His literary awards include ten Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature — including the Grand Prize for Novel for Salamanca (Ateneo Press, 2006)— as well as the Manila Critics’ Circle National Book Awards for the graphic novels Siglo: Freedom and Siglo: Passion, the Philippines Free Press Literary Award, and the Gintong Aklat Award. He was a fellow at the 1992 Dumaguete National Writers Workshop as well as the 20th and 48th UP National Writers Workshop.

He is an advocate of the literature of the fantastic, managing the Philippine Speculative Fiction annuals, as well as a comic book creator and a blogger.

2. Rodello Santos was born in Manila, raised in the Bronx, and is currently lost in Yonkers.

His work fluctuates between dark and lighthearted fantasy with frequent visits throughout the speculative continuum.  His stories have appeared online at The Town Drunk, Flash Fiction Online, and Dragons, Knights and Angels.  He garnered an honorable mention in the 2008 Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror (edited by Datlow, Link and Grant)  for his story “In Earthen Vessels,” (from Philippine Speculative Fiction, Vol. 3.)  He has also been published in the anthologies Cinema Spec, Cheer Up, Universe (forthcoming), and Paper Blossoms, Sharpened Steel (forthcoming).  He is a proud member of the Liberty Hall writing forum.

3. Nikki Alfar learned to write at the age of two and never quite figured out how to stop. Now, over three decades later, she’s been a flight attendant, a bank manager, a magazine editor, an office administrator, a radio newscaster, and, currently, a marketing and corporate copywriter. Along the way, she’s somehow managed to earn two Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature, one Manila Critics’ Circle National Book Award, a citation in the global Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror, and recognition as a ‘Filipina writer of note’, according to the Ateneo Library of Women’s Writings.

She’s currently putting the finishing touches on her first story collection, tentatively titled Now, Then & Elsewhen. Her fiction has been published internationally—in Fantasy, Bewildering Stories, and Our Own Voice—and locally, in various magazines as well as the anthologies A Time for Dragons, Night Monkeys, Sawi, and Tales of Fantasy & Enchantment. She’s a proud founding member of the LitCritters writing and literary discussion group, and co-edits the annual anthology series Philippine Speculative Fiction, published by multi-awarded novelist, short fictionist, playwright, and speculative fiction advocate Dean Francis Alfar.

Dean and Nikki have been really quite ridiculously happily married for well over a decade now. They have two daughters—Sage, who is an avid bibliophile and has already written several pieces of flash fiction; and Rowan, who thinks that Goonight, Moon is the most sparely elegant tour de force of texturing detail ever written. She actually said “Abagabooda,” but her parents are certain that’s what she meant.

4. Eliza Victoria works in an office for most of the day, and churns out stories and the occasional poem at night. Her fiction and poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in various publications based in the Philippines and abroad, including the Philippines Graphic, Philippines Free Press, Story Philippines, Very Short Stories for Harried Readers, Philippine Speculative Fiction IV, Expanded Horizons, Cantaraville, elimae, and The Houston Literary Review. This year, she received a Palanca Award for her poetry collection, “Reportage”. Her short story, “An Abduction by Mermaids” was a finalist at this year’s Philippines Free Press Literary Awards. She spends her time in Makati, Quezon City, and Bulacan. Visit her at http://sungazer.wordpress.com.

5. Crystal Koo was born and bred in the Philippines and is now an English lecturer at the College of International Education of Hong Kong Baptist University. Her work has been previously published in various international venues including The Digest of Philippine Genre Stories, unsweetened Literary Journal, RUBRIC: Creative Writing Journal of the University of New South Wales, Short Stories at East of the Web, Salu-Salo: An Anthology of Philippine-Australian Writings, and Philippine Speculative Fiction IV. In 2007, she received a Palanca Award for her short story “Benito Salazar’s Last Creation”, and in 2009, her play The Foundling was performed in the Fringe Theatre in Hong Kong. She has forthcoming publications in Usok 1 and in an anthology by DAW Books and she is currently collaborating on a second play. She maintains a blog at http://swordskill.wordpress.com.

6. Dominique Gerald Cimafranca teaches various subjects for the Computer Studies Division and Humanities Division of Ateneo de Davao University.  He also manages the technology concerns for the Davao Writers Guild.  Visit his blog at http://villageidiotsavant.blogspot.com.

7. Kathleen Aton-Osias is an auditor in the Philippines who believes that love, hope and good chocolate could save the world.  She has been published locally and on-line, with her story The Riverstone Heart by Maria Dela Rosa being honorably cited in the Years Best Fantasy and Horror, as well as being anthologized in the Best of Serendipity.  She has won two Don Carlos Palanca Awards for Short Story – Children.

8. Mia Tijam is pimping her brain to future smiling vampires and brainy zombies in the corporate world in the guerilla effort to make the Philippines a BPO-Happy Country. She has managed to run trapezoids around editors with her distinct writing published in the Philippines Free Press, Philippine Speculative Fiction, the Digest of Philippine Genre Stories, Pulp Magazine, and Playboy Philippines. She was also the co-editor of the Philippine Speculative Fiction Sampler with Charles Tan. Likewise, her story, “The Ascension of Our Lady Boy,” was cited in the Honorable Mention list of the 2008 Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror edited by Ellen Datlow, Kelly Link and Gavin Grant. And recently, her “Wishes Do Come True” was a finalist in the Philippines Free Press Literary Awards where she did a matador dance with a poet named Rafael San Diego and a drunken waltz with the poet named Gemino H. Abad. She self-respectfully passed out after.

9. Bessi Lasala is currently studying at De La Salle-College of Saint Benilde. She’s secretly hoping that one day, she will be made ruler of the universe. She resides in Las Pinas, Metro Manila, with her three cats.

10. Paolo Chikiamco is a Filipino writer who resigned from one of Manila’s top law firms to pursue a career in writing and publishing. He’s recently placed in the Palanca Awards (Short Story for Children category) and  his stories have been published in the Digest of Philippine Genre Stories and A Time for Dragons: an anthology of Philippine Draconic Fiction. Rocket Kapre, his ebook imprint (along with USOK, his online PinoySF ezine) can be found at http://rocketkapre.com/ and he’d love for writers and readers of Philippine Speculative Fiction to come by and hang out.

11. Vincent Michael Simbulan is a two-time Manila Critics’ Circle National Book Awardee for his anthologies, Isaw, Atbp. and Siglo: Freedom.  He is the co-founder of Quest Ventures, which is both a publishing house and a coalition of Filipino comic book creators.  His work has appeared in the Philippine Daily Inquirer, Project: Hero, and the magazines Stuff and Guide.  Siglo: Passion, co-edited with Dean Francis Alfar, was his last comic book anthology.  His first short-story anthology A Time of Dragons came out in 2009.

12. Joseph F. Nacino worked in media and online publishing for most of his working life until he cracked like an egg. His fiction has been published in Philippine Speculative Fiction, the Digest of Philippine Genre Stories, A Time of Dragons, the FHM Erotica Ladies Confessional Special, and Manual Magazine. He was also the first place winner of the 2nd Philippine Graphic/Fiction Awards. He now serves as the series editor of Estrangheropress.kom.ph on his free time, given that it’s his crazy idea.

]]> http://farthestshore.kom.ph/2009/10/credits/feed/ 0 http://farthestshore.kom.ph/2009/09/strange-weather-dalfa/ http://farthestshore.kom.ph/2009/09/strange-weather-dalfa/#comments Mon, 14 Sep 2009 03:00:33 +0000 banzaicat http://farthestshore.kom.ph/?p=66 By Dean Francis Alfar

Tenet paused at the ridge, licked the dry dust from her lips and looked at the small settlement that clung to the side of the mountain in the distance. Behind her, the uneven path was an unending brown, broken only by the heavy footprints of her mule.

“Well, Alister,” she said to her mule, “let’s hope that this one is better than the last.” She tugged at the reins, squinted her eyes, and looked for the best way down. “Though I doubt it.”

As she neared the village, Tenet briefly considered passing it completely. The few houses that she could see looked tired and worn down, as if abandoned by the hope of better days. A few fields were marked by erratic stone fences, with only small clusters of greenery managing to break free from the earth’s embrace.

At a nearby well, a man and a woman watched her approach.

“Stranger,” the wiry man in rough homespun nodded in her direction. “Are you passing through?”

“My name is Tenet, good sir,” she replied, offering a smile. “And I will pass through if afforded no opportunity for gainful employment.”  She straightened to her full height.

“What?” the man scowled at the short stranger, unimpressed by Tenet’s soft brown eyes, odd clothes and accent.

“She’s looking for work,” the woman beside him said, scratching at a sore on the side of her neck. “Paying work.”

“Do we look coin-made to you, stranger?” the man said, tightening his grip on a long piece of wood.

“Perhaps a few coppers, good sir,” Tenet said, extending her hands palm outward. “And a place to sleep for the night. Maybe there is something I can do for you or this place.”

“There’s no work for you here,” the woman replied. “Fortune left us years ago, along with the weather.  Though you’re welcome to stay.”

The lean man nodded slowly.

“I think I can work with the weather,” Tenet said, shielding her eyes against the harsh sunlight.

“Truly?” the woman’s eyes widened. “Are you a weatherworker?”

“Not exactly,” Tenet answered. “But I am a Craftsman.”

“A Craftsman,” the man repeated, a little fear edging into his voice.  “What does that mean?”

“I follow the Traitor’s Way,” Tenet said simply.

The man and the woman exchanged a look.

“Forgive our ignorance,” the man said, “but we’ve never heard of such a thing, have we, Maery?”

“No,” the woman Maery said, shaking her head. “Not at all.”

“Can you show us what you do?” the man asked with the smallest shrug.

“Stay right there, Alister,” Tenet told her mule, pointing to a precise spot on the dry ground. She walked some distance away from the well and faced the man and woman who watched her every motion with distrustful eyes.

Tenet considered the environment and sought to encompass the nature of everything in her immediate vicinity. When she closed her eyes, her Craft opened up and briefly showed her the patterns of her surroundings: the heavy lines of climate interlaced with overlaying concentric circles of heat; the solid granulated outlines of the ground and earth; the jagged strokes of the woman Maery’s anxiety; the immutable texture of the man’s irritation; and the odd saturated hue that the man and the woman shared that she assumed was a flavor of doubt.  Only the well resisted her sight, a discomfiting emptiness where she expected to see the folding pattern of receding water.

The well can wait Tenet knew that her reading was superficial, more akin to a glance than long contemplation, and she knew that there were many other factors to consider, other facets to the circumstances than her hurried overview gave her.

As Tenet’s understanding of the status quo increased, her Craft began to present opportunities to betray the established parameters, giving her potential openings to create unexpected change, identifying weak areas that could be subjected to traitorous incidents.

When she opened her eyes, she knew what to do.

“Good sir, good lady Maery,” she called out to the two spectators. “The rule of drought is the law in this place. But it need not always be so.”

Tenet closed her eyes again as she engaged the spark of Craft within her, selecting a weak point in the pattern of dryness and heat, slicing her mind through the layers of lines, sequences and strokes. Inside, she inserted a memory of rain and imbued it with all the desire she could muster. This wasn’t very difficult because she did want rain, had wanted it for days.  She felt her need wash over her and into the pattern, invisible rays of persuasion emanating from her and into the equally unseen patterns. Above her, dark clouds quickly gathered and grew heavy with water, as moisture betrayed the rule of drought and rebelled against time and circumstance.

Easy now easy easy

When rain began to fall in thick and weighty drops, Tenet opened her eyes. The woman Maery had her arms extended to the sky, her face raised up, mouth open to the welcome precipitation.  The man trembled where he stood, a hand on the lip of the well, his eyes fixed on Tenet.

“That’s that,” Tenet said with smile. “I’ll check the well too-”

“There’s no need for that,” the man beside the well said, tightening his grip on the thick piece of wood in his hand.

“Thank you, thank you,” the woman Maery laughed.

Tenet nodded then walked to her mule Alister, who stood expressionless in the growing downpour.

“We’ll have a roof over our heads tonight, Alister,” she whispered into his big ear.

#

Ven bent over the line of small wet stones, flecking away the rainwater that dripped down his cowl, trying to gain a sense of the muddied oracular tidings.  When he had awakened from his once-a-decade month-long druidic sleep, he had been perturbed by the news – word of which reached him through the gossip of winged insects – of an unexpected drought in lands east of his stead. For a moment, he considered not investigating the oddity; the lands outside of his domain were not his responsibility; and those very same lands where considered wild, insomuch as they fell under the influence of neither king nor state.  He dismissed a more general feeling of obligation to all of nature at large – he wasn’t the kind of druid who felt the need to respond to the cry of every living thing.

In the end, it was the anticipation of activity that moved Ven to take the journey; the quotidian nature of his druidic routines made him feel older than his twenty eight years.  He dressed himself in simple garments meant to deal with the anticipated heat of the land he journeyed toward, leaving his well-muscled arms uncovered.  At the periphery of his stead, he dismissed his wide-eyed animal companions, opting, as usual, to travel alone.  The animals, their hopes crushed yet again, lumbered, skittered and flew back to their own dens, holes and nests.  It was the old one-eyed ferret who waited until his master had gone beyond his limited range of vision that was the last to abandon optimism.

Days later, Ven considered the readings his fatidic stones suggested in the muddy earth and shook his head.  His confusion stemmed from the fact that the stones warned against an unnatural drought, which he fully expected, yet the evidence of rain falling around him with unnatural abandon disputed the oracle.  Irritation trumped confusion as Ven plucked each damp oracular stone from the wet earth, placed them in the pouch at his belt, and moved eastward in the heavy rain, silently cursing his sodden choice of attire.

He stood shivering at the crest of a wet hill overlooking a small village that seemed to have dealt well with the unnatural rainfall.  Furrows had been dug into the flatter areas of the mountainside, creating channels for the fallen water to follow, leaving a handful of less drenched paths.

Ven attuned his senses to the surroundings, seeking impressions from stone and sky and water, and affirmed his suspicions.  This was, in general, where the strangeness centered, where the sky’s waterlines bent toward.  Somewhere in this village, something was very wrong.  This was where his power was needed.

He decided to begin with the rain.  Where prior to his departure his interest had only been in action, by the time Ven began his incantation the entire set of circumstances had gained a very personal veneer.  He wanted, more than anything, to end the irritating rain which had no business falling where it did and in such vast quantities, upsetting the balance of water tables and aerial waterlines in many different places.  He used powerful words, repeating the secret formulas he learned at the feet of the dead druid Itus, admonishing the elements for their unruly conduct, seeking to restore matters to how they were before the unnatural rain.  At the height of his incantation, he felt a degree of resistance to his will which caused his eyes to widen and his body to straighten up.  With a hoarse shout, he extended a fist into the sky, scattering dull-colored powders as he opened his hand a finger at a time, and broke the unnatural pluvial pattern.  By the time he lowered his arm, the rain had ceased falling.

Satisfied, Ven began to negotiate the muddy earth in the direction of the village, seeking the true cause of the anomalous precipitation.

#

Tenet woke up struggling for breath, clutching at her midsection as she stumbled out of her bed, spitting blood into the battered pan near the door.  For long moments her mind reeled, permitting no complex thoughts, and she used that time to slowly bring the pain under control, slowing her breathing until she was calm.  When she could stand, Tenet wiped the unbidden tears from her face and stepped out of her humble quarters in the outskirts of village to deal with whatever it was that so suddenly and so forcefully assaulted her.

Not what. Who who did this

She had planned to spend the day investigating the well in the center of town, the well that registered as an emptiness to her Craft when she brought rain the day before.

The well can wait

Tenet squinted her eyes against the brightness outside. She saw Alister, her mule, blinking mutely in the harsh sunlight that penetrated the roof of his makeshift enclosure.  Around her trusty companion, puddles of water began their process of returning to the clouds.  Tenet, almost choking in the thick air, murmured comfort in Alister’s ears and squelched through the mud, seeking higher ground.

Tenet’s mind was still awhirl with questions that had no answers when she finally made her way up a muddy ledge that gave her a better view of the village.  From her vantage point, she could see the abandoned cottage that the woman Maery had told her she could live in.  She could see the small cluster of houses and the defiant well the well can wait but no sign of whoever negated her Craftwork.

She looked up the higher portions of the mountainside and closed her eyes, sparking the Traitor’s Way within her. Immediately she saw that the patterns of the surroundings had been restored to the rule of drought.  Warm moisture covered her skin as she focused on the lines between elements, seeking where her Craft could take hold.  Tenet shuddered as she felt the definite influence of another person on the earth and sky around the village, a presence she could not immediately identify.  Extending her vision, she stroked the connecting lines, setting up a timorous movement among them, and followed the motions to what disrupted the state of rain she had created.

Tenet permitted herself the tiniest of smiles.  I don’t need to see you

Bolt, she thought coldly, holding the memory of the thunderstorm that had terrified her as a child, invoking her ability to influence vagaries and happenstances, thwarting the governing rule of electrical generation, lashing out along the connective lines to her unseen enemy.

#

Ven was halfway down the slope, picking his way carefully through the slippery rocks, when the sky directly above him darkened in the span of a heartbeat.  He barely had time to utter an arcane syllable before a jagged bolt of lightning struck where he stood, triggering a mudslide that carried his unmoving form a hundred strides down the hill before stopping.

Moments after the mud settled, Ven fought the vertigo that bedeviled him and slowly restored his outer skin to flesh, thanking his old master for the druidic secret word of transforming flesh to stone.  He changed the skin around his face last, holding his breath until he was able to clear an airway, finally pulling himself up on unsteady feet.

“Lightning, is it,” he muttered, blindly angling his head to the dark sky. Around him, in the air that smelled faintly of metal, fat water droplets started to fall sporadically.

When his eyes turned back to flesh, Ven quickly inscribed a sigil in the air, his fingertip leaving a light viridian trail.  When the circle was complete, he gestured down toward the ground.  The green circle settled rapidly on the wet earth, gleaming once before its color subsided.  He took a solitary seed from the pouch around his belt and tossed it in the middle of the circumscribed area.  Limned in green light, a single sapling forced its way out of the mud, rapidly extending thin arms several lengths into the sky.  Ven regarded his handiwork, permitting himself a moment’s satisfaction: the dweomered tree would attract the next few bolts of lightning, should any come again.

Convinced that there was a malign intelligence at work against him, Ven thrust his hands into the mud, and uttered a new incantation.  When he stood to his full height, he held out his hands, filled with wet earth and stone, his voice intoning words in the language passed on to him by his old teacher .  The druid then brought his hands together, as if in prayer, as his last words faded in the strengthening rain.

“Show me,” he said.

When he unclasped his hands, he knew where to find his opponent – a miniature replica of the surrounding hills stood cupped in the cusp of his hands, threatened destruction by the downpour.  One small rock, irregularly-shaped, represented the person that struck him down.

“Dao,” he whispered, flinging the contents of his hands in the direction of his foe.  Where the largest clump of earth and stone fell, the ground trembled.  The head of a creature appeared first, as if submerged in the mud, its mouth open in a soundless roar.

“Rise,” Ven spoke against the growing wind.

The elemental pulled itself out of the earth and towered over the black-haired druid, ignoring the pelting rain.  Its broad mass was flecked with dull-colored stones made darker by the water; its empty eye sockets gleamed green, the professed color of the druid Ven.

“Destroy,” Ven commanded, his voice as loud as thunder.

The creature turned away to obey.

#

Immediately after the lightning flash she triggered, Tenet made her way as quickly as she safely could to where it struck, needing to see if whoever was protecting the rule of drought was truly felled.  She did not want to underestimate her foe, reasoning that no enemy should be considered defeated unless she saw the evidence with her own eyes.

As she alternately walked and clambered upwards, she unwillingly recalled her last duel, the very duel that resulted in her exile.  She had considered Erin a friend and fought only to retain her honor, misjudging the younger Craftsman who fought for love.  When Erin collapsed under her assault, Tenet turned away and was caught unaware by her foe’s desperate attack.  It was Tenet who fell that day, Tenet who lost her titles and honors, Tenet who had to leave the Guild, Tenet who was marked as exile, Tenet who had to give up Dion.  She was still haunted by Erin’s face, her bloodied mouth twisted in triumph.

“Enough,” Tenet chastised herself, irritated by the useless memories that offered no comfort.  What’s done is

Her thoughts were interrupted by an explosion of rock and mud, as the immense elemental landed in front of her.  Before she could move, the creature of earth and stone struck her with its massive fists, its size incongruous with the speed of its attack.

Tenet landed painfully on the ground, air escaping her lungs in a terrible exhalation laced with spittle and blood.  Sensing another blow coming, she shifted to a side, ignoring the lancing twinge in her right leg.  The elemental’s fists thundered down where she had been, sending rocks and mud flying in all directions.

Elemental her thoughts raced Think fast, think, think.

Fury and fear ignited Tenet’s Craft where she crouched, showing her briefly the structure of the creature.  In that moment of white heat, Tenet stretched out her hands and twisted at the first available weakness, realizing that she did not have the time to seek out a perfect flaw.

The torso of the elemental whirled around while its feet remained rooted where it stood.  Once, twice, thrice, it spun, flinging bursts of mud and stones in an erratic circle, the stones that composed its hips grating against its upper body.

Tenet twisted the pattern again. Fall, fall, fall

Abruptly, the elemental was sundered, its torso spinning several more times in the air before shattering into innumerable fragments a short distance away.  The creature’s legs ceased to move, the force that animated it dissipating in the rain.

Tenet stood up and gasped once as she tested her weight on her injured leg.  Satisfied that she could walk, she set out to finish her cunning opponent once and for all.

#

Ven was in the middle of an incantation meant to subdue the unnaturally returning rain when he felt a backlash of mystic energy strike him.  He fell with a startled cry and grimly exerted mastery over the internal flames that would have consumed a lesser druid.  He weighed two options as he lay transfixed for a moment on the muddy ground – begin anew his interrupted incantation or deal with whoever sundered the elemental he had summoned.  His scowl turned into a feral smile as he stood up, thin red smoke rising from countless pores of exposed body.

“So, you’re strong,” he spoke softly.  “Good.”

From his damp pouch he took a brown weathered nut, its surface pitted but intact.  He ignored the pain that swept over his body once last time as the last of the mystic backlash evaporated, and focused his thoughts.  A breath expelled later, the nut began to tremble in his hand, drawing on the power of the earth.

“Temblor,” he whispered, hurling the quaking seed in the direction of his enemy.

Where it landed, the earth heaved and convulsed, accompanied by the deafening sound of the world bring torn asunder.

#

Tenet was considering what to do next when she saw something small hurtling in her direction and realized that she could perish in the next instant.  With no time to spare, she turned her Craft inward, betraying her own body’s natural parameters and nature, forcing what composed her to temporarily realign and adapt to the threat.  It was a dangerous gambit, for very few who followed the Traitor’s Way and attempted the extreme act were able to restore their own natures.

