Category: short stories

Jen and Dynnah’s adventures continue in this third part. Read part one here and part two here.

A shower of stones and small rocks clattered down the nearby cliff face, and Jen woke
with a start. Dynnah slept on beside her; the woman could sleep through anything, it seemed. Rather than disturb Dynnah, Jen raised her head, looked around. What had persuaded the rocks and stones to abandon their previous perch in search of lower ground, Jen didn’t know. She saw nothing to alarm her, heard nothing but the song of a nearby bird as it greeted the new day.
The shadow of a nearby outcrop of rock lay across her and Dynnah like a blanket that
brought them no warmth. The inadequate horse blanket remained their only covering at night, too small for two, not very warm, and smelly from their sweat as well as the horse it covered through the day. While she waited for Dynnah to wake, Jen watched the furthest edge of the shadow crawl backward toward them, as though it wished to scoop them up and carry them back to the sun that had birthed it. It slid over them, sensuous and cold, and soft warmth followed it like a fire that chases away the cold and damp.
More small stones rattled down the cliff face, along with a larger piece of stone that
bounced from the ground and rolled to a stop an arm’s length from Dynnah, who stirred and groaned, sleepy and resentful. Jen scanned the cliff but still saw nothing to indicate how the stones had been dislodged. With the threat of the Burgher’s men and their companions from Werllan, who had followed them from Crossroads, uppermost in her mind, Jen decided they should move on. Dynnah appeared to have gone back to sleep, but Jen shook her, hissing at her to wake up.
“Dynnah, rouse yourself.”
The sleepy woman waved an angry arm in the air and tried to swat Jen’s hand away
but failed to connect with any meaningful force. Jen hissed at her again, an urgent whisper she hoped would not frighten her lover as she woke.
“Come on, Dynnah. It’s time we moved on. Those men might still be behind us. We can’t risk them catching us.”
“Go away, you evil monster.”
Monsters. Yet another thing to fear. Rumours said the Others made their home in the
Cordon, and Jen feared them even more than Vanster’s men and the strangers who rode with them.
“All right. I’ll leave you here and ride on alone. After all, it’s not as if the Cordon is
rumoured to be alive with Others or—”
Dynnah sprang up and glared at Jen.
“You are not the sweet stable girl you pretend to be, you know that? You have a wicked streak in you wider than these wretched hills.”
Jen fought to keep a smile from her face.
“I’m sorry, Dynnah, but I heard something just now, while you were asleep. Stones fell down that cliff” — she pointed to the cliff face in question — “and woke me. I don’t know what loosened them, and I don’t want to wait around long enough to find out.”
Concern widened Dynnah’s eyes.
“Could it be those men?”
Although Jen was younger than Dynnah by three years, Jen always felt as though she
was senior, the one who stayed calm, took decisions when things were difficult. Dynnah became frightened at the slightest thing, it seemed, and Jen saw fear try to take the older woman now, spirit her away into the worst imaginings of her mind, where her fates would be the worst of all possible outcomes.
“I doubt it, Dynnah. It’s nothing more than an animal looking for some breakfast, I’m sure.”
“Others?”
Jen’s attempt at reassurance had missed the mark as Dynnah’s thoughts jumped past all the cute animals her mind might have conjured up and landed instead on the
most bothersome threat of all – the Others.
Jen freed the suppressed smile and held out a hand. After all, it had been her who first mentioned the Others, and how she regretted it now.
“We’re safe, Dynnah. Safe, but hungry. While that little creature eats its breakfast, we have nothing at all to eat, and I’m starved. Let’s get on our way down the hill. I think I can smell some bacon sizzling in a pan, even from all the way up here.”
Dynnah nodded.
“I am hungry. I can’t deny it.”
“Come on, then. Let’s saddle up and ride on.”
As Jen pulled herself up onto Gilpin’s back, her mind turned again to Dynnah’s fears,
worries, insecurities. Whatever had driven those men from Werllan to seek out Dynnah in Crossroads had placed the two women in a precarious position. Their future looked bleak, they had neither food nor water, and with Dynnah’s tendency to worry, Jen wondered how the older woman would cope with the life that stared her in the face.
Gilpin plodded along in his own dependable way as Jen’s mind rambled through the
events of two days ago. Dynnah did not suit the life that lay ahead of her —uncertainty, no reliable source of the comforts she had grown used to, probable hardship — but she had not balked at the desperate ride from Crossroads, or at the continuation of the journey down the slopes of the Cordon to the unknown land below. Why? A woman who had lived all her life in the comfort provided by wealthy parents, followed by a wealthy husband, but now took to the road without even a change of clothes and with no surety of any outcome. Something drove her to flee, and Jen did not trust the answer that Dynnah had given her. She must have some inkling of why the Werllan men sought her.
Jen shook her head, angry at herself. Throughout her childhood, her parents had
taught her never to judge anything by how it looked, not to jump to conclusions without any substantial information, yet here she was, filled with terrible thoughts about a woman who had brought her so much joy over the last months. Dynnah’s past was hers, and Jen had no claim on it and no right to know anything Dynnah chose not to reveal.
Gilpin slipped, and Jen’s attention sprang back to her surroundings. The hill had
become steeper, and she hadn’t noticed, so mired had she become in her thoughts. The stony ground beneath Gilpin’s hoofs, combined with the steepness, did not look the best way forward for a rider with Dynnah’s brief experience. Jen cast about for a safer route, but before she could find one, the worst outcome, worse than any even Dynnah might have imagined, arrived like the last act of a stage play, a tragedy with an unbearable final scene. Dynnah’s horse slipped, and the older woman lacked the instincts to counter the unexpected pitch forward.
As Jen snapped her head round at the sound of the loose stones that tumbled down the hill, and her horse snorted in alarm, Dynnah’s body hurtled forward, struck the neck of her mount, then fell sideways. She crashed to the stony ground and rolled down the hill like a ball released by a child. Her arms and legs flailed around, and she screamed. Her luck had held, and her feet had come out of the stirrups, or she might have broken a leg. With a despondent cry, Jen dismounted, and Gilpin skittered, unnerved by the other horse’s fear, no doubt.
Dynnah came to an abrupt stop against a bleak bush that somehow scrabbled a life out of the stony hillside. Jen scrambled down toward her, slipping and sliding and falling herself on the treacherous stones that worked to upend her. As she neared Dynnah, she heard soft sobs, and she heaved a breath of relief. Dynnah had survived the fall; but at what cost?
Jen crouched beside the older woman.
“Are you hurt?” Jen’s heart pounded in her breast as concern and anxiety threatened to overwhelm her. She reached out toward Dynnah, who lay on her side, legs bent, arms splayed, her head beneath the sparse foliage of the bush. With gentle pressure, Jen pushed on Dynnah’s shoulder, and the older woman rolled onto her back, her face screwed in agony, tears spilling from her eyes. Jen’s heart fluttered. “Dynnah. Are you hurt?”
Dynnah said nothing, but she nodded her head and laid an arm across her eyes. Jen
swept her eyes over the fallen woman. Blood stained the lower right leg of her trousers, which were scuffed, torn and dusty. Both elbows had nasty grazes and blood seeped from a rip in her shirt near her left shoulder. Her face wore several scratches, but nothing that seemed too serious.
Jen reached down to Dynnah’s right ankle and pulled her trousers up her leg. Blood
poured from a deep cut, about as long as Jen’s palm was wide. It would need to be sewn shut and covered, but they had nothing suitable for either task, unless they tore strips from their shirts. Dynnah’s shirt had already ripped in so many places, a few more tears could make little difference, so Jen tore an entire sleeve from it, then tore it in half lengthwise. She used one half to fashion a crude bandage around the wound and tied the other below Dynnah’s knee to slow the flow of blood. She had seen enough cuts on horses to know she needed to reduce the blood that seeped from the cut, or Dynnah might die from loss of blood.
Jen looked around. Both horses had scrambled higher up the hill and stood on flatter
ground where they grazed as though the sky hadn’t crashed down onto them, as it had on Jen and Dynnah. She turned back to Dynnah.
“Can you make it up the hill to the horses if I help you?”
They needed to get off the Cordon with greater urgency and find help for Dynnah before the blood that ran from her cuts weakened her and she could go no further.
Dynnah’s face, white with pain, shock, and fear, frightened Jen, but the older woman
grimaced, clenched her teeth, and answered, “I’ll try.” With Jen’s help, she managed to stand, the injured leg bent backward. She kept her eyes closed and made small moans as Jen tugged one of Dynnah’s arms around her shoulders. The risk of another fall was extreme, but they needed to reach the horses and ride down the Cordon in search of help.
Step by painful step, they groaned and screamed their way up the stony hillside. A
stone moved beneath Jen’s foot, and she fell. Dynnah landed on top of her and knocked all the breath from her body. Her ankle burned with agony, but she could move it, so she guessed she hadn’t broken it. Tears in her eyes, she crawled out from beneath Dynnah and helped the older woman to her feet again as she gulped air into her tortured lungs. Voices in her head yelled at her to give up, leave Dynnah here, and ride off. “Go for help. She’ll still be here when you get back,” they said, but she refused to listen to their deception. By the time she found help and came back, she felt certain Dynnah would be dead. They both had to ride together. She sought to reassure Dynnah, who panted from the exertion and grew heavier with every step as her strength failed.
“Not far now.”
Teeth clenched, sweat soaked through her clothes, her hair, Jen only half believed the words herself.
“You seem in need of help.”
The man’s voice startled Jen, and she looked up in search of whomever had spoken. Her chin sank to her chest, and the last embers of hope died inside her, extinguished by the wave of disappointment that washed over her at the sight of the faces that peered down at them. The two Werllan men stood there, together with Pieter and three more of Vanster’s men. Stillen was conspicuous by his absence. That didn’t matter; the men had pursued them and had caught them. Behind them, their horses stood together, their reins all in the hand of one of Vanster’s men, Symon. She recognised three of the horses. One belonged to the Werllan men, the one she had left behind, while another two had been stabled with her by locals who didn’t ride often.
Jen knew Symon, but not well. He stared at her, emotionless when she raised her head, and she sought Pieter’s eyes. He had a bruise on his temple, and had every right to be furious at her, but among the six men, some semblance of sympathy shone from his eyes alone.
“We have rope.” One of the Werllan men appeared to fancy himself the leader, and he continued to talk while the other men stood silent and watched. “We can throw some down to you and pull you up. Your friend looks hurt.”
Jen glanced behind her, down the hillside. Could they escape if they turned and ran?
Perhaps, except Dynnah wouldn’t be able to run. She hung from Jen’s shoulder, a battered, dejected figure. If abject misery could walk, it would be Dynnah at this moment.
Pieter’s voice dragged her attention back up the hill.
“Jen, let us help you. The Hummock woman needs assistance. We’ll head back to Bellindu and get her a healer.”
Pieter had been born in Crossroads, but he referred to it as Bellindu. Not many who
had been born in the town while it was called Crossroads used any other name for it, but Pieter had. Perhaps because he worked for the Burgher. Who knew? Who cared? They were cornered, and all their attempts to escape had failed. Jen felt hollow, as though her insides had been pulled out and discarded. She stared upward at Pieter.
“What happens to her after we get back to Crossroads?”
The Werllan man replied.
“We will take her back to Werllan, where she will be questioned about the money.”
He had mentioned money in such a casual way, as though he had assumed Jen would
know what he meant. She wouldn’t reveal that she had no idea what money he had referred to — not yet anyway.
“And then?”
Jen tried to keep the conversation alive while she pondered their situation in case she had missed something that might rescue them from their plight.
To her surprise, Dynnah answered, her voice weak, so quiet that the men might not
have heard what she said.
“Jen, by the Twain, let it drop. They have us. What they will do to us is beyond our power to control.”
Jen nodded, habit rather than any reaction to Dynnah’s words. Her mind whirled as
she tried to make sense of their situation from what she had pieced together of Dynnah’s life before Hummock. The widow of a wealthy banker, by her account, with enough money to buy the old house. Could her late husband’s money be what the Werllan man had meant? Jen could see no reason why they should claim money left to Dynnah by her deceased husband. That made no sense, but what did? They found themselves in a farcical situation, Dynnah injured, their horses above them and with six men in the way, six men they had run away from two days ago. They had eaten nothing in that time, drunk nothing. Jen felt weak, light-headed from hunger, her throat and mouth as dry as a cured animal skin, desperate for even a drop of water. Dynnah struggled to move at all and might collapse and die at any moment. She looked at Pieter, ignored the Werllan man.
“Do you have water?”
“We do. Let us throw you a rope.”
Jen could run, but Dynnah could not. For now, their best hope lay in surrender. Who
knew what would happen next?
“Throw it down.”
She gave up, devoid of any idea and anxious to get care for Dynnah.
Another of Vanster’s men, Brynn, fussed in the pack on the back of one of their horses
and came out with a length of rope.
“Here you are, Jen.”
He threw it down the hill toward her.
She bent to pick it up, then stopped, crouched with one hand on the rope, the other on Dynnah’s thigh to steady her as she swayed next to her. Why did they have rope? It seemed an unlikely item to carry in pursuit of two women. Did they plan to hang Dynnah, and perhaps Jen as well? She looked up at Brynn, and he gave her a smile, full of reassurance and good intentions. He had been a weak boy when he was young, often bullied by other boys from the town. Jen had stood up for him more than once and been punched in the stomach on his behalf more than once, too.
She couldn’t believe Pieter or Brynn would let them hang her. That made no sense. She knew them all, had known them since they were all snot-nosed, dirty-face kids playing in the fields around Crossroads, stealing fruit from local farmers’ trees, summer days spent swimming in the brook that ran past the southern edge of town. Jen picked the rope up and tied it around Dynnah’s waist, then threw the older woman’s arm across her shoulder again.
“Pull us up.”
She clutched the rope with her free hand, and Brynn and Pieter hauled on the rope while the Werllan men stood and watched, smug, satisfied grins on their faces. The rope helped, and they reached the small ledge where the men had gathered without further incident. Jen and Pieter lowered Dynnah to the ground, and Brynn fetched more cloths. He tore the sleeve of Dynnah’s shirt away and sucked his breath across his teeth as he looked at the deep cut. He poured some water on it, washed some of the fresher blood away, then folded a cloth, placed it over the wound, and tied it in place with another length of cloth. Jen gave him a grateful smile, relieved their intentions seemed helpful, as they had said.
That proved to be an illusion, swept away without delay by the Werllan man who had
been the only one to speak so far.
“Hang this one, bring the other.”
He had pointed to Jen. They intended to kill her? How had she been so stupid when she trusted them?
Pieter stood and stared at the man.
“What? That’s not what Burgher Vanster agreed to.”
The stranger huffed a dismissive breath.
“I don’t care what he agreed to. We only want the Alston woman. This one is baggage, and we don’t need her.”
Jen couldn’t understand anything he said. What was ‘the Alston woman?’ How could
Pieter and the other three let these two strangers kill her, born in Crossroads, their friend for over thirty years, or at least someone they knew?
Brynn took a step toward them.
“Burgher Vanster agreed we would help you because you assured him you wouldn’t hurt them. We” — he waved his arm around at the other Vanster’s men — “aren’t going to stand around and let you harm Jen. By the Twain, I’ve known her since I could walk. She has done nothing wrong.”
The Werllan man snorted.
“She assaulted him.” He pointed to Pieter. “Another of your colleagues lies at death’s door because—”
“Stillen took a bump to the head. He’s nowhere near death’s door.” Pieter was a tall
man, and he looked threatening to Jen as he spat his words out at the stranger. “It’s like Brynn said, mister. No harm comes to either of them, not while we have any say in the matter.”
The other Werllan man, the one who hadn’t spoken yet, took a step toward Pieter and
reached into his short jacket. The first man held out an arm, and the other stopped, still with his hand inside his jacket. The first man took a deep breath, then nodded.
“So be it. We’ll take them back to your little town, turn that one over to you, and ride on with the Alston woman.”
The Vanster’s men relaxed, all the tension gone from their bodies. The Werllan man
hadn’t finished, however.
“We’ll prepare a meal, then we’ll head back.” He turned to his companion. “Against the tree, Ferkkan. Let’s make sure they don’t slip through our fingers again.”
The other nodded and picked up the discarded rope.
“Bring the women over here.”
His voice was a low growl, and since the five words were the first he had spoken, Jen had no way to know whether he always sounded so fierce.
She had been relieved when Pieter mentioned that Stillen did not seem to have
suffered too much when Gilpin had knocked him over, but the sense of dread that settled on her when the other man ordered Pieter and the others to hang her did not lift. She didn’t trust this Ferkkan, and he meant to incapacitate them somehow, it seemed. He walked over to a small tree and stood there, his toes tapping on the ground in impatience, the rope in his hands. None of the others moved, and he glowered at Brynn.
“Now, curse it.”
Pieter, Brynn, and Jerek, the fourth Vanster man, helped Dynnah and Jen to their feet and over to the tree.
Ferkkan ordered them both to sit with their backs to the tree, then looped the rope around the trunk, across their chests, and under their armpits, tied it tight.
Jerek broke his silence.
“Is that necessary? The Werllan woman can’t even walk.”
“If I say it’s necessary, it’s necessary.”
Ferkkan stomped away, and Pieter gave Jen an apologetic shrug.
Jen turned to Dynnah.
“How are you?”
“In agony, but never mind that. I’ve landed you in trouble, Jen. I’m sorry.”
Jen pondered everything she had heard; the parts she had understood and the large
portions she hadn’t.
“What did he mean about the money?”
“Something to do with Galt, my husband, I imagine.”
Jen could not see any connection between these violent men and Dynnah’s late husband.
“I don’t understand.”
“I imagine Galt owed them some money, and they believe I should pay it to them.”
Pieter interrupted their conversation. He brought over a small metal container and
handed it to Jen.
“Water. Take a drink. I’ll bring you some food soon.”
Jen smiled her gratitude at Pieter and handed the container to Dynnah.
“Drink.”
Dynnah tipped the container back and swallowed, then wiped her lips with a contented sigh.
“That feels good.” Jen accepted the container and raised it to her lips. The water slid down her parched throat and tasted like the sweetest nectar to her at that moment. She sighed from the relief it brought to her throat as she returned it to Pieter.“Thank you.” She smiled at him again, as the feel of the liquid in her mouth lingered in her memory. “Can you spare some for Gilpin?”
He nodded, distracted, as though he hadn’t decided about her horse but didn’t want to argue about it. Jen didn’t ask for water for Dynnah’s horse. It belonged to the Werllan men, and no doubt they would take care of it now they had reclaimed it.
Pieter wandered back to the knot of men, who had dried meat and bread in their
hands. Jen stared in longing at the food and hoped Pieter would make good on his offer to bring some over for the two women. The men spoke to one another in hushed voices, but it seemed obvious that their conversation had become heated. Perhaps the Werllan men had suggested they should kill Jen again.
She could not affect that debate, so she focused on Dynnah.
“How is your leg?”
“Painful. Why did you lead us down that slope? It was too stony.”
Jen’s head fell forward. She had been distracted by her thoughts; she hadn’t noticed
the change in terrain. She held herself to blame for Dynnah’s injury, and for everything that had happened to them over the last two days. Panic had claimed her when Pieter came to the stable, and now they found themselves in danger, far from Crossroads and with only Pieter and the other Burgher’s men to protect them.
Before she could form any response to Dynnah’s question, Ferkkan pushed Brynn and
turned his gaze toward Jen and Dynnah. He reached into his jacket, and to Jen’s horror, he produced a short knife. Pieter grabbed at his arm, but Ferkkan pulled it away, and the other Werllan man grabbed at Pieter. Things had taken an unhappy turn, it appeared.
Ferkkan stomped over to the tree as the four Crossroads men followed him and yelled at him to leave the women unharmed. The other Werllan man positioned himself between Ferkkan and the Crossroads men to prevent them from stopping his companion. Ferkkan loomed over the women, but he stared at Dynnah as he spoke. “Where is all the money?”
His voice carried as much menace as his body, his face twisted in fury, and he pointed the knife at the older woman.
Dynnah stared up at him, her face white, her eyes wide with fear.
“What money?”
He snarled, a contemptuous sound, more animal than human.
“Don’t play games with me, Dynnah Alston. You know what I mean.” His hand flicked forward, as fast as the crack of a whip, and his knife nicked Dynnah’s cheek. A line of blood seeped from the cut, and Dynnah cried out in pain. Jen could not believe how fast he had moved. He had cut her in the blink of an eye, a small amount of blood on the blade of his knife as he made short, stabbing motions toward her. “Tell me where it is, or I’ll kill your little playmate.” He turned his evil glare on Jen, and the Crossroads men cried out and reached for him.
A familiar smell crept into Jen’s nostril, and she stared at the sky, dejected. She was
about to die. Either Ferkkan would kill her, or the creatures that brought the smell would. The powerful, pungent aroma could not be mistaken for anything else, and Jen had smelled it several times in her life. Others.
Ferkkan’s words faded from her mind, and beyond the group of men, she saw the
reddish-brown hide of the first creature appear over the slight rise beyond the horses, which whinnied and jostled each other, nervous. Two of the Crossroads men also turned to look behind them. Perhaps they also caught the scent of the Others. The two Werllan men continued to scream at Dynnah. City dwellers; never seen or smelled one of the Others, Jen guessed. Their doom had arrived, but they did not yet know it.
More of the Others appeared. A large one led the force of at least ten, and it moved
faster than Jen would have expected. The ones she had seen had been slow, clumsy almost, but this one covered the ground at great pace. As it pushed Brynn to one side and reached for Ferkkan, Jen screamed and tugged at the rope that secured her to the tree. Blind panic seized her, and she pushed with her feet as she tried to cower away from the horde of Others who smashed into the six men, snarling, growling, biting, rending. She heard Dynnah’s screams, but they struggled to register through Jen’s terror as she watched the biggest Other pull at Ferkkan. It took the arm that held his knife between the long claws of its — what? Arms? Legs? With one powerful jerk, it ripped Ferkkan’s arm from his shoulder and threw it away down the slope Dynnah had tumbled down earlier.
Jen could not distinguish Ferkkan’s howl of agony from the cries of the other men or
the terrible, ear-splitting roars of the Others as the six men were pulled to pieces by the creatures. Blood splattered everywhere, into Jen’s face, into her mouth. She spat it out and tried to squirm around the tree. Maybe they would forget her if they couldn’t see her. Their stench overpowered her. She had never been this close to them before, and they stank. She felt bile rise in her throat, hot and stinging.
The massacre and dismemberment lasted no more than heartbeats. All six men lay dead, torn to pieces by the strength of their foes. Some of the Others chewed on hands, legs, innards, and Jen lost her fight with her nausea, vomited all over herself. At least four large Others loomed over the two women. Dynnah had fallen silent, eyes wide, unblinking, face as white as a sheet, her hands raised before her, palms toward the Others.
At that, a high-pitched growl came from one of the Others who stood a short distance
behind the rest, and the entire horde turned to look at the one who had growled. The one at the rear made some further growls; Jen presumed it spoke their language. Smaller than most of the horde, it nevertheless radiated danger, menace. It fixed its eyes on Dynnah and walked forward.
One of the bigger ones nipped at the shorter creature with its huge mouth, filled with
large, yellowed teeth, but the smaller one smacked at the other’s snout with the back of a paw, and the big creature took a step backward. The smaller Other stood before Dynnah, then knocked her arms away as it had done with its bigger companion’s snout. It fell forward onto all fours and thrust its snout forward.
Dynnah and Jen both screamed at the same instant, but their fears were not realised.
The creature sniffed at the cut on Dynnah’s cheek, licked some of her blood from her, then moved its large head down her body as it sniffed time and again. It smelled at her scent, that was obvious, but to what purpose, Jen could not decide. It thrust its snout between Dynnah’s legs and sniffed again as Dynnah tried to wriggle away from it.
It snapped its head up, and its cold, black eyes fixed on Jen. Its gaze travelled down
her body, then it shuffled nearer and thrust its snout between Jen’s legs. It sniffed and moved its head, and the tip of its snout rubbed against Jen’s sex, the sides of its head against her thighs. She wore thick trousers, as usual, designed for more comfort while she rode horses.
The creature pulled its head from Jen’s groin and rose again to stand on two legs. It
faced the horde and emitted some low growls. Some of the others responded with growls of their own, and at one point, the largest one pointed at Dynnah.
As the growls continued, some sort of debate, Jen presumed, she reached for Dynnah’s hand. Dynnah had not moved since the Other had switched its attention from her to Jen. She clutched the older woman’s hand in her own and squeezed, a feeble attempt to reassure Dynnah, who didn’t turn her head to look at her.
After some time, the growls died down, and the largest creature reached out and pulled at the rope that bound the two women to the tree. It snapped like an old twig beneath Jen’s foot in the depths of winter, but she could not move — terror froze her in place. Her mind screamed at her to get up, run as fast as possible to the horses. The Others feared horses, she would be safe among the mounts. To her dismay, she realised she had thought only of her own escape. Dynnah had not entered her mind.
The big creature reached out for Dynnah and hoisted her onto its shoulder with no
effort. Dynnah’s head hung down its back, and she vomited. The creature did not seem to notice, but it turned and, to Jen’s horror, moved off, accompanied by two more.
“Stop.”
Jen’s futile cry did nothing. The Other did not turn to look at her as it bore
Dynnah away to whatever it intended to do to her. Jen had never felt so hopeless, so
powerless in her life. Had she condemned Dynnah to a terrible death at the hands of these creatures when she threw the grooming brush at Pieter? At the thought of Pieter, she vomited again as guilt and remorse flooded her. The Crossroads men had suffered the same fate as the two from Werllan, though the Burgher’s men had not deserved it.
Another large creature reached for her, hoisted her onto its shoulder like the largest
one had with Dynnah. With her head against its back, its smell almost made her faint, and she understood why Dynnah had been sick. The creature stank, and its skin was covered in short, wiry bristle-like hair. She had not realised that before, but then again, she had never been carried away like a sack of potatoes by the Others before.
The small creature who had sniffed her emitted a short growl, and the horde moved
off. Jen bounced about as the creature shambled along, one paw clamped into the small of her back to hold her in place. Her mind raced through horrible outcomes—she saw herself torn apart like the men had been or eaten alive by those terrifying mouths full of bone-crushing teeth. She wept, but the Others maintained their pace.
Jen’s despair crushed her; her heart hurt from the agony of her fate, and that of Dynnah, carried off by the three creatures who had taken her the Twain knew where. Sad, she whispered, “I’m so sorry Dynnah.” She closed her eyes, resigned to her hopelessness, and the creatures moved on in eery silence.

