Posted by admin on September 2, 2009
Speaker’s Child
By
Kelly D. Tolman
Almost with awe, the young mother held her first child to her breast. The smile she wore was bright despite the sweat that clung to her forehead, and the exhaustion that wrapped her body in silence. In her arms the baby slumbered, and for one moment the darkness and chill of the night were swept out of the little one room cabin.
“How do you feel now?” asked Alaina, the young midwife with fiery hair and quick eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. “He put up quite a fight, didn’t he?”
“He’s so beautiful, I never imagined he would be so . . .” Gerna trailed off as the grandeur of the moment overcame her.
“The first one’s always the worst,” said Belna from where she sat across the room. Gerna’s old grandmother smiled also as she remembered the lost moments of her own children’s births. “After that, they all come a little easier. But then, each is a little different in their own way, and you certainly can never tell how they might turn out in the end.”
“Carn,” began Gerna on a wisp of thought, “will be a fine farmer like his father. Honorable and good to the land. He will always have water, and the High One will bless his heart with the courage to face the light and not burn. He will be a fine man.”
“Of course he will,” agreed Alaina heartily. “But that is a long way off still. For now, you should rest and recover your strength. Brand will return soon with a Speaker, and you will need to be strong for him then, and for the Speaker. Belna and I will see that all is in readiness.”
With those words, Alaina immediately began making her way around the room, reordering the already impeccable cabin. Brand would likely come with the dawn, and would expect everything already arranged for the Speaker. Even if it were no more than a tiny farm near a tiny village, appearance and custom were important for the city grown Speakers. So when Gerna finally dozed a little, Alaina carefully put little Carn in the cradle that Brand had so laboriously made months before, and lit the guardian candles on either side. The speaker would not be pleased if homage to the High One was not properly paid. As if the High One had ever blessed the village with more than famine. As if the Speakers did more than take their children, or steal their hard earned harvests. Alaina paused a moment as she realized her knuckles were turning white with the force she used to grip the dust cloth. She felt the lump in her throat, and the burn begin to build in her eyes.
As if reading her thoughts, Belna asked, “how long has it been now? Not yet a year?”
“A year next month, yes, since they carried off little Stev.” A tear trickled down Alaina’s fair chin, and she turned to face the mantle, letting the heat of the flame cover the rush of blood she felt in her face.
“I am sorry that you were reminded like this. They will not take Carn.” Belna trailed off. Gerna would be hurt too badly. She could not have that, not after all she had faced. No more, not after losing Father and Mother, and already a widow once.
“The gift,” murmured Alaina, interrupting Belna’s thoughts.
“What, child?”
“They said that he had the gift. Strong and clean. He would be strong as day, they said. The gift is rare, they said. The High One had blessed our house, they said. They said so much, and still I live with need, without my Stev. You will have others they said, but I do not want others. I want my boy, my darling. That is the blessing I wait for from the High One.”
“One day,” was all the old woman could respond, and Alaina slipped into her own mutterings. On the bed, Gerna slept quietly. Would she wake for the Speaker? Please, as the water runs, let her sleep. Then Belna too slept in the old chair her own hands had helped create years ago.
The sound of horses woke Alaina just as the first parts of sky were turning gray in the distance. She sat up slowly from the place she had taken next to Gerna, careful not to wake the young mother. She checked the infant in silence, and added a new log to the fire. The teapot was quickly set to heat, and a half a loaf of good brown bread and half a round cheese were set out to serve as breakfast. That will have to do, she thought, may the Speaker be pleased. No, not pleased, just content.
Brand held the door as the Speaker entered. A short man, shorter even than Alaina, with a close cut beard of graying black whiskers, and thick curls on a round head. The familiar black garb of the Speakers seemed to fit him, seemed appropriate even from the way he walked. His boots were silent on the wood floor, and his dark eyes shifted and danced to take in the entire room even as he smiled and greeted the woman beside the fire. “May the rain fall always on your house, mistress,” he said in a very formal voice, “and may the light shine only to guide your path.”
“And may the rain follow you, Speaker of the Prophet, and may the High One open your tongue to the prophecy,” Alaina nearly choked on the words even as they came, but somehow the years of form and custom overcame the hatred she had been breeding inside herself. “A meal is ready, Speaker, and every comfort should be satisfactory.”
“That is the woman,” more an observation than a question. He looked a moment at Gerna’s tired face and still form in the bed. “She has strength,” he said after a moment, “great strength. She will have born a strong child, and has the strength to bear many more. The High One has blessed this house much already.” The dark little man took his breakfast, and made pleasant company. Brand seemed ready to collapse after the long midnight journey, but made every effort to hide his exhaustion and be a pleasant host. None of them noticed Benla slumped in her chair near the bed.
“Shall we see the child?” suggested the Speaker as he finished the last of the loaf. “The sun rises already, and soon travel will be difficult. I must make an early start.” Without waiting for a response, he rose and moved to the cradle between the two long ceremonial candles. “Your devotion to the Goddess will not go unnoticed, ” he observed quietly. May the daylight burn you and your Goddess until they cannot find even your ashes, thought Alaina as a foul taste entered her mouth. “You were the mid-wife,” the Speaker said, casting a glance at the flame haired woman.
“Yes.” She kept her voice cool.
“Was it a normal birth?”
“Everything was normal. He came out strong and feisty.”
“How do you mean feisty?”
“She was in a great deal of pain. The labor took longer than expected, but he did not seem to suffer from the struggle. He did not whimper, just clung to his mother’s breast and eventually slept.”
“Was there anything else?”
“No.”
“Are you quite certain?” Alaina nodded finally, and he turned to Belna. “And her? Who is she?”
“That is my wife’s grandmother,” offered Brand helpfully.
“Wake her, I must know what she saw.”
Brand softly shook the old lady in an effort to wake her easily, but his blood froze when he felt the cold of her skin and saw that the gleam in her eye had gone.
“What’s the matter, Brand?” asked Alaina. “Is she ill, it was a difficult night for all of us.”
“Not ill, Alaina,” mumbled Brand. “She has returned to the shade of the Goddess.”
“The High One protect and comfort,” echoed the Speaker.
