused to let go. He'd never seen one of these moving pictures she kept harping on about, and had no real wish to. To see a lifetime reflected in shadows and light held no grip on his consciousness. Where he was from, the past, the present and the future constantly melded into each other, in patterns complex and strange. To see a performance that started from one linear point and ended at another, with entire decades skipped over, seemed a childish omission. He would never be able to make sense of it.

Take that Valentino actor Clara kept harping about, he thought. She'd never met him, and yet her mind created a reality where they would meet, they would have a future and it culminated into the crescendo of a kiss and a burning, exploding blast of light that took them both into eternity. She took no account of this trip, of the twist of her switchblade in random people, or of the very fact her and Valentino have never met. In her heart, the future has already happened, but unlike his own world, it was unlikely it ever would. The stories they told in his universe were epics comprised of actual events, not guesses, not this foolish thing called hope.

Hope. Every day he longed for her to give him something he could actually use, where he could hunt his target down and destroy the chaos they had caused in his formerly understandable life. He was infected with human hope. He pressed his palm against the back of his host's head, the bullet hole sucking slightly underneath the pad of his thumb. How wonderful, to slip away from here, to go back onto his own chaotic planet.

He glanced at the primordial ooze dripping out of the trunk of the car and onto the wheels, a foul-smelling human sludge he would never be able to fully eradicate from his senses. The sun was setting over the dried crops that stretched half a mile. Aggressive black crows pecked at the earth, their pointed beaks searching for hidden scraps of meat.

Clara was taking an awfully long time. Surely it wasn't so difficult to locate the lye, especially when she was certain where the owners of the farm kept it.

He focused his gaze onto the outhouse, searching out her willowy form against the darkening horizon. No fluttering hems of silk met his sight, and he frowned, wondering where it was she had gone. For all her flighty tendencies, Clara was a determined spirit, and she would never leave a job half-finished. He looked on the melted human in the trunk of the motor car with question burning in his gut.

The curtains at the farmhouse window remained still.

Surely he was wrong, she wouldn't take such an insane risk, not when these people worked for others with far more deadly connections attached to them than Clara's own. After all, hadn't she bragged to him as they drove through Joplin about how easy it was to get a person to keep their mouth shut these days, that a greenback settled any score and any moral quandary. These people had to eat, and other bad people had to die. Seemed a fair arrangement in her, and this farmhouse family's, eyes. A ready-made graveyard set for corn husk markers, and the occasional crow mourner.

Darkness began creeping onto the farm, the dusk morphing into an inky black that was difficult to navigate through. He trudged towards the dilapidated house, his guts screaming at him to reassess this situation, to take a step back and remember who it was he expected to act responsibly. She was quick and temperamental, and all navigation to his target in California (supposedly) had to rely on his constant, vigilant monitoring of her behaviours.

Cow patties squelched beneath his shoes, and he shook off the larger clumps as he slowly made his way to the house, his gaits as lumbering and slow as the undead. By the time he reached the front porch, he lay panting inside of his host, clinging to the left of the broken ribs, his own slimy essence feeling parched from the effort. He hoped these people had a pitcher of cold water somewhere within, for it was still a hot evening, with only the occasional breeze offering any relief. He blindly searched out the rickety steps that led up to the broken porch, its floor full of holes and splintered chunks of wood. A derelict swing lay motionless on its hinges, the chains affixing it to the roof of the porch nearly rusted through. If he dared to take a seat, the entire swing would collapse into dust, and he would fall with it, right through the rotted plank flooring and onto the cold, miserable muck beneath it.

The door didn't look much better. Dozens of coats of paint, each a different colour, lay peeling and thickly layered on the door. When he knocked, flakes of blue and pale green rained onto his hand. The pain alone was what held the fibres of the wood together. He got no answer, and though it was considered rude to do so, he turned the handle, surprised by its give. They'd left their door unlocked. Unheard of.