A Short Story By Ella Piazzi

Beatrice got off the 4.35pm train exactly one hour and seven minutes later Italian time. The days were slightly longer, definitely longer than they were in London at that time of the year, but at twenty-to-six in the evening in January it was dark anyway. She got off the same train she used to take to go to high school, more than fifteen years before. She didn’t have great memories, but it was a momentary break in her day. There was a monster in her house, that hunted her since she was little. It had red eyes and a long body, and it was faceless.

And it scared the shit out of her.

She pleaded with her mother to sleep with her light on. But she said no.

~ of course my mother has never been particularly maternal ~

But lucky for her, not long after, her grandfather gifted her with a teddy-bear. He won it at a raffle, it was a cheap, brown bear with buttons for eyes and a plastic nose. But it became Beatrice’s guardian angel. She took it with her to every place she moved to, and it never failed to protect her against whatever loomed in the dark. She took it to London too, when she moved there after university. But she left him there when she came to Italy to assist her widower mother.

“Just for a few days. I need help with the bureaucracy.”

~ it will be ten months in three fucking days ~

Beatrice almost reached her destination. Before entering the night, she wrapped up warm with her multicoloured scarf, knitted by her grandmother, pulled an old bucket hat she found in her room on top of her head and wore her fingerless gloves.

“Look! She can’t even knit anymore! Some of the stitches are missing. And the wool is felted! And the gloves… not even rice weeders wore them and trust me back in time they needed them! Going out with dirty hands was shameful! The only good thing is the hat. I remember when you wore it in high school… but of course it’s still look good, it’s branded! It wasn’t cheap when I bought it!”

Ah, the sweet voice of her mother, always present in her life. It was almost almost a blessing knowing that in a world full of uncertainties, the harsh criticism of one of her parents was always going to be with her.

Getting up from the old green and brown cracked seat, Beatrice walked toward the doors, looking at the village lights through the dirty glass. She recognised the P.E. hall and the adjacent secondary school, one of the three Piazza of the village and the roads where, once upon a time, used to live this person or that. The train slowed down to walking speed, the metal wheels clanking against the intricate series of rail interchanges that only had a reason to exist many years before, when Mussolini was in power. Now they laid there, waiting for a miracle or to rot for good, just like the people who lived inside the village lights.

The train halted and the door opened. Beatrice braced herself against the wet cold that stank of damp and old age, the humidity making her bones shiver. She fixed her bag over her shoulder, a canvas shopper she got for free with the logo of Camden Market. 

“Don’t you have a proper bag?”

It’s a bag. It serves the purpose.

“That’s not a bag. I wouldn’t use it to go to the supermarket. What will people think?”

Right. What would they think? The ones that left the train with her not much. There was a guy that had his cigarette lit before the train even came to a stop; a lady that got on a car waiting on the other side of the road, a girl that was roughly her age but she had no memory of, and a lady a bunch of years younger than her mother, who had a son two years younger than Beatrice and now lived in the capital.

“They are not married, but nowadays it doesn’t matter. She works at the post office, he works at the hospital. They bought a house in Foro Boario, so he takes Via Bologna and doesn’t have to cross the city. They had a baby, he must be a year old or so, and his mom, the lady you see on the train, goes every day to help them. With the baby and the house, you know. They both work, he also works nights, so it’s difficult. But she lost her husband many years ago, and now that she is retired too…”

You always said that kids are parents’ responsibility, not someone else.

“They both work. Do you know how much nursery costs?”

I work too and I have expenditures too. How comes you never helped me?

“You don’t have kids.”

I don’t want kids. I never wanted them.

“I didn’t want you either, but then you were born, and it was fine.”

~ because it’s what’s normal right? past a certain age you are supposed to have children and give grandkids to your parents as if creating a human life is like gifting a jumper for Christmas but it’s your social duty being like everybody else just not too much yeah? because you are not like everybody else you are unwanted you are not welcomed never been you don’t deserve any love and better for you to never forget it be yourself but not you and if the process makes you feel a stranger in your own skin doesn’t matter it’s the price to pay because you are only good as much as you are able to fit in having a great job that you like and you are good at and a side-hustle that it’s finally picking up is not ok because normal people have government jobs and mortgages and kids and houses full of broken dreams and unhappiness ~

Because in ‘normal people’ mentality being able to take care of yourself doesn’t make you a good person. You must feel ashamed because you have escaped the machine you were supposed to be a cog in and deprived your family of the pleasure to bitch and moan about how tired they are to help you, but how they still do it because there’s no other way.

~ and everybody else is doing the same so that’s ok because you are normal~ 

Managing to avoid the dissection of your life, and the criticism that wiser people had to provide you with as part of their reward for going through the same grinder before you, it wasn’t part of the plan. You escaping the machine, leaving the dystopian authoritarian regime behind you and proving to everybody that it can be done with some effort, wasn’t your best move. 

~ that’s the problem everybody wants to believe it can be done but it requires special conditions and even if they don’t like their lives and will always find something to complain about but never a way to sort it out it’s fine and if you do… well then there is a special section in Hell just for you because people don’t like to be proven wrong even less to feel stupid and there is a thin line that is not to supposed to be crossed but you crossed it anyway multiple times so well done you ~

Beatrice started to walk, following the same path she walked when she was in high school. But back then the latest she arrived was 2.15PM, way before sunset. The village didn’t change much in all this time, but in the daylight it seemed existing, if not being alive. The fifteen years she spent abroad had solidified everything in a clear bubble and buried it under the usual seeping fog.

That house on the left, for example. The one with the turquoise blinds. A girl named Jessica used to live there with her mother, just the two of them. When her parents divorced, her father moved to Turin and started a new family. Jessica was one year older than Beatrice, in school she was in the same class of the new generation of yobs and Beatrice wasn’t allowed to hang out with her or her friends. Beatrice dutifully put her and her friends in the ‘big no no’ box and did her best to avoid them. The other class – there were enough kids to make two for that year – was made of the sons and daughters of teachers and doctors and bank employees. They would never have been in the same class. Even if some of the troublemakers managed to grow nicely and have decent jobs while the sons and daughters of teachers and doctors and bank employees attempted suicide and went to therapy for 20+ years and declared bankruptcy to avoid a fraud conviction.

~ because they are the ones who fit in and it doesn’t matter what they do they will always be the good ones because they are the sons and daughters of teachers and doctors it’s like a game where each one has a role to play and no one is escaping it except for you ~

“You know that Jessica and Asia had an accident last night?”

Are they ok?

“Not really. Asia has a bunch of broken ribs and a whiplash injury. Jessica is in hospital, they had to remove her spleen. She has a leg broken in more than one point. And you had to see the car! Ready for the scraps. But it was predictable. Two girls aged 15 in the same car with two boys aged 21 that come back home at five in the morning after a night out. I am sure they were drunk! And tired. At five in the morning you have to be in bed, not driving a car. Unless you are going to work. And I am sure they were high as well!”

They had to be. All the above and much more. But it was fine because each one had a part in the village, and they did theirs. Time would have granted redemption and erased the wrong.

It was months before Jessica left the hospital, and at that point she had to repeat the year. She spent one last summer with her friends, the same new generation of yobs that closed around her to protect her from the village gossip, and then she went to live with her father.

“She lost a school year! For what? For a night out? There will be time to go out when you grow up! She will have to move to Turin, to avoid the shame. And her mom will have to leave everything behind and start again because of her. If only she stood home.”

Beatrice wasn’t at risk, though. If she had a resemblance of social life until secondary school, it all ended when she turned 14. Her high school was in the nearby village, her classmates were from different places, and she had no way to access any of them, while her old schoolmates, the ones she wasn’t allowed to hang out with, made friends with the new kids and met the old ones in the afternoon. She spent her time reading in the nick that was her garden, five years of almost complete isolation. From there, though, she travelled the world in 80 days, sailed with buccaneers looking for a hidden treasure, fell in love with good boys and bad ones, fell out of love, lived in post-atomic societies and slayed vampires and hacked computers and worked undercover and was a spy and a doctor and travelled in time.

Eventually Jessica returned from Turin. She got back in contact with her old friends, which she never really lost, and rebuilt her life from where she left it. The memories of the accident stung for a minute, but it was quickly replaced by the gossip of her dating a guy three years her junior. Even that didn’t stick for long. They had been together ever since, had a kid that just started high school, a dog, two cats and a nice house with the garden.

Beatrice reached the intersection where the station road met the circular road that went around the whole village like a crippled wedding band. She stopped and looked: right, left, right again. She remembered, as usual one second too late, that it was supposed to be left, right, left. She was in Italy, not in the UK.

~ traffic is not that intense anyway ~

There was no peak-hour buzz, if an ambulance hit the siren, it was probably kilometres away. And even that wasn’t a common sound. During the summer was a bit better: someone went for a walk looking for a fresh breeze, someone else sat in the garden, windows were open and the TV voices reached outside, while the house inhabitants set up the table for a cold dinner. But it was January, and the windows were tightly shut against the night. if Beatrice rang a random bell, someone was going to open. She knew there were people inside those black bricked monsters, as she knew there was some form of life in the village, crawling out of her sight when she looked, and that always made her suffer.

“You’ve always been too sensitive. The world out there is not good for the ones like you. People are mean. Never talk to anyone, never let others know how you feel, they will be happy if you are suffering. Even happier if things go wrong. The only people you can trust are the ones in your family. We will never laugh at you.”

I would love Sailor Moon stick as Christmas present. The one from the third season.

“Ha! Ha! But that’s a toy, it’s for kids! You are 13. Choose something else.”

I’ll think about it.

“Let me know soon, I’ll go and buy it this weekend. Otherwise, no present. And stop crying. You need to understand there’s an age for everything. It’s not time for cartoons anymore.”

What about one of those crop-tops that are so popular with my classmates?

“You are too young. What about a pyjama instead? A flannel one, that will keep you warm.”

But my feet are cold anyway. I could do with a pair of socks.

“You don’t go to sleep in your socks. They go in the shoes.”

I would use clean ones.

“Doesn’t matter. They still go in the shoes. If you are that cold, you can always wear an extra layer. The house is warm, not like my mother’s house. That was cold. It still is. She closed the doors to warm up only one room. It’s not that cold here.”

Beatrice tightened her coat around her body. She had the feeling her steps were the only sound in the whole village. She felt lonely, she missed her chosen, extended family, her tango lesson and kickbox classes, her pets and her pottery course and the theatre gigs and the museums and the warmth and safety of the people that she loved and who loved her back.

“That’s what you do when your family needs you. You help. Look at Max at the end of the road. Family helps each other. No matter what.”

I have things to do too. I live in London, I am not on holiday there. I have a house and a family and a job, even if I don’t know for how long still.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Your friends are not your family. And at work they’ll understand. Or you can get another job. You always brag about how easy it is to get a new one, you’ll be just fine.”

Beatrice kept walking, right in the middle of the road. She wasn’t risking being ran over by a car. She passed the place where there used to be two big dumpsters, one for recycling paper and cardboard and one for everything else. Nowadays they collected rubbish door to door, with a specific calendar on what and how put out on each day. The bins were gone but the low kerb was still there. Past that point, like it was an invisible line in the asphalt, began Beatrice’s free-roaming zone. That was the furthest she was allowed to go as a kid, not a single centimetre past it. Entering that invisible area had an unsettling effect on her. It was like going through cold gelatine on a hot day, an unpleasant experience that only left you sticky and suffocating.

On the right there was a semi-detached house, built by one of the only three foreigners of the village. There was the South-American, who inherited his grandfather’s house in the village and moved there from Chile. Or was it Argentina? No one cared if they could gossip about him: it was common belief he was into drug trafficking just because he had a lot of spare time and he was an outgoing person who enjoyed company. Then there was the French. She followed her husband to Nice, got a baby who grew up there but moved back to Italy when he went to university. In time, he got married too and produced a single grandchild and when her husband died, she moved back too. The last one was Giovanna, who lived in the left apartment. Her real name was Joanna, she was from Bristol, came on holiday, met this Italian baker and fell madly in love. She moved to the village, got married, had a daughter and, three years later, a boy. She’d been working in the bakery since she came off the plane and continued to the present day, helping her daughter and son-in-law, now that they took over the family business. Her husband instead had finally enough time to go fishing. The back of their property didn’t border directly with Beatrice’s parents’ house, but the lack of privacy given by the closeness and too much silence brought to her garden every laugh, every joke, every scream of joy coming from that way. And despite her house was still on the free-roaming zone, Beatrice wasn’t allowed to go.

“She is 3 years younger than you. You have nothing to share.”

Let me hang out with others my age, then.

“You know they are not good. They go to bars and smoke. They will only cause trouble and you need to focus on school. Did you finish your homework?”

Yes, I did. All done.

“Then what about starting the ones for tomorrow?”

They are done already.

“Impossible. Let me check.”

I am 17, there is no need for you to check my homework.

“What if you missed something? Four eyes are better than two. Mh. Looks like you did everything. What about refreshing history?”

But there is no test tomorrow.

“If you check your knowledge every day, you won’t have to do it all together at the end.”

Right. Check it, Beatrice. Check it. And then check it again: mobile, money, keys. Then repeat. And when you are done and ready, check if you have your keys one more time for good measure. And then midway to the train station check again. Because it doesn’t matter that, at that point, you are locked out anyway. Just check one more time, and then six more times on the train, and a couple more, in case you lost them somehow, or they grew legs and decided to walk out of your bag, so you can silence for another minute the voice in your head that tells you that you are not enough, that you’re not good enough, that you are untrustworthy and unable to live unless you are constantly supervised.

The first street on the right was hers. In the first house used to live Massimo, the youngest of the only four kids, herself included, who roamed the road. He studied nursing, like his parents, and when he lost his father and her mother was diagnosed with cancer, he moved back home with his wife, a nurse too, and their two kids, one of them with Asperger syndrome.

“It was nice, you know? When his mother needed help, he came back. And they helped each other. She was looking after the retarded kid and her son looked after her while she did chemo.”

I am here now, right?

“Sure, looking at the clock every five minutes to see how long before you can leave me again.”

I have been on the verge of suicide for years thanks to you. It’s normal I want to leave again soon.

“You never had anything to worry about, you always had food and clothes, I took you to the best doctors and even paid for your university! You had what a lot of people never had. And you are very ungrateful.”

 There are things more important than private doctors and branded clothes.

“You speak like that because you don’t have children. And now you’ll never know.”

I am not a mother. I don’t have it in me to care for another human being in that sense.

“You didn’t even try!”

A child is not a bad pair of trousers that you can return if you don’t like them!

“No mother comes with the instructions book.”

But you didn’t even listen when I told you what I needed! 

“When you are a kid you don’t know what you need.”

I am telling you now! All I want is for you to recognise you made a fucking mistake and to say that you are sorry for it!

“What a foul language! Is that what you learned living by yourself?”

One more house and then there were the gates of the clink. It was a black space confined in between the new neighbours and the old ones, that in a different lifetime have been her friends. Or something close to it. There were lights coming out both sides, even a laugh and shreds of conversations. Someone that opened and closed a door, or a window, for whatever reason. 

~ we used to play together Rita and I even if she is one year younger but we grew apart as soon as she started secondary school and began hanging out with classmates which I wasn’t allowed to date and when she got married she had guests coming from Germany and the US because the same kids that I wasn’t allowed to hang out with grew to be researchers and economists and landed good jobs they liked and left them fulfilled but it was a shock to see the pictures of her wedding because her maid of honour was a girl that I remember she hated in school but it was even more shocking to see none of them was 13 anymore and they grew beards and wrinkles and kids while they frozen in my memory in the last photogram I had of them as kids of the 90s and now she lives in one apartment with her husband and the guy I believed was going to be my best friend till the day we died lives in the other and despite the close proximity and me being here for 10 months I never saw either of them not even once ~

Beatrice fumbled for the keys she didn’t lose for another day and opened the gate. She let herself be swallowed up by the darkness. The glass above the door was lit; her mother was probably sitting on the sofa watching another State-TV programme about whatever crime news event happened last – mother kills baby, father kills mother, boyfriend kills girlfriend – thinking whatever dark thoughts she thought, with three blankets across her because the heating was expensive, so she kept it to a maximum of 16 degrees. 

~ but your mother’s house was cold right? ~

She wasn’t wrong. Her mother was on one of the sofas, wrapped up like a mummy, watching a talk show about a son that killed his mother.

“You are back.”

“Looks like…”

“Do you need to shower?”

“It would be nice, yes.”

“Clean once you finished. I don’t like when there are water-stains all over.”

~ because on white ceramic are definitely a sore eye ~

“Dinner is on the stove, if you want to eat.”

“It’s not even seven.”

“Well, here we eat early, we are not international like you. Do you want it warmed up?”

“I can do it myself.”

“No, I’ll do it. You’ll just get everything dirty. Oh, my back…”

“I told you. Leave it.”

She didn’t. She got up, complaining all the way, then complained that she was tired and all she wanted was to go to bed, and finished by serving boiled eggs and boiled veg on a plate she left on the counter. Beatrice took a quick shower and wore some house clothes, but by the time she took her plate, her dinner was lukewarm again. She ate standing against the counter, swallowing the tasteless and hateful dinner in big gulps.

~ it’s an ensemble of vitamins and nutrients and my body doesn’t recognise anything else so it’s just fine ~

“Are you done?”

“Yes.”

“You know you can sit, right? And eat like normal people.”

“So you can complain about setting up the table too?”

“I don’t understand why you need to come back so late.”

“I am sorting your shit out. But, to do so, I need to get the train, because I can’t get the car. And you know why I can’t get your stupid car? Because it’s rotten. You bought it, parked in the garage and only took it out at the weekends. Now, if I take it, I risk being left stranded. You can’t use it but fuck me if you get rid of it.”

“I would have to pay money, you know? And now that I am alone, it’s not that easy to reach the end of the month!”

“You are sitting on something close to a million euros! Plus, you have your pension and half of my father’s pension, thanks to me and my going back and forth for the past 10 months. Did you ever offer to pay for transport, at least? Nope. Not once. And I am not even working!”

“I am tired, I’ll go to bed.”

“Of course. You can’t twist the conversation anymore, so you run away. Don’t worry though, I’m done. I’ll be on my way first thing in the morning.”

“It’s your life, do what is best for you.”

The queen of passive-aggressive won one more match. Beatrice took a shaggy breath, opened the fridge and took the bottle of wine she kept there despite more than one raised eyebrow from her mother, replacing it with another one.

~ because this is my line there is the invisible line of the village that implies that by my age you are supposed to have a family or have had one at a certain point and it gives you several acceptable options like being married with a partner that already came pre-packed with kids from a previous relationship while a viable alternative is living together with kids but it’s not encouraged in the long term and then there is the line I am not supposed to pass past Joanna’s house because it’s not safe and all the other lines my mother always placed around me like Mikado and she moved at her convenience and that’s fine for you to have your lines and swear by them but I have mine too and mine is that after another day where I ate bullshit breakfast lunch and boiled dinner I want a fucking drink because I need it and I deserve it and I can have it and no one can stop me because I am closer to 40 than 14 ~

When Beatrice reached the end of the bottle, she opened the new one and took it to her bedroom. The house lost definition around her. The TV programme became less dull. She wasn’t afraid of passing the little kerb in front of Joanna’s house. The darkness wasn’t that solid anymore. Gelatine was just gelatine, and taking the train was going to be a wonderful experience.

She woke up hours later, the TV still on, her mouth full of cotton and her head spinning. She hated wine hangovers.

~ I need water ~

She got up and started to walk to the bathroom. She didn’t trust herself to go down the stairs in the dark half drunk.

And then she saw it, on top of the stairs. The same monster that hunted her when she was a child. It still had the same red eyes and long body, and it was faceless. There wasn’t her teddy bear to protect her, but this time she wasn’t a child anymore; she wasn’t scared either. She was prepared. She went through worse, and she survived. The fucking thing wasn’t going to screw up with her anymore. And with an atavistic whoop, she pushed the monster down the stairs.

It was only when it cried in pain its last breath that she recognised her mother’s voice.

An Original Short Story By Jan Foster

I know my destined love will come for me. I’ve sensed his faceless presence in my lonely se’er visions. I didn’t foresee my journey to this moment involved being ship-wrecked, then captured. Visions are unreliable and I should know better than to trust them entirely. But, this moment has fuelled my fantasies and filled my witchy senses for years, long before I was even trapped here in the Beneath. My powers are useless for escaping such a hole, but in my heart, I know my brave knight will charge to my side, kind and strong, bursting with the best of humanity, to rescue me from the darkness. 

Having screamed for hours, when the door crashes open, I have only the strength to raise my head and peer at the flickering lamplight. This is the moment we will meet. I swallow, heart pounding as the familiar image of the door opening to my love flashes before my eyes, and then is made real.

“C’mon. Hurry up, Nemis!”

My heartbeat falters. It’s Joshua, my fae friend. And he sounds like he’s swallowed a turnip.

He is definitely not The One. 

From the moment we met, he’s been steadfast in his devotion to his kidnapped wife. They are as fated to be with each other as the moon is to the earth. She is the reason I navigated us for weeks to this wondrous island of Naturae, so that he may find his true fae love. 

Joshua is not my destined one. He cannot be. Cross-creature relationships are ill-fated.

My heart sinks further, for I do not wish this terrifying adventure to ever be repeated. Yet it must, for my foresight is never wrong and I do want to meet my true love.