Alaina sat down at the table, her stomach turning. She felt dizzy, but even as the room swayed, she found herself and managed a little control. The Speaker seemed to ignore Brand and Alaina, and turned once more to the child. Kneeling beside the cradle, the Speaker raised his arms and began to pray, “High One, Goddess of the Shade, shed now the guidance of thy shadow on this thy Speaker’s tongue. What may become of this thy newest child?” Though Alaina neither saw nor felt anything, the Speaker seemed to tense where he knelt. His voice took on a monotone when he continued, but a hint of pain, and what seemed fear or anger edged his tone. “This child, blessed of the Goddess, has born within him the greatness of farmers, the strength of legends, and many precious gifts. Carn, Child of Shade, come to dwell beneath the sun filled with the gift of cool healing, long running, and the power of legends long dead. Thy heritage will not be thine to keep, but thine to give. Blessed child of the High One, thou shalt face the day, but do not flinch, the light does not burn the gifted.” Suddenly the Speaker sloped forward. He let out a long sigh, as if breathing for the first time, and clutched his chest. Alaina almost sprang from her chair. Brand’s face had turned to ash.
“Will he be taken, then?” asked the farmer.
“Yes,” choked the Speaker as his breath returned. “There is no other way to ensure his training and safety. I will take him with me.”
“What about his mother? What will we tell her?”
“She is strong, she will have others. The gifted are few, and never have I seen one with so much strength, so much power of the Goddess.”
“Never?” questioned Alaina, her face filled with skepticism and anger.
“There is a rumor that another with great strength was found near here a year or so ago, but I have never seen the child, and I can not say, but I doubt he could be stronger, or even the equal of this one. This house will be blessed for its sacrifice.”
Alaina felt sick. Her legs were weak and the burning in her cheeks told her that her rage was visible. With a harsh grunt she lifted herself and stormed out the door. She did not hear Brand call after her, or see the shock in the Speaker’s face.
Alaina stumbled blindly past the horses and began running toward the thin road that lead to Trickend. The sun had risen but the dawn was yet cool and grey. The hard, baked earth felt cool beneath her feet. Alaina did not stop running when she reached the road. The broken stones cut her feet in places, but her senses were numb to all but the image of the Speaker. That man, standing there with his easy smile and devotion to the invisible Goddess. His Prophet’s religion, his search for the faithful, all caused her stomach to turn. The sound of hooves on the road ahead brought her to a walk. Sweat had formed on her forehead, and the subtle sting in her feet quickly became a nagging throb. How long had she been running? She was standing near a cluster of rocks at the only place the road curved until it reached Trickend. Around the corner emerged a heavy set man in his middle years, dressed gaily in a bright red shirt, and driving a slow team of four horses. “Ho, Alaina,” he called when he saw her. Apparently he did not notice her feet or sweaty brow, for he continued in the same pleasant tone. “Coming from Brand’s? So, she finally had him? It is a boy isn’t it?”
“Yes, Master Tooksn, it is a strong baby boy. The Speaker is with them now.” Alaina’s tone was colder than she intended, and she could feel herself losing control again.
“Oh, perhaps then I should wait before I see the new parents.”
“That would be wisest,” agreed Alaina as a new thought entered her head. “I was just on my way to Trickend to get a few things for the child, but if you wouldn’t mind, perhaps you could go to the widow Harla, and tell her of the birth. The Speaker should be done before you return.”
“Harla you say? Will you need anything else?” Master Tooksn looked for a moment into his wagon, and said, “I was just bringing along the ceremonial gift of the silver knife and wisdom cakes. It wouldn’t do to have them in the sun, if you would take them ahead for me.”
Alaina accepted the small bundle of cakes, and the silver sheathed knife graciously, and turned back toward the homestead. The beating of hooves faded with the creak of the wagon, only to be replaced by the sound of another horse coming from the farm. Alaina composed herself quietly, and looked up to greet the Speaker. He held the child close to his breast, and rode only as quickly as care and good sense would allow.
“We meet again, miss,” said the Speaker when he saw her, “I see you have the gifts for the Goddess, I shall take them if you please.” When Alaina didn’t respond, the dark man dismounted carefully, his silver earrings reflecting quickly in the growing light. The baby whimpered softly as he balanced the bundle on the saddle. The cry was quiet, and not prolonged, but the sound reached Alaina, and as the memories of her own Stev’s quiet cries returned. The Speaker looked at her with a slight frown. Beads of sweat had begun to form on his forehead, and he seemed oddly uncomfortable in the dark clothes beneath the morning sun. Alaina barely noticed as the ceremonial knife slipped from the silver sheath, and she didn’t see the paleness come over the Speaker’s face, or hear his final gasps.
Alaina left the child with Brand, whom she found sobbing quietly in a corner of the tiny cabin. His eyes brightened briefly at the sight of his son, but became once more grave as the midwife left, and he put the boy on his mother’s breast.
THE END
Posted by admin on August 28, 2009
The Dancing Bird
by
Kelly D. Tolman
Firelight reflected dimly from Garen’s face as he peered out from the deep woodland shadows. He tipped his hat lower to cover more of his face. In the meadow blazed a large fire, shedding a reddish hue across the glen. Around the fire a slim figure spun and swirled sharply, casting faint reflections of sliver buckles out into the night. From his place in the trees, Garen couldn’t see the figure’s face; only the buckles and the dance. The rhythm was almost hypnotic, the movement delicate yet complicated and intricate, following the subtle cadences of the evening breeze as image shifted through the forest boughs. Garen lost track of the pattern quickly as his gaze became welded to the willowy figure. Without thinking, he felt himself drawn toward the dance, and took one step out of the shadows towards the fire. The dancer made a last turn, and brought herself face to face with him, but when she saw the intruder, she let out a gasp and fled the meadow. Garen watched as she left; still captivated by the magic of the moment before he too finally turned and left.
In the blackness of the forest, Garen felt his palms grow sweaty as he reflected on the image of the dancer before the fire. He wandered slowly through the forest until he finally came to his own camp. Garen his father stooped over the fire, cooking the evening meal. “Didn’t find much in the way of firewood, I see,” said the grizzled man when he saw his son.
“I saw something tonight,” began Garen quietly.
“We all see things sometimes,” responded his father, handing him a plate of stew. “What was it?”
