Category Archives: Short Stories

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I Typed a Thing Part 2

I suppose this is part of the “fun” for seeing a first draft. I’m not particularly happy with this section. Nor the next chapter. In fact, considering what I’ve written so far, I’d probably cut most of it and tie it into the story later. But since I’m the type of person who doesn’t plan out the structure of my stories, I don’t really know what works or not until I’ve done it and seen it in the grander scheme of things.

So what don’t I like about this? Well, for one, I feel it’s a bit too much of a tonal shift from what I’d like the story to cover. I’ve got to great lengths before about magic systems in fantasy work and I wanted to relay that in the D&D shorts that I write, magic does work slightly differently than a high fantasy setting. In particular, wizards (or sorcerers) are far less prominent due to the inherent difficulty of working magic. See the Balls story for an indication of the work required to pull of a spell.

However, I knew I wanted to have a magical element and this gave rise to binding subset of magic. It’s based on demonology from the Lesser Key of Solomon of Christian mysticism because, really, all fantasy works are explorations of ideas and thoughts from our past given new spins. I kind of like the whole bargaining imagery of medieval sorcery where mystics were required to enter pacts and negotiations with otherworldly beings in order to obtain their power. Course, for this to work, the mystic would need something to bargain in my world. While souls work for a Christian based mysticism, the flavouring for my D&D world has always been unapologetically Norse. Thus, the actual body and reliving of life for these otherworldly entities seemed more appropriate.

Unfortunately, the nature of these pacts is bit too edgy for my tastes and while communicating how much is required to even obtain this “shortcut” to using sorcery, it wasn’t really the direction I wanted to roll the story. So, if I were to clean this up, I’m sure this entire portion would be hacked. Also, it does have a lot of passive voice which was done to keep the piece feeling mysterious but I’m sure it just comes across as annoying more than anything else.

But that’s the thing with writing. Sometimes you’ll just write whole sections that you need to ultimately sever for the good of the piece as a whole. It’ll be maintained here for posterity I suppose.


Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/framex-e.html?file=html/a/altdorfe/2/03nativi.html

Nativity by Albrecht Altdorfer (1513).

He made for the stables. The horses were gone, naturally. The door hung loose on its rusty hinge. The heat wafting from its interior hinted at the bodies it once stored. He pulled the door wider, stepping into the dung and sweat choked shedding. The stones were still cold to his steps but they were a relief from the frigid ground outside. He proceeded past each stall. His steed was gone, naturally. Only the keeper’s old mare remained.

Keirn had a mind to take it.

“But you won’t.”

“I’m better than them.”

“You’re truly not.”

“I’m smarter than them.”

“That’s more likely.”

The creature stirred at his approach. She raised her head, nostrils flaring. Her large, almond eyes fell on him. For a moment, they were still like a rustic portrait for decorating the mantel.

Her nostrils flared again and she cried. Her hooves stamped the ground and she retreated from her door. Her rump butted against the wall as her head snapped in her building frenzy.

“She knows.”

He raised a hand and the horse kicked the stable wall. “They always do.”

He cracked the stall’s door. The horse pressed herself into the corner. Her eyes were unblinking and streaked with blood. Her nose was raised, the nostrils great gaping holes refusing to close. Fear trembled her flanks and her hooves beat a frightful cadence against the boards. He could see the way she stumbled upon her rear leg and how the muscles tensed to keep her upright.

“She’s lame.”

“You weren’t riding her anyway.”

The was a reason his steed was blind. He wondered how far the thieves would get before they made that realisation.

Fully in her stall now, Keirn closed the door behind him. He stared at her, placid, while the beast nearly threw herself through the wall to get away from him. It would make quite the sight. There, the tall, lanky man in garb that draped loose and heavy over his buckled shoulders and stooped form while she, the formidable animal more than twice his gaunt size, near injured herself to keep as much space from him as physically possible in the stall that could nary accommodate the pair.

It probably would have been comical had it not occurred in the stretching dark before daybreak. Or had his worn clothes and pale flesh not given him the horrible aspect of a Pale Herald come to collect the frigid queen her charges. It was always the same in these northern settlements. The icon of death was one of endless winter.

It was a fate that didn’t terrify Keirn. He’d never cared much for summer.

With methodical precision, he removed his hood. A thinning crop of dusky walnut hair clung to his scalp. He pulled the strap through the buckle, removing his belt and leaving it to clatter against the floor. His shoulders twisted like tight knots beneath his skin as he shucked his shirt and folded it neatly on the ground. In the dim lighting, steam rose from his bare flesh to give the skin stretched over taut muscles a truly spectral quality. Here the pink of the cuts and scars glowed with their own life. Lines crossed his trunk in chaotic patterns. A whole history of pain was charted in the flesh but the destination it mapped was unreadable to most.

And those who could identify the markings beneath the wounds would have recoiled from the sight and fled the small stable.

The mare was not afforded such mercy.

His trousers and loincloth joined the last of his belongings on the ground. For a moment he stared at the animal in his nakedness. The vaguely human form beneath all the wounds afforded the creature a fleeting sense of familiarity and she paused at this miraculous transformation.

In that moment of vulnerability he approached.

“What are you doing?”

The stables shook with the impact of the mare’s body. Her cries were deafening as she thrashed. Her hooves raised, kicking the air before her. But she dared not touch him. She dared not bring a limb against the thing that now stood with her blood crawling down its long fingers. She would not be aware of the wound on her flank. All she would know was the pain and fear.

And his nose widened to drink it in.

“Stop! You can’t do it!”

The man hunched over. His spine jutted grotesquely as though it would pop right from his body. He kept his sanguine hand in the air, the warm blood rolling down his forearm and dripping in thick drops from the crooked elbow. With his other arm, he brushed a patch of the floor clean of the hay and horse manure.

“You’ve made your contract!”

A red finger extended and scratched across the boards.

“You promised me!”

Slowly the symbols took wretched shape. They were twisted things completely alien to the runes in common use by the holy Gothi. They bore no semblance to the learned letters of the scholars in their secluded towers. They weren’t even the queer symbols of the secretive Oathstealers or even the coded language of the Forbearers from Kiga though none this far north would have heard of that latter group.

No, these perverted things were far more profane. Such were their loathsome curves that the mere sight of them caused the mare to shake before collapsing. She sprawled upon the ground, convulsing as he worked, pausing long enough to gently remove her leg from his circle.

“I shall not be denied!”

His flesh flared. He gritted teeth into lips, drawing his own ichor from darkly blue veins that pumped slow beneath his prickling skin. He pressed on, ignoring the brightening of his flesh. Beneath the curled lips of age old scars glimmered lines and shapes horrifyingly similar to those scratching themselves upon the floor.

Only once did he need to dabble in the mare’s fresh wound to complete his work but when he was finished, he stood. He panted short bursts of icy breath. His skin sweated despite the cold. But even the mare had grown silent now, her sides rising in the shallowest of breaths.

Feeble was the reply to the sight of the thing drawn on the floor. “The Hounds-master is gone.”

“But yet the Hound still bays.”

He stepped into the centre of the thing on the floor. He peered around uselessly for an implement. Drawing up short, he drew his cracked fingers to his chest. The nails turned inward, digging deep into the frail skin. He pulled across. Red ridges charted the path. It was hard work as the old scars were the most unyielding but finding flesh unmarred was near a treasure on its own. With enough of his own blood mixing with the mare’s, he held up a hand and squeezed what drops he could upon that most obscene construct.

 There was a hiss but not from the ground. It circled around him, spitting hot venom and malice.

“Be still,” Keirn said, cracking a grin amongst that macabre scene. “You will not be upset from your post.”

“You don’t mean-“

The mare jolted at the howl which shook the very shingles of the roof. The creature stirred itself to consciousness amongst that otherworldly sound. She knew it as surely as any creature knew the sound of a predator on the hunt. It was the sound of impending finality. It was the sound of inevitability.

The stables shuddered upon their flimsy holdings. It was as though some unseen giant were attempting to wrestle the structure from its foundation. The mare stared wide-eyed at that which could not be there. She was paralysed by a grip far stronger than simple fear. Only instinct could make sense of the shadows that twisted in the corners of her stall. Only that primal spark could prickle at the presence which arrived unannounced and not through any door or window. But it was assuredly there just as much as that dreadful howl that clawed at the boards.

“You can’t bear two. It’s never been done?”

“Perhaps there is knowledge beyond even your ken,” Keirn said. “After all, yours has been a long exile.”

He smirked as he looked upon that bloody swathe across the floor. His pupils enlarged at the sight of the etchings that now bubbled and boiled. The howling grew louder, if such a thing were possible. In the gloom of the stables, the man nearly glowed with abyssal light.

And in that light, the mare could see another. It was as though it were transposed over the hunched form of the naked man with the maniac grin. There was something of tattered robes and a dented crown that took shape as though it and the man were in the same spot. The darkness seemed repulsed by this intruder, peeling from its faded glory and the crumbling tome clutched achingly in one hand. But for all its fearful fleetingness, this other recoiled at the scrawled iconography. It drew within itself, shrinking far smaller than that scarred man it had once towered. And, nipping at its tatters were hundreds of thousands of sharp teeth.

Heavy was the smell of carrion that welled from the stall, washing like a fetid wave over the only two living things in its midst. The man’s smile faltered as he turned, retching a meagre stream of bile upon the hay. Amongst his wracking coughs, sounds emerged but they were not the tongue of man. He raised a puffy and swollen wrist to wipe his mouth. When he turned, his eyes were not his own.

Bright and yellow were they. He raised his nose to the air, nostrils flaring. In that whiff, he smelled it all. He could smell the fear of the mare. He could smell the stench of her unkempt stall. He could even smell the growing tangle of rotted cells in her lungs that would claim her fading health.

Even more impossible was the seeming change to the man’s body. He seemed less pale. His skin was somehow less sickly. A more healthy red flush returned to his body and even his frame was a little fuller. It was as though he had turned and slipped on a mask but one that covered his whole body. The twist of muscles were grander, set like springs ready to uncoil. There was a frightfully muzzled energy to him now, tinged as it were by that old worn and faded skein that wrapped him prior. Even the hair on his head was thicker and the sprigs along his arms and legs were darker and longer.

He turned, stumbling from the stall. But he made hardly a few feet before stopping.

“Aren’t you… forgetting something…”

He turned, reaching for his clothes. His eyes fell upon the mare’s and a dreadful hunger filled them. His lips peeled back to reveal savage canines.

“No! I… forbid it!”

Nails scratched against the wood, leaving long and deep gouges. But at last the Hound was reined and the man turned, stumbling out of the stable into the cold morning.

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I Typed a Thing

Here’s a first for me. I’ve only recently been aware of how little writing I actually put up on what’s ostensibly a writing blog. Je m’excuse. Also, after our spate of related technological and logistical issues I don’t really have anything super special to publish.

So, instead, here’s a rare look into the writing process! As I’ve been without Internet over the last few days and didn’t back up my work on a physical drive while I was travelling, I’ve had to just plug away at something small and new instead of continuing the editing of my third novel.

Now, I’ve had a number of people ask my about “The Writing Process.” Outside of the stock explanation that it’s different for everyone, I explain that I’m not really a planner. I have an idea of what I’d like to cover in a story or maybe a general theme or interesting character. Then I just sit down and see where things go from there. The magic doesn’t really happen for me until I do an edit on that first draft. Then I have massive overhaul of plot and structure, rewriting of characters and events and often cut half or more of the original work. Seriously.

Perhaps I have more skill at editing than not. I’ve tried using a more structured format for organising my work and while I’ve had some success, there’s still that element of discovery and exciting in not know what’s going to happen next that I love. It’s sort of the enjoyment of reading a book. You learn about your characters while the pages unfold.

I don’t really know if this style is more work or not and I’ve certainly learned a few tricks to cut back on wasted pages but it’s what works for me. Besides, I do get a perverse pleasure from editing because I’m an enormous weirdo.

Anyway, no one’s here to listen to my ramblings so this is the start of… something. It’s not even titled and I have no idea what it’s about yet.


Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/art/b/bega/tavern.jpg

Tavern Interior by Cornelis Bega (1631-1664).

“The site lies approximately fourteen days travel hence across the Thorselkin Hinterlands and nestled in the Alfather’s Cradle – a stretch of foothills beneath the Twin Pike Mountains and the traditional hunting grounds of the Walden Sabreclaws. These ferocious critters are nearly the size of two full grown men and capable of splitting a thick cord of wood in half with just one swipe.”

His hand slashed the air, dirty nails catching flickering candlelight in their cracked and stained shell. One such nail landed upon the crinkled and faded map filled with jutting trees shaped more like spears beneath a mountain range as jagged and sharp as the maw of a Low River wingless drake.

“Some of the hills are said to not be mere dirt but ancient burial mounds. Beneath the thin soil jut the remnants of some bygone settlement. Travellers speak of riches lying a mere spoon’s worth of earth beneath one’s foot. Who these ancient people are none can agree. I’ve heard talk that they are lost Pitmen, their cyclopean monoliths and gaping cavern entrances to underground dwellings left untouched for generations. Others swear that it’s the site of the mythical Alfr and the last of the Vaenir’s kinsmen. So ancient are these forgotten hallways that the very land itself has wrapped them in an eternal blanket to shelter them from the ever vigilant eyes of the vengeful Aenir.

“Then there is talk that it is the Forbidden Trelleborg of the High King hidden away near the teeth of the world and the final resting place of the Virgil King’s spirit until the Final Days whence he will rise to strike down the Sunderer of Worlds in the War of Wars.

“Either way, it’s supposed to be really old, really untouched and really ready for some adventuresome spirits to come and plunder. What say you? Are you such a spirit who wishes to hear the bards and skald sing your name in the greatest feast halls until the final nights? Shall you grab fate and fortune by the neck and seize upon your destiny? Will you dare to achieve that from which all others balk? Will you turn the fanciest dreams into the greatest realities?

“What say you?”

Silence greeted him. He looked at each soul gathered about the edges of the round table as shadows played across their faces. He seized upon each in turn, searching for a response to his proposition.

With a crack of ambergum, one spoke.

“Aren’t you a little old for this?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know, the whole travel two weeks bit. Digging in the ground bit. Fighting wild creatures bit. Hauling supposed treasure bit. Really, all of it. Isn’t it a little… you know.”

“No.” Teeth ground audibly. “No, I don’t think I am.”

“You sure? You kind of look it.”

His shadow drew long across the table as he stood erect. The others appeared unperturbed.

“You do have a bit of gray up there,” another spoke, raising a hand to her own hair.

“I am more than capable. Look, do any of you want to get filthy rich or not?”

“It kind of sounds like the ramblings of a crazy old man if you ask me.”

“Lors has the right of it,” a third spoke, reaching across to pull the daggers pinning the corners of the map free. “You’d probably have difficulty with the trek. Or break something while there. Like a hip.”

“I can assure you my hips are just fine.” A hand crashed down on the table, preventing the map from being rolled. “I’ve made worse treks than this and in less time. The fourteen nights was to not exhaust you before the real work began.”

“Are you certain? Or do you mostly need us to carry your prune juice?” Her hand plucked the plain wood cup from the table’s edge and gave the liquid on its bottom a gentle slosh.

Dark eyes fluttered amongst the cowls at the edge of the candlelight. This wasn’t a pleading look now but one of cold calculation.

“You’re making a mistake,” came the low growl.

From cloaks emerged the leather garbed hands to wrench his arm from the table. He was pulled back into the shadows, his spine striking hard the central post. He strained against his captors while frayed rope wound around his wrist.

“You’re washed up, old man. You’re outdated. You’re just as much a relic as those you wish to retrieve.” The rolled up map was waved in the candle’s fading glow. “Search him.”

One of their number moved to check his pockets. He pried an arm free, striking knuckle against unsuspecting cheek. Boots stumbled upon the stained wood. A fist greeted his stomach, freeing the wind from his lungs. As he hunched beneath the blow, his arms were wrestled behind the pole. A rope bound them tightly together.

He lashed with knee and boot but several more strikes to his ribs quelled further resistance. Gloves patted down shirt and pant alike while removing a thin leather purse from his belt and two worn but tarnished rings from his fingers. A blunted dagger was also liberated and held up as spoils before the flickering light.

“You will rue this decision.”

Laughter assaulted him.

