Her back a well of sorrows, Moira dropped the heavy stack of expensive leather-clads with a wump, sending dusty ghosts waltzing across the floor. These volumes of lore and dubious spells and homey cures were older than she was, amazingly enough, but these days, people considered them of no more value than an old lady in a quaint little shop of wonders. The world had gone elsewhere looking for distractions.
The cat regarded his mistress’ activity with dull interest. Moira had spent the morning pulling things off the shelves she’d been assured were clean – assured by a succession of teenage store employees, one after another after another. They never lasted long. She knew now that she should have done the cleaning herself, but her eyes made it only a fifty-fifty shot that she could see the dust to remove it. She was doing her best and making good progress, since she seldom had to rush back to the register.
“We’ll hang in until January, Mr. Boots, old man,” Moira told the serious-faced cat. “We may not enjoy a holiday rush, but it’d be grand to keep going through Halloween and Thanksgiving and Christmas. Then, the new year can do what it will without us. The lawyer will be here with yet another stack of papers sometime in the next few weeks. The consignment buyer comes in on December 27th. I’ll hand over the keys and then, my darling Mr. Boots, you and I will fly away free. You lead. Ya always did, ye rascal.”
The cat trotted over to her, rubbing its gray lankiness against her calf as slight as a whispered promise made at midnight.
The tiny bell over the door let out its silvery fret. Beneath a riot of flaming ringlets, in walked a girl – young woman, Moira corrected herself, then uncorrected herself, because she was old enough to call this wisp of a lass a girl if she damn well pleased, t’ank you very much indeed. Moira looked her up and down. Inky flowers and animals covered skin pale enough to ignite in direct sunlight. She dressed – Well, yes, but they all dress like wee hoes now, Moira thought. The young woman carried the latest phone and wore one of those rings that turn your life into numbers like a countdown. Moira wondered where that money came from – and then checked herself. As for the rest, the girl’s shoes were Army surplus boots and the coat was Goodwill chic.
“Hi. Where do you want me to start?” The girl’s dazzling blue eyes never left her phone’s screen.
“A fine start would be showing up for a ten o’clock interview at ten, ní ten twenty-two.”
The woman sighed heavily as if making a great effort not to turn around and leave. “Sorry.” It was, perhaps, the least heart-felt apology ever uttered. “I’m here. I’m ready.”
“I haven’t said whether you have the job yet.”
“Well? Do I?”
“If it won’t put you out too much, I’d like to ask you a few questions first. Phoenix? No family name?”
“Huh? I chose my own name,” the girl corrected, heaving another sigh of exasperation.
Moira pulled out her own phone and double-checked the email. She adjusted her glasses, an older pair that barely allowed her to focus. The girl’s credentials consisted of a typo-ridden resume that led off with ‘dog walker.’ She was too tired to worry about it. Even if Phoenix proved to be as useless as all the others, it would be good to have someone around to keep her alert.
“Fine. I see a note here that a judge has told you to take a regular job,” Moira said. So young to be ruining her life. Let her stare at her phone for eight hours a day. At least she won’t be on the street.
“I’m here,” she said bluntly, signaling that, as far as she was concerned, the interview was over. “Your ad said there was cleaning. I don’t mind cleaning.” Oh, she doesn’t mind it now. “Did I hear you talking to someone? A Mr. Boots? I love kitties.” She seemed to come alive at the thought of a cat’s attention, jumping up a little.
Phoenix looked around. The cat was nowhere in sight.
“Shy, is he?”
“Oh, hardly. He’s well past all that. Same for me, almost.”
Moira took Phoenix’s dingy coat and hung it in the hall closet. Looking at her, she saw the girl was a bone and a scrap, nothing more.
“Did you bring a lunch? I have a little fridge in my office.”
“That’s okay, I’m not hungry.”
“Yes, you are. At Moira’s Peaceable Kingdom we take meals seriously. Moira led her to the front counter. “I pick these up every morning from a small bakery off Hammond Drive.” Next to the bored register, an antique cloche offered fresh scones to all takers. “Most days, I gobble em up, an’ it shows on me keister.”
Phoenix offered a pleasant, girlish laugh. Moira remembered making sounds like that, but it had been years. Phoenix took one of the scones along with a cup of tea Moira offered and made a light mid-morning meal of it.
With that, they got to work.
A small number of customers wandered in, but otherwise the two women moved from shelf to shelf, room to room. The shop was a renovated home, a few rooms on the one level, a back garden, plus a tiny basement now jammed with drooping boxes of who-knew-what. The front parlor held elegant little sculptures and curios crafted by local artists, hand-painted greeting cards, including several Tarot and Oracle decks for seeking the truth, pendulums, divination bowls for seeking inner peace, tribal masks of power, and leather pouches full of runes for seeking out fellow nerds in a basement. How the kids loved to cast rune dice not long ago. Couldn’t restock fast enough. Not long ago at all. A few years. Ten years?
A single step and a mahogany railing carved in a dragon motif led the two women to the book room. Tom had replaced the only window with stained glass, a silver-blue unicorn hugging a flower-bedazzled faerie princess, a ridiculous piece he’d sweet-talked the owner of Red Ivy’s Antiques out of for a song. That was back when they first opened. Several cats ago. And Tom, of course. Tom. Moira and Phoenix dusted books before moving on to a section devoted to brass incense burners and even made a start on the big room with it showcase of sparkly look-at-me healing crystals. To her credit, the girl was a fast worker. She put in her earbuds, but managed to comment pleasantly about the shop’s eclectic items. Head bobbing from one side to the other to some song being thumped into her brain, she said, “How cute!” and “Elves! Gotta love elves!” They were dwarfs.
The morning rolled on as so many had before it.
Phoenix walked around, looking for her next chore. She tried one of the doors that led to a room off the big showroom. She found it locked.
“Look at the time!” Moira declared. “One-thirty already.”
On cue, the bell did its noisy little jig, and in stepped a portly man carrying a large white sack of sandwiches. “Brody’s the name. Pasties are me game!” Same joke for twelve years straight; only the menu item changed from day to day. It was never funny, but it was comfortable.
Brody, who owned the sandwich shop one block over, made his acquaintance with Phoenix and invited himself over to a table in the small rear garden. They left the glass doors open so they could hear any customers who might wander in. Each took a pastie of stout-braised beef and dug in.
“I’m surprised someone hasn’t come begging,” Phoenix said.
Brody hastily jumped in, “So, what do you think of Moira’s little shop of wonderments?”
“It’s cool. This garden is perfect. How do you manage to keep it up?”
Moira took a sip of her tea and answered, “A little pruning and raking each evening after closing. It’s no bother, really.”
Brody interjected, “What modesty. This whole area was once nothing but scrawny pines, prime Georgia swampland. Moira’s worked her magic back here. The rest of us step out back and find pokeweed and kudzu. She’s got her own Garden of Versailles.” By this point, he was beaming, unable to contain his enthusiasm for Moira. The two women exchanged a covert look and eye roll.
Glancing around, Phoenix admired the little koi pond and its miniature bridge, the gnomes facing each other in a circle as if engaged in some dark conspiracy. A slender gray cat walked by a stone, revealing freshly painted letters: My Darling Mr. Boots. Two blinks and the cat was nowhere to be seen.
Phoenix stood up with a start. “What?” Then: “Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. Earlier, I thought… I said… I’m so stupid. Sorry.”
Moira glanced between the stone and the girl. “There, there. Not a- t’all. You didn’t know the way of things. It can throw some folk. Mr. Boots is Tom’s cat more n mine.”
“Tom? Is?” Phoenix asked, blank-faced.
“Yes, dear. Finish your lunch. You need it.” She left the questions for later.
Brody merely smiled.
After lunch, Brody apologized for having to rush back to his shop. Before he left, however, he cornered Moira. Phoenix pretended to go back to work, but Moira noted that her earbuds lay flopped on her shoulder.
Brody fumbled for something to say, at last landing on “And how’s Tom and the others?”