“There was a woman dancing around a fire in the evening light, but when I came near she ran off, like she was frightened of an ordinary woodcutter.” Garen took a mouthful of the stew and began to chew without tasting it.
“Really, now.” Garen’s father contemplated his son, and said, “you don’t suppose it was a wil o’ wisp do you? There are a lot of strange things out there, some of them just illusions sent to bend our minds.”
“No, father, she was very real.”
“Then what are you going to do about it, son. You can’t just go chasing vanishing females in the night. Better to think on it after a good meal and a good night’s sleep.”
Garen took his father’s words to heart, and ate the rest of his meal in silence, and bedded down without commenting on the scene again. But the image continued to return in his dreams, the dance, the shifting pattern and then the one shadowy glimpse of that mysterious face just before it vanished into the shadows.
The morning labor was much more monotonous than usual for Garen. Although he had been a woodsman all his life and he enjoyed the time he spent alone or with his father in the wild, that day he found something missing. “Pining away for the shadowy lass, are you,” said his father when he noticed Garen slacking in his labor. “Worry about the day’s work, son, and tackle the mysteries of the night another time.”
But Garen couldn’t clear his mind of the rhythm of her feet, or her swaying to the silent music of the forest. “I’m sorry father, but I just can’t forget what I saw. There was a look about her that I’ve never seen before. It was something sad, horrible. But beautiful too.”
“A forest spirit, son, forget her and be happy with the good things you have here. Tomorrow we’ll go into town to sell what we’ve gathered so far, and you’ll see that there are other girls to look at.”
That evening Garen returned to the spot where he had seen the dance. Once more the fire burned dimly in the darkening forest shadows, and once again the seeming patternless dance began. Garen watched, enchanted for several moments as she spun, slowly at first, and then more quickly and surely about the ever changing flames. Almost as if part of the fire, her body turned and twisted dangerously, and once more Garen was drawn from his hiding place beneath the darkened boughs. Three thoughtless steps, and he had crossed the clearing, and of their own accord his feet joined hers, marking the pattern, and for a few brief moments they danced beneath the rising moon. When the rhythm stopped, they found themselves standing breathless in front of each other, their faces filled with fear and wonder.
“Who are you,” asked Garen when he finally found the ability to speak again.
“My name is Arieta. I come here to dance for my mother. She was a daughter of the forest, and promised that if I would remember her, she would protect me. Do you come from the village?”
“No, I am a simple woodsman,” responded Garen as he looked for the first time into her dark eyes, and reached out to touch the dark hair that fell straight and soft to her shoulders. “My father and I gather wood and hunt or fish to sell what we find to the villages around. Why is your dance so sad.”
Arieta dropped her eyes quietly, and Garen felt his heart thump. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Arieta had already begun to cry softly, and turned to face the fire. In a very quiet voice between sobs she began, “I come to mourn my parents. They died from the sickness that passed through the villages. Now I care for the house of my brother. But he is a cruel man.”
Suddenly they heard the sound of a branch cracking in the distance, and Arieta’s eyes once more rolled with fright. “He is coming,” she said, “quick, you must leave.”
“But . . .” stammered Garen uselessly as she pushed him toward the edge of the clearing. “Where can I find you,” he whispered, but it was no use. Arieta had already returned to the fire, and begun the dance again. Wordlessly, Garen turned and went to find his father.
This time his father was waiting with their supper already prepared. “Visiting your dancing shadow again?”
“Her name is Arieta, father,” said Garen defensively. “She dances to mourn her parents who died in the plague that has cursed these villages from time to time.” Garen fell sadly silent with a dark frown on his face.
“So, she is no spirit after all.” The grizzled woodsman recognized the pain on his son’s face, and also fell silent. They ate together in silence for several moments before anyone spoke again. “Arieta is a gypsy name, son. What did she look like?”
“She has dark skin and dark hair, like the gypsies, father.” Garen looked into the fire, and chewed his food thoughtfully. “I know that the gypsies aren’t accepted in the villages father. . .”
“Not everyone thinks alike, son. Don’t worry about the shade of her skin so much as the nature of her heart. Tomorrow we will go into the village and see what we can find.”
Garen’s heart was heavy as they brought their goods to the village, as he knew that he would not have the chance to see Arieta that evening. The Fair had arrived once again to celebrate the year’s harvests, and everyone had turned out to celebrate with the farmers. Garen’s father decided to sell to their usual buyer, a middle-aged merchant who in turn distributed the goods to the villages further down the river. As usual, the price was only moderate, but more than enough to provide the two with the few supplies the forest hadn’t given them. By noon their work was complete.
“How about a turn around the Fair grounds to see the games, and maybe buy something other than new ax blades,” asked Garen’s father. Garen’s eyes lit up at the thought of spending a little time in the village. He wanted to look around, and maybe find a small gift for Arieta. “You go on alone, I’ve got another man I want to see on the other side of town.”
“You mean the pub,” laughed Garen, and his father smiled broadly.
“You can find me there a little later if you like, you know the place.”
Garen wandered off quietly, passing the booths of fresh produce that had once seemed so exciting. A few games were being played by stray children, and a strange tune wafted over the crowd from a young group of musicians. The music seemed almost discordant, yet there was a familiar rhythm about it. On the far edge of the fair grounds, Garen found a brightly painted wagon where an old gypsy lady was telling fortunes. The woman had a familiar look about her eyes, and Garen caught himself wandering toward the wagon.
“Shall I tell your fortune, child,” said the woman when Garen stopped and looked at her. “A good fortune you must have, one so strong and young. Surely there are great things ahead for you.”
Garen smiled at the woman, and nodded, “I’ll hear my fortune, though I doubt you’ll find much glory in it.”
Garen followed her into the little red and yellow tent set apart by the gypsies, his eyes darting every direction. A little wooden table was set in the middle of the tent behind a low stool. A worn tablecloth covered the table, and a large crystal ball was set up in the middle. “Be seated, child,” said the woman in soft, yet commanding tones, and Garen silently sat down.
As his eyes adapted to the dark, Garen picked out the frayed ends of the purple table covering, and the scratches on the crystal’s wooden stand. The stiff chair bit into his backside and Garen felt immediately out of place. He stared around in quiet confusion at the dimly lit, yet easily discernible tent interior. The carpet was almost shiny orange and yellow, and the walls were a contrast of green and purple that had been patched in several places with pieces of plain homespun cloth.