Tenet believed that she was one of the few who could.

She fell on the ground changed and rode the devastating earthquake.

#

The ground was still shuddering when Ven reached the summit of the hill and looked for his enemy.  Half-blinded by mud and tiny tendrils of pain, he saw a human body crumpled on the vertiginous ground.

When the quake finally stilled, Ven rushed toward the collapsed form as quickly as he dared, slipping only once on the uneven and wet ground, his senses alert for his opponent.  As he neared, he realized that the form was that of a small woman.

Guilt and dread filled his being as he looked at her, using his eyes to search for weapons or blades or the usual signs of magery.  She looked like no warrior or druid.  Ven decided that she was one of the villagers or a traveler caught in the terrible web of his anger.

He knelt by the woman’s side, extending a hand to lift her mud-splattered head from off the ground.

“I’m sorry,” he said, hoping she was still alive.

Tenet’s body had returned to its original state moments after the temblor ceased.  But she had no time to reflect on the fact that she had managed a feat few would even consider attempting, for when her vision returned, she saw the face of a stranger and realized that he was cradling her.

“Excuse me,” Tenet muttered, struggling away from the man’s powerfully built arms and on to her unsteady feet.  She grimaced as a dull ache traveled up and down her right leg.  She looked around wildly, anticipating another assault, before rubbing away the most of the mud that covered her face.

“Are you all right,” Ven asked, rising to his full height, towering over the wisp of a woman before him.  She looked like a strong wind could blow her over but she was more than fair, he observed, abruptly aware of how much he missed a woman’s company.  He ignored his thoughts’ digression.

“I’m fine,” Tenet said, as she met his gaze, staring a moment too long into the man’s deep black eyes.  When she felt her heart quicken in that moment, Tenet thought that her own Craft had betrayed her, finding the secret weakness of its own mistress.  Damn it all!  Isn’t this just too much? I could be attacked in the next moment.  This isn’t the time or place for this.  I don’t even know who this man is, where he’s been, what he’s done, if he even likes women.  And he looks like a savage, all covered in mud, like he’s been rolling in it.  I don’t want to I don’t want to

“Who are you?” Tenet demanded, attempting to regain her composure.

“My name is Ven,” the broad-shouldered man said, offering his hand into the space between them before just as quickly taking it back, only to extend it once again after wiping away most of the mud that encrusted it.  “And you are?”

“I’m Tenet,” she said, shaking his hand against her will, biting her lower lip to prevent any more words except what was absolutely necessary from coming out as she looked away from the tall stranger.  Don’t do this to me.  Not again not again.  Why does this have to happen here now?  He could even be the enemy

Tenet entertained a brief memory of her time with the poet Larsus, the most execrable man she ever met.  “Women are defined by their emotions, men by action.  When a man meets a woman, he considers what to do.  When a woman meets a man, she considers if she should fall in love,” Larsus had told her once over dinner at the court of the Weimark.  Tenet, of course, disagreed vehemently.

“Pardon me,” Ven told the strangely curt woman whose thoughts seemed elsewhere.  “If you can walk, I’m sorry but you must leave.  This is not a safe place.  There is-”

“Danger,” Tenet interrupted him, pulling away from her own untimely reminiscences to focus on the matter at hand.  “I know.  I came to help.”

Ven looked at her questioningly, blinking away rainwater.  “Help? But there is-”

Tenet raised her hand to stop him and forced her heart to focus on the matter at hand.  “There is something here, someone who is-”

“Perverting nature,” Ven said, ignoring Tenet’s hand.  “I know.  I have been fighting him.”

“So have I,” Tenet said.  She bent over to briefly massage her right calf.

“You have?” Ven said, looking her over, before quickly averting his gaze. He had noticed how she favored one leg over the other and felt an intense longing to touch her, to see if she was all right.

“Do I look like I’m out here for any other reason?” Tenet asked him, wiping away raindrops from her lips.

“I don’t think its safe here, not for you,” Ven said, turning toward her.  “There is a village down there-”

“Listen, Ven,” Tenet said.  “For your information, I’ve been here since yesterday, doing something about the strange weather, and I-”

“You have?”

“I have.  And furthermore-”

“Are you a druid?  Because if you are, I haven’t-”

“No, no,” Tenet laughed dismissively.  “Of course not.”

Ven waited for Tenet’s laughter to fade in the uncomfortable silence.

“Wait, are you a druid?” Tenet began tentatively.

“Yes.”

“I see.”

“What about it?” Ven asked.

“I meant no disrespect,” Tenet replied, turning away.

“Then you should listen to me, Tenet,” Ven said forcefully.  “You must leave.  I am engaged in a duel, and I-”

“No, you listen,” Tenet faced Ven.  “I’m not leaving. I’m in a duel too.”

“You are?”

“I am.”

“And by what virtue are you in a duel?”

“By the virtue of Craft, that’s how.”

“I see.”

“Good.”

“A Craftsman.”

“Yes.”

“You.”

“Yes!”

“Well then.”

Tenet watched Ven control his facial expression.  See?  He’s not anything special, just like every other man I’ve met.  Judgmental, boorish, and and and

Ven watched Tenet’s mud-smeared beauty eclipsed in magnitude by her spirit and fought the improper attraction he felt for her despite her obvious flaws.

“Then stay, Tenet,” Ven told her.  “But stay behind me where it’s safe.  I could be-”

Tenet bristled at his words.  “I’ll stay because I want to stay, and not because you permit me to stay.  And I could be attacked anytime too, so you better watch yourself, druid.”

Tenet stood next to Ven and looked him squarely in the eyes, attempting her best defiant stance.  Don’t look into his eyes his eyes don’t don’t

Ven shrugged his wide shoulders and suppressed a smile.  “Do what you like, Craftsman, but do it quietly.  What I do requires concentration.”

“Well, you keep quiet yourself,” Tenet admonished him.  “I need silence too.”

“I hope you can defend yourself, because if-”

“Please.” Tenet interrupted, closing her eyes.

Without a further word, Ven knelt down and selected several stones on the ground.  Sweat dotted his brow as a small stone floated up first, followed by a second, then by a third, then more and more, the collective mass growing in size until a large cluster of rocks defied the pull of the earth in front of him.  He glanced briefly at his new spirited companion beside him, astonished to discover that Tenet was no less attractive when she wasn’t arguing with him.

Tenet eyes were shut tight as she fought to control her Craft which was focused on the man beside her.  Enough enough so he has nice eyes so what?  There’s a battle to be fought a duel to be won and I can’t afford to – he’s looking at me he’s looking me – no no no no – concentrate concentrate Tenet forced her Craft to deal with the pattern of rain, coaxing more from the sky, fighting the rule of drought.  Who knows he may be of some help after all

When the rain continued to grow in strength, Ven stood up and released his armada of floating rocks, hurling them downhill. “Findfoe,” he intoned, his raspy voice charged with potency.

Satisfied with his work, he watched the flying stones gain speed.  He was about to speak to his companion when he saw the stones veer backward toward him and Tenet.

“Look out!” Ven shouted, pushing Tenet away.

Tenet landed with a shocked grunt and opened her eyes only to see a swarm of stones heading toward her.  She raised her hand and pulled at the pattern of motion, instantly causing the rocks to turn away.  “Back!  Back to your master!”  And as soon as she was certain she was out of danger, she rapidly stroked the lines that led to the dark clouds once again.  Bolt. Bolt. Bolt. Bolt. Bolt.

“No!” Ven shouted, moving away from Tenet as he gestured toward the stones hurtling toward him.  “What are you doing? I’m their master!”

“What?” Tenet shouted over the ominous rumbling from the heavens.

In the downpour, Ven alternately waved his hands left and right in quick succession, causing the incoming stones to crash in those directions, away from him.  “Why did you-”

“But I didn’t mean- Wait!” Tenet gestured frantically in the rain. “You were the one who sent the elemental?”

Ven and Tenet exchanged a look of bitter epiphany as the smell of metal surrounded the druid.

“You sent the lightn-” Ven began.

Their next words were lost in the sudden brilliance of the multiple lightning strokes that blazed from the sky, the crash of thunder that followed a moment after, and the mudslide that enveloped them both in its voracious embrace.

#

It was the rain that revived Tenet.  She found herself half-buried in silt and stone, carried by the mudslide near the small house the woman Maery had told her she could live in.  Nearby, she could hear the frenzied braying of Alister, her mule, who was mere instants from breaking the cord that tied him to the post of his makeshift corral.  When the rope finally frayed apart, Alister rushed to his mistress, attempting to soothe her.

“Alister,” Tenet pulled on the mule’s reins and brought herself up out of the mud.  Every part of her body ached, and the throbbing in her chest made her suspect that she had shattered more than one rib.  She looked up the broken hill and saw a lopsided tree tumble down the slope, blackened and charred by lightning.  Her eyes widened as she remembered Ven.  No no no

“Alister, there’s a – there’s a man down here,” she cried, ignoring the flares of pain in her legs and arms as she crouched and began to dig through the mud and stones.  The mule stood by her side, unable to do more than nuzzle the back of Tenet’s neck as she frantically searched.

Painful minutes passed before she located Ven’s body.  Like the tree that fell, it was charred almost beyond recognition.  Tenet could not fight the tears that ran down her muddy face as she gently excised Ven from the ground.

He can’t be dead.  I refuse I refuse I refuse

In the downpour, Tenet triggered her Craft and realized that he was still alive, albeit barely.  She felt a surge of joy rush through her tired mind and body.  He needs healing he needs healing

She considered invoking her Craft to help him but knew better.  There were some things she could not do.

“Alister, come here.” Summoning the last reserves of her strength, she somehow managed to lift Ven’s dying form onto the mule.  “Come on, I hope the woman Maery can help.”

Alister followed his mistress, pausing when Ven’s body began to slip down to the ground.

Tenet corrected the load, fought back her tears, and spoke to her mule.

“Alister,” she said.  “This is Ven.”

And they rushed toward the center of the small village, oblivious to the pelting rain and empty houses.

#

The woman Maery and the wiry man in rough homespun stood in the rain by the well, waiting for Tenet.

“Look at everything that has happened,” the man said without looking at the woman Maery. “It was a mistake, inviting that girl to stay.”

“I wanted rain,” shrugged the woman Maery, wiping away the water that dripped down her face.  “No harm in wishing.”

“You gave her a house to stay in,” the man said, spitting into the mud in front of him.  “You asked her to stay.”

“The well needs refilling,” the woman Maery turned to look at her husband.  “You know that.”

“Didn’t have to be this one,” her thin husband said.  “Too dangerous.  The earthquake, the angry skies-”

“In time it would be you or me,” the woman Maery shrugged her shoulders.  “Is that what you want?”

The man kept silent.

“Hush now,” the woman Maery told her husband. “She comes.”

“She looks hurt,” the man observed.

Tenet approached the couple, leading Alister who had Ven on his back.

The woman Maery raised an eyebrow.  “What’s that?”

“Who’s that?” her husband asked.  “What happened?  Look at you.  What have you done, Craftsman?”

“Please,” Tenet began. “This man needs help.  Can you help him?  Do you have anything that can help? Please!”

The man walked toward the mule and grimaced at the sight of the burned body.  “Looks dead to me.”

“You’re wrong,” Tenet exclaimed.  “He’s still alive.  But please, he’s slipping away.  It’s all my fault, it was a misunderstanding, and I – I –”

Tenet gave in to tears of guilt, turning her back to the couple and leaning over the well.

“There, there,” the woman Maery offered, signaling her husband.

“I – I can’t help him the way he is right now,” Tenet said softly.  “My Craft, it doesn’t work that way.  He doesn’t deserve to die, he was only trying to help.  But I didn’t – I didn’t know-“

Thunder drowned Tenet’s words as man took her violently by the legs and upended her into the well.  Tenet didn’t even have enough time to form a scream.

“That’s that,” the man said, wiping away water from his face.

“And what of that?” the woman Maery pointed to the body on the mule.

“Save the mule,” her husband said.  “The well has no use for the dead.”

“She said he’s still alive,” the woman Maery said.

“Not for long,” her husband replied.

“All right then,” the woman Maery nodded, approaching the mule.

Alister furrowed his brow and started backing away.

#

Tenet’s thoughts after landing with a resounding crash in the well: He pushed me into the well he pushed me and I’ll kill the bastard and I’m alive and I think I broke my arm and Ha! I knew there was something with the well and how will I get out of this and Ven what about Ven and Alister

The first thing she did after looking upward was to check herself for injuries, cataloguing new pains and breaks with an affected distance.  This is the worst day of my life She knew her left arm was possibly broken in several places which made the thought of somehow climbing up the well an absurd notion.  She gingerly touched the area behind her head and above her neck and realized she was bleeding.  Wonderful

The second thing Tenet did was to shout –

“Help!  Help me!”

- before realizing that the only two people who could hear her were the man who threw her in the well in the first place and his accomplice of a wife, the woman Maery.  Tenet didn’t hold high hopes for Alister to rescue her.  He was, after all, only a mule, albeit a loyal one.  And Ven could be dead by now he could be

The third thing she did was to investigate where she had fallen and how she still lived.  The bottom of the well was mostly covered in mud, the result of her overnight rainfall.  It was the mud that had broken her fall – which meant that either she had not fallen that far or that the ability of mud to absorb a fall was severely underrated.  Go on make light of things because Ven and Alister are as good as dead and all you can do is

The last thing she did was to decide to explore the rough tunnel that she found while she struggled around the bottom of the well.  Maybe it leads up let it lead up somehow

#

Ven felt himself floating in the dull emptiness of pain.  With what little power he had left, he clung to life but knew he would die soon.  Most of the power of the lightning bolts had been absorbed by the dweomered tree he had conjured earlier, but when its capacity was overwhelmed, Ven was exposed to the remaining bolt’s fatal power.

As he began to slip into darkness, Ven thought about the argumentative but attractive Tenet, the sad and unexpected ending of his life, and heard a voice call his name.

*Wake up*

In the growing dimness, Ven struggled to open his eyes but failed.

*I know what you are, what you can do.  Take my strength now and help Tenet*

Ven gathered strength and sent his thoughts toward the voice.  Who are you?

*Tenet calls me Alister, which is good enough*

Alister?

*Yes. Listen, she has been thrown into the well.  You must help her*

Into the well?  But I can’t – I have no – I’m hurt

*Take my strength.  I know you are able to.  I am a beast*

A beast? Her beast?  No, no, I can’t-

*I can see why you don’t want to.  I can see your memories.  You can heal by sharing the life of beasts*

Then you know that the first and only time I did that my companion-

*Died.  I know.  Do this*

You might die in my place.

*If it is so, then it is my life to give.  Hurry now, you’re fading*

Why are you doing this for me?

*I do it for Tenet.  This is the only way I can help her.  You must live so she can live*

If you perish-

*Then make certain I do not*

But she’ll-

*Tell her I made you do this*

Do you understand what you’re asking me to do? How you could-

*Do it*

And Ven did.

#

The woman Maery walked toward the mule Alister, her head partially averted as she truly did not wish to see the dead body on the mule’s back.

“Come now,” she said in the rain.

Her eyes widened when the mule suddenly knelt on the muddy ground, as if the charred burden on its back became too heavy to bear.  The woman Maery watched in trepidation as the mule became suffused in a soft green glow.

“Husband,” she cried, gesturing for the man to come over.

“What?” her husband said, joining her.

“Look,” the woman Maery whispered.

The charred body of the man twitched once before issuing a dreadful wail, its head twisting upwards as if to drink from the bountiful rain.  The woman Maery and her husband were unable to move, transfixed by the occurrence before them.  Pink flesh peeked from under the cracked and burnt skin, forcing its way up as the druid Ven regenerated himself.  New sinews grew where muscles were lost, and the sound of reinvigorated bones aligning themselves where they should filled the drenched air.  He stood on renewed legs, carefully drawing as much as he dared from the mule, making sure that he did not repeat the tragedy of his past fatal error.

When his physical restoration was complete, Ven offered silent thanks to the quivering Alister before turning his fury on the murderous couple who stood in shock in front of him.

“Monster,” the woman Maery managed to say before pulling at her husband to run away.

When he was struck by lightning, Ven lost much of his cache of helpful implements.  What little survived vanished in the mudslide that followed.  All he had left were the words he knew, whose use without a focus drained him very deeply.  He shouted one and stomped on the wet earth, causing mud and stones to splatter over the retreating couple.

The woman Maery found that she could neither move nor speak.  Alarmed, she tried to turn her head toward her husband but found the motion next to impossible.  Everything seemed so slow.  Her vision darkened until she could no longer see. The sounds around her seemed deeper, lower in pitch and soon she could not hear.

The man watched his wife turn to stone and screamed for mercy for the brief duration that his throat remained flesh.

When there was only the sound of the falling rain, Ven regarded the two statues with contempt and pushed both over into the mud.

He knelt by the mule, making sure he had not caused death.  Alister looked at him with tired but proud eyes.

“You’ve saved me in more ways than you know,” Ven told him. “Thank you, Alister.”

And he ran toward the well.

#

Tenet found the black-skinned creature squatting over a crack in the earth at the bottom of the well.

The sight of it filled her with revulsion: it seemed primarily composed of a huge maw, overcrowded with teeth; its skin shimmered black but was broken in places.  Though it seemed to have no eyes Tenet felt the baleful force of its stare.

Tenet felt images intruding into her mind with the weight of weariness.  Desperately she sought to spark her Craft but found she couldn’t.  The ebon creature’s thoughts caressed hers, twining and intertwining, insinuating itself into the core of her being.

Stop stop stop

To Tenet’s horror, she found her body obeying the creature’s unspoken command.  As if through the eyes of a stranger, she watched herself go closer and closer to the foul creature.

Stop stop stop

Her mind was filled with images, persuading her that her death was inevitable, that the creature needed to feed to do what it needed to do, that it was the first of many sent ahead to prepare the way, that when its kin came the world would be reduced to blessed emptiness.

The ebon-skin’s maw salivated with anticipation.  It showed her how futile it would be to fight, how it had influenced a man and woman in the village above and persuaded them to hurl their fellow villagers down the well one by one, how its presence twisted the natural order, how it would savor the taste of her eyes.

Tenet tried to scream, tried to move, tried to run but instead closed the distance between her and the creature.  She watched helplessly as she offered her pained arm to the foul thing’s maw.

No no no no no

Tenet involuntarily shuddered as its black tongue, notched with sharp bones, cut open her arm from elbow to her palm, pausing only to delicately slice open a path to the tip of her middle finger.

No no no no no

“Tenet!” a voice boomed from behind her.

Ven? but how how how did you Ven please help

Tenet felt the ebon-skin’s control weaken as it turned its attention to the new intruder.  She bit back the pain, cradling her bleeding arm as she huddled nauseously on the ground.

“V-Ven?” she managed to say. “Run! Run!”

“Leave her be, rank thing,” Ven shouted, swiftly picking up a pebble and hurtling it at the creature.  As it flew in the air, Ven uttered a secret word, causing the stone to expand in size in accordance to his will.  The massive boulder struck the ebon-skin and broke apart with tremendous force, but with no apparent effect.

The quality of air changed in the chamber below the well, becoming thick and fetid, as the black creature extended its thoughts to Ven, taunting his strength, showing Ven how his demise would fuel its power.

Ven fought wildly but found his thoughts turned askance, as the creature commandeered his body.  He began to walk to the creature.

“No!” Tenet shouted.  She triggered the spark of her Craft, igniting the Traitor’s Way with the flame of her anger and fear, and focused on the abomination.

To her dismay, she saw only emptiness: no lines nor patterns presented themselves, no schema nor structure to exploit, no rules nor governances to affect.  She had no power over the creature.

Ven was near enough for the ebon-skin’s twisting serrated tongue to reach.

“Ven!” Tenet turned her Craft to him, seeing the totality of his being, the green lines of his subdued will, the radiant concentric circles of his virility, the intense shades of his spirit – the entire intricate pattern of his being.  She recognized the unmistakable imprint of Alister, deduced the reasons and results of her friend’s assistance, and saw the bold blossoming of deep emotion in Ven’s heart.  Above all that she surmised was the invisible influence of the ebon-skin.

I don’t need to see you

She provoked the lines of Ven’s humanity, stroked the circles of his pride and dignity, realigned the patterns that altered his behavior, pulled taut the strings of his personal identity, and freed him.

In the instant that he was liberated from the control of the foul creature, Ven spoke the most terrible word he knew: it was the word that provoked spring, that banished winter, which made mountains grow and enabled birds to defy the pull of the earth.  It was the word upon which all his druidic magic rested, the essence of transformation, the secret of that all living things knew only when their minds were at rest.  And he spoke it directly to the creature.

From her position on the ground, Tenet, bleeding and bereft of power, could only watch in hope.  Kill it kill it kill it

In the face of such naked expression of truth, the ebon-skin shrieked, portions of its distended face forming virulent pustules that erupted stark yellow and brown fluids, thick and noisome.  From its wide open maw dark-colored ichor spewed forth as the creature regurgitated all the undigested remains in its belly.

It took a step back and fell into the crack in the earth behind it.

Exhausted by his expression of the word, Ven shifted his gaze away from the fissure and began to make his way toward Tenet.

“Thank you,” he whispered as he approached.  “For saving my life – though I was supposed to be the one to save yours.  That- that creature, what was it?”  Ven paused for breath.  “Listen, I have to tell you about Alister-”

“No, no!” Tenet shook her head vehemently, her voice hoarse with fear and memory.  “Don’t turn away!”  It will come back I know I know I know it will

From the dark fissure, the creature’s sinuous tongue lashed out, and, catching hold of Ven’s legs, pulled with all its strength.

Ven fell forward, smashing his face on the ground, violently flailing his arms to gain purchase as the creature dragged him with unnerving speed toward the crack.

Tenet extended her good arm toward Ven, heedless of the pain that beleaguered her.

“Take my hand!”

For the second time that day, their eyes met in clear-cut epiphany.

When Tenet met Ven’s bloodshot eyes she realized that he would not take her hand, would not risk her being dragged away as well.  How just like a man

When Ven met Tenet’s wide eyes he realized a sublime and powerful truth: she would never give up.

“Live, Tenet,” he shouted.  “I choose you to live.”

“I choose life for both of us,” she shouted at him.  Stretching her arm to the limit she grasped his arm.  “I will not leave you!”

Ven smiled through the pain of his struggle and kicked and shook and thrashed about with all his might, with all he could muster.  The ragged edges of the tongue cut wildly at his legs, stripping away skin, but quickly began losing its grip.

“Fight it, Ven,” Tenet screamed.  “Fight it!”

Unable to hold on, the creature suspended in the fissure released its hold, its tongue recoiling back into its maw, and at last plunged into the murky depths that it first came from.

The silence that followed was punctuated only by the tortured breaths and pained gasps of the two figures sprawled and bleeding on the damp ground, their hands clutched together.

Tenet strained her voice and broke the stillness.