“Go home, grandpa. Leave the adventures to those capable of them. This rusty junk won’t even fetch a few copper scrapes on the market. Best take his boots too. They look like they have good soles.”

 Cold rage burned in his eyes. “I won’t forget this.”

One conspirator turned to the other. “You’re already forgotten to us. What was his name again?”

She said, “Keirn. I think.”

“Fare-thee-well Keirn, I think.”

The lantern was retrieved and only the haunting echo of their laughter stayed for company as the darkness filled in their wake.

Keirn sighed against the post.

Was this to be his morrow? To be found by the tavern keeper bound to his hearth post by cheap rope with not even a copper shave to his name?

“I’m not that old. Am I?”

The question hung about the dark rafters and rattled in the empty fire pit. It kicked about the overturned chairs resting on tables. It hounded the faded footsteps of the brigands and his dearly departed footwear.

When last it bounded back it was with a dry, chthonic chortle. “You’re not as young as you used to be.”

“Who asked you anyway?”

“You’re still a mere mewling babe to me.” The earthy chuckle skittered in the dark. “Not half as cute as one though.”

Keirn thumped his head against the wood with a grimace. His arms worked in pained revolutions, turning muscles too sore and protesting to properly slip his bonds.

“I knew this was a mistake.”

“You still went through with it.”

“What choice had I?” Keirn hissed. His wrist skinned against the coarse fibres. “I alone can only handle one cart.”

“At best.”

“Considering rations for the trip there and back, not accounting the actual excavation, plus tools, tent and supplies – most of which would be needed for the return – I would hardly have any room for transporting a profit in relics. I need two extra carts for a good return in the investment at a bare minimum. And the fewer hands I have at the site, the longer I must invest in renting said supplies.”

“If only you had three dependable souls.”

“Quiet yourself.”

Keirn cried as he twisted his wrist. He heard a distinct pop as joint slipped from proper alignment. The familiar streaks of pain tickled his arm as he twisted to gauge the damage. Darkness clutched his eyes so only a faint outline of a limb was perceptible against its atramental backdrop. Even with such hindrances the unnatural angle of hand to forearm made distinct the separation between the pair. Such damage should have produced a crippling pain to all but the most shock drunk victims. But even still, he felt little more than the slight sparking beneath his flesh.

With a sickening grind of bone and muscle, he wrenched his hand free. Absolved of half its duty, the rope fell limp against his remaining wrist and Keirn stumbled from the post and slumped against the round table. His skin brushed against the wood’s fresh splinters from the many traitorous points of his departed knives. At last elbow tapped against wooden vessel and with his good hand he lifted the cup.

His nostrils flared at the smell.

“It has great restorative properties.”

“You needn’t tell me.”

“Helps keep a healthy lustre to the skin,” Keirn said before shutting his eyes and letting the thick liquid wash down his throat. He then immediately raised the cup in the dark and blindly pounded it against his raised wrist. Each strike stoked a rising fire within his flesh and his heart beat a terrible rhythm while he chewed on his voice. After several violent swings, he finally felt a cracking of realignment and he raised his limb before his unseeing eyes and turned it on the weathered tendons.

He dabbed at the skin. It felt puffy and bloated. But the swelling would certainly be down by the time the sun dared peek the horizon.

“You wouldn’t need such drastic measures if you treated yourself better.”

“It’s not my fault good help is hard to find these days.”

“I meant the drink. I half suspect you do this to torture me.”

“You wished to live again.”

“You needn’t try and make me regret that desire. I bear enough of your pain.”

“I know you relish it,” Keirn said, rolling up his shirt. He prodded at the tender spots no doubt sporting rather garish bruising. His skin was a canvas of horror etched as it were with scars, cuts and contusions. It was more than any corpse would carry on its thin frame. Keirn tucked in his shirt and adjusted his cloak.

He made no effort to navigate the gloom on his way out. Several stubbed toes and banged knees later and he eased the door into the dying twilight.

The air was cold and tinged with regret. It clawed against his bare feet and Keirn wiggled his toes attempting to ward it off. The steps nipped his skin as he stepped down unto the unyielding ground. He searched the abandoned road but no signs of opportunistic turncoats betrayed their path. Only deep gouges of departed carts carved their way through the frozen mud leaving mighty furrows which tripped at the traveller’s steps.

“You know where they are headed.”

“Assuming they decide to act immediately.”

“They will.”

“You say that with certainty.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Keirn did not reply. “They left you alive. They will go in comfortable haste.”

Keirn sucked on the bitter air. It scratched his throat as it scraped its way down to his lungs. He exhaled a long breath. The fog of chill air was a bundle of tiny needles as it climbed his pinking face.

It was as much as he had deduced. It had been hard enough cajoling a group to entertain him in the first place. They were invested enough to investigate his claim. Those that had no interest – those not full of deceit – had already laughed him off. That they had not slain and dumped him suggested they were as inexperienced as they were young. He had hoped to harness that youthful energy.

He had not accounted for youthful foolishness.

The Breaker Rig – Part 4

Sophie dozed fitfully. It was much later in the morning than she intended when she packed her bags. Would she notice if she slipped away now? Maybe…maybe she had changed her mind. Sophie fingered the threads on her bracelet. Hadn’t they been close before?

Outside, the camp appeared deserted.

‘I didn’t think it was that late,’ she muttered to the sky. ‘They cannot have started without me. Hey, excuse me!’ Sophie called to one of the night shift workers staggering towards his tent. ‘Do you know where I can find Anika?’

The woman shrugged. ‘It is day, so she is probably on the rig.’

Sophie nodded and turned to face the weathered-grey beast. It was huge, four or five stories tall. Chains clinked as they hulled empty buckets out along its neck before plunging them deep into the earth. Steam wafted through the top of the monster, wreathing its body in perpetual fog. A rain of small rocks and stone cascaded from the tail. The growing pile snaked along the back side of the pond.

The bridge was alarmingly narrow. Parallel boards and a rail on the left side were all that connected land to creature. Sophie gripped the handrail and shuffled slowly across the expansive moat. The water was murky. It wasn’t deep, but there were broken rocks hidden below its surface. Where there other horrors waiting as well? Poisonous snakes perhaps?

Sophie felt her heart race as she inched forward. She exhaled deeply when both of her feet found sound purchase on the floor of the rig. It took several heartbeats before Sophie’s eyes adjusted to the dim lighting of the cavernous interior. Massive gears turned slow rotations. Mouthfuls of earth were dumped noisily into troughs where the contents were rattled past sieves. Water was added to this mixture. The flow added to the cacophony of sound in the room.

Anika stood in the centre of the open floor. Hands rested on her hips. Even at this distance, Sophie could see the dark glower spread across her sister’s face. Sophie swallowed and took another step forward. This was Anika, her beloved sister.P1040203

‘You shouldn’t have come,’ Anika said.

‘I am leaving today. After the charm is finished, Georges said he would take me back to town. Come with me Anika. Please come home with me.’

‘Chesico is not my home!’

‘And this is?’ Sophie flung her hands wide. ‘This is … this is primitive and you hate primitive. You hate bad manners and dirty clothes.’

‘I hate poverty,’ Anika said, her voice slicing through the sounds of metal grinding into rock. ‘I hate being without while everyone else have everything.’

‘You have nothing here!’

‘I do! I will have. There is gold in this land. Wealth and power like you have never experienced. It is here for the taking.’ Sunlight spilled through a crack in the roof of the rig. It slipped between wooden boards and became lost in the dark depths of Anika’s eyes. ‘It is here to be found by those with enough courage and determination. I have that. I have strength and power. I will find it, extract it.’

‘Where?’ Sophie gestured at the tumbling conveyor system. Rock and gravel tumbled past. It mixed with water. Sieves rattled as they sorted dirt by size. Pans sloshed as mud moved around their depths. The bottom remained empty of gold. There was nothing in the earth to harvest. ‘Where is your gold, Anika? This is barely survival. Come, you are better than this. You had a steady job in Chesico. We had our own place, our own home.’

‘We had squalor,’ Anika spat. ‘A tenement with only two rooms and the memories of something better.’

‘It was bigger than your tent.’

‘It was small. It was crumbling. It was pathetic. No one would choose to remain in that dingy hole.’

Sophie took half a step backwards. Anika continued to speak. Sophie had drawn forth the words that showered down, only she didn’t want them now. She didn’t want to hear this from her sister.

‘It was a constant, heavy chain. It was prison for me. There was no future in Chesico. Why could you never see that? Our father saw it. He… he knew when to escape a lost cause.’

‘He was devastated by our mother’s death!’

‘He would have stayed, but there was no money left. He had to leave. It was only reasonable.’

‘Like you left? Two days. You were gone in only two days. Said you were going for a little while as you walked out the door! You were worse than our father. You didn’t tell me that the apartment had been given up.’

‘You couldn’t afford to keep it.’

‘Because you took all the money! I thought you didn’t realize, but you knew all along what you were doing. At least our father didn’t sell our possessions, take all the money and leave with barely a goodbye.’

P1040403‘No he drowned himself in gin before disappearing. He left us with nothing.’

‘I was there,’ Sophie whispered. Her voice struggled to be heard over the clank of the breaker rig, the sound of the earth being ripped to shreds.

‘You and all your needs. What did you ever do besides wasting hours and money on charm lessons?’

‘I helped,’ Sophie stammered. ‘I cooked and cleaned and I learned charms to help with rent.’

‘You cooked meals of beans and rice flavoured with weeds found growing between cracks. You cleaned a house that was smaller than my bedroom when we were children. You kept us chained to crumbling ruins and shattered pasts. You were nothing but a burden to me. I wasted my life looking after you. I sunk everything into you until I was a shadow of myself: sick and exhausted.’

Anika surveyed the metal gears rotating slowly on long shafts. She watched another bucket of dirt being dumped onto the conveyor system. ‘The rig needs a special hand to keep it running. It may not look like much, but it is going to fix things.’ Anika nodded to herself. Her face set with grim determination. ‘This is going to work. Wealth is going to pour from these rocks and everything will be better. I will make it work.’ She leveled her stony gaze on Sophie. ‘I have the strength for this. No one is going to stand in my way.’

‘What are you doing, Anika?’

‘I am doing what you never could, what you never had the courage to do. I am defining my own future, not cowering pathetically behind half-sung charms. I will not be tied down any longer, while you make weak excuses for why life is terrible. No more will I suffer needlessly because of your selfish attitude.’

‘My attitude? I didn’t hold you back.’

‘You would tie me to poverty, because you are too frightened to work your charms. I always knew you were bluster but no substance, a coward. All those years of education, for what? Can you do even the most basic of charms? Or will you run away without even trying?’

Sophie could feel her blood starting to boil. ‘I will show you what I know!’ she shouted. ‘I am not something useless to be tossed aside. You will see.’

The words of the Gold Charm had been ridiculously easy, as though the charm was written by a child. The music was simplistic in its rhythm and pitch. Any beginning charmer could learn the basics of the charm in a day. Sophie was no beginner. She knew what they were trying to do, weaving six voices together for the charm.

Charms always worked best with repetition. Most charms were repeated verses, overlapping to build strength. Charmers worked the same charms over and over again, as repeated singing also lent them strength. This was the idea behind the churches. Whole congregations would renew the charms of the parish every week: increasing the potency of their charms.

Sophie opened her mouth. She focused on the core idea of the charm: like to like. Gold was found in the body of the earth, just as blood was found beneath the skin of the flesh. Earth and body were akin to each other. Bring the blood to the surface to draw the molten core through the layers of cold, solid rock. Rock to bone, heat to fire, gold to blood.

Sophie was so angry she could feel her own blood boiling beneath the solid skin of her body. Unfocused eyes stared blindly at Anika, as Sophie wished her sister could feel her anger. She wished Anika could know the pain she felt. She had been humiliated to discover from the landlady she no longer had an apartment because Anika had stopped payments. She had been terrified to journey into an unknown land in search of her sister. She had been anxious about the health of Anika. She had been so hurt by her sister’s words.

Anika had cut Sophie. Anika had been a knife drawing more than tears from her younger sister.

‘You were always too easy to manipulate,’ Anika’s voice whispered in Sophie’s ear. She could feel pressure at her wrists. There was a sharp, nearly distracting stab of pain. Then something was pressed against her wrists. Pain came in waves, while the music of the charm rose around her.

Sophie’s voice faltered, but the singing never stopped. Instead it grew in strength and determination. Waves of agony washed over Sophie as she tried to focus on Anika.

‘Blood to gold,’ her sister echoed.

Sophie forced her attention down to her wrists. It felt like an eternity getting her body to respond. Her head tilted slowly until she could see. Anika held her wrists. Her thumbs pressed down on pieces of gold, pinning the metal to Sophie’s flesh. Blood seeped up from wounded skin, red and gold mixing together in Sophie’s blurry vision.

P1040377‘What did you do?’ Sophie hissed her voice struggling with the words.

‘I need this claim to succeed. I need a future.’

‘Why? Why did you do this to me?’

‘It is just a little blood.’ Anika’s face twisted before her.

The words swam through Sophie’s mind. She grappled with their meaning. Everything was taking too long. She felt weak and confused as though she were still asleep, caught in some bizarre nightmare. It was more than blood spilling from her wrists. She could feel her life draining. ‘You’re killing me.’

Anika didn’t speak, her lips pressed together in determination. Sophie tried to catch Anika’s eye, but her sister wouldn’t look at her.

Sophie could feel the truth in her words. She was weakening, dying. Her anger flared once more. She wasn’t going to end like this. The anger twisted upon itself becoming a torrent of emotion. Around her the song was gaining in strength; she could feel it. She could feel Anika holding her in place, using her as an anchor to the charm: the focal point. She was the blood to draw the gold from the earth.

Sophie bucked. She wouldn’t be used like this. She fought the nausea and dizziness that threatened to sweep her away. Instead she focused on the charm, on the music that was tightening around them. She spun with it. Her voice joined the other charmers singing somewhere in the distance.

Gold to blood, echoed the words in her mind. Blood to blood. Sophie pushed the intent. She thought of the charm she had woven to help her find Anika: twisted threads tying them together. They were of the same parents, same blood and bone. Heat flowed through Sophie. Anika had broken their bond. She had attacked Sophie with everything she had, so Sophie pushed back. She was anger and fire. She was molten heat. The charm wove around them, tugging and pulling as Sophie redirected its focus.

In the distance she could hear screaming. She could feel the blaze of emotion burning brightly around her. The molten core rose, erupting from skin and rock. Gold and blood mixed.

The song became a charm with a force of its own, releasing the singers. Voices shouted. Sophie burned until the heat was unbearable. Her body was in agony. Every inch of her flesh was on fire. Some small corner of her mind knew she needed to end the charm. She needed to cool down. Like liquid metal she needed to cool the surface; make it solid and stable once more.

Sophie swayed on her feet. Her vision was streaks of red and gold; liquid flames wavered before her. She blinked trying to clear it. People talked in cracked, worried voices. Their words were a blur, a mash of noise without sense or meaning.

Gradually, the fire seeped out of Sophie. She could still feel its effects. Sweat poured down her back. It dripped from her forehead, stinging her eyes. The pain eased throughout her body, except her wrists which continued to burn.

A swollen tongue licked dry, cracked lips. The agitated shadows were resolving themselves into figures with faces. Sophie stared at them blankly. She struggled to connect names with those who stood before her. She looked from one to the next, searching for one who would always be familiar. When she didn’t see Anika, Sophie dropped her gaze to her wrists. They still danced with gold and red flames in her twisted vision. The flames licked forward singeing the flesh of hands still connected to her body. Anika lay crumpled at Sophie’s feet. Her face contorted with pain and fear. Her hands locked to Sophie’s wrists.

Sophie jerked back. She wretched her arms free of Anika’s fingers. She screamed as pain flared through her wrists. Anika continued to stare unseeingly up, her eyes flat as though the colour had been burnt from them. She didn’t move. Sophie looked up at those gathered around her. She saw the fear in their features. She saw tears streaking their faces.

Sophie turned and ran. She stumbled across the bridge. She tripped over roots and stones. She ran blindly until she came to a small creek. There she thrust her aching wrists into the frigid water. Steam rose and her vision blurred once more. As the pain numbed, Sophie wiped the tears from her eyes. She sat back on the damp, muddy ground and hugged her knees.

