Tsimunuu brandished his staff. “I’m not afraid of the likes of you!” He spat a glob of blood onto the ground where Matasa had lain.
Finyaka released his Radiance and lifted Matasa into the air and put his wounded cousin behind him. Finyaka laid him gently on the ground, and the hound returned to his side. “If you were me, Father, what would you do?” Finyaka looked at the man who had sired him and beat him. But he still felt the calm within himself.
Tsimunuu folded his arms. “What nonsense is this?”
Finyaka tried to reword the question. “If you were me.”
Tsimunuu waved a hand in disgust as he turned away. “I could never be that weak.”
Finyaka ignored the insult. “If you were me, and you had the power I do, what would you do to the man who had beaten you most of your life?”
Tsimunuu’s eyes narrowed, and he faced his son. “Why would I tell you?”
Finyaka let his Radiance diminish. “Who better to judge you, Father, than you?”
“Finyaka, behind you!” screamed Matasa as he threw a stone at something behind Finyaka.
Finyaka turned as the hound leaped at something. A knife cut into his side with a searing pain. He staggered and fell to his knees.
“Even a witch can die by a knife. I should know,” sneered Nahrem as he emerged from his hiding place and prepared to meet the hound.
Matasa staggered forward and fell to his knees, “No!”
Tsimunuu made to move, fell to a knee and coughed. “So much for that judgement, Doe!” He hacked and spit.
Finyaka flashed back to the broken body of Sinaya and heard her humming as she filled the water basin. He knew she was part of him now. Finyaka felt her presence and called upon her strength as he reached into the calm welling up inside him.
Finyaka closed his eyes and focused on the knife in his side. Slowly, he withdrew it with his Radiance healing the wound it left behind. The blade clattered to the ground.
The hound pounced onto Nahrem, knocking him down. But Finyaka touched her with his Radiance, and she broke off her attack and loped back to his side.
Matasa struggled to stand and to find some way to him. That made Finyaka smile. Matasa, always the guardian.
Nahrem gained his feet. He was bleeding and confused.
Finyaka shook his head sadly and reached out with his Radiance, enveloping his brother in its light. He lifted Nahrem and set him beside his father.
Tsimunuu had slumped to the ground from his wounds. Blood flowed from his mouth.
Finyaka approached his cousin, concern on his face. “Matasa. Sit, you are hurt, and I don’t want you to make it any worse. The same for you father. I can heal your wounds but if you continue to struggle, you’ll die.” He rested a hand on Matasa's shoulder. “I will heal you, cousin; I promise.”
Matasa lowered himself to the ground. “I know that.”
“Nahrem, I gave you a chance. I extended the bonds of brotherly love to you, and you discarded them. Why? For Father’s praise?” Finyaka pointed at the broken man he had once feared. “He’s here now. Ask him if he’s happy with your actions.” Finyaka looked at his father and felt only pity. “Are you, Father? Are you happy with your son?”
Tsimunuu glanced between his two sons. His face contorted with uncertainty and regret. Finyaka could never remember his father showing anything but scorn.
Tsimunuu lifted his head and caught Finyaka's eyes. “I am ashamed.” He cast his eyes down in shame.
Finyaka slowly approached his father and brother, the hound at his heels. “I asked you a question earlier, Father.” Finyaka stopped a few strides away. The hound sat down beside him, baring its teeth. “What is your answer?”
Understanding crossed Tsimunuu’s face. “If I had your power, I would destroy the man who had beaten me down.”
Finyaka scratched the hound’s ears. He had killed one of her pack and thrust a staff into her side. He had also healed her and gained her trust. Finyaka doubted he would be so lucky with his father. He saw Matasa move out of the corner of his eye, and he turned to face his cousin.
“You’re better than him.” Matasa waivered unsteadily. He gave his uncle a defiant look.
“I know.” Finyaka reached out with his Radiance and tenderly touched his father. He slowly knitted together the broken bones and the cuts and bruises. He touched his father with a love he had never known before. When he was finished, he was crying and smiling. “I forgive you. I will never trust you, but I forgive you. Now, gather your men and go.”
Finyaka turned his back on them and hurried to Matasa.
“What about me?” Nahrem sat with his head in hands.
“I gave you a chance, and you squandered it. Leave knowing you’ve done that.” Finyaka knelt beside Matasa. The hound licked his cousin’s face. Finyaka touched him with his Radiance and Matasa gasped as its light removed his pain.
The hound nuzzled Matasa, then looked at Finyaka and vanished.
“Where will you go?” Tsimunuu stood and helped Nahrem to his feet.
Finyaka helped Matasa to his feet. “Onabaki. I need to find a witch.” He touched the gold arm band that had been Sinaya’s.
Matasa corrected him, “You mean we need to find a witch.”
To prove himself worthy, Finyaka must explore the unorthodox Radiance that Anuu has gifted him while trying to navigate the politically charged landscape of Onubaki. Will this set him on the path to becoming the mage-priest he is destined to be, or will he fail? Find out in Wayward Magic.
