Stories of Hope

by Aussie Speculative Fiction

  Distantly, she could hear her friends moving carefully through the devastation, Desdemona humming softly in harmony with the other Songweavers, boosting the efforts of the other Elementals, and the Beastmasters searching for injured and sheltering animals. The Fire, Water and Air Elementals had gone to where the fires still burned, along with several Runecrafters, doing what they could to limit and contain the damage. Dahelia was with the other Enchanters back at the Enclave, creating talismans and other items for those who had lost everything. Pots that were heated by magic and didn’t need fire to cook, clothing made to last and endure, or to protect against fire. Mellie wasn’t sure what the Battlemages were doing, but suspected that it was probably to do with patrolling for looters and escorting refugees.

  Time lost meaning, but slowly, carefully, green shoots started sprouting. Trees that retained a living core strengthened, new bark and leaves appearing to replace the blackened exterior. Footsteps approached, and Mellie opened her eyes, promptly closing them again as her head started to spin.

  Gentle hands steadied her, and a small vial was pressed against her lips. Mellie drank it gratefully, feeling part of her strength return. The dizziness faded, and she opened her eyes to meet the concerned grey-green eyes of her third friend, Tiera, looking nearly as exhausted as Mellie felt.

  The lower half of Tiera’s robes bore traces of ash from kneeling to carve runic protections on every available stone. The small pouch of rune charms that hung at her belt was nearly empty, dispensed to those who needed them. A moon-wolf, just big enough to ride, followed her, paws shimmering with the faint trace of magic meant to protect its vulnerable pads from burns.

  Mellie guided her friend to where a small barrel of water was placed, for the gathered Mages to refresh themselves. “How did it go?”

  Tiera was both the younger daughter of the local nobility, and the nominal head of the Enclave, primarily by being the slowest to refuse the position. Her job had been perhaps the hardest, co-ordinating the response and alerting her parents to the problem faster than any messenger could travel. “We’ve opened the storerooms and the outer buildings, and the Lord and Lady are spreading the word that anyone willing to help rebuild can count it as their owed labour for as long as it takes. There is some grumbling about why the burned villages didn’t have protections in the first place, and a few city-dwellers complaining about why they should spend their money to help.”

  ‘We’ was probably both the Enclave and Tiera’s parents, in this case, and the news was better than any of them had expected. Mellie scowled. “I hope you punched them.”

  Other footsteps approached, and Mellie stifled a giggle at the sight of Tiera’s betrothed, Kerdos, almost invisible beneath the animals clinging to him. The perils of being a Beastmaster, apparently. “Didn’t need to, their neighbours got there before we could.”

  There was a loud howl and a louder curse from nearby, and Kerdos quickly unloaded the animals around a smaller bowl of water, where they gratefully drank, before hurrying in the direction of the noise. “Excuse me.”

  The two young women stood in silence for a moment, until Desdemona joined them, brushing her strawberry-blonde curls out of her face and taking a sip of water to soothe her hoarse throat. “I get that the Enclaves held themselves apart so that people didn’t come running with every tiny problem that could just as easily be fixed without magic, but why weren’t they better prepared?”

  Tiera sighed. “This is . . . bigger than any other fire they’ve faced, by several orders of magnitude. Before, locals have been able to handle it on their own, but no one thought it would spread so far and so fast. We’ve alerted the neighbouring Seats of Power, and hopefully the High Council will get moving on the matter.”

  Mellie wasn’t so sure about that; the current make-up of the High Council was notorious for being slow and inadequate in their response to anything, if not outright counter-productive. But that was a problem for another day. “Well, in the meantime, we’re here, and we’ll do all that we can.”

  Tiera nodded, draining her cup and letting out a low whistle that brought her moon-wolf bounding over. “I’m headed back to the Enclave to check on the Enchanters and the state of our supplies, then to the Refugee camps to find out what they most need. I don’t know how long it will take, but make sure you look after yourselves as well.”

  Mellie smiled, feeling oddly proud of the way the community was all pulling together, despite the low-grade hostility that had marked the early days of the Enclave, barely two years ago. Desdemona offered the brunette a quick hug, heedless of the ash that promptly transferred to her clothing. “We will, don’t forget to take your own advice.”

  Tiera pulled a face, quickly vanishing into the distance. Mellie watched her go for a moment, then turned away. “Well, then. Back to work.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR: NATASJA Rose is an Australian Indie Author who started her publishing journey in 2015, and has written 20 books across a variety of genres. During the day, she sunlights as a Disability Support Worker and small business owner.

  Springs Eternal by Lachlan Walter

  IT’S HOT AND STUFFY inside the cramped, camel-dragged wagon, but Starling doesn’t really mind. She looks through a crack in the wall, at the dust kicked up by the rest of the townsfolk as they trek down the broken highway.

  At least I’m resting my feet, she says to herself, even if I do have to look after mum.

  She slumps back in her chair, eyeballing the other elders crammed in with them. The wind is blowing hard, carrying the faint smell of the sea.

  She sighs deeply.

  “I’m bored,” she tells her mum.

