Move ye not the ancient stone
Things beneath best left alone
Wait upon thy freeing hand
So they walk upon the land
Once to fright us
Twice to kill
Thrice the darkened void
to fill
Stay thy hand
from ancient stone
Guard of spirit
flesh and bone
Me and thee
and everyone
til the rising
of the sun
Move ye not the ancient stone
Move ye not the ancient stone
© Alfred W. Smith Jr. 2015
In the Mean Time
We count for nothing
We are prone to anyone’s impulse to violence
Whether they wear a badge or watch the community….
In the Mean Time
We are hated for things that have nothing to do with
who
we are (not just a skin color)
In the Mean Time
We are shot like rabid dogs
regardless of guilt or innocence
In the Mean Time
Are our prayers even heard?
Is our suffering even
moving the hearts
of
anyone,
anywhere?
In the Mean Time,
we must go on
and strive to exist,
and fight to survive
and struggle to live
in hostile territory
surrounded by
enemies
shouting
curses and untruths
behind their walls
of
hate and fear.
In the Mean Time
We must continue to
Love
one another
and
our enemy,
even as we
contend with his ignorance.
In the Mean Time
Life for us here is hard,
but it can and will
get worse
if we
give up
in the
Mean Time.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
2015
Now immortal fires burn
Step up now and take your turn
Hopeless now for you to yearn
Endless lesson, never learn
Look into the dark abyss
On your lips a demon kiss
Living in a joyless bliss
How’d it ever come to this?
Not too late to step away
Walk into the light of day
Fighting in the frenzied fray
Clinging to life’s edge
You stay.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr. 2015
I was down on the waterfront, looking out at the waves, watching the boats and jet-skis, looking over at the private beaches, where the sun shone more brightly, and the illusion of a better life beckoned like a whore in a neon lit window.
One last time, I wanted that illusion.
One last time, to try to make it real for me.
That’s why I was down here, burning up in the high humidity of a day in July, waiting for the contact to give me the latest information on my final assignment:
Who do I kill next?
I’m called Nomad. My real name was erased years ago; I didn’t like it anyway.
No family to speak of, no wife, and no candidates for that position on the horizon, I was free to travel and murder at will.
It was a dangerous life, and so far, I’d come out on top; that wouldn’t always be the case, I knew, and there were times it got close, but not close enough.
I lived with it; death was the dance partner who every now and then stepped on your toes and kneed you in the balls just to let you know she was not enjoying your company.
The contact waddled up, all sweaty and wheezing, trying to light a cigarette with the lighter in his right hand while he fished around in his pocket for the chip with his left.
“Here.” He held it out in his sweaty palm.
I took a napkin out of my pocket and took it from him; he narrowed his eyes at me, and I smiled, and he looked away.
I put the chip into the port they inserted behind my ear, and heard the locking click.
The file took shape: holograms, maps, pictures, names, dates, locations, and finally the target.
“Who is he?”
“Your counterpart in that country.”
“And we want him, why?”
“You don’t get paid to ask questions; with him removed, you actually make more money.”
“He looks like he’s twelve.”
“It’s not like you wouldn’t do it if he was.”
That was probably truer than I cared to think about at the moment. I let it pass.
“You gonna confirm, Nomad? It’s bitchin hot out here.”
I confirmed.
“You leave in two hours.”
I nodded.
He walked away, gave a lazy wave, and the bullet burst his skull like an overripe melon.
Gonna be late for my flight…
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
3)
The taste of her blood was bitter and cool on his tongue, and his jaw clenched.
It was in that moment he knew she was fully aware of what he’d done, and in his eagerness, he played right into her trap.
He made no sound, and she did not stir.
A contest of wills, then.
The aftertaste was sweet like raw honey, and his spine tingled as the sugar infected his blood.
His stomach roiled, but it was too late.
What did you do to me, Janyris?
**************
Her father stood there, mute, dumbfounded that she would walk out on him.
“Janyris, who will take care of me?”
“Mother has taken lovers from the Underworld; you have choices, father. Exercise them. I will not stay here tending you in your dotage, I don’t want her crown, and I have my own life to live.”