“The forces of the universe are gathered here to tell what might come,” intoned the woman in a quiet chant. The light in the tent became even dimmer, and Garen felt lost in strange shadows. A dim glow started at the base of the crystal ball, and began to brighten throughout the rest of the room. Garen crouched closer to the table, and leaned in to see the ball. “The power of destiny has been called,” continued the fortune teller, “look into the ball, and see what may become.” Garen peered into the soft glow of the crystal, but he couldn’t really see anything. “I see fame and fortune,” the woman said in a voice with a strange garbled accent, “greatness and riches beyond the simple life you have enjoyed.”
Garen continued to look into the ball, but his mind began to wander a little. The woman’s voice became a blur similar to that of the glowing ball as she continued in the strangely accented account of his future glory. Suddenly a movement caught the corner of his eye. He turned and saw a dark figure duck into the recesses of the tent with a brief flash of silver buckles. Garen stood up quickly, and dashed after the shadow, shaking the table violently, and nearly toppling the crystal ball on its stand. “Arieta,” he called, and she paused for a moment, half turning back to look at him. “Wait a moment, Arieta.” The fortuneteller stood up behind him with a strange, confused smile.
“Do you know this boy,” asked the woman.
“Oh, no,” answered Arieta, but her eyes gave away the lie. The fortuneteller raised a brow, and Arieta continued, “we met in the forest, Maelena, I was dancing the mourning of my parents.”
Maelena turned to Garen, “did you see her in the forest, child.”
“Yes, we met in the forest,” answered Garen, his voice choking a little, “we danced together under the rising moon.”
“Where did you learn the mourning dance,” questioned the fortuneteller, her voice taking on a tone of bitterness.
“My feet moved of their own accord,” said Garen looking at the ground, “I didn’t understand it all myself, I just followed the music the forest played.” Garen lifted his head and looked into Arieta’s eyes.
“Then you weaved the spell of willows to deceive him in the shadows,” said Maelena in a stern voice as she stared with cold eyes at Arieta.
“No,” mumbled the girl, her face downcast.
“What?”
“It was a simple dance of mourning. Though my heart desired comfort, the dance was simple. Nature . . . my mother’s spirit . . . the magic just happened,” stammered Arieta defensively.
Maelena’s face changed suddenly and her smile beamed brightly. “I just wanted to be sure, child. These are the true forces of the universe, Garen, not just the gibberish of fortune tellers.”
Garen reached out and took Arieta’s hand, squeezing it gently, and pulled her closer. “I don’t know what has caused it, but I love you,” he said.
A rough voice came from outside the tent, “Arieta, Arieta, where are you? The chores are not done yet for this morning.”
Arieta’s face lost color at the sound of the voice, and she looked around the tent for a shadow to hide in. “What is it,” asked Garen.
“Styven,” answered Maelena, “Arieta’s guardian and brother. You will have to speak with him if you really think you love her.”
A dark face with long mustaches poked through the flap at the back of the tent. “There you are, sister. What are you doing here?” Styven’s voice was tainted with unconcealed anger. Styven noticed Garen holding his sister, and the scowl on his face deepened, “who is this?”
Maelena reached a soothing arm out and pulled Styven into the tent. She gestured toward Garen, and explained, “Garen was brought by the powers of nature to ease your sister’s mourning.”
“The only forces of nature are those we create and control ourselves. His kind took our parents away. I will not allow this one to also take my sister. Come, Arieta.” Styven’s voice carried a tone of finality, and Garen had no response.
“I can’t leave him, brother,” said Arieta, “we were brought together for a purpose. Would you deny the blessings of our parents’ spirits.”
“That is nonsense for fortune tellers and fools. I forbid you to be with this creature.” Styven grabbed Arieta’s arm, and pulled her roughly toward the back of the tent. Garen reacted instinctively, and swung wildly at the other man’s face. His blow connected, and the gypsy fell back, tearing a hole in the tent and scattering Maelena’s mystic symbols.
“No,” called Maelena as she stepped in front of Garen, “do no more violence here, please. There are laws and customs. You can not take her by violence, and she would not go with you if you tried. Styven will set the terms, and if you accept and meet his terms, Arieta may choose you. By custom, he cannot forbid her, but you must be very careful.”
Styven fumbled his way out of the torn tent, and looked angrily at Garen. “Custom says you may meet the terms,” he said angrily. Styven grabbed Arieta and pushed her roughly out the back of the tent. “Come to your place in the forest tonight, and we will discuss the terms.” With that Styven turned and disappeared in the jumble of gypsy wagons.
Garen grumbled angrily to himself, and turned to leave the tent. “Garen,” said Maelena, “he will not give her up lightly, and although she loves you, she still loves him too. His terms will be difficult for both of you.”
Garen looked soberly at the gypsy woman. “I know.”
“Styven is a sort of magician among us, no matter what he says is about fortune teller nonsense,” continued the Maelena, “he may try to use certain spells.” Maelena held up a long dagger with leaves etched into the blade. “This will break any spells he weaves with his magic. It won’t affect any other spells, or be more than a knife if he doesn’t use magic, but it might help. Be very careful.”
Garen left the tent with a heavy heart, his head down as he wandered across the village to the pub where his father waited. The fair continued in all its frivolity throughout the afternoon. Gay tunes played in the evening air, and all around people danced merrily or played at the games. A bawdy song rolled out with the warm light from the pub, and the strong scent of alcohol and tobacco reminded Garen that time was short. He found his father with a group of local farmers whose faces were familiar from past fairs, singing merrily over pints of ale. Garen was handed a mug almost immediately, and was pushed into a stool beside his father.
“Welcome, son, and join the revelry. The harvest has been good to all this season . . .” but the merry look faded quickly when he saw his son’s eyes. “What is it, boy.”
“You can guess, father,” said Garen. His father nodded and frowned. “I have something to do tonight. It might be dangerous, I’m not sure.” His father looked into his eyes, smiled softly, and nodded again. Without touching the ale, Garen left the pub quietly, and wandered into the darkening forest. Behind him the party only grew louder.