“Same.”
“’ course.”
“He said something the other day that made me a little sad. He said we all did our best when we had nothing. When this area was all green space and promise, we had customers back then, not much money, not many worries.”
Brody put one tentative hand on hers. “That’s how you remember it, but that’s never how it was.”
“Perhaps. Still, it’s true what Tom said. When the city had nothing, it was all good. Then, the city got some money and suddenly the politicians wanted more and more. We’ve had no end to our troubles since. Taxes and traffic and noise. We were rich when we were poor and never knew.”
“Tom was a wise man. A sweet man.”
“Yes, he is.”
Phoenix pretended to polish the jewelry display. Moira could sense the girl daring Brody to give her a good-bye peck on the cheek. He didn’t He never did. He could have. Moira could turn up her spell a watt or two. But, no. It was better that he never did.
***
The cleaning completed, the two women settled into a routine of taking shifts on the register and exchanging light conversation. Or not. Moira had no wish to tell tales of the old days, of Tom and their cats and their life together and…
Phoenix had her walls as well. No matter how Moira probed, the girl found ways of telling her almost nothing about her parents. Obviously, a taboo subject. So, they took turns playing music on the store’s overhead speakers. Moira didn’t share Phoenix’s taste in K-pop or Hip-Hop, though she liked Trap and its low pulsing bass line well enough. On the other hand, Phoenix drifted off when Moira tried to introduce her to Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks. In the end, they declared it a draw and talked about weather, clothes, food.
One Tuesday in early October, a well-dressed blonde woman arrived for an appointment.
Moira welcomed her with scones and tea and told her, “We’ll do a regression. This is a process and there are several to do. They’re key to understanding your past and your current circumstances.” She spoke in a motherly patter, having done this with hundreds of clients.
The customer walked over to the door with a sign that read Regressions. “It’s locked.”
“No. It’s this other room.” The other room had a sign that read Reiki, but Moira insisted it did double-duty.
The woman, a little confused answered, “O… K.”
“That was my daughter’s old room from when she worked here.” Moira quickly ushered her customer into the Reiki room next door.
Later, after the customer had gone, Phoenix asked, “Was? She’s not one of the ghosts, I hope.”
She handed the girl a toilet brush. “Only to me.”
***
Moira regarded Phoenix with some little scorn, for she was “fuming again! I told you I don’t want the smell getting into the draperies or into the good velvet cloaks in the other room. Those have to be dry-cleaned.”
“It’s called vaping,” Phoenix shot back, “and I don’t do it anywhere near your precious Little Red Riding Hood cloaks.” She’d shown up that morning wearing the same clothes she left in the evening before. Dark circles underscored red-rimmed eyes, and her hair flew about wilder than ever.
“I know what the fekkin’ thing’s called, ya little gobshite. Why you put such poison in your body, that’s what I want to know.”
Phoenix’s stern face broke into a giggling fit like a child hearing a fart joke. She took another pull from the vape pen – Blue Razz – and said, “You’re funny. Your accent flares up when you get pissed at me.”
“T’ick as potato soup, eh? There’d be more still, but I’m too long away from the home soil. Don’t you worry, girly-girl. You keep acting like you’re acting an’ you’ll see my Irish, all right. More ‘n you know what to do with.”
“We’re scared, aren’t we, Mr. Boots?”
Moira did a double-take. She looked about the room but did not see the cat. “Where?”
Phoenix wore an evil grin. “He’s in the garden. Where else?” She giggled.
Moira froze, trying to parse out why she’d say such a cruel thing. Hadn’t she seen Mr. Boots? Or was it but the once? I thought you believed. The girl had a sharp tongue and a selfish streak a mile long, but this…
Moira took a deep breath, smoothed out the front of her floral dress, and walked off to rearrange her crystals.
***
The two spoke less than usual for the next week. Moira signed her work sheet for the court, noting the exact time the girl arrived each morning. Phoenix kept her head high and acted like nothing had happened. Moira tended a few customers but mostly kept to herself. She’d sit in the garden, passing one hand in a stroking motion over and over a few inches above her lap. She’d slip into the absent daughter’s Regressions room only to emerge minutes later, looking worn and wan.
Brody sensed the tension between the women. He brought them lunch each day only to quickly excuse himself from joining in.
At last, Phoenix came to her boss with a peace offering of sorts. “I was wondering whether you’d be interested in hosting a Halloween Dance?” Moira started to answer, but the girl was already on her phone to her on-again-off-again DJ boyfriend. “Yes. Get the word out. And be here by three to set up. Nothing stronger than Jagers, I’m serious! And tell everyone this isn’t just to hang out – buy some shit!” She was smiling when she hung up. “You wait and see. You’re gonna make so much money. Maybe you won’t have to sell the place after all!”
Moira looked her over as if for the first time. She’s trying. It all hardly matters now anyway. Let her do her good deed. It’s a balm for the soul. Finally, she said, “All right and tanks, but perhaps you could be a wee bit kinder when describing the inventory.”
***
Halloween fell on a Saturday. A few strobe lights and a fog machine turned the shop into an otherworldly version of itself. In fact, Moira thought the transformation did the place proud. “I hope you appreciate he effort,” she said to the walls, sensing that Tom and the others were reluctantly putting up with all the hullabaloo. “Aw, stop being so glum. T’ings change. They always change.”
Phoenix’s friends began arriving around eight. They were a sordid bunch, but reasonably well-behaved, dressed in trending costumes or covered in DIY scars and gore. Phoenix was a K-Pop Demon Hunter, Rumi, having somehow stuffed all those red ringlets under a long, braided purple wig. The girl was true to her word: her guests paid for their drinks (No cops comin’ knockin’, t’ank goodness.) The register was seeing more action than it had in years. Her DJ boyfriend played loud songs about “bitches” and “m---f--- hoes” mixed in with some Halloween songs, including Van Morrison’s “Moondance.” One couple even sprang for velvet capes, one blazing red, the other midnight blue, swaying and swirling about on the floor as bewitching sisters.
Moira wore her fortune teller costume – a colorful blouse, head scarf, huge jewelry. Back in the day, this had been her work attire. She tried mingling with the young folk, but found she was happy enough to be a wallflower, watching the up-and-comers have their fun. Phoenix spent most of her time dancing with other girls about two feet in front of her boyfriend playing the songs. He was a lusty young man, eating up the visual tricks and treats.
Seeing Moira sitting by herself, Phoenix came over and offered her a drink. “Isn’t this great? We could do one of these every weekend!”
“Not without a liquor license.” She had to shout to be heard.
“So, we’ll get one.”
“Just like that. And you have money for –”
Phoenix’s phone flashed from inside her purse. She plucked it out, looked at the screen, and tapped a message. Moira couldn’t hear her silver shop bell, but figured someone important had arrived. Phoenix waved her hands to a gentleman in a pirate costume – possibly Captain Jack Sparrow or a knock-off. Somehow his selection didn’t fit in with this party, maybe because he had two decades on the goblins in the room.
The good captain started chatting her up, but Moira put one hand to her ear, as in ‘can’t hear a t’ing, darlin’.’
The three of them stepped into the back garden, where the music and laughter spilling out from the big showroom was a few decibels lower.
“Better?” Phoenix asked.
“Better,” Moira agreed, and the good captain nodded as well. She took a good look at the pirate under the floodlights. “Wait, who is that under those dreadlocks?”
“Joel. Joel Gurewitz, Mrs. Boothe. We met when we went over the paperwork.”
He was from the lawyers’ office. She only half-recognized the face from the pack of lawyers she’d been dealing with. “Joel. Well, welcome to Moira’s. I’m – well, you know who I am.” For the first time, she wondered what was in the drink she’d been sipping. Not tea, definitely. “What brings you out on Halloween of all nights?”
The good captain said, “Well, this young lady does, to be honest.”
Phoenix raised her eyebrows in anticipation. “Yes?” She began jumping in place, the way only young girls could do – the way Moira remembered being able to do so long ago.