“You know, we still have to somehow seal that hole and get out of here.”

#

It was Ven’s idea to bury the village and the well in an avalanche the following morning, after he explained the provenance of the two eerie statues near the center of the cursed place.

Tenet agreed to his suggestion, but only after they both made certain that the mule Alister was fine.  Tenet embraced her loyal companion before she withdrew her influence from the surroundings and ended the rainfall she had called for earlier.

Side by side they stood on a faraway ledge, covered almost head to toe in the healing mud that Ven created hours after they were able to leave the well.

Tenet showed him where the mountain was weakest and that was where Ven caused the mountain to fall.  Neither took pleasure in the devastation.

When the landscape finally settled in its new configuration, after the last stone fell into place, they began to limp in the direction of the setting sun, alternating riding on the sturdy mule Alister, with a warning intended for the neighboring states and kingdoms concerning ebon-skinned threats from the depths of the world.

“Do you think they’ll believe us?” Tenet asked.

“Between you and me, we have the scars to prove our words,” Ven replied with a grimace.

“You know, Ven, you never apologized for attacking me first.”

“You were the one causing the rain to fall.”

“You were the misguided druid who didn’t know enough to discover what was truly the cause.”  Tenet reached from Alister’s back to scratch one of the mule’s big ears.

“I could say the same about you.”

“I’m not a druid.”

“And the world is grateful that you aren’t,” Ven edged ahead, favoring his better leg.

“Ha!” Tenet exclaimed, carefully attempting to dismount. “Feel like a little lightning today?”

Ven looked back at Tenet with a smile as bright as the sunlight and extended his hand to help her.

“Try me.”

Tenet returned his smile, bolts of lightning the furthest thing on her mind.

I believe I will

**The End**

As Queen Liwana stood upon her silver tower, she imagined the night sky as a dark ocean anointed with a multitude of twinkling pearls. Her soul was attuned to the firmament, to its celestial tempo and the passing of seconds and seasons. And yet…even with this awareness, the time of reckoning that she’d dreaded so long had stolen upon her.

She briefly considered playing with the stars, stirring them with a finger, and resettling them as she willed. I could fashion a constellation of myself, she thought. The Old Idiot Woman, it would be called. She laughed, a small cackle that crawled into her throat and died.

In all the Countless Isles, the most powerful spirit-talkers, babaylan healers, and mananambal ritualists had bowed to her. In her lifetime, she had achieved much good for her people: slain the Aswang Giant, tamed the moon-eating Bakunawa, vanquished the Undying Wights upon whose skins were written the names of all the children they had devoured. The list of her accomplishments ran long.

But the power she had attained had not come free. Tomorrow, the eve of the new year, Queen Liwana’s demonic debt collectors would come for her. The gambit she’d played as a young woman would finally come to a close and, likely, her life alongside it.

She wanted to blame her master, though he had passed away ages ago. Nothing risked, nothing reaped, he had drummed into her. True power can only come to one who dares.

And, oh, how she had dared. Her audacity could eclipse the sun.

She walked to the tower’s spiral stairway, began the long descent to her subterranean workchambers. At midnight she would face her past, and not all her warriors or potent magic would save her.

Thankfully, she still had her wits.

#

When the Seven Circles, described in salt, had been writ upon the ground, and the Guarding Glyph blazed upon each of the million, white sampaguita petals that comprised her robe, the only thing left for Queen Liwana to do was wait.

Given the chance, she wondered if she would do it all again. Possibly. Power was a formidable addiction. Regret bled into her thoughts, and dark fear as well.

Compose yourself, woman. The slightest tremble in her hand, the merest tremor in her voice, could unravel the stratagem she’d laid so long ago. If her enemies sensed any weakness, they would exploit it.

The scent of rot invaded the room. It was all the warning she received.
With a sound like skin being ripped, a smoking rift cleaved the air. Hantu Kubor, Lord Demon of the Grave, entered the chamber, his bones grinding and scraping against each other as he walked. A crown of curving horns grew directly out of his bare skull. His wide, shark-toothed grin betrayed his eagerness.

He stopped when he saw the circles of salt. The torches all around the chamber flickered and dimmed. Shadows pooled and darkness thickened.

“Liwana,” called Hantu Kubor, his voice echoing as if speaking through a well. “The time has come to pay for the gifts you’ve been given. Your circles and wards will not hold me back for long.”

She clasped her hands tightly to keep them still. She could hear the naked hunger in his rasping voice. Souls were food to demons, and a soul as great as hers would bestow immense strength to the devourer, even more than what was first invested.

She smiled. “My soul indeed was offered to you this day. But I suspect you cannot take it.”

The Gravelord’s shadow grew. Before he could speak, the torches flared, and a thunderous drone assaulted the air. A new presence pealed into existence, its mosquito-body as large as a water buffalo. Its face was disconcertingly human but for the faceted eyes shining like purple gems.

Liwana kept her voice expressionless. “Greetings, Hantu Dugo, Lord Demon of Blood.”

The Bloodlord looked at the first demon and his lipless mouth twisted in surprise. His wings thrummed, and his voice stabbed Liwana’s ears like an angry swarm. “Our pact must be honored. If you have summoned the Lord Demon of Offal to protect you, then you are a fool.”

The Gravelord snarled. “Summon me? Your ignorance shows! I have returned to collect what is mine…her soul.”

“Then your time is wasted,” the Bloodlord said, “for her soul is already promised.”

“Indeed it is,” whispered a choir of voices. Coldness swept through the chamber, so bone-deep that Liwana had to limn herself in protective fire. Out of the darkness slithered Hantu Ahas, Lord Demon of Elements. His lower half was that of a giant sea viper, green-scaled and swathed with jagged white rings. A dozen, icicle-fanged mouths covered his torso, forked tongues darting through each. Upon his face, where a mouth should have been, there was only smooth flesh.

The chamber shook and from the ground erupted a gigantic durian tree. The foul fragrance invaded the chamber, like a scavenger’s breath, and Liwana covered her mouth as the cloying scent nearly choked her. A bloated, old hag sat within the boughs of the tree. She popped a small durian–spiny husk intact–into her mouth and chewed the fruit whole.

“Time is up, my sweet wildflower,” Lady Batibat, Demoness of Rampant Life called down from her nest. When she saw the others, she leaned forward precariously and squinted at them.

Silence blossomed as the four demons glared at each other, confusion and hatred clear on their faces.

Liwana feigned a yawn. “Alas,” she said. “Old age has withered my memory. Did I truly sell my soul to each of you, to be given up this very day? I apologize, but surely you can work this out amongst yourselves.”

“She came to me first!” the Bloodlord buzzed. The queen knew this to be true, but she heard uncertainty in the Bloodlord’s voice.

“Insect!” the Gravelord said, jabbing the air with a skeletal finger. “She was wise enough to come to the mightiest amongst us, and we all know it is me!”

“Liesss,” hissed Hantu Ahas.

They fell silent when Lady Batibat giggled, a chilling, heartless sound. The demoness smirked at Liwana. “You are clever, little flower. Too clever.”

Hantu Ahas rose upon his coils. “Enough. She is mine, and I shall take her.” The words had barely left his fanged mouths when thorned vines broke through the ground and wrapped around him.

The Bloodlord flew up till he was level with Lady Batibat. “You’ll not snare me with your tendrils, gluttonous witch.” The branches of the durian tree came protectively between them.

Throughout their exchange, Liwana held her breath. If the four worked together, they could shatter through her circles and glyphs, take and divide her soul amongst them. But what her younger self had hoped for was coming to pass: that the demons’ natural greed and animosity would never allow an alliance. Nor would they ever permit another to take what they believed was theirs. It was an equilibrium of demons.

For a while the demons blustered amongst themselves. A few magicks were volleyed–dragonflies of fire, a hail of jagged bone–more warning shots than actual assaults.

The hours dripped by, but Liwana did not let her hopes rise too high. Demons were chaotic, she knew, and chaos suffered from no lack of surprises.

The part of her that was attuned to the heavens told her the day was nearly spent, that the new year was rising. No sooner had the thought come, when her worst fear was realized. From the boughs of Lady Batibat’s tree, three blue doves burst into flight. Each flew to a Lord Demon and cooed a hushed message.

The Bloodlord spat fire scorching his dove to cinders, and Hantu Ahas simply grabbed his dove and shoved it into one of his open mouths.

But, to Liwana’s horror, the Gravelord stood still and listened. His skull turned to where Lady Batibat sat, and he gave the tiniest of nods and glanced to his right.

In an explosion of movement, he and the demoness launched a fierce attack on the Bloodlord. Thorned tendrils lashed out, and arrows of bone whistled through the air. The Bloodlord dodged what he could, spitting fire at the tendrils that came too close.

Fear tightened Liwana’s breath. Even two working together could spell doom for her.

A bone arrow tore through the Bloodlord’s wing and he struggled, futilely, against falling. The instant he struck the ground, thick vines wrapped him in a choking embrace. They tightened, and the Bloodlord screamed. Yellow ichor oozed out between the vines.

Hantu Ahas hissed, charged at the Gravelord, tackling him to the ground. The two demons writhed, the Gravelord struggling savagely against the serpentine coils that constricted around him.

Liwana heard giggling and spun to see Lady Batibat.

“Now, little flower, you shall taste torment.” The demoness hurled a storm of thorns and splinters against Liwana’s defenses. The missiles crashed against the invisible barriers of the Seven Circles, but each blow reverberated painfully through Liwana’s mind. The queen flung gouts of flame at the durian tree, but though the wood smoked, Lady Batibat’s attack did not relent.

One by one, the Seven Circles began to break.

When only one barrier remained, Liwana launched a last desperate wave of fire at her foe. Lady Batibat shrieked out in terrible pain. The tree blazed, an inferno with the demoness caught in its heart. The hail of thorns ceased the same moment Lady Batibat’s shrieks did.

Liwana was down on one knee, though she did not remember falling. Movement, caught at the corner of her eye, made her turn. The Gravelord, his skull cracked and many ribs broken, lifted the lifeless serpentine body of Hantu Ahas. With a loud bellow, the Gravelord hurled his fallen foe at Liwana.

The final Circle shattered.

“My soul is my own!” Liwana shouted. “You shall not have it.”

The Gravelord gnashed his teeth and advanced. His bones grated noisily as he walked, a noise like boulders being crushed.

Liwana threw wind and flame, wood and scalding smoke, but for all the damage she did to the Gravelord, his inexorable march did not slow. “I am coming,” he said. “I am coming for your soul.”

She surrounded him in blinding sunlight, but he rallied the shadows and clad himself in smothering darkness. She bound him in ice, but a nimbus of black fire thawed him free.

And then he was there. His fist struck out, a blow so powerful that all the Guarding Glyphs of Liwana’s robes winked out at once. The demon smiled down to where Liwana lay on the ground. “You are fortunate your magic absorbed my blow, else you would be dead before me.”

“I’m not dead yet,” Liwana cried out.

“Be patient.”

Liwana scrambled back. “Of the myriad powers you granted me, I treasure now my attunement with the heavens.”

“Why?”

“Three,” Liwana responded.

The Gravelord paused, bewildered.

“Two.”

Understanding made the demon flinch.

“One,” said Liwana.

He reached out to gather her soul…but nothing happened.

“The new year has come,” she said. “Our bargain was for you to collect my soul yesterday. Your opportunity has passed, and your claim over me is gone!”

The demon stepped back. “I am immortal. I shall find my revenge another way.”

Queen Liwana rose to her feet. “Perhaps. Until that time, be gone from my sight.”

The air tore open, and the Gravelord stepped through, retreating to his home in the World Beneath. He did not look back.

For a long while Liwana stood there, allowing herself to tremble. Weariness made her limbs heavy, but beneath it was an overwhelming sense of relief. She glanced around, saw the three fallen demons. She assumed they were all dead, but as she came upon where the Bloodlord lay mummified in thorned vines, she heard his buzzing voice.

“Help me,” he whispered. “Free me.”

“I…I should kill you now,” she said.

“No! No! Perhaps we can come to some bargain?”

Queen Liwana did not answer, not right away.

**The End**

You must understand that all of this occurred some thirteen years ago, when I was young still and the Empire had but newly begun its campaign to rid the realm of the Wildness.

We were told—and not without foundation—that the Wild represented a threat to the ongoing unification of the realm, dispersed as they were throughout the lands, yet uncontrolled by any form of sanctioned governing body. Moreover, rumor had persisted over a course of decades that certain of the Great Families had been pursuing some sort of complex schema of interbreeding, intended to result in the birth of a child with unprecedented affinity for all aspects of the Wildness. It was therefore generally agreed that reining in the Wild, particularly among the Families, was not merely a judicious course, but a necessary one in order to ensure the continuance of the Empire. No one strongly objected, as I was far from the only one who had heard some story or knew someone who knew someone who had experienced some calamitous upheaval wrought by an untutored expression of the Wildness.

It is known, of course, that not all of the Wild were eradicated. Some of the affinities were deemed to be of use to the realm and therefore permitted to endure, albeit under the constraints of that wondrous Cantment that regulates every moment of its subject’s life, from breeding to breathing. To this day, maritime commerce and conquest alike are sped onward by the billowing winds summoned by the indentured SkyWild, always with a stalwart adept of Cant at hand to ensure that his charge’s Cantment is loosed only enough for the time and task required. The FlowWild, likewise, are kept in isolated reserve against instances in which rain may be required to alleviate drought; or conversely, when torrential downpours threaten the more flood-prone cities of the realm, such as the densely-packed, haphazardly-grown capital itself.

But now I misremember, for that was the old capital. The new one, it is said, is a triumph of planning and architecture—brilliantly conceived, meticulously executed. I have never been there myself; it is the old capital that I remember, and of which I speak.

#

There is always work for soldiers in an Empire so vast and so ancient that any other name it once had has long since been forgotten; in those days, however, the Wildness campaign kept the garrisons so busy that entire companies of soldiers were constantly in and out of the capital city, conveying intelligence, receiving orders, reporting for direct commendation or censure, and so on. They were celebrated by the general populace as well as generously compensated during that time, more so those that had managed to especially distinguish themselves on campaign. These heroes of the Empire were frequently accorded promotions upon presentation at court, and invariably awarded a significant purse in recognition of their valiant efforts on behalf of the realm. And the contents of very many of these purses inevitably found their way into the coffers of Madame Astranzia’s House of Boundless Bliss.

Then, as now, there was of course a plethora of pleasure houses to be found across the capital, and indeed throughout the realm wherever soldiers were known to be detailed. Many of these boasted courtesans reputed to be every bit as lovely and willing as those at Madame Astranzia’s; and every one of these other establishments was certainly considerably lighter on a man’s (or woman’s) purse. But the House of Bliss was exceptional, and not only because one of its ladies was rumored to be the favorite of the eldest prince of the realm.

From the outside, it appeared to be no more than another luxury establishment amid the prosperous hostelry district in which it was located. It was crafted of costly stone, with tasteful fretwork at the eaves and true glass, not shimmersheen, at each of its sumptuously curtained windows. It had a modest yet lush lawn, well-maintained with a carpet of green grass regardless of the heat or cold at any given time of year, though not a single flower graced the House’s premises on the exterior.

For the flowers were all inside, Madame Astranzia was wont to say—with a lifted eyebrow and complicit smile—and bloomed best out of the heat and light of the noonday sun. Indeed, of the residents of that House, none but the domestic staff and Astranzia herself were ever seen outside its rose-colored walls. But any male in the capital above a certain age could recite, whether from hearsay or experience, the use-names and descriptions of every coveted courtesan behind that discreet façade.

Once inside, it was said, one instantly perceived that the much-observed walls were in fact pared from stone so fine as to allow sufficient illumination from both moon and sun to bathe the interior in a muted roseate glow. This hushed incandescence was augmented as necessary by Cantment-crafted glass globes, which floated obligingly along to follow each courtesan and each guest, if they so desired; and in which floated, as if stirred by some internal current, infinitesimal glowing motes of that precious mineral called lambent, which even the highest Families of nobility possess only in short supply.

In either the muted or immediate glow of these light sources, the reception chamber of the House was revealed to be a most marvelous amalgamation of the most opulent indulgences from all corners of the Empire. Fine wines, cheeses, fruits, and sweetmeats—including, on occasion, such exotic delicacies as pickled slivers of adarna tongue or the cloudy, heady liqueur distilled from the potent tears of lung—were served to guests awaiting their favorite companions, or suffering an agony of indecision over which exquisite beauty to select for the night’s pleasure.

Here, atop an irysk-fur rug mottled a pleasing indigo and cream, was strewn a sultan’s ransom of pillows hand-stitched by the otherwise-violent desert tribeswomen of the distant South; each pillow encrusted with semiprecious gems and thread of silver and gold, yet soft to the touch as the skin of the aptly-named courtesan Velvet, who hailed from that region and reclined upon those very cushions when she was not otherwise occupied entertaining her gentleman visitors. It was said that every available inch of Velvet’s dusky body—saving only the harder tissues of her nails and teeth—was so smooth, so supple, so yielding that even the harshest scars inflicted on a man in battle would melt painlessly away upon contact with her, leaving only skin as unblemished as Velvet’s own, and a spirit similarly healed from the rigors and weariness that all too often shadowed a soldier’s career.

There, in the opposite corner, hung a profusion of rare story-silks created by the spider-people of Eastern Chiensai, who spend half of their lives suspended from ropes in mid-air so that they may use all four of their double-jointed limbs to craft those gossamer-fine, intricate tapestries of weave and wonder. In the House of Bliss, these finished silks were twined about pillars painstakingly carved from whole whalebones, also with scenes from stories of the Oriental demesnes. The courtesan named Lithe was often to be found perched elegantly atop these pillars, or entwined among the sumptuous silks of her homeland. Her porcelain skin and refined features were as delicate as the masterpieces that surrounded her; yet her limbs were every bit as honed as those of the spider-people, and capable of all manner of acrobatic contortion within the more clandestine chambers of the House—including the famed Cerulean Room, where expensively-maintained Cant rendered the earth’s pull so weak as to be negligible, so that guests with a taste for adventure might be freed from the weight of their burdens in an ambiance of literal weightlessness. Lithe’s companionship was often requested in tandem with a reservation for use of the Cerulean Room; and it was said that the experience was itself a tale well worthy of chronicle in any story-silk or scrimshaw.

And of course there were the more commonplace beauties—fair of skin, blond or brown or red of hair—though not a one of them could truly be dismissed as merely commonplace. Golden-tressed Aria, for instance, tended to sing rather than shout her pleasure, in notes of such surpassing sweetness and purity that she was of necessity designated a room all her own, in which the mirror and window glass had been especially prepared so as to withstand the reverberant onslaught of her passions. And the higher and louder the note, it was knowledgably reported, the higher, as it were, a man found himself rising to the occasion.

But the center of the reception chamber was devoted to Sorrow, so named because the depthless solemnity in her eyes belied their appetizing color of burnt sugar, as the charcoal-dark of her hair formed a cloak of nigh-impenetrable mystery over skin of delectable honey, kissed with cream. She alone in that entire room was wholly, perennially naked, for Madame Astranzia claimed that the fountain of perfumed water in which Sorrow basked was necessary to counteract the emanating heat that had been steeped into her very pores by the tropical sun of the island territories from which she hailed. She was accounted by all and sundry to be as dangerous as she was alluring—surpassing even the awe and dread tendered to her crueler colleague, Cicatrix of storm-scoured Odanis—for it was held that any man, having once been consumed in the fires of Sorrow’s fervid embrace, would thereafter yearn and burn for her touch till the end of his days, though he should be detailed to the farthest northern reaches of the Empire, where even the mightiest glaciers would prove incapable of quenching the flame of desire from his scorched and shattered soul.

One such unfortunate was a certain Nicolas, a bladearm of some repute from the 47th detachment of the Western brigades.

“I love you,” Nicolas said to Sorrow, as they lay in the starlit dark of the Ebon Room, the sourceless chirping of crickets becoming audible once more in the aftermath of their first time together. He was fresh from yet another victory at the front then, and nearly swaggering with it before he first caught speechless sight of her in her fountain-pool, glistening-wet and faintly steaming. From that moment, he had felt as though he were the one submerged, drowning in the scent of her, the taste of her skin, the feel of her hair, the burnt-sugar sea of her somber eyes. “Let me take you away from here. We can marry, if you want; or not, if you don’t. I know the quality of your Madame Astranzia—she’s an eye for profit, but she will not bar our way.”

Sorrow answered him as she had responded to countless other declarations of blazing ardor. “You do not love me,” she said; and though he could not clearly make out her face in the evening dark, her voice was not unkind. “You love what you think of me—and for that I thank you, and for the generosity of your spirit. But do not think, please, that lovemaking makes love, for we have known each other, yet we do not know one another. And I am well with that.”

“I love you,” Nicolas said again, greatly daring on their sixth night together, this time upon the sandy shoals beneath gently undulating seaweed and drifting glimmerfin replicas of rare fish in the Aquamarine Room. His need to be with her had led him to greater and greater feats in the fulfillment of his duties, such that he had been promoted so often that he no longer required monetary rewards to afford Madame Astranzia’s costly hospitality. He had also fallen, nearly, into Sorrow’s manner of speaking, so frequently had he recalled and reviewed in his mind their all-too-sporadic shared moments of communion and conversation. “Let me purchase your contract, please, so that you need no longer be required to entertain any guest but myself. If you insist on remaining here, then let it be at your leisure, and our pleasure, yours and mine.”

Sorrow gazed at him as he gazed at her, enthralled anew by the shifting tones of her honey-cream skin in the wavering undersea light. “We dare not love,” she said. “Perhaps you might love me, and perhaps love may turn the world, as it is said—but at the other end of the world we would find the Empire still. And do not think, please, that we can belong to one another when we belong foremost to the realm. That is the way of things, and coin will not change it.”

“I love you,” Nicolas said to her on their seventh night together, their mingled scents wafting away into the fragrance of living pines, grass, and wildflowers in the Viridian room. His zeal for his vocation had diminished significantly since his assignment to a command post overseeing a spice-wealthy archipelagic protectorate. It was the humidity, he often claimed, both out loud and to himself; but by the solitary light of his utterly-unnecessary fireside he could acknowledge that he was troubled by the natives’ vague resemblance to his beloved Sorrow. And even the unending fire of his passion in the heat of that island air could not assuage his growing cold suspicion that he was not, perhaps, the hero his Empire presented him to be. “At least tell me your real name,” he implored.

Sorrow wept, unexpectedly— and beautifully, of course, her tears turning to vapor nearly on the instant that they touched her flawless, glowing cheeks. “I have given up striving not to love you,” she said. “It is futile, as striving to love is also futile, for we are neither of us who we are; nor can we be one when we are each of us less than half who we should be. So do not think, please, that my true name is of moment when my true self is not who I am. Love is for those who live.”

On the ninth night, the soldiers came.