  “We’ll be there soon.”

  Starling crosses her arms over her chest.

  “I’m still bored. Tell me a story to kill some time. Tell me how you and dad met.”

  “Okay.”

  HOME WAS A HALF-HORSE town at the foot of an extinct volcano in the middle of the drought plains. I was born there. I won’t get to die there. None of us will, now that the spring’s dried up.

  But thanks to your dad, I got to grow old there.

  HE WASN’T YOUR DAD back then. He was just a stranger who showed up late one afternoon at the tail end of summer.

  He was bloody, bruised, battered.

  One of the guards manning the gates didn’t want to let him in. Another guard pointed out that he was alone, hurt and young. A third guard noted that he obviously didn’t pose a threat.

  So they let him in. You know the law: Help when you can.

  Hands raised, he entered. Then he took two or three steps before collapsing onto the cracked road that led into town.

  Before he passed out, he said one word:

  “Raiders.”

  I WAS THERE WHEN HE fell. I was there when he spoke.

  Back then, I used to love hanging around the gate. Every day, after rushing through my lessons and chores, I’d head straight there rather than spend time with the other youngsters. They bored me. The boys just talked about girls, or fighting, or how they couldn’t wait to be old enough to start hunting. The girls just talked about boys, or what they’d learned that day, or how they couldn’t wait to have kids of their own.

  So instead of listening to them rabbit on—or even worse, joining in—I used to badger the guards, asking questions about the old days. Sometimes they indulged me, sometimes they didn’t.

  Whenever they didn’t, I’d just look over the sun-scorched plains, trying to imagine what they used to be like, imagining them full of people and houses and machines.

  WHEN YOUR DAD ARRIVED, I was about the same age as you are now—no longer a girl, but not yet a woman.

  The guards had brushed me off that day. I guess I’d worn them out, asked too many questions. I couldn’t help it. A fire burned in my belly, giving me too much energy. Apart from exhausting myself physically, the only way to douse it was by satisfying my curiosity.

  I was given a name when I was born, but no one ever used it. The nic
knames piled up instead, describing what I was rather than who I was.

  Fidget.

  Whirling dervish.

  Roadrunner.

  I WAS THE FIRST ONE to help your dad after he fell. I cradled his head, and wiped some blood off his face.

  One of the guards took over. Your dad came to, blinking fast. The guard held a wet rag to his mouth. He sucked at it greedily, and then suddenly smiled.

  He had a nice smile, if you looked past his cracked lips and bad teeth. I tried not to stare.

  “Go get Aunty,” the guard told me.

  And so off I ran.

  AUNTY WASN’T IN HER caravan, or the village green, or the communal kitchen, or the fields where we grew our food.

  That left only one other place to look.

  I headed up the side of the volcano overlooking the town, my legs pumping. I stopped at the volcano’s rim, catching my breath and resting in the shade of the rickety tower that served as a lookout.

  “Oi, Fidget, you alright down there?” someone yelled.

  I looked up. My big brother—your uncle—was perched in the crow’s nest atop the tower.

  “All good, bro,” I replied. “I’m just looking for Aunty.”

  “She’s down below.”

  “That’s what I figured. Thanks.”

  “No worries.”

  “Hey, you got any water? I left mine in town.”

  “You bet, heads up.”

  He held out a full canteen, and then dropped it. Squinting in the sun, I let it fall rather than try and catch it. It hit the ground with a thunk but didn’t split open.

  I took a long drink and then headed over the rim.

  IT WAS COOLER INSIDE the crater. I slowed down a little, trying to keep my feet, not wanting to tumble arse-over-tit. I found Aunty in one of the caves that disappeared into the earth.

  It was her favourite cave, the one that let us live our lives.

  She was sitting cross-legged next to the spring that burbled up from underground. Her eyes were closed. One hand rested in the water, feeling it flow through her fingers and into the system of channels that fed our fields.

  “Hello, Rabbit,” she said, eyes still closed.

  Somehow she seemed to know when someone was near, as if she could sense them. It always freaked me out a little.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked.

  I got straight to the point, knowing how she hated it when people ummed and aahed.

  “There’s a stranger here. He said something about raiders.”

  Aunty’s eyes flicked open, and seemed to bore into me. I tried not to flinch.

  “Very well.”

  She was suddenly on her feet, a smooth and effortless motion. She strode past me. I did my best to keep up.

  BACK IN TOWN, AUNTY checked on your dad and had someone tend to his wounds. He spoke in fits and starts, forcing the words out, obviously in pain. Aunty listened carefully and didn’t interrupt him.

  This is what I learned:

  A mob of raiders were heading our way, fifty or sixty of them.

  They were a three-day hike to the north.

  They meant business.

  They were armed and had some kind of war machine.

  Your dad had been their slave, but had somehow escaped.

  THERE WERE MORE DETAILS to his story, but they didn’t really matter. The bones of it were frightening enough.

  WHEN YOUR DAD HAD FINISHED talking, Aunty let him be and gathered the rest of the elders, leading them to what we laughingly called the town hall. She let me stay. She knew I’d kick up a fuss if they tried to get rid of me.