“I do have some good news. As Phoenix – Phoenix?” He stalled, seeking out a more formal name for the occasion.
“Nolan,” Phoenix said. “Actually, it’s Aoife Nolan.” She looked at Moira. “I was tired of everyone calling me Effy or Iffy.”
“Well, Aoife,” Moira correctly pronounced it Ee-fuh, “is a damn fine name. A name that says this rose has brambles, beware!”
“Aoife,” the good captain’s mouth couldn’t handle it and it came out Eva, “Nolan it is. In any case, Ms. Nolan came to us the other day with a bold suggestion. I am happy to inform you that the firm has presented the idea to Confed-Alamo.”
Moira returned a blank stare.
“Venture capitalists, Mrs. Boothe. Big ones. They are excited at the prospect.”
When the good captain failed to finish the thought, Moira asked, “And what prospect might that be?”
“To take over management of Moira’s Peaceable Kingdom, of course.”
One of Phoenix’s girlfriends, dressed in Ren Fair apparel, came out into the garden carefully cradling four red Solo cups. Moira gulped the last of the one she was holding and took a healthy swig from another. The maiden with the cups distributed the rest, keeping one for herself.
Phoenix jumped in to continue the story. “It’s not a done deal yet. I just wanted to let you know you have options. You could still get the money from the sale, but you wouldn’t have to close the shop!”
The good captain once again took over. “That’s right, Mrs. Boothe. You would stay on as before, running things on a day-to-day basis. You’d get that big payment you’ve been looking forward to, then take a salary and a percentage. Confed-Alamo would pay for some needed renovations and send in an advisor to help with marketing and some other sundries.”
What the hell is a sundry to me? Moira took another sip. The drink was getting better and better. The night was getting warmer.
The good captain began talking faster, but Moira wasn’t picking up on all of it.
“I want to review all the paperwork.”
“Of course, Mrs. Boothe. I’ll have it to you by mid-week. We can sit down and go over it, line-by-line, if you like.” By this point, the Ren Fair girl who’d brought the Solo cups was standing very close to the good pirate captain.
Moira took a seat at the table by the koi pond. “I think I’ll ponder it a while, if you don’t mind.”
“No problem. I’ll phone you in a few days.”
With that, the pirate and the maiden of cups vanished back inside.
Moira stroked something in her lap.
“It’s a good plan,” Phoenix pleaded. “I swear it is.” She remained standing as if waiting for praise.
Before Moira could muster any response, there was a commotion inside. The two women hurried in through the glass doors. A man and woman were frantically straightening and zipping their costumes – he was a sleazy politician in a long red tie, she a schoolgirl – and running for the exit. They were both deathly pale.
Moira looked over to the direction from where they’d come. The door to the Regression room was wide open. She brushed through the crowd, Phoenix close behind her. Before Phoenix could follow her inside, Moira slammed the door shut.
“I’m not ready for this, Tom!” she said loudly enough to hear herself over the music booming through the door. She breathed in his familiar smell, felt his comforting arm around her shoulder. “I am not – ” Whispering a prayer, she told the room and any who might be in it. “Please, I’m done. Take me home with ya now, dear Tom.”
Moira felt her knees give way. Mr. Boots looked up at her with concern in his bright golden eyes as she sagged to the floor weeping.
***
For the first time since it had opened, Moira’s Peaceable Kingdom remained closed that Monday.
Moira returned the following day, quieter than usual, but present. She even picked up scones and put two cups of water in the microwave. “I’ll stick to tea from now on, thank you, girly-girl,” she told a worried Phoenix.
“Are you mad at me?”
“Yes.”
“I’m – ”
“No. No, I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at getting old and letting the world run away from me. I’m mad at being an old fool. I know you mean well.”
“Yes, and it’ll be good for you –”
“What happened to Mr. Gurewitz after we spoke? I didn’t see him again.”
“Uh, he left.”
“He left? Just like that?”
“Uh –”
“Did he do anyt’ing before he left? Maybe with that medieval maiden?”
“I can explain – ”
“Oh, please please please do not. I may be old but I haven’t forgotten what a man and a woman do together.” She paused, eyes closed, then added, “in my shop!” No wonder Mr. Joel Gurewitz, esquire, came out to a Halloween party for kids half his age.
Moira held out her hand. The girl reached in her pocket, pulled out the key, and handed it to her.
***
Moira signed the new paperwork and cancelled the crew that was due to load her inventory onto a truck. The good pirate captain, now dressed in lawyerly garb, joined them later in the week. The three of them sat down with a stack of documents, which Moira perused with little interest while Mr. Boots sat on her shoulder, purring contentedly.
“You like this part, you rascal?” she asked the cat, pointing to several paragraphs in miniscule font. The lawyer and Moira’s employee pretended not to notice. “Here. Walk me through this part, Mr. Gurewitz.” She got up. “I mean literally.”
Gurewitz stepped out of the office and took them on a guided tour of the shop Moira had known for decades.
“Well, yes. Confed-Alamo plans a few minor changes.”
“Minor. Where is this Boba Tea station supposed to fit in here?”
“It’s not very large, about the size of a kitchenette. I was thinking…” Gurewitz tiptoes through a minefield with each word. “it could be in one of the side rooms.” He pointed vaguely in the direction of the Regression room.
“Those rooms pay the overhead. Or they used to.”
Phoenix jumped in. “They have an herbal flavor – I think. Boba tea is very healthful.”
“Yes, yes. Like vaping.”
“Oh, the vaping products are just a thought,” Gurewitz said. “Nothing’s final yet.”
“It’s on the page. It’s final. I get no say.” She waited for an answer that didn’t come. “Mmm-hmmm. I like the charging station. Lots of phone addicts around these days. Oh, but you’re bringing in that jewelry chain. They charge a fortune for mass-produced bracelets and pendants.”
“There’ll be a line around the building,” Phoenix insisted.
“And not one of those customers will care about what they’re buying. They’ll be there to buy what everyone else is buying.”
Gurewitz took a deep breath. “Mrs. Boothe, if you don’t like the terms of this deal – which I must point out are extremely unusual and extremely generous on the company’s part – then, I won’t ask you to –”
“No one’s asking me, or telling me. I do my own telling in Moira’s Peaceable Kingdom.” They returned to her office. She opened a drawer and pulled out a jewel-encrusted silver fountain pen. “You take this. I have a few more lines for you to scribble there at the end, and then we’ll spit and shake.”
Gurewitz sat wide-eye. “Really?”
Her head tilted to one side and she narrowed her eyes. “You’re a daft eejit, and that’s why we loves ya. No, not really. Save yer spit. Now, just you write down what I tells ya to write…”
***
The holidays rolled by. Thanksgiving week brought the first of the changes. More popped up in early December. Moira nixed any more orgies until after Epiphany. Even so, Moira’s Peaceable Kingdom enjoyed its busiest year in a long time. People loved Boba Tea, and it had become Moira’s favorite as well.
The company took on two new full-time clerks. Then, a few days after Christmas, without any announcement, a work crew arrived. Moira stood outside the front door, bundled in her winter coat, hands on hips, looking up. When the noise began, the store’s new manager stepped out to see what the commotion was.
“Oh! But, you shouldn’t,” Phoenix said, wearing her nametag that read Aoife Nolan, Manager.
“It goes with me. And… it’s high time I go as well.”
“No! It’s not time yet. Please, you don’t have to…”
Moira gently placed a mittened finger over Phoenix’s – Aoife’s – lips.
“I’ve taken all that belongs to me. I’ll take my name too, if you don’t mind.”
The workers carefully lowered the letters M-O-I-R-A-‘S from the big sign. Somehow, the rest looked wrong – broken. It was hardly a peaceable kingdom without its queen.
“What about Brody’s offer. He could really use the help over there at the sandwich shop.” Aoife tried her best, but could not have been surprised by her friend’s little smile and head shake. “But, where will you go? Where will they go?” She looked at the air around her.