“How long did you think you could conceal her nature beneath a fountain?” the leader asked Madame Astranzia contemptuously, even as he viciously kicked in the door to the Vermilion Room, the lovers’ haven of choice for that evening.

The normally-genteel doyenne bristled with outrage as she replied, “You are mistaken, I assure you; and you will regret this violation of my place of business! Your superior is a frequent guest here—”

As Astranzia thus loudly attempted to stall for time, Nicolas was already in motion, having thrust Sorrow to the far corner of the room and leapt across, still unclothed, to retrieve his previously cast-aside blades. For a moment, when the battle was first joined, it almost seemed that he might win, so experienced a fighter was he… but he was naked, and they were in armor; and he was weak with love and sudden, sick terror while they were strong with conviction and duty; and there simply were too many of them, in the end. It was the fourth or fifth soldier that ran him through, piercing the unprotected flesh of his stomach and spattering the hectic walls of the Vermilion Room with the brighter crimson stain of freshly-spilled blood.

And the courtesan called Sorrow erupted in flame.

It began with her eyes, the eternal solemn darkness of them turning suddenly bright enough to elicit answering sparks from the exposed swords and cuirasses of polished steel massed before the narrow doorway. From there the blaze grew quickly—so quickly!—barely giving her own flowing hair time enough to rise, halo-like, in the air before crisping into soot; turning her skin to burnished bronze and then to purest fire as it devoured her face, arms, torso, feet; making of her a living effigy, at once glorious and terrible and indisputably Wild. And from her body the conflagration spread all but instantaneously—in a moment scarcely more than the moment between heartbeats—outward, ever outward.

The Vermilion Room was engulfed before any save Madame Astranzia could think to turn and flee. Even she was not quick enough to slip out the door—yet the flames did not touch her, nor the grievously-wounded Nicolas, nor any of the courtesans of that incomparable and ill-fated House. But the other soldiers burned, so swiftly and absolutely that they had not time even to utter a cry before they were seared to ash in their armor; and even the extraordinary stone walls, presumably proof against all but the most outward ravages of extreme heat, were lit and consumed as though they were flimsy as mere parchment. And the once-green lawn blackened and charred to powder; and the conflagration grew, and grew, and grew.

“My name is Malaya,” said the woman once known as Sorrow, before she became indistinguishable from the rest of the burning.

#

Velvet healed me, of course, when we found one another outside the House at the smoldering break of day—after which she, Astranzia, and the remaining disheveled courtesans fled to the compass points, to avoid being captured for complicity in the cataclysmic debacle. Even so, the injury and my unblemished record were sufficient to attain the honorable discharge I later sought—or perhaps the bureaucrats were merely all too occupied to intervene over a trifle such as mine, troubled as they were with the complexities of transferring the seat of governance to the new capital at Aylanar.

In recent years, they have been more troubled still; struggling, for one, against the self-proclaimed “true” Emperor, who has mustered an upstart militia of his own in the once-echoing ruins of the cindered old court.

For another, even a retired officer such as myself has managed to catch wind of the inadequately-suppressed rumors—that numerous SkyWild slaves have been escaping from isolated ships at sea, aided by an inexplicable band of renegade Wild who are led, it is recounted, by a bald yet inarguably beautiful woman, with skin of bronzed honey, and eyes marked even in triumph by some fathomless, ineffable grief.

It is further said that she is attended, among others, by a girl-child of twelve or so years, who carries their company aloft upon winds of her own creation; who calms the oceans simply by speaking to the waters in a strange, susurrant tongue; who breaks the crafted chains of Cantment with a gesture once thought dead and gone with the last of the hunted EarthWild. She is believed to be the bald woman’s daughter; for though her hair is long and lustrous—charcoal-dark—her skin is of a similar, if slightly lighter, honeyed hue.

But I like to imagine that she has my eyes: illuminated, yet not consumed, by sorrow.

**The End**

The skies in that small town remain dark from the past wars.

The smoke of gunfire and shattered bones covers the sun like a veil. All that is left for those still living are the tiny shacks of the dead soldiers and the old church, and a night that doesn’t seem to end.

But they have ways of telling the passing of the hours: heartbeats, the cry of the lizards, bloody tallies on pale skin. And in the mornings, without fail, the Wardens gather in the old church, weaving around the now useless pews, to their Leader standing by the altar, holding her weapon in her hands.

They, too, hold their weapons, waiting for the signal. The Wardens’ hands do not shake when they carry the black metal balls, balanced on their palms like an offering to the altar. The balls, fashioned from the cannon balls of their barbaric forefathers, are attached by an intricate chain to their right wrists, entwined around the fingers of their right hands.

And in the mornings, without fail, their Leader stands in front of them and says in a clear voice, “Today, justice shall be served.” The balls are then dropped, but will not be allowed to kiss the ground.

The Wardens have long before destroyed the images of the saints and the gods, and they glance at the empty pedestals each morning as they leave, genuflecting to their triumphs. Only one icon has been replaced.

On the altar, behind the Leader, rises a marble statue of their one and only accepted Superior: the Lady, blindfolded, resplendent in a flowing gown, one arm akimbo and holding a sword, the other raised to the level of her shoulders. Her previous images show her carrying scales, but that is before the certainty of the Wardens, before the need to balance both sides has been rendered obsolete.

Now the statue of the Lady carries a black, metal ball, glistening like an omniscient eye at the end of a chain.

#

Helena was sitting right outside with her sketchbook when her brother invited the lawyer to the living room for a drink.

Helena knew his brother needed the drink more than the lawyer. An hour ago the two men had a talk in his brother’s library, and the lawyer made her brother cry. Helena knew this, because she was standing right outside the door when it happened, trying to make out the words. When her brother started shouting, the words cut clear through the wood.

“So now they want to re-open the case?” her brother said.

Then her brother was crying. Helena opened the door slowly at that point and saw the lawyer standing by a bookshelf. “Stephen, please,” she heard the lawyer say, but he remained standing where he was, not even moving to give her brother a pat on the shoulder.

Stephen was sitting by his study table. He gave a start when he heard the door open, and he turned his face away from her. “Helena,” he said then, wiping his face in a way that he probably thought was inconspicuous. “I thought you were outside.”

There was a silent pause as the lawyer straightened his tie and his brother tried and tried to dry his face.

Helena walked up to him. “What’s wrong now?” she asked him in that numb voice she had carried from the day they moved out of New York, out of that suburb, that house.

Helena would often find herself sitting outside of her brother’s house, staring for hours at the road, her hands on her lap, her hands held open as if offering something. What do I feel? she would ask herself, and she would be so disturbed by the question that she wouldn’t be able move. What do I feel?

Stephen wouldn’t tell her what he and that lawyer were talking about. But she had heard the word, case. She had heard the word, re-open. And again she sat outside, staring, asking: What do I feel? She could feel dread somewhere, and disgust, but it was as if they were outside of her, like scorned friends, and she couldn’t make them come in.

#

The lawyer’s name was Parker. Helena had met him before. Parker was their lawyer’s assistant back in the States, and she could still remember the look on his face when he saw her flinch at the sound of his name, and at the sight of him.

Parker was half-Filipino, she was told, right after Stephen saw the panic in her eyes, and she remembered thinking, What’s the use of having a Filipino mother if your skin is white and your hair is blond and you speak just like him and you sound just like him and your cheek is clear enough to contain a scar and there are spaces between your fingers big enough for a trigger—

The words were on the verge of being spoken. It was the look on Parker’s face that stopped them, froze them before Helena could even open her mouth.

Helena could still remember that look because she saw it again just last week, this time on the face of one of Stephen’s students. Stephen was rattled that day, Helena could tell, because he kept rearranging the objects on his desk, putting his pen here, a folder on one corner, transporting a short stack of books from one side of the tabletop to another so carefully as though the mere act could change his life, and for some reason still couldn’t find the examination papers that the student had come to get in his office that morning. The student was tall and thin, freckled, blond. An American.

“Syriana,” the student suddenly said, appraising the movie poster tacked on the office wall behind Helena, who was sitting on a wooden bench perpendicular to Stephen’s desk. Stephen stopped moving at the sound of her voice. The student looked at him, at Helena, then smiled sheepishly at the suspension she had caused, perhaps thinking she had just committed a serious Filipino faux pas.

“Yes,” Stephen said after several beats, fingers moving again, hauling objects. “You’ve seen it?”

“Yes,” said the student, smiling openly now, proud of herself. “I remember this scene? Matt Damon and his wife by this fountain in Switzerland? My mind has been, like, floating, and I thought they were still in the United States, until Matt Damon or the wife said something like, When are you gonna fly to the United States. And I was like, Where are they anyway?”

The student chuckled. “I mean, they’re in Geneva, but the place looked like Central Park.”

“One day everywhere will look like Central Park,” Stephen said. “Try cruising through Manila. Turn off the lights to hide the black hair and the brown skin and you’ll see McDonald’s and 7-Eleven’s and Wendy’s in every corner. One day everywhere will look like where you came from. Just shoot the brown people dead, and you’re home. Home means only white people in sight, isn’t that right? Isn’t that what you guys want, to see home everywhere?”

Stephen’s voice was rising, and as he spoke the student looked at him with her mouth slightly parted. Halfway through his tirade, her face collapsed, finally understanding what the outburst was all about.

“I don’t know, sir,” the student said, because Stephen appeared to be waiting for an answer. “I’m just one person.”

Stephen was not able to find her papers, and because she had left the room too quickly, he was also not able to apologize.

“You shouldn’t have said that to her,” Helena whispered, because she saw Parker’s face in that student’s face, which could even be Stephen’s face, up on that stand five years ago: hurt and wounded, already judged but still pleading to be understood.

#

The Wardens are everywhere.

With their dark hair and dark clothing, they blend perfectly into the town’s crevices. Like a black teardrop falling into a black ocean, they step into corners, into unlit alleys, into homes, on rooftops, on the belfry of the old church, silent, and immobile. The people of the town can pretend they are not there. In their homes, women can make love to their men. In narrow streets, lovers and friends can sit together and exchange secrets. On the vast grounds of the church, on the cold rooftops, children can hoot and feed the birds or play. They can do all this, but they know their freedom is not absolute. They know the Wardens, though seemingly lifeless, are watching them. From the corners, from the windows above, from the darkness, they know the Wardens can see their every move.

The Wardens do not speak, do not blink, do not leave a post empty. The Wardens do not miss anything.

Once a woman strangles her man on her bed, once a lover or a friend takes a knife and stabs another in that dark, dark street, once a child pushes a playmate over the edge of a roof, the Wardens will flex the fingers of their right hand and immediately liberate their weapons.

It has been said that wars have brought sounds with them, many sounds—screams, moans, gunfire, blasts and explosions—but after the wars, after the Wardenry was set into place, the people need only be wary of two sounds: the sound of a Warden’s cannon ball kissing the ground, and the sound of the chain whistling through the air as the ball is lifted and thrown into the skull of the Trespasser.

#

“Helena’s so big now,” Parker was saying.

The sliding glass door was slightly open, something Stephen probably failed to notice due to the curtains, and so Helena could hear them: their footsteps, the soft pop of a bottle being opened, the rustle of pants, clink of ice. “How old is she now?” A pause. Helena pictured Parker taking a sip from his drink. “Fifteen?”

“Yes.” There was a gentle swoosh—her brother sinking into the sofa.

“School?”

“Online classes, tutors. She tried the regular classes, but—“

“I’m so sorry.”

During those early therapy sessions, she was given a sketchbook not unlike the one she now had, and a box of crayons. They used to give her dolls, but she wouldn’t touch them, and so they gave up on that, turned to the possibilities in her artwork.

She drew only one image, over and over: two circles, one inside the other, the outer circle red, the inner one black. After coloring her drawing, only the black circle would remain looking like a circle. The red one always ended up looking more like a splash.

What does this mean, sweetheart? they would ask her, but Helena wouldn’t answer. Wasn’t it obvious what that red splotch was, what that black ball was? She would just continue to color, using up the black and red crayons, smudging her fingers, filling her nails with the smell of wax.

She knew they’d shown Stephen the drawings. She couldn’t understand why they scared them so much, why it didn’t worry them that it was a place they couldn’t even visit, and couldn’t visit them. There were many worlds, and she fell into that world only once, into the body of a girl who was her and wasn’t her.

She remembered standing in a pool of blood, embracing an older girl in gratitude. Everything was dark, in that world, but her family was alive. She remembered wanting to stay there forever.

When she got back (Catatonia, they say. Recovery. Waking up.) she made the mistake of mentioning this to the counselors, who smiled sadly and took notes.

#

During the early days of the Wardenry, an old man enters the church with a young woman and asks for an audience with the Wardens.

“Halt, old man,” says the first Warden Leader, sitting at the feet of the Lady, surrounded by the Wardens waiting for their turn to guard the town. When the old man takes another step, they all stand at attention, save for the Leader who lets a smile creep across her lips.

She knows what the old man wants. Both he and the young woman are wearing the red robes of the dissidents, making them stand out garishly against the drabness of the roads, the blackness of the old church’s occupants.

“You are very young,” says the old man, in a tone both fascinated and appalled. The young woman stands behind him, glaring at the Wardens, wrapping her red robe closer around her body.

The Leader slides to her feet, walks toward him.

“And yet you were able to kill my wife and her friends.”

The Leader smiles once again, sadly this time. The old man is talking about the Mass Punishment on the church patio, four women and three men, struck to the head at the count of three.

“We did it at night, while the town slept,” says the Leader, the smile gone now. “You were not supposed to see that, old man. There is no need to turn a punishment into a spectacle.”

“One can hear your weapons swinging for miles and miles,” the old man says.

“Your wife,” says the Leader, “and her friends almost killed three men, old man. The men’s families heard the swinging weapons as well. But not our weapons.”

“My wife is avenging her family,” says the old man. “Those three men are former landowners. They made a lot of people miserable. They made my wife’s father suffer.”

“Where were you during the Citizens’ Gathering, old man?” the Leader says, arms crossed, the black ball oscillating ominously at the end of the chain. “We’ve agreed to begin a new age, to start over. We’ve agreed to put all past crimes behind us.”

“We have murderers in our midst, rapists, criminals, all roaming around free in this new age of yours,” the old man says, shaking. “We have victims. If you do not want the people to serve justice themselves, you have the responsibility to—“

“Do it for them, yes?” the Leader says. “And how far back will we go, old man? You are suggesting we visit every single house and get a list of the people the citizens want punished. And how about those who will be punished? I’m certain they would have their own list as well. And the people in those lists will have a list as well. In the end we Wardens will carry out not a Mass Punishment but a complete wipeout. The list will cull past angers, past relationships, past sins and sinners, and obliterate every single person living in this town today. You think you are clean, old man? You think you have lived a straight and decent life? Then wait for the lists, and I wager you’ll see your name at least five times, in the lists of five people who for the longest time you’ve considered your closest friends, who, until now, have made up their minds to simply forgive you. But no, you are respectable and law-abiding, and so now they are forced to recall the Trespasses you’ve done them, and we have to punish you five times over.

“Revenge is a loop, old man. We have agreed to erase all misdeeds that have occurred before the Gathering in order to end this loop—“

“And start another one?” the old man says.

The Leader laughs. “Justice is not a loop, old man. Justice is the point at the end of a straight line. Justice is the end, the conclusion, the aim.”

The old man stares at her, then begins to sob.

“And would you rather we all kill each other?” the Leader says. “Just a day—one day—after the Gathering and the setting of the New Laws, a massacre almost occurred in the south part of town. We were able to prevent it. We were able to save the life of an entire family. Now you, old man, may consider that obstruction inauthentic, mechanical, but we don’t care. You may look at us with pity in your eyes, we who follow erroneous edicts, we who naively see the glorious pursuit for freedom as Trespasses, we who perceive what you would consider a truly free individual as a criminal, but we don’t care. The youngest in that family is an eight-year-old child.”

The Leader can hear the young woman weeping, can see her struggling with an object hidden within the folds of her red robes.

The old man is not able to speak for a long time. Then: “My youngest son is among you.” He walks about, searching their faces, prompting the Wardens closest to him to release their weapons. The unanimous clang does not upset him, or stop him. “Where are you, son? Where were you while your mother is being murdered?”

“How dare you let our mother die!” the young woman shouts, whipping out a gun from inside her robes and pointing it at a Warden standing three rows behind. But the Wardens are quick; she is dead before she can even find the trigger.

The wet sound forces the old man to turn around. He stares at his daughter. “No,” he said. He does not move. He does not fall to his knees.

“I advise you to leave immediately, old man,” says the Leader. She gestures with her head, and two Wardens quickly step up to him and lead him out of the church.

When the old man is gone, the first Warden Leader calls a Warden by name.

“Were you among those who carried out the Mass Punishment?” the Leader asks.

“No, Leader,” replies the Warden.

Pause. “Would you like to bury your sister?”

“I’d be honored,” replies the Warden. “But she is not my sister. I don’t have a sister. I don’t have a family.”

The Leader turns to him and smiles. Her Wardens are trained well. The system will last. They will continue on for years and years. “Today,” she whispers, “justice has been served.”

#

The two of them weren’t the only members of the family who survived the massacre.

But Helena refused to think of what happened to Selena as “surviving”. The man with the scar struck her head against the wall, and the blow caused such damage that all Selena could do on her own in her final days was cry and convulse.

When they arrived in the Philippines, Stephen opted to take Selena home with them instead of putting her in a hospital. He placed her in a room on the second floor. The room contained all the right equipment, but the wrong nurse.

The nurse Stephen managed to hire was hotheaded, easily annoyed. Sometimes she’d neglect Selena and let her shit or piss on her seat. Selena was often on her wheelchair in front of the television, and one day they found her crying haplessly at an episode of Eat! Bulaga while her feces trickled down from the hem of her nightgown.

The sound of them barging through the door startled the nurse, who had been flipping through a magazine. Stephen gripped the nurse’s neck and banged her against the wall. “You bitch!” Helena heard him shout. The nurse whimpered, and Stephen cursed again, this time using the Filipino word that Helena had yet to learn.

Parker flew frequently to the Philippines to see his mother, and sometimes he would visit them. During one of those visits, two months after Selena’s funeral, Helena passed out.

She was standing in her bedroom, listening to the strained, aimless chatter of the two men downstairs as they fixed dinner, when she suddenly felt a piercing pain in her temple and fainted. She woke up to the sound of his brother’s voice.

“I feel sick,” Helena told him, and stood up from his lap and ran to the bathroom. She heaved air. Then the pain came again, and Stephen and Parker saw her crying on the bathroom floor, clutching her head.

“Sweetheart?” Parker said, kneeling beside her. Helena put her arms around his waist, digging her head into his chest. “My head,” Helena said, over and over.

“Here’s your brother,” Parker said, signaling to Stephen, who was already jabbing at the phone’s keypad. “I’m going to call an ambulance.”

Migraine was the diagnosis, and Helena was stumped by the simplicity of it. She had assumed it was something more deadly: a brain tumor, a creeping aneurysm. All throughout the gurney ride and the hospital tests, the part of her brain that the pain permitted to think thought it would be something that would leave her weeping at noontime comedy, staining her seat and her dress and her skin with the color of her excrement.

She imagined herself convulsing in her sleep. She imagined herself wishing so much to die but being unable to say it, her tongue dry and useless, stuck perpetually to the roof of her mouth.

And then it hit her. That’s what Selena was crying about. She wanted to die, but couldn’t convey the message.

Helena thought it would be disastrous if she waited too long before telling her brother. “Kuya,” she whispered to the back of his head as Parker drove them back home. She was stretched on the back seat. Both men thought she was sleeping and gave a start when she spoke.

“Does your head still hurt?” Stephen asked.

Helena’s head was still fogged up due to the medicine injected into her, but she knew she was thinking clearly. “Are they sure it’s just migraine?”

“Don’t say ‘just’, sweetheart,” said Parker. “My Mom has it, and it can really hurt.”

“Papa had it,” Stephen said. “Do you remember?”

“But are they sure?” Helena said.

“That’s what the doctor said.”

“Maybe he missed something,” Helena said. “Maybe I have cancer.”

“No, you don’t,” said Stephen. “They checked for that, too.”

“But I can have it,” Helena said, and Stephen replied with a sigh. “Maybe not now, but in the future. It’s possible, right? Or I can hit my head pretty bad. Be in an accident.”

“What are you talking about, Helena?”

“I want you to promise me something,” Helena said. “If whatever happened to Ate ever happened to me, promise me that you won’t let me live.”

“What—“

“I don’t want to be like that. And I don’t think Ate did, too.”

“Helena,” Parker said.

But it was dark. She couldn’t see Stephen’s face. “I need him to promise me now,” she told Parker. “If I don’t hear his answer now, it might be too late and I won’t be able to talk and he’ll do what he wants. So I need him to promise me now.”

“Helena,” Stephen said, “stop it.”

“But when will I speak like this, then?” she asked. “When I’m already pissing on my wheelchair? Parker can write something up. Right, Parker? Something for my brother to sign?”

Parker didn’t move a muscle.

“Helena, please,” Stephen said.

“You need to promise me,” Helena said. “Kuya, if that happens to me and you still insisted to keep me in a room, I’ll—“ She groped for a word. “I’ll hate you. Okay? I’ll hate you.”

“I can’t—“ Stephen said, but stopped.

Promise? Listen? Think? What? “Promise me,” Helena said. “Kuya? Promise me.”

“Helena,” Parker said gently. “Come on.”

Helena ignored him. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Helena told her brother.

Stephen’s shoulders were as still as a wall. “All right, Kuya? I’ll take that as a yes.”

#

“Justice and the Law,” the first Warden Leader says, “need not be oppressive. Before the Wardenry was officially formed, we members have studied the follies of past totalitarian regimes. These regimes created New Laws without telling their people, and made their people ignorant of the Law, made them live in fear. They created Laws without logic, and without heart, and made their people hate the Law, made their people rebellious. They created Laws that do not apply to every single citizen, and made their people doubt the Law, made them scornful of the Law’s Enforcers. Why should the people live their lives in terror and uncertainty, not knowing if their next move will bring a bullet through their head? Why should the people be denied Justice?

“In this new age,” says the first Warden Leader, “you, Citizens, will know the Law, and any changes that will be made to it, so you will no longer fear it. You, Citizens, will be given a Law with mind and heart, so you will no longer feel the need to rebel against it. You, Citizens, in the eyes of the Law, will be treated equally, so you will no longer doubt it.

“And we, your Wardens, will not love you. But we will not hate you, either. We will not make ties. We will not make friends. We will be taken from our families, and will not create families, so we can answer to no one but the Law. We will watch you and listen to you, so we can catch the Trespass as it happens, obliterating the need for trial, for evidence, for witnesses, for testimonies, for pleas. We will be everywhere. We will not make mistakes.