Her father’s voice was gruff from grief. “How have you come to be so selfish?”
“In much the same manner as you came to be impotent: gradually.”
“Your mother, it seems, was a whore at heart. They are voracious creatures.”
“Mother enjoys sex; that does not make her a whore. She married you, and had none before you. Whatever perverse delights you introduced to her, she took a liking, and has now chosen to indulge.”
He hung his head, remembering those long, lust-filled nights when his own voraciousness had exhausted them both.
“Go then, and return not. I will die alone.”
She gave him a pitying look, reinforcing his.
“And you will die unloved; that’s what truly sad.”
She closed the door on him, and jumped as an axe blade split the door, heard him roaring damnation at her, the power of his words seeking to bind around her soul, and she felt them hit, and soak in. Her heart twisted in her chest, and doubling over, she retched,
Staggering out into the sun filled day, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her gown, struggling to breathe, she began running, her father’s curse on her life pursuing her, running effortlessly alongside, filling her ears with mocking wrath.
**************
“Is that what brought our paths together, dear Janyris: I in you, and you in me, in a way far more intimate than physical love?
“We hold each other’s strings now, and the better puppet master will win this fight.”
He left.
What a tawdry, common life. No wonder she fled.”
He returned to his own tower, the effects of her blood still at work in him, not quite making him intoxicated, but doing things to him that he remembered distantly feeling as a mortal.
His walk was unsteady, and he was shivering, but he felt flushed with heat.
Rest, I need to rest.
He stumbled, and grabbed a lamppost, sagging, but trying to pull himself up.
In reaching out, he saw his skin was changing, the veins prominent and shades of bruises against his flesh.
The tower was too far away, and the sky was turning pale.
He saw lights begin to come on in windows, for those who had to start early.
If they saw him, if they called the authorities…
With the last of his remaining strength, he saw an alley up ahead, and as his vision blurred, he shuffled past a couple of vagrants already in occupancy.
No one will pay attention to me here, except these vagrants, but I’ve nothing to steal, and they can’t murder me.
There was cardboard, dirty, wet, and doubtless crawling with things.
The alley, being what it was, and where, reeked of things best not considered.
Covering himself as best he could, the infection took him under, and what it would do, for good or ill, he would not know until he was awake again.
It’s like a virus.
Then it came to him, her new name, partly what she’d done, partly to show ownership of her. It was a term used by the young when something was widespread in their world of technology.
Viral.
Vy Rill. That will be my name for her, and I will make her embrace it, and me, until fate claims us both.
The illness pulled his eyelids down; darkness took him under to let the infection have its way, and he had one final thought before he surrendered.
I will be a new creation.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr. 2015
2:
She was very much aware of his presence, though her body had been sleeping.
He did not realize that there was nothing he could do to her that she did not allow, for as he smeared her blood across his fingertips and tasted her, a thread of his dead spirit filtered in through her, and initially corrupted, then enhanced her nature.
Enduring the sickness, she did not let him see her tremble, and through some miracle, managed to hold her gorge.
He was not merely old, but ancient, and smelled of the dust and bones of ancient catacombs long buried and forgotten.
She also felt the essence of his lust, a thin, light band of energy over the corruption; she saw the faces of women, lovely and in their physical prime, saw the bodies writhing beneath him, grinding over him, and what he did with them when it was over.
Multiple abattoirs dotted the landscape where he’d been at work.
She made a silent vow to avenge them all.
************
“Janyris,” said her father, “this dabbling in things mortal is not for you; it will come to no good end. You must be ready to ascend your station when your mother passes.”
For awhile, she complied, and played the dutiful daughter until her mother actually passed, not in the traditional sense; she merely went to the underworld and never returned.
Her father was suspect that she had gone voluntarily, to be with the gods that dwelt there, but he dared not go after her, for fear of finding out if that were true.
He’d been a good father, but as to husband, Janyris couldn’t say.
She left too, unannounced, unsuspected, and left her father to fend for himself, and find succor where he would.
She observed the mortals for awhile, creatures of habit, and routine, much like ants and migratory birds, scattering in panics when crisis came, then banding together to rally and rebuild, if they could.