About the Author
Born at a very young age in a place just north of nowhere, William C. Cronk was raised in a small rustic village whose name had larger expectations than its inhabitants. Being so far from anything interesting, William soon discovered he had a great imagination and spent far more time building fantasy worlds than dealing with the real one.
An agricultural wage-slave during the day, and an avid role-player, world builder, professional game master, cartographer, poet and day dreamer by evening, William is finally listening to his friends and is taking some of those worlds he has created and is putting them down on paper.
Past short stories include “Linear Rotation,” published in the Anthology, Sylvermoon Chronicles Volume VII, and “Not the One,” soon-to-be-published in the anthology, Sylvermoon Chronicles Volume VIII. Currently William lives in the Greater Toronto Area with his very patient and understanding wife, and their four not-so-patient cats.
Don't forget to grab your copy of next anthology!
The Ones Who See
C. S. Johnson
“The Ones Who See” is the first part of my growing narrative serial, entitled “Omelas Revisited,” telling a story of a futuristic, utopian society that has achieved order and perfection, but only thanks to the continual torture of a young boy who magically takes on the pain, suffering, and sinful acts of the Community Members.
The transfer of these experiences is tied to Bloodmagic, their substitutionary magic, and further aided by technology that wipes memories and maintains good moods. This magic, and the boy, are hidden from the Community until the its members come of age.
My story was inspired by Ursula K. LeGuin’s “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas,” which has a similar utopian setup. LeGuin’s story was thought provoking, and I wanted to approach it from a more personal, first person reference, to see what I would do if I knew someone had to suffer for me to have a “perfect” life—and if I would choose to accept or reject it. To me, this is both the most Christian idea and the least Christian idea, and God knows such ironies and puzzles amuse me.
C. S. Johnson
A community has created the perfect life for its residents—but when one girl learns the price of her perfect life comes at the cost of another's suffering, she is determined to find a way to make things right.
The Ones Who See
The dark moments of my life always came just after waking up.
Ever since I was twelve, there were mornings I w
ould lie on my bed, my body stiff and unmoving, as I opened my eyes. An invisible tension shifted all around me—holding me, trapping me, possibly smothering me. The first time I’d felt it, I had refrained from saying anything, believing it to be my imagination; the City Elders had warned us about that, after all, and there was no reason to think there was cause for concern.
But the strange moments persisted.
Three years later, I still had moments in the shady mornings when I felt an unnamable otherness settle around me. Still, I did not see it, I could only sense it; I did not touch it, but I could not escape the feeling I was being watched—perhaps even watched over. I could only see the shadows, and it seemed I could only see the shadows of things that were not there.
The last day of my childhood was no exception.
That morning, I stared at the ceiling and again saw nothing, but I knew there was not nothing there, either. The walls of my already small room seemed to constrict as I glanced around.
My room was cool but cozy, with whitewashed walls and clean floors, built into a small, perfect square. Off to the side was my one dresser that housed my pristine, freshly pressed clothes, including my newest dress for the Learning Ceremony, and tucked away beside it was my one pair of constantly-shined boots. There was nothing and no one else in my room that should have made me feel afraid.
Surrounded by the gifts from my community—the boots, the clothes, the other small things I freely used, like my toothbrush and my hairbrush and even the small sewing kit my House Mother gave to me last year—I should have felt only safe and happy.
After all, these were the familiar staples of the City and its residents. Every child I knew had the exact same sort of room as I did. We valued conformity as much as community, and our large housing structures were comfortable daily reminders that we were all special, we were all needed, and all of us had a place.
All of us in the City by the Sea reveled in the security of that beauty. Our lives were happy, safe, meaningful, and peaceful. We had everything we needed and everything we could want.
So, I was not sure why the last shades of early morning made everything familiar seem suddenly foreign enough to cause me to clench my one blanket to my chest and do my best to ignore it.
Occasionally, I would stare back at the shadow, trying to be brave. A few times, I would reach up and trace the outline of the shard in my forehead. It was hard and solid, smooth and comforting. The shard marked me as a member of the Community as much as it reminded me of who I was individually—where I came from, and where I was needed. At that reminder, my fear would suddenly whisk itself away.
I did not want to tell anyone about those moments; I did not want others to think I was frightened or troubled.
“Skyla, are you awake?”
My House Mother stood outside my room. The door muffled her voice, but I would have recognized it anywhere. It was the same loving, gentle tone I had known all my life.
“Yes, Mother Annika.” My heart swelled with joy as I heard the same echoes of my mother’s dulcet pitch in my own voice.
“You may need a few extra moments to get ready today. If you are awake, you should start moving.”
Even though she could not see me, I beamed with delight.
Today marked the end of my schooling years and signaled the beginning of my new life as a contributing member of my community—the day I had anticipated for as long as I could remember.
The smile stayed firmly on my face as I hurried to the domicile’s only bathroom.
And then it happened.
In a flash, like a slice of a dream, I fell forward, tripping over my flighty, impatient feet. My face collided with the hard floor, my nose smashing into the clean, spotless tile with a sharp, distinctive crack. I tasted warm, fresh blood; I felt the pain of broken bones, loosened teeth, and unexpected shame.
But then I blinked, and I was standing up again, right where I had stood before I had felt myself fall.
