Still the Sun

by Charlie N. Holmberg

Lore—some might call it scripture—claims that Tampere exists as one land among many, created by the World Serpent, whose discarded skin coils into entire planets, far beyond what our mortal eyes can see. But when the Serpent shed the skin we call home, Tampere kept all its water deep inside, so we have to dig for it.

It’s not until I’ve finished my calculations that I realize they’d been speaking in another tongue, and yet somehow, I understood every word.

“I broke it,” he hisses, “because it took you away from me.” He releases me all at once, and I gasp in air like I’ve forgotten how to breathe. Heartwood’s sharp eyes peel away from me, and he vanishes down the hole in the floor, never once touching the ladder.

Madness has a feel to it. Smooth, subtle. Like the oil nestled in those hinges, but thinner. It doesn’t leave a noticeable mark. No grease stains. When it first starts dripping, it feels wrong, the way I imagine a knife through the gut might feel. But I can see how one could become used to it. Even comfortable. Oiled up and slick and satiated, forgetting there was ever anything else.

“There are many gods,” he continues, quieter. “I am not one necessitating worship.”