They were boring, but she admired their tenacity to survive and keep their mundane species in existence.
In time, they came to amuse her, and she was content to meddle in minor ways, until one day, she saw something that piqued her interest, and went into a deeper world.
A small boy was sleeping, the moonlight soft on his innocent face, and she saw a shadow in his room detach itself, and come to stand by his bed.
Its eyes were open, and a pale violet shade.
She grew intrigued, and looked closer.
The shadow reeked of death and evil; she dared draw no closer, lest it sense her presence; indeed, it had already looked up at the ceiling twice, sensing something, and she wasn’t sure she’d hidden in time, but as it didn’t pursue her, she knew she wasn’t seen.
This was the sort of being that killed when discovered.
He took the boy’s hand, and pricked the skin of his index finger with a long nail of his own.
The child thrashed under his covers, then grew still, and the shadow retreated.
As the sun rose, the boy’s body simply dissipated, skin melting into bone melting into the dust motes in the light of the morning sun, and his body simply drifted apart, his soul taken and his flesh removed.
The parents were in agony, and did not last long together, and in their isolation, grew despondent, and died not long thereafter.
She wanted to go to them, but she dared not.
Then came the fateful night they met, and she made her vow in front of him.
He saw the glimmer of something in her, and showed his true face, and she knew in that moment she had him.
And now he was a part of her, and she of him.
It was going to be glorious fight.
Ah, my dear Rillion, you don’t know what you’ve done. Taking your soul will redeem my own, and the damnation that awaits you is beyond description.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr. 2015
1)
By the light of a single candle, she lay sleeping.
He knew from what she’d told him before that the glow made her feel warm inside, the color and motion of the flame always pleased her eyes; she’d fallen asleep watching it.
High above, the moon shone what light it could from the cratered crescent slice hanging in the heavens.
Her raven braids, thin and intricate, languished across the pillow that cradled her head.
Her honey brown skin glistened with amber highlights.
He looked at her form, outlined in the covers; it was curvy and full, and if he’d still been mortal, he’d have found himself stirred as in the days of old.
She was beautiful, but it wasn’t enough; she was good, kind, loving, even-tempered, patient, and loyal.
Long were the months he watched her, through seasons, through years, past her first decade, just short of her full second. He observed her almost daily then, interacting with the people in her life. The times she lost her temper, her composure, and control were rare, but she was human, after all, and he’d seen those times as well.
Even then, she would not lash out; she would cry and rail and scream, but she never hurt anyone, or anything. For the most part, she carried out her tantrums in the privacy of her room.
In his last choosing, he’d chosen an exceptional girl; she’d been so in every way, but he soon found there was nothing to mold, nowhere for him to begin to groom her for who she was to become.
Her inherent arrogance, combined with her beauty and her newly bestowed gifts, made her insufferable, and in the end, in a violent, savage act, he took her life.
This girl, while above average, would prove to be more pliable; her heart was naturally giving, and that would be to his advantage.
He was indeed grateful they’d evolved; no longer the red, messy biting and tearing, however subtle and sublime, of tender flesh, warm to the touch, the coppery ambrosia of life flowing into, and down, sating hunger, inciting passion, as lips, teeth and tongue formed a trifecta of perfect murder, picturesque deaths.
Now, he had but to take her hand, so he did.
She didn’t wake, but stirred, undulating under the covers, a soft little moan on her sweet lips. She instinctively pulled her hand back, and he let it go.
The deed was done. The pinprick of his fingernail had drawn her blood in through the flesh pads of his fingers. He smeared her blood across them, felt the warmth of it, saw the soul-glow inside of it.
He licked his index finger and almost swooned at the taste. It was tempting to take more than he needed with this one. Her blood was as sweet as her personality, but he refrained.
There was something else in her blood,, something he didn’t expect.
There would be others to draw from soon, and he would have his fill, but this one was special.
He’d met her years ago as a child, and there was something in her eyes that recognized him for what he was, yet she’d shown no fear.
She was enchanting, until she told him something that piqued his curiosity.