"Clara?" he called into the gloom as the creaky door shut behind him. "Did you find the lye?" He stepped further into the cluttered foyer, disturbed by the eerie silence. "We're wasting time here. I thought you wanted to be back on the road by nightfall. We're behind schedule and we've hardly started." He felt his way forward, the cameo outlines of family portraits bearing down on him from the cracked walls, wallpaper weeping away from its seams to curl in ugly yellow clumps away from the ceiling. This elderly couple, as Clara had described, needed a good handyman to help them out. He supposed that was impossible, considering how they earned their keep.

"Clara?" he called again into the grey gloom.

He bumped into a chair leading into the hallway, and cursed over his injured knee. He rubbed it hard as he walked down the damp hallway, dour pictures of ancestors bearing down him, their unspoken murky shadows making him nervous. He wasn't quite sure how to describe it, only that the house felt wrong. There was something important missing here, and it wasn't just the need of someone to come in once in a while and do necessary repairs. There was a profound feeling in the house of a sad absence. Like an abandoned storage room, full of broken junk and torn boxes and not a sign of human life.

The hallway led directly into the kitchen. That was where he found her, the lamp in the kitchen brightly lit, the sink filling up with running water. Behind her, at the breakfast table, were the elderly man and woman, their heavily decomposed bodies suggesting they had been paused over their breakfast for quite some time. As they were nearly skeletons, he guessed years.

On the table before them sat mutual cups of coffee, now dried to a thick paste of black and two plates cleared of all but a few streaks of fossilized catchup. The newspaper was folded neatly on the table beside the slumped skeletal form of the farmer, his lower mandible sitting in his lap. He checked the date. 1924.

"They've been having that eternal breakfast for ages," she shrugged.

Two years to be exact, he wanted to say to her.

She poured herself a glass of water and smiled over its refreshing relief. She stared out the kitchen window above the sink, her dark eyes soaking in the blackened horizon.

"They didn't need to die," he said. "You paid them."

She openly scoffed at this and tossed her glass into the sink. "Get a grip. No one keeps their mouth shut better than the dead."

Flying

Dragan labored in the fields from sunup until dark. When the sun was gone, he sat by his table mending harnesses by lamp light and sharpening the blades of the shears and the scythes. He slept because his body could do nothing else, woke when the cocks crowed, and went out in the dawn to turn cows onto pasture and drag fresh hay for the lambs and ewes.

When fatigue or frustration slowed his steps, he turned himself around so he could see in every direction and imagined the scene through Freya's eyes. This was his 'rocky-shit-heap-of-a-farm', that truly was what it was. But it was his, and it was safe, and in a very few weeks it would be hers, too. In too short a time, he had to make it fit for her to see.

Wolves and foxes had decimated his lambs and chickens, their pens and pastures gone to ruin in the time since he had last been at home. Everywhere the drystane hedges were slipping, but every pass of the tiller pulled new stone to the surface of his fields, so there was never an end to walling. And nothing drew sweat or hardened muscle like lugging rocks.

He rubbed his wadded tunic over his face and used it to wipe sweat down the middle of his bare chest as he watched Lenka cross the high field toward him. The sun was overhead, and she was bringing meat and cider for his dinner. None too soon. He walked up the slope a short way and turned to sit in the thick spring grasses.

"You've been a help to us, Lenka," he said as she knelt and laid the drawn cloth flat.

She nodded once and flashed a quick coy smile. A dense cob of roggenbrot, a soft cheese, and a pat of smoked eel sat together on the cutting block. Beside them she stood the glazed pots she had strung: one brimming with cider, the other half filled with a sop of beef broth.

As he ate, dropping some hunks of rye bread into the sop to soak and smearing cheese and flakes of eel on others, she sat back onto her feet, away from the feast. Quietly she slipped the corners of her shawl from under her belt and lifted the dark cloth from her shoulders. The red scarf, too, which was tied over her hair, she slipped loose and put to the side.

His attention was fixed on his meal and his thoughts ran ahead, as always, over work that remained to be done, but he turned as her hair burst into silver fire in the late morning sun. His eye was drawn to the length of it, rolled into a loose platinum plait that fell forward over her shoulder. The long creamy line of her throat ended abruptly where her tight laced basque pushed full breasts up into the gathering of her under slip. Soft mounds of pale flesh swelled and fell with every breath.