I scramble to my feet and stagger towards the light. Another presence lurks behind Joshua in the tunnels, but I ignore them and fling my arms around my friend. As I squeeze him, he winces. 

“Sorry.”

“Ish alright,” he says, his swollen lips slurring his words. “Jus’ a toof and a few ribs.”

Before I can question him about being tortured, the ground beneath our feet shakes. Chunks of earth rattle down, splattering dust upon us. The lamp hisses as it dies.

“This way, witch!” The man in the shadows speaks and I realise he is also a fae. He grabs my hand and I hear the rustle of his wings flutter behind his back. “Quick as you can,” he says, in an imperious tone and pivots into the air.

I cannot fly, so I stumble after him, head down in his back draft. My long dreadlocks slap my back with every step. 

The ground shaking beneath my feet vibrates with the anger of the gods as they spit their displeasure ever closer to my heels. With their night-sight and wings, my fae companions would be faster if they left me in the tunnels. I am the impediment to our escape, but driven by fear, I keep running.

Blinded by wind and dirt, I lose my footing in my long skirts and stumble. From behind, Joshua hauls me up from the earth. Another firm hand grasps my arm, the touch sending a jolt of adrenaline through my body. As I’m hoisted between them, up into the air, my legs flail. The rush of wind whistles past my ears; every inch of my body feels weightless and vulnerable, suspended in this precarious moment.

A deep rumble swells from behind us. Huge wings beat even faster; their back-draft pushing tears from my screwed-shut eyes. I have no choice but to trust them. 

The air suddenly clears of dust, and I smell trees – fir and the sweet blossom of cherry and blackthorn. The scent reminds me of springtime when these trees are in bloom and I gather wild garlic that grows at their roots to disguise the bitter taste of my remedies. My eyelids fly open; we are hovering – myself dangling – above the forest canopy.

“Take me down!” I cry, my arms straining from being hauled and held. 

Joshua swings me into the arms of his companion.

“Not yet,” the other fae says, so I raise my head to look at him. 

There’s a reassuring glimmer in his eyes that eases me, a bold firmness in the set of his swarthy stubbled chin which reminds me of a Spanish priest I once knew. Dark-haired, with a red cape flowing gracefully between his wings… 

I have seen this fae before! 

He stood by cowardly, behind a tree trunk, and let Joshua and I be manhandled down the tunnels to our prison holes. 

“You were watching us all along, yet you did nothing!” 

His steadiness against my wriggling holds my panic in check. He inclines his head. “For everything, there is a time.”

Only minutes ago, I thought I was going to meet The One. How stupid of me! And now, I’m captured again, mid-air, dallying with this riddler! 

When the whiteness of his smile stretches across his face, the heat of frustration rises on my neck. As it flushes into my cheeks, he chuckles.

I grit my teeth and look away, past the city in the treetops and across the flat, wooded landscape, to beyond where the sea meets the shore. Then I remember. 

“Joshua! The stones! You must go now to the circle, to Aioffe.”

His lips press together and he nods at me. His eyes flick to the other fae. “Sorry.” 

As my friend flies away to find his destiny, the popinjay fae adjusts my body in his arms so I am held like a babe as he swoops around, delaying. But why?

My usual habitat, the ground, seems awfully far below, so I crook my arm around his neck and cling to his shoulders. “Why didn’t you do anything earlier, in the clearing? If you had, Joshua wouldn’t have been beaten up.” 

My anger at him has not dissipated despite his rescue, but I refrain from beating at his chest. Fire my voice as I order, “Put me down, right now!”

We descend slightly, then he says, “Sometimes, it is better to wait for fate to intervene.”

A snapping crack and then a whoosh precedes a cloud of dust puffing up through branches, enveloping us in grey. I cough and glance down through the fug. One of the immense trees has fallen across the clearing, completely covering the opening in the earth to the tunnels we had just escaped from.

I crane my neck to survey the citadel below and gasp. My blood freezes as, to my eyes and ears only, the ground ripples. The roofs of the treehouse dwellings linked by rope bridges crack, then crumple. I am powerless to stop trunks toppling, halt the bodies tumbling, screaming as they fall, to be impaled on broken branches and shafts. 

I shudder, blinking, and then the rooflines are straight again. 

But the early leaves on the branches quiver a warning of what will come. My heart thumps as I push away the icy chill of my vision.

“If anyone is down there, we must warn them,” I say, my voice still wavering but sure. “I can hear the heart of the forest, breaking.” 

His arms stiffen around me and his jaw sets. He gazes into my eyes. “I believe in you.”

Then, he blinks and we plummet. Both of us shouting, “Get out, get out! Fly!” 

Faces peek out from the ramshackle structures, white with fear, but we urge and beckon the fae out to safety. There are fewer of them here than I imagined, considering the number of treehouses, and for that I am thankful. 

Just as the air is peppered with a flock of drably clothed, small-winged fae, the earth rumbles again, deep and ominous. My vision begins to unfold; cracking branches echo like thunder as one after another tree is uprooted by the quaking soil, accompanied by shrieks and sobs of the devastated community. 

I cannot watch; I have already seen what will be, so I bury my face into the chest of my hovering ride as I pray we have done enough. 

Through the cries and screams, I am kept safe by this stranger. Held up from harm’s way, shuddering but close in his arms as the citadel crumbles. I splay my hand over his heart as gratitude and sorrow wash over me. Homes can be rebuilt, but people’s lives are harder to replace.

An eerie silence replaces the noise of destruction. I exhale, turn my head and peer down, expecting the worst.

The swarm of fae have already dropped to the ground. As they hug each other and then pick through the debris for their possessions, I watch for a moment; there are no tears. No life has been lost after all.

My companion catches my glance as I turn to look at him. He has sea-green eyes like my own, reflecting the relief I feel. With his help, my terrifying vision did not realise. Yet, my foresight is never completely wrong…

There is only he and I, high above the trees. My skin tingles, but not from a chill. 

A witch and a fae, two species who should never cross paths, and yet, here we are. Bound by disaster, saved by each other. 

I could accept that The One is a fae, but what a peacock! With his finely stitched jacket, expensive cape, and linen shirt still whiter than white even after the dust has settled, I could not appear more his opposite in my simple gown, grubby with saltwater and dirt.

Yet, I hear his steady heartbeat and it beats in time with mine. 

He is, even underneath the frills, so different from me. Not at all what I’d imagined a saviour to be. He leans over to kiss my forehead and, at the brush of his lips, I know he has truly rescued me.

Without knowing me, he trusted without question in my foresight. Even Joshua wants details before interpretation of my visions, but this fae did not hesitate to believe in me.

He protected and held me through the terrors of my visions and beyond, when they threatened disaster. For once, I was not alone. 

Although I do not know his name, his gentle smile is for me only. 

“Ambassador Spenser,” he says, as if he heard my thoughts. “I know you, Nemis. I have been waiting for this moment all of my life too.”

High above the land, far away from everything familiar, my heart calms. I am home in his arms.

© Copyright Jan Foster 2024

A Note by the Author: This short story is set in the middle of Disrupting Destiny, Book 1 of the historical fantasy Naturae Series. Nemis and Spenser are side characters throughout the series, which spans the Tudor age and features real historical events as viewed by magical beings. For more information about the series and other short stories, please visit www.escapeintoatale.com/naturaeseries

Back by popular demand, we are delighted to present the second instalment of Hayley Price’s short story. Read Episode One Here.

Jen closed the door behind her and stared into the dawn. Not a trace of breeze blew, the morning breathless from its exertions to drive away the darkness of the night, perhaps. She smiled as she walked down the path toward the gate, the house behind her, Dynnah still asleep in bed. Not for Jen the luxury of a late morning in bed. Her horses needed her, and she had an early departure today, two horses that had been stabled with her for two nights while their owners conducted some business in the town.

The town of Bellindu gradually rose from its slumber. Smoke rose from the chimneys of the bakery and the adjacent tavern like the outstretched arms of one recently woken from sleep as they yawned in the dawn’s half-light. Here and there, Jen passed people headed for their shops or places of work, another day’s labour ahead of them.

For three months, Jen and Dynnah had built on the relationship that began when the Others attacked the town. They were comfortable together but made no great demands of each other. Dynnah had brought happiness into Jen’s life, a satisfaction that she had not known she lacked until the widow bought the large house known as Hummock. Each week, they spent two, sometimes three nights together, usually at Hummock. When Jen’s workload allowed, they rode out into the countryside and explored the woods, hills, fields, and streams around Bellindu. Sometimes they made love in the open air, their cries mingling as they rose into the air, intertwined like their bodies.

Neither had spoken of love, not yet, and Jen could not speak for Dynnah in any case. Jen was happy, comfortable with the relationship as it developed. She had never loved, didn’t know what love would feel like, but if her relationship with Dynnah had turned to love, then she was content, and could imagine no greater sense of warmth or togetherness than she felt in the arms of the owner of Hummock.

People had begun to talk. People liked to gossip, and Jen and Dynnah had expected nothing less when they set out on this journey together. Neither had any experience with another woman, but both knew that if word got out about them, it would set tongues wagging. “Let them wag,” Dynnah had said more than once. That was easier for her to say, of course. She had not lived the entirety of her life thus far in the town, and she barely knew the names and faces behind the wagging tongues. Jen knew them all—wished she didn’t know several of them—but she and her stable were a fixture in Bellindu, and some of the comments that found their slippery, treacherous way back to her hurt, especially those from people she previously thought of as friends.

She pushed the key into the lock of the stable, and opened the traitor’s door, the small door set into the bigger double doors that covered the front of the stable. Why it was called a traitor’s door, Jen didn’t know, didn’t care. Inside, she pulled the iron pegs out of the ground that passed through rings on the inside of the doors and prevented the large double doors from opening, lifted the wooden beam out of its resting place across the slight gap where the two doors met, and pushed both open, back bent, arms outstretched as her legs pushed against the heavy timbers.

Jen fed and watered all the horses, spent some time rubbing the nose of, and talking to, her own horse, Gilpin. She pulled out two saddles and the tack that went with them, ready to saddle the two horses that would leave today. “Let them eat first, though.” She skipped up the stairs into her tiny accommodations and grabbed a chunk of bread from the table, cramming pieces of it into her mouth as she returned to the stable. If the horses broke their fast, why should Jen not follow suit?

Both horses had eaten enough, she thought, so she walked them out of their stalls, fastened a lead rope to a ring outside each stall, and took a shovel and a brush into the stalls to clean up ready for the next guest, whenever it might arrive.

Jen used the back of a hand to brush loose hair back from a face wet with sweat. The owners would probably arrive within the next thirty minutes or so to collect the horses, so she threw a blanket over the back of one, a beautiful roan mare that stood taller than Gilpin, then heaved the saddle onto its back. She bent to the girth and pulled the strap tight, put a bit into the horse’s mouth, and adjusted the bridle. All the tack was high quality; city folks with plenty of money to spend on their animals, she thought. Probably from Werllan, the capital city and formerly Dynnah’s home.

A polite cough from the doorway jerked her head around. Pieter, one of Burgher Vanster’s men, stood there, awkward, shuffling from one foot to the other, his hat tucked underneath one arm. Jen wiped her hands on her trousers, smiled at Pieter. “Pieter. What brings you to my stable on this beautiful morning?” She had known him from childhood. They had never been close friends, but they knew one another. He was perhaps a year older than her, tall, skinny, perpetually pale as though he danced through the sun’s rays, and they never touched him.

Pieter coughed again. “Jen, you’re to come with me to Burgher Vanster’s office, I’m afraid.”

Jen frowned, picked up a brush and idly ran it across the horse’s shoulder. “What for?” Never in her life had Jen been asked to attend the Burgher’s office.

“Ah.” Pieter’s face glowed a bright red, and sweat beaded on his forehead as his eyes flicked from side to side. Whatever reason had brought him to the stable, he did not enjoy it, clearly. “Look, I’m sorry Jen. It’s not me that spreads the rumours, but two men arrived from Werllan two nights ago, and they’ve whispered in old Vanster’s ear non-stop. They claim that your…” He blushed even deeper. “The woman in Hummock, that she has stolen something, and now they’ve accused you both of moral misconduct.” He stared at her, more uncomfortable than ever. “I’m sorry Jen. It’s nobody’s business, right enough, but now Vanster’s been and gone and made it his.”

Jen knew the men he had referred to. They owned the two horses in her stable, one of which she had finished saddling mere moments earlier. The story about Dynnah stealing something alarmed Jen. She knew Dynnah reasonably well, did not think her the kind that stole things. She had money aplenty since her husband had died. What might she have need of to make her resort to theft? As for this “moral misconduct,” Pieter was right. Who Jen laughed with, cooked with, slept with was nobody else’s business. Nobody had the right to demand that the women should answer to the Burgher for their relationship, a relationship that harmed nobody, inconvenienced nobody. “I don’t think I will come.”

“Jen, please.” His voice filled with self-pity even as it begged her to turn herself into the Burgher on some trumped-up charge. “I don’t want to do this. Stillen has already gone for the other woman. They’re taking her to Werllan. Don’t make trouble for me, please.”

An unquiet silence roared in Jen’s ears, filled with words spoken and unspoken. “The other woman?” It sounded ominous that Dynnah was to be taken to Werllan. Jen had to come to a rapid decision, and her growing deep suspicion of the two strangers collided with her concern for Dynnah in an abrupt burst of action. She flung the brush at Pieter, and her aim was true, for once. It hit him in the temple, and he dropped his hat, fell to the ground, where he moaned softly.

Jen grabbed the second saddle and tack that belonged to the Werllan men and raced into Gilpin’s stall. He seemed to sense her anxiety, skittish, snorting. She threw the blanket and saddle over his back. Panic turned Jen’s fingers into clumsy wooden pegs, inflexible, unable to perform the familiar task of slipping the girth strap through the buckle, pushing the tongue through a hole, tightening it. She swore softly under her breath as Gilpin’s eyes turned wild, the horse reacting to Jen’s frantic state. Finally, the girth was fastened and the bridle in position. Jen leaped onto Gilpin’s back, walked him out of his stall. As she passed the strangers’ horse, she slipped the lead rope off its bridle, grabbed the reins, pulled it along behind her.

Free of the confines of the stable, Jen didn’t bother to close and lock the doors. She kicked hard into Gilpin’s flank, and he flew forward. A more placid, docile horse, nobody could wish to ride, but when encouraged to put his ears back and run, he could fly like the wind. Jen’s hair streamed behind her as she pressed her face close to Gilp’s neck and urged him to gallop faster. The other horse followed, scarcely keeping pace with Gilpin.

She saw Stillen as she neared Hummock. He had perhaps fifty metres to go until he came to the gate, but when he heard the hoofbeats, he stopped, turned. He looked surprised, then realisation dawned, written on his face as clearly as the neatest calligraphy. He held up his hands to stop her, called her name.

Jen didn’t stop. Gilpin’s shoulder brushed him, and he stumbled, fell into the path of the second horse, which whinnied as it rode over him. Jen had known Stillen for many years, liked him, drank with him in the Bellinndu at times, but she did not stop to check whether the strangers’ horse had hurt him. She pulled Gilpin to a halt at Hummock’s fence, leaned down to unlock the gate, rode up the path, tugging the reluctant spare horse along behind her.

At the door, she leaped from Gilpin, calling Dynnah’s name. Hopefully, she would be out of bed by now, at least. “Dynnah.” She screamed the name as she opened the front door. Dynnah had been in a dining chair, a plate of food before her. She had half-risen, presumably when she heard the horses, or Jen screaming her name. “Thank the Twain you’re up. We have to leave. Now.”

Dynnah’s face scrunched into a question and alarm at the same time. “Leave? What do you mean?”

“There is no time to explain. They’re coming for you. I have a horse. Leave everything and come with me, now. We cannot tarry here.”

Dynnah didn’t move. “Jen, what is—”

“Dynnah, shut up and come with me now. Men from Werllan are here, and they plan to take you back to the city. I’ll explain more as we ride, but ride we must. Come.” Jen’s flustered, nervous voice cracked as she spoke, and her heart beat so hard, so rapidly that she felt it must fail at any second.

Dynnah still made no move, so Jen grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the door. With stuttering steps, Dynnah allowed herself to be led, unanswered questions in her eyes, on her lips. “Why have men come for me from Werllan?”

“Hurry, for goodness’ sake. They will not be far behind me.” Jen feared that either Pieter or Stillen would recover from their injuries, race to Burgher Vanster’s office, and his entire force would rush to take them into custody. She and Dynnah must not be here when the authorities arrived. Jen had not wasted time on pondering the rights and wrongs of the situation. She cared for Dynnah and had to protect her.

“Whose horse is this?” Dynnah stood before the horse as Jen untied its reins from her stirrup, pressed them into Dynnah’s hand.

Jen untied Gilpin’s reins from the small seat next to Dynnah’s door. “Yours. Ride it, ride it as fast as you can. If you fall off, get back on and ride again.”

“You’re scaring me, Jen.”

Jen paused, one foot in a stirrup. She turned to Dynnah. “Good, because I am as scared as I have ever been in my life. Once we are away from here, we’ll stop, I’ll explain, and we can shake with fear all we like. For now, let’s go.”

Jen’s entire body trembled as she pulled herself into the saddle. Adrenaline coursed through her, something she had heard described as the “fight or flight” response. Flight it was, for them, for today at least. Dynnah mounted the roan so slowly that Jen wanted to scream., but at last she had herself comfortable in the saddle. Her feet did not reach the stirrups, and she bent to the left hand one. Jen leaped from Gilpin and adjusted the right. “That will have to do. Come on.” Almost breathless with fear, she re-mounted, and they rode down the path.

Jen turned Gilpin right, away from the town, and pressed her heels into his flank. She glanced back to check that Dynnah followed her. The roan cantered along, fell further back with each stride Gilp took. Jen screamed, hoped her cry would carry on the wind back to Dynnah. “Hurry.” To her relief, Dynnah’s heels kicked at the roan as she urged the horse to increase its pace. Dynnah’s riding had improved drastically over the time they had been together. She still might fall off at this speed, but some risks are worth the taking.

They needed a plan, but Jen had none. She had acted on impulse throughout, driven by a fear of what the strange men intended to do with Dynnah if they ever got her back to Werllan. Jen decided that they would ride hard for half an hour or so, then slow down and look for a way to travel across country. They must get off the road, particularly before they reached the next sizeable town, Trawness. Vanster would send his men after the two women, but with a head start and the time it would take him to organise a pursuit, Jen felt confident that they could evade capture for now. What their long-term future looked like could not be seen. They had no money, no food, no clothes other than the ones they wore, not even a spare blanket beyond the two on the horses.

Gilpin panted, his tongue out. Saliva dribbled from his mouth, and Jen guessed they had pushed the horses hard enough for now. Time to give them a break, she reined Gilp back to a fast walk, and Dynnah rode up alongside her. All four of them panted with exertion, both horses, both women. Dynnah looked especially tired. It took some effort to control a horse at high speed for a good length of time; effort, and strength.

Jen turned to Dynnah. “Loosen the reins, give her a rest from the bit.”

Dynnah did as Jen instructed her, wiped a hand across her brow as sweat ran down her face. “What has happened?” Dynnah gasped out the question as she heaved vast lungfuls of air into her body.

Jen explained Pieter’s visit, that the men from Werllan had come in search of Dynnah, claimed she had stolen something. Dynnah looked puzzled, and Jen didn’t press her. She outlined the only plan she had. “We need to get off this road as soon as we can.”

“Who was the man lying in the road outside my house?”

Jen swallowed hard. She hadn’t noticed as they rode off, but Dynnah clearly had. If Stillen hadn’t raised himself from the ground, maybe he had been badly hurt. Jen had not intended for anybody to be seriously hurt, but in her rush to get Dynnah out of the town before the men came for her, she had been careless about whether Stillen had been hurt. With luck, he would be fine, just a few cuts and bruises, hopefully. “One of the Burgher’s men. Gilpin nudged him and he fell. He’ll be fine, I’m sure.” Other concerns gnawed at her insides. “We have no money and no food, and I have no idea where we will go.”

Dynnah sighed. “Is all this necessary, Jen? Have you over-reacted?”

Had she? Had she acted out of blind panic back at the stable, at the thought of Dynnah being taken from her? “I’m not sure, Dynnah. Maybe. I didn’t know what to do. When Pieter accused me of moral misconduct, I thought he must be joking. When he said those men wanted to take you back to Werllan…” She choked on the words and her fear, and tears spilled from her eyes. “I didn’t want to risk losing you.”

Dynnah reached out a comforting hand, laid it on Jen’s forearm. “I understand Jen, I do. My heart is still racing.” She gave a short laugh, and Jen found the courage to smile. “You believe we should leave the road, you said?”

“I do. They will probably come after us, and our best chance to lose them is to cut across country, perhaps towards the Cordon.”

“The Cordon?”

“Yes. It’s a range of hills northwest of the town. You can see them over there.” Jen pointed north at the hills that climbed away from the flat plain that ran between Bellindu and Trawness.

Dynnah covered her hands with her eyes, stared north. “Why ‘the Cordon?’”

“At one time, it was believed that Others lived in the hills and beyond, so the hills acted as a sort of barrier between us and them. The hills came to be called the Cordon. It’s doubtful that Vanster’s men will know this area, and the Werllan men will be completely lost out here.”

“What about the Others?”

Jen chewed at the inside of her mouth. The Others were rumoured to have dwindled in number seriously, but as far as she knew, no major settlements lay on the northern side of the Cordon for league after league. Might there be Others in that part of the nation? Possibly. “We are between the flames and the waters. There might be Others there, but Vanster will surely be in pursuit of us. Which of these evils do you fear the least?”

Dynnah did not even think about the question. “The Burgher.”

“You are probably right if Others are there. We don’t know that though. Not for certain.” Jen heard the indecision in her own voice, knew that she hadn’t sounded convincing.

Jen glanced back along the road. Far behind them, she saw a grey smudge rise from the land to the sky. No clouds disturbed the blue canvas above them that stood ready for the weather’s artistry to paint landscapes and creatures that little girls might imagine as they lay on their backs in the soft grass outside Bellindu. Jen had no time to revisit her childhood now, however. “A fire, I think.” She pointed at the smudge.

Dynnah turned and stared for a time. “Maybe. What burns?”

“Hummock, maybe. They are angry and have burned your house down.”

Dynnah turned to face Jen, stared at her earnestly as though searching for a sign in Jen’s eyes. “You’ve drawn a long bow there, haven’t you?”

Jen shrugged. “Probably.” She turned her attention back to the road. They rode on for a time, and a little after midday, Jen spotted a gap in the hedge, a rough path beyond it that tracked across a field toward the hills. She grabbed Dynnah’s arm, pointed to the gap in the hedge. “We should leave the road here. Unless you’d rather hand yourself in to the Burgher.”

Something flashed across Dynnah’s eyes. Fear, shame, Jen couldn’t be sure. “Let’s take our chances in the hills.”

They turned the horses into the field and followed the track for a time before it petered out. Ahead of them, the hills rose to the sky, seemed to reach higher and higher as the horses plodded closer to them through fields strewn with livestock, crops, or wild overgrowth. They avoided the fields of tall wheat, certain that any path they carved through them would be easy to follow.

By twilight, they had stopped in lowest reaches of the hills. The ground sloped gently upward toward the peak of the hills far above them. They dismounted and let the horses rest, watched as the animals nibbled at the grass. Jen sighed. “They must be thirsty.”

“They must, for I definitely am. Where did this horse come from?”

Jen sniggered. “It belongs to one of the men who want to take you to Werllan. Both sets of tack belong to them too.” She smiled. “I was in a hurry.”

Dynnah leaned in close, kissed her lips gently. “Thank you. Your first thought was for me. I appreciate that.”

Jen fell backward onto the grass. “Yes, well, let’s see how grateful you remain if we cannot find food, water, and shelter tonight or tomorrow. Tomorrow, more likely. It’s dangerous to ride after dark, especially over open fields, or up steep hillsides.”