“I’m going to kill you one day.”
A pinprick of rage briefly altered his features into the demonic, but it was only a flash.
She was the only one who saw it, and she grinned.
He saw the red glimmer of the seed in her eyes as she looked at him, and vowed he’d come back for her.
This was that time; he was calling her to him, and would mark her as his.
If she could still kill him after that, it would be no small feat; her power would be great indeed.
Greater than his.
And that, he could not allow.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr. 2015
“Dr.Chen?
She was startled out of her reverie.
I have to stay focused. Caroline is the mission now.
She did, however, have some questions for the General.
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
“I just heard that…”
“Yes, it’s true.”
“Do you–?”
“No, no. There was nothing to be done for it.”
She looked around, then back at Harris. “For any of it, really.”
He nodded. “Are you all packed?”
“I’m ready to go, yes.”
“Follow me, please. I know you know the way, but there are clearances that you don’t have. They seem pointless, now, I know, but everyone seems determined to embrace the comfortable until the end.”
“I understand.”
She followed him.
************************
General Williams was waiting at the dock.
“Teri, I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you, General.” She straightened her shoulders. “I do have a question: if I’d requested my family be evacuated and brought here, was there anything that could have been done?”
Williams didn’t hesitate, and his own eyes clouded a bit as he shook his head.
“Nothing is going to be done for any of us. I won’t see my family again. My grandkids…”
“Oh.” She looked down, and her voice sounded small and far away. Of course others have family that are not going to see them before they go; at least you got to see yours, and you know what happened, and when, and why. There are so many others who will never have those questions answered.
He continued. “And to what end, doctor? You said it yourself, destruction is imminent. Make peace with it, Teri. With yourself, too. We’re going to need you now more than ever.
She lifted her eyes to his. “I will complete the mission, sir.”
Williams smiled. “Unfortunately, we’ll never see the outcome, but I have every faith in you.”
A faint tremor vibrated the floor beneath them.
Voices were raised, and the mood instantly grew more somber and intense, and not a little fearful.
“Time to launch, sir.” said Harris.
“Thank you, captain obvious.”
They all laughed.
“Teri?” Williams extended his arm expansively, inviting her to go aboard, as if he were the captain of a cruise ship, and not the doomed general of yet another science facility that wandered too far from its walls.
“Kyro’s already strapped in,” Harris said, extending his hand. “It’s been an honor, Teri.”
She watched him closely, but his face betrayed nothing but fondness, and a trace of sadness they would no longer be working together. Beyond that, there was nothing she could decipher. Either Kyro really wasn’t his son, or he was gifted at deceiving.
She took the proffered hand. “Same here, Ken.”
She released his hand, and turned to board. Glancing over at Kyro, his head had lolled to the side, so he was already asleep. Good, she didn’t feel like engaging an assassin. She looked out at the black, weightless expanse of dotted with white fire.
*****************************
No family. No longer a wife. No longer a mother. Just these children now. And Caroline, who will cause no end of grief on the new colony.
If it weren’t for her, I would’ve been able to join them, see them, hold them…but she has given me a life devoid of meaning. With no one to share with, to spend time off with, to do anything with; I’m going alone.
Her evil intentions mean nothing to me, but because of her, I’m forced to go on, when all I want to do is die.
So I will stop her. I will make her pay for what she’s done to me; every day I stay alive, I will make her pay. Every memory, she will pay.
The stars blurred, and she realized she was crying. This time, she didn’t bother fighting it.
“….three….two….one….we are launched. All automated systems are functioning normally.”
“Safe journey, Dr. Chen.”
“Goodbye.”
Her voice came out more than a whisper, less than a sob; it was not just meant for her colleagues. It was to everything that had made her up to this moment. She wasn’t just on her way to a new colony, but on her way to becoming something else.
Chapter 3:
The tremors were becoming more violent. Williams and Harris could’ve enlisted the help of others, but they’d either left or were trying to find a place to exit, though where they’d go if the ground was crumbling, Harris had no idea.
“The Naissance is ready, General.”
“Thanks, Harris. Caroline?”
“She’s in her pod.”