The shadows lengthened significantly as night approached, until Garen could barely see to place one foot in front of the other. When he finally arrived at the clearing, the moon was high in the starless sky, shining only dimly behind the thin clouds. A fire burned brightly in the center of the clearing and a dull red light reflected like blood from Styven’s face as he waited for Garen’s approach. Behind him huddled Arieta in the black mourning gown, her hands bound by a white cloth.
As Styven began to speak, his voice was dark and menacing, and the fire seemed to burn hotter and higher as he continued. “So, you would have my sister, the gypsy princess, go with you to the life of a simple woodsman, and forsake the tradition of her people. Arieta, do you want this?”
The raven-haired woman looked defiantly into the eyes of her brother. “You know that I do. I cannot deny what has happened, or what I feel.”
“And you, woodsman,” sneered Styven, “are you prepared to pay the price.”
Garen stared defiantly back at the gypsy man, giving only a slight nod to indicate that he was prepared to accept the challenge.
“Very well,” continued Styven, “the terms are simple. We among the gypsies have a magical, a bond with nature. Within each of us is the spirit of a protecting force, which can change us and bond us forever with nature. If Arieta is allowed to bring out magic within herself, and bond completely with nature, you may have her.”
“What will happen to her?”
Arieta spoke up, tears coming to her eyes. “I don’t know, Garen, but I will be changed forever, bound to the forest.”
“Do you agree,” snarled Styven, those are the terms.
Garen looked away from the angry gypsy, and his eyes met Arieta’s. The tears had dried on her cheeks, but the look of fear was obvious. He could see something else in that gaze, though, the unmistakable look of passion, and Garen felt the sweat forming on his palms. “Agreed,” they said in unison, and Styven stepped back in surprise.
“Very well, I will begin the spell, but Arieta must finish it.” Styven began to chant in a low voice, and did a quick dance around the fire. As his voice oscillated, the fire rose and fell, and his body moved in a smooth rhythm. Seemingly from nowhere Arieta’s voice joined his in a high discordant tone. As the flames rose, and the red glow brightened, their voices formed a cacophonous union until Styven’s dance came to an end, and he collapsed in exhaustion to the ground. Arieta’s song continued to rise, and a soft blue glow, like an intense reflection of the moon surrounded her. As if compelled by an outside force, she lifted herself from the ground, and stood, looking into Garen’s eyes. The song rose higher, until the notes were like birds crying in the night, and the blue light became too bright to look into. With a flash, the crescendo died slowly into a lower hum until the light dissipated and the song was finished. Where Arieta had been, a beautiful white bird flapped its wings nervously, and then flew over to Garen. He took the bird on his arm, and as tears streamed down his face whispered, “Arieta.”
On the ground Styven writhed in perverse joy. “Behold, your love, the dancing bird of youth.” The gypsy’s face broke into a vicious grin, until he realized that his words meant nothing to the woodsman. Garen stood, enchanted, a look of joy playing on his face. Styven stood angrily, and let out a rough grunt. “You will never have her,” he cried, and leapt toward Garen. The woodsman turned to face the attacker, but he was too late. Styven tackled him, and they flew together toward the fire. Garen turned, and rolled away from the flames, preparing to defend himself, but Styven was no longer moving. Carefully the woodsman rolled the gypsy over, and found Maelena’s knife lodged near Styven’s heart. Behind him he heard a quiet sob. Garen turned to see Arieta kneeling and crying in the shadows.
“The spell is broken,” said Garen, as he embraced his beloved.
“Yes, and no. Under the light of the moon I am free to roam these woods, but I can never leave them, and when the moon is gone, I will be the dancing bird again.” Arieta sobbed, but Garen tenderly wiped the tears away, and embraced his dancing bird.
The End
Posted by admin on August 21, 2009
Pure Country
by
Kelly D. Tolman
Days like this they let us wander the courtyard. I see the clouds sometimes. I look away from my shadow, up where the sun kisses the concrete towers, and a diamond wells in my eye and wastes itself on my face. Randy said we are all diamonds in the eyes of God. The warden had all the trees cleared here and I’ve been told not to talk about them or Randy. I don’t much, but sometimes when a voice touches me out of the spring breeze, or I catch the meadow larks in the fading sky.
Hard to say if we were pushed our or pulled in. I believe we just wanted to see the mountains, like always, so we went. Spent so long up there, poaching, living like Jeremiah Johnson, off the land, the moon and the stars and cloudy nights erased electric lights and T.V. Met a bear once, just like in the stories, only Randy and me. Damn near killed Toby. Toby was the dog, a little good for nothing mutt Randy insisted we bring along. Black and yappy, ate mushrooms, could always trust him to find good mushrooms. Me and Randy took off, but that mutt stayed and yapped; one swipe and no more yapping. Good thing it was just one swipe, or it would have been permanent.
Those were good days for us, living and breathing, no commercials or loud lights jumping out after bullfrogs in the dark. No more school teachers with their x’s and y’s and square roots of Shakespeare to interfere with hunting and fishing and watching out for Sasquatch. We moved the lodge after the incident with the bear. Its pretty hard to find a good place anymore, away from tourists, even then we had trouble, but we found a cliff spot, not far from High Lake, the nicest place in the world, and nobody ever came there, a bit of Eden lost by technology. Must have passed about ten or twelve years before anyone showed up, and like I always said, society is the cause of all our problems.
We heard society panting through the pines under the August sun, forming a mosquito trail two hundred yards long. Summer time shorts and shirts, and backpacks. How they convinced that woman to carry that much, I don’t know. The funny of it is that for all she carried they still couldn’t light a fire between them. Randy smelled perfume and clean skinned civilization. Womanscent on the mountain like a drug and he said, “been a long time since I had a swim, the lake looks nice under the stars,” and a lot of other similar trash.
“You’ll kill the fish,” I said, “I got long hair, and a long beard, but there are no twigs in my memory. People is trouble, Randy. You go to that lake, and the woods will cut you off permanent.”
Clouds slipped under the stars, but I was ready when the night barked out, and Toby nuzzled his way back from the lake shaking all over. I still wonder, did Randy walk up, hair matted with pine needles, smelling like Big Foot, just say “Howdy,” and they pulled out guns. Or did they laugh and smile because they were drunk and couldn’t see if it was a man or a bear or what, and tried to kill it before it killed them. Or maybe he had a beer with them before he forgot what society was and did something dumb, like the whole thing wasn’t dumb to start. He came back, said there had been trouble, like I didn’t know, and I knocked him down and called the dog, and walked away.