“Together, we will create a Law that we will understand and know by heart, a Law that we will love and embrace, a Law that will be applicable to every single one of us. With those conditions set, there will no need to balance the scales, or to listen to a Trespasser’s motives or reasons. It will be clear that whosoever breaks the Law in this new age truly knows and understands his or her deed, truly knows and understands the punishment for that deed.

“It will be clear that whosoever breaks the law truly deserves to hear the song of our chains.”

#

“So what pushed them to re-open the case?” Helena heard her brother say behind the sliding glass doors, probably already finished with his first drink, probably already tired with the small talk.

The tiny crack between the door and the wall was still undetected, and Helena moved closer to it.

Parker sighed. “New witness?” Stephen said irritably. “New evidence? Or is the mayor just planning to pursue a second term?”

Again, a sigh from Parker. Helena heard him grunt, heard the lock of his briefcase clicking and snapping. “He,” Parker began. “There was.”

“What?”

“He struck again, Stephen,” Parker said. A swoosh, papers riffling like continuous gunshots.

There was a pause. Helena gripped her sketchbook and drew random lines and squiggles on a sheet.

“When?” Stephen said.

“Two days ago. It’s all over the news over there. I was wondering if it’s already reached—“

“I don’t pay attention to the news anymore.”

Parker didn’t comment.

“Filipinos?” Stephen asked.

“Are you sure you want to read the police report, Stephen?” Parker asked.

A long pause, in which Helena felt heavier and heavier, as though she were about to hit the ground.

“Midnight,” said Parker. “A guy, and his twelve-year-old girl. He’s a young father, a consultant, did pretty well. He had the girl at age eighteen, so that makes him just thirty. The two men came in—“

“Two,” Stephen said.

“Yes.”

“So there were two.”

Pause.

“Did they—“ Fingers riffling through pages. “The father’s alive,” said Stephen.

“Yes,” said Parker. “And here’s why we want to re-open your case. While the two men were roughing him up, they blabbed to him. They spoke about your family. They gave details that the police never released to anyone.”

Stephen remained silent.

“The father’s already agreed to serve as witness,” said Parker, like a salesman dangling a new toy.

“If the jury believed us the first time, that girl would still be alive,” Stephen said, to which Parker didn’t have an answer.

#

They knew that what finally killed the case was the mistake they made in the line-up.

The defense latched onto it, more viciously and more hungrily than on the other inconsistencies that had confused the jury and eventually invalidated the two of them in their eyes.

But in their minds, there were no inconsistencies. It was midnight when the two men came and stood on their front porch, the man with the scar even ringing the doorbell like a friend.

The Jimenezes had been flying to and from that house in the past two years, and they’d never heard anything about any racist killing sprees within that neighborhood. They’d never received any strange phone calls, any slurs. And so when their father opened the door for the two men, he did so with a smile on his face.

It was their first week as immigrants. They’d fixed all the papers, they were going to live in that suburb for the rest of their lives. That night all six of them—- Stephen, Selena, Nick, Regina, Adam, and Helena—- were allowed to stay up late.

After dinner, Regina, Nick and Adam sat down with their parents in the living room to watch a movie while Selena locked herself up in her bedroom to read a book. Stephen and Helena were in Selena’s bathroom, Stephen finally deciding to spend the night with the baby of the family by messing up her face with Selena’s cosmetic collection.

“If I see one tube,” Selena shouted at them that night from her bed, “just one tube misplaced on my sink tomorrow, I’m gonna come into your rooms and strangle the both of you.” And with that she turned off her bedside lamp, put on her headphones, and fell asleep to the sounds of a jazz album.

What did their father see when he looked through the peephole? The man with the scar was tall and pale, thirtyish, clean-shaven. That night he was wearing a jacket, jeans. With his gloved hands and his gun with the silencer in his pocket he must have looked normal enough. A yuppie, a father of one.

Their father must have mistaken him for a neighbor with a plumbing problem, out to ask for a small favor. Do you have a wrench? What did that man say that made their father trust him so quickly, made him open the door without fear?

It was midnight when their father opened the door and received a bullet to the head, midnight when Stephen stopped wiping Helena’s face dry, both of them frozen by the otherworldly sound of their mother screaming.

Stephen wanted to go out, wanted to yank the headphones off Selena’s ears and wake her. But seconds before he could actually sort through his thoughts he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. He locked the bathroom door, placed the chair Helena had been standing on under the knob. Turned off the light.

Helena began to cry. He pressed her face into his side to muffle the sound she was making, and just stood there.

The bedroom door was kicked open. Selena must have heard that through the fog of piano and saxophones. “What,” they heard her say. She must be sitting up now, wrapping the headphones’ cords around her shoulder, squinting at the form by the door.

The man threw her facedown on the floor, near the bathroom door. Stephen and Helena felt her land, and felt the man land on top of her. They fell to their stomachs—-first Stephen, then Helena, mimicking him—-trying their best to see through the plastic slats at the bottom of the door. They saw Selena, eyes glassy as the man touched her. They saw the man. They saw his scar.

“Clearly?” asked the defense. The image was clear that night. At the line-up they could only see their sister’s face.

Stephen picked Helena up and ran to the bathtub. “Why don’t you take your clothes off for me, darling?” said the man with the scar. Selena screamed.

“Shut up,” the man said. Selena wouldn’t. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

There was only the sound, but they knew what he did, and after that impact Selena fell silent. The man with the scar left the room. They couldn’t hear anything at all from downstairs. At one point they heard their mother scream, You animals, you animals. Then nothing.

“Where’s your brother?” they heard the man growl. In court, the defense asked: “Which man?” They didn’t know, they were not sure. “But there were two men.”

Yes, there were two men, said Stephen, on the stand, but later on: I don’t know.

“Where’s your brother?” the man asked. Stephen thought the men saw their family photos, or else just knew how many people there really were in the house.

Stephen stood up at this point, carrying Helena. He removed the chair from the bathroom door, opened the door, started to slip on Selena’s blood, caught himself. Don’t look, he told Helena, transporting her to his back, and opened the window.

They crawled out of Selena’s bedroom window, climbed down the ladder leaning against the roof, and ran, Stephen sweeping Helena into his arms in one swift motion, not slowing down. He felt something hot whisper against his left cheek, saw it hit the wall of the house he’s approaching.

“What the—“ A man standing on the porch, stunned at the sight of them, at the source of the gunshot. “Hey!”

On the stand, the man said he heard the man with the gun say, Shit, and saw him walk back into the house and walk back out, “really quick”, and dive into a pickup truck parked out front. It was dark, he couldn’t remember if there were two men or only one. He couldn’t remember the color of the vehicle. He was too flustered to note the plate number.

Hours later, the police found their parents, Regina, Adam, and Nick in the living room, all dead, and Selena, barely breathing on her bedroom floor upstairs. There was blood everywhere, and the sickening pig-smell filled the street even days after that night.

There was nothing stolen, nothing missing. No hair, no semen, no fingerprints. The investigators took note of the positions of the bodies and dutifully took pictures.

Both Stephen and Helena were “positive” about the man, and the scar on his face, on his right cheek near his chin. The police whipped through the case files and found three ex-cons who had the same profile—white, male, 5’10’’, with identical scars on one identical location on their faces, all with rap sheets a mile long, covering the ground from assault to murder, all with previous and current connections to the KKK or some similar organization.

Separately Stephen and Helena were made to view a line-up. The sight of so many men with scars rattled them to their bones, but both Stephen and Helena pointed at the same man. Next, shouted the investigator, and here they faltered—-at the second line-up they pointed at two different men, Helena pointing at a different ex-con, Stephen pointing at a lieutenant wearing a prosthesis.

But they pointed at the same man again on the third try, converging, absolving themselves. Or so they thought. The man they chose from the line-ups was arrested only because he didn’t have an alibi for that night, and because he drove a pickup truck.

But during the trial the defense was able to cook up something, and the man with the scar cried during cross-examination, touching the jury’s hearts, their white, white hearts, Stephen would say, and the man with the scar said that he was with the Klan before, but not anymore, that he’s trying to change, that he’s active in church, Parker’s research and the prosecution’s mind tricks doing nothing to break him.

The State couldn’t indict a second man, because Stephen and Helena couldn’t make up their minds if there was a second man. The verdict was not guilty, and they flew back to the Philippines to bury their dead.

#

It is considered the first Trespass after the Gathering. It occurred at the edge of the town, in a solitary shack perpetually smashed by the wind.

The old people can still remember the patches where the grass and the flowers used to grow in that abandoned field, but now there is nothing but sand, everything buried in sand, the wind blowing into and around the poor house creating whorls into the silt.

The Warden Leader is on watch that day, wrapped in black cloth in order to thwart the grit threatening to enter her eyes. When she sees the man with the scar and his accomplice forcing themselves through the door, she screams, Halt, but the wind carries her voice away along with the sand. Halt, she screams again, and releases her weapon, which sinks several inches into the ground.

The Leader and the Wardens move as quickly as they can, their feet sinking every now and again, their eyes smarting, and converge at the house, surrounding the two men.

The Warden positioned inside the house has the family backed up into a corner, shielded by his body and his arms.

Warden, says the Leader. And the Warden Leader swings her weapon over her head and strikes the two men with one graceful blow.

Thank you, says the littlest of the family members, a little girl, who breaks away from the group and presses her face into the Warden Leader’s stomach after the bodies fall. Her feet are soaked completely in the Trespassers’ spilt blood, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

Thank you, she says, hugging the Leader as well as she can with her tiny, tiny hands. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.

#

Dusk was falling when Parker pushed the glass door aside and stepped out. He was shocked to see Helena sitting there, but tried to cover it with a smile. If he noticed the slight gap between the door and the wall before he got out, he didn’t show it.

“Oh, hi, sweetie,” he said, touching the top of her head with his fingertips. “I have to go now.”

“Where are you staying?” Helena asked.

“Oh,” he said, slapping his briefcase gently against his leg, ruminating, “Some hotel. I don’t know if I can pass by my Mom’s. I have so much work to do.”

Helena nodded. “Maybe we’d see each other again.”

Parker gazed at her quietly for a long, long while. “Maybe.” He turned to the living room. “Stephen.”

“Take care,” Stephen said, stepping out, and sat down beside Helena. The two of them watched Parker leave.

Helena sat still beside her brother. What do we do now? she wanted to ask him.

“Helena,” Stephen said, after a silence. “We have something very important to talk about.”

Every night, together, they would check the locks on all the doors over and over, they would peek into each other’s bedrooms at random hours. Be careful, they would say to each other whenever they parted ways, even if it was just to take out the garbage, or to fetch something forgotten upstairs, something left behind.

“All right,” Helena said, but that night Stephen didn’t get around to telling her what she already knew. Before dinner the phone rang, and Stephen answered it, and his reply led to another phone call, Stephen calling people up and being called, tying himself up in several conversations.

Helena went up to her room with her sketchbook, recalling the feel of the wood of the witness stand, cool like her father’s old narra bench (her father used to brag that he got it from his own father, but her mother laughed this claim off, saying they actually bought it from an antique store in Ilocos), but not as gentle, or gracious.

Outside Helena, it was night, and inside of her she felt the dark descend. “Oh,” she said, pleased. She found herself sitting at the dinner table, her mother handing out the plates, his father busy cutting up the meat. Stephen, Selena, Nick, Regina, and Adam. She looked at their faces and smiled.

“What’s with you?” Selena said, and pinched her cheek. In one corner of the room stood a Warden, his clothes ink-black, his weapon in plain sight. Helena looked at him and smiled at him too. She was safe now, she thought, receiving the plate being handed to her. She was home.

**The End**

]]> http://farthestshore.kom.ph/2009/09/the-just-world-evictori/feed/ 1 http://farthestshore.kom.ph/2009/09/wildwater-cko/ http://farthestshore.kom.ph/2009/09/wildwater-cko/#comments Thu, 10 Sep 2009 03:00:33 +0000 banzaicat http://farthestshore.kom.ph/?p=58 By Crystal Koo

My name is Huuri Imh. The ladies and gentlemen of the Court may have previously noted the gills around my neck, as I am of pure Sjenese descent from the country of Kuz.

Sjene is a poor, conservative fishing village at the northeastern tip of Kuz. Many patrims live in the flatlands and find their survival in the sea, sending boats of their catch three times a week to the markets in the Kuz mainland in the far south. But my patrim lived on the hills of Yamera, where the orinu breed in the wildwaters. The people of Yamera dove into the wildwaters and caught the orinu for their hides. The orinu have been in Sjene before any of our race; it was the bodies of these reptiles that carved out the three hundred underground channels of the Sjene wildwater complex, the source of our wells. A diver who can wrestle with the orinu and stab its heart without losing his or her life is held in high regard.

Few patrims live in Yamera and there are no schools in Sjene. Itinerant scholars from the mainland used to come to Sjene to watch the orinu and the divers, and in return they taught the children how to read and write in Kuzan. Then the scholars stopped coming some years before I was born. The last scholar to come, I was told, had put forth the opinion that we should find means of livelihood other than the orinu trade because of the dangers it posed on anyone who handled the reptiles.

In my younger years, the children of Yamera learned the orinu trade from the members of our patrim who brought the orinu home to slit its belly and remove the skin from the carcass. The cured hide was sent to the tanning houses in the mainland, while the liver, which produces its own deadly toxin, was carved away and the flesh cleaned of any trace of the poison before being sold in the mainland as meat. Steam was carefully passed through the liver, turning the toxin into a harmless gas, before the liver was thrown into the wastes piled in front of every hut.

I call the patrims plying the orinu trade “they,” though I come from one of them. The people of Sjene, especially of Yamera, are stubborn in their traditions. They are barnacled to their old ways and trust only in the catching of sea life, refusing to farm them because they find it unnatural. The people of Yamera do not have the luxury nor the minds to find other means of livelihood; my father, my mother, and my elder brother faced the orinu everyday. But I was set aside because my father had greater hopes for me. He wanted to me to leave Sjene, to leave Kuz, and to eventually find myself surrounded by the wealth of Otuja. Although everyone in Sjene knew that the only way to out of the island was an education, only my father dared to want it for his son.

My patrim worked their lives for me; my elder brother Yeherou’s generous spirit prevented him from becoming jealous. I watched with other children how our elders scraped the flesh off from the inner side of the skin of the orinu with their hands, soaked the skin in brine, and let it hang in thick smoke. But when the elders called the children to try skinning, my father took me into the house and gave me old books left behind by the wandering scholars of his childhood. He vowed that I would never have to touch wildwater nor blood.

Contrary to what others may think is the rationale behind my present situation, I was never ill-treated by my peers for not knowing how to use my gills. I was never ridiculed during my adolescence for my incapability to wrestle even with a young orinu. The adults naturally disapproved of my upbringing, but what they might have said to their children seemed to have been countered by the children’s own quiet acceptance of me, which I suspect came from the elders’ own talk of the scholars. While the villagers condemned the liberalities that the scholars had brought, there was still a tone of reverence that was always preserved for the mainland.

It is difficult to say what I myself thought of the arrangement at that time. I did not crave matches with the orinu. Without this desire, I could not have compared with a life I had never lived. Years passed and I became a young man with unused gills. One day my father gave me every coin he had kept aside for me, as well as the name of a tanner at the docks in the Kuz mainland who received imports from Sjene everyday. I can easily bring to recollection the boat ride I had with the Sjene fisherfolk on their way to the mainland, a journey that took a day over rough sea. I had been deathly afraid of drowning.

Ladies and gentlemen of the Court, I write this confession to you in fluent, standard Otujan. When I arrived at the Kuz docks eleven years ago, I could only speak the Sjene dialect and broken Kuzan. I found the tanner, and out of the greatness of his heart, he pointed out to me a small academy and a cheap inn. I was accepted into the academy because of its interest in my gills. The irony, ladies and gentlemen of the Court! For what other good could come out of Sjene? When the other students wanted to see me breathe underwater, I sank my head into the lake and held my breath. I didn’t dare open my gills; I was afraid that I would be overwhelmed by the flow of water through passages never used and that the shock might kill me. Sjenese lungs made me able to hold breath for more than ten minutes, and for them this was already proof of breathing. I studied linguistics in the academy and made Otujan my primary language. I worked as an errand-boy at the docks at night and chance made it that I never had to descend underwater.

When I finished my schooling, it was my gills again that brought me here to Otuja to study law in the scholarium. The scholarium wanted me to compete in the annual water-sport festival of Otuja under its banner. When I tore open the letter in my apartment in Kuz, I thought of how other Sjenese would have wanted such an opportunity and would have deserved it! I broke into laughter that was not far from crying. But who was to say that any other Sjenese who had not sacrificed his gills and whose patrim had not sacrificed themselves could have come this far? A week later, I boarded my first ship to the nation of Otuja.

By night I taught myself how to swim and by day I attended the scholarium’s swimming matches. I never used my gills; doing otherwise would have been death for me. Ten minutes under water was more than enough in Otuja and I wiggled my gills for their satisfaction. I studied with all my might and became a Master. When I left the scholarium, I had my gills stitched closed. I found work in a guild and met a pleasant Otujan girl. I told her I was from the Kuz mainland and that the scars around my neck came from a childhood accident; she asked no more questions and married me. By civil law, I was made a citizen of Otuja, the final reward for my patrim’s labor.

So should it come as a surprise that I would want to return to Sjene for a visit? Is it not right that I would return to my home as the first Sjenese scholar? I left for Kuz and found a small boat to Sjene. When the villagers saw what I had done to my gills, they shrieked and wailed, tearing off my clothes. I escaped to the hills of Yamera. Those I had once looked upon as elders flung clods at me. My peers, with families of their own, herded their children away from my sight.

The people were hollow-cheeked and their faces gray. I learned from those kind enough to whisper to me that the orinu trade had been outlawed in Kuz in fear of its toxins and that the skins and the meat of the reptile had been banned from all marketplaces. The Yamera patrims had been moving to the flatlands to become fisherfolk but now there were disputes over ancestral territories at the beaches. My patrim had refused to move down. My mother had died a year ago; my father had not been far behind and had passed away two days before my return.

Ladies and gentlemen of the Court! How shall I describe my brother Yeherou when I found him? How shall I put misery into words for those who are born too fortunate to understand? Yeherou had tended my parents and cradled them till their last breaths. My brother was a sturdy man with strong wrists. In secret he dove into the wildwaters and killed orinu to sell their skin and meat to pirates. Yeherou had performed the Orinu Dance after our mother’s death.

Why do I insist on writing the Sjenese patrim instead of the Otujan family? Because there is no word in Otujan that can convey the depth of patrim, its connotation of sacrifice until death. The Orinu Dance is a ritual performed by the son of a deceased parent, in which he wrestles with an orinu underwater and kills it with only his bare hands. The presentation of the dead orinu during the burial shows how the extent of the son’s grief gives him strength capable of such violence.

Yeherou would dance again for our father. But the sight of the villagers of Sjene had moved me, and I wanted to proclaim my own grief at the death of my father, the one who had made me a scholar. I remembered how I had been valued for my unused gills in the Kuz mainland and in Otuja. Here were young men and women worthy of being saved from starvation in the same way! They had to go to the mainland, all of them. And then they could come to Otuja.

But I, the prodigal, had to first win their hearts. They would only be barnacled to the old ways of Sjene, the only ways of Sjene. I would have to perform the Orinu Dance to show sincerity and traditional valor; I would risk death for my patrim’s name and my people. Yeherou called me a fool. How could I kill an orinu with my bare hands with my gills and my inexperience with the wildwater? Day and night, I persisted in telling him that such an extraordinary feat would stir the hearts of the Sjenese, until he recognized my father’s resolve in me and yielded. He broke open the stitches on my gills and held my hand as I bled. He brought me to the wildwaters so I could learn to wrestle. When we first went underwater I could not open my gills; I held my breath. It was the first time I was in the wildwaters and I could not control my trembling. The currents pulled me in all directions and I could only clutch on a rock in response. The waters swirled and eddied. Through the clear water I saw my brother treading the currents, walking on them as if on air, his gills opening and closing, his arms gesticulating at me to follow his example. I felt resentful at my incompetence and the sudden emotion freed my gills. The first rush of water through my brittle passages choked me and I turned cold and fainted.

Yeherou revived me on land. We tried again but I could not get through the first breath. Yeherou threw up his arms and sat by the banks as I nursed my gills. I was not to argue with him. He would perform the Orinu Dance and I was to return to my family in Otuja alone.

I realized then that my brother had only been humoring me in his own primitive way, knowing I could never use my gills. Ladies and gentlemen of the Court, do not mistake this as malicious jealousy on his part. As I had said before, my brother was the most generous man in the world. He was not at fault for being ignorant. I agreed with him and made plans together for our father’s burial.

I now come to the part in which the ladies and gentlemen of the Court would have the most interest. When Yeherou left to wrestle the orinu, I went to the cellar where he was steaming the livers of the orinu he had killed. I took three livers and threw them into the wildwater nearest our home. Putting everyone to sleep was the only method I could think of that would allow me to save at least a few youths from the village and bring them to the Kuz mainland in secret. The rest is known to all.

Ladies and gentlemen of the Court, three days after this writing, I will be standing before you, my own lawyer, to plead for my case. I am responsible for the deaths in Sjene. But as everyone had witnessed, I returned to Otuja by my own free will and gave myself to your custody. I did this to prevent foreigners who know nothing of us from bringing shame to Sjene by spreading lies across the world. I have written this honest confession not without reason. I believe in the evolved sensibilities of the people of Otuja, as much as I believe in the backwardness of Sjene and had wished to rescue my people from it. I have written the story of my life, the causes which had prompted this tragedy, and have placed my trust in your judgment. Yes, I refer to it as a tragedy because of the good that was thwarted. Death had never been my intention. It is of underestimating the lethality of the orinu, and of the love I have for my home, that I am most guilty.

But if your instincts were to move you in a way different from that which I hope, then may I ask leave to make two small requests? I am a man of the law; I am aware of the sentence that may fall upon me. I would like to ask that my wife, Eandl Imh, be given a copy of this confession. I also ask that my remains be sent back to Sjene and buried in the Yamera hills, next to the graves of my parents and my brother. Ask the people of the hills; they would know the house of Imh.

Until then, I remain

Faithfully Yours,

Huuri Imh

**The End**

]]> http://farthestshore.kom.ph/2009/09/wildwater-cko/feed/ 2 http://farthestshore.kom.ph/2009/09/rite-of-passage-dcimafranc/ http://farthestshore.kom.ph/2009/09/rite-of-passage-dcimafranc/#comments Wed, 09 Sep 2009 03:23:11 +0000 banzaicat http://farthestshore.kom.ph/?p=36 by Dominique Gerald Cimafranca

Two hundred thirty eight. Only that could old Abulug sustain. Of that merciless number there was no paltering. Abulug within his cavernous maw gave shelter, gave food, gave water, gave air — in truth, gave life — but to no more than two hundred thirty eight.

Maguayan, of course, knew this, as he knew the choice that he alone could make. But as ritual demanded, his two bond-companions played his angel and his devil on their journey to the surface of Abulug’s shell.