“Is there any way to extract her covertly?”
Harris gave him a grim smile. “She changed all the protocols, sir. You said it yourself, she’s ten steps ahead of us.”
“What I want to know is when did she have time to do all this, and if someone helped her. Have security run video from the last thirty days on all the bay doors.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If Teri can’t get to her, maybe one of the others will do us all a favor and stab her in the back.”
Harris looked away.
“I’m sorry, Harris. That was out of line.”
“What was, sir?”
Williams smiled.
Another tremor boomed, and the building swayed like an empty swing in a storm wind.
Both men lost their footing, and when the tremor subsided, they pushed themselves up along the walls behind them, the portion that remained intact. As they were in the northernmost station, it could only mean that now the entire planet was all but consumed from within.
No one knew if it would be another hour, or another day, but they all knew they were living on borrowed time now.
“General?”
Williams had gained his feet, and helped Harris up the rest of the way.
“I’m listening.”
“We still control the launch, sir. We don’t have to send them.”
“I’ve thought of that, but to kill all for the sake of one…as I said, they may do it for us, and we’ve already programmed them as well.”
“Just an option, sir. Still on the table as long as we don’t–”
An alarm blared through the station, but there was no tremor.
“What in the hell–?” WIlliams blustered.
“Naissance has pre-launched. Repeat, repeat, Naissance has pre-launched!”
Williams and Harris found the nearest com station; the young attendant was punching keys but coming up empty.
“Onscreen, young lady!”
“Trying, sir! Please give me a minute…”
Harris put up a restraining hand, and Williams backed away.
The screen flickered, went out, flickered again, and flared to life, stabilizing.
The ship came into view, and the shot of its interior showed the floor was empty.
They watched as the ship sailed over the station below, the shadow blocking out the starlight glittering like strewn gems spilled in ink.across the top,
“Retractors?”
“Offline, sir. Damaged.”
“We’re going to lose it.” The ship was past the station, clearing the harbor.
A hologram of Caroline sitting in the captain’s chair filled the screen.
“Hello, General Williams. I managed to gain access to the ship’s computers days ago, when the tremors first started.
“I programmed the ship to override the safety protocols and release the locks if the magnitude went above four-point-five. If you’re seeing this, then the ship is already loose and on its way.”
All three of them shook their heads in wonder; they’d badly underestimated her intelligence; in no way they measured it was she able to pull this off.
“I had no idea, of course, if it would actually work, but I guess I’ll know if I wake up dead,” she smiled at the weak joke, “or if we’re still in that hellhole you call a station. And if the magnitude of the tremors is beyond that, then the creature is about to tear the place apart.
“I hope it doesn’t come after us, General, but so be it if it does. Either way, I won’t be able to send those reports I promised you.
“Farewell, sir. I’ll never forgive you for what you did to my father.”
She leaned forward, and the camera zoomed in on those dark, glittery eyes.
“Never.”
The com went blank again.
“Shoot it down, sir?”
Williams said nothing.
“Sir?”
“Check the weapons.”
The young attendant pushed more buttons.
“Nothing, sir. Offline.”
Williams felt his shoulders slumping yet again.
Outwitted by a thirteen year old girl…
Not for the first time, he wondered if he’d been wrong to sign up all those years ago.
A loud rumbling filled the hall, and things began to sway and rattle and fall and slide.
The floor bucked beneath him, and he flipped over backward, catching the corner of a moving desk, the corner cracking a hole in his skull; he could see the blood running from under his head as his vision began to fade.
I thought it was the right thing to do. ran through his mind as he passed into oblivion.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr. 2015
I was watching how she held the gun on me; not a tremor, a waver, a twitch.
“Why are you looking at the gun? You should be looking at me.” Her voice was tight. “It’s not like if I pulled the trigger, you could get out of the way. I’m talking to you, and you’re looking at the fucking gun.”
I looked at her. “It’s sort of distracting me from what you have to say.”
“You weren’t listening before.”
“So this is how you solve things when people don’t listen to you?”
“No. It’s how I solve them with you.”