I was no longer smiling.
I touched my nose, running my hands over the rounded bump in its middle, to the short, pointed end. There was no blood. There was no pain.
There was only a shadow.
I blinked again, and found myself in the bathroom, gazing into the mirror.
Nothing is wrong.
It was silly to think there would be.
After all, I lived in the City by the Sea; some say it used to be called Omelas, but I could not remember if that was the case, or if someone came from another city called Omelas and started this one. My peers in school agreed that “City by the Sea” was much more poetic, and it had less connection to the Imperfect Past of humanity’s previous age; no one liked thinking of that topic. We learned of it in school only in our final year, along with the other names of imperfections that no longer existed. But everyone was much happier when we were able to move on, and no one had any other questions about it.
The past was the past; it did not have any bearing on the present, and we were all content to believe that.
The moment passed, and I turned my attention back to the mirror. The shard in the middle of my forehead winked at me as I watched it. The shard was more like a jewel, shaped like a small pentagon, no more than an inch in each direction. I’d always thought mine was a good fit for me, like a diamond resting on my brow.
I giggled as I pressed down on it, enjoying how the color swirled, twisting into different shades of blue and green, and even a spark of purple as the last of my worries faded.
This is who I am.
Calm and satisfied, I looked over the rest of my reflection. My face was full of unimposing beauty. My eyes were light-colored; my hair was much darker. While several of my peers had curls, I did not have as much as they did; my skin was also darker than some, but still lighter than others. My nose was straight, with the almost imperceptibly small bump on its bridge. I ran my fingers over it again, wondering about the fall and how I had felt the bridge of my nose break.
I frowned. What had happened? Or rather, what had never happened, exactly?
Why didn’t my nose break? Was it the shadows, or was it just my imagination?
Strange.
Maybe I would find out later, I thought, suddenly excited. The Learning Ceremony was central to the Summer Festival. It happened every year, just after sundown, and all those who were too young were sent home and put to bed. Those who completed their education participated in the Learning Ceremony and emerged from it as full Community Members.
At that, I forgot all about my nose, and my face, and everything else. I changed into my new dress, donned my shoes, and headed down to the dining hall where First Meal was being served.
“Skyla, you look lovely.” My House Mother, Annika, gave me a glowing smile as she handed me a plate of bread.
I flushed with pleasure. Mother Annika was very lovely, both gentle in her appearance and humble in her manners. She was one of the younger House Mothers, still in her thirties, and I enjoyed being part of her house. Before I could give her my thanks, both for the compliment and the food, another voice spoke up.
“She should, after all the extra time she had in the bathroom.”
My smile only widened as I looked at River. With a similar facial structure and only slightly darker hair, my brother was close to a year older than me (“one year, two weeks, and six days,” as he would remind me from time to time). But since he had arrived at the Mercer House just after the Summer Festival, we were the same age. Even though he was technically born earlier, he never seemed to mind being in the same class as me—or so I thought.
A slim half-second passed in which he scowled at me, his eyes narrow and his tongue sticking out in clear displeasure.
But then the second passed, and his face instantly righted itself into his usual, jovial expression. His own cerulean-colored shard, embedded in his forehead just the same as mine, gleamed with only happiness.
I frowned, curious at the flicker of another imagining, but River did not seem
to notice my concern.
“Are you excited for tonight, Sky? The Ceremony’s going to be great,” River said. “Aidan told me it’s life-changing.”
“Oh, Aidan said that?” I sat down beside River, who chatted easily about Aiden, his closest friend and a member of the Aeros House, our neighbor to the right.
With his bright, sun-colored hair and his ice-like eyes, Aiden was a month older than River, but he had arrived before the Summer Festival, so he was considered seventeen by the Community. That made him nearly two years older than me. I appreciated Aidan and the companionship he provided my brother and me. We had grown up near each other, playing in the same hidden caves by the shoreline, going to the same school, and participating in the Community’s numerous events.
Now that we were older, Aidan had an official job with the Community, and it was my part-time duty to help Aidan’s House Mother, Erika, and her young child, Storm. When I went to their domicile, he would always give me a gracious nod.
There were other things about him I liked, too, even if they were not real.
Once I thought I saw him wink at me, after telling me I looked nice. Another time when I was washing Storm’s baby bottles in the sink, I felt a hand ruffle my hair affectionately. I’d thought I’d seen Aidan come up beside me out of the corner of my eye, but when I turned to face him, no one was there.
But even if those things didn’t happen, I liked to think they did. As a full member of the Community, Aidan would be allowed to start his own House one day, and it was possible he would choose me for a House Mother when he was old enough to be allowed to add children.
There was a knock at the front door, and, as if I’d conjured him up by the mere thought, Aidan appeared at our door. I hurriedly gulped down the rest of my water, stuffing the last bit of bread into my mouth. A rush of pleasure ran through me as I remembered I was wearing my new dress, the white one trimmed with lace. Once the Learning Ceremony was over, I would receive a circlet of flowers and lace I could wear in my hair.
Magic Underground: The Complete Collection (Magic Underground Anthologies Book 4) Page 23