Ten more years passed until I walked into a logging camp they built that I didn’t know about. I got picked up but I didn’t say nothing to nobody, ‘till now. They say I killed Randy, but I know that it was just the diamonds inside him what he couldn’t find, so he done it himself. I know he watched the blushing clouds over the lake, and heard the lake spitting him out, the mountain rolling away, and he knew then he could never find his diamonds again, because they was streaming out his face already, so he done it. Me, I don’t want no trouble, so I don’t talk to nobody, be gone soon anyway.
THE END
Copyright 2009 Kelly David Tolman
Posted by admin on August 19, 2009
Moira Hatfield twisted a shadow for the first time while watching television on her night off. She enjoyed working nights. Daylight offered so little for her imagination. Even as a child she never used the pink nightlight her parents gave her. Instead she preferred to let the subtle light of the stars and moon filter through her windows.
Moira pressed the mute on the remote and looked again at the corner of the table. No she wasn’t imagining it. The shadow actually lifted off the wood. Now that was cool, just the sort of thing her mother would warn her about.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s see if you can do anything else. How about a little twist?” The black fragment of nothing turned as she concentrated. Moira felt a rush of excitement. How long had she been reading about the shadow plane? Wow! She raced to the bookshelf to see if anything there could offer an explanation.
Moira spent the rest of the night alternately perusing for answers and trying to lift more shadows. By the time her roommate, Jill, got up she could cause a shadow to turn or lift at will but nothing more. Unfortunately no one seemed to have written a guide about how to control shadows, so she resolved to hit the library after class.
Jill and Moira shared two classes, and as usual she caught a nap during the American History lecture. The tests all came out of the book anyway. Almost all general courses today. Why did engineers have to take history again?
“You coming to class tonight?” asked Jill. Jill stood a stout five feet even of solid athleticism. Moira couldn’t help but be a little jealous of those baby blue eyes and the bouncy blonde hair. Her own hair never seemed to do anything right.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” said Moira.
“You really seem to be getting into it. Who knew martial arts would be your thing,” said Jill.
“It’s fun, but it’s a lot more interesting since Dane starting coming,” admitted Moira.
“You better get some sleep if you want to impress him,” said Jill. “You look like a zombie. Are you sure you can handle working nights? There’s an opening at the greenhouse, I’m sure I could get you in.”
“It’s no big deal. I got to get to the library before I catch my nap. See you later.”
Moira had no luck at the library, just a few vague references about the fourth dimension, but nothing about actually controlling shadows. Her personal collection of books centered more on fiction. At least they sparked her imagination, although they offered nothing more than possibilities. Eventually she gave up and drifted into sleep.
Hank’s Kenpo Clinic squished between a narrow side street and a condemned bookstore across the alley from The Pancake Emporium. On a good night two or three people could find decent parking. Tonight Moira decided to walk the ten blocks rather than fight the evening pancake crowd. Crime near the university generally tapered off during the cold months, and November offered plenty of shadows for her to play with along the way.
If only she could carry a shadow with her, it would save time and give her something to do during history. Of course she had a shadow. Everyone has a shadow. Why not? She stopped just at the edge of a streetlight and looked at her own shadow.
“Okay,” she mumbled, looking around to see if anyone was watching. She concentrated on the outline of her hair. A few wispy strands lifted off the concrete. A tingling sensation shot through her head. She caressed more of her shadow off the pavement. The tingling became an itch. When the tip of the shadow of her head finally slipped from the sidewalk she felt something slap the back of her head. Pain shot through her eyes and she staggered, losing control of the shadow.
She turned around as quickly as she could, but saw no one behind her. No footsteps. No sound of any kind. In the parking lot across the street a man held the door for his date. The pain in her eyes felt real enough. Either her mind had loosened a bit too much or something about playing with shadows could hurt her. No point holding back.
She held out her hand and concentrated on the shadow of her pinky. As soon as the shadow lifted from the ground a sharp pain shot through her finger. She immediately let the shadow return to normal, and massaged her pinky. Lesson learned; don’t mess with your own shadow.
The pain in her head subsided by the time she joined the class.
“You’re late,” said Jill when she came in. “I’m glad you made it. None of the other girls showed.”
Moira knew what a pain it could be sparring with some of the guys in the class. Most of them treated her nice. They went out of the way to be helpful. Tonight, though, Moira spotted a couple of the regular jerks. At just over six feet Matt had longer reach than anyone in the class, and he liked to spar hard. Neither he nor his friend Ty worked hard enough to develop the skills to handle more experienced opponents, so they preyed on the weaker and newer students whenever possible.
“I wish Hank would just kick those creeps out,” said Moira.
“They pay just like everyone else,” replied Jill.
“That doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it,” said Moira.
“At least it’s practice in case we have to deal with some guy on the street.” Jill winked. She always had a way of finding something positive. “Let’s get warmed up.”
That night they practiced throws and close quarter defense against attackers trying to grab from different angles. Moira worked through the moves automatically, not really thinking about it. By no means had she become proficient and she knew she should be trying harder, but she couldn’t stop thinking about her discoveries.
“Sorry to break you up, ladies,” said Hank with less than ten minutes of time left. “Throwing around someone your own size is one thing, but if you want to be able to handle someone bigger than yourself you’re going to have to practice it. Are you up for it?”
At first she paired with Dane. He started coming to class less than a month ago but had already passed all of them.
“You sure learn this stuff fast,” she said. She couldn’t help looking him over. At five foot nine, he wasn’t overly tall, but he had a confident muscular build that he carried easily.
“I’ve trained in some other places,” he said. “There’s no wrestling team or boxing team at the college, so this is my way of working out the stress.”
He guided her through the motions of the moves they had been practicing. Somehow his touch seemed electric. Maybe she just imagined it.
“Time to trade up,” said Jill. She leaned over and lowered her voice to a bare whisper. “Your turn with the beast.”
Jill had been paired with Matt. Moira glanced over at the clock. She could handle two minutes, besides Jill was right, if she wanted to be able to deal with a creep on the street she needed to learn to deal with one here.