“So killing me fixes the problem.” I was trying to keep her attention; the longer she didn’t pull the trigger, the longer I’d live; it was a pretty big gun. Truth be told, I didn’t know if she could handle the kick, and that meant the bullet could fly anywhere.
Okay, clearly, she wanted to talk.
“I just said I wanted to leave. I don’t feel loved by you anymore, and I want to go. I was hoping you’d take it better. You never even told me you had a gun. I feel like you don’t trust me, not telling me that. And all great relationships, as you well know, are built on trust.”
“And I can’t believe you’re trying that psychobabble on me. Who is she?”
“Who?”
“The other woman you have.”
“There is no other woman.”
The gun went off, and the bullet zinged past my ear.
“Try again.”
“Her name is Miranda. We met at the bar. You were away on business, and I wanted a drink, and…”
Her eyes had welled up, and her mouth was trembling. She couldn’t hold the toughness together. I felt like crap, but I wasn’t going to risk grabbing the gun from a woman mad enough to kill.
“What bar?”
“Honey, it’s not –”
The gun went off again, the bullet flicking the edge of my pants leg, leaving a burn.
“Don’t call me that.”
I sighed, my fright turning to anger, but the gun was still steady.
“Fine. Why don’t you just let me go, then?”
“Why did you have to cheat? You could’ve broken up with me first, then went to Miranda. We’ve had sex since then. Did you have sex with her? Is she inside me now, too?”
“We didn’t have sex that night. We wanted to, but we were both so tanked that it never happened.”
She looked at me a long time, but the gun never wavered, never lowered; it’s cold, empty eye watched me like a cat, ready to swat a fly.
“What are you doing?” I said, just to break the silence.
“Trying to decide if I believe you.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
The gun went off again, this time past my other ear. This woman was psychotic, but she was a great shot, and oddly enough, I was getting a bit turned on.
“The truth would have been less painful if you’d left me first.”
“But now you know, so what are we going to do?”
“Are you still seeing her?”
“I wanted to, but I haven’t since that night. She was embarrassed by what happened; she hasn’t been returning my calls.”
“So you’ve called her since then?”
“Yes.”
She came toward me, her gun hand retracting as she closed the distance, but she never lowered it. She reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and stepped back.
The warmth of her body in close was a pheremone ; I was shivering with fear, and heated with lust.
She scrolled until she found Miranda’s number; I thought of rushing her, but the gun never moved.
I heard Miranda’s.voice. “Hiiii, baby.”
She smiled, and said “Hi baby.”
Miranda hung up.
“She called you ‘baby.’ ”
“Yes.”
“I do too.”
“Not so much anymore.”
“Is that what you miss?”
“Among other things.”
She moved in close again, put the barrel of the gun on my forehead, pushing my head back a little until I felt some tension in my neck, her lips brushing along the side of my throat.
“I’ll give you what you miss, baby. Take off your clothes.”
“What?”
“Did I stutter? Take off your clothes.”
I fumbled them off, adrenaline pumping, wanting to do something quick and drastic, and not daring to risk it. The circle of the barrel indented my skin as I worked things off.
She walked around me, keeping the barrel of the gun against my skull, and her other hand went to work. It didn’t have much to do before I was ready.
“On your back.”
I lay on my back. She settled herself, the gun now against my left nipple.
“Don’t lose me, and don’t go soft.” For emphasis, she cocked the hammer back. “And don’t touch me.”
Her breathing changed, and her free hand wandered, but the gun never moved at all.
She had her way, looking into my eyes the whole time, her brow furrowing with concentration, her mouth issuing little moans of pleasure.
The adrenaline rush in me crashed under her attack, and I could no more have grabbed the gun than used it. I didn’t have the strength to push her off, much less fight back. It went on for awhile, and her motions and teasing kept me as she wanted me.
In her release, the nails on her free hand raked, the barrel went into my ear, and her tongue went into my mouth as she rode out her pleasure.
Both of us spent, she lay on top of me until she got her breathing under control, then emptied the gun and kept the bullets, leaving it on my chest as she disengaged herself.
“Where are you going?” I asked, my voice weak, my body weaker; she could’ve stabbed me slowly, inching the knife in, and I wouldn’t be able to stop her.