“Turn back, turn back, Maguayan, return to the comfort of home,” chanted Sinukuan, “the Vastness is cold, she offers nothing but danger and death.”

Through the skinsuit radio, Sinukuan’s voice came metallic and hollow. Of Sinukuan’s youthful, smiling face there was no trace, enclosed as his head was within the life-sustaining helmet. Sinukuan wore green, befitting his role as Maguayan’s devil.

“Onward, onward, Maguayan, embrace the possibilities of the Vastness,” chanted Captan in turn, “the fires of home grow cold, they offer nothing but stagnation and sorrow.”

As with Sinukuan, Captan’s face, too, was hidden; but through the skinsuit radio, his voice carried his forcefulness and vigor. It was only fitting that he should be Maguayan’s red angel.

Despite their opposing exhortations, Sinukuan and Captan kept steady pace behind Maguayan as he made his way through the main artery of Abulug. As bond-companions, they carried the tools for Maguayan’s enterprise: harpoons, air tanks, neurolizing nets, mindlink cap, and jet pack.

The companions rounded a bend, and the artery steeply curved up. They had passed into Abulug’s inner shell. The spongy floor of the passage slowly gradually turned into mottled hardness. Here, their cargo felt lighter, but the ascent was treacherous nonetheless.

In his mind, Maguayan measured the size of the artery; he hoped it was wide enough to allow passage to the retinue that followed them, just three turns behind: these were the family and friends that had cast their lot with his. Their fates also hung on his choice.

“Turn back, turn back, Maguayan, seize the tribe for yourself,” now chanted Sinukuan. “It is your birthright, yours is the wisdom, yours is the strength.”

Maguayan blanched at the words, and his hand twitched by the hilt of his kris But the words, he knew, were not Sinukuan’s but the rites’. A sadness hung over Sinukuan as he spoke.

“Onward, onward, Maguayan, plant the seeds for your mighty tribe,” bellowed Captan, anger lending force to his chant. “Your strength and your widom alone are your birthright!”

Even as he took comfort in Captan’s encouragement, Maguayan shuddered at how tendrils of the temptation still clung to his heart. So easy, it was so easy, to turn back…

Maguayan’s choice, as the council laid it before him not two cycles past, was this: an ancient silver kris, its wavy blade still sharp after all these generations; or the golden skinsuit of the Wayfinder, which his father had worn before him.

“Choose.”

Thus came the one command from the Old Man. The Old Man said it not with passion but with a resigned weariness, but he said it loud. The word echoed in the chamber that was Abulug’s heart.

Maguayan had felt the weight of the entire tribe’s eyes upon him. He looked round at the elders’ faces — there was Inakan and Gilganen and Balyen and Kankanan and Matuay…all the men and women who had raised him. And last of all, the Old Man, who once was the Wayfinder, who had led the tribe to Abulug.

The gleaming blade of the kris beckoned to him. So easy, it was so easy. He had his youth and his strength and the bondmen pledged to him. But what would it cost? Inakan, Gilganen, Balyen, Kankanan, Matuay, the Old Man.

In answer to the Old Man’s challenge, Maguayan bent down and lifted the golden helmet of the Wayfinder. Yet all that time, what reigned in his thoughts was not himself but his sons.

“Turn back, turn back, Maguayan, think of your sons,” chanted Sinukuan, “would you leave them orphans of the Void?”

“Onward, onward, Maguayan, think of your sons,” chanted Captan, “as the son does to the father, so his sons to him.”

His sons, his two beautiful sons, Batanan and Batuey. How proud he had been when they were born! Strong and hearty, with their mother’s eyes and his solid jaws. He loved his sons dearly. Twins were a good omen, though now they brought their own sorrow, for Batanan was Abulug’s two hundred thirty eighth, and Batanan Abulug’s two hundred and thirty ninth.

I will find my sons a home, swore Maguayan.

#

As far as he could see, whichever direction he turned his head, there was nothing but the Void. The starlight gave only cold comfort, so distant were they. Maguayan reeled in shock, fearful that the perpetual blackness would swallow him.

So small, he thought, I am so very small.

Breathe, he told himself. Focus.

Maguayan’s fear gave way to his training. Once every sixty cycles, he, as firstborn son of the Wayfarer, made his way to the Abulug’s shell. Each and every time, the expanse of the Void never failed to overwhelm him. It took time to recapture his balance.

Behind him, Sinukuan and Captan had also reoriented themselves. His bond-mates shed their load and fastened them to Abulug’s shell. But where was the sawikan?

There it was. In the darkness, he had missed it during his first scan. Now that shock had worn off and his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he made out the sawikan’s outline.

Maguayan noted the sawikan’s shell, saw that it was a good round shape, as yet unscarred by meteors. Its head was sleek and sharp. The sawikan cruised at an easy speed, correcting its course now and then with a wave of its thrusting fins.

A good omen, Maguayan thought. The sawikan was huge — some one hundred fifty kilometers across, by his reflectometer’s measure — as big as Abulug, but still young. With any luck, the sawikan could carry four hundred or more. His sons would not have to worry for Wayfinding for a long while yet.

If, of course, if.

Maguayan felt Abulug shift under him, changing course to match the sawikan. The sawikan eyed Abulug cautiously, but did not alter course or speed away. Balyen and Galganan guided Abulug well.

Sinukuan and Captan had assembled Maguayan’s gear behind him. They had checked and double-checked and triple-checked. Finally, Captan tapped him on his shoulder. He was ready.

A hundred different scenarios flashed through Maguayan’s mind. What if? What if he flew wide of the sawikan? What if his harpoon failed to latch to the sawikan’s shell? What if he landed too far from its head? What if he could not bring the sawikan to bear with the mindlink ciruit? If. If. If.

He drove the thoughts away from his mind, envisioned instead perfection, from which the sawikan would bear his name forever more.

He thought once more of his sons.

Then, Maguayan leapt.

**The End**

]]> http://farthestshore.kom.ph/2009/09/rite-of-passage-dcimafranc/feed/ 0 http://farthestshore.kom.ph/2009/09/light-kosia/ http://farthestshore.kom.ph/2009/09/light-kosia/#comments Tue, 08 Sep 2009 03:00:32 +0000 banzaicat http://farthestshore.kom.ph/?p=60 By Kate Aton-Osias

I was born in the First Age of Creation, when mountains swam in the oceans and the skies grew unencumbered from earth. Most of the first people took on the burden of unraveling the entangled landscape by giving things their first names, allowing the young world the means to commit into memory what would have been temporal accidents of creation. But even then, there were a few who were unsatisfied with the current profusion of wonders and sought to become gods themselves by creating marvels bound to their spirit and the spoken word.

My creator was one such man. His name was Glatizperal, which meant in the Old Tongue, He Who Speaks and Makes True. And while I, like many of my brethren, would like to believe that we had existed even before our current incarnation – perhaps as demons, or humans, or one of the timeless ones cursed and blessed with the gift of sentience – the truth was that I remember nothing before the moment Glatizperal seduced me into leaving the void.

My first memory was of a whisper of a touch, Glatizperal calling me from a distance. I wanted to ignore the intrusion – I was at peace then, content in my desireless existence – but the seductive onslaught of words continued. I found myself drawn closer to Glatizperal’s voice, as he urged me to awaken with promises of wonders and delights beyond my imagining. And when the temptation of his voice was almost too much to bear, to real to ignore, he bid me to open my eyes and fall.

I remember little of the fall itself. It was dark and long and I was afraid. What I do remember was the embrace afterwards. Glatizperal held me in his arms and lead me into an intimate dance. Unable to resist, I allowed myself to follow, allowed his spirit to encompass my entire being until I was completely cocooned in the safety of his presence. And then I heard his command. I began to flicker, then flare, before bursting into a brilliant rapture.

In the effulgence of light, I wept; wept with joy, with relief, in pain as I continued to emanate radiance. Glatizperal used words then not to command, but to bind; to hold me to rhythm and breath and sound. Even then I knew I could have returned to the void where he would not have any power over me. And yet I chose to stay, unwilling to trade the pleasure of completeness for the unencumbered peace from where I came.

That day, Glatizperal gave me my first name, but I would simply come to be known as Light.

#

It’s difficult put a label to everything that Glatizperal meant to me. Most certainly he was a father, but especially during the embrace, he was also my master, my friend, my brother, my lover, my better self.

The tragedy was that Glatizperal and others like him, did not acknowledge our sentience or our existence. Except for one instance, Glatizperal treated and used us as tools, to be invoked on demand, and the words of our binding to be taught to others at his leisure. It was this tradition thankless utilization that has caused many to mistake us as common cantrips. This was a persistent and irritating insult to our sentience, for cantrips though popular, were just rhymes empowered by people’s stubborn belief in their efficacy.

Of course, there were exceptions. A precious few saw us, acknowledged us, treated us as lovers and friends. And for those of us they had sired and loved, I feel no envy, just a diffused sense of gladness that not all of us had to endure the horror of ignorance.

“Not all of them can see us, unless we are invoked. And even then, they think we’re simply a figment of their imagination,” Charm had explained.

Charm was my older sister, though I use the word ‘sister’ carefully, for gender is not really important to our kind. It was the female form, however, that she favored, and that is how I remember her best – as a young, beautiful woman, with flowers in her hair and green, cat-like eyes, smelling always like a lush forest after the rain. She was the one who taught me to erect walls to prevent anyone I did not choose from gaining access to my core, to keep myself intact though many invoked my name. She was the one who comforted me the first time several casters had called for me simultaneously, making me feel stretched and violated. And most importantly, she was the one who listened to all my angry questions – why we were always subservient, why we allowed ourselves to be consumed by the will of humans, why we took the abuse of non-recognition as if that was all that we were owed – and answered them with the wisdom of an all-encompassing answer.

“It is our way,” Charm had simply replied.

One of my deepest regrets was that I wasn’t able to become the sibling that Charm was to me, to my younger brother Spark. By the time he was born, Charm’s core had left. With enough users invoking her presence, she had decided to travel and explore, to see the rest of the young world humans had written poetry about. In truth, I could have gone with her, but secretly, and perhaps foolishly, I had dreamed that I could still gain Glatizperal’s recognition, perhaps even his affection, through dogged determination and unwavering loyalty. But there were dreams so private and so precious, that even to my closest sibling, I dared not air them, fearing she would voice reasons that could cause them to disintegrate into dust.

Spark was different. He was curious, excitable, almost never still. He would often change forms – sometimes he was a young athlete he had taken a fancy to, other times he was an exaggerated version of Glatizperal, still others he was a young, angry bull that snorted out lightning – and always, always, he questioned why we obeyed as we did, why we allowed ourselves to be subjugated in such a manner, why we didn’t dare allow ourselves to explore the breadth and magnitude of our abilities. Though the questions were familiar to the ones I had also asked, Charm’s undeniable truth was never sufficient to quench his thirst for justification.

For a while, I had convinced myself that Spark’s behavior was attributable to his age and nature of his abilities. And though I had seen glimpses of his rebellion I had intentionally blinded myself to the depth of his bitterness. Until the day Mestarillizen died. By then, it was too late.

Mestarillizen was Glatizperal’s most precious human apprentice. He called her ’daughter’ and I knew that this blatant favoritism was one of the reasons that Spark never liked her, never gave more than what was absolutely necessary whenever she called.

The day was like any other. The heat of the midday sun was streaming through the open windows as Glatizperal spoke intently to a class of young men and women about the art of invocation. Several of us had already been cast; some, like me, had allowed their core to attend. As such, the coruscating forms of my kin lent a palpable air of tension and magic that had us and our human casters brimming with excitable energy. And then, it was Mestarillizen’s turn. Glatizperal bid her to demonstrate how to speak Spark’s incantation. I was talking to Heal about the sullen young student maintaining me when Spark first became tangible.

Immediately, my kin and I sensed that something was different.

It was in the way Spark stood, smiled, then moved. He took Mestarillizen’s spirit and swirled her one way and then the other, forcing her to speak the words to give him even more freedom to encompass her being into his core. Ruby red light refracted out of them, that quickly changed into bolts of jagged lightning streaked outward, aimless and unrestrained. It was both an undeniable display of power and a declaration of sentience. More importantly, it was a battle of wills. And as we stood there – trapped into inaction by our own surprise – our worst fears came true when we heard Mestarillizen scream.

I should have done something. But in the riot of actions that followed – Glatizperal calling Negate, students mumbling invocations left and right, panicked humans coming in and out of the room searching the root of the chaos – I did nothing but stand as morbid witness to the horror that was unfolding before me. Instead of allowing the sullen student who had been maintaining me to disengage, I should have kept him tethered to me and perhaps in that state, I could have done something to prevent the tragedy that occurred. But I let the student’s spirit slip away and by the time Negate appeared – large and overwhelming – I had grown ephemeral and useless.

I stood there as Negate barreled past me to take down Spark. Spark – already diminishing from the effort of subsuming Mestarillizen – did not stand a chance against the angry determination that fueled Negate. When Negate had landed his first punch, Spark released his hold on the young woman to stumble back, grunting in pain.

The next few moments had been excruciating to watch. Negate continued to pound Spark to the ground, relentless, unforgiving, as these had been the commands given to him by Glatizperal. At that moment, I saw my last opportunity to make a difference; to take a stand and help either my brother or my master, but shamefully, and to my eternal regret, I did nothing.

By the time Negate let up, Spark was nearly dead, though he still had the gall to smile victoriously. But when Heal, after looking over Mestarillizen, whispered ever so softly, ‘There’s nothing I could do,’ there was a flash of anguish in Spark’s face. Whether it was because he truly did not intend to kill her, or because there was such despair in Glatizperal that all of us who loved him could not help but share in his pain, I would never know.

What I do know is that Glatizperal had looked up from holding Mestarllizen, looked straight at Spark even though he had become just as invisible as I was, and said two words that dripped with hatred.

“Get out.”

And then, he looked at each and every one of us

“I hate you all, get out!”

It was the first time any of us had ever been acknowledged outside an invocation. It was the last time I saw Glatizperal.

#

The next few decades I spent lost. I encountered neither Spark nor Charm during those years. In retrospect, perhaps I was avoiding them, though it was never my conscious intent to do so. But the world was wide, my guilt ran deep, and there were many places to hide and grieve.

Despite my sadness, I grew stronger with each passing year. With the number of humans invoking my abilities increasing, I found myself growing more powerful until I was no longer pained by the multitudes who demanded for my attention. In a way, their constant intrusion helped me deal with my own demons. I could be everywhere but in my core, and I allowed the distraction that used to frighten me to keep my own guilt at bay.

By the time the Golden Age of Magic had arrived, I had learned to live with my own private despair, and on the surface, had begun to celebrate the glorious era for my kind.

Of course, most humans were not aware of the period as anything but a testament to their own greatness. To them, the Golden Age was a time where human achievements reached new heights; where kingdoms and empires were built; where wild dragons, lamias and gorgons were defeated and tamed; where old secrets were revealed and forbidden texts were deciphered. And yet behind each of these successes was the influence, if not the outright aide of one of my brethren. There was Mend, with his clever hands, who repaired tools for construction; Shield, who bravely took the blows for her summoner in battle; Identify, who unerringly brought enlightenment and knowledge; Message, who spoke in numerous tongues at various speeds; Lift, whose large brawny arms provided additional strength.

But while we gloried with our expanding abilities, humans become more addicted to the power they wielded. Wars dotted the landscape – burning villages, fortresses under siege, hordes of armies marching from one kingdom to another – as people battled each other for supremacy in a clash of wills and ways, religion and righteousness, bravery and madness.

It was during one of these conflict-ridden years that I was invoked by a woman who had once been a favorite of mine. My invocation had been the first she had learned, and often in her youth, she had called for me to combat her fear of the dark. In spite of the crudity of her pronunciation, I had gone to her side, finding the innocent bravery she possessed – fragile yet unyielding – irresistible.

We had long conversations, she and I, when she was much younger. As she had grown older, however, I was labeled as an ‘imaginary friend’ and then, eventually, a mere, fond memory of an innocence foregone. When she had become queen and married her Prince Regent, she stopped calling for me all together.

When I felt her spirit calling for me some decades later, I did not hesitate in allowing my core to be drawn into her embrace. But even as I headed toward her, I could sense there was something terribly wrong, something worse than intruding darkness. It wasn’t in her words – she pronounced them perfectly and not even the most experienced wizard could fault her intonation – instead, it was hidden beneath the reverberation of her voice, revealed only by the slightest tremor, the subtlest of pauses in her invocation.

When I finally stepped close enough to begin the dance, I felt her relief so palpable and so achingly familiar, I was slightly disoriented upon seeing the regal woman seated at her throne who had replaced the little girl I had once known.

She had changed. And though she had born the scars of time well, innocence was no longer in her eyes. Instead, there was a sense of tired acceptance. Beside her stood the Prince Regent, his right hand on her shoulder, the other on his sword. Despite the fierce frown he wore, I could sense a depth of emotion between the two of them. I was glad. It was good to know that she did not have to endure the past decades alone.

As she commanded, I let myself slowly illuminate the throne room, the corridors, the surrounding halls, the stairwells, turrets and even the dungeons, until the whole castle was lit not by yellow candlelight but with white brilliance. I saw servants and musicians in every room, jesters and performers, a multitude of tables filled to the edges with a feast that could feed thousands. Courtiers in colorful robes, soldiers and generals in their uniforms, bejeweled scholars and wizards and their apprentices, citizens in their best frock, lords and ladies in their most handsome gowns, filled the halls with their somber expressions and hushed conversations. Only the children laughed boisterously, running in between the adults, finding pleasure in the cramped spaces and in being able to take treats unnoticed from the crowded tables.

And then I heard the explosions outside.

Curious, I went out to explore the fortress’ outer walls. Immediately, I sensed a presence that seemed vaguely familiar. Acting on instinct, I called out Spark’s first name. But there was only the answering bombardment of catapults as thousands of soldiers outside the fortress’ walls continued their siege.

And then from the sky, I saw a human, a young beautiful boy with golden hair and pale skin. As he drew closer, I saw lightning in his eyes as bolts of angry electrical bands flashed around his arms and legs, like chains. That was when I knew that I had found my younger brother Spark.

“What are you doing?” I asked, horrified to see the boy smile at me, and sensing none of the human’s spirit within the boy’s body.

“Light, Light, Light. Is this the welcome I get after all this time? Come, won’t you embrace your brother?”

“Let him go! You’re going to kill him!”

“A pity, that. Humans do tend to be rather weak, though this boy does seem hardier than most.” The boy drifted closer to me. “How have you fared, Light?”

“Why are you doing this? What has happened to you?”

“What has happened to me?” The boy raised his hand upward and immediately, red lightning spread out like fiery spider webs. The soldiers outside cheered. “What has happened to me is that I’ve found my place in the world. A place where I’m adored and worshipped, as is my due.”

“That is not –“

“Still holding on to the same line, Light?” The boy smirked. “Times have changed. People have changed. Even our legendary sister Charm has changed – ah, I see you didn’t know that. I’m glad to have passed along some of the family gossip.”

“You’re wrong, she’s, she’s –“

“Irrevocably different. Even changed her name. Admit it, Light, in this era, humans are the pawns and we, we are their gods. Why can’t you accept that?”

“There has to be another way. You can’t just subsume people as if they were nothing but –“ I stopped.

“Were you going to say, ‘tools’?” The boy laughed.

“But you can’t treat them the way we had loathed to be treated. There has to be another way.”

“When you find one, let me know. Right now, I have a fortress to destroy.” The boy clenched his raised fist and took the spider web of lightning and hurled it against a large part of the fortress wall. Another cheer rose to the air as attacking soldiers poured into the large opening.

“I can’t let you do this, I can’t -”

“I’d like to see you try and stop me. After all, what is it that you could do, Light? Shine brighter?” Laughing, the boy floated and disappeared.

I went back to my invoker. Though her face seemed unchanged, her right hand clutched tightly at the arm rest of her throne. Beside her, the Prince Regent was whispering something furiously in her ear, but she kept on only shaking her head. I could have listened into their conversation, divined the sentiment from her spirit, but I was distracted. I had other matters to take care of.

I took my invoker’s spirit and led her to visualize her wizards. Her head jerked in surprise but she did not resist. Letting myself expand, I showed the wizards the purest form of Negate’s incantation, even going as far as whispering to them his first name. The wizards too, were surprised, but they did not question the provenance of their new found knowledge. Instead, they quickly passed on the casting of their protective rotes to their apprentices and began Negate’s incantation.

In the meantime, screams in the outer hallways called for my attention. I urged my invoker to let me expand further and again, she did not resist. I began to flare more brightly, focused only on blinding the attacking soldiers to give my invoker’s own army an advantage. But the hordes kept coming in, and each time I pushed my invoker for more freedom, to allow me to explore the limits of my abilities.

I knew the wizards had finished the summons for Negate when briefly, he appeared before me and nodded a curt greeting, before running towards the outer walls. For awhile, it looked like we had a chance of winning. The generals and their soldiers, even the city folk fought with all their strength, maximizing every advantage I had provided them. There was even a momentary silence as the bombardment of explosions ceased outside, and I could only presume that Negate had been successful in what he had set out to do.

But there was just too many of them that for every soldier I had blinded, five more would come in ready to do more damage.

And then, I heard Negate scream. When I found him, he was being bludgeoned to the ground with angry bolts of electricity before the will of the wizards who called him failed and allowed Negate to dissipate.

“Payback,” said the golden-haired boy. But before I could confront him, he again disappeared.

I forced myself to grow even more brightly, to not only blind, but to burn. I burnt through armor and robes, continued my assault until the stench of burning flesh saturated the air. But it wasn’t enough. I wanted more. I wanted to prove myself. I wanted to show Spark that it was possible to have power without consuming a human’s will.

And then, I heard her whisper.

“I command you to stop.”

I couldn’t believe it. Didn’t she understand that I was fighting for her? Didn’t she understand that if she stopped now, her people, her way of life, would die? I felt her spirit trying to slip away from mine, but I refused to let it disengage.

“I command you to stop – please, please stop.”

Furious, I went to confront her spirit in her throne room, ready to demand an explanation for her inexplicable command. She was still seated, but her face no longer looked regal. Instead, she was heaving, though no tears fell from her eyes. Surrounding her were armored guards and loyal courtiers, all attempting to relieve her of her burden. She was shaking her head furiously at all of them, refusing to give up the body of the Prince Regent who was sprawled on top of her, with several arrows sticking out of his back.

Looking straight at me, still without letting go of her husband, she continued to command me.

“I command you to stop. I can’t cry – I can’t even remember how he felt like if you keep holding on to me. Please – please stop.”

And I knew I had to let her go.

As the palace began to grow dimmer and I began to dissipate, I heard even more screams, but it was her whispered last words, that broke me.

“I just wanted one last night of happiness.”