They practiced defending a basic grab from behind. The first time he groped her, it could have been an honest mistake, but nobody makes that mistake twice. Moira fumed. She opened her mouth to swear at him when she thought of a better idea.
As they clinched again she concentrated on the shadow near his foot. Angrily, she bent it off the floor. Matt gasped in pain and dropped to the ground. He rolled away grasping his foot and cursing.
“Foot cramp?” asked Moira innocently. “You should drink more water.”
Moira sipped some water as class wound down. If bending someone’s shadow off the floor could do that, what else could she do? Jill wandered over.
“You really are out of it,” said Jill. Moira realized she had been daydreaming again. “Want to get something to eat?”
“I got work,” said Moira, a lie, but she needed time to digest what just happened.
Moira waited for Jill to leave before picking up her backpack. The moon outside had risen full and pale, but bits of cloud covered it from time to time. The wind smelled of snow, the first warning of winter, but the air felt clear and cool. Moira cut through another alley behind a couple of small stores. Everything seemed a little more quiet than usual, but not much happened in this town.
“Interesting work,” said a voice in the darkness. Moira stopped. Her heart jumped. She didn’t recognize the voice. It rang out low and resonating. “Shadow bending is nearly a lost art in this world.”
Moira watched as Dane stepped from the shadows about ten feet ahead of her. She hardly recognized him. His vacant eyes stared past her, and his skin appeared pale. Perspiration clouded his face.
When in doubt, ply for time. “What are you talking about?” she asked, checking the distance to the end of the alley. It would be closer to turn around if she decided to run.
“No need to play games,” said Dane. No, not Dane. That was definitely not Dane’s voice. “We felt the energy shift and have come to negotiate.”
“We? Who are you? Where did you come from?” asked Moira. She shivered. “What is it you want?”
“I gather you have seen through the disguise, your powers must be greater than we thought.” Suddenly Dane opened his mouth and exhaled a thick gray mist for several seconds. The last of the mist escaped and Dale collapsed on the pavement. A misty, legless figure, almost the shape of a man with glowing eyes hovered before her in the alley.
Her mind raced. She choked back a scream. She glanced at Dane, but she couldn’t tell in the half-light if he was breathing or not. Whatever this thing was apparently it thought she knew more than she did.
“That’s better,” she said, trying to sound confident. “Now what exactly do you want?”
“We want you to join us, of course,” said the figure. “We seek allies in the shadow war. We are, of course, prepared to barter.”
“First of all, I don’t know who you are. Secondly, I don’t know anything about any war, and even if I did I don’t want any part of it. You have the wrong person.” Moira tried not to sound panicked, but her heart wouldn’t slow down. Instinctively she looked to the shadows in the alley. The creature had a faint shadow that shifted as the mist within its body billowed.
“My name is not important,” said the creature.
“It is to me,” replied Moira.
“Very well. Call me Kierzax. Enough games. Name your price.” Kierzax definitely sounded impatient now.
“Look Kierzax, I already told you, I don’t want any part of your war. I’m going home now, and you should to,” said Moira.
“I’m certain we can reach a bargain,” said Kierzax. He pointed a misty finger at Dane. “I can offer you him. I believe you find him appealing.”
Moira thought for a moment. Whatever was happening had gone beyond serious.
“Is there something else you would prefer? Perhaps some sort of influence here in your home world?” said Kierzax.
“Anything worth that is definitely something I don’t want to do,” said Moira. “For the last time, go home. Find someone else.”
“We cannot allow you to join the others,” said Kierzax. “I have been fair. If you cannot be persuaded, then you must be eliminated.” Kierzax’s eyes flared with a sudden inner flame, casting a dim red glow across the alley.
No point stalling now. Either fight or run. Moira hesitated only a second before ripping his shadow from the pavement in one swift thought. Kierzax groaned as his shadow now stood next to Moira, but seemed otherwise unharmed. He opened his mouth, and fire erupted towards Moira. She dodged behind Kierzax’s shadow, trying to find some cover. The flames hit the shadow and Kierzax wailed in agony. Smoke peeled off his shadow. The smell of sulfur and burning trash filled the alley.
Desperately Moira tried to think. Some good Hank’s self defense techniques did now. If an assailant breathes fire, do I try a wristlock or a hip toss?. One shadow stopped his fire, so maybe a lot of shadows could stop him. She pulled the massive shadows from the buildings together. All around, she quickly wove a semi translucent wall of darkness. For the moment it seemed to be working. The barrier stopped a second spout of fire.
Time could not be on her side. Kierzax started to rise into the air. She built her wall higher, but he just moved faster. Soon he would be over the buildings. She added a ceiling to her wall, and instinctively stretched the shadows to add three more walls, effectively sealing Kierzax in. What would happen if those walls suddenly collapsed in? Could she crush him, whatever he was?
Keeping the box together as she collapsed it proved to be more difficult than first imagined. Shadows by their very nature tend to move, and managing the complex geometry of a shrinking cube required skills she hadn’t yet mastered. At the last instant, just before the walls completely closed in Kierzax managed to thrust out one smoky claw and grab Moira’s shirt.
The shadows closed in on themselves and Moira found herself spinning, flattening, and lost to any reality she had ever known. She didn’t lose consciousness, the pain felt too intense. She closed her eyes and covered her ears against a powerful blinding wind that battered from all sides. Finally she dropped onto the cold hard pavement.
She opened her eyes. Kierzax had disappeared, but the faint scent of sulfur hung in the air. Dane was gone. The alley looked different, felt different. The buildings loomed black and flat, not just dark, but blacker than any night she could remember. No sounds came from the street behind her. Moira walked back towards the Kenpo Clinic.
Everything appeared washed of all color. All of the buildings, signs, even the litter varied from black to gray or darker gray. The streetlight switched from one gray dot to another, emitting no real light. Moira saw nobody else anywhere. The silence felt so complete she heard her heart beating and the soft rhythm of her breathing.
A chill wind broke the silence, making her shiver through her winter coat. Nothing moved with the wind. The few scattered autumn leaves, the dead grass, and the litter ignored the breeze. Even her hair seemed unaffected. The moon floated overhead a pale disk shedding no real light.