With some difficulty, he moved his view to her face. Her eyes were down, but her cheeks colored slightly. She raised her chin to the side, stretching her neck and leaning almost imperceptibly closer so the sunlight slid over the contours of her décolletage. A smile touched her full lips again and her breath shortened.

Dragan lifted the crock of cider to his mouth and said, "Is my mother well today?" He looked down toward the stream below, but back again when she sighed.

"Better." She straightened her shoulders further, arching her back a little and drawing the length of her braid up slowly and dropping it behind. Her empty fingers trailed back, their tips following her neckline to where the bright ribbons that laced her bodice were tied. Slowly she twisted a finger, twirling the laces in slow circles, her eyes now on his, her lips forming a soft moue.

Even as he recognized the dance, he allowed his gaze to wander over all the soft expanse of her chest, her shoulders, throat, and breasts. All reason told him he should look away, as it had with each successive visit from his neighbors and their daughters. It was harder now to hear the voice of reason when the sun raised perfume from her skin and the skittish breezes slipped it to him over the remains of a good meal.

A hard burn rolled in his belly and a pulse kicked behind it.

It would not be hard to accept this silent offer. More, it would be bliss to hold the softness of her and to bury himself in the sweet warmth and comfort she held out. But the reasons that made this woman a prize above of all those paraded before him in the last weeks, were the reasons which best argued the need to refuse.

There were no men here.

The farms had, for too many years, lost their best and strongest to the war. For too many generations.

Daughters grew to work like men in the fields and orchards of the poor. They slaved as he did, hauling rocks and snigging logs. They burned beneath the summer sun and froze in winter fields, flogging horses and oxen down the straight lines of the plow.

They cooked and cleaned and tended the hearths; they cut the sheaves and pitched them onto wagons; they thatched their ricks and carted bedding straw. They bargained their grain prices at market and bought and sold their wool. Then at night, they spun and wove their cloths, stitched and mended, and preserved their fruit against spoiling.

But in the end, there were still too few men.

For winning husbands and fathers for their children they had little to commend themselves, when each was one among so many eligible. The farms hereabout were poor of everything but daughters. And so they struggled to keep those things which made them most desirable.

Lenka held, in abundance, everything that made her first among the many.

Her father's orchards grew on fertile land that repaid his husbanding many times over. He sold his apples, pears, and plums, and brewed the massive store pots of cider, brandywines and liqueurs that rolled west to meet an endless thirst in the cities. He paid workers each season, so his only daughter's hands stayed smooth, her skin pale and soft, unmarked by the sun.

His wealth showed best in her full figure. She was tall and strong, with ample breasts and wide curved hips, a round cheeked face that was pleasant to look at, full lips, and eyes that sparkled blue.

She was beautiful. Warm and soft. Sweet. Willing.

He looked back to the stream and washed the ache from the back of his throat with a wide swallow of cider. And he ascribed her her virtue intact because it was too valuable in these times to be wasted. Most valuable.

Below him, the stone hedge he'd been working on threw back the sunlight. There was too much to do, and so little time. In too short a time, Freya would be coming home. "Thank you," he said, and left her to clear away the meal.

*****

A stiff wind rushed up the dark face of the citadel. It rolled down from the mountains, across the tarn, and up to snake in through balconies that wailed like a thousand open mouths. Freya leaned out over her balustrade counting the terraces that gaped below her own.

Four, hers was the fifth. There were more flights of stairs to climb, but the foyer and the parade grounds were lower, the citadel built into the fall of the foothills. Her wall and balcony, like so many others, opened directly above the water. She leaned out, hooking her feet into the carved stone, her hips resting against the top rail, and flung her arms wide into the wind.

It was like flight. It whipped through her hair and stung her face and eyes with its icy breath. If she had wings, she would match the eagle. She would soar out over the battlefields, her view just like that of a mapmaker.

But she had no wings.