#

Even the world has its own boundaries. What had once seemed wide and endless, now seemed small and limited.

As the Golden Age ended, I found myself deteriorating in both power and spirit. All the old questions I had asked refused to be quieted down by the wisdom I had held on for so long. The frustration I felt was only intensified whenever I was invoked. Each time a caster began to lead me to the dance, I felt tempted to refuse, to deny the caster any part of myself to be consumed into his will. And yet I was bound to the words, and no matter how many times I had wanted to take over my invoker’s spirit, I always stopped short and reminded myself of Mestarillizen’s scream, of the golden haired boy’s lightning chained body, of the queen’s need to mourn. Instead, I endured the lack of recognition, the endless, inconsiderate demands for my abilities, and my frustration festered and grew even as my powers dwindled.

In the Second Age of Creation, cantrips and rotes rose in popularity, not because they were powerful – they were extremely limited in use, not being sentient as we were – but because they were predictable. Humans in general had sensed the volatile nature of my kind. And though for the most part they still did not acknowledge us, they had begun to avoid our incantations, learning their lessons from the wizards of old who had died unable to master the powers they had wielded.

I grew weaker with each year, as fewer and fewer casters called for me. Humans too, lost some of their abilities, but they responded by creating automatons and artifacts, questioning the validity of the old ways and changing them to suit the difficult times. And all I could do was become a witness to the deterioration of my kind, as the opportunity to choose a path, to take a stand, to make a difference, grew smaller and smaller in the years that followed.

I was weak and old, but still very much alive, when I heard a young woman mangling my incantation. During the Golden Age, I wouldn’t have even paid heed to her. She was mispronouncing the words so badly, most young children of the era gone by would have shook their heads in shame. And yet so few call for me now, that, just like someone miscalling your name in an empty street, she was able to gain my attention. Having nothing else better to do, I went to her side.

And found her cornered against a wall.

She was in a large, dark cavern filled with even darker monstrosities whose only intent, it seemed, was to devour her. She had been staving them off with cantrips for flame and flash, rotes on banishment and blessing. When I had finally arrived, her spirit was exhausted, her voice hoarse, her body bruised from running and tripping on uneven ground and all the physical strength she had left she used to fiercely hold on to the small lamp that was moderately, if temporarily, preventing monsters from dog piling her.

The dance she led with her words was awkward, the commands she gave illogical. I wondered who taught her the summoning, if indeed someone did teach her my invocation, or if she merely picked it up from some bard or read some miswritten inscriptions on how to cast me. Though I felt pity for her, there was little I could do without taking over.

Regretfully, I began to move on when I heard her speak to me.

“Don’t leave me. I know you’re there –don’t you dare leave me.”

Though I knew there was little chance of her hearing me, especially in my half-cast state, I replied anyway.

“I can’t. Your words are not making any sense.”

To my surprise, she acted as if she heard me. She jerked her head towards my general direction, her arm still waving the lamp in wide arcs to maximize its meager light. “Teach me.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” I argued, feeling foolish for pursuing the conversation when this could all just be my imagination. “You could die.”

“Right now, you’re my only hope, whatever you are. None of my cantrips and rotes worked and my lamp is dying.” She pressed herself harder against the stone wall. “If I have to die, I will choose the way I die. And I definitely don’t want to die by them. I’ve seen what they do to their kills.”

“But I’m old and only a fraction of what I used to be. I don’t know how effective –“

“Right now, I don’t have time to flatter you about your age.” One creature from the side seized the opportunity and grabbed her arm. Furiously, she shook the monster away. “As you can see, I’m a little busy trying to survive. I know I’m not saying the words right, and I know I’m asking too much, but will you please help me?”

Not quite sure how to react to her arrogance and even more uncertain whether or not the entire scene was just a product of my lonely imagination, I reached out to take the lead. I whispered the words in her mind, taught her how to guide her thoughts, told her not to be afraid of the rise and fall of the dance. She was a quick learner. But while I expected her spirit to be molded against mine, to be cocooned and completely subsumed by my core, she surprised me yet again by meeting me as my equal, matching my movements perfectly without bowing down to my will. I began to flare. The light started out as a mere flicker, and then it grew brighter until I was emanating white brilliance. I thought I could do no more, stretched out as I was, weakened as I was. But her spirit prodded me to expand further and this time she took the lead. Just like her spirit did not bow down to mine, she dared me to meet her as a peer, to follow her movements without need of subservience. With everything I had left, I took up the challenge. I let all the walls I had built crumble, giving her access to all that I was, all that remained of me. And she, in turn, revealed all that she was and everything she had wanted to be. For a few moments, we knew each other perfectly. And the whole expanse of the cavern burst with radiance of a million suns.

All around us, the monstrosities started to wretch and scream before dissolving into black pools. As they did, there was a foul stench that permeated the area, underscored by a hint of an achingly familiar scent. I thought it smelled faintly like a burning forest, but I could be wrong. I wanted to be wrong.

Before my mind could roil over the possibility, I felt the young woman’s spirit slip. Instinctively, I held on to her, keeping her tethered in my embrace. In the physical plane, she had already slumped against the wall, but her eyes remained alive and victorious. She looked at me directly as she gave me a weak but triumphant smile.

“We did it.”

And with her spirit pushed passed exhaustion, she died.

#

From the beginning, I knew that I could always return to the void. It was an option open to all of us and yet the repercussions were unknown as no one was ever heard to have returned from it. After the Golden Age, many of my kind chose to return to where we were taken from, preferring to take the risk of death rather than facing eternity in their weakened states. I had personally lost good friends to the void: Mist, who was sometimes Fog, whose obscuring presence had kept me from shattering after so many years of questions, guilt and sorrow; Detoxify, with his colorful litany of curses and exaggerated camp fire stories; Detect, who had made me promise to remind the humans if I had an opportunity to, to never interchange her with the cantrip of the same name.

I never thought I, myself, would ever return to the void. There were too many things in my life unresolved, too many questions unanswered. But I had come to a point where I’d realized some things may never get closure and there was nothing left but to come to terms with them. I would never know why Glatizperal never deigned to acknowledge us, even though it seemed he was capable of doing so from the beginning. I would never know what could have happened if I had been a better sibling to Spark. I would never know if the episode with the young woman in the cavern was isolated or if, all this time, the possibility of standing as equals with the humans we served had been right there all along. I would never know what had truly happened to Charm. And I would never know if anything I had done in this world had any merit, or if I had simply wasted away the opportunities and the power that had once come so easily for me.

My last few weeks awake were bittersweet. Despite the difficulties of finding a human who could see me and hear me – there were so few who clung to the old ways, and to find someone who was already rare then, in an era of automated inventions, seemed almost impossible – but eventually, I did find someone who had an approximation of the special talent. He was a cleric named Fogen, who had a penchant for casting a blessing after a long night of drinking to keep himself safe in his journey back to his chapel. The combination of the rote and alcohol allowed him to see me and hear me, though I could only presume that I appeared as nothing more than a phantom before him, an apparition who needed closure. It didn’t matter what he thought I was. What mattered was that, through my urging, he wrote my incantation down correctly and accurately, word for word. It was to be my tombstone and it was important that at the very least, the words of my binding be remembered correctly.

A few others had heard about my plan and had come to gather around the aging cleric. I didn’t ask if they too, had decided to return to the void and had wanted to leave something tangible in the world. It was enough that I got to spend time with them, no matter how brief. There was Shield, with her ribald jokes and colorful escapades; Mend, and his love story with a craftswoman that spanned fifty years; and even Negate, who had become more talkative in his old age, endlessly recounting the provenance of each of his battle scars.

By the time my inscription was finished, we had talked about almost everything. We talked about our youth, our sires, those of us who had changed, those of us who had remained the same, those of us we could no longer find. There was nothing left but to say goodbye. I bid my friends farewell. Without much fanfare, I let myself imagine the void, the feeling of absence, the absolute peace. And then, I was gone.

The next thing I remembered was of someone slowly stroking my cheek. Unlike the first time, I had all my memories intact from the life I had led. And when the caress became more insistent, I knew that that someone was very carefully and precisely calling out for me.

I was not dead. Uncertain if I truly wanted to awaken, I let myself drift slowly to the voice, more prepared now to the seduction of the words spoken out to beseech me. From outside, I heard the rumble of voices.

“Are you sure this is going to work?”

“Shhh, you’re distracting him.”

“The Ebonites are closing in, we just lost Mireil awhile back and right now, we’re stuck in an abandoned chapel with no food or supplies. I just want to know if this is worth it.”

“The Wise Woman was very specific that we needed this particular spell. Now shut up, we didn’t come all this way to have you distract Restal from casting it.”

“I’m just saying -”

“Shhhh!”

I opened my eyes and let myself fall.

**The End**

Faux-hawk-hair streaked with gray and violet, ears wearing six earrings, eyes kohled, lips glossed and usually around a flavored cigarette, she walks in wearing her Astroboy shirt, Levis jeans and black Sisley rubber shoes to the quaking bows of the Knights in Jaguar Armor.

She is called The*whoa* Sorceress and is on her way to see whom the Real Kingdom reverently referred to as The Wizard of the Wonder Web. She enters the Wizard’s Office whenever she pleases but her presence is still announced with a squeak by his unexcitable secretary, Jeeves, even when the Sorceress always pleasantly smiles at him.

“Yo baby!” the Sorceress thunders to him after she slams the door shut. “I’m so tired of being the scary freak only you and my thralls adore!”

The Wizard of the Wonder Web drops his cool omniscience away from the matrices of dimensions in the Web to look at her.

The Sorceress grins, “Not that I’m really complaining. I do get what I want, after all.”

The Wizard of the Wonder Web sits back, smiles, and loosens the knot of his tie, “Okay, love, what is it now?”

The Sorceress grumbles, “Just that, my job.”

The Wizard of the Wonder Web sighs, “There’s a dimension out there with a Giant Mongoose worried that it would die first from going deaf and which I believe is still strangling that Babbling Anaconda, among other glitches in need of necessary endings from your powers.”

The Sorceress sits on his lap and plays with his long black hair, “Boring and that and those can wait. Something else.”

The Wizard of the Wonder Web asks, wary, “What else?”

The Sorceress smiles again, “I was thinking that maybe I should check out Fairy Tale Reality. Meet my kind of creatures. Take a break.”

The Wizard of the Wonder Web groans, “The Mistress of Pragmatism actually wants to go there?”

The Sorceress laughs, “Oh, shut up! I promise not to turn the Real Kingdom or that reality!”

“Which dimension?”

The Sorceress frowns, “And have me under your Technocrati surveillance in YouTube?”

The Wizard of the Wonder Web laughs, “You can’t blame me. You keep on ditching your bodyguards. Remember them? Mr. Google and Agent Yahoo? And where are they anyway…”

“Ask Jeeves. Tell them I said hi when they finally get here,” and the Sorceress reaches for the console on his desk, fingers tapping too-fast-codes for even the Wizard of the Wonder Web to follow.

The Wizard of the Wonder Web mumbles, “Whoa…that’s hot…”

The Sorceress giggles, “…and rand=2/0×0?1y… Catch me later, baby!”

And the Sorceress kisses him and vanishes—

—landing hard on a chair

—looking sedated in a flowing black kaftan and her head with flowing black hair

—feeling wooong…woong…wong in an air-conditioned classroom

—interrupting a Dwarf from his tirade.

“Ah, welcome to the Fairy Tale!” the Fat Godmother Cat who was the moderator chortled. “What shall we call you, sweetie?”

The Sorceress gritted (damn slipstream) out, “Not sweetie. I’m called The *whoa* Sorceress.”

“Right. But for the sake of expediency, we shall drop the clutter and just call you Sorceress, yes? Unless you want to be called Sorsee? Or Sor, like a nun?”

The Sorceress muttered, “Fatty is catty-Zafra-funny. Let me—” and she began to move her fingers but was stopped by a wing.

“Can’t do that. Rules,” the Fairy beside her whispered as it daintily moved its wing back and covered her mouth with a handkerchief, and the Pixie near them bobbed her head.

The Dwarf resumed his scathing rant about the latest psychotic upload in “that freak’s mySAP.com” and therefore downloaded “not a Fairy Tale” while the Elf seated across him was nodding in camaraderie and then added more highfalutin to the Dwarf’s jargon.

“Oh yeah, that weird-wired-son-of-an-avatar is such a freak,” the Fat Godmother Cat affirmed to the Elf, chortled once more, and with that concluded the forum.

The Fairy Tale Cast immediately exited and the Sorceress was left asking— what rules? growling— I’m supposed to be on a break thinking— the Dwarf is an arrogant prick, that snooty Elf and the Fat Cat must be friends, and in Fairy Tale Reality everyone apparently doesn’t know that they’re all freaks.

The Sorceress began looking around for the nearest Elixir-to-Cirrhosis-Stop to contemplate on whether to piss off or piss away or stay to piss on Fairy Tale Reality (especially since she wasn’t digging her non-smoking assigned look).

The Sorceress decided to stay to figure out the program and then on had come to eventually understand that nobody configured with anybody (except the Elf and the Fat Godmother Cat because they were Fellows in Magic-Cards-and-Harry-Potter-Addiction). And that they were all required to decode their own Fairy Tales through encoding their individual mySAP.coms.

@

http://*Sorceress*mySAP.com.ph

*An Existential Dialogue With Invisible Man *Refereeing Barbarians At The Gates: Hannibal vs. Conan *Stopping The Magic Dragon And The Big Bad Wolf From Puffing Nemo *Turning Little Into Bloody Red Riding Hoodlum *Waking Briarwood From The Sleeping Pill *Convincing Rapunzel To Cease Waiting For Godot To Cut Her Hair *Teaching Wily Coyote Smarts Is Hard To Do *Friday the 13th: Cousin It Going Bald *Shutting Up A Celebrity Death Match: Lolit Jeckle & Joey Heckle vs. Cristy Donkey & Jobert Binks *How To Exterminate Zombies In Less Than 28 Days *A Lecture On The Dating Game Given To Dr. Ripper, Dr. Jekyll and Dr. Lecter *Preventing 2012 (Rainbow Brite On Acid, Care Bears Gone Wild, Gollum Proposing Marriage With The Ring, Britney Spears Turning Goth…) *“Retrieved” From Mulder’s X-Files: Stan Lee, Stephen King, Anne Rice, Neil Gaiman, J.K. Rowling… *Guiding Bill and Steve’s Excellent Journey To The Center Of Yodaism *Spreading Manga To The World: Get REAL, Be FREAKS…

The Fairy Tale Cast gaped at what the Sorceress uploaded, “Whoa!”

The Sorceress just thought, And I rest that *whoa*case.

And because the rule was ¬Bash-Emo/Don’t-Gush (and being a Sorceress she was then expected to be like Fairuza Balk in The Craft) during mySAP.com sharing, the Sorceress would only smile sweetly and was sympathetic and helpful to everyone.

Then one afternoon, the Fat Godmother Cat demanded from all of them who were surprisingly nice (and really just wonky from all my.SAP.coms), “What’s the matter with all of you! Are you all high?!”

The Sorceress, the Fairy, the Dwarf, the Pixie, the Elf and the rest of the Fairy Tale Cast all started laughing and talking like Chewbacca. The Fat Godmother Cat threw her paws up with an “Argh!” and dismissed them. After that, the five trooped to chug Seagal and Tarantino’s Found-Gold-From-The-Philippines and started configuring their individual mySAP.com webs together as they swigged their way through more Elixir-To-Clarity-Via-Cirrhosis.

The Sorceress asked the Elf who was seated beside her, “I thought elves didn’t drink?”

The Elf downed a shot and answered without looking at her, “I don’t.”

The Sorceress shrugged and asked the Fairy, “And in Reality, what are you?”

The Fairy answered, “I’m a lady.”?

The Dwarf muttered, Yeah a ladybug, “What? The lady is a dude!”

The Fairy smiled, “I bet you’re a frog,” and moved to kiss the Dwarf.

The Dwarf blanched, making the Fairy laugh and the Sorceress laughed out to him, “Are you really?”

The Dwarf drawled, “I’m a gamer who ain’t got game with them bitches and I want a revolution for free beer.” Then he turned to the Pixie, winked, “Come on, put out,” and blew come-hither-bubbles.

The Pixie giggled the bubbles back to the Dwarf, “And you’re sooooo not my Prince Charming!”

The Elf mumbled as he downed another shot, Damn, you got me.

The Sorceress arched her eyebrow at him, “Excuse me?”

The Elf shook his head, looked at her, and said, “Even I couldn’t object to the disgustingly saccharine comments you made about myownSAP.com because they made sense only realizing hours later how insulting you were.”

The Sorceress laughed, “Is that a rhetorical question?”

The Elf then arched his own eyebrow at her, “Ah, what is a rhetorical question?”

The Dwarf (who had unzipped his fly towards the orchids) turned and declared to them while peeing, “The task! The task is to make the ultimate mySap.com=fairytale!” And then forgot to zip his fly as he walked back to them. The rest all quickly said Good-(Gawd!)-Bye, not wanting a sty to grow on their eyes.

Later on, the Sorceress reluctantly messaged the all-knowing Elf for Fairy-Tale-Tricks, “It’s these damn rules! I can’t seem to make my Fairy Tale operate! MydamnSAP.com refuses to be spelled into my ultimate Fairy Tale!”

The Elf advised, “Have you tried the Walk-Alone-Into-Epiphany?”

The Sorceress sighed, “I’m constantly bugged in the Path”

“The Drink-To-Revelation-In-Oblivion?”

“Oblivion cannot be reached.”

“The Toke-To-Decode-The-Cosmic-Joke?”

“I got the Void’s Please try again later.”

“How about the Simulated-Misery?”

“And be a bad bard just begging to be killed?”

“Sex-To-Infinite-Success?”

The Sorceress laughed, “You use that? My, my, aren’t you kinky.”

The Elf choked out, “No!” then coughed, “Well, I’m out of treats.”

The Sorceress asked, “I thought elves knew everything. Just how old are you?”

The Elf intoned, “I’m an elf: it’s all about MDAS.”

The Sorceress almost shrieked her frustration, instead groused, “I need a damn hug.”

The Elf quietly said, “Now that I can give you. Happily but after.”

The Sorceress scoffed, “You? Hug? Yeah, sure, whatever.”

After,

@

http://*Fairy*mySAP=Fairytale.com.ph

I Just Want To Be A Woman

http://*Pixie*mySAP=Fairytale.com.ph

Finding Prince Charming In Neverland

http://*Dwarf*mySAP=Fairytale.com.ph

Legend: I Am Awesome!

http://*Elf*mySAP=Fairytale.com.ph

The Meaning of Life Is, Well, Um, Something Ineffable
Like What A Buddhist Sartre Said

http://*Sorceress*mySAP=Fairytale.com.ph

Spelling Normal

The Fat Godmother Cat was happy over their myFairySAP.coms and threw a Piss-The-Elixir-In-The-Pool-Party. The Dwarf and the Elf drank Daddy-Whisky that was melting the paint from the Daddybucks cups they were using while checking out the frolicking bikinis (except when it was the Fairy’s). And rather than piss where everyone was swimming, the Sorceress hikcused herself with, “I’m going to the Jamie.”

“Jamie?” the Pixie asked.

“Ex-John-then-James-now-Jamie,” explained the Fairy.

“Nature. Even a sorceress pees, you know,” the Sorceress mocked.

The Dwarf sang, “Jamie’s got a gun…” and laughed, “Ye freaks!” then leered at the Sorceress, “Want me to walk you?”

They all said “No!” and the Fat Godmother Cat commanded, “Gentle Elf! Escort her!”

The Elf silently walked the Sorceress to the Jamie while holding her hand like a granny. After the Sorceress pissed the Elixir back to Nature and came out, the Elf said, “I know you don’t even look at me—”

The Sorceress stopped walking—sobered— and looked straight at the flushed Elf, “Are you drunk?”

“—and that you dislike me—“

The Sorceress nodded, “Yeah… But you’re not so bad.”

The Elf sighed, “—time for that hug.”?

He hugged her.

It felt just weird to the Sorceress being hugged by someone so thin (and actually being turned on by a hug from someone smaller).

Then the Elf kissed her.

The Sorceress could only sputter as he continued kissing her to his yellow light, found herself kissing him back to green light, and then both stopped to a red light with, whoa. She thought what the heck was that and that was that and almost ran away from the smiling Elf on their way back to the rest of the merry Fairy Tale Cast.

That night, the Elf continued to secretly woo her with his telepathic chatting like I can smell you from here while the Sorceress sat by the pool with the Fairy. The Sorceress almost fell into the pool in surprise as she laughed then smelled herself, From there? Do I stink?

The Elf sent, You smell good… Are you laughing at me?

The Sorceress looked at him, saw his anxious and frowning face, and mouthed No.

And the Elf smiled again.

The Sorceress found herself blushing and liking making him smile.

And whenever the Sorceress was asked to sit with the Fairy Tale Cast, she would feel the Elf’s hand stroking her hand and he would dazzle her with his nerdy talk. The Elf and the Sorceress were in a sticky-mushy-haze and continued to sneak kisses ever after.

The Sorceress was reduced between blushing, giggling, and sometimes almost tapping her fingers to be away from the confusing turning of Fairy Tale Reality. She was not supposed to seek the Advice-About-Secret-Affairs from the Fat Godmother Cat but she found herself blurting out, “I actually feel something for that freaking Elf! I don’t know what to do with him… You’re his friend, right? What do I do?”

The Fat Godmother Cat clapped a rolling laugh, “I knew it! So that’s why he’s been mooning—you do know that he has a Real Girlfriend, yes?”

“Yeah, he told me. And he doesn’t know that I do have a Real someone, too.”

The Fat Godmother Cat rubbed her paws, “And the Tale tangles. Here’s what you do— you actually do?! Who?”

The Sorceress mumbled, “The Wizard of the Wonder Web.”

“Oh… Wow… Wait, YOU ARE that Heartless Mistress et cetera Sorceress?!”

The Sorceress winced, “Yep.”

“Whoa,” the Fat Godmother Cat said, holding her paws up. “Not in my level of operation,” and vanished.

After that, the Elf began snubbing the calls of the Sorceress and she didn’t understand why until one night he finally answered her hi’s and why’s.

The Elf said in all contempt, “I know who you are.”

The Sorceress felt like fainting, “How did you find out? I can explain—”

“You enthralled me.”

The Sorceress reeled, “Enthralled you?! That’s not true!”

The Elf whispered, “I felt… What I felt was real.” Then he clipped in disgust, “Never mind. I hope you got what you wanted. You’re really a freak.” And he retreated into his Cave-In-Mars again before the Sorceress could even explain the beginning of the eternity of that damn *whoa*.

The Sorceress called on the Fat Godmother Cat in all her disturbing The Sorceress*whoa-you’re-going-to-be-deleted*glory, “HOW DARE YOU MEDDLE.”