It couldn’t be real, she thought over and over. But she couldn’t make herself return. She couldn’t face the truth of what she had done to her sister. Anika had lied, but Sophie… Sophie turned and emptied her stomach onto the ground.

A twig snapped behind her. Sophie turned. Georges stood a dozen paces away, watching. His eyes were glassy as they stared at her, at her wrists.

Sophie followed his gaze. Her skin looked strange in the dappled light. It was no longer a violent red. Instead it looked… it looked… Sophie twisted her arms before her. Light glinted off bands of gold that encased her lower arm. Gingerly she touched the area. It felt smooth like new skin.

Trembling, Sophie turned back to Georges. He still watched her, his face a mix of emotions: horror, fear, sadness and something almost hungry lurking in its depths.

P1040393‘I don’t know what happened,’ Sophie faltered.

‘Anika is dead,’ Georges replied slowly. He looked from her wrists to her eyes. ‘You killed her.’

‘No!’

‘She burned from where she touched you.’

‘I didn’t, I couldn’t…I have to leave!’

‘I don’t think so, Sophie.’ Georges voice was soft and steady. ‘You seem to have a unique gift.’ His eyes drifted back to her wrists. ‘An even greater affinity for gold than we had ever thought. No, you still have your use, I think.’

‘I can’t. I won’t. Please, please let me go home. I can’t go back there. I can’t.’

‘Anika will be gone by the time we return.’

‘What did you do to her?’

Georges frowned. ‘She will be buried, as would anyone who dies on my rig. You will take her place.’

‘I know nothing of mechanicals.’

‘But you do know charms,’ Georges said with a predatory smile. ‘A talent I think we can work with. Come Sophie, you have nowhere else to go. You will never find your way back to Dawn city without me. There is either the claim or death in these wilds.’

‘People have survived in the wilds.’

‘You are a city girl. It won’t be an easy death.’ Georges stood there, watching and waiting. He didn’t move as she debated with herself. How could she ever live with what she had done? Perhaps death was the better option.

Sophie looked up, but Georges just stood there waiting. He shifted into a more comfortable position. Arms crossed over his chest he watched her. Nothing was said. For a long time Sophie sat and wondered when he would turn and leave. But he never did.

Finally, Sophie got to her feet. She wobbled; her legs unsteady. She swatted away Georges silent offer of help. She stumbled into the woods half dozen paces before she spoke. ‘Are you going to lead us back? Because I certainly don’t know the way.’

Georges said nothing as he took the lead. He set a slow, gentle pace.

‘I am a coward,’ Sophie muttered as she followed. She moved to finger the charms on her bracelet. Her fingers brushed against golden skin, strangely pliable and warm. She no longer had her bracelets, the charms from her family. Sophie swiped at more tears as she staggered forward.

The Breaker Rig – Part 3

P1030900It was a long, jarring ride to Georges’ claim. Sophie sat wedged between barrels of salted pork and sacks of flour. There were other boxes of supplies including metal gears and dark, viscous oil. Georges drove from a narrow bench at the front of the wagon. Sophie had offered to sit beside him. But Georges had insisted she remain in the back, protected from the sun and elements beneath the canvas cover.

It was stuffy and uncomfortable. Sophie felt every rut and stone they hit, which must have been a continuous stream of obstructions from Dawn City to the claim. Food had been offered around midday, when Georges paused for ten minutes. He had been distant in his interactions: either ignoring or failing to hear any of her questions.

The day dragged along with only a narrow view of the trail for Sophie to watch. She was bruised and sore when the wagon finally splashed across a shallow river and came to a stop. With effort Sophie wiggled her way to the back of the wagon, determined to stretch her legs and back. Everything ached as she gingerly eased herself to stable ground.

As she rounded the front, she noticed Georges strolling along the edge of a pond. In the middle of the water a massive wooden structure floated.

‘What is that?’ Sophie wondered aloud.

‘That is the breaker rig.’

Sophie squeaked and jumped. Spinning she found herself facing a young man about her own age. His dark hair was cropped short and his green eyes danced as they observed her.

‘I didn’t know Georges was bringing women back to camp.’

‘He is not. Well, I suppose he is. But it is not like that,’ Sophie stammered. ‘I am a charmer.’

‘Of course you are,’ the man said sliding the reigns over the head of the horse. ‘Akram Naras.’

He offered her his hand. Sophie glanced at the charms on his wrist as she introduced herself.

‘You are one of the charmers?’ she said her eyes catching the six-sided sun etched with a crescent moon.

‘You must be our sixth,’ Akram acknowledged. ‘Welcome to the claim.’

Sophie looked from the young man to the strange structure floating in the water. ‘Um, what is a breaker rig?’

‘That is a breaker rig. It is the largest in the North. Georges had it special made then shipped here piece by piece. Took a force of people to assemble, or so I understand. I wasn’t around then.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Sophie muttered utterly confused. ‘Er, what does it do?’

‘See that end there? The one that juts out with the metal buckets? Well, those teeth on the edge of the bucket help it break through the rock and soil to scoop up dirt. Makes a terrible racket.’

‘It seems pretty quiet now,’ Sophie observed. She could hear the wind in the trees and the twittering of birds but nothing else.

‘Oh, it is silent now. Broken. Something exploded on the inside not an hour ago. That is where Georges went. See we only get a brief summer this far North. Doesn’t even get warm enough to fully thaw the ground. So Georges wants this rig running all day and all night until the season shifts.’

‘Not warm enough?’ Sophie echoed skeptically. She wiped the damp from her forehead with the cuff of her dress.

P1030921Akram chuckled. ‘Once the ground is scooped up, it is carried into the big structure you see there. There are a whole series of conveyors and sieves and water used to sort the gold pieces or dust from the rest of the rock and dirt. The waste material is ejected out that end and forms those huge piles of rocky debris.’

‘Does it often break down?’

‘Seems to be breaking down a fair bit of late.’

‘So what do you do now?’

‘There isn’t much for charmers to do while the mechanists are busy playing with their gears and shafts. Right now, I should probably start unloading the supplies. Georges likes things to be properly stored otherwise supplies spoil and that is never a good thing. You might as well come with me. I am sure Georges won’t want to talk to you until the rig is up and running again.’

*

Steam erupted from the top of the rig’s body. Gears ground together, the sound echoing off the surrounding hills.

It was like a castle of old, with a moat around its base. At the front end huge chains jerked into action. Metal buckets with iron teeth dove into the rock. They scooped up hungry mouthfuls of soil and carried into the rig’s body where it was lost from Sophie’s view. On the other end a long arm or tail dropped waste material in long snaking piles.

‘It looks so simple.’

‘Only because we are not on the inside. The rig uses a system of sieves and water sluices to separate the heavier gold from the remaining sediment.’ Akram explained. ‘It takes three crews of six to operate it.’

‘So many people?’ Sophie echoed. She looked around at the tiny camp. There were a dozen tents but surely not enough for all of them, plus the half dozen charmers Georges said he needed.

‘One crew is always sleeping. The next shift would have been called in early to help fix whatever went wrong. It is very large inside. Some of the gears are two stories tall.’

‘And what do you do? What sort of charm work would necessitate six charmers?’

‘The Gold Charm,’ Akram exhaled. His gaze shifted beyond the wooden frame of the rig. ‘Georges has an idea to call gold from the ground to the surface. Like to like.’

‘That doesn’t make any sense! Where are the similarities?’

‘That is perhaps the most interesting aspect. Where do you think gold comes from?’

‘The ground?’ They were digging up the ground in search of the precious metal.

‘Ok, foolish question. Obviously, we wouldn’t be working the claim if we didn’t think gold came from the ground. That is not the point I am trying to make. Gold isn’t just found lying onto of the ground, not all of it. It comes from deeper within the earth.’

‘Like coal? Miners dig deep under the surface to extract the resource.’

‘I suppose so,’ Akram said slowly. ‘Only there are lots of differences between coal and gold. However, they are both components of the earth. You start digging, even in an area rich in the metal and you must pull up dirt and rock. Now you scratch your skin, your surface and eventually you will start drawing blood.’

‘But blood is liquid and gold is solid.’

‘Not at high temperatures. Use a hot enough fire and gold melts.’

‘You still need to actively apply that heat to make it molten.’

‘We do, because like the blood in you, when it reaches the surface it cools, becoming solid.’

Sophie looked at Akram. ‘You seriously believe gold is the lifeblood of the earth?’

‘I feel it is better considered a part. Just as there are several components to your own blood. I think Georges theory is quite sound.’

‘And the charm…?’

‘Like to like,’ Akram said. ‘Georges wants to draw gold from the land like a doctor bleeding a patient.’

Sophie swallowed. ‘That is a bold charm. You do know charms don’t happen that … er quickly. Charms are not really like doctors extracting fluids from patients.’

‘Obviously,’ Akram said. ‘However, a charm that could draw gold to the claim, well that would be incredible. Having a way to sense the gold in a claim would also be a worthwhile success. This charm is going to change things, of that I am certain. First you need to learn the words. The rest will follow quickly.’

Across the pond, the sound of the rig’s engine smoothed out into a steady rhythm. It was accompanied by the crashing of sharp-toothed metal buckets into the earth. The valley where the river had been dammed to create the small pound reverberated with the rig’s noise.

Akram pressed his lips together. ‘I think they are done.’

‘Done?’

‘Well the day shift is done now that the rig is working again. The night shift will be taking over. Look, there is Georges leading the crew.’

A parade of people now occupied the narrow bridge connecting the rig with land. At its lead was Georges, his floppy hat still perched over limp hair. His clothes appeared to have acquired another layer of dirt and grim. The rest were similarly sweaty people in the ubiquitous brown uniform of the north.

In their midst, near the back was a slim, familiar figure. The sleek dark hair had been ruthlessly pulled back and plaited. It was such a simple hairstyle, nothing Sophie associated with her sister. Of course, she hadn’t seen her sister this filthy in years.

Sophie took off. She couldn’t help the wide, grin she knew spread across her face. Anika was there, looking just as exhausted as the rest. But there was no doubt, this was her beloved sister.

‘Anika! Anika! Anika!’ Sophie sang as she raced forward. She threw her arms around her older sister the moment Anika stepped off the bridge. ‘I thought I would never find you. Oh, I am so glad you are alright. I was worried. And it was such a long trip here. I had to come by air-carriage, which was terrible. And then no one knew you in town. I didn’t know how I was going to survive.’

Sophie babbled. Words slipped from her tongue in a torrent of nonsense. She was only half aware of what she was saying: how worried she had been, how lonely Chesico was without her, how their neighbours had gossiped, how strange and awkward the north was, and how soon they could go back home. Everything she had been thinking since she woke to find her sister gone poured out of Sophie in an incoherent mess.

In her arms, Anika was very still.

‘Is something wrong? Are you hurt? Oh, dear I have been crushing you when you were injured.’ Sophie stepped back frantically looking Anika over. Her sister was smeared in dirt. It streaked her face like some primitive war paint. There were tears in her shirt and strands of coal black hair were escaping the practical braid.

P1030933‘What is wrong? Talk to me Anika,’ Sophie said. ‘Why don’t you look at me?’

‘Why did you come?’ Anika’s rough voice was low, her eyes watching the ground at their feet. ‘You hate travel.’

‘I was worried. You have been gone so long. I thought you were lost. I thought you were never coming back.’

‘I never asked you to come.’

‘I had to know what happened to you. I had to find you.’

‘Well now that you have, you can leave.’ Anika’s hand flew out gripping Sophie by the arm. Anika pulled her with more strength than Sophie remembered her sister possessing. They were headed back to the camp, to the cluster of tents, the cabin and the wagon. ‘Go, Sophie, go back to the city.’

‘Not without you, Anika. I won’t leave you behind.’

‘I don’t want you here. Leave. Get back on the wagon or whatever you used to get here and return. Go back to Chesico and never seek me out again.’ Anika lifted her dark glittering eyes. They were the same almond shape Sophie remembered. They held the same self-confidence she always admired in her sister. But there was something else there too, something less welcoming.

‘I travelled too far to go back empty handed. I need you Anika.’ Sophie said stubbornly barely meeting her sister’s gaze.

‘You idiot!’ Anika snapped. ‘You selfish fool, do you think of no one but yourself? You, you were the reason I had to leave. Now be gone. Ge out. Leave.’

Tears pricked at Sophie’s eyes. She wretched her arm free of Anika’s clutch. ‘I can’t. Not alone. You have to come home, please.’

‘I am home. This is my home, Sophie.’

‘No,’ Sophie said shaking her head. ‘No, this isn’t home. Home is Chesico, where we grew up.’

‘What do you know of home? What do you remember of our house? Can you recall its colour? The warm sunshine yellow with its green and white trim? Can you remember our mother as she picked flowers in the garden? Or the way she smiled at us?’

Sophie recoiled at the bitter voice. ‘Chesico is more than just a house. The city is huge, far bigger than Dawn City. There is plenty of work to be found there, good work.’

‘I have a job. I work the rig. What do you do Sophie? What have you ever done?’

‘I am a charmer.’

‘Unstable work.’

‘Georges hired me, from a town filled with charmers,’ Sophie retorted. ‘I can get work, I can help to make our life together good. Our family…’

Anika’s eyes darkened. ‘We have no family. They are gone.’ Her voice was cold, flat.

Sophie flinched. ‘Our father might return. He wouldn’t know where to find us if we stayed here.’

‘He doesn’t deserve to find us,’ Anika shouted. ‘He can take his gin soaked hide to the Abyss for all it matters.’

‘Anika, you can’t mean that. He is our father. He is family.’

‘He is a pathetic coward, using grief as a reason to run away. He deserves nothing,’ she spat. Heat coloured her cheeks as Anika glared at Sophie. ‘You are not wanted here. Leave now and never come back.’

‘You can’t mean that, Anika. You can’t. You are my sister. You are my life. You are everything to me. I love you. Always. I would do anything for you, please don’t make me leave.’

‘You are nothing but a weight around my shoulders, dragging me down, preventing me from living my life. Go back, Sophie. Take your silly charms and pathetic dreams and return to Chesico. You are not wanted.’ Anika pushed past Sophie, knocking her sister to the side with enough force to cause her to stumble.

No one in the camp came as Sophie sobbed to herself. The world had cracked leaving Sophie broken upon its bones. She huddled into herself as the tears dampened the earth around her. What was she to do now?

Drying her eyes, Sophie looked around. She could see people moving between the tents. The smell of sausages and beans wafted from a fire. Hunger gnawed at her stomach. It pushed her from the ground and towards people. She didn’t see Anika amongst the half dozen workers milling around the fire. Akram stood when he spotted her. He looked back, towards the cabin. Sophie couldn’t tell if there was someone present or not. However, whatever Akram saw he stood and came towards her.

‘I will show you to your tent.’

‘Thank you. I don’t…’

‘There is food if you are hungry. We will start tomorrow morning.’

‘Start what?’

‘The Gold Charm, Georges wants you to learn it as quickly as possible.’

‘But Anika…’

‘Anika is a mechanists, good at her job, but not owner of the claim. Georges wants the charm performed as soon as possible. You should probably get some sleep,’ Akram added lifting the canvass flap and nodding towards the narrow cot inside. Her bags had already been brought in.

‘I am sorry,’ Akram said as she shuffled past.

*

The pounding was steady, though every so often it was accentuated by a louder explosion. The thunderous noise sent Sophie’s heart racing. In the bleary moments between sleep and waking Sophie wondered if she was under attack. The truth settled around her like a scratchy wool blanket, familiar and unwelcome. She wished she could erase the previous day. Only, how would that change anything? She lay there, still tired and uncertain and waited. Outside, voices drifted through the canvass walls.

‘I didn’t even know she had a sister!’

‘Can you imagine being related to her? I almost feel sorry for the girl.’

‘I wouldn’t say that around her.’

‘I am not afraid of Anika.’

‘I am not saying it is fear. I just have a healthy respect for her. She hasn’t been here a full season and already she is lead mechanist on the day shift.’

‘Think she will talk to her sister?’

They were talking about her as though she were a curiosity. Sophie held still on the bed. It was lumpy and uncomfortable. Something dug into her side. She remained motionless as the words drifted through the canvass.

‘Anika? You are crazy. She doesn’t forgive. You remember Willis?’

‘The metal worker that was here at the beginning of the season? He went home. Didn’t like the wilderness. Too many bears or wolves or something.’