Moira opened the passenger-side door of her car to let Mr. Boots in. “We’ll go where this one leads. Maybe a new place; maybe back to Ireland. I’m not sure yet. Maybe we’ll look someone up.” She gave a hint of a wince. “As for the shades we keep company with? Best not to leave ‘em lazing about in the woodwork.” Moira looked at Mr. Boots and thought of the ghosts she’d collected over the years. Mostly, she thought of the handsome, young Tom Boothe. Tousled dark hair, powerful arms, all midnight mischief in the eye. She turned to the open front door of her old shop. “Out! The lot of ya!” she called. “There. They’ll not trouble you. They’ll go where they will… and eventually go nowhere.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Sorry, but it’s true, Tom. Now, don’t you worry none. I’ll be joining you soon enough, but not today, lover.”
She watched Moira Boothe and Mr. Boots drive away from The Peaceable Kingdom before stepping back inside and dialing her phone. Affecting a thick, if ill-practiced, brogue, she told her new contact at Confed-Alamo that she needed some supplies. She couldn’t care less what they thought of her demands, as long as they met them. “Yes, I want the bridge over the koi pond refurbished. An’ one more t’ing!” Aoife drew herself up tall in her manager’s seat. “Get me a cat.”
xxxxx
I hope you enjoyed a visit with Moira and Aoife. I happen to know another magical lady who has a shop of wonders you might like:
https://www.amazon.com/Goody-Celeste-Chris-Riker/dp/1665307072
- Details
China's first emperor ordered many massive projects... including a canal system and the joining of sections of what would become the Great Wall, but none of these compares
to the haunting beauty of the terracotta warriors -- the shadow army. Now, scientists have evidence of exactly who made these thousands of eerie statues:
If you love uncovering Chinese secrets... and love a wild story, I hope you'll check out Zebulon Angell and the Shadow Army:
https://www.amazon.com/Zebulon-Angell-Shadow-Chris-Riker/dp/1637107056/
- Details
The short drive back to school for a meeting followed the short drive only three hours earlier to fetch Harlowe home from art class. She was busy in the back seat now, trying to draw the scene in her head… the one her friend had asked her to draw.
“Her plan. Her schedule. It’s always the same,” Rick Ponder groused as he edged along in the stop-and-go traffic on Kill Beaver Hill. He liked to remind anyone who’d listen that this had been a quiet area once, before the zoning committee had said yes to every high-density housing complex and strip mall that had come along. They’d do anything to get more tax money. It was all the school board’s fault, of course, for constantly raising the millage rate. “Damn them, and damn her for getting her jollies by making us jump through hoops.”
GBD likes to curse people he doesn’t like, especially that silly man on the TV. He doesn’t like Dr. Z, either. They’d had talks. Four or five of them. Sometimes, I have to wait in the hall. Boring. Sometimes, I sit in the room while the adults argue. That’s worse.
Mr. Ponder had the air-conditioning all the way up, blasting a steady hiss of cold air. It didn’t cool him down any.
Cass Ponder saw activity just ahead and took a deep breath in resignation. She awaited the storm by throwing herself into her game. Harlowe watched her mother’s phone, unbuckling the seatbelt so she could see over her shoulder.
Mama’s finding the cats. It’s hard, but Mama’s a good cat-finder.
Now Mr. Ponder spotted the problem ahead. “Great,” he sighed.
The buses were rolling out of the school drive and onto the main road. They rolled all at once. The kids were going home. Harlowe couldn’t read the numbers, but she knew she was supposed to be on Bus #17 with Margarita, Zahra, and Kitzi. The others got off at stop three, just enough time for fifth grade gossip. She found it easy to talk gossip with her friends. She went silent when they got off. After four stops, Bus #17 would reach the end of Dandelion Court where Harlowe lived. She wished she were on Bus #17.
“All of them. Look at this, Babe. It’s two o’clock in the afternoon.” Mr. Ponder was brewing up a big storm.
There, Mama! She tapped her mother’s shoulder with great urgency and pointed at the screen. Red cat. The bungalow’s hiding two striped kitties. A Siamese is peeking out from the fronds of a palm tree. Her mother smiled back at her and touched a fingertip to the kitties’ little heads.
“They’ve got her at the bus stop before dawn, then she’s home in the middle of the day. The idiots start the school year August 1st when it’s a million degrees out and end it in mid-June when the heat is back. Maybe, just maybe, if they let the kids sleep until after dawn and kept them learning until four or five, they could avoid running that HVAC in the hottest part of the summer. It’s a waste of power. And a waste of gas. Releasing all the buses at once ties up traffic for a good twenty minutes.”
Was that a cat’s face in the cloud? Mama needed only three more. Harlowe wondered whether she should tell her mother about the cloud kitty. Maybe not. Mama’s good at this.
“This. THIS is why our schools are a mess. They think they’re such geniuses in there, but they can’t even handle the basics.”
“Principal Zolgotha knows that, Hon.” Mom called him Hon. He called her Babe. It was sweet. “We’ll make it on time. Don’t worry. ”
Mr. Ponder turned on the radio to get the news. Harlowe took out the asmo-d3s her father had given her for getting all A’s in art class. Mr. Ponder had searched online for a good gift for children on the spectrum and found this enhanced coloring pad on a knock-off site based in Rangoon or Bangalore or somewhere like that. The price had been right, and it worked like a charm. Harlowe had dived right in. And then something had happened.
She thought about a fun adventure with Hungry Huck, riding his flying dragon. He was a funny friend. They had lots of fun adventures together, and Huck said that soon their fun would get even more interesting. He was always hungry, of course, so she thought about plenty of food. On the deep-look screen, saddle bags appeared on the dragon’s back, just ahead of Harlowe and Huck’s legs. The leather bags overflowed with tacos, pizza slices, and cups of mango bubble tea. On the screen, Harlowe and Huck reached down to grab handfuls of food. Huck was faster than Harlowe. He had to be, since he had three mouths to feed.
They lurched forward, cutting off another driver.
“EEE!” Mrs. Ponder yelped. She yelped a lot when Mr. Ponder drove.
A bus blared its horn. “It’s our turn!” he said confidently, ignoring the bus driver and swinging their dented Highlander into the main drive of Yellow River Elementary School, home of the Battling Beavers.
Mr. Ponder parked and punched a button to slide open the side hatch. “Come on, Harlowe. Let’s go see the Wicked Witch of West Gwinnett.”
Dr. Zolgotha wasn’t a witch. Witches were good. Huck said so.
Mr. Ponder complained that the school designers had spared the taxpayers no expense at Yellow River. The atrium was large enough to double as a soccer field. Huge windows bounced sunlight off the gleaming trophy cases filled with awards for budding athletes, musicians, and dramatists. The gym’s parquet floor had been replaced twice due to a leaking roof so that no child would be deprived of playing 6-7 tag. The cafeteria sported a soft yogurt machine.
In all of this, the principal’s office remained spartan, a gray concrete space absent windows or joy. It looked as though Dr. Avril Zolgotha had transformed a utility closet into a sterile cube. She had hung no artwork or photographs of children. Instead, visitors saw her various certificates and diplomas attesting to the fact that she’d spent her twenties and early thirties deep in the bowels of academia.
“Mr. and Mrs. Ponder, thank you for coming in. Harlowe… welcome – Oh.” Dr. Zolgotha stopped short as if she’d inhaled a peanut. “There it is. We’re here to discuss this device. Give it here, child.”
Dr. Zolgotha reached for the pad, but Harlowe pulled back with a yelp and wrapped both arms around it, turning her back to form a –
Stone wall. Mine!
Duly rebuffed, Dr. Zolgotha painted on a smile and sat behind her desk, a bottle of highly caffeinated green tea to her right and a five-inch-thick binder to her left. “Who told you what to draw?” she asked in a clinically-trained voice.
Replying in the smallest voice in Gwinnett County, Harlowe answered, “Huck.”
“Who?” She waited one-point-five seconds and, adding emphasis, repeated, “Who?”