The Fat Godmother Cat implored, “I had to tell him because you’re you… And you can’t possibly be… No way! A sorceress doesn’t fall in love, much more with an elf in Fairy Tale Reality!”

The Sorceress let go of the *whoa*, “Duh? We’re in Fairy Tale Reality! And do you even have any idea what ripples and tears in dimensions your interference will bring? And why did you tell him that I was just toying with him? I wasn’t. And now he’s so hurt and he thinks that I don’t feel anything for him, too. And I can’t convince him because he doesn’t even want to talk to me…And damn, it hurts.”

And there and then the Sorceress who never cried began crying.

Thankfully it was Fairy Tale Reality so The*whoa* Sorceress could cry and cause just a storm and not a storm to rival a pissed off Storm. After all, just crying was normal for all creatures there, even a Sorceress.

The Sorceress told the drenched and shivering Fairy, Pixie and Dwarf what happened and asked through her tears, “…So what do I do? Can’t leave this bad juju virus going around, you know. And this damn crying has to stop!”

They enthusiastically agreed: the Pixie said that the Sorceress should send flowers to the Elf while the Fairy said to write a sorry: friendship: peace letter. (That stopped the storm.) And she did just those because that’s what creatures did in Fairy Tales, especially since the Delivery Brownie was reliable and said that flowers and letters always worked.

But the Delivery Brownie suddenly found himself wanting to munch magic brownies after the Sorceress left smiling at him and so had ended up giving them to his crush, T.S. Elliot’s Girlfriend. (Who said Flowers for me? Sweet! and upon reading the letter Woops, not for me… Whoa… THE Sorceress fell for the… Elf?!)

The Sorceress covered her face when she found out and was pulling her curling hair in dismay.

The Dwarf said as he looked at her head, “You know, you should just look for the Elf and talk to him before you pull all your hair out. And, uh, it’s all turning into dreadlocks.”

So the Sorceress would go to the Elf’s geeky haunts and whenever the Sorceress was near enough the Elf, he would actually scurry away eeping from her and declare to bystanders, “Dreadlocks is stalking me!”

The Sorceress wouldn’t use her *whoa* powers on him and spell him into staying put so the bad juju spread and disturbed all in Fairy Tale Reality. The Pixie (who began dating Smurf, the Elf’s Best Friend) told the Sorceress, Fairy and Dwarf that the Elf was finally threatened by his Real-Einstein-Girlfriend with When I come home, we’ll talk…

The Dwarf shuddered, “Talk. That ain’t good.”

And that the Sorceress was vicariously threatened with …and I will find that bitch and slap her.

The Dwarf shook his head, “That ain’t right.”

The Fairy bristled, “If I had Einstein’s brain I would slap and leash her boyfriend.”

The Pixie said, “Does she even have any idea that she wants to slap the Queen of Bitch-Slapping?” and to the upset Sorceress, “That’s a sincere compliment, by the way.”

The Fairy said to the Sorceress, “Don’t you worry, girl. She has to go through some Fairy-Slapping first. And her boyfriend, too.”

The Sorceress was finally exasperated, “I’m not even worried! It’s just that the way that damn chicken-legged Elf’s acting is making me feel like a damned rhinoceros vampire stalking a tiny virgin. I ought to curse him with that I-Love-You-Virus or hex him into my loving zombie! And here I just want to talk and clear things up and say sorry.”

The Pixie sighed, “He’s really called Heathcliff, you know.”

And the Dwarf shrugged, “What can you do?”

Remembering her promise, spell-slapping anyone would surely turn and end realms. And before The Wizard of the Wonder Web sensed her disturbance in the Web’s Force—

—finds out

—loses his cool

—obliterates that dimension to its last 1 and 0

—which she was almost tempted to allow, the Sorceress tapped her fingers and disappeared from Fairy Tale Reality

—and lands back onto The Wizard of the Wonder Web’s lap.

The Wizard of the Wonder Web catches her before she tumbles off to the floor, “The Web was on its way to going haywire and I heard Jeeves shrieking outside. Love, what did you do this time?”

The Sorceress gulps nausea, “The damn slipstream really needs to be fixed!”

The Wizard of the Wonder Web hugs her closer, “I missed you— did you find what you were looking for?”

The Sorceress sniffs, “Not my Fairy Tale.’”

The Wizard of the Wonder Web laughs.

And the Sorceress sighs, hugs The Wizard of the Wonder Web then straightens his tie, stands up, lights her flavored cigarette, and walks out of the Wizard’s Office smiling (to find that mongoose and snake and likely turn them into lovers) happily being The *whoa* Sorceress especially after.

**The End**

]]> http://farthestshore.kom.ph/2009/09/spelling-normal-mtija/feed/ 3 http://farthestshore.kom.ph/2009/09/they-spoke-of-her-blasal/ http://farthestshore.kom.ph/2009/09/they-spoke-of-her-blasal/#comments Sun, 06 Sep 2009 03:00:32 +0000 banzaicat http://farthestshore.kom.ph/?p=63 By Bessi Lasala

“Do not stray from the path,” mother once said to me. If it were the same warning fathers gave to their sons, I would never know. All I knew was that the path, worn and cobbled and reddish in hue, was always to be followed so you could reach the Beautiful City.

And it was, as promised, beautiful. It glimmered in the moonlight, standing out in the otherwise absolute darkness, seen even from the farthest of distances. The entire city sparkled in the sunlight, promising splendor unchallenged, except perhaps for the sun. There were white castles towering, reaching the sky, and there was music and laughter to be heard, even as you reached the end of the path.

I loved it. I waited by the city gates like a moonstruck lover, my eyes taking in all the beauty it could. The view seemed to change every time I came close, but the compelling loveliness was always there, beckoning to me. And I yearned to enter it, that land of the Beautiful. For it was not only the city that was beautiful—it was all those who resided there; they gave it the name Beautiful, and they carried it with grace.

There was, of course, another warning, unspoken but followed nonetheless. So I waited patiently by the gates, never daring to enter. It was not yet my time.

The first one to go since I became of age had been Sophitia—beautiful, kind Sophitia, who had been sixteen at that time. The carpenter’s son had loved her—well, many of them did, but he loved her best. It was wise of her, of course, not to have returned his affections. It would have been terrible if she had.

Mother had been there when they took Sophitia away, and she told me later as we washed the clothes by the stream together how extravagant it had been. “It rained flowers,” she said dreamily. “Lilies and forget-me-nots and sunflowers and daisies, and many others. There had been so much color, Eli, you couldn’t have seen the sky.”

I nodded. I wondered what it was like, to be taken away in a storm of color, marched triumphantly through the cobbled path as music filled the air. It must’ve been glorious, and I burned with deep-seated jealousy for Sophitia, the Beautiful.

Perhaps mother had caught sight of my less-than-beautiful expression, for she shook her head and took hold of my calloused, rough hands. “Emily,” she said, quietly. “I have never regretted my life, you know.”

I smiled thinly. “Then I guess I will have to regret it for you.”

“It is not all beautiful,” mother said mildly in reply, though her grip was suddenly too tight around mine. “Not then, and not now. Remember, Eli, beautiful is not everything.”

I looked at her and thought, of course, it wouldn’t matter—not to you, never to you. For mother was not, and had never been, a great and terrible beauty, like the Beautiful City. She did not glimmer nor sparkle; it was just weary smiles and homely wrinkles that took some time to love. Sometimes, indeed, it was almost a burden to love her—because no one had loved her before me, and no one else would after me.

She was simple and ignorant, loving deeply though rarely wisely, and that was why people sneered at her behind her back. But either her ignorance ran deeper than her love or she was really uncommonly stupid, because she never stopped loving, never stopped giving treats to the little children playing on the street or sweeping the porches of the frail old ladies of the village. If only her kindness were beauty, I often thought bitterly. Then maybe.

“Don’t be too harsh,” cautioned one village girl to me in passing. She had big, dazzling blue eyes and rosy cheeks. She, like all others, had known, of course. They all knew my mother and me, as much as they knew about the spoken warnings and the unspoken ones. The entire village knew, for it was small and there were never really any secrets among the villagers. They who could trace your parentage beyond your mother’s great-grandmother, they who still remembered all the girls who had been sent to the Beautiful City, they who lived simple, monotonous lives beyond the forest and near the city—they who spoke in whispers. “She is still your mother, after all.”

I looked at her contemptuously, and she stepped away in surprise. “That is easy for you to say,” I said coldly. “She is not your mother, after all.” I walked away, my arms full of recently washed clothing to be brought to the gates.

I never saw her again after that. Later on, I found out her name was Delilah, and she had been the newest to be carried away to the Beautiful City.

It was hatred and envy and anger that burned within me when the knowledge was imparted to me, and I spent the rest of the day screaming myself hoarse in the forest.

Why, why, why? My time was running out—my beauty would not hold out for long. Would I become like the infirm women of the village, I thought, with a sudden irrational panic, helpless and unhappy, to be left forgotten in caskets and memory boxes?

Or worse, I would end up like my mother. My mouth felt dry. At least, the old women had their husbands and their children. Their world was small, but my world was even smaller, and it contracted with each passing day. I walked with increasing suffocation with every step onto the path, worn and cobbled and reddish. Was I destined forever to take it by foot, and to end my journey before the towering metal gates? Would I grow old, tormented by the sight of the stately spires and sprawling pillars that could be seen from my little window?

I felt myself stumble; in my worry, I had let myself step away from the path. My eyes grew round as I whipped around—never once had I lost track of myself. And suddenly the forest was not warm and inviting, but dark and foreboding.

“Do not stray away from the path,” my mother once said to me—once, and only once, though I never forgot. I plunged blindly around, desperate for a sight of the red cobblestones. But no—it was only mud and grass and brambles, cutting through my skin as I ran past. There was blood on my arms and on my legs; the stench of blood rose to my nostrils. I choked on my own human smell, horrified at the incessant bleeding. The cuts and scratches were small, but the blood simply wouldn’t stop oozing.

I was terrified. Should people bleed this much? The stain seemed to engulf me; my skin, my clothes, my tears—the blood was everywhere. I cried piteously, moaning for help. I was going to die—die—die—

“My, my, my, here’s a pretty little thing,” murmured a voice beside me, and I turned in fright. It was the Wolf, licking his lips with his long, pink tongue. He winked as I stared in a mixture of horror and surprise.

I had heard of the Wolf—people still talked of him, one of the forest gods. He used to show up and entice young girls to the forest; a sacrifice, the villagers claimed. Because after one girl would go missing, the village would experience such a season of plenty that even the distressed parents were appeased in time, reassured that their daughter would certainly be happier living with a forest god, and if he could provide such a blessing to an entire village, surely he could do that and more for the pretty girl he had chosen to be his wife.

There was no reason to think he gobbled them up like a bloodthirsty carnivore—the villagers of the old never found human bones in the forest.

And now he was here again—how long had it been? He was as old as the Beautiful City, and perhaps as eternal. It had been years, though, since a villager had seen him last. The last girl he took had become a legend; she was on the way to the Beautiful City, carried away by the heralds and elephants and whatnot when suddenly her carriage was found to be empty. There had been an uproar; the entire parade was thrown into confusion, and it only settled when a loud, satisfied howl broke the night.

She must have been truly beautiful, I thought, to have kept the Wolf satisfied for such a long time.

“You smell wonderfully,” he said to me now, grinning wickedly. “Fresh and young and new.” He purred the words out, poking his snout against my bloody arm. I flinched as a pink tongue flicked to lick my wounds.

“Lord Wolf,” I began cautiously, and he laughed.

“Lord! The titles you humans come up with are truly amusing,” he says, with a glint in his eye. “Sire, Milord, Your Majesty, Sir Wolf—I am not human royalty, you know,” he hisses suddenly, cold and serious. “I am of the forest. We do not take titles, as they do in the city yonder.” He flicked his tail scornfully towards the direction of the Beautiful City. Involuntarily I looked up, and true enough, the crystal towers glistened in the sun like a reassuring promise. I breathed a sigh of relief.

The Wolf took notice of my sudden lack of tension. “Oh?” He said, baring his fangs. “You seem to have lost your earlier fright, my dear.”

I swallowed. “If you are of the forest, I shouldn’t fear you at all,” I said boldly. “The forest knows me. I am his friend.”

The Wolf laughed even louder than earlier. “Your friend!” He repeated. “Then explain to me why this is the first time I’ve seen you, my pet, because I am certain friends are acquainted much better than that.”

“You were probably always busy when I came to visit,” I said. The Wolf seemed delighted, rather than irritated, at my brash replies.

“Well, I’m not busy now,” he says, stretching carefully, and I watched his long, sharp claws as he did. “So perhaps we may go and do as friends do. What do you and your friends do, dear? Tell me—I am terribly bored, and I wish for some entertainment. The forest can be so dull sometimes.” He looked at me expectantly, and I caught my breath.

For I knew nothing of what friends did, seeing as I had no such person to call in the village. All of them, they had only looked at me in either pity or in askance, and not one had come forth without seeing me as anybody else other than my mother’s daughter.

The fury and the bitterness seemed to return in that moment, enveloping me more tightly than the panic could ever try.

“Ah,” the Wolf said after a moment. “Well, I see the forest is your only friend. How…disappointing.” His golden eyes glittered, not unlike the Beautiful City when the sun hit it at the right spot. He licked his lips again, moving towards me. “I suggest you head back to your little village now, my dear. It is almost night, and I am not the only one of the forest.” He grinned again. “The path is where you have left it.” He seemed to slink away to the trees, and disappeared as easily as he came. I picked myself up; my dress was still a bloodied mess. I turned around, and there was the path, inconspicuous as it had always been, and I returned to it with a sigh of relief, my feet clattering under the worn cobblestones.

The village seemed strangely lighter as I stepped into it, though nothing seemed to have changed. The thatched roofs and little fences were all there, along with the sight of chickens pecking the ground, and little children running like hoodlums all over the fields. Everything was as I had left it.

I walked toward our hut, situated at the outskirts of the village. My mother was there, sweeping away the dirt in front of our house. She looked up as I approached, and her expression seemed to change. “Ah,” she breathed, and then looked away.

She said no more to me for the rest of the day; only led me to the back of the house to wash. She helped me pump water in buckets, and as I scrubbed the dried blood from my skin, she rubbed some oil on my hair.

After bathing, she took my dirty clothes and burned them in a glorious fire. I watched her as she struck the light forcefully, squatting by the firewood, her face ashen with an emotion I could not identify.

“Why did you burn my clothes?” I asked after the fire had died down, and she had swept all the ashes away.

“You do not wash blood in the stream,” she replied calmly. “You will dirty the water. I will make you another dress in replacement, Eli.”

She worked all night, and the sound of the loom haunted me as I turned in my room, dreaming of rivers of blood. I thought I was drowning; the thick fluid entered my mouth as I choked, flailing, unable to reach the banks. I was screaming for help but no one came. No one could hear me.

I woke up the next day to find a dress laid out for me in the chair. It was nothing like I had ever worn—it was made of shimmering brocade, and there were multiple folds and embroidered laces. I stood there, gaping at the masterpiece. It seemed impossible to wear it—and to touch it! I tentatively fingered the cloth—it was light and silky, and my breath was caught in admiration.

“Emily,” my mother said, entering my room. Her face was fatigued; her eyes were red, and her expression was tight. “Wear it, quickly. They will come and talk to you today.”

“Who?” I asked curiously as my mother took the dress and helped me with it. My heart felt like it was going to burst as I slipped it on; the looking-glass had never reflected a more different girl. She was enchantingly beautiful, and I almost wondered who she was.

My mother gave me a small half-smile. “They of the Beautiful City, my dear.”

I could say no more—there was a sharp rap at the door, and in seconds I was in the presence of the gods. I was speechless in amazement—they were more than I had ever imagined, and even just looking at them made my eyes hurt. It was like staring at the sun—the loveliness was too much to behold, and I looked away, lest I be blinded.

One of them took my hand. “I have looked for you,” he murmured, his eyes sparkling like their tower spires, “all this time, you called out to me.”

Did I? But I had never seen him, not even once, in my dreams. I would have said so, but the overwhelming feeling kept my mouth shut and silent. They said more, but I could not listen. All of the sudden, I was in confusion—why was I wearing this dress, why was I sitting here, talking to strangers, why was my mother entertaining them with wit that she had never displayed before? I grew more and more bewildered, and at long last, when the man kissed me gently in the cheek in farewell, I could only utter a relieved sigh in return.

They were gone. I turned to my mother, who neither smiled nor frowned as she surveyed me.

“They will come again in a week,” she said. “And they will take you away, my dear, to their land. It is all you have hoped for.”

I scrambled to stand, my heart bursting—“But why? Why now?”

She looked at me, almost in pity. “You are a woman now, Emily,” she said. “Of course they would want a beautiful woman. Take care of yourself this week—lose yourself, and it will be gone forever, that beauty.”

The week that followed was just as confusing. Never had I been showered so much attention, and though I did not wear the gaudy dress, the men noticed me all the same. The girls also; they smiled at me as though I were a friend, and waved hellos and joined me in my washing. It was just as overwhelming as the Beautifuls’ visit to me.

It was wonderful to be Beautiful, I thought, giddily, as I went to deliver the washing to the city gates for one last time. I would never have to wait by there again—I would enter the next time I took down this path again.

I took note of the path as I walked, painting it in my mind, for I knew instinctively I would never be seeing it again. The forest also; I surveyed with pleasure at the height of color, for it was summer, and the trees were greener, the flowers were brighter, and the skies were bluer. It was a glorious time, indeed, to be Beautiful.

I was almost at the village when the Wolf came out of the forest and onto the path. I started at his appearance, and the legend came flitting into my mind. I paused in fear—I did not want to be taken away the day before I entered the Beautiful City. The Wolf’s domain was surely as majestic, but I preferred the city to the forest.

“Hello, my dear,” he began conversationally, skulking toward me. “It will be your big day tomorrow, I hear. I knew you were terribly pretty,” he said, grinning. “I knew it when you entered me. Oh, the City will be jealous—I have had you before them.”

“You have never had me,” I said haughtily, folding my arms. “I am my own—but I choose the city,” I added quickly.

The Wolf laughed. “Because it seems safer?” He shook his head. “Perhaps you should ask your mother of what she thinks.”

“What my mother thinks is of no consequence to me. She made her mistakes—”

“She?” The Wolf seemed amused. “If I recall, she had no choice in that matter.”

I hesitated. “Still—she could have resisted—”

The Wolf pounced on me, pinning me on the ground. I looked up at him, his black orbs, his saliva dripping from his open mouth, his fangs close to my neck and his breath hot on my face. “Think, my dear,” he murmured, “can you resist me now?”

I was frightened, and I couldn’t move an inch as he loomed over me, licking his lips. Had it been like this for my mother? Did she scream, did she struggle? Or had she laid there like I did now, helpless and unmoving, easy prey to whoever came along?

“I suggest you let go of her, Wolf,” a cold voice said above us, and the Wolf snarled and pounced on the intruder. I struggled feebly to stand up, and someone offered their hand to me. I took it gratefully, and he lifted me easily. I looked at him now—it was the same stranger at the house, though he seemed less magnificent than before.

I looked below; the Wolf was ripping another man to shreds, the blood blending with red of the cobblestones. I retched in horror. Perhaps, the Wolf was clever enough to hide the human bones of the women he had stolen away.

“Don’t look,” he said to me, and his hands covered my eyes. “I’ll take you home now, you pretty little thing.” His words were like the Wolf’s, and I didn’t feel any safer. I gritted my teeth as we swept down the village, landing gracefully in front of my house.

My mother was there. She looked furious, and I realized I had never seen her so. She was a woman of positive emotions, but now she looked dark and angry.

“Let my daughter go,” she shouted at him, waving her broomstick threateningly as she came forward.

“Madam,” he began calmly, though his grip on me did not loosen, “Calm yourself. Your daughter is safe.”

“Not in your hands,” my mother said. “You will let her go this minute, Beautiful, or I will ruin your beautiful face.”

He was amused. “And how do you intend to do that? Do you think beauty is skin deep, madam, that you can peel it away with such a paltry belief?”

“I could expose your ugliness for the world to see,” she whispered, moving so close that I was almost squished between her and the Beautiful. “Just like that girl—isn’t she a proof of your ugliness? Of your monstrosity, of your arrogance, of your humanity.” She spat out the words like she had been saving them for years, and they were all pouring out now, like a raging waterfall. “You call yourself gods, but you have temptations like men—like all men, like all animals. Like that Wolf.”

The man was not moved. “A mistake of one of us is not a reflection of the whole.”

“Oh?” My mother laughed hysterically. “A mistake you say—then this girl, my daughter, she is born of that very mistake!”

I looked at her, her never-had-been beautiful face, and suddenly I felt sick and humiliated. I never loved my mother and now I realized she had never loved me either.

“Let me go,” I said quietly. And then, louder, “now.”

The Beautiful looked at me. “If I release you now, we will never accept you in our city. Do you want to become like her,” a nod at my mother, “bitter and unhappy and unloved? You will meet your father in our city. He will love you, like she never had. He will care for you and love you, Emily.”

“Will he love me like he loved her?” I asked bitterly.

“No,” he said. “That privilege, I intend to keep to myself, my sister.”

It was almost too much to bear, all of the sudden. “Is the Beautiful City the city of vices too?” I snapped, my voice cracking.

He seemed to smile. “You do not know how beautiful sin can be.”

“And I don’t plan to know,” I replied crisply. “Let me go, at once.”

Still he held on. “It is even worse here,” he persisted. “You can live in a castle made of clouds and jewels in our land, and endure a different sort of privations. There is no poverty, there is no hunger. You will not age—you will remain beautiful all your days.”

“As my soul becomes as filthy as your own, you mean.”

He shrugged. “A meager price to pay, and one that only you will be aware of.”

Now I knew why the Beautifuls only took the women of our village. The truth was being laid out for me, and suddenly my dreams seemed silly and ridiculous. It is not all beautiful, my mother had said. I failed to understand then.

“Perhaps I should have chosen the Wolf when I could,” I said coolly.

There was a low growl, and the Wolf, for the first time, came trotting into the village, stinking of human blood and animal lust. “There’s still time to change your mind,” he panted, lolling his tongue.

I stared at the two gods. They were fighting a battle that wasn’t even about me—it wasn’t me they wanted personally. It was just another sacrifice they wanted.

And then there was my mother, the Fury, ready to tear the god who would take me away to pieces.

Though she did not love, and neither did I, at least we both understood how we were comrades in this world. For neither the city nor the forest offered anything that we would be interested to take.

Do not stray from the path.

So I would walk the same path tomorrow as I had walked years ago, that path which mother had carved for me—for though it may be the cruelest path to take, it was the only cruelty I wish to endure. And the village would talk—talk of the girl who had refused the gods, as they had talked of her mother, and they would whisper, whisper about how they had walked a different path—not knowing that from the beginning, it was the only path they had ever chosen to walk.

**The End**

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