From the crack in the flap of the tent, Sophie could tell it was light out. That did not help to narrow down the time, not in the summer of the north.

‘He had a disagreement with Anika, something related to the rig. Well Anika said one thing and Willis said another. Anika stayed and Willis is barely a memory. Lesson: don’t cross Anika. You can’t expect her to forgive and forget.’

‘Yah but the girl is her sister. That ought to count for something.’

Sophie could almost hear the shrug of the second speaker as she lay in bed. The misery of the previous day sloshed over her with their words. Unwanted, the word ricocheted around her head. The last remnant of her family had turned her back and walked away: left just as everyone else had left Sophie. She didn’t know what she was supposed to do now. Lying on her back, Sophie tossed an arm over her face. It didn’t stop the tears, but the sleeve helped to mop up the moisture.P1030973

‘Then it is good Anika is onboard for the charm. I thought she was going to oppose it.’

‘Georges won’t take the girl back to town until the charm is performed.’

‘No way!’

‘That is why we have to do it soon.’

‘You think the it will work?’

‘Instantly? Like magic? Nah, of course not. You have been listening to too many fireside stories.’

‘But Georges…’

They were charmers, Sophie thought dully. She didn’t recognize their voices. Where they strangers or had she forgotten those she just met yesterday?

‘Look I won’t speak ill of the boss, not while he is paying my wage, but he isn’t a charmer. Gold isn’t going to come pouring out of the ground. Charms are powerful, but instantaneous.’

‘They also take practice and effort to perform,’ a new voice added. Sophie recognized Akram’s clipped voice. ‘Which you are supposed to be doing.’

‘I thought we were waiting for the girl.’

‘Is she not up?’

‘She hasn’t come out yet.’

‘Have you bothered to see if she is awake? No, never mind, I will do it myself.’

The front flap was swept aside as the figure entered. It took a few moments for the dark silhouette to resolve itself into Akram. The man impatiently brushed a lock of dark, wavy hair from his face. ‘Good. You are awake. Georges wants you to learn the charm as quickly as you can. It is summer and he is eager to reap the most benefit from our labour.’

‘I thought Anika wanted me out of camp as fast as possible.’

‘Anika may want any number of things, but she is not the holder of this claim. Until then Georges is boss and his words are the ones we follow. Otherwise we don’t earn our pay.’ She heard the small sigh as he took another step forward. Softening his voice, Akram offered her a tin plate with steaming food. ‘I brought you some breakfast. There is water in the bucket there. When you are ready come out, we will start going over the words of the charm and their intent.’

When she didn’t reach out for it, Akram set the plate on a folding stool. Next to one of the stool’s legs he placed a cup of tea. ‘It is not much advice, but you should try not to listen to gossip. It never does anyone any good.’

‘Thanks,’ Sophie muttered, but he had already slipped beyond the confines of the tent.

The oatmeal was thick and filling. The tea was hot and bitter. It was not the best meal Sophie had eaten, but it wasn’t the worst either. She splashed some water on her face and pulled a new dress from her bag: something less dusty.

Unsurprisingly, the sun was high overhead when she finally emerged. The sentries who had been standing next to the tent had wandered off. Sophie wondered where she was expected to go when she spotted the familiar figure. The dirty brown trousers were the same ones Anika wore yesterday, though the top was clearly different. Sophie watched her sister move commandingly through camp before heading towards the rig.

Maybe she should try talking to her, maybe…

Anika glanced at Sophie before looking pointedly away. Maybe she should give Anika some space. Tomorrow, she might try talking to her sister.

‘Sophie?’ The female was tiny and delicate in appearance. She wore a bright red patterned top over her ubiquitous brown trousers. ‘If you would follow me.’

They didn’t go far. There was a tent on the other side of the cabin. It was bigger than most of the rest. Inside benches were set in a semicircle. There was a table to one side. The setup suggested a primitive office.

Akram nodded from where he sat. ‘Thanks Joss. Now, Sophie, about the Gold Charm, I am going to teach you the words of the song. We will practice here until you are ready.’

P1030943Sophie settled down on a bench. She tried to focus on the words Akram was speaking, words that described gold and blood. Her mind wandered to Anika. What was her sister doing now? Would she see her at dinner? Would they talk then?

‘Sophie!’ Akram snapped. ‘Pay attention, you need to learn this.’

‘Sorry,’ she muttered.

Across the tent the other woman snickered. Sophie scowled at her.

‘Oh, taking a page out of your sister’s book?’ Joss laughed. ‘Now we will have two ugly faces to avoid.’

‘You know nothing about it,’ Sophie hissed.

‘Do you really think you are the first person to be disappointed by family? How adorably childish. There is nothing special about either you or Anika.’

‘Joss,’ Akram drew out the name in one long slow syllable.

The woman rolled her eyes. ‘Do you hope to play the chivalrous knight? Because you know it isn’t going to end well.’

‘Perhaps you should leave.’

Joss rose to her feet in one liquid motion. ‘Try not to get attached, she isn’t staying for long.’

‘This is a mess,’ Sophie moaned as flap fell back into place. ‘How could she be like that? This isn’t my sister. Anika isn’t like that.’

‘Sometimes we change,’ Akram said softly. ‘Sometimes people are not who we thought they were. You can’t change them and remold them. People don’t work like gold or wood, molded and carved into the shapes we want.’ His fingers plucked at the charm bracelet on her wrist. The movement of his hands caused his own charms to clink musically together. ‘What is this?’ he asked plucking at the star and thread charm.

‘I made it to find my sister,’ Sophie said between nearly silent sobs. ‘The blue thread represents Anika and the red one is me. We both have the same star.’

‘It brought you here?’

‘I was so desperate to find Anika. Only she doesn’t want me.’

‘We all grow up eventually.’ Akram held up a hand silencing her protests. ‘We are not statues, unmoving and still. We all change with time, in ways we cannot predict. Anika may not be the person you thought you knew. Maybe that means it is time for you to find your own path. Maybe it is time you also changed.’

‘I should just give up on my sister? No, I can’t. I won’t. She is all the family I have left.’

‘You can’t force her,’ Akram held Sophie’s gaze. ‘You can’t shape her into something different.’

‘I can’t give up on her, not ever.’

Akram shrugged and returned to the Gold Charm.

She could feel their eyes on her as she moved around camp. Only Anika would not look her way. Every time she tried to approach her sister, Anika had worked her way somewhere else. Eventually she gave up and retreated to her tent.

She lay there trying to come up with ways of getting Anika home. Outside, workers and charmers talked and laughed. Their words smeared together becoming a babble of background noise.

The night shift continued: a steady beat of metal teeth biting into rock. The chug of the rig’s engine never died. Eventually the sun receded below the horizon and the skies dimmed to grey. In those hours, when the world was the bleakest, Sophie knew she was done. She had to leave. She would perform the charm and return to Chesico. She didn’t know exactly what she would do there, but Chesico was familiar. It was home.

The Breaker Rig – Part 2

This past weekend we enjoyed unseasonably warm temperatures. Even with cloud and rain, we saw highs into the teens. It helped to melt more of those final stubborn piles of snow. More importantly, it afforded me the opportunity to air out my bedding! However, Monday rolled around, the temperature plummeted and now I am back to my normal state of being cold. As it is only the middle of February, I am not complaining – just noting the facts.

Anyway, back to the short story ~

** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

‘No Tammerik. No Tams. No Tarrek. No Timmins. No Tannik.’ The woman’s voice droned on the edge of irritation.

‘Could she be listed under her first name?’ Sophie suggested.

‘Look girl, I don’t know why you have come to Dawn City and I truthfully don’t care. It doesn’t matter if you are chasing your sister, your father or your own shadow. Unless you want to submit paperwork for claim or retrieve paperwork regarding a claim, then you need to leave.’

‘But I don’t know where else to go.’

The woman shrugged. Long fingers shuffled sheets of paper on the long counter. The nameplate on the counter read Ms. Weatherstone, but Sophie wasn’t sure that referred to the woman scowling in front of her or another employee of the Territorial Claims Office. The clerk sighed, ‘Look girl…’

‘Sophie, my name is Sophie.’

‘Irrelevant. Our job is to maintain records of the claims, active and closed, for the government. We work with the owners of each outfit, who pay to submit their paperwork…’

‘I don’t have any money,’ Sophie interjected.

P1040428‘…not with the workers.’ The woman’s deepening frown was the only indication she heard Sophie’s comment. ‘You could have an entire clan of Thaines out there and we would never know. Have you tried to walk those streets? It is not my job to keep track of every weed that blows through here. You want to know about a specific person, try the bank. Most people keep an account with them: some to save their gold but most to withdraw more than they have.’

‘I have!’ Sophie wailed barely resisting the impulse to stamp her feet on the wide plank floor. ‘I have been to the bank, the post office and to every hotel and boarding house I could find. I spoke with the station master for the air-carriage and the ships master handling the river boats. I have run out of places to go.’

‘Then go home and accept that you sister ran off elsewhere.’

‘She didn’t! Anika wouldn’t do that to me. Anika is my sister, she is…’

‘She is family and most families are jerks.’

‘Families are special,’ Sophie whispered.

‘You can tell yourself that all you want. But either she lied to you and didn’t come here, or she is working a claim.’

‘How do I search the claims?’

‘Ha ha! You are serious? There are hundreds of claims set into the hills around Dawn City.’ Ms. Weatherstone leaned over the counter to look down on Sophie. ‘It would take you more than a year to search each one and that’s only accounting the official ones. Besides changing owners and going bankrupt means the workers drift from one claim to the next like fluff in the wind.’

The door opened to the chime of a small brass bell. Ms. Weatherstone straightened behind the desk surreptitiously smoothing the fabric of her green striped vest. A faint smile started to bloom but died as heavy boots pounded atop the floor boards.

‘Georges,’ Ms. Weatherstone said in the same flat voice with which Sophie was growing accustomed. ‘The answer is the same as last week. I cannot grant you rights to the claim. Only Mr. Mitchel has that authority and he will not be back in town for two months.’

‘Penny,’ the man boomed, the gap between his front teeth obvious as he favoured the clerk with a wide smile. Removing his battered hat revealed a mat of dull brown hair flecked with grey. It hung in limp chunks framing his square face. ‘Penny, it is always a treat to see you. And entertaining a guest,’ he added spotting Sophie. Dark, thoughtful eyes scrutinized her from head to toe. Sophie tried to summon a smile and a greeting, but the words became lodged in her throat. She flashed one last desperate look at Ms. Weatherstone, but the clerk had drawn forth papers and was busy trying to appear occupied. Dismissed and frustrated, Sophie left the Claims Office.

What was she going to do now? It would take ages to search all the claims according to the clerk and the woman ought to know. She had an awful detailed map spread across her counter with countless tiny markers. Dawn City was little more than a couple of dots. Sophie would need transport from town to the claims, but she couldn’t ride and she certainly couldn’t afford anything better than a new pair of sturdy shoes.

She was running dangerously low on funds. Barely in town three days and already her small savings had nearly run out. If only Anika hadn’t been so thorough in selling off anything of value. While Sophie appreciated the cost of travelling north, Anika had taken most of what they had collected.

‘Watch out!’

The shout jerked Sophie out her reverie in time to side step an over full wagon. Wooden poles and bits of canvas stuck out from the vehicle’s box. Sophie

a step to avoid crashing into another pedestrian. She moved over to the edge of the street and looked around to gather her bearings. Across the street was a saloon. The ridiculous half doors would have been appropriate to a small desert town in the south. Raucous shouts of laughter spilled from the dark interior. To the right was a grocery and to the left was a blacksmith. Neither establishment was of any use to Sophie. On her side of the street was a small book shop, a ladies clothing store and directly in front of her a Charm Shop.

The sign above the store depicted the symbol of the star and crescent moon. Replicas of sturdy, neat homes, of ships and tools in different sizes hung in the wide glass window. Drawn as a moth to a flame, Sophie entered the butter yellow building.

All around her were everyday objects like spoons, small knives, books and coins. There were more exotic objects such as steamer ships, surveying tools, and unfamiliar animals. Some were decorated with lines etched in flat disks or coloured beads of different shapes. Many of the objects were cleverly crafted from gold and silver, small delicate work with thin loops to be attached to bracelets. Others had been made with thread, bone or wood. These larger scale designs were better suited for the home or aboard a ship.

Next to the cashier was a barrel of lumpy golden blobs. A small sign read, Gold Nuggets – call the gold from the earth to your hand. As she moved around the space, Sophie listened to the faint sound of singing that came from somewhere deep within the building. It was comforting in its familiarity.

A back door opened. A middle-aged man walked out. He was neatly dressed in a striped shirt and dark trousers. Silver charms hung from his wrists. A pair of oddly designed glasses rested on his nose. The right lens was larger, longer and blue. The left lens was tinted red. He smiled brightly at the only customer in his shop.

‘How might I assist the young Miss this morning?’ he asked pleasantly. As he stepped around the counter Sophie saw he wore a wide belt with various tools strapped to it.

‘You have lovely charms.’

‘I sell the strongest, most potent charms in all of the North. The gold ones in particular are exceptionally powerful. The gold is mined locally, so I get it before it has been handled by many people. It is shaped and designed with one purpose to ensure a superior quality. It holds the song longer than any other charm you can purchase. They are an incredible bargain.’

‘I understood that the processing of the materials was just as important preparation for the charm to hold. Do you not need the gold to be properly worked before it can be made to hold a design and song?’

‘Ah, so you are familiar with the basics of charm theory, young lady? Yes, the gold must be melted and purified during which the proper songs need to be sung to prime the metal for charm work. However, the fewer hands that touch the metal, the fewer imprints are left on it. Virgin gold, taken from the body of the earth herself is pure, unaltered by old songs and charms. With only a few people involved in its processing, that native strength is retained.’

‘So you argue the strength of the charm is directly related to the amount of contact that material has experienced prior to charm formation?’

‘It is not an argument but the truth. I have seen with my own eyes the superior handling of natively mined gold.’

‘I understood recent research has shown the quality of the charm is proportional to the strength and skill of the charmer, not the materials they use.’

‘Then the researchers have not seen the work I do here. Come, choose a piece and you will see for yourself the incomparable affect it has on your life. This here is a charm of fortune,’ he added with an appraising look at the drab, tired dress that hung awkwardly from Sophie’s frame. The blue dress had once belonged to Anika and had been a favourite of hers until she had outgrown it.

‘It is very pretty,’ Sophie said. ‘You must need many employees to maintain this quality and quantity of merchandise.’

‘I hire only the very best charmers.’

P1040264‘I am well educated. I trained closely with Reverend Hong back in Chesico City.’

‘Another city charmer come to the north.’ The shop keeper’s demeanor dimmed. ‘I am sure you were very good at whatever little charms you practiced down south. However, I have a full staff and even more charmers waiting for those positions. I do not lack for employees.’

‘I have excellent training,’ Sophie rushed. ‘I could demonstrate for you now, if you would like? I could show you any type of charm. I know them all.’

‘All?’ he said skeptically. ‘You have no experience with the mechanicals. Machines, some at least, don’t take kindly to charms. They need an expert hand. Besides, as you can see, I have a shop full of charms for sale, no need for another charmer.’

‘But…’

‘This is a shop,’ the man said firmly. His brown eyes darkened. ‘I do not run a charity.’

She turned away. The slow trudge back to Patal’s Palace seemed far longer than the three blocks she had to go. Upstairs in her tiny room, Sophie looked at her pathetic assemblage of belongings. She had nearly nothing. There was nothing to trade for more time in the boarding house. She was a trained Charmer but couldn’t get work here. She still couldn’t find her sister.

Sophie fingered the charms on her bracelet. Her fingers traced the two interwoven stars, the charm their mother had given both of them. Twin stars for two sisters, she had said. At least, that was what Anika always told her. Sophie didn’t remember their mother. She had only vague recollections of their father. Anika was her family. Anika was her whole world.

As the sun sank lower in the sky, Sophie’s wandering mind lit upon the only remaining solution. She was a charmer. Perhaps she could use that to find her sister. It was a ridiculous idea of course. Charms couldn’t do anything so active, so immediate. Charms were the physical manifestation of positive thoughts; they were wishes more than anything else.