“We can walk the horses for a while, can we not?”

Jen huffed out her frustration. “I suppose so. It’s safer, but we can’t keep going all night.”

“Anybody who chases us must rest too, mustn’t they?”

“I hope so.” Jen sat up, stared back at the thin ribbon of road below them but saw nothing to alarm her. “I hope so.”

They rested for a time, then took the reins in their hands and walked up the gentle slope. Ahead in the fading light, the hillside steepened, and they plodded on in silence. Jen’s thoughts ran to food and shelter, and a growing uncertainty that she had done the right thing. They had fled, and that had probably compounded their guilt in everybody’s eyes, even though they had done nothing wrong as far as Jen was concerned.

A dark shape loomed before them in the darkness, and Jen handed her reins to Dynnah, told her to wait, then crept forward. A ruined hut, perhaps left over from a farm, shelter for animals or storage for fodder; who knew? It would suit for accommodation tonight. She returned to Dynnah. “I have found us a fine tavern with the best rooms in the area.”

“A bountiful feast on the tables?”

Jen could just make out Dynnah’s smile in the light from the moon. “Serving women, beautiful to behold.”

Dynnah slapped at her, missed. “Show me these accommodations then.” They laughed as they led the horses forward carefully, their cares temporarily forgotten. They took the saddles from the horses, tethered the animals’ reins to the posts of a broken fence, then spread the two blankets out in the abandoned building. Most of the roof had collapsed, and the wall nearest to the hills had fallen out completely, but it provided some shelter both from the chill of the night and from any eyes that searched for them, though the horses might be seen, perhaps. Assuming anybody followed them at all.

Dynnah had never slept in the open, Jen only a handful of times. Every sound spooked Dynnah, and she was worse than the horses. The women didn’t sleep well, but they occupied themselves in other ways, ways that kept them warm at least. The occasional animal snuffled past, creatures of the night that Jen couldn’t identify.

As the sun rose in the east, the horses moved restlessly, and Jen, who had dozed off at last perhaps two hours before the dawn, stirred beneath the blanket, the other underneath them. Dynnah lay close to her, an arm draped across Jen’s stomach. Jen was thirty and two, and Dynnah three years older, but in all their years, neither of them had ever done anything so reckless. Unarmed, defenceless, part way up hills rumoured to be alive with Others, they had slept in a ruined hut and lived to tell the tale. So far. Dynnah stirred, and Jen kissed the top of her head. “Morning, sleepy.”

“Has the innkeeper brought breakfast? I crave bacon.”

“The more you remind yourself of your cravings, the worse they will become.”

“You are no fun on a holiday, young lady.”

Jen laughed. “A holiday? I suppose that it is, though the accommodation so far has disappointed me.” She untangled herself from Dynnah and the blanket, stood and stretched in the dawn air that felt chill on her skin this early.

Jen stepped out of the ruined building, gazed toward the road. She saw nothing, and hope rose in her breast. Maybe the Burgher had not ordered them pursued after all. The first rays of the sun above a few nearby trees hit her, warmed her skin even though its full warmth would not arrive for some hours. She stretched again.

As she turned to retrieve the blankets and saddles, something caught her eye down near the road. Although the road itself was little more than a pencilled line drawn by an unsteady hand across the green parchment of the landscape, shrunk by distance, she had seen something, unmistakeable. She squinted and stared down the hill.

“What is wrong?” Dynnah’s voice came from behind her.

Jen continued to stare, shook her head, stared again, but the image before her did not change. Movement, a mass that moved along the rough track the women had followed earlier. Men and horses, unquestionably.

She sighed, cursed their luck, then turned to Dynnah. “They are following us.”

Dynnah’s face dropped. Abject, wretched disappointment wrote itself in her expression, her downturned mouth, her downcast eyes. Her shoulders followed suit, as her distress surged down her body like a disease. “Why? Why do they risk their lives chasing us into hills potentially full of Others?”

“Whatever they think you have, they would go to any lengths to get, I presume.” Jen could not imagine anything worth the effort, the danger. Even baritheum was readily available, and few would risk their lives for it. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s get moving. Maybe they won’t follow us deep into the Cordon.”

They saddled the horses and rode on. Jen glanced back from time to time, and the men continued to follow them. After three or four hours, they came to a cliff face, bare rock with no grass covering it. It stretched before them toward the sky, steep, treacherous, inviting them to try to ascend it so it could cast them down to their doom. Jen stared at it disconsolately. “We’ll have to find a way around. We can’t go back, and we can’t climb this.”

The cliff extended some way either side with no obvious benefit in either direction. Jen turned west for no reason other than the old childhood rhyme. “The sun goes down until tomorrow, returns the morning after. And as for me, the sun I’ll follow, and find a pot of laughter.” They could use some laughter. Their bleak situation, no food, no clothes, no blankets, no water, needed the intervention of the Twain if they were to emerge from it unscathed.

The cliff tapered off after close to an hour of riding, and it curved around enough to hide a pass between the hills that might not be visible from below. When Jen looked around, she could not see their pursuers. If the men turned east at the cliff, and Jen and Dynnah rode through the pass, the men might lose them altogether, or at least be delayed.

Urging Dynnah to trot, Jen pushed Gilpin into the pass, more hopeful than she had been an hour ago that they might finally shake off the pursuit and find some time to make a more robust plan. Above all, they needed food and water soon, or they and the horses could not continue far. The pass narrowed ahead, and rose again, and Jen kicked Gilp up the slope. It took more than half an hour, but finally they emerged into the open. Although they were some distance below the summit, they had passed clear through the Cordon to the other side. Below them spread a vast plain, countryside that Jen knew nothing about. She swivelled in her saddle and saw no sign of the men. “We may have lost them. Let’s ride down and find some food and water.”

Jen’s voice conveyed an optimism she didn’t fully feel, but Dynnah seemed so emotionally taut that Jen believed she must do all she could to keep the older woman’s spirits high. Besides, lack of optimism was no assurance of failure, and she walked Gilpin down the slope toward the plain, dotted here and there with what might have been buildings. For now, they had escaped, they were together, and they were healthy, if hungry. “After everything that happened yesterday, that’s something.”

They chatted idly beneath a cloudy sky, held hands from time to time, and enjoyed a period of freedom from the troubles that had so unexpectedly beset them the previous day. Perhaps all would be well after all. Perhaps they had a whole new life to plan, to build. A scary prospect for Jen, but at least Dynnah had already accomplished one such upheaval, and the older woman’s guidance would be invaluable. Jen smiled happily to herself, despite their tenuous circumstances. They were on an adventure, and who knew how it would turn out?

Jen and Dynnah will return in Crossroads Part III

© Copyright Hayley Price Books 2024

An Original Short Story By Ella Piazzi

When Jo found out she was pregnant, she was disappointed. She had been on the pill since William was born. He was applying for universities. A handful of weeks and Jo would have had her house for herself. She looked forward to it, she itched for it. William was a wonderful son and never stopped her from living her life, but he was an extra burden on top of her fundraising parties and socialite gatherings planning lists. Her husband, Archibald Theodore Coltrane, was an MP, and divided his time between Westminster and his surgery office, leaving her in charge of the day-to-day chores as well as his incessant networking events.

Sitting on the edge of her Italian marble bathtub – “It cost me a fortune to have it shaped and shipped, but look how it perfectly harmonises with the double vanity” she heard herself say to Jaquie, her best friend, who nodded in approval – Jo stared at the pregnancy test in her hand, a miniature Little Boy with no reason to exist. She did her math to pinpoint the exact date.

That morning was spent in the community: Archie was crowdfunding for a primary school sport pitch in a degraded area of the city, and Jo was the one in charge of talking to the mothers and their ‘little angels’, listening to their needs and complaints and translating them into material for Archie’s next speech. Being in close contact with women who believed they deserved the brute they married, stank of garlic and sweaty polyester and spoke a broken English, took a toll on her, more than usual. So, when she got ready for the evening gala with her people, with experts taking care of her make-up, hair, nails and drinks, she could breathe again.

“Make sure my eyes stand out” she said to the make-up artist. She talked more with their green colour than with her mouth.

When the first guests flooded through the main door, Jo was in a comforting wine stupor that made her smile brighter, her manners friendlier and her ears more receptive. Her emerald satin gown complemented the green of her eyes, and was perfect with her blond French twist hairstyle and her diamonds; she turned more than one head. Archie and she had a simple agreement: do whatever you want, but keep it out of the press. That night made no exception. She noticed him as soon as he arrived: his grey suit was impeccable and hugged his sculpted body, charisma came off him in waves, he was attentive and a brilliant conversationalist. And his eyes had a magnetic ember brown shade. But he was used to be obeyed. He wouldn’t provide a name no matter how much she pushed. Not that she cared much when she came for the third time, or when he finished and left her to take care of herself, hungry for more. It became an issue later, when she scanned the room and couldn’t find him. She couldn’t ask if someone noticed sex on two legs walk around without raising eyebrows.

“It was a good night” said Archie, taking off his shirt. She looked at him through the mirror, while she untied her thick hair. His chicken-like breast and his pale skin were a far cry from the solid ridges and the bronze tone of mystery man but that would have to do.

And now, sitting on the edge of her bathtub, she dreaded to know the father’s identity. 

First, she went through denial: the test was wrong; the doctor said it wasn’t. Then came the anger: it was the pill’s fault. And her doctor, who never changed it. Of course it stopped working after so many years! She tried to find an acceptable solution: it was too late for a legal abortion, so maybe she could give it up for adoption. Lots of families desperately wanted a baby and this one was going to have top notch genes. Then depression hit, and with it the morning sickness, that was more of a whole day affair. She finally resigned to have another baby that she didn’t want. But she wasn’t going to get out of bed until it was out of her traitorous womb. No one was going to see her in such a state.

“Darling, what’s wrong?” asked Archie, noticing his wife’s unusual behaviour.

“I am fucking pregnant, that’s what’s wrong!” she busted.

“Oh, but that’s… that’s marvellous!”

“I was on the fucking pill! This” she pointed at her belly “wasn’t supposed to happen!”

“What do you mean?”

“Why do you think we didn’t have other children after William? And now it’s too late for an abortion, so I am stuck with this… thing! Me! I am the pregnant one! Not you!”

It was a hard blow for Archie, but once he absorbed it, he and Jo sat at a table and discussed strategies. A baby can be a gift or an asset, depending in what family they are born. And while he promised to have a more active role in his or her life, she obtained three nannies and nursery school as soon as she could send them. She was this close to her goal, and nothing, nothing was going to cripple her well deserved and long overdue freedom. That thought made her happy. Not the big, round belly that she couldn’t hide anymore, like everybody else wanted to believe. She wasn’t particularly happy when she was pregnant with William either, but after the initial shock and the long negotiations with herself, she had accepted the idea of becoming a mother, and lived the last months as a blessing, despite the discomfort. But this time it was different. It was beyond the shock. It was beyond her age and the uncertain paternity. She had no feelings for the cluster of unwanted cells growing in her womb. She felt like a human incubator.

Her due date was around the 20^th of December, and that made her almost feel sorry for the newborn, who was highly likely to have a combined birthday and Christmas celebration.

“Less hassle for me” she said in front of the mirror. Like every other night, she brushed her teeth, ran her routine skincare, took one last, disgusted look at her ginormous belly and switched off the bathroom light. Then, with some effort, she laid down on her bed beside a light-snoring Archie, but sleep didn’t come, and with the baby moving fast and convulsively all she felt was discomfort and increasing pain, as if it was deliberately kicking her internal organs.

It’s inside a sack that is inside another sack. Yes, my organs shifted, but my body is programmed to do so. It’s just an impression, amplified by the darkness and my lack of empathy. It can’t be deliberately kicking my kidneys from a very privileged position.

Are you sure?

A low rumble rolled towards them, followed by a rapid sequence of lightning bolts, thunder and hail that didn’t bother Archie’s sleep but were the last drop for her.

Jo kicked the duvet aside and walked barefoot to the kitchen, the lightning offering a strobe effect that made her head spin. She poured herself a glass of milk, warmed it up in the microwave and carried it to the living room, where she settled on the sofa. Maybe a TV show could distract her from the weather mayhem and the football match in the uterus. After endless minutes of not user-friendly scrolling, she settled for a re-run of Friends, hoping that that and some stupid arcade game on her tablet worked their magic. She pressed play but she couldn’t go past the theme song because a loud thunder caused a stupid blackout.

Jo cursed, partly for the fright, partly for the new situation, that pushed her one step closer to a sleepless night. Outside it was pitch black, except for the few moments when lightning stroke, turning everything a blinding white. The rain fell in buckets against her tall windows and the wind howled around the chimneys and underneath the porch. More lightning fell, producing a deafening delayed crack. It reminded her of watching the news when she was a child: when the correspondent was in a foreign country the images arrived before the sound, and for a few seconds the journalist resembled a goldfish in a bowl.

Another lightning illuminated her yard and she saw him: he stood straight, his grey suit hugging his impeccable shape, with the same charming smile and the expectation to be obeyed. The rain didn’t wet his clothes, the wind didn’t ruffle his hair. He waved hello, then stretched his arm and turned the palm up toward the sky, index and middle finger protruded in her direction, ring and little fingers slightly bent, in a silent offer to join him and take his hand. Jo took a step back, then another, hit the coffee table with her calves and spilled the glass of milk, now cold again, which shattered on the floor. He bent his head backwards, releasing a silent belly laugh. Then the darkness enveloped everything once again and the thunder rumbled. By the next lightning, Jo’s yard was empty.

Hormones. It must be. No one can stay out in the rain without getting wet. I’ll have my eyes checked too.

Your head too, while you are at it.

A kick stronger than the others forced her focus back on the here and now. She felt nauseous and her legs felt heavy and weak. She needed to pee.

“I just wanna sleep until this thing is 18” she mumbled.

Stumbling carefully because of the glass, Jo walked towards the stairs, but changed direction when the phone in Archie’s office rang. With both her hands in front of her to survey the darkness and helped by the frequent lightning, she located the desk and picked up.

“Hello?” On the other side only an electric crackling. “Hello?” she tried again. But again, she was answered by the cracking. “I can’t hear you; I’ll hang up.”

“…s…om…ou…e…dy”

“What?”

A piercing buzz forced her to push the receiver away from her ear.

“Our Lord’s successor is coming and you better be ready to welcome Her and provide to Her needs or it will be the end of life as you know it” said the voice on the other side, loud and clear.

She was about to reply when another kick forced her to bend over.

“Do all you can to protect Her. On her 18^th birthday she will take Her place beside Her Father.”

An unpleasant wetness ran down her legs and pooled in between her feet.

And I peed myself. Fucking great.

“It’s starting. Don’t fuck it up.”

Tu tu tu.

A sharp pain crossed her abdomen and forced Jo to kneel, her breath sewing in and out rapidly.

“No, no no no! It’s too early! Archie! Archie!” she shouted.

By the time her husband reached her, she was ready to push.

It takes hours, sometimes even a whole day before something happens!

But it’s happening.

“Call an ambulance… now!” she shrieked, holding herself up with one hand, while holding her belly with the other.

“What… I mean… it’s not…” he stuttered.

“Fuck sake, Archie! Call a fucking ambulance right now! This shit is coming out!” Archie looked at her in shock. “Move, you turdish copy of a man!” That finally got him in motion.

“999, what’s your emergency?”

“An ambulance, please! My wife is about to give birth!”

“When did her waters break?”

“Honey, when did your water break?”

“Ten minutes ago…”

“Ten minutes ago.”

“Then there is plenty of time befo-”

Another scream pierced the darkness, promptly followed by lightning and thunder.

“Tell them to fucking move, you useless cunt!” she shouted.

“I don’t think she has plenty of time” Archie said.

The operator clicked on her keyboard, the voices of other operators busy in other conversations in the distance.

“I am sorry, sir, but the weather is against us. I need you to stay on the phone with me while you wait and be ready to assist your wife.”

“Are you saying that I will have to deliver my baby?”

“I am saying it might be a possibility and we will do all we can to be prepared for it.”

“Honey, did you hear that?” said Archie with a crack in his voice.

“Don’t honey me, you fucking prick!” Jo grabbed the receiver. “I want a doctor! A real one! Not this stupid knob I married!”

“Yes, madam. But as I told your husband, the weather is not on our side and we need to be prepared for any circumstance.” Jo slammed the receiver against the desk, so hard that a crack appeared in the plastic. Archie put the call on speaker. Jo cursed him, all his ancestors, the day they met and even his electorate.

“Now, sir, I need you to look in between your wife’s legs and tell me what you see.”

“Oh my god it’s the head” he gasped.

“It means we are very close. Madam, next time you have a contraction, I want you to push as hard as you can, ok?”

The next contraction came, and Jo pushed. And pushed. And pushed again. All the way screaming and cursing and swearing and crying, while the thunderstorm continued to vortex on top of their heads in a dance of cracks and blinding lights. And then, a desperate cry filled up the room.

“The baby’s out” said Archie, holding this bloodied bundle of limbs and fluids in his hands, tears streaking his cheeks. “It’s a girl!”

“Is she breathing?”

The baby continued her desperate cry, while Archie wiped her face.

“Yes. She has strong lungs, just like her mother. Here. Hold her.”

Archie placed the little thing on Jo’s breast and as soon as he did, the baby quieted down, opening her eyes. She stared at her mother with her ember brown little accusatory dots, and when Jo looked away, she saw him, standing in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest and a satisfied smile on his lips. He nodded, his ember brown eyes full of pride. Jo blinked him away.

He’ll be back.

She looked at her daughter, who smiled the same smile of her father, and instinctively pushed her away.

“Jo, careful!” screamed Archie, grabbing the baby.

“Get that monster away from me!”

The baby resumed her desperate cry, no matter how much Archie tried to soothe her.

It’s normal, said the doctor who visited her hours later. The storm had left space to a sky so blue it hurt the eyes. What happened wasn’t normal. Delivery is a process that takes hours, sometimes even days, not a handful of minutes, and it usually happens in a hospital or with the help of specialised personnel, not alone in your house during a blackout. Giving birth is a distressing experience in the best of circumstances. The way Jo gave birth was traumatic, but resolvable with a couple of therapy sessions; after that she would be free to enjoy the joys of motherhood.

Those pleasures were not on the menu for Jo. The new-born, named Morgan after the emergency operator, always felt wrong in her arms. Jo constantly felt under the merciless scrutiny of those ebony brown eyes, everywhere, every time. If she put her down, she would start crying, if she left her with the nanny, she would pull her hair and pee in her face when she got changed, if she wasn’t fast enough to breastfeed her, Morgan would bite hard into her nipples until they bled.

“Nonsense! She doesn’t have teeth!” laughed the doctor. “Unfortunately, it’s normal for the skin to become cracked and bleed a little. Try with Lanolin.”

Jo switched to breast pump, instead, and let her two nannies take care of it. 

“I think you should give it another go” suggested Archie. “Breastfeeding strengthens the bond between mother and daughter.”

“Did you grow a vagina in the last hour?” she replied. That marked the end of Archie’s suggestions. The only time Jo was willing to spend with Morgan was when it was functional to her fundraising, but as soon as Morgan blew her first candle, she was enrolled to the best nursery her parents could afford.

Jo’s relief was short-lived though. Other children in Morgan’s class began to have weird accidents, teachers got sick more than usual, nannies left after claiming they’d been attacked, showing scratches and bite marks, maids began to trip every time Morgan was nearby. And then it was Jo’s possessions disappearing, Jo’s appointments not in her diary, Jo’s hair turning blue before an award, Jo’s wardrobe ruined by a fox before an important gala presided by the Crown, Jo’s email hacked, Jo fined by HMRC for offshore bank accounts she didn’t know anything about. She became a bundle of nerves and elected the guest room as her personal unwinding space, where she could relax, sleep and often have dinner, away from Morgan and Archie.

You better be ready to welcome Her and give Her all she needs or it will be the end of life as you know it.

Morgan’s seventh birthday was approaching and with that an exclusive house gathering, with some of their closest friends, their children and two photographers who worked for the press. William promised to be there too.

“Late, as usual” whispered Jo, checking her phone.

“He’s on his way” replied Archie. “Traffic must be heavy.”

But when the bell rang, Jo didn’t find her son on the other side.

“I am really sorry, Ma’am” said the man in uniform “there’s been an accident. Your son had a collision with a lorry and, unfortunately, passed away.”

Jo collapsed against the wall, while Archie screamed from the top of his lungs. The room froze, even the kids stopped their light-hearted activities. When Jo turned around, all she could see were Morgan’s ember brown eyes and her thin smile, standing on the threshold of the living room in her pink gown , just like

(Her Father)

the man she thought she saw on the night she gave birth.

“Morgan, why don’t you go to your room?” she asked.

“I don’t want to go to my room, mother. Can I have some cake?”

“Why don’t you ask Carmela?”

“I didn’t ask the nanny. I asked you” she replied, her piercing ember eyes fixed in Jo’s green ones. Jo fought a good battle, but lost it. After a long pause, she cut her daughter a slice of cake and dismissed her guests.

“There is something wrong with Morgan” she said to Archie, after putting her to bed.

“Mh?” her husband replied. He lulled the loss of his son with good whiskey, the £200-a-bottle one, and now he was in a stupefied numbness that made him useless.

“Ah, just leave it” she said.

Jo went to her room and pulled old photo albums from the shelves. William’s first Chrismas, William on his first school day, William completing his GCSEs, William on holiday, William and his girlfriend. Smiling, happy, alive, his green eyes a mirror of her own. They were so close when he was little, he loved to do things with his mommy and make her happy. And she was happy too. There were no pictures of her and Morgan, though. Not in the family album, at least. There was lots of pictures of them in the press. They were so different: Jo was naturally dark blonde, with green eyes and a rosy skin, while Morgan had these ember brown malignant eyes, reddish hair and a skin so pale it was translucent.

“I have Irish roots” said Archie, unbothered. “You know what they say, right? That red hair skips one generation.”

Sure. Whatever makes you happy.

Jo threw a couple of sleeping pills on top of her usual night cap, sleeping a black sleep. When she woke up, the following morning, confused and bleak, she was freezing, as if the room temperature had dropped of a good 20 degrees. She opened her eyes and fixed them into the ember brown ones of her daughter.

“Now you will have to provide for me” she whispered in her mother’s face and smiled. Jo screamed and pushed her away.

“What’s going on?” panted Archie, running inside the room.

“That fucking little bitch! It was her! She killed my son!”

“Mom?” cried Morgan on the floor. 

“You little witch!” shouted Jo, charging in her direction “Why did you fucking do it? I have always provided to you, what more do you want, cunt!” She grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, hard.

“Mommy you are hurting me!” she wailed. 

“Jo! Are you out of your mind?” shrieked Archie. He scooped his daughter up and pressed her tight against his chest, gently patting her back. “It’s ok, sugar, it’s ok. Don’t cry. Mommy is in shock.”

“I am sorry, dad…” Morgan hiccupped.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, love” said Archie, staring at his wife in disbelief. “What about pancakes for breakfast? We might have all we need…”

“Can we use cho-chocolate chips?” she sniffled.

“I am not sure there’s any, but I can guarantee there’s chocolate sauce.”

“I like chocolate sa-sauce” Morgan sniffled one last time.

“Me too, honey. Me too.”

Archie shook his head, disgusted, and threw one last glance at his wife, her green eyes fixed on their terrified daughter, and left. Safe, with her thin arms around her father’s neck, Morgan gifted her mother one more of her smiles.

“She just did it again! The little witch did it again!” Jo shouted, but Archie closed the door.

Jo began to laugh. A chilling sound that had nothing human about it. End of life as you know it. And it was. Her son was dead, her husband thought her crazy and she was stuck with this… thing she gave birth to and now regretted to not have attempted an abortion.

Do you really think you could have aborted her?

Probably not.

From then on, Jo refused to leave the spare room for any reason. She began the happy hour a fraction earlier every day – “Somewhere in the world is 5 o’clock” she justified herself – stopped wearing make-up and bothering about any form of fashion and social life. A maid took care of the housework once a week and all her meals were left on a tray outside the door. Jo stared at life going by sitting in front of the window, patiently counting the days.