  I hung back, keeping my eyes and ears open.

  They talked about fighting and fleeing. As young as I was, and as much as I loved home, I knew we couldn’t defend ourselves. There were barely thirty of us left, and that included the kids and youngsters—everyone else had fled when the rain stopped falling.

  But we couldn’t run either. Where would we go?

  EVENTUALLY, AUNTY AND the elders settled on a plan—they would send out runners to ask for help fighting off the raiders. We weren’t alone back then. There we people we traded with if we could, or just gave water to if they needed it.

  I scoffed at the idea of help. I objected, loudly. I told them they were stupid for relying on the hope that others would help.

  Why would they?

  Life was hard enough as it was.

  BUT TO THE ELDERS I was just a kid, and they completely ignored me.

  THE REST OF THAT DAY was a buzz of activity that went through the night. First off, Aunty chose the fittest half-dozen of us to get the word out. She told them where to go and what to do, and then passed each of them a rough haversack crammed with a few days’ worth of water and food.

  Lastly, she gave each of them a relic of the old world that she called a ‘flare gun.’

  “Their elders will know what to do,” she told the runners.

  None of them spoke, the importance of their task sitting heavily on their shoulders.

  I watched silently as they took off into the night. Each one headed in a different direction, some to the mud-folk from the swamps engulfing the drowned city down south, some to the nomadic tinkers who gleaned scraps from the ruins, some to those hold-outs and die-hards who refused to leave their towns, some to the First Country caravans winding their way through the desolation, and some to those recluses and loners hunkered down in the hills.

  AS SOON AS THEY HAD gone, the other elders called us together and set us to work. Half of us turned our minds to defending ourselves if we had to. The rest started preparing to evacuate.

  We fortified the gate.

  We built barricades out of car carcasses and wrecked furniture.

  We set traps and snares.

  We emptied out meagre armoury and practised-practised-practised.

  The best of us with a bow and arrow set up sniper nests in the trees ringing the town.

  I DIDN’T SLEEP AT ALL that night. Neither did your dad. He pitched in, pushing himself as hard as anyone else, doing whatever was asked of him. That surprised me, considering his injuries and the fact that he was a stranger.

  At one point we found ourselves working side-by-side. I’m glad for that, and always will be, because otherwise you wouldn’t be here.

  I COLLAPSED IN THE middle of the next day, absolutely exhausted. By the time I awoke, the sun was setting and we were as ready as we could be.

  I DECIDED TO JOIN MY big brother while we waited. I asked your dad if he wanted to tag along, but he declined—he always hated heights.

  And so I was all alone as I carefully climbed the tower clinging to the rim of the volcano.

  Once at the top, I dropped my supply of fresh water, hugged my brother tight and did my best not to look down. You’ve been there. You know how high it is.

  He was pleased to see me, but as soon as we’d broken apart he scooped up the town’s sole set of binoculars and resumed his vigil.

  We took turns scanning the dark horizon, looking to the north.

  All we saw were shadows and gloom.

  WE SAW THE FIRST SIGN of the raiders just after dawn—a thick plume of dust to the north, thrown up by their march.

  “How long do you reckon it’ll take them to get here?” I asked my brother.

  “They’ll probably be here by dark. You’d better tell Aunty.”

  “Got it.”

  I descended the tower, hurried into town and told Aunty what was what. She gathered us together and filled us in.

  After that, all we could do was wait.

  That was the worst part.

  NIGHT FELL, AFTER AN anxious day. We took our positions. We readied our weapons. And then the brilliant blossom of a flare filled the sky to the south.

  Help was on its way, our friends and neighbours were coming, all we had to do was hold off the raiders until they arrived.

  I smiled so wide that my cheeks hurt.

  Moments later, another flare went
off, this time to the west. And then another and another and another, more and more of them, including one from the north, behind the raiders.

  And then one of our runners approached the gates.

  Before he fell to the ground in exhaustion, he gave Aunty a thumbs-up.

  OUR LAW DOESN’T JUST apply to us, but to everyone else out there in the wasteland. Well, everyone else that’s still good.

  Help when you can.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR: LACHLAN Walter is a writer, science-fiction critic and nursery-hand (the garden kind, not the baby kind). He is the author of two books: the deeply Australian post-apocalyptic tale The Rain Never Came, and the giant-monster story-cycle We Call It Monster. He also writes science fiction criticism, his short fiction can be found floating around online, and he has completed a PhD that critically and creatively explored the relationship between Australian post-apocalyptic fiction and Australian notions of national identity.

  He loves all things music-related, the Australian environment, overlooked genres and playing in the garden. He hopes you’re having a nice day.

  For more information, head to www.lachlanwalter.com

  The Love of Plants by Sean Bellairs

  HE LOOKED ACROSS THE devastated landscape blasted by the cyclone and then roasted by fire. Once cyclones never reached this far south. Now they were regular visitors. Once fires would not have burnt this severely or intensely. Now intense fires were frequent.