The force behind the question startled Harlowe. A traffic jam of emotions gathered on her face.
“Don’t badger the girl. She’ll answer your question, but you have to give her a second,” Mr. Ponder was raising his voice now.
Mrs. Ponder tried to explain. “Harlowe has trouble getting out more than a word or two at a time. Unless it’s something she likes.” She turned to her daughter. “Honey, what did we get after dinner last night?”
“Bubble tea!” Harlowe answered with glee. “I had mango. You had taro. Yecch, taro! I like mango.”
Dr. Zolgotha’s eyes widened for a moment, more in exasperation at the detour in the conversation than in reaction to Harlowe’s ability to wax poetic on the subject of bubble tea. “Who?” Dr. Zolgotha asked again, less emphatically, approximating human warmth.
Harlowe said nothing. Her mother gently prompted her to “answer Dr. Zolgotha’s question, Harley Quinn.”
It’s nice when Mama calls me Harley Quinn. I like Harley’s clothes, and her big girl butt, and that big hammer. Harley’s cool!
She knew they were waiting for an answer. At last, Harlowe spoke a little louder than the time before, “I made them up myself.”
“What’s wrong with her device? Harlowe likes it. I gave it to her to use in art class. What is your problem?”
Dr. Zolgotha resisted the urge to acknowledge Mr. Ponder’s barb. It was an effort, however. It took her half-a-beat to respond. “You should have reviewed our protocols before giving her such a device.” Here, the principal tapped her thick binder, repository of nearly 1,500 codes, regulations, protocols, and guidelines suitable for all occasions. “It’s on the website, but I can also provide you with a printed copy.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Mr. Ponder said.
“We started to read the list on the website, but… It is a bit involved,” Mrs. Ponder added, smiling.
Mama is so pretty. Even Huck says so.
“Parents who read the protocols are more informed when it comes to what’s expected of their children in class.” She was looking pointedly at Mr. Ponder when she said it. He was looking like he’d swallowed a bomb and it was ticking ticking ticking. “The protocols make it clear that AI devices are banned from campus.”
“It’s there as an assistant only,” Mr. Ponder said defensively. “She does the work.”
Mrs. Ponder jumped in. “Harlowe is an amazingly bright child with a fertile imagination. She scored off the charts when they tested her at the Marcus Center.”
I love the Marcus Center. They let me draw and play with blocks. We had games and looked at charts and picture stories. Huck would like it, I think. He likes games. His games are not the same as the ones at the Marcus Center. They’re funny, harder. Maybe we’ll go back to the Marcus Center and this time Huck can come.
Dr. Zolgotha presented a somber look, steepling her fingers for emphasis. “When you underwent the testing, did you discuss Asperger’s?”
The bad word. No. No. I’m not, and stop saying that. Melinda Bovert shoved me on the bus. She’s a stinky bully. I didn’t even hit her. All I did was say I hope someone stabs her in the eye! She made me mad. I used my words, like GBD said. He told me he understood. Huck says if Melinda Bovert shoves me again I should stab her in the eye. He says I’ve already been suspended for saying it, so I may as well do it. It’s one of Huck’s jokes. He’s always telling me funny jokes. I don’t plan to stab Melinda Bovert in the eye. I hate her. She’s stinky. But I won’t stab her in the eye.
“It’s a spectrum. That’s what spectrum means… doctor,” Mr. Ponder said with sarcastic stress on Dr. Zolgotha’s title. “She’s not like that kid last year who put Elmer’s Glue in the cupcakes. She certainly isn’t some gun nut.”
“Those violent young men are the reason we have security and protocols. You understand.”
“Yes, yes, I understand your concern about those troubled young men, but Harlowe isn’t dangerous. She doesn’t get angry. I get angry – she calls me GBD, Grumpy Bear Daddy – but that’s me. Harlowe’s cool. She’s a good kid.” He pointed to the binder. “Your rule book doesn’t seem interested in helping good kids, just in punishing bad ones.”
Dr. Zolgotha put her hands flat on her desk. “Mr. and Mrs. Ponder…”
That’s like when Mama says, ‘Harlowe Elizabeth Ponder!’ Saying names like that means someone’s in trouble. I’d better play with my picture.
Harlowe went back to working on her pad. She whispered things and the image adjusted itself, becoming more refined, closer to the image in her head. She was working on the dragon Huck and she were riding. This dragon didn’t look like any of the dragons in ‘How to Train Your Dragon’ or even ‘How to Train Your Dragon 2.’ The dragon on her pad had a lioness’ snarling face with a dragon’s neck and wings.
She needs a name, Huck. Why didn’t you ever give her a name?
Harlowe felt the familiar tickle just behind her left ear.
That’s no excuse, Huck! Three heads and you can’t think up a name for the dragon you ride? That’s just lazy. Mama gets mad at me when I’m lazy. Don’t be lazy, Huck.
No tingle.
Fine. I’m calling her Betty. Betty the dragon likes mango bubble tea very much.
Harlowe made certain Betty had a cup of mango bubble tea in her claws, then added a straw so Betty could sip tea while carrying Harlowe and Huck. Harlowe moved on to refining Huck’s three faces. She played with the inkwell and font settings built into the screen, but this pad worked better with voice control. Harlowe wasn’t stupid. She knew she was in trouble for using the pad in the first place, though she wasn’t sure what she was doing that was bad. To keep from getting into more trouble, she turned sideways whenever she needed to whisper new instructions into the pad. She whispered soft soft soft so only Huck could hear her.
The spot behind her left ear tickled.
Really, but what kind of sheep? Oh, a ram! Why didn’t you say so. You have to be clear, Huck.
One of the heads resolved into that of an aggressive ram. Smoke trailed upwards from its mouth.
Two more to go.
As Harlowe worked, the adults continued their discussion, becoming more heated as they went. Mr. Ponder leaned ever more heavily on sarcasm.
Dr. Zolgotha kept her expression just so, while betraying a certain tension by pausing mid-sentence for effect. “Mr. and Mrs. Ponder. The reason I ask… is because of… what happened in art class this morning.”
“My daughter told us all about it. She drew some pictures and shared them with her friends in class.” Mr. Ponder crossed his arms, confident he’d scored a major point.
Dr. Zolgotha opened a drawer in her desk and pulled out a manilla folder with several slips of paper in it. She placed one hand on top. “Mr. Ponder. Mrs. Ponder. This morning in art class, Mr. Gambrelli assigned the children to draw pictures of famous people. He taped photographs on the front board, showing Dr. King, William Shakespeare, the president, and some others. He told the children they could draw any of these or choose their own. He told them to draw the person in an action scene, such as having a picnic or playing at the beach or making a speech or something.”
“Yes, Harlowe told us,” Mrs. Ponder insisted.
“Did she tell you that she printed out several drawings instead of one?”
Mr. Ponder’s arms remained crossed, and now his lips were squashing themselves flat as he slowly answered, “The asmo-d3s is fast. That’s why I gave it to her.”
“It’s what’s in the pictures, Mr. Ponder.” She said it with no malice, but with a certain chill. For once, Dr. Zolgotha didn’t seem angry or even like she was trying to act superior. She seemed to Harlowe as though she were frightened.
No one spoke for a second, then Principal Zolgotha asked Harlowe to wait in a chair outside.
They’re kicking us out. Fine, let’s finish our picture of you and me and Betty.
She concentrated on her picture.
I don’t know what Dr. Z is so scared of. I just made the pictures the way you told me. There’s Melinda Bovert, the silly man on TV, the school board, and Dr. Z. The people GBD is always yelling about. The ones you told me to draw, Huck. I don’t know why you wanted me to draw them like that, but I only did what you said. I was going to keep them safe, just like you told me, but Mr. Gambrelli scooped them all up and went running off to find Dr. Z. Those pictures were for my friends. That was mean of him.
Her right ear tingled.
OK, we can draw him, too. Let’s finish this drawing first, though. You’re hard to draw, not like the others. I have Betty, and I have the ram. Now, the bull. He looks too mean. Are you sure you want him to look so mean?