4023, 4022, 4021.

The relationship between Morgan and Archie became symbiotic. When she wasn’t in school, she was with her father. She studied Latin and French to impress him, she became an exceptional violin player to please him and excelled at every sport she tried just because. She compared ancient history and modern warfare and read philosophy books before going to sleep just for fun.

3572, 3571, 3570.

“Didn’t you quit smoking?” Archie asked her one night. The maid was off sick and he brought her dinner instead. She sat in her usual armchair by the window, a cigarette puffing between her fingers.

“I did” she replied, staring at the dark in front of her.

“So what’s this?”

2658, 2657, 2656.

“This is Morgan” she replied, not moving. He hadn’t seen her for a while, and immediately noticed that the fine lines around her eyes were now deep, and her thick hair, once her biggest pride, greyed and thinned, leaving the scalp exposed.

Morgan celebrated another birthday, and Jo spent the afternoon, as required, in a corner of the living room, drinking and smoking in silence.

Another year gone, eight more to go.

While Jo’s disappearance was blamed on debilitating health conditions, Morgan’s presence was on the rise: she was the only female figure in Archie’s life and the Parliament’s favourite child.

1396, 1395, 1394.

She was doing brilliant, even without expensive schools or private tutors.

742, 741, 740.

“When I grow up, daddy, I want to be a politician. Just like you.”

“Being a politician is a volatile career, honey” Archie replied. “You need a Plan B.”

“Like what, daddy?”

“Choose a profession that you like and will guarantee you a decent income.”

Morgan thought about it for a while, then she said: “I could study law.”

“Would you like to be a lawyer?”

“Yes. I would like to give everyone the opportunity to explain why they did or didn’t do something.”

“That’s very noble, honey. But what if you find yourself in the position of defending someone that did something terrible, deserves whatever punishment plus more but you still need to find a way to let them go scot-free?”

Morgan considered it for a long time, her eyes focused on a specific point behind Archie’s head, where a man stood in his impeccable light grey suit, his charming air and his ember brown eyes. He smiled his witty smile at his daughter and nodded. Morgan smiled back.

“Then I would become the devil’s advocate.”

4, 3, 2.

A light knock on her door made Jo turn her head. She was now going through three bottles of vodka a day and her life swung between headaches and tipsiness. She was counting down the days, but her brain was too pickled to remember why she started. 

“Come in” she slurred, swirling the plain vodka in her glass. 

“Hello, mother,” said Morgan. Jo hissed and bared her teeth. She tried to retreat from her armchair, but she only managed to knock off the lamp on her nightstand and tripped on a pile of dirty clothes the maid hadn’t cleaned up yet. “Goodness me, the air in this room. It’s stale, isn’t it. Let me open the window for you.”

“What do you want?”

“I came to pay a visit to my beloved mother” replied Morgan with her usual smile. “I know, I should have come more often, but our relationship has always been cold. At its best” she giggled. “Given your fragile state, I didn’t want to cause more damage.” Morgan sat on the floor and placed her hand on her mother’s knee. Jo tried to retreat, but her daughter’s grasp was of iron. “You have been chosen. And, with highs and lows, you made sure I reached the age of 18. In a week I will finally reunite with my Father, and I’ll take my place by his side. For this, I am thankful. And I will make sure you’ll be rewarded accordingly.”

“I don’t want to be rewarded. I want to be left alone.”

“But you can’t!” Morgan gasped in mocked shock. “When Archie will perish in a terrible accident – and that will be all too soon, unfortunately – the most popular kid in British politics will be left alone with her pain. Her lovely and selfless mother will do all she can to support her despite her own problems, and will help her continue her father’s work and carry on his legacy. And when that daughter will become a mother herself, her own mother will spoil her and her kids with all the love that only a woman who suffered incommensurably is capable of. So… how about we begin by stopping this?” said Morgan, pulling the glass from her mother’s fingers.

“You can’t!” screamed Jo, trying to fetch it back. Morgan pushed her and Jo fell back on her ass.

“Down, bitch.” Morgan emptied glass and bottle in the bathroom sink and swept the room looking for more. “I will send the maid to clean up, then we will check you into the best rehab centre. You will still make a brief appearance at my birthday party, though.”

“But…”

Morgan’s cold fingers wrapped around her scrawny neck and cold spread along her body, paralysing her.

“You’ll do what you are told. You’ll smile when it’s time to smile and cry when it’s time to cry, eat your greens, exercise regularly and live a long and healthy life. Are we clear?”

Jo looked out of the window. The last leaves were battling to hang onto the branches a little longer but one eventually lost its fight and fell to the ground, stopping at the feet of a handsome man, dressed in an impeccable grey suit, a charming air, an enchanting smile and ember brown eyes. He nodded.

“Crystal” she replied to her daughter.

The clouds parted for a brief second and a ray of sun hit her face. The fine lines around her eyes and her mouth smoothed, her hair thickened, the dark blonde covering white, her skin lost its greyness.

And her eyes, still of a bright green, now showed a hint of ember brown.

© Copyright Ella Piazzi 2024

An Original Short Story by Hayley Price

For as long as anybody could remember, the town of Bellindu had simply been known as Crossroads. Wealth flowed into the country of Forl as it grew in importance, a trade stop on the burgeoning baritheum route between those nations fortunate enough to have the precious ore beneath their ground and those nations desperate enough to pay vast sums for it. Exotic goods from other lands arrived at Seaport, destined for the major cities. Baritheum flowed east to Seaport from the interior of Forl, and the money that merchants paid for it flowed west, back to Werllan, the capital city.

Nobody raided the bullock carts as they trundled east. The heavy ore did not appeal to raiders, but the money chests that headed west did, and the raids increased in frequency. At the crossroad between the main route from Werllan to Seaport and two smaller roads used mainly by farmers and a handful of locals to move between markets, the Chamber, the governing body of Forl, decided to station a small group of soldiers, and a military camp sprang up. Raids dwindled, Chambermen grew wealthier, and Crossroads, as it became known, attracted residents and businessmen.

Jen’s parents built the stable before Burgher Bellindu formally decided to rename Crossroads in his own honour, and they made a handsome living from the provision of horses to the military and stabling for folks passing through, east or west. In time, the military camp closed, too expensive to maintain, replaced by mercenary guards who travelled with the bullock carts that still rolled through the town, which had grown large enough to support itself without the camp.

Then somebody found baritheum in the town. The miners came, dug their tunnels, and the mining company built a big house on the top of a knoll to the south near the mine, called it Hummock, and moved the mine boss into it. The town flourished, Jen’s parents with it. But the seam turned out to be shallower than anybody had thought, and it ran dry within seven years. The miners left, their money left, and the mine boss left. Hummock stood empty, the town grew a sense of despondency, and people stood in the street, grumbled about the good old days, and watched the bullock carts pass them by.

Jen ran the stable alone now, her parents dead. Bellindu had gone too; drank himself to death, the old fool. The new Burgher, Orl Vanster, took over, elected unopposed by the townsfolk. Jen’s quiet life suited her, her days filled with the care of the horses that she loved, her nights often spent in the Bellinndu, the tavern that some wag opened years earlier, combining the town name with the word “inn” in a way that made Jen cringe whenever a traveller asked her where they could get a room, a meal, and a pot of ale.

When the rumours began, Jen paid them no mind. If somebody moved into Hummock, so what? She would carry on, and nothing would change for her. Sold to a rich widow from Werllan, the stories said. Jen could not imagine why a rich woman, alone by all accounts, would move from her glamorous life in the capital to Crossroads. Like her parents before her, Jen still called the town Crossroads. The widow would be bored to death here and would return west within a year, she predicted.

For once, the rumours proved correct. The woman did move into Hummock, and Jen’s life changed more than she had expected, because the new owner had never ridden a horse but wanted to learn how. Somebody suggested that Jen could teach her, usually had a few spare horses that she looked after for locals who didn’t need them much, so they stabled them with Jen. Jen rode them out, kept them fit, so maybe she would help the new resident learn to ride.

Dynnah, her name. Jen thought she might have been thirty and five, perhaps, not much older. Young to be a widow, but Jen didn’t pry. “Can you teach me?” Dynnah had explained it all, and Jen had listened to it all.

Tall and slender, Dynnah. Dark hair combed back meticulously and gathered into a ponytail bound by an extravagant red barrette. Attractive, with full lips painted dark red, green eyes, dainty hands. Attractive, but not breathtaking, not that Jen had any right to judge. “I can teach you.” Why not? Money is money, after all. Jen had never taught anybody to ride before, but if the woman had half a brain, it should not prove too difficult.

“Can we start now?”

Impatient. Not a trait that Jen suffered gladly, but she had been thinking of a ride today anyway. Overnight rain had left a damp smell in the air, like old leaves as they decayed, and she loved to ride in that beautiful aroma. “Follow me.”

Jen led Dynnah out into the small yard at the side of the stable where her own horse, Gilpin, stood tethered to a post. She had Dynnah throw the blanket over him, pick up the saddle and cinch it. She watched the beads of sweat break out on Dynnah’s forehead, unused to such labour, Jen’s best guess.

With a lead rope tied to his halter, Jen showed Dynnah how to mount Gilpin, then brought a small box over to make the task easier for her pupil. If a person could not ride Gilpin, they could not ride. He could walk all day, as placid as the snow is cold, but he had a fiery heart and loved to be ridden hard. He would put his ears back and gallop faster than the wind, but Dynnah would have to enjoy that experience another day. For now, Jen taught her the correct posture, how to hold the reins, how to turn him, how not to squeeze her legs against his body in panic, helped her to her feet when she forgot, and he trotted on. Jen didn’t even laugh.

Dynnah took to it better than Jen expected, and she proved to be easy company. She rained down praise for Jen’s patience and clear explanations, and after little more than an hour, she could turn him, stop him, even make him trot, although she bounced atop him like a doll on a spring, and strands of hair threw themselves out of her ponytail in protest.

Jen suggested a short ride across a couple of nearby fields, and Dynnah’s eyes lit up with excitement, so Jen fetched one of the neighbour’s horses, another placid mount in case she needed to intervene in some trick that old Gilp played on his new rider. Dynnah’s wide-eyed joy as she guided Gilpin across the field brought a permanent smile to Jen’s lips, and when they returned, Jen felt that she had rarely spent a more enjoyable two hours for many months.

Dynnah insisted on taking off Gilpin’s tack and brushing him. The old faker had barely even known he’d had a walk, but he loved a good brush, and he didn’t complain, so neither did Jen.

“How long have you lived in Bellindu?” Dynnah seemed keen on some small talk as she swept the brush along Gilpin’s flank.

“I was born here, for my sins.”

“Sins? Do you believe, then?”

“In the Twain you mean?” Dynnah nodded. “No, I don’t believe.”

“Why is that?” Jen chewed at the inside of her mouth. She had not expected such a personal question and didn’t quite know how to answer, and Dynnah apparently sensed her reticence. “Oh, I’m so sorry. What a rude question. I apologise. Your faith is your own concern. I don’t know what came over me. Forget I asked.”

What harm could it do to explain? None, Jen supposed. “I have always thought it nothing but a story my mother told me to scare me into behaving, when all else had failed.” She laughed as she remembered her mother’s sombre expression, her doom-laden voice as she threatened the childhood Jen with the repercussion of the Twain if she didn’t behave. “Twin gods, born of a father who lay with a beast? It does defy belief, don’t you think?”

“I am afraid to doubt, if I’m honest.”

“Afraid? Of what?”

“I don’t know. That they’ll strike me dead, I suppose. The repercussion of the Twain.” Her brush lay stationary on Gilpin’s hind quarter, her eyes looked into the distance at something only she could see, then she shook her head and laughed, the soft tinkle of water as it dripped from a leaf in the sunshine after a summer shower. Jen decided she liked Dynnah’s laugh, liked the sparkle in her eyes, the dimples in her cheek that the laughter deepened. If talk of the Twain caused the older woman to laugh, then Jen could stand to debate them all day.

Jen looked down, guilty. Such thoughts were not proper. “The woman is a widow.” She hoped that Dynnah did not grasp the reason Jen’s cheeks had turned red and burning hot. “You ride well. I did not expect you to take to it so quickly.”

“Thank you. I enjoyed it. I would like another lesson if that’s possible.”

“I can think of no reason not to, can you?”

Dynnah laughed again. “I can’t. Tomorrow?”

“I have some time later in the day. In the morning, I have a mare to deliver to a farm. They keep her here much of the time, but they want her home for a few days.”

“Later tomorrow then. Thank you for the lesson.”

Dynnah put down the brush and rubbed Gilpin’s face. “He’s a lovely horse. I think he knew that I had never ridden before and tried to make me look good.”

Jen laughed. “You can ride him again tomorrow. He is a good horse to learn on.”

Dynnah looked at her feet, mumbled something that Jen didn’t quite catch. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” Jen stared after Dynnah as she walked alongside the building, turned the corner, and disappeared.

Jen breathed out, a long, slow breath that she had held captive inside her as she hoped Dynnah would turn and wave goodbye. The day wound on, and Jen put all the horses into the stable, fed, watered them, closed the doors and went up to the small living quarters above them.

She rode out to the farm with the mare on a rope in the morning, rode back. The sun shone, but the wind blew and carried some menace on it that Jen could not identify, the smell of bad weather to come, perhaps.

Dynnah arrived as Jen finished a piece of bread, seated on the box that she used to help people mount the horses. Dynnah’s smile arrived before the rest of her, palpable excitement when she saw Gilpin saddled, ready. She wore a grey linen shirt tucked into black trousers, and she climbed from the box onto Gilp’s back unaided.

They rode across fields, chatted idly. Dynnah’s husband had been a banker involved in loaning vast sums of money to businesses, mostly in the baritheum industry. He had got up one day, sat at the table to break his fast, and fallen face down onto the tabletop, dead as an old rag. No explanation could be found, the doctors told her. He had loaned money to the mine that worked the baritheum here in Bellindu apparently, and had, in Dynnah’s words, taken a bath on the place, so when she heard that Hummock could be bought cheaply, she decided that she had grown tired of city life and wanted to spread her wings, experience something different.

Once they had brushed the horses, put them into the stable, Jen thought she would close for the night and head upstairs, but Dynnah made a different suggestion. “Please, come to my home for dinner. I have not paid you anything yet for my lessons, and we need to arrange an appropriate fee. I live alone and would welcome the company.” Jen tried to decline, anxious that she had ridden all day and would smell terrible. “Nonsense. That is the smell of honest work. Please come. I really would enjoy the company. You’re the only person I know in town so far.”

Reluctantly, Jen agreed, and they walked side by side up to Hummock. Jen had never been inside the house, and the true size of it could not be guessed from the end of the lane. It took her breath away. The parlour alone must have been bigger than her humble accommodations above the stable. A large kitchen with an iron range stood at one end of the house, reached through a long dining room with a table and eight chairs in it.

Dynnah lit some candles in baritheum holders that seemed to stand on every flat surface. Dynnah had a cold tenderloin in her pantry, and they boiled some vegetables together. They ate at the table, far too big for only two of them.

“When will you try scran?” Jen pushed her plate away, leaned her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her palms.

“Scran?”

“It is the local delicacy. Off-cuts of meat, shank, chuck and so on. Vegetables, potatoes, and the local secret ingredient. Boil for hours, all day if you can, to soften the tough cuts of meat. You have never heard of it?”

“I haven’t. It sounds like a broth, but tell me about the secret ingredient.”

Jen laughed and tapped the side of her nose with her index finger. “I cannot tell you about it yet. You haven’t lived among us for long enough.”

“How long is ‘long enough’?” Dynnah laughed as she asked the question, but at that moment, a red glow against the dark night sky through the window caught Jen’s eye.

Curious, Jen rose and went to the window. A fire burnt in the town in the area of old Elma’s store. She wrinkled her brow as she gazed across the town, then dark shadows caught her eye.

Jen wheeled toward Dynnah, who watched her in curiosity. “Others!” Jen rushed over to Dynnah, grabbed her hand, and pulled her to her feet.

“Others? They’ve been eradicated, haven’t they?”

“No. We have to go. Come.”

“We are safer in the house, surely? They will not come up here. We aren’t in the town.”

“They are already here. This is a perfect target for them. They love big houses. Lots of food, baritheum candlesticks, platters. Run. Back door.”

She tugged Dynnah behind her and heard the glass of the front door smash as they ran across the rear garden, overgrown and wild beneath the moon.

Dynnah ran behind her, sobbed softly. “Where will we go?”

“To the mine. We’ll be safe there, and it’s close by. Hurry.”

Jen led her as fast as she could pull her along, stumbling over roots and uneven ground in the half-light from the moon. Finally, she saw the deeper black of the mine entrance against the dark cliff of the escarpment, and she dragged Dynnah into the dark tunnel. There she halted, and their ragged breaths disrupted the dark silence as they both sucked air into lungs that screamed for more of the precious commodity.

Jen felt around her, found a wall. “Deeper in, there’s a room where we can hide.” She pulled Dynnah along behind her, slowly testing each footfall before she trusted her weight to the step. The doorway of the small room opened on her right, and they ducked in.

“How do you know we’re safe in here?” Dynnah gasped the words, still presumably fighting for breath.

“They don’t like tunnels. They won’t chase us down here.”

“How do you know? Are you sure?”

Jen bent down to search for something she could make some light from but came across nothing useful. “Because I’ve hidden from them in here before.”

Dynnah exhaled, loud in the darkness. “When?”

“A previous maraud, when I was younger. They killed my parents, but one of the neighbours brought me here. They followed us, but they wouldn’t come into the tunnel.”

“They killed your parents? That’s horrible.”

Jen nodded, then realised that Dynnah would not have seen the gesture. “It was. They used to maraud more in those days. They haven’t been to Crossroads for a long time.”

“Crossroads?”

“That’s what the locals call Bellindu. That’s all it used to be known as, before the Burgher, Bellindu, named it for himself.” Jen had not found anything to start a fire with, and she felt around until she found Dynnah’s legs. “Sorry.” Dynnah had flinched at her touch. “Sit with me here. We’re safe now. They won’t stay long.”

“I had heard stories of them, but I’d never seen one. I presumed they weren’t real.”

“Oh, they’re real. They don’t maraud into cities because of the soldiers. Where they come from, nobody really knows, only the stories.”

“What stories?” Dynnah shivered in the damp, cold air of the mines, and Jen put an arm around the older woman, who shook vigorously from the combined effects of the cold and the fear.

“The story goes that the Others are not from our world. They were summoned here from another world by a crazed acolyte in a secret temple somewhere. I don’t believe that, of course, but they’re unlike anything else I’ve ever seen. Big, slow, covered in rough reddish-brown skin. They’re very strong. The one that killed my mother only hit her once. She flew across the yard into the wall of the stable, fell to the floor, and never moved again.”

“The stable!” Dynnah moved urgently in the darkness. “Your horses are in danger.”

“The horses are fine. The Others are afraid of horses. If we’d been in my home, we would have been safe. They won’t enter the stable.”

Dynnah chuckled. “I’m sorry to laugh, but these monsters are afraid of the silliest things. Horses, tunnels. How have they survived?”

“I don’t think they have. Rumour has it that not many have, at least. This maraud may be desperate; starved, forced out of another town. Who knows?”

Dynnah did not speak for some time, but she continued to shake. Finally, she whispered, “I’m scared.”

“I know, but we’re safe here. We’ll go out in the morning.”

“Will they be dead then?”

Jen shrugged, another futile gesture in the darkness. “People say that they can only be killed if you cut their heads off. Or if a warlock kills them.”

“What is a warlock?”

This time, Jen laughed. “I don’t know. Some kind of mystical man, I think. Why only a warlock can kill them, I can’t tell you.”

“I am glad you were at the house. They would have probably killed me otherwise.”

“Probably. They wouldn’t have eaten you though.”

“That’s reassuring.” Dynnah laughed again, and Jen joined in.

Dynnah moved closer, laid her head on Jen’s shoulder. “Thank you for saving me. How can I ever repay you?”

As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, Jen could see the white shape of Dynnah’s face upturned, looking up at her. “You don’t need to. I saved myself. You just followed me.”

Dynnah snickered, then her hand touched Jen’s cheek, soft, the scent of an expensive fragrance on her wrist. Jen moved her head into the touch, the warmth, and Dynnah’s lips found hers. They kissed, tender, unhurried. “Is this wrong?” Even in the silence of the mine, Dynnah’s small whisper could barely be heard, a minute disturbance of the air.

Jen’s heart fluttered in her breast. “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel wrong, but I’ve never done it before.”

“Nor me. I didn’t think a woman could feel this sort of attraction for another woman.”

Their lips met again, and they kissed for longer, Dynnah’s hand holding the back of Jen’s head. Dynnah moved her head back, one last tender kiss on Jen’s lips, then laid her head against Jen’s breast.

“Try to sleep.” Jen reached behind her, shuffled backward to the wall. Dynnah laid her head on Jen’s lap, and Jen ran her fingers through the disarray of dark hair.

“That feels nice.” Dynnah sounded sleepy, and soon her breathing became steady and rhythmical.

Jen sat in the dark and wondered how so much had happened in her life since Dynnah appeared at the stable yesterday. Jen had never kissed anybody, man or woman, until tonight. She found Dynnah easy company, funny and smart, but just an hour ago they had fled for their lives from the maraud, taken shelter here. Now they had kissed. What did it all mean? Some things are too complex to understand, she presumed. Her head fell forward, and she jerked awake. Dynnah shifted next to her, disturbed by the movement, presumably. Where could this go? Nowhere, probably. Still, the kisses had been exciting, exhilarating even. Tomorrow would take care of itself. For now, Dynnah slept on, her head in Jen’s lap, and it felt so right, so comfortable, that Jen fell asleep, the fear and the Others forgotten.

She awoke stiff and half fallen to one side. Dynnah’s head still lay in her lap, her soft breaths suggestive that she had not woken. Jen tried to sit in a more comfortable position, but disturbed Dynnah. “What time is it?”

“I see light from the tunnel. It is morning, I think. We can leave. We will be safe now.”

Dynnah raised herself quickly, kissed Jen. “Do we have to? Can’t we stay here?”

“I think we can find somewhere more comfortable than this tunnel.” Jen laughed, amused by Dynnah’s unrealistic suggestion.

“Perhaps we can.” Dynnah sounded serious, resentful.

“Dynnah, how can we be together? We are two women. You are a widow.”

“That doesn’t matter, does it? We can meet as often as we want. I will come to the stable, we can ride out. You can come to my house. We can…”

Jen sighed. “We will see. We will see.” The development frightened her. What would happen if somebody learned the true nature of their friendship? In her lifetime, she had never heard of two women together as a man and a woman might be. “We will see.” The last time might have been said to herself, she thought.

The town had suffered terribly from the maraud. Three townsfolk had been killed and Elma’s store had burned down, a lantern knocked over in the panic and confusion. Burgher Vanster had sent for some soldiers from the city but held out little hope that they would come.

The Others had ransacked Dynnah’s house. Her furniture lay scattered everywhere, the remains of the topside gone, along with most of the food in her pantry. Most of her baritheum candlesticks and platters had gone too, taken by the Others, who hoarded the precious ore for reasons that nobody really knew.

Dynnah stared at the mess of her kitchen in distress. “Don’t worry. I will help you fix everything up.” Jen laid a reassuring hand on the older woman’s forearm.

“I am afraid to stay. What if they come back?”

Jen reached up, cradled Dynnah’s cheek in her hand. “I will send Gilpin to keep you safe.”

Dynnah did not smile, did not seem reassured. Her eyes swept across the devastation of her home, and she sighed.

Jen bent to pick up a chair, stand it upright at the table. “Are you really afraid to stay?”

“Maybe. Will they come back?”

Jen didn’t turn to face her. “I don’t know. Maybe, if somebody doesn’t kill them.” She paused. “What about us?”