Need was a powerful motivator. Sophie looked at the hem of her blue dress. She remembered exactly how Anika had looked in the dress: tall, powerful, capable. Worrying about the hem, Sophie removed a long blue thread. She then rummaged through her bag for a faded red handkerchief. It was all that remained of the red shirt Sophie had destroyed through constant wear. It took time to remove a red thread of similar size.

Sophie twisted the threads together. The charm was a physical manifestation of what she wanted; like to like was the philosophy. She joined the threads, as she wanted to be joined once more to her sister. As she worked, Sophie sang. She sang about family, about finding lost people and about the strength of bonds. She worked the thread into the twin star charm on her bracelet and pictured the other end extending to Anika’s matching metal charm. She sang and thought and wished until the sun slipped below the horizon and sleep put an end to Sophie’s thoughts.

*

The room was stuffy when she woke the next morning. Not for the first time, Sophie wished she could open the window and capture whatever faint breeze stirred outside.

She moved slowly. Her body ached from an indifferent night. Sleep had come but had been far from restful. Fatigue and worry still pulled at her. She woke with no brilliant plan, just the steady resolution to do whatever it took to find Anika. After splashing tepid water on her face, Sophie collected grabbed her bags. Methodically, she removed every copper she had carefully saved and hid.

‘I have seventeen coppers,’ she informed the room. ‘I will need twelve to return to Chesico, and that is assuming we skip some meals. This room,’ she frowned as she said the words. ‘Will cost another seven coppers to keep for another week. I simply don’t have enough.’

Sophie blew the air out of her lungs in one explosive breath. ‘How am I going to find Anika in the next three days? I have exhausted every lead in town and outside…well, the clerk laughed at me.’

She surveyed the scraps of her life; everything could fit in two bags. ‘Is there anything I could sell?’ She had a broach and silver spoon. Both items had been given to her by her mother. Sophie wasn’t certain how much they were worth, but they must have some value.

Sitting back on her heels, Sophie’s fingers moved to her bracelet. The star charm seemed to glow in the morning light as she moved her wrist. ‘Once we are back in Chesico we will find jobs. That is not an issue. The problem is still finding Anika. That is all I have to do.’

It was one small, impossible task that had to be completed in the next three days. Sophie repacked her bags. She put the things she thought she would need to search the claims in the small sack.

‘What if Anika wasn’t able to come into town?’ she asked the room. ‘What if she wanted to come but couldn’t? Perhaps she has been injured. Maybe she is being kept hostage.’ She would come otherwise. Even though her sister did know Sophie was coming north. Anika wouldn’t want to be isolated from civilization. Unless something prevented her, she would be known in town. Sophie’s stomach tightened with anxiety.

She had to find Anika and she couldn’t do that from the floor of her tiny rented room. Sophie piled some clothes into the smaller of the two bags and stuffed everything else into the larger. She would walk to each claim if she had to; she would find her sister.

The dining room was empty when Sophie made her way down. There were dirty dishes stacked in a metal tub at one end of the table. On the sideboard were a few scraps of toast, some rubbery scrambled eggs and three biscuits. Sophie wrapped the biscuits in a handkerchief and stuffed them into her small bag. She slathered strawberry preserve on the toast and drank the bitter, cold tea remaining in the pot.

She then walked out of the boarding house and straight into a man.

‘Oh!’ Sophie gasped as she rocked backwards and came down hard on her bottom.

The man grunted and peered down at her from beneath a wide-brim hat. There was something very familiar about the square head and gap-tooth smile that he favoured her as he stuck out his hand. Sophie eyed him warily as she accepted his help. On her feet, she did the best she could to brush the pale brown dust from her skirts. It was almost impossible, she thought, to stay clean here.

‘Are you Tammerik?’

Sophie frowned at the man. ‘Do I know you?’ she asked warily.

‘I am looking for Tammerik, a Sophia Tammerik.’

‘It’s Sophie. No one calls me Sophia except… Did Anika send you?’

The man’s smile deepened. ‘I heard Anika’s little sister was a charmer. You are Sophia, er Sophie? You look similar to your sister. It is the eyes, I think.’

‘Who are you? You know Anika? Anika Tammerik? You know my sister? Where is she? Is she alright? Can you take me to her?’ The questions poured from Sophie’s mouth like water over a falls. She could no more stop them than dam a river with her bare hands.

‘Aye, I know you sister. I know where she is. I can even take you to her, if you want.’

‘Of course it is what I want. It is the only reason I came here. Oh thank the Maker. I thought I would never find Anika.’

Sophie tilted her head up to observe the man. He had dark eyes, half hidden by the shadow cast from his hat. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his trousers. His boots, like everything else about him, were tired and falling apart. He looked like so many of the miners Sophie had seen in town. The only thing that was really different was the thoughtful glint to his eyes. They looked at her speculatively.

‘You are a charmer?’ he asked slowly.

‘Yes, yes, I am a charmer.’ A successful one, Sophie added silently. I sang a charm to find my sister and here you stand ready to complete my wish. ‘Is Anika far from here? Can we leave immediately?’

‘I heard you are church trained?’

‘I studied under Reverend Hong back in Chesico. Though I doubt that means anything to you.’ Sophie’s brow furrowed. ‘I know! You are the man from the Claims Office yesterday. Why didn’t you say anything at the time?’

The man smiled down at her. ‘The name is Georges. I didn’t recognize you at first. I was distracted by my own business.’

‘Is Anika safe? Will it take us long to get to her?’

‘We will get there, all in good time. First though, I am going to need something from you.’

‘What do you want?’ Sophie took half a step backwards. ‘You do know my sister?’

‘Oh, I know Anika. She works for me, on my claim. Works the rig. What I need now, however, is a charmer. That would be you.’

‘What will I have to do?’

‘I need you to do a charm for me, once we get back to the claim. You do that and I will take you to your sister.’

‘You are offering me a job in exchange for bringing me to Anika?’ Sophie couldn’t keep the incredulity from her voice. Yesterday had appeared so bleak. Today she was going to have her sister back. The job was a nice twist of fate, not that she wanted it. Still, one charm in exchange for Anika, the fates favoured her today.

P1040334‘That about sums it up.’

‘I will get to see Anika.’

‘Today, if you are ready to leave.’

‘Yes, I am ready.

Georges stared down at the small bag flopped over in the dirt. ‘You have anything else?’

‘What do I need?’

‘You should bring what you have. Wouldn’t want to leave anything around here unattended. You don’t know where it will end up. Food and lodgings you will get at camp, everything else is your responsibility.’

‘I am to live on your claim?’

‘That is how it works. The claim isn’t that close to town. All the workers, both the mechanists and charmers, stay there, expect for their time off.’

‘You have other charmers?’ She felt rather sad about that. Not that she was planning on staying anyway.

‘I need a lot for the charm I am going to perform, six to be exact. The other five are already working at the claim.’

‘Six is a powerful number,’ Sophie observed thoughtfully.

‘This will be a powerful charm,’ Georges replied. ‘I will get the wagon, while you collect your belongs.’

The Breaker Rig – Part 1

Well people, the truth is I have not read anything of late. I have traveled a little, worked a little and written a little. But I have not been reading. So, to follow in the footsteps of others, I am going to foist my short story upon you.

** ** ** ** ** P1040326

Sophie’s stomach lurched upward as she gripped the edge of her seat with white knuckles. Her knees curled tightly around the chipped, hard edge of the two-person bench she blessedly shared with no one. With strained determination Sophie stared straight ahead.

The dark red carriage-car shuddered. Worn wooden benches shook against wrought-iron feet bolted to the floor. Glass windows rattled and the entire conveyance dropped suddenly before settling at its new altitude.

‘Mama, mama!’ The child on the opposing bench giggled. ‘Look. I can see trees.’

‘Indeed. See the ribbon of blue? That is the Kalska River. Can you spot any boats?’

From the corner of her eye, Sophie saw twin-braids bob as the child shifted in her seat. The girl pressed her snub nose to the glass. Bracelets of small dangling charms clinked as the child’s hands were placed to either side of her face. Her breath fogged the window in a gentle aura spreading out from the girl’s face, no doubt obscuring her view of the land below.

Sophie fretted her bottom lip between her teeth. The carriage-car and its collection of passengers held steady. Beneath the hum of conversation, there was the gentle whirl of the steam-powered engine propelling their transport north. Very cautiously, she relaxed the muscles in her hands. Gradually, she eased their hold so the edge was not as painfully biting.

‘Incredible is it not?’ The mother said directing her warm brown eyes to Sophie. ‘To believe we will reach Dawn City in only one day’s flight from White River!’

Sophie grimaced. ‘Air carriages are certainly much faster.’

‘Indeed, it would have taken us a week by steam ship. My husband made the journey this spring. They make you bring so many supplies when you move North. The Territory Guard are quite particular when it comes to immigrants. Every man heading to the gold fields must bring enough to last the winter. Inconvenient for those who will only prospect during the summer.’

The air carriage jostled in some unseen breeze. Sophie’s stomach knotted.

The woman continued to chatter, oblivious to the turbulence. ‘As family, we of course don’t need to bring as much. Besides I hear you can find anything you want in Dawn City, just as you could in the major cities farther south. Yes, Yuki, that is the river and the trees. No, child, it will be some hours yet before we arrive.’

The girl twisted on her seat in a manner Sophie assumed was designed to garner a better view of the earth. The earth that was so far from them at present.

‘You must also be meeting someone,’ the woman prompted.

Sophie pried her jaws apart enough to answer. ‘My sister.’

‘Of course! How lovely it is to have siblings in other parts of the country. I was always so delighted to visit my older sister, Suki. She married and moved back east; to the coastal capital Bington. What an adventure it was to cross the entire continent; it had such varied scenery to enjoy. I was fascinated by the wide sweeping plains, so flat you could see for days in any direction. That is the spread of our family: coast to coast. Of course, we didn’t have these marvellous creations when I was younger. Just regular rail-carriages running on tracks.’

‘I like rail-trains.’

P1040327‘Naturally, there is much to like about an entire string of carriages speeding along a well laid track. I will concede the level of comfort in the sleeper and dining cars is far superior to our limited confines. But this view’–the woman gestured to the window–‘is incomparable. This is like an adventure you would read in the papers. Oh, how exciting it is to be part of history. Is this your first time North? Of course, it must be.’

The woman nodded at Sophie’s rigid posture. ‘Well, welcome. I know, I know. I too am new to the North, but I can just feel it. Dawn City is going to be wonderful.’

‘Mama, what’s that?’

The woman shifted on the bench–sweeping her skirts to the side–she half stood to peer over the head of her child at the distant ground. Sophie saw the carpet bags stowed carefully under the seat. There was also a food hamper, likely obtained from their hotel in White River just for this portion of the journey. Sophie’s stomach gurgled softly, torn between nausea and hunger.

‘That appears to be some rapids. Yes, I do remember your father mentioning something of the kind in his letter home. They have cables; I believe they help the ships navigate this stretch. Slow going, another reason why it is better to travel by air than water.’

Sophie thought of her own letter, neatly folded in a similar carpet bag stored at her feet. It was well creased now. Only two months old and already it was showing signs of age.

‘What brought your sister North?’ The woman resumed her position demurely on the opposite bench. Everything was proper about her appearance, Sophie noted while keeping her eyes from roaming.

The brown hat with its fabricated flowers was pinned to a large, thick bun of dark, glossy black hair. The colour reminded Sophie of Anika, though her sister hated long hair. She complained it took too much work to keep nice. The woman’s dress had the structured bodice and military cut reflecting a war that raged across an ocean. The skirts were full but clearly lacked the extra crinoline layers favoured by fashionable women in the large southern cities. Sophie felt drab and poor in her faded brown cotton dress.

‘Did she move with her husband, or…’

‘She had a letter from our father,’ Sophie replied keeping her voice steady and factual. Anika received a letter and then was suddenly gone. ‘He found his way to Dawn City and started working a gold-field.’ At least that was what Sophie remembered. She didn’t have that letter anymore, only the echo of Anika’s words two days before she was gone.

‘Claim, the term they use is a claim. Though, I suppose in a way the gold is harvested from the ground. A family reunion, that is wonderful! I am certain you are most excited and nervous too no doubt. We give up so much to support our families. As exciting and adventuresome as it is I confess I was hesitant to leave everything familiar for the great unknown. It will be worth it though, when we are a family again.’

Yes she was going to be with her family too. She was going to see Anika again. Sophie thought of her sister, of Anika’s large brown eyes and energetic personality. Anika loved to move. She hated to sit still. Soon, they would be together again. The tension in Sophie’s shoulders eased. Anika was always good at taking care of things. Everything would be sorted once she got to Dawn City.

‘Sadly my husband is at the claim now. It is not so easy to move between the various claims and the town. There are no air carriages, only unkempt dirt roads.’ The woman sighed. ‘It seems like he left an age past, though of course I know it has only been a matter of months. I do worry though.’

Sophie watched as the woman’s fingers rubbed absently at the red bead charm on her left wrist. She recognized the worn protection charm. Everyone had one or something similar. It was one of the first charms attached to a child’s bracelet. It was a charm to keep the wearer safe; it offered general protection from the small accidents in life. There were other more specific charms. Sophie wore one to protect against disease and falling. Anika had another charm to protect her from sharp blades as she was prone to nicking her hands in the kitchen.

‘Mining is such dangerous work,’ the woman sighed.

‘I thought they were plucking gold from river beds.’ Anika had been interested in the gold discovery from the moment the stories appeared in the papers. Anika, who hated to read, was inspired to pour over the broad sheets twice daily for any scrap of information she could find. Any hint of gold or even of the far North was enough to still her restless body for a few minutes.

‘If only it were that easy. I suppose it must have started that way. Certainly the papers described the first discoveries as happenstance: gold nuggets glittering from beneath the creek’s trickle of water and awaiting discovery. If the gold was only found in rivers and streams then I am certain we wouldn’t be heading North now. No, I am sure all the gold hunters would have already stripped every once from the land. Indeed, there is nought by dust left in the waters and little enough of that.’

‘But Dawn City is growing. Anika, my sister, said it was a bustling place filled with – well everything. Tons of people still line the docks in Chesico to catch a ship.’

‘Is that where you are from? Chesico is a beautiful city. I love the spectacular views of the bay you get from the surrounding heights.’

Sophie nodded absently. She didn’t want to think of her home, now so impossibly far away. Sophie had never left Chesico before. Absently, Sophie’s fingers found the small silver charm. The precise strokes spelt the city’s name.

‘Is there no gold left in the North?’ Sophie wondered.

‘Oh, it is still there,’ the woman said leaning back in her seat. Her gaze drifted for a moment to a distant spot over Sophie’s shoulder. ‘It is buried deep within the land. It is a game now, trying to find it and then extracting it. That is what a claim is: a section of land leased from the government on which the hopeful dig for their riches.’

Sophie frowned. ‘It sounds like a lot of work.’

‘Dangerous work too.’ A shadow passed over the woman’s features. ‘There have been accidents on the claims and moving between the claims and town. The North is wild country filled with all sorts of challenges. Freezing cold, long winters, wolves, bears…’ The woman cast a sidelong look at her daughter, still happily peering out the window at a never ending ocean of wavering pine trees.

‘There are charms,’ Sophie said. ‘Protection against cold and wild animals.’

The woman shook her head. ‘Charms might help but the digging for gold… there is danger in the process. The mechanicals they use, well no one is entirely certain how well charming and mechanicals work together.’

‘Charms only enhance,’ Sophie said, the words of her teacher flooding through her mind. ‘They are a way to direct our actions and our futures. Charms have been sung into existence for thousands of years. If mechanicals fail, then how can we know it was a result of the charm and not the contraption?’

‘Spoken like a charmer.’ The woman smiled at Sophie. ‘I always thought charmers were a mysterious breed, cloistered away in churches and low ceilinged shops.’

Sophie laughed weakly. ‘There is nothing particularly mysterious about what I do.’

‘You must have a beautiful voice. I always wished I was better at singing. Yuki, though, has potential.’ The woman turned a fond look on her child.

A lull fell between them. Only now Sophie wished her companion was busy chatting. The constant stream of words had been a good distraction for all the uncertainties that lay before her. Sophie shifted in her seat. The cushioning had worn to threads. It did nothing to soften the hard wooden.