Her hands were rough; the skin in the joints of her fingers was cracked and raw from the lye. Her back ached. Her knees were bruised from kneeling on the stone floor of the mess hall, and her shoulders…. She pressed her left hand onto the scar and moved her arm through its range. Every day her range was less, the stiffness more. Scrubbing the stonework meant leaning on one hand and scrubbing with the other. No matter which way she did it, or how often she changed hands, the weight and the action were tearing away any healing she had been able to do. If it kept up many more days, she would not be able to continue.

She had forty-three days to go.

She turned and leaned back on the rail, picturing the terraces above and to the side: a thousand, thousand dark holes in the stone. When she looked back into the half-light of her bare room, she thought again of Dragan.

It was something she tried to avoid. He wasn't here, which was not unusual. Every off season he went back to his farm. But when her body ached beyond endurance, when young men who could not guess what they would face made jokes at her expense or kicked food scraps at her, when she gouged a mark in the stone of her wall to count off days, or when she considered the ordeal she would face tomorrow night among people she had despised from birth, he was all she could think about.

If not for him, she would not be here.

The wind sucked at her hair and pushed up under her tunic, puffing and flapping it against her body. In a moment of inspiration she dropped to a squat. Her boots were soon unlaced, the breeches shoved down roughly and kicked off to the side. As she raised her bare foot to the rail, the wind wailed its encouragement and she pushed up, almost overbalancing, and stood, arms out, in space against the wind.

Laughing, filling from her toes to her ears with bright joy, she caught her flapping tunic and lifted it up and over her head. Her blood had turned to quicksilver rushing through her, aching in nipples grown hard and greedy for the cold suck of the wind. Naked, laughing hard, laughing full into the moonlit void, she stepped out from the stone and flew.

She punched her fists up and whooped with joy, looking down just as her heels hit the water. It was harder and faster than she'd imagined, jetting into every naked space, and pushing the air from her lungs. When she stopped shooting downward and the surreal swirl of bubbles began to make sense, she kicked, rising up to the cold, clear surface.

When she broke free, she gagged on great lungfuls of air and coughed them out again. She was alive and every nerve was singing. Still laughing, she rose to lie on her back and kicked slowly toward the closest open shoreline.

"You fucking idiot! What the…? Hey, are you all right?"

Freya spun, shocked by the voice so near in the darkness. Someone was splashing, rushing towards her. She was near to the shore and he had reached her in a few strides, grabbing at her arms and pulling her to her feet.

The moon lit the terror in his face, the absolute horror at what he had seen, or thought he'd seen, and she started to laugh again.

"Are you crazy? What…?" He was dragging her onto the hard, pebbly aggregates that held the tarn's great boulders and the citadel's footing in place, turning as he did to look back up the stone face, shaking his head in wonder or shock.

"I'm okay, I'm fine." She stopped the rush forward, braced her knees and made him pause. "Who are you?" she asked bluntly, then, "No, don't tell me. Why were you out here?"

"You screamed," he yelled in exasperation, his face close to hers. "I wasn't out here, I was in there." He pointed through the darkness to a lower floor balcony, the room dimly lit from within. Ground floor; down at the bottom of the pecking order; brand new and untried.

"You just get here? Part of the new intake?" Freya was starting to shiver. Adrenaline, shock, and the cold night air were all making themselves felt against her bare skin.

He noticed her skin then, too, and stepped back, nodding, so the moon was not hindered by shadows. "You'd better come inside, you'll freeze."

"Yes," she agreed. Stretching up onto tiptoes she kissed him hard, her hands sliding down to pull his hips in against hers. "Fuck me," she said, biting onto his lip.

He froze, his eyes wide.

"You heard me," she grinned. "Warm me up." Her hands slipped over the rough new suede on his ass, and as she spoke she walked, forcing him back toward the balcony he'd left. "I'm cold right through to the bone."

One way and another it was true enough, and there was no way to tell if the man in her hands would be able to reach the part of her that was coldest. But it was worth a try.

 

Editing, with thanks to Essie Holton.

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