Dynnah let out a long, slow breath. “Jen, what chance is there for us?”

“You did not seem so unsure this morning.”

“Yet you did. We were scared. I don’t know, Jen. Let’s take some time, think about it.”

Jen wiped at her eyes. “I must feed the horses. If you want help with the house, let me know. I’ll be happy to help.” She pulled the door closed behind her and headed for the stable. Her mind whirled with emotions. Whether she could ever love a woman, or a man, had never entered her head before as she focused on the stable, content to let the dice fall wherever they chose. Dynnah had awoken something inside her, then seemed to snatch it away with her next breath. How was she supposed to feel? Not as crushed as she did, surely?

For two days, Jen threw herself into her work, tidied all the tack around the stable, rode out on the two long-term horses, took Gilpin for a long, slow walk through the forest north of the town. Try as she might, she could not keep Dynnah out of her mind, the memory of those soft, tender kisses, the promises that lay beyond them. Should she walk to Hummock, confront Dynnah and demand that the older woman put her out of her misery? Even if Dynnah no longer wanted anything to do with her, Jen would know where she stood. Anything would be preferable to this torture of uncertainty.

When it came to it, she lacked the resolve, unsure that she could stand to hear the words that might rip her heart from her breast, dash it in pieces on the ground. She stood with her head on Gilpin’s shoulder, tears wetting his brown hair. “Why am I like this, Gilp? I barely know her. She was right. What chance do we have? It is hopeless.”

From the doorway, a familiar voice interrupted her self-misery. “I understand that you might be able to teach me to ride.”

Jen did not raise her head, but Gilpin flicked his upward. “I have seen you ride. You are very awkward. I don’t think anybody could teach you to ride.”

“Really? My last tutor told me I had an exceptional talent for riding.”

Jen pushed her head away from Gilpin, turned to face Dynnah. “Have you come to taunt me?”

Dynnah shook her head and smiled as a tear ran down her cheek, then held her arms out toward Jen. For a moment, Jen did not move. Then she ran into Dynnah’s arms, smothered her face with kisses.

Dynnah stroked the back of Jen’s head. “I have no idea how any of this will end.”

“I don’t care about that. You are here. Nothing else matters.”

Dynnah’s laugh swept away all Jen’s despair. “What could I do? I missed Gilpin.”

Jen kissed Dynnah, took her hand, then led her past Gilpin toward the stairs.

© Copyright Hayley Price Books 2023

An Original Short Story by Ivan Scott

“Henry? What do you think of this dress?” Eleanor asked.
Henry turned from the mirror and looked over. His eyes explored every inch of her body and the further he searched, his eyes and smile widened.
“Oh yeah.” He gave her one last loving look. “Damn, you’re beautiful.”
Eleanor blushed. “You think those kinds of words will get me back in the sack, don’t you? You know, Henry, I wore you out this morning so I am surprised you want to go for the two times.”
“Ah, such sweet sacrifices we make for the ones we love. And yes, I fully believe I can get you back in the sack one more time before we have to leave.”
Eleanor smiled and shook her head. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” She retreated into the closet.
Henry squirted toothpaste on his toothbrush and began brushing his teeth. After he finished, he looked over to the closet. “Did I tell you how beautiful you looked this morning?”
From the closet, Eleanor replied, “Yes. You did. Why do you think I keep you around?”
Henry laughed.
“Heels or boots?” came her voice from the other side of the door.
“After all these years, you have to ask?”
“Yeah. Silly question.”
After hearing a few zips, Henry’s eyes moved to the door, looking forward to her appearance. As she walked into the bathroom, his eyes widened.
“Damn, You are gorgeous.”
Eleanor curtseyed. “Thank you, my handsome hubby.”
As Henry continued looking at her, Eleanor shook her head. “I know you like these boots, but try to control yourself. You have a presentation. I can’t wait to hear what you came up with.”
“Well, you know me when it comes to speaking in public.” he smiled. “Oh, what the hell. I’m sure for you, I can summon up whatever I need to leave the audience begging for more.”
Eleanor walked to him, holding a blue bow tie with white polka dots. “I think this will go well with your suit. I want to make sure your presentation today is first class from top to bottom.”
She pulled it around his neck, then nestled up to his back and brought her arms around him so she could tie it for him.
“You know what I was thinking about the other day?” Henry asked.
“I have no idea,” she replied as she focused on knotting the tie.
“Remember the first time we met?”
Eleanor stopped. “The night I got thrown out of the bar? What made you think of
that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I was just thinking of the old days. And you came up with the bright idea of returning about a half hour later with your hair up under a ball cap and wearing your glasses so the bouncer wouldn’t recognise you.”
“I really thought that was going to work,” she said with a giggle. “I would have made it too, if I hadn’t left my purse inside with all my money and I.D.” Henry looked at her as she wrapped the tie around itself and pulled it. “Well, if it wasn’t for that, we might not have met. You were my knight in shining armor,” she told him.
“Yeah. I guess I was. Your purse was lying next to me on the bar, and when you
knocked on the window and pointed at it, I thought I had won the lottery.”
“Me too,” she told him as she shaped the bow. “Funny how we might not have
met had I not slipped off that barstool and the bartender snitched on me.”
“Slipped off? More like fell off.”
“It wasn’t my fault. I was overserved.”
Henry laughed. “If I had a dime for everytime you’ve said that.”
Eleanor laughed, then tightened the ends. After straightening it, she smiled.
“There you go, you handsome devil.”
“Sure we can’t go for that two times you promised?” He asked with hopeful eyes.
“No, you silly goose. You have to leave the audience wanting more, remember?”
Henry looked into the mirror and smiled. “Yes, you’re right.” He nodded and looked at her through the mirror. “You’re right. I am quite dashing.”
As the pair walked into the bedroom, Henry picked up his navy blue jacket and slid it on. After flattening his lapels, he asked, “How do I look?”
“Like the night we first met,” she said, a glow emitting from her cheeks. “Shall we
go?”
“Sure. Hey, here’s a thought. Since we have a little time, do you want to walk through St. Joseph’s? After all, it is the first place we met before our first date.”
“I think we can make that work,” she smiled.

#

The pair held hands on a breezy morning, sidestepping puddles from the previous night’s rain. Henry made sure Eleanor missed the puddle, then looked over and said,
“Remember that place?”
Eleanor followed his eyes. When she recognized the cobblestone building, she
smiled.
“Yes. I do.”
“And I hate coffee,” he told her.
“Thank God they had tea.”
“Did you ever think after all these years, our love affair would begin in that place? He asked. “And the funny thing is we spent hours talking and there was not an alcoholic
beverage in sight. I can’t remember what we talked about, but we were sober when we
did.”
“I told you more than once that was the longest I ever spoke to a boy and didn’t
have any alcohol,” she giggled.
“That was probably the only time,” he joked. He shook his head, then took another look at the building, wanting to make it last as long as he could before having to
do what he came to do. “Yeah. That was a night.”
As they walked, copper, crimson and butterscotch leaves had their last moment
of glory in the sky, radiating with the beauty of Heaven as they fluttered to the ground.
“You see those leaves?” he asked.
Elanor looked up, and saw the leaves dropping on them. “Oh yeah. They are gorgeous. You’ve always had a thing for the autumn leaves.”
“Yeah, I guess I have.”
“Why?” she asked.
Henry gazed up at the colors descending on them. “I guess they remind me of you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. Remember the old saying, ‘Don’t lose your redhead in the leaves.’ With your hair, it’s a wonder I didn’t have to file a missing persons report on you when October arrived.”
Eleanor laughed. “Yeah, I can see that.”
Henry continued. “I also think it’s because the autumn leaves are amazing. Colourful. And when I see them, it makes me feel alive. Just like you,” he said, then leaned over and kissed her cheek. After a few more steps, he continued. “All these beautiful leaves, who once pulsated in the glory of life, gave us something to marvel over, as the world was nothing but warm, sun splashed days, some so vivid and bright you think they would never end.” Henry paused. “This October, though, they remind me more of us.”
“Sooner or later, everything comes to an end.”
But why does this remind you of us?”
“I think because here are these leaves, and when their time is over, they give us one last moment of beauty. They had their moment, but time found them, and once it did, resigned them to the fate we all succumb to as we recede into October. All that’s left is the memory of their triumph as they give the world one last chance to see their beauty before they are gone forever.”
Eleanor nodded. “Yeah. I see what you mean now.”
“Make sure to savour the irony.”
“Yeah. I think I will.”

#

After a few blocks, they arrived at St. Joseph’s Park. As always, Eleanor led him to the
hydrangea bushes. The pinks, purples and baby blues glowed in the damp sunshine.
“These are gorgeous,” she said, as she stared at them.
Henry’s knees buckled at the sight of her face, happy and glowing, then he found the strength to hold himself up. “You and your hydrangeas. They always make you smile. If I didn’t know you loved me so much, I’d think you have a little something on the side.”
“You better watch out, Harry darling. I just might.”
When Henry’s grin grew and he continued smiling at her, Eleanor asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I just… I’m soaking you all in. This one moment. A moment that could never be taken away. Now is all that matters.”
“It does,” she said with a nod.
“We stood in the same world, at the same time. I knew this would be over one day, and the memory would forever be banished into the blur of other moments in life
that nobody remembered or even cared about. But I’ll remember. And that’s good
enough for me”.
Eleanor, blushed, and wiped a small tear from her eye. Then she cupped his cheek in her gloved hand.
“Why are you crying?” He asked.
“I’m not. It’s just… autumn allergies,” she assured him, then she sniffled and recovered with a smile.
Henry held her. “You look the same as the first night we met. I have to confess, on that night, I’ve never felt like that in my life.”
“I hope you know how much I love you, darling.” She moved closer and kissed him on the cheek. Harry blushed. Eleanor’s eyes lit up.
He brushed a couple of curly strains of cinnamon hair from her face, locked his
eyes on hers and said, “I hope you know how much I love you too, Eleanor.”
As they walked along the grounds, Henry looked into the distance, seeing where he needed to be. “Did you ever think we’d be standing here, after all these years, still
together?” He asked.
“Yeah, I did.”
“How did you know?”
Eleanor wrapped her arm through his and nestled in close. She grinned. “When that one perfect night comes, you just know. How about you? Did you know when we
first met?”
Henry thought for a few seconds, then told her, “Yeah. Even before there was you, there was the dream of you.”
“Good to know I am your dream girl.”
Henry looked ahead. “I know the day will come when we’ll be far apart. And I’ll be
sad. But I can live with it.”
“You can?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “Because nobody can take away what happened here. What
happened to us. This is our victory. Our victory will last forever.”
“Forever,” she repeated as her eyes narrowed, and a defiant smile came to her lips.
As they walked arm in arm down the sidewalk, Eleanor asked, “Are you afraid?”
“No.”
After a few more steps, she said, “You’re shaking.”
Henry shrugged. “There’s one thing I’m afraid of,” he confessed as they moved
forward. “How I’m going to feel when the moment is over. I’ll be all alone. Wondering
where you are.”
“I know,” she replied. “But we must live in the moment. It’s all we have. It’s the
one thing that time can never take away from us. Once it becomes reality, it becomes
ours. Forever.”
“But you won’t be here.”
“Oh, I will be. You’ll take me wherever you go so I’ll be there when you need me.”
Eleanor stopped and they faced each other. She placed her arms on Henry’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. “We only have now,” she whispered. “Tomorrow will come. It’s inevitable. But nothing can take away what we have right now. Kiss me. Kiss me into your forever,” she asked, her voice soft and sweet.
“No. Not yet,” he told her. “I want to hold you. I want to remember how you smelled. I want to remember the way my heart felt when I held you close to me. I want to fool myself into believing that no matter what happens tomorrow, our hearts will beat together.” Henry paused, then told her, “I want to make sure that no matter where I go,
you’ll be there.” Henry rubbed his finger across her cheek, then brushed another strand of hair from her face. “I want to remember everything about your face so no matter what happens after this is over, I’ll never forget you.” Henry gave her a long, meaningful gaze, then said, “Tell me you love me.”
“You already know the answer.”
“I’ve always known. But I want to hear you say it. I want to hear it in your voice so
that when tomorrow comes, I can hear it as many times as I need to.” His eyes pleaded
to hear her voice say the words. “Tell me you love me.”
“I love you.”
Their lips met in a passionate dance only lovers who have that certain feeling give to each other. When the kiss ended, she looked up and smiled. “You have to go.” Before Henry objected, she added, “It’s okay. This can never be taken away.”
“But that’s the part that breaks my heart,” he told her.
“Don’t feel sad my darling. Not everyone can say they had their moment in time.”
“Will I ever see you again?”
“Every day,” she smiled.
“I will?”
“Oh yeah,” she assured him. “You’ll see me in the sunrise. Or in the breeze. And in the leaves of October. When you see those things, I’ll be there. That’s all that matters. We lived. We loved. And we found each other, if only for a tiny flicker of time.”
Eleanor reached up and straightened his bow tie. “You look perfect. Now go in there
and do what you have to do.”
Henry smiled. “I will.”
“And what will you say about me?”
Henry smiled. “After all these years, you still leave me speechless.” He gazed
into her eyes, letting the look linger so she knew it wasn’t just a look. “Don’t worry. I’ll
know what to say.”
“You’ll be great,” she assured him.
“Will you be there?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Promise?” he asked, as the tears gave away the walls he built so he could get through today.
“Have I ever lied to you before?”
Henry shook his head.
“Well, I’m not going to start now.” She ran her hand across the back of his neck.
“Go, my darling. And don’t worry about anything. I’ll be with you. Always.”
Henry gave her a final look. “Good bye, Eleanor.”
“Good bye, Henry.”
They shared a final kiss and embrace, then he turned and walked away. When he looked back to ask her a question, Eleanor was no longer there. He scanned the sidewalk, then nodded. After he accepted the fact she was no longer there, he turned
and walked toward the church.

© Copyright Ivan Scott 2023

An Original Short Story by Riley Cain

Marie Antoinette and Dracula were lost in the Dublin hills.

Beneath her ribboned wig, now thoroughly crushed against the car roof, Jane felt a rising laughter for the absurdity of the situation, but Marcus wasn’t laughing, so she knew it was best not to. A sidewards glance failed to locate the scowl she was certain lay beyond his cape’s upturned collar; fingers clamped bloodlessly on the steering wheel spoke to his festering mood as much as his words. Jane smoothed her ballooning ballgown and kept quiet.

One more night, just endure one more.

‘This is becoming ridiculous,’ he grumbled. ‘We should just go home.’

‘Oh, no, Marcus, please,’ Jane exclaimed, driven by fear of missing the party of the season over risking his displeasure. ‘We must be very close by now,’ she hurriedly countered. And when she didn’t see anything beyond the windows but the black October night: ‘I’ll look at the invitation again.’ 

Slipping the envelope free from her purse quickly she cracked again the orange wax seal – pressed to a pumpkin face (Patrick had thought of everything) – and tugged the card free. With a glance for its ‘cordial invitation’ to celebrate ‘Helloween at Halloween’, she turned the card over to consult the rudimentary map printed between inked bats and black cats.

‘Why do you have such morbid friends?’ Marcus asked as he continued his own probing on all sides beyond the headlights’ reach. He cursed at finding only hedgerows running to black vanishing points in the gloom.

Jane bit her lip and caught the angry retort for him in time. Patrick’s not morbid, she wanted to say firmly, but did not. If you had bothered to read his book you’d know, she didn’t add. Helloween is as fun and creative and clever as he is. In fact, she recalled, “a groundbreaking adventure” had been one critic’s assessment. And, she definitely did not add, it’s made him rich. That would be too much, a real party-killer; Marcus, who revelled in seeing familiar names laid low in the pages of Stubb’s Gazette, would not tolerate being reminded of the money angle, though even he could not have failed to pick up on the news of Helloween going for a cool six-figures – a pay-day for Patrick that made tonight’s costume ball a reality.

If they could find his house.

‘You should have turned at the sign-post for Montpelier Hill,’ she pointed out. And was that a hint of told-you-so haughtiness that slipped free? She caught the harsh whisper of Dracula’s collar and quickly distracted his glare by drawing a finger along the hand-drawn route where it left the main road to meander towards a cartoonish house at journey’s end: Ogden’s Folly.

‘This damned cape,’ Marcus cursed as he gunned the car to a cyclone of dust.

Just one more night.

And then what? 

I have savings. 

You’re walking out on more than you’ve saved. Marcus is the money-maker, remember.

Then it will be an adventure. Why do you sound so much like him?

You tell me. But why now? It’s been five years, after all.

‘Better late than never,’ Jane said, aloud, and blanched.

‘What?’ Marcus jerked his head towards her and frowned at her silence. ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’

The turn loomed up, almost missed in his moment’s distraction. Marcus swung the wheel with a muttered curse and fought through a fishtail manoeuvre into the junction. 

Coming level, he breathed and thankfully forgot her unguarded comment as their climb began. The car rose with the full moon ascending between black trees and stone walls. Through pressing night and the first mists rising languidly from the fields, Jane searched expectantly, hoping for a twinkling between branches or a curl of pale chimney smoke against the sky, anything to announce Patrick’s place before Marcus lost what little patience he was capable of and turned for home regardless of her pleas. A skittish gleam ahead brought her suddenly forward in her seat, but only to catch the startled eyes of fox in the sweeping headlights. And just as suddenly, as the creature fled, they finally arrived. Marcus slowed, and together they watched the confirming sign – Elvis Presley was guiding a much underdressed Cleopatra across the road.

The sounds of distant music reached Jane as she worked to heave her gown into the night and align her bodice; Cleopatra had a point with her minimalism, perhaps, but Jane did not have her daring. 

In another life, darling.

Straightening the defiantly bent wig, costume choices were forgotten with a gasp as Jane took her first look at Ogden’s Folly.

Patrick’s ‘cartoon’ home was, in life, a mansion. Of Georgian design in its lines and symmetry, the structure rose boldly against a jagged backdrop of trees and raised its granite facade to sparkle in the moonlight. Modern uplighters set at points along a manicured lawn added to the effect and caused sash windows to glare down on a paltry lustre offered in return by the distant city barely seen between the foliage. Glittering beams, pulsating to a modern drumbeat, played from inside against the main door’s fanlight, revealing a shadow-party weaving with raucous laughter.

‘Oh,’ Jane heard herself exclaim, ‘isn’t it fabulous?’

Marcus sniffed.

‘Let’s get this over with.’ His cape flared where he paced the gravel driveway and left her to gather her skirts in pursuit. 

A werewolf gave admission and added helpful directions towards the drinks. The route lay across a marbled entrance hall transformed to a grand terminus for creatures and characters of every sort. Weaving through the Hollywood and horror assortment, with apologies to a Viking for the breadth of her gown, Jane eagerly led – Marcus falling behind to cast his appraising eye over the interior and its fixtures. She had crossed half the distance when her name, shouted from the staircase, cut through the music.

‘Jane! Jane!’

She looked and saw a figure descending, a highwayman with arms flung wide as the cloak he trailed. Striding across the tiles, he pulled his obscuring black kerchief aside in favour of a beaming smile as he scooped her up, lifting her high enough to strike the chandelier with her wig and set its crystals tinkling.

‘Patrick, you idiot,’ she cried delightedly, ‘put me down.’ She fell into him as he laughed and clung to her hands. 

‘You came!’ he exclaimed. 

‘Of course I came,’ she said. She feigned a pouting displeasure with him. ‘I have to take what opportunities I can now, you being the jet-setting author. Who can keep up?’

He scoffed good-naturedly for her description. ‘There’ll be no jetting at all for the next six months. My publisher…Julius Caesar over there…is piling on the pressure for Helloween 2. Awful title, isn’t it, strictly provisional, I promise. So I’ll be here! And, just like in college…’

‘You’re door is always open,’ Jane finished with a smile. 

‘Won’t you get cabin fever?’ Marcus cut in as his circling inspection ended by them. ‘I know I would.’ His eyes fell to linger pointedly on joined hands until Jane quickly withdrew hers.

‘Marcus, welcome,’ Patrick said. More to Jane than him, he added: ‘Oh, Ogden’s Folly is very stimulating. I fell in love with the place at the first viewing. There’s even a ghost.’ If he caught Marcus’s weary eye-roll, he ignored it. ‘Let me give you the grand tour,’ he offered.

‘I’m going to get a drink,’ Marcus replied.

‘Oh, I’ll have a…,’ Jane began, but he was gone.

Untroubled, Patrick offered his hand again with a conspiratorial wink. 

‘Come on, the good stuff’s not down here anyhow.’

They fled between a pair of conversing cowboys.

Leaving the festivities a muffled din behind, they skirted the staircase for the kitchen and the rear of the house. Patrick led the way, weaving through passages until they reach a flight of discreet steps, the servants’ stairway to all parts of the house ‘back in the day,’ he explained. He drew her on to his enthusiastic history lesson of the Folly, through Union and Rebellion, and remained impervious to her joking accusation he’d become a ‘nerd’ in the months since they’d last met – ‘in The Millstone six months ago,’ he recalled, ‘in Chapter One eight months ago,’ she corrected him and with a smile for how he blushed as he opened a panelled door to admit her. 

They entered now a room which stood free of the contemporary touches so evident in the other parts of the house. Dark panelled walls ran to bookshelves flanking a broad stone fireplace and an adjoining door; all clearly original features which instantly transported Jane as she entered. A single concession to modernity was set on the oak desk dominating the room. There, where Jane would have preferred candles, an electric lamp offered its soft illumination to the night and its moonbeams angling through tall windows.

‘This is where the magic happens,’ Patrick announced. ‘Or it will if I can come up with my sequel.’ He removed his tri-corn hat and tossed it onto the desk. Reaching past, he produced a bottle and glasses from a drawer. ‘I hope you still have your taste for whiskey,’ he said. When no reply came, he turned back to discover Jane had become distracted at the fireplace. Peering above, she looked into a face staring back from its surrounding gilt frame. 

‘Ogden,’ she guessed, distantly, and continued to gaze into eyes that by the artist’s skill somehow twinkled mischievously beneath a moon set behind the subject in the portrait. 

‘The ghost,’ Patrick agreed with a chuckle. ‘Charles Napier Ogden. I found his portrait in the attic when I moved in. Still hiding after all these years.’

She frowned. ‘Hiding?’

Patrick offered her a glass along with his tale.

‘Charles Ogden was born at the beginning of the 18^th Century, the second son in a prominent land-owning family. Number One son took on the estates, naturally, so Charles would grow to seek his fortune elsewhere. A career in soldiering led him to the New World and the right connections for a life of business after his military service. That’s where he gained his significant wealth, in Boston, trading in rum between the city and the West Indies. Sometime around 1730 he felt the call of home and cashed in a very wealthy man. But on returning to Dublin he did the strangest thing. Rich enough to own the finest town house, he opted instead to build his home here in the wild hills outside the city limits. This was considered bizarre by the natives. At that time Dublin rivalled London for arts and entertainments, and keeping a residence in the city was a must for those in “polite society”. Not that he avoided any of that, mind you. Ogden was a regular sight at the gaming tables in Daly’s and all the finest banquets, but always he would make his excuses and return early to his distant dwelling. It was his contemporaries who eventually dubbed the house his folly, and none ever guessed why he kept his life at one remove from theirs.’

‘There was a scandal,’ Jane guessed, enthused.

‘Oh, better than that,’ Patrick declared. He sipped his drink as though to steel himself and drew close to direct her sight upward. ‘Ignore that handsome face and the medals and look to the space off Ogden’s shoulder, there, between the moon and Montpelier Hill. What do you see?’

Supporting her rebellious wig as she peered through years of fading oils on the darkening canvas, Jane discerned the clue quickly and with a start.

‘A horse and caped rider…a highwayman!’

Patrick raised his glass in salute to the portrait.