She could feel her eyes drawn to the window. The deceptive beauty of an azure sky lay beyond the stuffy confines of their carriage-car. With effort, Sophie resisted the draw of her thoughts out of the carriage and the immediate future. Instead she thrust her arm awkwardly forward and plastered a smile on her face. ‘Sophie Tammerik,’ she said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Mrs. Lynda Yamata and my daughter Yuki. The pleasure is mine.’

*P1040255

‘We are falling!’ a passenger shouted.

‘Of course not, you old fool. We are descending. Just go back to sleep and everything will be fine.’

Sophie’s mind estimated the damage that would be done to the carriage-car should the two altitude balloons release all their gas without pause. Would the main bladder hold enough air to slow their descent? Would they crash in a splintering mess of metal and wood and bone?

‘We must be almost there, for I am sure those are cabins I can see,’ Mrs. Yamata said softly.

‘Look Mama, there are houses and streets and…’

‘And what my dear?’

‘Trees and water and rocks. There are piles of rocks, big ones.’

‘Ladies and Gentleman, please hold onto your hats we are approaching the platform for Dawn City.’

The voice rose above the general chatter of the carriage-car, stilling conversation to a low hum.

‘Who was that?’ Yuki asked twisting in her seat.

‘That was the conductor,’ Sophie supplied grateful for the brief distraction. ‘There is a bronze horn half way down the carriage. It connects to a mouth piece in the cab perched atop the car. The conductor, navigator and propulsion engineer are up there flying the air-carriage.’

‘Oh, have you been on an air-carriage before?’ Mrs. Yamata was just as calm as before.

Sophie shook her head. ‘I studied the model during boarding. They have an extremely accurate miniature of the air-carriage, complete with three canvass balloons and panelled interior. It is a superior charm,’ she added in appreciation for the craftsmanship that went into making the model.

Pressure built up in Sophie’s ears reminding of where she was. She moved her jaw in an attempt to alleviate the discomfort. As her heart rate increased, Sophie scrambled to focus on something beyond the end of her short life. She hummed the charm for general protection. It was old and familiar: a child’s song. She had not actively sung its chords for some time now; her focus was on more advanced charms. The familiar notes loosed her tongue, until she was softly singing the words that accompanied the music.

The final drop slowed. With a jarring thump, the air-carriage landed.

‘Ladies and Gentleman,’ came the conductor’s brisk voice. ‘We have arrived at our final destination, Dawn City. Ensure you have collected all luggage before disembarking.’ Pause. ‘And thank you for flying with Northwind Transit.’

Sophie stood on shaky legs. Around her people unbuttoned coats and collected their bags. The car was quickly becoming hot and stuffy now they had reached ground-level. She followed the shuffling chatting crowd off the conveyance and into a clearing.

White and pink wildflowers added colour to the carpet of weeds which spread out to the boarder of wavering pine trees. The air was brisk and filled with foreign smells; tree resin, wood smoke, and crushed grass. It was different from the city, though not unpleasantly so.

The single platform was crowded with laughing and shouting people. Passengers, in crumpled clothes and wilted hats wobbled forward. Their movements were hampered by arms loaded with bags and packages. Townspeople, Sophie guessed, stood welcome before them. They were different from the travellers. Their clothing was rougher, dirtier and muted in colour. They stood with causal confidence watching the spectacle of new arrivals.

All around her, the constant throb of chatter was punctuated by shouts of joy as excited greetings were exchanged. Sophie searched the waiting faces for some familiar signs. She felt her stomach slowly sink as Yuki squealed and rushed forward into the waiting arms of an older man. Beneath the wide brim of his dusty hat, Sophie saw the scraggly edges of a beard a moment before the man embraced Mrs. Yamata.

P1040256Caught by the crowd, which had grown too large for the rough plank platform, Sophie spun trying to orientate herself. Behind her was the air-carriage, the late afternoon sunlight glinting off brass fittings and glass windows. A crew of uniformed workers were busy cleaning the interior and making ready for tomorrow’s departure.

Before her, along the western edge of the clearing was the station house. It was a log-structure, presumably made from the local pine. The round logs had been cut with notches at the corners and the town’s name had been carved into a sign that hung over the wide front stairs. The covered porch wrapped around the building, the only building. Where was the town?

Sophie’s eyes followed the shuffling mass of people, who appeared to be heading around the station house rather than into the building. Readjusting the handles of her carpet bag, Sophie followed. Though it seemed unlikely an entire city could be hidden by a single structure.

As she moved, Sophie checked each female face in view. Could she have forgotten the shape of her sister’s eyes or the pull of her mouth? Had it only taken a few months for Anika to become a stranger? None of the people in sight looked like Anika and certainly none stepped forward to greet her.

Around the back of the station house, was another platform that jutted out over the steep slope of a hill. From glimpses she caught between the trees, Sophie could see painted buildings at the base of the hill. She had not yet arrived in Dawn City. Hopefully the city would be more modern than the station house.

As she waited with the crowd, a heavy cable pulled a large basket to the edge of the platform. The metal wheel clinked to a stop and the man inside the basket called for people to load up after paying the required fee.

‘What is that?’ Sophie wondered, not realizing she had spoken until her neighbour answered.

‘The cable-basket,’ the older woman replied. ‘It ferries people between the town and the station. There are actually two. One will currently be loading people at the bottom, while this one loads them at the top. Then the cables will pull one up and the other down.’

‘How do they know when to move the baskets?’

‘The ferryman there,’ the woman said pointing a bent finger at the man collecting fees. ‘He rings a bell when everyone is loaded. There is a third man in the powerhouse operating the cables.’

Sophie swallowed. ‘Is that the only way down the mountain?’

‘You could always walk. I hear there is a narrow path that winds its way down, somewhere over there.’ The woman waved a dismissive hand back towards the station house. Sophie frowned and bit back her next comment. Instead she watched the full basket bob and bounce as it started its descent.

It was a slow process. Stuck in the middle of her basket, Sophie swayed and rocked with the constant movement. She bumped into the people around her, unable to keep her balance. While most were too dazed by their first ride in a cable-basket, several of those she assumed were townspeople scowled at her.

Welcome to Dawn City, Sophie thought glumly. The man standing with his arms crossed over his barrel chest nudged her away from him. They were more than halfway down the hill when the trees thinned and the city came into full view. Unfortunately, Sophie could see little past the tall shoulders of the other passengers.

In the small spaces that appeared between swaying people Sophie caught sight of buildings, streets and the glitter of light on water. What she did see was not evidence of a bustling city like Chesico, whose streets were paved with stone. Chesico’s downtown had buildings rising four and six stories tall. Dawn City looked small. It did not look any bigger as Sophie was pushed from the basket.

From the smaller platform, Sophie left the cable-basket and entered into Dawn City proper. People and wagons shuffled along packed dirt streets. Individuals with determined looks stood beside massive packs and crates. A year’s supply of rations piled together blocked the street to wagons. The raised boardwalks on either side were crowded with the better dressed and cleaner looking members of society. Men in dark trousers and white shirts watched carts of goods and people pass. Women in long skirts and wide-brimmed hats fanned themselves as they chatted with each other.

Timber buildings were painted in a myriad of different colours with garish trim around the windows and doors. False fronts made the buildings closer to the river appear taller and more imposing than the structures hidden behind.

Sophie walked in a bewildered daze through the streets. The press of bodies seemed to close in on her. It had looked so small from her position in the cable-basket. Yet walking from one full hotel to the next made the town feel expansive.

Her carpet bag grew heavy and banged awkwardly against her shins. The smell of bread and grilled meat wafted through the air causing her stomach to grumble loudly. How long had it been since she ate? Looking at the sun was of little help. The orange ball of light sat low on the horizon, a swollen orb that refused to surrender its place in the sky.

Fatigue and worry pulled at Sophie’s nerves. Her fingers played over the charms on her wrist. She needed help and rest; food and shelter. She turned down another smaller side street and spied the vibrant pink building. The fourth hotel Sophie had stopped at in search of a room had recommended the boarding house. She read the pealing orange letters painted on the side of the building: Patal’s Palace Lodgings.

Sophie rubbed the charm on her wrist as she climbed the wide front stairs towards the dark opening. She smiled at the miniature house nailed to the right of the front door. The carefully constructed replica of the boarding house shared the same garish paint job. It was also chipped and peeling. A nail had loosened and the miniature tilted on its perch just as the boarding house listed to the left.

The wide front door hung open. Inside the dim interior the front hall was painted golden yellow. The floor was scuffed green painted wood.

‘Hello,’ a young man said. Blue eyes sparkled curiously at her. ‘Are you new here?’

‘I hope so,’ Sophie replied licking dry lips. ‘Do you know where I can find the proprietor?’

‘I think Ms. Patal is in the kitchen,’ he waved his hand towards the back of the building, the charms dangling from his wrist jingled musically.

At the end of the narrow hall was the kitchen. Aromas of curried stew wafted out. Three young girls moved purposefully around the space from work counters to sink. The clatter of dishes and pots filled the air. Sophie salivated as leftover food was put away and dirty plates were cleaned for the night. At the centre of the dance was a tall woman dressed in bright pink and gold. Her long black hair fell in a single braid down her back. She wore a long sleeveless tunic over a split skirt.

P1040265‘Hello, hello,’ she sang spotting Sophie. ‘Welcome to Patal’s Palace.’

Dislodging herself from the kitchen, Ms. Patal flowed toward her. ‘A recently arrived adventurer? What has brought you to our magical land?’

‘I have come after my sister.”

Ms. Patal smiled. ‘Come to join your sister?’

‘To find my sister,’ Sophie amended.

‘So you will not be lodging with her.’

Sophie shook her head. ‘I … I don’t know if she is in town. I think she said she was working a gold-field–I mean a claim.’

‘Of course, of course. No doubt she will be here to greet you shortly. Until then you need a place to stay, yes? Well, let me think. I don’t know if I have any rooms left, summer is a very busy season for us…’

‘Where else can I go?’

‘There is no place like Patal’s Palace,’ the landlady sang. ‘I have just the thing. Follow me.’

Ms. Patal lead Sophie up three flights of stairs to a room stuffed in a small corner of the attic. The roof sloped. The bed creaked and sagged. The window was permanently shut in its orange frame. Atop the chest of drawers was a chipped ceramic washbasin and mismatched jug.

The landlady smiled as she gestured exuberantly at the room. ‘Meals are included: breakfast and dinner. The cost is paid by week.’ She looked expectantly at Sophie as she noted the price.

Sophie sputtered. ‘You want how much? For this miniscule space! I could easily get three times the space back in Chesico.’

Ms. Patal’s smile faded. ‘We are not in Chesico, now are we? If you don’t want the room, I am sure someone else does.’

‘No, no,’ Sophie hurried. She had already been turned away from several hotels. ‘I will pay.’

‘Don’t worry, I am sure we can fit the rest of your supplies somewhere,’ Ms. Patal said as she left.

‘I don’t have any other supplies,’ Sophie told the room. ‘And that is a good thing. I am glad Dawn City isn’t any bigger. I don’t think I could afford to stay here another week.’ She moved over to the window. ‘Don’t worry Anika, it shouldn’t take more than a day to find you. Then we can be on our way.’

Slipping out of her shoes, Sophie curled up on the bed. She let the fatigue of the journey pull her into the sweet oblivion of sleep.

Outside, the sun skimmed along the horizon. The sky dimmed but never fully darkened even Sophie drifted away in the realm of dreams.

This Is A Thing

So, I still do this. Honest. I’ve just been busy. Which is unfortunate because November is coming up and we all know how well that goes. Maybe because of my horrible neglect in October, I shall post in November. Maybe I’ll just post my rambling nonsense from NaNo. That sounds fun right?

Right?

 

II

 

I hate motels. They’re dingy pits filled with a perpetual smell of petroleum, ubiquitous and unidentifiable stains covering dated carpets and continental breakfasts solely composed of stale coffee and week old muffins. The only thing I ever like about them is they’re typically staffed by workers who are just as embarrassed about the place as the guests are.

The Dickie Bird Motel is such a place barring the staff.

The proprietor and, from what I could tell the sole worker, is a middle aged man who introduced himself as Emile Masson. Despite the name, I can’t get over his dark complexion and hair or his short stature. He has a splotchy beard and crinkly face that’s jovial but eerily out of place. He doesn’t speak with an accent, thankfully. And I am polite enough to not ask about his background.

“Around for another day are you?”

I blow on the lukewarm swill in my cup.

“Guess so.”

“Keep this up and I’d think you’d want to take up residence!”

He laughs at his own joke. I wrap up the half-eaten muffin.

“Seriously though, don’t get many people staying too long. Bit of a surprise is all, as most are just laying-over from the highway. Heading down south for those nice beaches. T’is a pity, I always say. We’ve got some perfectly fine surf here. But folks just want that sun, I suppose.”

“Guess so.”

My chair scrapes loudly as I stand and deposit the remains of my breakfast in the black garbage bag. Emile is moving about the tables, pretending to be cleaning. Hardly a speck of dirt on them as most guests have already packed up and moved on. Not that there’s any reason to hang around. The breakfast area is in the same foyer as Emile’s front desk and this motel is hardly sporting any pools or spas.

“I’ve got a few brochures of the area. Some fine old lighthouses dotted about. Get a few motorists that make a hobby of checking out historical places. Think we’ve got a few geocaches too if that’s your interest.”

He’s dead set on a conversation. My neck is still sore from his rock-hard pillows and lumpy mattress. The Dickie Bird is the only thing in the area with a decent recommendation online, however. Which worries me what the state of the Maryhill hotel would be.

“Not really here for sight-seeing.”

“Fishing is it? Didn’t think I noticed a canoe or anything on your car. A few rentals not too far out.”

“I’m actually looking for someone.”

Emile pauses in his housekeeping.

“Is that so?”

It’s clear he doesn’t know what to do with this information. I can hardly blame him. I get a lot of those blank stares.

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about Maryhill, would you?”

His mood sours instantly. I watch as he turns instinctively from the window, suddenly becoming preoccupied with a spot on the table.

“You came all this way for that place, huh?”

“Not specifically. Got some word they were headed this way. You ever heard of the Pitch Dark?”

Emile is visibly shaken. He folds up his cloth and makes his way to the counter.

“You sure you aren’t looking for some fishing?”

I don’t know why I press. Maybe I feel guilty for his sudden change in disposition. Maybe I am worried about his brief look of horror. I reach into my coat pocket and extract a small photograph. It’s worn, now. The edges are bent. I place it on the counter and slide it across.

“These are my cousins.” I look him hard in the face. “Been gone for a few years now. Just up and left one night. Took their children with them and didn’t say a word. I’m trying to find them.”

Emile tries to keep from the photograph. His conscience gets the better of him. He picks it up, turning on the side lamp to look at it clearer.

“Cute girls.”

“Eleven and seven at the time. That one’s Madison. The other’s Zoe.”

He looks at it for a time. I can’t read his expression but it’s clear he’s wrestling with something. I pinch the photo, gently removing it from his grasp.

“I just want to make sure they’re alright.”

He nods, blinking as I put the photograph back in my jacket pocket.

“And you think they’re here?”

“As I said, I got word they were headed this way.”

“I don’t know much about… Maryhill.” He chokes on the word as though it’s poison to his throat. “Don’t have any reason to be heading that way, myself. Not a lot of people go there. Oh, she’s seen better days, that’s for certain. But there’s an unpleasantness about her that puts visitors right off. Been like that ever since I’ve worked here.”

“What of the Pitch Dark?”

“What of it?”

“You don’t know anything about that?”

“Only what I got on the news,” Emile says, nodding towards the small television in the corner. “Wasn’t a pleasant business, overall. Most are happy to have it go away and be forgotten. We still get a few curiosity seekers come through. Poking around for it and all that. For the most part, though, it’s come and gone.”

I shake my head.

“You haven’t really said what it is.”

“I wouldn’t know!” Emile says quickly. He looks around, as though he expects some phantom audience to be listening in on the conversation. “I just… heard the gossip and whatnot. Honest.”

“What was the gossip.”

“Not good.”

I can tell when things are heading in circles. I rap an anxious knuckle on the counter before realizing my options are exhausted.

“Well, thank you very much.”

Maybe it’s my tone, but Emile calls as I’m pushing open the door.

“It was an unpleasant sort of business!” I look back at him, door still open to the grey skies. “It was no family establishment, that’s for certain. They held midnight performances only… of a peculiar sort. I remember some of the people who’d come for them. You can tell the type. Strangers they were, in more ways than one. Most didn’t stay here though. Don’t rightly know where they stayed. They’d come for their shows and then… who knows.”