Tingle.
OK.
She whispered into the asmo-d3s and the bull took on clear definition. Powerful. Fierce. She moved on to the middle face of the trio. She’d tried to draw Huck a bunch of times in the past, and this is where it always got difficult. The middle head belonged to a man.
Simple, but…
But, the figure had fangs and long, pointed ears. These features did not bother Harlowe, however. What did upset her was the cruelty in the lips and eyes. Huck was much more fun than this.
Her ear tingled sharply, so much so that she stopped what she was doing and scratched it.
Yes, I know it’s a game. I like your games mostly. I liked the one with the marbles in the dryer, and the one where we hid Mama’s sparkly dime ring and then ‘found it’ when she started crying.
Tingle.
I’m sure it’ll be fun. We always have fun, Huck. I’m sure once I can see you clearly we’ll have great fun. It’s just… I don’t like this face. It’s breathing fire and that’s not nice. I like the face you usually show me. Can’t we save this one for another time?
No tingle.
Tingle.
Yes, I’d like that.
Harlowe touched the save button on the pad. The image, stern, not at all happy, vanished. It would stay in the pad’s memory for now. Huck promised she wouldn’t have to look at it until she was ready, even if it took a few years.
Yes, I promise. You don’t have to keep asking. I won’t forget about the picture, and I won’t let anything happen to the picture. I won’t print it out and I won’t get it anywhere near a candle or anything. Relax, Huck. Sometimes you get so serious.
Tingle.
The door to Dr. Zolgotha’s office opened. Her parents stood there white-faced.
“Honey, let’s go home. We’ve worked everything out.”
Harlowe looked up at them. “In trouble?”
“No, Harley Quinn. No, not really. We’re just going to spend the rest of the week at home. You’ll watch videos and take some quizzes online, and I’ll make you mac n cheese. And… Dr. Zolgotha has given us the name of a nice lady who wants to talk to you.”
About my drawings. I hope she’s nice. Mama says she’s nice, so she’s gonna be nice. I hope Huck likes her, too. It’s better when Huck likes people.
***
Dr. Zolgotha took a long sip of her strong green tea. She had another meeting in fifteen minutes. She needed to clear her head. Picking up the folder of the little psycho’s pictures, she marched out of her office. The counselor would get a full report, but Dr. Zolgotha wasn’t going to turn over pictures of herself and all the others. These pictures! Jesus. The counselor should Risperdal that kid into next week.
She headed out the side exit and around back, where the dumpsters were. The stink of putrefying chicken taquitos provided a perfect ending to this day. “No, not the dumpster,” she said aloud, holding up the folder filled with the sicko’s drawings. “They’ll just wind up in a landfill. These things need to go away for good!” She patted her pockets. “Crap. This is what I get for quitting smoking.”
Looking around for a moment, she heard a large metal door swing open and clang against the wall. It was one of the maintenance guys, Pedro or Carlos, she couldn’t remember. “Hey!” she called. (Yelling ‘Hey, you!’ was better than guessing the wrong name.) “Uh, match? Lighter, por favor?” She waved the folder, careful not to let any of the papers fall out.
Salvador Reyes, who was three weeks from gaining a teaching certificate and had already applied for a spot at Yellow River Elementary, reached into his pocket and pulled out a slim lighter. “Sure thing. I always carry a light, Dr. Zolgotha. Never know when I’ll get to help out a pretty principal.” Was he checking her out?
Dr. Zolgotha smiled to cover her nervousness. He spoke better than she’d expected. Why was someone who spoke that well, and seemed to be clean and all, working in maintenance? No matter. She had a job to do.
She took the lighter from the maintenance man and thumbed it into life. Holding the manila folder and its disturbing contents away from her body, she positioned the flame under the lower edge of the bunch. Slowly, the folder and the pages inside accepted the flame.
“Don’t worry,” she said to the flirty maintenance man. “Once this gets going, I’ll set it down. Don’t want an acci –”
Afterwards, aspiring teacher Salvador Reyes would tell one team of agents after another that what happened erupted quickly. He said he tried to help, but the heat was too intense. He couldn’t do anything but stare in helpless disbelief as Dr. Zolgotha’s words turned into screams.
***
Yellow River Elementary School remained closed for a full month as investigators, from the police to the FBI, tried to make sense of its principal’s death. No matter how they tried, though, they could not find the connection between hers and all the other fatal fires around the county and the nation that day, especially the one that left people everywhere in shock.
On Harlowe’s first day at her new school, she showed off her brand-new laptop, the one she used to draw pictures of horses and princesses who drank mango bubble tea.
She missed her old pad, but GBD told her she needed to forget all about it, and soon she found herself totally focused on her new laptop. It did all kinds of things with the pictures she dreamed up and her new friends thought it was cool.
Harlowe liked her new friends a lot. She found it easy to talk with them, exchange fun gossip about their teachers. She drew pictures for them, dressing Marcie and Kimbie and Odette and the others in long dresses and pointy hats with veils and giving them each her own horse. She named the horses Violet and Rose Nose and Betty II and Samantha and…
If horror is your thing, check out Skinners -- A Love Story. It's a life-changing read.
https://www.amazon.com/Skinners-Love-Story-Riker/dp/B0C534L136/
- Details
Happiness is a bad dog
who will not come when I call
will not stay
will not fetch others to join me
Yes, happiness is a bad dog
Or perhaps a cat –
any old kitty – she doesn’t have to be acting extra badly
just catly
Happiness cat
steals my food
shreds my peace
purrs as she sleeps on me
then sleep-purrs on others!
Yes, happiness is definitely a cat
Or maybe a northern hairy-nosed wombat
big, dopey, nearly blind,
sniffing in the dark in search of joy
Looking at a wombat makes me happy
that I’m not a wombat
Yes! Yes!
Or maybe happiness is me
not asking so many questions
not trying so hard
not demanding the Sun shine and the Earth spin for me
Maybe happiness comes when it will
and I should be ready to embrace it
but also accept that there will be sad times too
and trust that happiness will return
No, that can’t be it
Happiness must be a rare Hispaniolan solenodon
Heir to a line of shrews as old as the dinosaurs
small, secretive, venomous!
Beware!
Yes, that’s it
Happiness is a wee, foul beastie with a pointy snoot
I’m finally on to something here
Or…
- Details
It's no fluke! These guys are smart.
It's no surprise how smart dolphins and other creatures are. Just check out Come the Eventide. Muriel and her pals are out to save the Earth, because humans are too dumb to do it.
https://chrisrikerauthor.com/news/novels/a-free-sample-and-a-story-unto-itself
- Details
I, Dead
by
Chris Riker
“Death smiles at us all; all we can do is smile back.”
― Marcus Aurelius
“The meaning of life is that it stops.”
―Franz Kafka
"To die will be an awfully big adventure."
― Peter Pan
Chapter One
Rise from the SHaDo
They owned Ascension Day as they owned everything else, these royal roaches, but she played their game. The skeletal girl smiled and bowed and told them how important they were, the most important people in all of Sanctuary Hab Dome Four. “Yes, how wise you are. How your words shape the lives of all of us in SHaDo 4. You alone have kept us alive when the other SHaDos have fallen silent. Your leadership inspires us towards a brighter future –” She bit back the rest of the words: of hopeless, endless labor. For months now, she’d done whatever it took to be flattering, deferential, indispensable. These three skills ensured she was close by and waiting when a scrap of food fell from an overloaded plate. She was the humble servant, silently vowing to be there when the next of these shit-stained gods went wandering off into the wasteland, proudly dressed in glittering golden robes.
That day had come.