“To take a shower. There’s money on the dresser. Don’t be here when I get out.”
I listened to the water for a time, and struggled to get my legs under me before it stopped; eventually, I managed. I got dressed, took the money and left.
And I deleted Miranda’s number.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
In the aftermath of the devastation, none of the Great Halls remained.
Stone, marble, fine cloth, weapons, and instruments from around the known world lay in smoking, shattered heaps, among lumps of broken bone and shredded flesh, littering the valley, and the smoke, still thick, roiled back on itself and grew larger, like a confused stampeding crowd. Sprawling across the cloud-strewn sky, it hid the bodies from the view of carrion birds, and small fires, safe from the coming spring rain, still burned in protected places, unchecked, but unable to do anymore damage.
******************
Singers Hall was completely destroyed.
Lorelei woke up, her throat raw from the smoke, her eyes bleary and bloodshot, her clothes torn, and her thoughts rambling. Her book wasn’t far from her, but it was singed.
Gingerly, she picked it up, lifting with her fingertips; bits of charred paper fell off and flew away, but only from the edges. The book itself was sound, its pages untouched by fire, still readable, with all of her notes in the margins.
That, and the clothes on her back, were all she had.
She was able to stand, and slowly got to her feet, not wanting to be prone in case whoever did this was searching the rubble to kill the wounded.
She took a look around, and tears not born of smoke filled her eyes…
That was good, because it caused her not to focus.
There was a general impression of carnage, of blood, of bodies broken and torn, but she didn’t look at anyone’s face, didn’t allow herself to recognize, and remember, because she’d be paralyzed by fear and grief, and there was no telling who was coming.
So she waited, and collected her thoughts, as the soft spring rain began to fall.
********************
Footsteps crunched over stone.
A fallen pillar hid her from view, but hiding didn’t occur to her.
She wanted to see if whoever it was had been responsible for what happened; what she would do then, she didn’t know.
Her throat, however, was still raw from smoke and dust, so a canticle of binding was out of the question. She had her training, but no weapons, so with the only recourse left to her, she picked up a sharpened piece of the fallen pillar.
There would only be one chance.
*********************
A boy stood on the fallen pillar, but above her.
Shielding his eyes against the rain with his hand, he scanned the remains of Singers Hall, and Lorelei used the time to observe him.
He was brown, all over, from his skin to his clothing, to the small harp in a brown case strapped to his back. She could see the burnished scrollwork at the end poking out of a corner of the case. He was a stranger in these lands, but if he’d made Musicians Hall here, he was indeed talented.
She looked some more.
He was bald, almost hairless to the point of babyhood, and had a dark gleam about him, brimming with some unknown power, but he seemed whole, and strong, and about her age; he wouldn’t need looking after then, but she was still reluctant to reveal herself.
Seeing nothing, he turned to go.
If he leaves, you’ll be traveling alone, for who knows how long, facing who knows what?
“Wait!” She stepped out from hiding.
He turned, surprised, but wary.
She scrambled up the pillar, put herself on level with him, and they stood, taking each other in.
“You survived,” he finally said.
“So did you. Did you see anything?”
“Bodies, ruin, and fire, not much else. You?”
“The same. None of the Halls are intact. I thought they might be walking around to kill the wounded, so I got up.”
“I don’t think they needed to; they were pretty efficient. And it might not have been wise for you to get up, since they would’ve killed you for real.”
“I’m no good at pretending to be dead if I’m not.”
“No,” he smiled, “me neither.”
He walked back toward her, but didn’t offer his hand.
She didn’t take offense; the Musicians never offered their hands, which they held as transporters of their craft to enter this world from the next, so they were sacrosanct, and kept untainted.
“I’m Devon.”
“Lorelei.”
“Now there’s a name for a Singer.”
She smiled, pointed to his back.
“Harp?”
“Among other things, none of which survived; this will have to do for now.”
The rain fell harder.
“Let’s find shelter, and we’ll figure it out from there.”
“We already have shelter.”
He looked at her.
“We can stay right here, under this pillar, and wait out the rain.”