“What kind of shows are we talking about? Everything online was vague.”

“They wouldn’t post something like the Pitch Dark online.” Emile shakes his head as though to dislodge something from his mind. “Unwholesome. Debauched. Exotic-like. As I said, nothing suitable for a good family.”

“And now it’s closed.”

“That’s a blessing, it is,” Emile says. “Not sure why. Police got involved after some anonymous tip. Launched an investigation and everything. Their press release was brief. Said they found things. Disturbing things. Didn’t go into detail and no one pressed. So it just sort of… blew on by.”

“You haven’t seen a Volkswagen by chance?”

“Seen a lot.”

“Recently?”

“I don’t keep a car registry, I’m afraid.”

“Thanks.”

I make sure to sound appreciative this time. His reply feels genuine.

“Be safe.”

The Dickie Bird is placed along the highway and it takes me a good two hours of meandering country road to get back to dreary Maryhill. It’s still muted and lifeless in the daylight with its disquieting residents shambling along the paths. I don’t have much of a direction this time. I drive by the theatre but have no energy to search it. One look and the exhaustion of last night’s visit hits me like a pile of bricks. But I’m not looking for decrepit ruins today.

I need to find that car.

I spend the better part of the morning driving up and down those few streets. I keep telling myself that I’ll happen upon it at any moment. When lunch comes around, I stop at the smallest store I’ve ever seen. The clerk is sullen as he sells me some plain bread and a few over-priced fruit. Grumbles about the lack of fish and I can’t help but notice he hasn’t bothered to update his signs to reflect the lack of stock.

I eat in the lot beneath the local church. The bright red roof gives some life to the wretched village. But it doesn’t bring any comfort. I watch the sea churn its thick, dark waves. A few boats blink amongst the crests, near drowned in the carpeting clouds stifling the horizon. I find my heart racing just thinking of those desolate souls tossing back and forth. My lunch lurches in my stomach.

Maybe a drive will help clear my mind.

I put Maryhill behind me, following the languid road through the scoured rocky seaside. Though the town proper falls away, there’s still far flung homes scattered amongst the scraggly grass. It might have looked serene on a sunny day but to me it’s all desolation. Gives the sense of a worn battlefield than quaint countryside. I can’t help but wonder how much blood has been put into the earth but a glance to the dark waters makes me think it’s all gone to a different end.

I don’t think much of the outcropping when it pops up from the ground as I mount the ridge. The thick stone is smoothed and worn from weathering and has the appearance of a broken and hunched giant’s back. Nothing grows across his pale sides as the stone behemoth appears to be dragging his tired body into the hungry waves breaking across his neck. I wonder if it’s a lookout and briefly consider searching for a route up.

It’s then I notice the shack.

It’s a small, grey wood structure like something that has been washed out to sea centuries ago and only recently been tossed back. Its windows are dark, the glass rippled like a pond disturbed by an unseen finger. A multitude of empty drying racks dot the plot, the bare wood all that’s left of a long dead carcass picked clean.

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/frames-e.html?/html/t/turner/1/103turne.html

The Shipwreck by Joseph Mallord William Turner (1805).

But it’s not the traditional architecture that makes me swerve onto the narrow path running towards its fastened front door. There’s a Volkswagen parked beside it. A Volkswagen with a familiar dint above the back right wheel well.

I’m rubbing my eyes as I come to a stop mere feet from the fender. My headlights pool across the metal, glittering off the flecks of sea spray and early drizzle. I open my door in a daze, the wind slamming me inside my car as I shake the eerie grip of delusion from my mind.

I can hardly believe the letters stamped across the licence plate.

BAHC-353.

I near slip on the moistened rock underfoot as I stumble from my vehicle still thrumming with its live engine. I have to touch it. I have to reassure myself that my sight isn’t deceiving me.

The metal is biting cold beneath my fingers. My breath fogs the glass. I press my nose against the windows but there are no familiar faces peering  from the interior.

I turn towards the rundown shack. My fist rings against the wood. The door nearly buckles from my greeting.

Perhaps it is the ferocity of my announcement but there’s an immediate answer to my summons. The face that peels the door away is a withered and creased thing half-hidden beneath a beard so ferocious and ratty that it looks like something had hooked on the man’s face and perished. It is impossible to age the man beneath the sagging cowls of his upper-lids and the splotchy skin pulled taut across his wiry frame. He could be ancient, some relic even older than his home spat from the sea. Or he could be a handful of years my junior, aged well beyond recognition from toils demanded by the small dingy clattering along the pier out the back of his abode.

“Who are you?”

It is not much of a welcome but a befitting one for a stranger clutching his coat and staring as hard as he can at the native.

“This your house?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Is that your car?”

This makes the bearded man falter. His response is noticeably less assured. “Yes.”

“Where did you get it?”

“What’s it to you?”

I don’t know where the surge of adrenaline originates, but I grab the man fiercely by his frayed sweater and pull him from his stoop. His hands are upon mine, far stronger than I expect. We wrestle but briefly. My shoes slip upon the stones and sense is jostled harshly into my body as I bang against the unrelenting earth.

The man scrambles for some object to defend himself but his rusted hammer is no good against the weapon I wield.

He pauses as I hold the photograph aloft.

“Where are they!” I cry into the wind. The sea pulls hungrily at the photo. Water streaks my burning face but the ocean spray and mist refuse to reveal whether it is tears of rage or not. The fisherman lowers his tool.

“Get out before I call the cops!”

I stumble to my feet, my clothes heavy with the moisture they have stolen.

“Where are they!” I demand again.

The fisherman turns to his modest home but I stumble after him before he can shut the door.

“I’ll go to the police. I know they were here!”

He stands in his entryway, water dripping upon the naked boards.

“I don’t know nothing about them!”

“That’s their car!” I point, still reassuring myself that it rests in the driveway.

“I don’t know anything!”

“Where did you get their car? Were they here? Did you invite them in?”

“I don’t know nothing about no damn family!”

He turns, a flurry of emotion written across his face. He looks sternly in my eye. His hands ball into fists. And yet, the picture still shakes in my grip. He looks down on the faces as though transfixed by the frozen people trapped in their old frame.

My voice is hoarse as it struggles through my lips.

“Where are they?”

He holds one of his wizened hands over his eyes, rubbing something away. When last he looks at me, his face is drained. All that’s left is a crippling fatigue that sags his shoulders.

“I found it,” he whispers. The words are nearly lost in the wind. “I found it just up the ways. Headed into town. Just sitting on the side of the road there like a little gosling that lost her mother. Doors were all open. The light was like a beacon…”

He shakes his head again and waves towards the car.

“Not a sign of nobody, I swear.”

I shake my head. This makes no sense.

“Why didn’t you report it?”

“Have you seen this place?” the fisherman cries. “My hauls are empty. The sea’s been angry for years now. I haven’t… I have to eat. I have to eat! I can barely afford to keep my boat in repair. I thought… well maybe this was my time, you know. Old Maryhill’s supposed to bring about fortunes when the Lord is pleased and all. I figured maybe this was that sign. I swore if the owner ever came back, I’d be right as happy to return it. I would! But, well, no one ever came.”

I can’t tell if he’s lying or not. I look about his property though it’s not like I’m going to find an open grave with my cousins all piled inside. I look the photograph over, wiping off what rain I can before putting it safely back in my coat.

“I want to look at it.”

“Yes,” he says, nodding. “Of course.”

He takes only a moment, disappearing behind his door. He returns with keys jangling in hand. He motions towards the car but I hold out my palm. He looks at them reluctantly before passing them over.

I circle the car as I search for anything. I try opening the door but I don’t recognize all the keys on the chain. It takes a couple of tries before I get it unlocked.

The smell is the first thing to hit.

I don’t have a lot of memories of this vehicle. My familiarity has developed by pouring over old albums and photographs. But I’m certain I would have remembered the heavy stench of fish and rot that permeates it. I gulp what fresh air I can before climbing inside.

The interior is disgusting. Garbage piles on the passenger seats. Stains and grime stick upon every surface. I don’t want to touch anything. I poke through it anyway.

There’s little in the glove compartment that hints at any prior owner. There’s nothing of my cousins amongst the filth that litters the floor. Cigarette burns mar the dashboard but they never smoked. It wasn’t good for the kids. There isn’t even a CD in the tray.

Whatever was left of my cousins has been buried or removed by the slimy, greasy fingers of that man.

Yet another dead end.

I slam my fists against the wheel. The horn echoes the forlorn cry I cannot give.

No, I’m on the right track. I have to be. This is proof. This is what I’ve been looking for all these years. I pull myself from the car, breathing in the fresh air. I take out my phone, snapping a few shots of the vehicle. I make sure to angle my pictures to include the fisherman in them without him realizing.

“So there was nothing in the car?” I ask.

“No.”

He isn’t convincing.

“I want to see inside your home.”

“No way! Look, I’ve been plenty accommodating. But I really don’t know what happened to the last owners.”

I try to sneak a peek of his house as I hand back the keys and he locks himself inside. It’s not likely that he’d have something of theirs anyway.

I remember searching their home and noting much of the kids’ things were gone–as was the luggage. It is as though they packed up for an impromptu vacation. For this vehicle to be here, they had to have travelled a great ways with it packed to the brim. It’s simply not possible that he found the car without anything inside.

I make sure to take a shot of his house before climbing into my car. I’ll poke around the shops and see if I can’t find something of theirs. He probably pawned it and probably locally. He doesn’t seem the type to offload a bunch of stolen belongings without leaving a paper trail.

I’m giddy as I drive into Maryhill. Perhaps it’s the first time I actually face the village with a smile. It doesn’t last long. I’m across town in a few minutes before I even remember that I didn’t find any pawnshops in my prior searches. I stop in that sad little store where I bought lunch and get a confirmation. The closest one is a few days travel down the highway.

The wind is gathering more furor so I decide to call it early and head back to the Dickie Bird.

Preview – The Pitch Dark

I haven’t forgotten you. Though sometimes it feels like I have…

 

I

 

Five years of obsession and searching have brought me here. Five long years and I have a name at last. It’s not an answer but at least it’s a new question.

The Pitch Dark Theatre.

It’s not much to look at now. It’s one of those old, colonial types. Never really cared for architecture myself. That is more Therese’s thing. She loves old homes. Always going on about the Georgians, Gothic Revivals and Queen Annes. Yeah, this could be a Queen. Those are her favourite and this has vestiges of that gingerbready look. I have a feeling she wouldn’t be too fussed about this one, though.

It squats on the ridge like some fat vulture hungrily eyeing the street. Its long windows are boarded and shut to the crashing surf still audible despite the wind. Half the shutters have fallen off rusted hinges and the few that remain batter against the brick side. At one time it was probably fancy like a governor’s house or a hotel. It isn’t much now. The only sense of colour to represent its regal construction is in the blocky graffiti sprayed across its wall. But even that is sparse.

Few weeds sprout on a front lawn too dry to entertain grass for a spell. The barren ground is an oddity given the heavy clouds overhead. The smell of rot permeates the air and the boards sag underfoot. Paint peels and flakes but reveals nothing beneath other than more blighted black wood.

And then there is that damnable police tape snapping in the air. The edges are frayed. The words are faded. Someone put this up then couldn’t be bothered to return and take it down. It’s like the whole town has condemned the place, marked it off and quarantined it.

The message is clear: stay away.

But I can’t. There’s something about the name. I hold my phone before the facade, looking over what it once was. The Internet still has pictures of it back when Maryhill was proud of the monument. Bright cornerstones encased the red brick with inlaid terracotta panels and a large disposed set of windows with arched upper sashes and a gabled roof. Asymmetrical oriel windows pop from its otherwise flat side with impressive set ornamental frames that would have certainly been a big draw back in the day.

Now, they are more like pustulating blemishes bulging from the skin and ready to burst. Ornamental chimneys rise behind the single, oddly placed tower as though the roof has grown a row of crooked teeth. The whole front curves and buckles at irregular angles like the ground is trying to dislodge and pitch the entire misshapen thing into the sea.

And while it was bright and decorated in the photo, now it is all black. Thick, choking paint runs over everything, right down to the fish scale shingles so that a sense of form and depth is utterly lost amongst that unending nothingness.

I snap a photo anyway.

I take a look about the street before ducking beneath the tape. It is unnecessary but after five years of questionable searches and more than a few awkward conversations with local authorities, some habits are hard to shake. No one really walks by this old building though. I haven’t seen a single soul even look its way from the lower roads.

The wood groans as I pass. There’s no front door anymore. Pieces of scattered, broken wood are the only hints to the theatre’s final night. I enter the foyer without any resistance, picking a path amongst the construction half forgotten in the curved entrance. The hallways are open to me, all doorways eerily empty of their teeth. Wind whistles through the building’s vacated bones as litter and dirt spreads from the passing of rodents and birds.

I make my way forward. Despite the dirt, the only thing that stands out as peculiar is the walls. They’re covered in wide streaks of bright white paint. It seems like someone had come through with ambitious intentions despite the animals ruining the effort. Lines stripe the ceiling too, as though to scrub the offending black wholly from existence. As I proceed deeper, however, the effort dwindles. Solitary lines are all that remain until I step into a central courtyard eerily untouched by this mysterious renovator.

It’s a strange design. Where should lie the heart of the house rests a cobbled square with a covered walkway that circles its perimeter. There’s a visible chill in the air as numerous passages lead to this small, open space. Looking up, I can see the persistent grey sky heavy with rain clouds too full to break. Silhouettes of the square chimneys feel like a penning fence, their throats long drained of any smoke.

Without the mad renovator’s touch, the effect of that black paint is heaviest here. It oozes from every post, brick and stone. Only the single shaft of light overhead can penetrate that gloom. The air is thick as though it carries twisting chains that wrap about my ankles and wrists. The windows overlooking the yard are just as dark and unnerving.

But nothing is worse than that stairwell.

It’s little more than a slit in the ground like a tear in the very earth. Darkness almost bubbles forth from its gaping cavity and there’s an oppressive silence that deafens my senses. Looking upon that hole I’m unable to shake a powerful sense of dread.

Naturally, I turn and poke amongst the side passages.

I don’t know how long I wander. Each room I step into is just like the last. It’s as though I’m witnessing the frozen battle between two eternal forces. Black and white paint hangs from every surface. Where expensive rugs and ornate furniture should be there is nothing but those naked walls clashing in their two tones. The borders and mouldings are lost amongst careless brush swipes. It’s impossible to say who is winning.

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/art/t/turner/1/100turne.jpeg

Fishermen at Sea by Joseph Mallord William Turner (1796).

And no matter where I wander, I always emerge in that dreaded courtyard. Even as I attempt to navigate myself away from it, the curious twisting corridors and small, numerous blank rooms always end by disgorging me into that pit of darkness. There’s nothing here on the main floors. I can’t even say that the place has been ransacked. It’s almost as though there was nothing ever here.

The fifth time I enter the courtyard, I look up to the sky to see it darkening just like the house. A shudder runs down my spine as my eyes are inextricably drawn towards those hollow, descending steps. I haven’t checked the upper floors yet and by now I’m not certain I even want to explore them.

I convince myself that it would be too dangerous in a building this neglected without a flashlight. I poke amongst the corridors until I find the one that leads out. I don’t even bother hiding my sigh of relief as I duck beneath the police tape and hurry down the path to the street. I pause before the driver’s door to look at the Pitch Dark Theatre in the deepening twilight. It’s like a shadow now but of what I cannot say–just a dark smear across a dark sky.

I get into the car and drive, thankful for the shine of my headlights.

It feels like another wasted day. It feels like another dead end. Nothing to show for my work. Nothing to confirm these nagging doubts latched in the back of my mind. I was certain this would be it. Looking at the building felt like I finally caught my break.

The rest of Maryhill is unremarkable colonial nothingness. It’s a village forgotten by time. The small, squat homes are bleak and lifeless. The few inhabitants on the street huddle against the terrible wind rolling off the waters, clutching their torn plastic bags as they shuffle for the recluse of their small lives. It’s a dead town at the end of a very dead trail.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s time to give this up.

I’m turning the car towards the highway when something catches the corner of my eye. I slam the brakes and screech to a stop.