‘Within a year of Charles Ogden’s return to his native land, Dublin was troubled by a figure who would become known as the “Phoenix Park Highwayman”. Businessmen, judges, lords, all fell victim and were made poorer by him. He took fortunes from anyone reckless enough to travel the Park’s avenues after sunset, springing from cover with pistols ready before thundering away again on his steed. Once, the Lord Lieutenant’s mistress was accosted as she slipped from a secret liaison at the viceregal lodge. The story goes that, as well as her earrings, the brazen thief stole a kiss from the lady, just to infuriate the man working hardest to catch him! But vigilante committees failed, ambushes didn’t snare him. In fact, the highwayman was never captured.’

‘Because he had insider knowledge,’ Jane guessed with a wry smile.

‘Exactly. Who better to stalk the bigwigs than one of their own? Picture it, Ogden, spying on them across the card tables and at their glittering social events, marking his target and timing his departure to intercept them later. “Stand and deliver!” his cry before making for the hills and home, always one step ahead of the soldiers because he learned their plans from his good friend the Lord Lieutenant himself!’ 

Patrick chuckled as he sipped.

‘According to one report, when the rich finally became too frightened to travel by night and the highwayman’s pickings grew slim, Ogden hosted a lavish ball here at the Folly and afterwards robbed his guests as they made their way back to the city. That one episode was enough to make the highwayman a legend. He became the suspect in so many escapades in the years after that people began to whisper of his ghost riding the roads between Dublin and the Folly, forever on the hunt.’

‘You make it sound so exciting,’ she confessed to the painted face.

‘And that, I think, is exactly the point,’ Patrick said. ‘Ogden’s biographers suspected he was driven to a life of crime by the expense of building the Folly but I don’t buy that. I prefer to believe his life on the frontier of the world left him bored with card games and soirees. He needed the old adventure, and he found it behind the highwayman’s mask. That portrait is his signed, defiant confession.’

‘Was he married?’ Jane blurted and Patrick choked and laughed.

‘You’re about two hundred and fifty years too late for Charles Ogden.’

‘Better late than never,’ Jane said distantly, and something in the very way she said it held Patrick from another sip.

‘What?’ was his simple prompt.

She downed a good measure.

‘I’m leaving Marcus,’ she explained then, not taking her eyes from his. ‘At last. The paperwork will be ready in the morning.’ On a whim she swept up her glass. ‘Drink to it with me, Patrick. To freedom, and adventure, and to a five-year mistake cast onto a Halloween bonfire.’

She laughed, and supped, and trembled so visibly Patrick moved to support her.

‘I will drink to it,’ he promised, ‘all of it. Anything you want, okay? And after tonight, anything you need. You just have to ask.’

‘Anything?’ she said, collecting herself. She watched him smirk for her teasing. 

In another life, darling.

‘Out and proud,’ they whispered together.

‘Well this is cosy,’ Marcus said. His cape filled the doorway and seeped in as he entered. ‘A private party, just for two, and drinks. You should have lit the fire, Patrick, that would have been a nice touch.’

‘Marcus,’ Jane tried.

‘What?’ he snapped. ‘Are you seriously about to say “this isn’t what it looks like”?’ He moved casually by them to the second door and tugged it open to reveal the next room, a bedroom. ‘Oh, Patrick, naughty naughty.’

‘Marcus!’ Jane said, indignantly now.

His slap for her was hard and fast, and it drove her back against the fireplace. 

Patrick lunged but Marcus was faster, stronger. He grasped his opponent by the collar and flung him back against the desk with force enough to topple the lamp.

‘Who do you think you are?’ Marcus snarled. 

‘Get out of my house!’ Patrick demanded. 

Marcus bunched his fists as he stepped forward, his reddening vision filled with Patrick’s face until Jane was there, forcing her way between them to bodily slow his onward march.

‘We’re leaving,’ she declared, ‘we’re leaving now!’

‘Jane!’ Patrick protested. 

Marcus gave over to a triumphant sneer as he let Jane’s tiny form hold him back.

‘Did you get that, Patrick, did you? We’re leaving. Me and my wife, together. You stay here in your vulgar pile in the backwoods and steal from someone else. But you don’t take from me, not me!’

‘Jane,’ Patrick’s voice was a pleading as she forced Marcus from the room. ‘I’m calling the police.’

‘It’s okay,’ she assured him, ‘it’ll be okay.’

The journey to the car was a blur of shouldered guests and spilled drinks, their departure a wheel-spinning slide back onto the road under the moon to Marcus’s raging. 

‘That cheap little hack! One taste of success for his penny dreadful muck and he thinks he owns the world! And you, you were so tempted weren’t you? You saw flashbulbs and fame, didn’t you? Like a moth to a flame. Lady of the manor. The life I offer isn’t good enough for you and your college-educated expectations. Well, let me tell you, darling, you’ll be watching that scribbler from a distance from now on. You’re barred, do you hear me? And another thing…’

‘Enough!’ She howled through gritted teeth and maddened eyes. ‘Enough! Stop the car. Stop the car!’

Whether stunned by her voice so loud in the car’s confines or shock at her outburst, Marcus, unthinking, slammed on the brakes and brought them to a shuddering halt in a violent peppering of gravel. Before he had a chance to react further, to demand an explanation for her cry, Jane was out of the vehicle and pacing to and fro in the headlights.

‘What the hell..,’ he tried, pushing from his seat. But she was ready.

‘Enough!’ she barked again, directing the command with jabbing finger. And she advanced on him! She actually advanced to face him until the lights flared in her eyes. ‘Enough!’

‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ Marcus demanded furiously.

‘You are!’ she retorted without pause. ‘You, and everything about you! You always, always…and I never, ever…’

‘Me?’ he exclaimed. ‘I did nothing wrong! You’re hysterical. Get back in the car.’

‘I’m leaving you!’ She heard herself declare it, and she looked in wide wonder for the source of her voice, doubting in the moment’s fury she had actually uttered the words to him until he confirmed it.

‘What did you say?’ he growled, his anger struggling to reassert itself through a wave of confusion. ‘Leaving? You’re not leaving me. You don’t leave me.’ 

She watched his fist clamping to hold his truth. 

Or was it to crush hers?

‘I am leaving, Marcus’ she dared, ‘I am. I’ve had enough.’

Now he advanced. With teeth grinding and rising hands, he drew himself up and stepped towards her, the heat of his rage driving him to communicate himself in the way he did so often when words failed. But even as he lumbered, he recognised with a start the failing of his actions. Jane didn’t waiver, didn’t shrink as expected, as required. Normally she backed down at this point, but she didn’t, she just stood boldly in his path. There was no plan for this…this challenge, but he would meet it head on, had to, Marcus Carthy never backed down, never. Reaching for her throat, he knew he would have to let his rage decide the rest.

A harsh stab at his ear in time to a mechanical click stopped him mid-stride. Cold metal was ice to his anger and he pivoted to stare down a pistol barrel at the red-masked figure beyond.

‘Stand fast, sir,’ the highwayman ordered, his genteel tone laced with a dash of menace.

‘What the bloody hell are you doing?’ Marcus exclaimed. Through his bafflement for Patrick’s sudden appearance, another sight, dark and snorting by the roadside seized his attention. ‘You own a horse!?’

‘What a curious fellow,’ the masked-one admitted. He issued a soft chuckle as eyes above the covering roved over Marcus, his suit, his cape. ‘But you do look moneyed,’ he conceded. ‘I’ll see your purse.’

‘What?’ Marcus spluttered. ‘What?’ Fingers flapped and eyes blinked in search of some logic to the scene. ‘Have you actually lost your mind, Coleman?’

A pistol-burst ruptured the night, its explosion momentarily brighter than the car’s beams. Marcus fell back from it with a cry, driven blindly behind protective hands as the ground between his feet erupted. The highwayman’s black mount bucked and reared for the clamour until the storm gave over to a fresh pistol’s click and the highwayman’s dangerous glare.

‘On your knees, sir!’ 

The highwayman’s tone was sufficient warning and it drove Marcus to kneeling, wincing as gravel stabbed his kneecaps.

‘Your purse,’ was his barked reminder that followed. ‘Deliver.’

‘This is insane,’ Marcus said, though he sensibly fumbled to the pockets of his coat as he argued. ‘I’ll see you done for this, I swear.’ His wallet was snatched away, and though he made to protest more, the pistol muzzle so close to his eyes demanded silence now.

‘Madam, please come into the light.’

Jane stepped warily forward. She unconsciously reached to ensure her wig was straight as she met…tried to meet…eyes obscured by the shadow of that tri-corn hat. But what she could not see, she felt.

‘The finest prize,’ the highwayman said distantly. ‘The ring on your finger is paltry in comparison. Madam, I will steal from you a kiss.’

And again her decision was made, and came like her voice, unbidden. 

‘I’m richer than that, sir,’ she dared.

The highwayman’s eyes fired like diamonds though the moon was behind.

‘Deliver.’

He drew aside his red kerchief, and Jane gasped for what she saw behind the highwayman’s mask.

It will be an adventure.

The night filled to a clash of rein’s, a horse’s shriek, and Marcus blinked and choked in the cloud of dust kicked up. Waving it off to a rolling in the headlights, he found himself quite suddenly alone, kneeling in the strobe of blue lights approaching as the sound of galloping hooves faded between the moon and Montpelier Hill.

© Copyright Riley Cain 2023

An Original Short Story by Joseph Roy Wright

Nathan Hawk was often mocked by everyone around him, for he believed Dragons once ruled the lands of Medieval England. He refused to accept these tales were only myths and legends, truly believing these fantasy creatures actually existed. Nathan claimed that the many dinosaur bones discovered beneath planet earth, were in fact the fire breathing monsters depicted in English folklore. It was a childish belief that turned into an obsession of his. He was compared to flat-earthers and other daft conspiracy theorists. One day, Nathan decided he had enough of this ridicule and began looking into his beliefs and theories online. He soon found a whole community of like-minded people, who all believed that Dragons too once ruled the lands. There were sightings of real-life locations, where dragons once lived with photographs of burn sites upon ancient temples and old castles around England, China, Japan and even Egypt. History depicts these areas were destroyed in fierce battles long ago, but there are other sites, showcasing giant dungeons and flat terrain, where a giant beast was likely caged or once dwelled. Another source of proof was the fact that Dragons were a part of mythological folklore not just in England, but around the whole world. Greek Mythology depicted Dragons, China was known for its Dragons and so was the United Kingdom, with its many legends and stories about such beasts. It just couldn’t have been a coincidence that so many cultures all around the globe, believed in the same entities. Nathan got in touch with one of these conspiracy theorists, who was an American by the name of Nigel Harrison, a seventy eight year-old historian, who was quite the adventurer back in his youth, during the late 1960s when he was only in his early twenties. Nathan got chatting with the old man over the internet through social media, then they began to talk over the phone and ultimately, Nathan’s obsession with proving his fantastical theories right, decided to fly all the over to Atlanta, USA. This was where Nigel Harrison had retired, living in a huge church-like mansion that he had inherited from his father (who was also an adventurer quite like he was). Nathan was a British man from the north of England, he had never visited America before and found the city of Atlanta exciting and full of life. It was when he finally arrived at Nigel’s residence that his adventure truly began.

Nathan walked up the long steep steps, leading up towards this mysterious mansion. By the time he had finally arrived, it was night and the yellow full moon shone high into the dark sky. Honestly, Nigel’s mansion appeared spooky at this time of night, for it was an old building like something out of a noir horror flick from the 1930s. Bats flew around its chimney, wolves howled in the forests surrounding him and the gargoyles upon the roof did little to comfort him. Yet Nathan took a deep breath and knocked on Nigel’s huge wooden doors, they creaked open without an answer and a beautiful woman with pale skin greeted him at the door.

“Why, hello there.” The woman smiled cutely, “you must be Nathan Hawk, The Master is awaiting you.”

“The Master?” Nathan gulped.

“Oh yes, forgive me for not clarifying… Nigel Harrison is The Master of this estate, he is awaiting you upstairs, allow me to lead you there.” The woman grinned, leading Nathan through the mansion’s lobby. This place was somehow even bigger from the inside, the oak walls were covered with portraits of historical figures, buildings and ships. The floor’s ground was made of a green marble so clean and shiny, Nathan could see his own reflection upon it. Huge chandeliers hung from the ceiling, lit with candles, giving this place a dim orange glow. This mansion felt cosy, yet creepy at the same time. It was far older than anything the young man had ever seen, at best he guessed it was at least three hundred years old. Little did he know, it was actually far older.

The woman opened the door into Nigel’s bedroom, it was a huge space with a large window facing the courtyard, a single piano stood beside it. There was a massive television to the right of Nathan, like that of a giant projector screen with definition so high, it was like looking through crystal clear glass. The characters on TV were life size, as if they were actually in the room with them. This creeped Nathan out. Beside the television was the most luxurious sofa Nathan had ever seen and beyond that was a walled off space, which the woman revealed to be where the bed lay. It was big enough for a whole family to sleep in, and there in that giant mattress was a tiny old man, who looked 120 years old.

“Is… Is that the boy?!” The ancient man croaked, struggling to put on his spectacles.

“Yes father, Nathan has come here, all the way from Great Britain.” The woman smiled.

“Oh excellent, Elizabeth, excellent!” Nigel Harrison smiled, leaning up on his back.

“Uh… Hi, Nigel.” Nathan smiled awkwardly.

“Oh, don’t be shy boy, don’t be shy!” Nigel chuckled, “as you can see I’m far too old to be adventuring about, so I’ve brought you here with a request.”

“What request?” Nathan gulped, feeling anxious.

“Oh it’s nothing too scary, dear boy. Only I need you to accompany my daughter here, on this exhibition.” Nigel grinned.

“Exhibition?”

“Oh dear, where are my manners?!” Nigel coughed, grabbing his glass of water from the bedside drawers, “we found evidence of a Dragon nesting under the ancient temples of southern China. Oh how I wish I could see it for myself, but as mentioned before, I’m far too old and weak to handle such a journey. Do you think you could undertake such a request, dear Nathan?” The old man pleaded.

“I uh… Sure!” Nathan smiled, “I’d happily.”

“Splendid!” Nigel cheered, “my daughter, Elizabeth, will be joining you on this expedition.” He pointed at the pale woman who led Nathan here.

“It’ll be an adventure to remember!” She smiled.

So the two of them went to China together, in search of this ancient temple, where the dragon supposedly nested. It was a long and rough plane ride, but Nathan Hawk got to know Elizabeth rather well and was beginning to grow fond of her. When they finally arrived, there was another long coach journey, followed by a series of multiple long hitchhikes across the countryside with plenty of stops along the way. It took them a good two weeks before they finally arrived at the location of the temple. Nathan felt like he was on some romantic holiday, as Elizabeth was also falling for him too. He feared how her father would react however, because Nigel was a powerful man and Nathan was just an errand boy. Now Nathan and Elizabeth stood at the entrance of this huge ancient structure. It stood impressively tall and that familiar feeling of anxiety crept over him yet again, for he could almost sense the evil that lay deep within.

“How exactly does Nigel know there is evidence of dragon life inside this temple?” Nathan asked Elizabeth.

“I’ve told you this already!” She scoffed, “my father reads up a lot on history, he’s followed the many ancient myths of dragons and this is the last place on earth that hasn’t been fully discovered yet.”

“Ok, so we have no idea what awaits inside?!” Shivered Nathan.

“What’s an adventure without a bit of mystery? There could even be a bit of action awaiting us.” Elizabeth winked, “now, let’s go explore!” She cheered, racing inside the giant temple. Nathan gulped and followed her lead nervously.

The inside of this temple was dark, cold and mysterious. The air felt thick and stale, cobwebs dressed the walls and statues all around. Most of the architecture was broken and crumbling to pieces. Their footsteps loudly echoed around this empty interior.

“Oh, the wonders that await us!” Elizabeth danced gleefully.

“Shush!” Nathan mouthed, “we don’t know what’s in here!”

“Probably just bats and spiders… maybe rats.” She chuckled, “stop worrying!”

“I’m just… Nervous, ok.” Nathan replied.

“Well quit it, will you?!” She groaned, “you’re really killing the mood. This is an adventure of a lifetime and you’re sulking like a child.”

“Shut up…” Nathan whined.

“Let’s just explore, ok. Everything will be fine.” Elizabeth said, leading the way forward.

The temple split into many different, claustrophobic passageways and labyrinths, crawling deeper and deeper underground. The temperature got colder, the environment got darker and Nathan’s dread escalated faster. Yet Elizabeth was still full of wonder, eager for adventure, grinning ear to ear, as they ventured further into the abyss. Only their fire torches showed the way forward, accompanied by the sounds of flames, footsteps and the occasional chuckle from Elizabeth. It was a long, creepy and uncomfortable walk until they finally arrived within a large open space.

This open area was like a throne room, where an army of noble warriors stood facing them with swords, spears and shields at the ready. Nathan trembled in fear, while Elizabeth laughed.

“They’re just statues!” She patted his back, “just relax already, we’re the only ones her-“

Suddenly, there was a loud, horrifying rumble. The temple’s floor shook violently, knocking them around like ragdolls.

“What’s that?!” Nathan roared, standing to his feet.

“I- I- I don’t know!” She cried, finally afraid of the dark.

“Is this still a fun adventure?!” Nathan mocked, leaning against a tall broken pillar for support.

“Shut up!” She barked. The ceiling began to fall above them, Nathan pulled Elizabeth out of harm’s way.

“Thanks!” She smiled quickly, before frantically searching for an exit.

“We’re trapped!” Nathan screamed.

“Don’t give up hope!” Elizabeth cried. Then there was a terrifying roar, like that of a dinosaur.

“No, it can’t be!” Nathan gasped, as a monster’s giant claw smashed through the walls, shattering the statue army into a million pieces. A horrifying beast now crawled forwards, revealing its many, deadly fangs. It was a dragon. Somehow still alive after all these centuries and starved to the absolute bone. It hadn’t seen another living being in far too long, both Elizabeth and Nathan looked absolutely delicious within its cold hungry eyes. Elizabeth screamed, motionless with fear, like a deer in headlights, as the dragon charged for her. It swallowed the young woman whole, muting her cries of terror. Nathan was horrified by the sight of this despicable creature, for it looked nothing like the depictions of dragons from legendary stories. Gone were its silvery scales and glorious muscles. It was a hideous mummy of a dragon, with skeletal remains that were full of scars. Its eyes burnt a vivid red, like the fires of hell itself. Fangs black with rot and decay, claws outgrown and hideously mangled. It was in a weakened state, yet somehow far more powerful than any other living beast on earth. Nathan shivered at the thought of witnessing a younger dragon, in all its prime, it was downright petrifying to even imagine. If a dragon this wasted still held such strength, how fierce were the legends of old? Nathan did not wish to know, his fascination with dragons quickly became a living nightmare, as the last known specimen on earth just devoured his newfound lover, like she was nothing but delicious candy. Nathan ran back through the tunnels he came from, crying and screaming in terror, as the giant dragon raged after him. However, the dragon shot flames from its weathered mouth, into the passageway, engulfing Nathan in fire.

Nigel Harrison waited for many months, hoping his daughter and Nathan would return, but they never did. The dragon had awoken, Elizabeth and Nathan were just the starter. It still had the whole of China to feast on, then it would concur the world for dessert. None of this would’ve happened if Nathan Hawk hadn’t gotten in touch with Nigel Harrison, or if Elizabeth didn’t have a thirst for adventure. The world will soon fall, because curiosity killed the cat. Perhaps, some mysteries are better left unsolved.

---

Author Bio:

Joseph Roy Wright is a British independent author from Cheshire, who focuses mostly on horror. Whether it be occult, dark fantasy, psychological or even sci-fi, Joseph has a story to tell that will satisfy your morbid curiosities. He has been writing since 2017 and in that time has written a total of 10 books, an achievement he is very proud of.

© Copyright Joseph Roy Wright 2023

by Clint Chico

---

1

“Brielle! No running through the garden!”

I pause mid-step, one foot in the air just about to trample a thin weedy-looking vegetable. “No, Mama!” I call out loudly behind me. “I won’t!” I sidestep the vegetable patch and prepare to take off again.

Mama’s voice calls out from the house a second time, just as loudly. “And where are you going, Brielle?”

I sigh. “To Aundrea’s farm, Mama. As always.” 

I take one more small step before Mama calls out again. “Be good, Brielle! And remember the rules!” 

I groan quietly, and recite to myself in an almost silent singsong the rules that Mama has beaten into my head every day since I was born, sixteen long years ago. “Be polite, Brielle.”

“Be polite, Brielle!”

“Listen to your elders, Brielle.” I quietly sigh and toss my head from side to side.

“Listen to your elders!” my mama calls out. “And don’t get your dress dirty!”

I give the skirt of my dress a playful little swish. “No, Mama. Never, Mama,” I whisper, knowing full well that the other girls and I will be sprinting through fields and climbing into haylofts as soon as we’re beyond the oppressive stares of our parents.

“And remember, Brielle, be good!” my mother calls out. But I know what she actually means. What she says without saying. 

“And remember, Brielle,” I murmur to myself, “no using magic!” Something I would never say out loud in public, even here. Even in this village. Even in this village there is danger in that word. 

 Magic. 

In some villages, just the hint of being able to use magic is enough to get a girl arrested. Snatched up by the Emperor’s Guard, or perhaps even turned in by her own friends and family members. Such things have happened. Because magic is not allowed by the authorities in Paranda. Magic is forbidden beyond all things.

Magic is wayward.

And so I keep my words and thoughts to myself and simply call out, “Goodbye, Mama! I’ll be back soon!” I walk away, slow and polite and ladylike, until I’m far enough from the house that Mama can’t see.

And then I smile and take off running, dust upon my dress be damned.

The old barn on my friend Aundrea’s farm is dark and dusty, but it’s the one place in the entire area where we can gather without fear of being discovered. There are five of us in our little group, myself included, all girls. Veela and I are sitting on wooden stools. Leesa and Aundrea are jumping down from the loft into the giant piles of soft hay below. And Hanna, of course, is floating in the air, nearly touching the roof of the barn as she flies in slow, looping circles.

Veela sighs and looks up. “Hanna, must you? You’re bound to get hurt. Or found out.”

Hanna stops circling and simply floats in one spot looking down. “That is silly.” She nods over toward the younger girls, Leesa and Aundrea. “They are more likely to get hurt than I am. And as far as getting caught, should Aundrea’s parents, or anyone else for that matter, come walking over here unexpectedly, then Leesa would hear them coming long before they even crossed the farmyard.”

Leesa, currently sitting down in the piles of hay, looks up and smiles at the mention of her name. She smiles but says nothing. Because Leesa never says anything. Leesa is ten, and we don’t know if her ability to touch magic and her inability to speak are connected, but they are both there. In Leesa, the ability to touch magic has manifested itself in an ability to hear sounds and feel vibrations that the rest of us cannot. The actual strength of her ability is hard to judge since communicating with Leesa is difficult. But we do know that she’s able to hear whispered conversations from further away than most people can throw a rock, and she can feel the vibrations of someone walking across the dirt from even further away.

Magic is odd in that it can affect girls in many different ways. Being able to touch magic is rare enough as it is, since it only shows up in girls and usually between the ages of twelve and twenty. (Young Leesa is what my mother calls an anomaly.) And many of the girls blessed to touch magic don’t end up reaching child-bearing age because they’ve been found out and captured by the Guard. Our village is unique, Da says. Here they protect girls like me and Hanna. Veela and Aundrea. Little Leesa. Five girls in one village, all born around the same time, all able to touch magic. No one can ever remember hearing of such a thing. 

“Well, still,” Veela replies, “as the oldest here, it is my responsibility to remind you that you shouldn’t use your magic for frivolous or simple pleasures. Whether you believe our gifts are wayward or not, they should be respected and not abused.”

Hanna scoffs loudly, but she folds her arms and lowers herself slowly to the dirt floor. “You only say this because you cannot do anything as fun and interesting as flying. If you could, you would use your gift at every opportunity.” 