“SHaDomeister, your cloak looks splendid upon your regal frame,” she said, wrapping the garment about his slouched shoulders. She restrained herself lest she boast that she’d labored all night to brush the cloak free of the crusty indulgence left over from his joyless attempts to use her. Guile had kept her better fed than any of the boys, but she was still painfully thin and less developed than the women in the SHaDomeister’s inner circle. This worked to her advantage, as he clearly preferred a flat chest and boyish hips; though they differed on which hole was meant for pleasure. In any case, all of this would be for nothing if she asked him to reward her efforts. Being obvious would only set the old man off on one of his petulant rants and might lead him to choose someone else to help him on his procession into the wastelands. That must not happen.
Like so much else in life, one either claimed the prize or paid the price. She refused to become the image forever burning in her head: belly swollen with fluid but no food, eyes hollow, lips parted to reveal teeth sore and bleeding from malnutrition. The image gave her no peace. Most of the people in her circle were broken, distorted versions of themselves. She could forget most of those faces, but at night she’d see Jaken and Jareel. Again and again, her restless memories churned up the boys, struggling through their early years only to grow listless and then fall still. Their dead eyes looked up to their mother, who could do nothing. Mother was sentimental. She left the dome each time to bury her fallen angels. It was the girl who found their shallow graves. It was wrong to waste valuable protein, and she was not going to end up like her brothers.
The celebration was full of dull speeches. “A better life,” the fawning voices said. “Renewal.” “The great dream will come true where you’ll soon be.” It was all nonsense, couched in the language of unchecked superstitions involving gods and magic and ultimate justice. Religion remained that old sword and shield of powerful men. In fact, it was an excuse for this crowd of swollen parasites to drink eau-de-vie pressed from fruits that could have fed hundreds. They sang. They drank. They groped.
The guests were up for fleshy debauch. Other attendants fared less well than she had. She used her wits to talk her way out of that carnal distraction. Sometimes, she would recall a clever passage or line of poetry to delight a guest or throw up a strategic delay. She offered one reveler the opportunity to “make the beast with two backs” but later. The drunken chode would no doubt pass out before he could take her up on the offer, and she only hoped his pockets were as full as his lust.
Knowledge often proved more useful than a blade. She would not call herself a good reader, but she had searched out SHaDo 4’s neglected archives. Paying only a passing glance at graphic materials compiled to entertain generations of SHaDomeisters, she focused on the valuable volumes and began to learn about her world. Math intrigued her. Old stories provided quaint charms. Poetry became a particular indulgence. The dry, flaking pages fed her mind, giving her focus enough to do what it took to feed her belly.
Standing by silently as the guests sated their appetites was the greatest challenge of her masquerade. She was the servant. It was not her place to ask for food, though her stomach screamed for nourishment. With determination, she met the challenge. She did not touch a morsel. She did not stare. She did not scratch her head or crotch, though tiny pests were eating her alive. She merely attended the SHaDomeister and his guests through the night.
He rose unsteadily at last and announced, “It’s time. Farewell to you, my dear friends. I am off to meet my destiny in ascension. I will remember you when I am in that better place. Now, I must take my final steps on this Earth alone.”
Indeed, the SHaDomeister did his best to walk on his own, but he was an old man, and hardly fit to cross a room, much less a desert. She allowed him to struggle his way out of the ceremonial chamber, leaving the others behind. She knew which way he would have to go to reach the Western Gate and the wastelands beyond. She remained, serving more fruity spirits, for half an hour. The guests were far too drunk to care, but she played her role to the full.
When she was certain the revelers were largely insensate, she slipped out of the chamber. It took no time at all to find the old fool leaning against a wall, panting rapidly and barely making any progress.
“SHaDomeister, let me be your servant to the end.”
“No, I must be alone. Magister Syn commands this. He watches, and one day he will bring his dark blessings to Earth. I dare not disappoint him.” It was the first she had heard the name Magister Syn. She was full of questions she would not ask for fear of revealing her curiosity, a fatal flaw among servants.
“I live only to satisfy your commands, SHaDomeister. Without your inspiration, I have no purpose at all. Let me help you walk where you must go. When we reach that place, I will end my own existence, ensuring you are alone to meet Magister Syn.” From within the folds of her wretched clothes, she produced the curved blade of an abattoir worker. “I have used this to slit the throats of many plump swine and send them to the tables of the finest citizens of SHaDo 4.” Year after year, she’d worked in the filthy pens, her lungs stinging from ammonia-and-sulfur pig piss so the privileged few could stuff themselves with pork steaks, chops, and fat sausages. She snuck a few mouthfuls, a risk that could have found her cooked and served up on those same tables; she took that fatalistic gamble. The meager protein allowed her starved brain to think, and what thoughts it had! She did not say any of that, of course but hastily added, “Let my humble blade serve one last time.”
The fruity spirits coupled with his advanced years dulled the fat man’s features into indifference. “Very well. Though I’m fit and ready, it is a long walk,” the SHaDomeister proclaimed with bored pride. His considerable mass crushed her shoulder while his fetid musk engulfed her. She struggled to keep from gagging at the stink of decay, unwashed excrement, and a lifetime of self-indulgence. The gaunt girl compensated by reminding herself that the SHaDomeister would not burden her much longer.
The Western Gate stood unattended. That was the way things were now. Those who had duties ignored them, even while those who would kill to hold secure positions starved. The lock was a simple matter, three rotating bands marked with symbols operated the anachronistic device. Twist the bands so that three moons aligned, and the lock released. The trick was meant to keep things outside rather than holding them within the dome. Anyone who wished to leave a SHaDo was welcome to do so and thus alleviate the demand on limited food.
The ascension ceremony had run through the night, and the effort to reach the Western Gate had added hours more, owing to the SHaDomeister’s sluggish gate. They stepped out into the midday sun. The heat struck her drawn face even as the sun blinded her. She hadn’t been outside in months to see this world she loathed. Little grew in the heat, and the few living things that survived here saw her as she saw them: food.
A quick glance back revealed the truth about her home. Deep fissures of dark lightning spread over its great concrete shell. At some point, the dome would breach in many places. Without this shelter, the mercilessly-governed activity inside would be laid bare, as if Earth herself had kicked over a termite mound. Exposed to the elements and to predators, the residents would not last long. Indeed, she now knew with certainty what had happened to the other SHaDos.
She was about to dare ask her lurching burden how far he intended to walk to meet this Magister Syn. Before she could, however, he straightened his stance and took command of his own frame. He set his gaze upon the horizon and began to waddle steadily forward.
“SHaDomeister, let me help you. Do not tax yourself in this your hour of destiny.” She hurried to catch up to the man, her own energy quickly ebbing as the heat liquified her body’s strength into sweat.
He did not reply; instead he walked on through the blasted wastes.
They continued without exchanging a word for many hours. The SHaDomeister never took his attention from some indefinable point on the horizon. She felt herself reduced from relative strength to a wanderer increasingly desperate for water, but she dared not ask for a drop. She’d sworn herself to suicide in the SHaDomeister’s service. Water should play no role in her final hours. And yet, she was curious to see that the SHaDomeister himself never paused his trek long enough to take a draft. Now a terrible thought occurred to her. What if, under his golden robe, the doddering fool had forgotten to take any water at all. If not a canteen, surely he’d hidden a flask or two on his person.
She was motivated to learn the secret of this ascension. It must involve wealth, or food perhaps. It must. Why else would these cockroaches come out into the cruel sunlight to claim it?
As her tongue thickened and her clammy flesh ceased to provide cooling sweat, she determined to wait no longer. She would kill the SHaDomeister now. If he carried no water, she vowed to drink anything liquid within him!
A brief remark passed his cracked lips: “Maker Sun. Destroyer Sun. Between is mere shadow-play.”
Religious tripe, she thought.
Now, he walked like a man inebriated beyond all self-awareness. She’d fallen back as her muscles stiffened and protested for water. She willed her painfully thin limbs to move faster so that she might catch up. His pace was not rapid, but he never missed a step, while she stumbled and paused often. He was now perhaps fifty yards ahead. How is this fat, old man moving faster than I am? What keeps those bloated legs going? What manner of will serves this man who’s never found a need for self-control in a lifetime of gluttony?