She ran to the Kenpo Clinic, then to the Pancake Emporium. Flat black and gray cars cluttered the parking lot, but no people filled the restaurant. Suddenly a car door opened. A dim shape, like an erased pencil drawing seemed to get into the car, or did she imagine it. The door closed silently. A few seconds later the car backed out of the stall, though the engine made no sound. The car pulled away and melted into an unseen fog. After only about fifty feet it completely disappeared. When she looked back, the car had returned to the parking stall.
With this many cars, people had to be eating in the restaurant. Moira went to the front door. Through the glass she saw nobody. She pulled on the handle, but it refused to move. It didn’t feel locked. The deadbolt would have at least wiggled a little. She simply couldn’t move it.
“I see you are new to my world,” said a voice behind her. Moira turned and saw a figure cloaked in blackness. It had a humanoid shape, but she couldn’t make out any distinct features. She half expected to see it carrying a scythe, but it had no real hands and held nothing. Two large black dogs with sleek bodies as if cut from pure obsidian waited only a few feet behind the figure.
“Where?” asked Moira, but she had a feeling she knew exactly where she was.
“The realm of shadows, of course,” replied the figure. “Odd that you would not know where you are. Most visitors come here with a purpose.”
“It was an accident,” said Moira. “I was fighting Kierzax and then I was here.”
“The legion is not welcome here,” said the figure. The dogs spread out from the figure, baring black teeth.
“Who? I don’t know anything about any legion,” said Moira.
“Unlikely,” replied the voice. “All who enter this realm know of our long hatred of your war.”
“I’m not fighting any war,” said Moira desperately. Realization of her situation seeped in slowly. Somehow Kierzax must have pulled her into the shadows. “I just want to go back.”
“You have brought your war here.” The voice rang sinister. “It will end here, for you.”
The dogs slowly circled into range to attack. Moira thought quickly, and saw that the dogs did not cast any shadow, nothing here cast a shadow. She grasped one of the dog’s legs with her mind. She focused so intently that she didn’t notice her hands come up to make a twisting motion, as if she held the leg in her hands. The shadow substance conformed to her will. The creature let out a hollow, haunting howl as its leg warped suddenly out of shape. The second dog leapt at her, but she pulled it out of the air with her mind and sent it painfully to the ground.
“A bender with some skill,” said the figure. “You could abandon your war and help me here.” The two dogs melted into nothing as it spoke.
“I don’t have a war,” said Moira. “I don’t want anything to do with your war. I’m going home.”
“If you intended to leave you would already have gone,” replied the voice. “If you aren’t here for the war, what is it you want?”
Before Moira could respond, the powerful odor of sulfur washed over them all. Kierzax seemed to appear out of nothing just a few feet from the figure.
“You can’t have her, Vorgos,” said Kierzax. “If she will not join me, then she will join no one.”
Kierzax opened his mouth. Moira expected fire to stream out. Instead he began coughing violently. Vorgos raised a hand and a sudden black shape slapped Kierzax in the head.
“You will find that fire requires elements we do not have,” said Vorgos as Kierzax wheeled backwards. “Your war is unwelcome here.”
Kierzax collapsed into a thick strand of smoke and dodged the blows of the nearly shapeless shadow weapon. Moira chose this moment of distraction to flee around the corner and back up the alley towards her apartment. If those two wanted to fight she wasn’t going to get in the way. Behind her a roar of rage and frustration rang out, but she couldn’t tell which of the two it came from. As the roar died down, Moira hit a full sprint.
Five blocks later she slowed to a jog, and eventually a walk, breathing heavily. “Starting tomorrow, I am definitely doing a cardio program,” she thought. She stopped and leaned against a building to catch her breath. What had Vorgos meant? Clearly he, or she or it, thought Moira could leave at any time.
Moira milled this thought over for a few seconds until a column of sulfurous smoke streamed up the street behind her. Moira caught the movement out of the corner of her eye, and turned to face Kierzax as he took shape. She didn’t have the energy to run anymore.
“You can still join us,” said Kierzax.
“Not interested,” replied Moira. She was starting to breathe a little easier now.
“You were a fool to bring us here. Vorgos will hunt both of us now. You’ve trapped both of us into a fight that neither of us needs.”
“So,” she said. “I can’t take it back now. What do you want?”
“A temporary alliance,” said Kierzax. “Together we might be able to escape Vorgos.”
“No thanks.”
Kierzax swung a smoky fist towards Moira’s face. Instinctively she dodged the blow, grateful she had at least learned that much in class. He tried again. This time she pulled the sign from a storefront, using her mind to make the shadow block the blow. Moira gathered substance from all around the street to defend the constant onslaught of sneaky attacks. Bit by bit she tore up the street as she backed her way up the block.
Suddenly a black shape took hold of Kierzax. Another of Vorgos’ dogs materialized behind him. Kierzax writhed in agony as the creature clamped down where his leg should have been. Then he pounded the dog’s head with a smoky fist, forcing it to release the hold.
Moira used the opportunity to think. Obviously Kierzax couldn’t escape or else he would have by now, which meant that her instincts were right. He was just trying to use her. That didn’t tell her how to get out, though these two seemed to think she should be able to. An idea finally came to her. Vorgos walked into view behind his dogs. The dogs kept Kierzax fully occupied, so once again Moira slipped away down a side street.
Thinking back to her first encounter with Kierzax, she thought how the process could be reversed. Starting with the ground, she pushed all of the shadows away, building an empty black cylinder around herself. Light broke through the bottom of the cylinder, nearly blinding her after the constant darkness of the shadow world.
Once again she felt herself falling, being pushed, and thrown into a new world. Intense pain shocked her again as she found herself sprawled on the sidewalk. A hundred different smells seemed to reach her at once, but not a hint of sulfur. Snowflakes glittered in the moonlight as they drifted down the lazy breeze. Moira stood up slowly and dusted off her pants and coat.
In a building’s shadow across the street, she thought she heard a muffled growl. Tired or not, she broke into a sprint back to her apartment. She slowed once to catch her breath, but didn’t stop until she reached the door. The door was locked. Moira fumbled for her key. Inside she found Jill watching television with the lights off.
Moira flipped the light switch, causing Jill to blink a little. “Who do I need to talk to about that job?” she asked. “I think I’m done working nights. I need a little more light in my life.”
THE END