There, beneath the pale light of a local hotel is the worn, beaten Volkswagen with the telltale dent above its back right wheel well. I’m in shock as I fumble for my phone. I’m flicking between photo albums before I even realize I’m parked in the middle of the street. I signal and turn into the hotel’s parking lot, taking a space two down from the Volkswagen. I find a picture of the old car, parked beneath the cherry tree. It looks better then and not just because of the two girls sitting in its open trunk smiling for the camera. Their feet dangle over the licence plate but I can still make out enough of it.

BAHC-353.

I climb out, pausing just long enough to look up and down the street. Nobody wants to brave this weather this late in the evening. As I move around the car, I look towards the hotel entrance. All the windows are dark like most of Maryhill but a small, fluorescent Open sign flickers in the corner of the front glass.

I crouch by the back plate, wiping some of the mud away.

BAHC-353.

My heart is pounding. This is it. I look back at the hotel.

It’s a small place. Certainly less grandiose than the Pitch Dark Theatre. It’s covered in that quaint country white paint though the wind and sea salt has caused it to peel in places. The roof sags beneath its own dissolution. The curtains are frilled, stained and faded. Perhaps it would have been lovely back in the seventeen hundreds. Now it was much like the rest of the town–living well past its natural life.

I open the front door. The soft chime of bells ring overhead. The wind groans after me, causing small papers to flutter of a nearby stand. I slam the door shut, bending to pick up the mess I’ve inadvertently made. They are travel brochures though none of the pictures on them look like Maryhill. They’re all colourful villages filled with smiling people.

“Can I help you?”

The question is more accusatory than polite. A young girl sits behind an awkward counter blocking a half open door to the back rooms. An empty pot rests beside her, nothing in it except dry dirt and a wooden dowel to support the faded idea of a flower.

She’s a young thing, barely old enough to be working a counter and certainly not old enough to be working this late. Her eyes are cold and bored; it is the vacant stare reserved only for those in that obnoxious stage of teenhood where their minds possess the singular thought that they amongst all others know everything but can’t be bothered to share any of it.

“Busy day, eh?” I ask. It’s a lame attempt to liven the mood.

She’s duly unimpressed.

“Not here, no.”

“That your car out front?”

“I don’t have my licence yet.”

“It’s a guest’s then?”

“The hotel doesn’t have guests anymore.”

She keeps that dead stare and, though those empty eyes rest solely in a young thing’s face, I can’t help but shift beneath them. The floor creaks with my weight as I search for an unassuming route of enquiry.

“A co-worker’s then?”

She doesn’t reply.

“Look, I just want to talk to whoever drives that Volkswagen in your lot.”

She shakes her head, a few strands of dirty brown hair falling loose. She adjusts them before she speaks.

“There’s no car in the lot.”

I try not to grit my teeth.

“Yes, there is.”

“There isn’t.”

I look out the window. Even with the lacy curtains, I can still see the outline of the car sitting plain as day in front of the hotel. God damn kids.

“Look, it’s really important that I speak to the driver of that vehicle. So, either you tell me who it is or I’m going to knock on each of these doors until I find whoever brought it here.”

I wave my hand down the side hall where the guest rooms clearly lie. She shakes her head but says nothing more, looking down to the faded pages of a book behind the counter.

“Fine then!”

I turn but have only taken three steps before I hear that telltale thrum of an engine igniting. I look out the window to see the vehicle’s lights angling towards the street.

She doesn’t even look up as I wrench open the door and burst into the night.

I fumble my keys, half distracted watching the Volkswagen pull away. A light fog is rolling in from the sea and I’m just slamming the door as the first tendrils wrap about my car. The engine stutters several times.

Not now. Not today.

“Come on!”

But even as the car shakes to life, I know I’m already too late. The wheels squeal as I spin onto the road and tear down the street. I’m looking down every side lane as I pass but there’s nothing here now–only fog and darkness.

I circle Maryhill’s main road twice. It’s not that large. But there’s no sign of the Volkswagen. It’s like it wasn’t there at all. My stomach’s growling by the time I give up.

I have to pass the hotel on the way out of the village. I restrain myself from raising my finger. It’s not like she’d see it anyway.

Darkly Dreaming

Sadly, I have no interesting thoughts or musings to share with you today, world. I’m busy working, recovering from a rather eventful weekend and haven’t had anything noteworthy happen in the last few days to write some comment on.

I suppose I’ll wax on about my current work.

Accessed from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hypnos#/media/File:Waterhouse-sleep_and_his_half-brother_death-1874.jpg

Sleep and his Half-Brother Death by John William Waterhouse (1874).

I’m picking away at a short story that was, ultimately, inspired by a dream. It’s a little trite, but every now and then I’ll have a narratively interesting and coherent midnight imagining that could actually be turned into a decent story. I think if we looked over the long history of the human race, we’d find that dreams are a common source of inspiration. There’s just something about the completely unhinged and unhindered way our minds work while in the throes of Hypnos and his three children that produces some wonderfully strange and bizarre ideas.

This particular idea seems appropriately spawned by a dream as well. I’ve commented before on my experimentations into the horror genre. As a classification of fiction, it has a rather curious relationship with science fiction and fantasy. It’s like that awkward half-brother that everyone isn’t entirely certain belongs but recognizes that he can’t be put anywhere else. One of my favourite horror authors is the much celebrated Lovecraft who, purportedly, got much of his Elder Mythos from nightmarish inspiration. My story revolves around similar elements of Lovecraftian horror. In particular, I always enjoyed Lovecraft’s masterful use of uncertainty and the disquieting effect the unknown can have on an individual.

There are short falls to his fiction, however, and part of that crops up in the aftermath of his exciting tales. While it’s a running trope in Lovecraftian fiction that relatives and like will usually take the the charge of a prior individual in the fight against the Elder Gods, this usually extended until the troubles facing the protagonists were solved. The colour out of space is banished. Unspeakable things are sealed away. Individuals are driven mad and locked away, the terrible artifacts or locations which became their undoing are confiscated or destroyed.

And the story ends and the world moves on. For all of the Cthulu Mythos’ intervening of concepts and beings, rarely do the personal mysteries or intrigues are ever examined further.

Ultimately, I was left with the curious idea of what it would be like to be one of these relatives waiting in the wings for their turn to be drawn forth by destiny to deal with the supernatural horrors pressing in from elsewhere. Only, their chance never comes because their kin did succeed in tying up those unsettling little plots on their own. Thus, the family is left with only so many questions and not a single answer in the desolate ruins of the dark battlegrounds on which an unknowable war was raged. They could feel something was certainly wrong, the disappearance of their relatives prime amongst this. There would be the ever present touch of things just being a little off. But, ultimately, there would be nothing to discover. For how could we hope to make sense of a Lovecraftian horror when even those that see them can not.

I’m not entirely certain if this story will succeed. Primarily, it has an unsatisfactory conclusion–something which shouldn’t hold a horror story back but… we’ll see. There’s no grand revelation. There’s no turning point for the protagonist where they learn of the fate that almost befell the world had their kin not given the most noble of sacrifices. There’s really… well… nothing. Nothing but a sense, a feeling. It’s that ephemeral sensation of the last disappearing gossamer threads of a dream which we dreamt so wild and vividly but is chased away by the searing light of the morning’s rays. We wake, having only the barest gasp of what was or could have been and by the time we can find someone to share these feelings with, we have already forgotten.

A Party at the Red Pony – A Tale of Drinking in Sigil

Perhaps it was the dim lighting, the heady scent of the seventh stained mug of potent but unidentifiable alcohol or maybe it was the fact that the small tavern was crammed full of all manner of creatures bizarre and unimaginable but never had that woman looked any more beautiful to Kaliban as she did now.

Kaliban could not take his eyes off her—save for the brief moments when upending his mug and slurring an order for another. There she sat, also eagerly knocking back drink after drink so that a mountainous pile grew between them beneath the raucous cheers of onlookers penning them on all sides. It was a contest of spirits which built the great divide between them and—as Kaliban’s vision began to blur—it was the determination that he would see his consciousness across those wet and sticky vessels to the oasis of her lavish green eyes awaiting on the other side that motivated him.

To be certain, he knew very little of the fair Thia Nailo despite having spent a great deal of time sharing mortal peril with her. Albeit, half that peril was illusory and contained with the safe and impenetrable walls of the Nursery but had he not died in her arms? Had he not suffered both sling and arrows by her side? His heart had thumped with red-bloodedness and adrenaline. Could there exist a more perfect recipe for romance? Kaliban knew no others and he was well versed in recipes and concoctions.

Perhaps she would take great interest in that knowledge? He paused in his chugging to perceive the slight swoon of her head, the bright veins which glimmered within her pupils. She looked at him with eyes barely clear and a dozen sobering tinctures and inebriation remedies sprung to his mind. Surely even a place as strange and incomprehensible as this carried enough meadowsweet herb, fennel seed, gentian root and black horehound to stave off the disabling effects of their drinking contest.

Wait. Was it black horehound? Or was it chiretta herb? Or was that used in Widow’s Bliss? No, that was certainly strychnine which is incredibly time consuming and an enormous pain in the ass to extract from the plant’s damn seeds.

Have you any idea how hard it is to pulp a dozen tiny seeds with bleeding fingers while your mind begins to fill with their maddening juice while your matron screams profanities for how the Lord of Worms will use your corpse should you succumb to their delusive properties?

Kaliban briefly considered that as an opening to pleasant conversation but the barest scraps of sobriety still nestled in his mind cautioned against its effectiveness.

“The zombie falls behind! Is this the end?”

“I still have vim left in me, devil!” Kaliban shouted. At least, that was his intended response. Instead, he barely craned a drooping head in the direction of the grinning tiefling, his lips forming a long series of half-formed syllables which sounded more like, “shuv off yuus stoop-edd edded orn devl laidee…”

This prompted riotous cheers and laughter from the crowd. Certainly the party’s merriment was not that rare of a sport but even though their uncreative method for relaxing was likely seen day after day within the establishment, there were still those who worked the crowd in gathering bets over who would win between the tattooed man and beast bedecked half-elf.

Kaliban found another mug in his hand and muscles lifted it automatically to compliant lips with his fogged mind hardly perceptive of the entire procession. In fact, he couldn’t help but notice a strange pattern of extra mugs appearing at his elbow compared to the fine and beautiful Thia. Kaliban turned to Araven—the chief amongst the bookmakers—to contest this issue when he caught the telltale slump of his opponent’s shoulders.

Her fingers were barely able to wrap about the wood handle of her next drink and handsome Bill leaned in to whisper in her ear. Thia attempted to wave him off, her fingers tapping his chest as she fixed her eyes on Kaliban with determination.

He swooned. But Kaliban had seen enough people slip into peaceful unconsciousness to know that the woman’s constitution would not hold for longer. He looked down at the rolling green froth in his hands.

He knew what he had to do.

Kaliban leaned back on his chair, the legs creaking as the seat drew half to the air. He raised the drink to his mouth. He felt the warm liquid brush his lips. He closed his eyes and pushed off the flagged stone with his toes.

Kaliban by Me and really lazy.

Kaliban by Me and really lazy.

His chair collapsed against the ground in a thundering crash that broke over the cheering. His face grew warm and sticky with the fermented drink as it rushed from the skyward flagon’s bottom to bathe his face. He sputtered just enough from his nostrils to breath as he let brief emptiness wash over him.

But his shadows were not empty.

For a moment, the tavern vanished. The onlookers disappeared. Darkness consumed all, leaving nought but the tattooed man in a gaping nothingness.

Kaliban sensed their presence before he saw it. It was all over his skin, crawling across his face where once pleasant mead had stuck. They writhed, thousands upon thousands of small putrid worms. They clung to his flesh and clothes. They bubbled up from the darkness around his body, writhing their way into the folds of his clothes. Nothing could protect and nowhere was spared as the little creatures bore into flesh and muscle and tissue.

He opened eyes which were immediately besieged by the pestilent creatures. They blinded him just as quickly as they numbed him to all sensation but their burrowing mouths. They wrapped about his lobes and dug into his ears and he was filled with the sounds of their chewing.

Within that cacophony rose a terrible voice.

“You forget yourself, my son.”

Kaliban opened a mouth to scream but it was filled with the multitude of green creatures.

“You think you can hide from me?”

He tried to struggle—to free himself from the crush of the endless bodies. The more his limbs thrashed, the more the shadows spewed forth the crawling tide.

“You think your profane worship of the flesh will cloak you?”

Above blazed two great orbs burning with a vermillion flame of such hatred that its heat burned through the creatures engorging themselves on Kaliban’s pupils. The darkness folded so as to form the hood of that ancient head. It leered upon him, pressing close so that its child-worms became singing. The screams of his children assaulted Kaliban. It was that hideous chorus once more. He could smell the burning of their flesh as their voices rose in piteous pleas.

His mind convulsed in the memories. Visions of that dreaded fissure returned and the children thrown screaming one by one into the pits before being joined by their frenzied parents in an orgasmic slaughter of captive and believer alike. The air was thick with their blood, sweat and excrement. It was an assault upon one’s very sanity with the unbridled violence enacted against detestable flesh at every turn. Skin and muscle was flayed, leaving behind nought but the blessed bones which—so fuelled by the blasphemous rites—took to their tattered feet to assist with the massacre.

Presiding over it all was the Bonemaster himself. The Worm that Walks.

Black sleeves raised heavenward as screams drowned out whatever words escape that black hood.

“Remember,” echoed that voice in his ears. “Remember and obey.”

Kaliban stood over the pits, looking down on the mound of bodies filling the unending earth maw which swallowed them. A dagger was in one hand and an initiate in the other. The poor creature was bathed in the blood of the child which he had just slain and pushed upon the mound. His eyes were unblinking as he stared naked over the carnage, chest heaving in its disgusting need to consume the stench of death surrounding him.

It was Kaliban’s duty. He raised the blade to the child’s throat. Even as his muscles tensed beneath the knowledge that he would be next, his mind had seemingly all but left the proceedings and only the will of the Wormgod remained, urging him on to completion.

He would have too. But he was interrupted. A hand stayed his.

The blade was plucked from his young fingers as his victim was raised from his grasp. Kaliban blinked in incomprehension. He vaguely recognized his shadow matron—that woman which had filled him with just as many toxins as she had forced him create—as she raised his brother to her arms. She fled, tears streaming her cheeks and was swallowed by the darkness.

And some deeply buried thought wiggled in Kaliban’s mind. At the time he was filled with only his thoughts of failing the great Bonemaster—of his inability to save his brother of shadows from the curse of life. But now, he recognized that the matron had always favoured the other boy. While she tormented Kaliban and the others beneath her care, that one child could do no wrong.

In this brief drunken recollection, Kaliban could not help but note how similar they looked.

Dumbly, Kaliban stood upon the precipice before hands came and claimed him as well. Hooded individuals, elder members of the cult, carried him from the fissure with eyes downcast and refusing to look upon the slaughter. He hardly knew them as they wept, whispering apologies as he was born away from the master. When at last Kaliban realized their intentions, he struggled until a sting along his arm burn hot with the welling of his own blood mixing with the sedative. But as darkness fell upon him, he felt their arms hold him tighter and tighter.

He could feel those hands now, starkly warm upon his cold flesh. Kaliban’s eyes broke open as his body jerked madly. But there were no worms covering him now. There was no hood bearing upon him.

There was just sweet, beautiful Thia blinking with bleary eyes riddled with what Kaliban can only assume was concern.

“Are you alright?”

Without thought, Kaliban rose lips to connect lips in an impromptu embrace. In that moment, time slowed as his mind drank deep every precious sensation. The warmth of her mouth drove away those dark shadows of his recollections. The moisture of the spilt beer singed the lasting sensations of the endless worms. The scent of her newly acquired bestial adornments drowned out the hooded master and his traitorous whispers.

Then her hands were on his bare chest, pressing him off and away. Kaliban collapsed against the floor, relishing the pain of his pounding head, weariness of his inebriated limbs and, yes, the feelings of the lingering kiss.

“We… should buy some… silver. In case of ravens…”

Thia stood and Araven was at her side, quick to pronounce her winner and collecting the scrip from those foolish berks stupid enough to bet on Kaliban. A few patrons tripped over him as they dispersed back to their own indulgences but even as boots left fresh bruises, Kaliban did not move until a reluctant Bill arrived to pick up his lethargic body and bear him back to the Whole Note.