All five senses abandoned her control in those hours. She remembered looking at her own ruined feet trudging over the rocky soil, then seeing something skitter a few yards away from her. Her next wakeful moment found her face-down in the sand, lacking focus to even wonder how she’d fallen. She pulled herself up. Her throat stung and her tongue was a desiccated lump.
Looking about, she found the SHaDomeister in the distance. He hadn’t stopped to check on her, of course. Her brief rest, if rest it was, had given her back some modest pool of energy. She tapped this newfound reserve to reach the man, though it took longer than it should have. He was there, unmoving, staring directly into the sun now plunging between the peaks of the distant mountains.
Blisters peeled his balding head, and his eyes appeared dried and semi-clouded, like the eyes in a slaughtered pig’s head. Had he forgotten to blink? No matter. My masquerade is at an end.
She drew her blade. “This is my sticking knife. After I stun the pig, I use this to drain the blood. You are already stunned, I see. I think the blood in your fat skin will do me more good than it is doing you.”
With that, she thrust the blade deep into the SHaDomeister’s round belly. At last, emotion returned to his face in the form of sadness.
“No,” he whimpered. “I must meet Magister Syn. He promised to take me to his castle in the sky.”
The fool’s knees buckled and he went down.
“What promise? Talk, old fool, while you still can. Talk, or I’ll slit your throat right now.”
The old man’s mouth trembled. His speech became little more than puffs of air from his failing lungs. “He promised me a better life.” The words came out haltingly. “A life of plenty.” And yet, life was leaving this old cockroach. His final thought escaped him in a mix of ecstasy and sorrow. “Paradise.” He spoke the word and died with an idiot’s grin frozen in place.
The bitter sun had fallen over the edge of the world, leaving night to bleed all trace of color from life. It was mercifully cool now, but she knew that this land which appeared so barren by day would teem with snapping jaws by night. She had to move quickly.
Whatever this ascension is supposed to be, it’s a lie. One among multitudes trafficked by the SHaDo elites. Her plan was simple; she began stripping the SHaDomeister’s body. She could find no water on his person. That meant she would have to keep moving tonight through the open desert. She would never survive another full day exposed like this. She’d take his clothes, jewels, and as much of his poor-quality meat as she could carry back to the dome for sale. This will bring in enough to keep me fed for many months.
She knelt beside the body and got to work. Her blade carved with greater certainty than she’d expected, her strength returning somewhat as the sandy plain rapidly surrendered its heat. In fact, the air had taken on an edge, so she pulled the golden cloak around herself. It glinted under a sea of stars – thousands upon thousands of them. Among this multitude, two circled.
Unwilling to waste time removing the offal, she cut several generous fillets from his fat thighs and wrapped them in his voluminous loin garments. Ravenous as well as thirsty, she raised a pink chunk to her lips only to realize she could never hope to swallow it without water. She tried lapping at his wounds, but with his heart dead in his chest, the red well was a trickle while her thirst demanded a torrent.
“I will die out here.” Her words were thick and dry as the dust all around her. Any plan she’d imagined revealed itself to be as ridiculous as those of the old man. She was not going to be able to drag a heavy bundle back over the desolate miles. She could not eat without water. She could not travel without eating and drinking. Had I tears, I would weep for myself.
Instead, she lay down, finally resolving to abandon her prize and strike out back toward the dome. Life might be all she could steal back from this mad errand, and even that would be through luck or sheer stubbornness on her part.
As she strained herself to rise, a large object landed at her feet, rolling in a liquid motion. Thinking it a delusion born of thirst, she fixed her sight upon the skin sack sloshing obscenely mere inches from her. Her mind did not exist. She dove upon the skin and found its spout, fumbling the stopper free. Picking up the full skin, her knees buckled and she tumbled beneath its weight to the ground. No matter. Her own hoarse, hysterical laughter filled her ears as she squeezed a stream of cool water past her cracked lips and over her dead tongue. She swigged greedily and kept the water flowing. Her eyes closed, and she used one hand to cup still more water, rubbing it over her badly burnt face.
The books. The books spoke of miracles in the desert. This was one. Miracles. Miracles happened in the desert. Messiahs emerged from the wilderness. Her throat was finally moistened enough to produce a true laugh. “Miracles!” she said. She remembered the old fool’s last word: “Paradise!” At the sound of it coming from her own mouth, she laughed even louder. She laughed until she vomited most of the water she’d put down. When the heaving subsided, she cautiously sipped more water to replace what she’d so foolishly lost.
Slowly, very slowly, her thoughts cleared under the indifferent stars. Her head ached less and her tongue rediscovered the power of taste, specifically the cool sweetness of water, sweeter than the finest eau-de-vie. She welcomed this reality back into her life even as she formed a cogent thought: someone saved me.
That someone was still there, looking down on her.
The man’s form etched itself in black against the jeweled twilight, forcing her eyes to adjust. From within a cavernous hood, his countenance lured her with a predator’s dangerous beauty. In spite of her depleted condition, her heart thrilled to his features: full, pursed lips, honed jawline. Shoulder-length hair hung in perfect dark waves, contrasting against unnaturally pallid skin. Here was sex become marble become flesh. Such a face must be too handsome in its severity, yet she could not look away. He was taller than any member of her ill-fed clan, taller than anyone she’d ever met. Straight this one stood, lean but not haggard, as if neither hunger nor fear dared trouble him. Indeed, he was fear itself, his eyes casting twin blue beams through the gloaming and straight at her. She could not move. When the dark man spoke, which was only three words, his lips revealed two silvery prongs like the rending fangs of some half-starved scavenger. She sensed this dark man before her was far more rare than those endangered creatures, solitary, in fact.
His impossibly blue eyes regarded the body of the SHaDomeister then looked at her crimsoned hands. Those eyes narrowed even as his full sensuous lips curled in amusement.
“Get in, Jylun” he said in a low growl of a voice. His arm swept widely, taking the folds of his cape with it as he gestured. His forefinger, clad in an ornate gold ring with an enormous red stone, pointed to an angular, oblong box that had not been there a minute earlier. Get in? Into that? The old books had shown her what coffins were. These decorated crates gobbled dead people for burial, back when families could afford such ornamental ceremonies.
She stood petrified for long seconds. Slowly at first, then with an oddly relaxed motion, her legs finally moved, taking steady paces towards the dark container that lay before her. She was not willing this to happen; quite the opposite. Her limbs obeyed commands not her own. In the starlight, she could just make out the tell-tale shape of the coffin, large enough for a fat man. Several bumps that looked like pig knuckles stuck out from either end of the box, though their purpose eluded her. With a hum, the lid tilted open, revealing a plush interior resembling a padded bed, far more luxurious than her frayed night mat. She silently wished she were there now, stretched out on her sweat-stained mat on the floor of her alcove back in the SHaDo, dreaming all this.
Jylun laid herself down in the coffin, looking up at her strange benefactor, whose blue eyes never left her. What thoughts sparked the uncanny illumination in those eyes? The lid closed over her, and she knew only blackness.
For a moment, nothing happened, except that she became aware she once again had control over her fingers and limbs. Not that she could move much within the confines of the chamber. Next, the padded fabrics all around her began to engorge and swell with a thin hiss, constricting every inch of her slight frame, forming a mouth to swallow her whole. Her most primal fears rose and then quieted, as she sensed herself drifting off to sleep. The coffin, she knew, was responsible for this torpid flush.
She retained awareness for a few more thoughts only. Her realizations were these: the dark man could easily have ended me but had not. Whatever was to come, he meant for me to survive, at least for now. “Good,” she said aloud, the sound of her own voice offering small comfort. “Whatever is happening, it is better than what I leave behind.”
Sleep engulfed her in its secret. An instant before Jylun surrendered herself to oblivion, she sensed the coffin begin to stir, divorcing itself from the Earth and rising higher and higher into the eternal night.
Thank you for sharing this sneak peak at I, Dead.
Check back later this year for news on the release of this novel. I promise you won't see what's coming until it bites you!
- Details