“You could do that? Your friends’ corpses lay here, your teachers…”
“None of whom would mind. Is there any point to blundering about in the rain, not knowing where we are, or where we’re going?”
Besides, I’ve already mourned, in secret, where no one could see.
He opened his mouth to say something, but couldn’t argue the validity.
She was already scrambling back underneath the pillar.
Intrigued by her practicality, if surprised at the hardness of her decision, he followed.
2:
The rain continued falling, steady, after dark, and they went hungry that night, though they managed to make a fire.
In the morning, the sun came out, the smoke cleared, and a herald crow sounded the breakfast bell.
They left, still dampened in clothes and spirit, and began to try to find a path out.
As they searched, she thought back to her first day.
*****************
Her teacher was a walking willow stick; everything about her was wispy, like the pink, fluffy candy of country fairs, sweetness without substance, but that was only on the surface.
“You have been chosen as Singers; you are above the pale and beyond the norm, and this is now your home. Everything, and I mean everything, you need, or ever will need, is here.
“There is no need to go skulking about in the woods, like trolls and brigands. The sacrifice of your voice in offering replaces what is left of your life. You no longer have families, or friends, or lovers, save those you meet here.
“You are given no outside indulgences to detract from your training, for while you are superior, you are not yet fully formed.
“And it is I who will form you, from now on.”
*****************
The days were grueling, the nights sometimes more so.
Willow, for that is what Lorelei called her, was relentless, merciless, and sometimes cruel.
Lorelei had been at turns beaten, starved, made to sleep standing up, and a few things in between, but last month, at the end of her fourth year, Willow had given her the book, Blessed Canticles. Her own copy, signed with Willow’s own hand.
“To Lorelei, you have been blessed beyond your worth, but you have earned it, and done well.”
She later found out, when she went to see what Willow had written for the others, that hers was the only book signed.
Gradually, they’d fallen off, wondering what she’d done to gain such favor, when they had all been equally punished and rewarded, seemingly solely based on Willow’s whims.
The imposed shunning hurt, the exile to a table of her own as they left at her approach even more so, but there it was.
***************
“And now, I’m all that’s left…”
“What?”
“Nothing. Nothing, Devon, just thinking out loud.”
3:
“We’ve flushed her out into the open, Lord Karis; she travels with a bard.”
“A bard? Indeed, two for the price of one. I’m pleased, Jahrin.”
Jahrin smiled; he didn’t like when Karis wasn’t pleased.
“May I ask a question, Lord Karis?”
“You may.”
“What do you want with the Singer?”
Karis looked out the window, distracted, but he’d heard the question.
“I will answer you, Jahrin. If I hear it on the lips of anyone else, your tongue is forfeit. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, Lord Karis.”
Karis sighed, and walked over to a table, where he took a book of white and gold, and placed it before Jahrin.
“I…I can’t read, Lord…”
“I know, Jahrin.”
Karis walked away, and began to sing, a minor key, that sounded something like a dirge, slow, sonorous, and foreign sounding, and Jahrin closed his eyes, shuddering in his seat, held by something that frightened him beyond words.
His teeth chattered, and tears leaked copiously from his eyes, and when the song ended, and he was finally released, he slumped forward.
The cover was bleary in his vision, and he clumsily wiped his eyes with an overlarge hand, breathing hard.
And the cover said,
The Canticles of War
“Lord Karis…Lord Karis…I…I can..”
“I know, Jahrin.”
Jahrin remained speechless, reading the words over and over again, wanting to hug the book to him; he dared not touch it, and ran to the shelves, pulling things at random, reading, books and parchments gathering around him like sand.
Karis, enjoying his servant’s excited mood, stopped on his way out to give him a look.
Jahrin’s eyes were bright with happy tears.
“Now imagine what I could do, Jahrin, if I had her power.”
He thought about taking the words from Jahrin, leaving him illiterate again, but that would be cruel, even for him.
This might be actually prove to be useful, later.
He could hear Jahrin’s laughter echo in the hall, and the crash of more books falling off the shelves.
Quite useful, indeed.
Beyond Panic 