Veela scowls. “I don’t use my gift because it is dangerous, as you well know. All our gifts are dangerous if the wrong person sees! Yes, we are mostly safe. We know that our parents are not going to hand us over to the Guard. But there are strangers passing through town all the time. There are three at the inn right now as we speak. One of them, an odd young woman as short as little Leesa! When I saw her come in, she was wearing black pants and a tunic with a pitch-black cloak! Can you imagine? A woman wearing pants and a cloak? And Darva Parrish said she even saw the woman carrying a sword!”

Hanna rolls her eyes. “Darva Parrish is a liar. Women do not wield swords. That is a foolishness.”

“Well, regardless,” Veela says, “they are not to be trusted. And even some of the townspeople I don’t fully trust. And nor should you.”

Hanna sighs. “I do not fully trust them, as you well know. It is why I am stuck flying around in a smelly barn instead of out in the fresh, open air.” She uses one hand to brush down her thick curls, then waves a hand absently in the air. “But very well. To appease Veela the Wise, I shall promise to ground myself forever to the dirt and grass. And Veela shall keep her hands to herself.”

Veela frowns hard at this.

“Leesa,” Hanna continues, “cover your ears. Veela has decided that your gift is too dangerous.”

Leesa gives Hanna a confused look as Veela groans softly. “That is not what -”

“And Aundrea?” Hanna says, but then she simply looks at Aundrea and stays silent. Hanna doesn’t need to say the next part out loud. We all know that Aundrea can pick thoughts out of your brain when she wishes. It’s how non-verbal Leesa does most of her communicating. She thinks something, directing the thought at Aundrea. Aundrea receives it and tells us.

Hanna turns toward me, then her expression changes into a smirk. “Well. I was going to tell Brielle not to run, but from the look at the dust on her sandals and dress, I’d say I’m too late.”

Veela gasps audibly. “Brielle, no! Tell me you didn’t!”

Now I’m sighing, loud and hard. “Relax, Veela! It’s not as if anyone saw me! It was just for a bit, outside of town on my way here to the farm. The roads were empty of travelers. And even if someone was there, what would they say they’ve seen?” I grab my skirt and give it a shake. “A light blue blur that vaguely resembles a girl in a dress sprinting faster than an arrow in flight? But there was no one there, I made sure! So who should I fear will tell on me? The birds? Should I fear that crows and pigeons are going to -”

“Hold,” Aundrea says softly. “Brielle, hold!” Her expression shifts to fear and worry as she turns to Leesa, a silent conversation happening between the two. Aundrea turns to us, takes a breath, and says, “Someone is coming. Many people. A dozen or more. Leesa feels the vibrations of them marching.”

Veela wrinkles her forehead. “Coming here to the barn?”

Aundrea shakes her head. “No. On the road. Headed into town. Soldiers. Soldiers and horses. Leesa says there’s a lot of them.”

2

Thankfully, we know the area better than the soldiers. We were raised here, after all. Born here, raised here, lived here all our lives. We know a dozen ways to sneak the half mile or so from Aundrea’s family farm back to town without using the main road. I have to physically resist the urge to sprint ahead. It does feel so good to run – the wind on my skin, blowing back my hair. The slight burn in my muscles as my legs push faster and harder than anything living. It is exhilarating each and every time. But now is not the time for that. The girls and I must stay together, and we must stay safe.

We move swiftly through the narrow paths in the woods, a shortcut back to town, and we come out into a clearing behind the stables and the general store. But as we peek out from behind the buildings, we can see that the soldiers are already there.

The men are standing a good distance away, all clumped together. There are soldiers on foot and a few on horseback. It is difficult to see exactly how many there are, but Leesa’s earlier estimation of somewhere between a dozen and twenty feels accurate. What we can see from this distance is that all the soldiers are wearing dark blue cloth and leather over shining chainmail. All uniformly dressed. The Emperor’s Guard. I don’t need Aundrea’s gifts to know that the fear that I’m feeling is coursing through my friends as well. We can hear them shout out, but the words are hard to make out from this distance.

“What are they saying?” Veela asks. 

Aundrea looks to Leesa, then back to Veela. “She says that they’re announcing themselves as the Emperor’s Guard. As if there’s any mistaking that uniform. They say they’ve gotten word of criminals in the area, and they’re asking every member of the town to come out for inspection. To see if they match the description.”

“Asking.” Hanna spits out the word like a curse. “They are not asking anything. They will rip people bodily from their houses if they choose to.”

Already we could see people coming out of their homes and heading into the town common to meet with the Guardsmen.

“We should stay hidden,” Veela decides. “We’ll stay tucked away. Or we’ll slip back into the woods. Or -”

“No,” I interrupt. “We don’t want to be discovered scurrying away. Hiding would be the absolute wrong thing to do. They are obviously here looking for teenage girls, no matter what they say about hunting criminals. If we are not out there, then it will be all the more obvious that the town is trying to hide something. We could end up endangering the others. No, we stay calm. We walk out, we answer their questions. We give nothing away, and then they leave and move on to the next town. It is the only way to quell their suspicions.”

“Besides,” Aundrea says, “if I get close enough, I can read their minds and see what their real intentions are.”

Veela’s eyes look ready to pop from her head. “You plan to use magic right in front of the Guard? Are you insane?”

Aundrea simply shrugs. “They’ll never know. It’s not like I glow or anything when I touch magic. I read yourmind all the time, and you never notice.”

Veela blinks. “You what?”

But it is young Leesa who moves first. She comes out from around the building and walks out, calmly and confidently toward the crowd in the town square. We have no choice now but to follow. 

The crowd is growing larger as we approach. The other girls and I scan the townsfolk for familiar faces. I see many, including Hanna’s parents, and Veela’s. Aundrea’s parents are still back at their farm, of course, and there is no sight of Leesa’s mother anywhere. I spot my own mother and father far in the back of the crowd. My father spots me and gives me a tiny nod. My mother gives me a look that tells me that she expects me to stand there quietly and do nothing that draws attention to myself.

The mayor of our little town makes his way to the front of the crowd and gives his best smile. “Good sirs! Perhaps if you let us know your purpose here -”

A tall Guardsman sitting on a horse gives Mayor Tamash a dismissive frown. “We have told you our purpose. We search for those who have violated the Emperor’s law.”

“Well,” Mayor Tamash says, “we are all righteous, upstanding folk here, I can guarantee that. Perhaps if -”

The Guardsman scans the crowd and pauses, looking down at little Leesa, who is right up front, staring defiantly up at him. The Guardsman makes a face like he has tasted something sour. “You. Child. What is your name?”

Veela is there in a heartbeat, putting one hand on Leesa’s shoulder and pulling the strong-willed child back an inch or two. “Her name is Leesa Messager, sir,” Veela says softly. “She is a bright child, but cannot speak.”

The Guardsman scowls. “Cannot or will not?”

Veela shakes her head. “She cannot speak, not since birth, sir.”

The Guardsman sniffs. “Such strangeness…” He pauses long enough to draw his sword and point it down at Leesa. “… is often indicative of being magic-cursed.”

And that’s when I see – really see – the weapons the soldiers are carrying. And, yes, just this one sword has been drawn, but every Guard member here has a sword on his hip, or a spear at his back, or a bow in his hand. 

Aundrea is by my side, her voice soft and low. “He means to take us all. All the girls. And the women, perhaps. He will find a reason. Take us, or kill us. He will be happy either way.”

Hanna somehow has made her way to the front, and she is right there next to Veela and Leesa. “I find that an inability to speak,” Hanna says, “is often indicative of an inability to speak. And nothing more.”

And suddenly the Guard with the sword stiffens, and his expression shifts from derisive anger to actual hatred. He looks out at the crowd, not at Hanna, as he says, “I do not know which of you people this darkskin bitch belongs to, but you had best come teach it some manners.” He shifts the sword, pointing it at Hanna now, but she manages not to flinch at all. “And you need to learn to guard your tongue before I cut it straight from your bastardly little mouth.”

That’s when a new voice calls out from behind us. “How about I pull you straight off that horse and shove your sword straight up your -”

“Cressa!”

We all turn to see the three strange women from the inn walking up toward us. Every step is confident and guided directly toward the Guardsmen. There is absolutely no fear in their eyes. They have the look of someone here to handle business. Although all three are female, they are all very different in appearance. Two seem to be no older than myself, perhaps even younger, and they are both wearing simple village dresses. But one has pale skin and yellow hair cut so short that, if you ignore the dress and curves, you might think her a boy. The other is brown-skinned like Hanna, with a mass of beautiful, dark curly hair. The third is no taller than the other two – she may, in fact, be an inch or two shorter – but she looks to be older by ten years or so. She is also the only one of the three not wearing a dress. Instead, she is dressed in a black tunic and pants, with a somehow even darker cloak draped over her shoulders. Her skin is pale like the blonde girl’s, but her hair is as dark as her clothing and pulled into a long braid that rests across her shoulder.

The blonde with short hair turns to the other girl and says, “Yes, Tam, I know. A lady does not swear. But you heard the bullshit – sorry, Tam, my love – but you heard the filth spewing forth from this idiot’s lips. Are you telling me that doesn’t warrant at least a little swearing?” 

The girl with the darker skin and hair simply rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Cressa, you continue to vex me beyond all understanding.”

They’ve got the attention of the Guard now. He’s moved the sword away from Hanna, Leesa, and Veela, and his eyes are focused on the newcomers. Perhaps that was their intent all along. Also, if the Guard was angry before, now he’s frothing like a rabid dog.  “Filth? You blasphemous whore! When I am done with you, they will -”           

 “You are done,” the woman in black says. “You are all done. The Guard is done. Your Emperor is done. Either dead or gone, either way, and honestly I don’t give a rat’s ass which.” She glances toward the girl with brown skin. “Sorry, Tam.”

The one called Tam simply sighs. “Honestly, I do not know how to deal with you two.”

The Guard with the sword narrows his eyes. “A woman in black. Rumors have swirled about a woman in black. They say she has killed numerous members of the Emperor’s Guard.”

“Okay, yeah, but all in self-defense,” the woman clarifies.

“And they say she travels with a pair of witches!” At that word, the rest of the Guards begin drawing swords and spears and loading arrows onto their bows, or however it is said. Either way, things instantly become much more tense. “The bitch in black is under arrest!” the first Guard declares. “And her witch companions as well!”

“First off,” the woman in black counters, “Only my friends get to call me the bitch in black. You, dickface, can call me Raven, Knight of Krells.” She throws back the sides of her cloak, revealing that she is, indeed, carrying a short sword at her hip. 

Tam, the brown-skinned girl next to her, simply tisks quietly. “Language please, Raven. Honestly.” 

 The woman in black turns back to the guard. “Sorry. I meant Mister dickface. Or is it Captain?” 

  “You…” The Guardsman seems to be at a loss for words. Finally, he snarls, “A woman carrying a sword is forbidden! It is wayward!”

The short-haired blonde smirks. “Your face is wayward.”

Tam turns to her and sighs again.

Cressa shrugs. “What? At least I didn’t swear!”

The two seem so distracted by their own bickering that they don’t seem to notice what I do. One Guardsman further back, on horseback, slowly drawing back a riding bow.

“You have no authority to arrest anyone,” Raven calls out. “You hold no sway here. So you and your bitch ass crew pack it up before things have to get ugly.”

Things happen suddenly. The guard with the riding bow fires his arrow at the woman in black. And I move without thinking. 

I run.

Funny thing about when I touch magic. When I channel it into me, when I feel it igniting, use it to fuel my movements, it’s not just that I move faster. I react faster, think faster, see faster. It’s how I can blur across the broken ground without tripping and stumbling on every rock or tree stump. And so, in less than a second, I travel across the distance between where I was standing and the area in front of Raven, the woman in black. I track the arrow in flight. I see it moving, a slight quaver to it as it flies. And I know the exact moment to reach up and pull it down out of the air. 

In a heartbeat’s time, everyone sees as I flash halfway across the town common and catch the arrow out of the air.

There are a few muted gasps from the crowd. The two girls, Tam and Cressa, simply turn and look at each other. The blonde one, Cressa, simply raises an eyebrow and nods approvingly. 

Raven simply shrugs. “Well, kid, I did see that coming. I was going to dodge it, but thanks anyway.” She points a finger accusingly at the Guard with the bow. “And you! You shot at me! I swear to everlasting Christ that if you do that again -” 

The first guard, the one who pointed a sword at Hanna and Leesa, is screaming now. “Witches! They harbor witches! You have seen for yourself! Arrest them all!”

Cressa puts her hands out to the side, palms up, and suddenly she is holding fire. “Really wish you’d stop using that word,” she snarls. “We prefer magic-using badas-” She glances over at Tam. “Magic-using heroes! And like my friend Raven said, you ain’t arresting nobody!”

“Enough of this.” Tam puts her own arms out, and suddenly we’re all pushed back by strong winds. I had thought that Raven, the lady in black, would prove to be the most powerful one. But here was this child Tam, easily a year or two younger than myself, using the wind to lift herself up off the ground. And all around us, a cloudless sky crackles with thunder and lightning. She is not flying with ease and grace the way Hanna does. She does not use magic to make herself run faster, or hear better, or read minds. She is bending the very elements around her. It is magic beyond my very comprehension. And it is amazing. 

 Once again things happen in a blur, and I see it all. The Guardsman with the riding bow reaches down for another arrow, and Raven’s hand moves faster than it has any right to. Down toward her waist, then up in a flash, extended out. A throwing knife flies out and embeds it in the guard’s throat before his fingers even brush the new arrow. He gasps breathlessly and begins to tumble from his horse. A second knife flies out, this one directed toward the guard with the sword. It catches him in the wrist and sticks there in the tiny gap between his chainmail sleeves and the leather gloves he has on. His eyes go wide with shock as the sword falls out of his now-useless hand. 

Cressa throws out a ball of fire roughly the size of a fist, and the sleeve of one guard’s tunic is suddenly covered in flames. He screams, drops his sword, and runs.

All of that happens in the span of a second or two. And a moment later, all of the hells break loose.

The townsfolk run, screaming in fear. Most knew of the existence of girls who could touch magic, but almost none had ever seen us use our gifts. And none of them were prepared for anything like Tam and Cressa. But it’s good that they’re running. They’re moving away from the Guardsmen and away from the fight. Much safer for them that way. I spin around, looking for my friends, in time to see two soldiers crowding in toward Leesa and Aundrea with swords raised. But Veela moves fast, pulling Leesa back with her left hand and slamming an open palm against one of the soldiers with her right hand. There’s a low hum as what looks like lightning surges from Veela’s hand and courses over the guard, dropping him instantly to the ground. The second guard stands there and stares, so he doesn’t notice as Hanna launches herself high in the air, then spins in midair and dives down fast. She drops her shoulder and slams into the second guard from behind, knocking him to the ground. Two more members of the Guard are approaching, but they suddenly stop suddenly as their swords are all pulled up and out of their grasp as if taken by unseen hands. The swords somehow fly themselves up over the crowd, across the square… and into the waiting grasp of the blonde girl, Cressa. 

Cressa, the same girl who moments before had thrown fire that she had created by her own hands. I catch myself staring because this girl Cressa is somehow able to use multiple kinds of magic! In all my life, in all the stories I’ve heard about girls in villages and towns far and wide, I have never heard of such a thing! And the other girl, Tam. She is currently floating high in the air as winds whip around her. She launches lightning out from her hand toward one guard on horseback, and with her other hand, she stops an arrow in mid-flight and sends it falling back to the ground. How many different types of magic is this girl using? 

“Brielle! Brielle, we’re coming!” I snap out of my stupor and spin around. My parents are coming my way. They are running, but they are not running away. They are running toward me. Toward the fighting. Toward danger.   I open my mouth to tell them to stop, to scream no. 

And that’s when I see him. A Guard, his bow pulled back, and I see the moment he lets go and the arrow flies. And I take off running.

And for once, for maybe the first time in my life, I am too late. I am not fast enough.

I get to my mother just in time to catch her body as the arrow drives into her shoulder from behind. She gasps hard, eyes wide, as I carefully lower her to her knees. 

“Brielle,” is all she can manage to whisper. And she sees the tears in my eyes. Yes, the arrow has missed her heart, her stomach, and all the vital things in between. But it has struck. It has pierced through muscles and flesh. If I leave the arrow in, she will die of infection. But if I remove it, then she will bleed out before any meaningful help can come. And all I can do is sit and hold her, and watch as she dies.

“TAM!” The voice is loud and I turn involuntarily to see Raven fighting off two guards at once with her sword. Raven moves fast and sure, blade spinning in her hands. In seconds one guard is disarmed and taken down with a slash across the chest. She spins, and her sword strikes the other guard in his face and arm before driving her sword into his stomach. She knocks the sword from the stunned guard’s hand and pulls her own sword free. “Tam!” she calls again. “We’ve got wounded! Time to wrap things up!”

I watch as Tam turns herself in mid-air and spots the archer who shot my mother. With a flick of her hand, Tam pulls the archer up off his feet and hurls him physically through the air, slamming him into a building on the other side of the square. Then Tam raises both hands high and five of the remaining Guards are all lifted into the air. Ten feet. Twenty feet. Thirty. Then she drops her hands, and the men all fall screaming. They hit the dirt and stay there. 

Tam lowers herself to the ground and immediately starts walking my way. From the side, one of the townspeople – Tarvis Jaffson, the fool who runs the local tavern – calls out, “If you could just pick them up and throw them, why didn’t you do that to begin with?”

Raven comes up behind Tam and pushes Tarvis roughly out of the way. “Because, dipshit, it takes nearly all of her energy. And because we were trying to be careful. We didn’t want to hurt any of you bystanders, either with the picking up or the dropping.”

Cressa comes running up beside Tam. “How are you feeling, Tam?”

Tam gives a tiny nod. “Tired. But I can still do what is needed.” Then she closes her eyes for a moment, and the damnedest thing happens.  Tam’s voice is suddenly inside my head. 

People of Tarrentown. All who hear my voice. Come out. The fight is over. 

I look to my mother and father, to my friends who have gathered around us, and I realize from their expressions that we are all hearing Tam’s voice in our heads. 

Restrain the men who attacked your town. Take their weapons. Find rope and bind them. But do not kill them. They will receive their justice in due time. 

Tam opens her eyes and places a hand on my shoulder. “And now, I must attend to this.” To my mother, she says, “Lorran, your name is? Yes?”

My mother’s eyes flutter open, and she manages a nod. 

Tam gives me a reassuring smile. “Your mother will be alright. I can see that the wound is straight and clean. Cressa? Assistance, please?”

The blonde girl is by her side in an instant. She takes a knee in the dirt and she places a hand on my mother’s head. Cressa turns to my father and me and says, “Tam needs to work quickly, and for your mother, the pain will be great. I’m going to help Lorran stay calm, okay?” Without waiting for a reply, Cressa closes her eyes and says, “Find peace, Lorran. All will be well.” My mother’s eyes close as if in a light slumber. Cressa whispers, “Now, Tam. Do it.”

Tam’s hands move in a series of quick, smooth motions, but she never actually touches the arrow. The arrow snaps just short of the barbed tip, and then it’s pulled out through Mother’s back. But again, Tam never actually touches the arrow. Then there is blood, a lot of blood, but only for an instant. Tam covers my mother’s wounds with both hands and almost instantly, tiny wafts of smoke appear between Tam’s fingers. Then more smoke, and a second later, the shoulder of my mother’s dress bursts into flame. My mother’s eyes shoot open, she gasps sharp and hard. Then her eyes flutter closed. I see my father reach out to stop Tam, but the Lady Raven places a hand on his shoulder, restraining him. I can only stare in shock. The flames burn off, taking tiny fragments of the dress away like crisp black snowflakes.

When Tam moves her hands away, there is no blood. No open wound. Instead, there is red and blotchy skin. Part of my mother’s dress has been burned away, but she somehow appears uninjured from the flames. Her eyes are closed, and she doesn’t move at all as I carefully set her down on her back. But she is breathing, and she is alive. 

I stare at Tam, and all I can think to say is, “You set my mother on fire.”

“I had to stop the bleeding quickly, so I mixed healing magic with fire to close the wound. Cauterize, Raven calls it. Powerful, but dangerous. Because of this, your mother will be very weak. Even with Cressa’s help, she passed out from the pain. She will need clean bandages and lots of rest. But she will live.”

I swallow back tears. She will live. “Thank you.”

Someone calls out, “What kind of people are you?”

We turn and see Tarvis Jaffson standing there, staring, pointing at Tam and Cressa. 

“You two are witches! You’re… you’re wayward!”

The girl Cressa stands up with a sigh. “Listen, you mother-” She glances over at Tam, then clears her throat. “Listen, you. Maybe you didn’t notice, but we just saved your little village here -”

“Town,” Raven amends.

“Whatever. We just saved you clowns from a group of really bad guys who were ready to kill any and everyone here. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Tarvis looks ready to object again, but Hanna’s father steps in front of him. Quietly, he says, “These two girls, and that nice lady there, protected my Hanna. My Hanna can touch magic, too, as you well know, and we all know what those men would have done to her if given the chance.”

Tarvis sniffs. “Those men came here because of girls like your Hanna.”

I move without thinking. I run full speed, grab Tarvis by the front of his shirt, and slam him against the nearest building. The momentum created by my speed also makes me quite strong, apparently. “Hanna is my friend,” I snarl. “And the only reason those men even exist is because assholes like you still feel the need to look down your noses at girls like me. Girls like Tam and Cressa here, who just saved my mother’s life! So if you utter one more word, I am going to have one of those girls pick you up and fling you up into the sky!”

“And we’ll do it, too, “ Cressa adds. “Happily.”

Tarvis puts his hands up in surrender and I let him go.

“Still,” Mayor Tamash says quietly, “You must admit that what these two girls can do is…dangerous.”

It’s Raven who answers now. She shrugs and says, “It’s no more or less dangerous than what I can do with this sword.” She casually twirls her blade around as she speaks. “I’m very skilled, you know. I could kill you with it. Could kill this entire town with it, if I chose.” She stopped spinning the sword and slammed it point-first into the dirt. “A skill is neither good nor evil. It simply is. These girls are not dangerous. A sword in the wrong hands, in untrained hands, is dangerous. An untrained swordsman will do nothing but get themselves killed, and probably the person they’re trying to protect as well. Likewise, magic in the wrong hands can be dangerous. In untrained hands. But Tam and Cressa aretrained.  Notice that we only killed the men who gave us no choice.” Raven pauses and shrugs. “Well, I did kill that one douchebag who shot an arrow at me. But I did warn him, right? Anyway, tell me which makes more sense – asking these girls to hide away their magic and go on untrained? Or to allow girls like Tam and Cressa to show these girls how to better control their magic?”

“You can do that?” my father asks. “You can train them?”

“We can,” Tam answers.

“You…” I take a breath and say, “You also know how to use multiple kinds of magic. I could tell. I have never heard of or seen such a thing. Were you born that way, or was that something you learned to do? Can you teach us?”

“We were shown,” Tam says. “Some can be shown. Others cannot. There is a friend of ours. Her name is Daal Fray. She would very much like to meet with you. With all of you.”

  “And what are we supposed to do with them?” Mayor Tamash nods to the Emperor’s Guards, bleeding and unconscious, who are being tied up by other members of the town.  

“They will be stripped of their armor and weapons,” Raven says. “Their steel is your do with as you wish. The men themselves will be sent out into exile. We try not to kill unless we have to. Their tale will serve as a warning to others that the girls of Wayward are no longer under their thumb.”

“And if they return?” the mayor asks. “Or if other men like them come back?”

“Any town that protects girls who can touch magic is likewise protected by the Knights of Krell. If they come back, we’ll know, and we’ll come back. And we won’t be so friendly next time.”

 “So that’s it?” I ask. “They leave, and so you leave. That’s it?”

The girl Tam smiles at me. “No, Brielle,” she says, although I’m very certain I didn’t tell her my name. “That is not quite it.” From her pouch, Raven pulls out a rectangle, shiny and black, small enough to fit in one hand. She gives it to Tam. “We have something to show you first,” Tam says.

Nodding to the rectangle, I ask, “What is that?”

“This,” Tam says softly, “is hope. This is the future.” 

© Copyright Clint Chico 2023