by Shock Totem
Her world reeled.
She saw herself, crumpled on the ground next to a large boulder at the pond’s edge. Her head lay at an odd angle. Blood streamed down her face.
Dasaynah stood over her body, a pointed rock in one hand, staring at Nikam with cold contempt. “Come here, my prince,” her sister whispered.
Dasaynah took a step toward Nikam, passing close to Karima without seeing her. Karima gasped; although she felt no contact from Dasaynah’s arm, an icy spasm sliced through her. But she had no time to wonder about the pain, for she knew without a doubt her son was in grave danger.
Nikam stood as if spellbound, while her sister stalked toward him with the rock.
“Run, Nik,” Karima screamed, but it came out as a dry rasp. Nikam didn’t move, nor did he act as if he heard her at all. She swallowed and tried again. “Nikam.” Still no reaction. Dasaynah took another step. Karima struggled to move, her feet rooted to the ground.
“Please, Yehanna,” Karima prayed to the Goddess of the Moon, “help me. Help my son.” Her vision wavered, and then, without her being aware she had even moved, she stood before her son. His eyes, enormous and black as his father’s, peered into her own. She gave him a push, her hand burning from the cold-fire contact.
Nikam gasped.
“Run,” she whispered. He hesitated no longer, but turned and fled as if the floodgates of hell lapped at his heels.
“Yehanna to ashes,” Dasaynah cursed.
Karima stood in the path, determined to block her sister’s passage and gain her son some time. Dasaynah never slowed; she barreled toward Karima, and then through her.
Karima’s body ignited in agony. She fell to her knees, gasping for breath. Only a few feet away, she saw her other self—so still, blood covering her face and pooling on the ground. “Oh, Yehanna,” she breathed. “I’m dead, aren’t I?” Karima held out her hand. It looked like gossamer, delicate and indistinct.
“It must be a dream—only a dream.” She began to crawl toward her body, thinking to shake herself awake. It was so hard to move. Her knee had not yet come down when the feeling of danger overtook her once more. Nikam.
Dasaynah, her skirts bunched in one fist, the other holding the rock aloft, disappeared around the corner of the path. Karima had to reach Nikam first. The thought lending her strength, she was up and moving down the path after her sister, her feet barely touching the ground.
With time still moving at a snail’s pace, she caught up to her sister. Dasaynah twisted and ducked away from overhanging limbs and branches as she ran, her hair streaming behind her.
Dasaynah slowed, stalking her prey.
As Dasaynah ducked below another limb, Karima grabbed a handful of her hair, yanked hard, and twined it around a stout branch. Dasaynah’s head jerked back, and she stopped, cursing. Karima twisted and tangled her locks even further, her fingers burning as if all of Dasaynah was coated in poison.
Dasaynah turned to pull her hair loose, her face a scant breath away from Karima’s own. “Leave Nikam be,” Karima said. Dasaynah acted as if she could neither see nor hear her.
Karima closed her eyes and pictured her son’s face. Please, Yehanna. And as if the thought made it happen, she was running beside Nikam down the winding, narrow garden path. Coming around a corner, she spied a stone bench almost hidden in a niche along the path. Vines dripped from every tree limb, bowering the area into a shady, dark nook. She remembered Nikam had hidden under the bench once when they played a game of seek-and-hide, and she’d walked past him several times before his giggles finally betrayed his hiding place.
“Nik, under the bench,” she said.
He scooted under the seat and scrunched up against the wide pillars that were the bench’s legs. “Hush,” she whispered. He shuddered and swallowed hard.
He’d barely settled himself when Dasaynah ran past and on down the path. Karima breathed a sigh of relief.
She smiled reassuringly at him. “Nik, my sweet, you must fly now. Hurry to the garden door and the guards.”
He glanced down the path in the direction Dasaynah had gone before crawling from his hiding spot. “Hurry, Nik,” she said.
She followed him down the twisting, dark pathways. Her garden, once her secluded retreat, now seemed an isolated trap.
Nikam stopped on the pathway by the pond, his small shoulders jerking as he suppressed sobs. She stepped around him and saw her body a few paces away. “Are you dead, Mama?”
She knelt in front of him. “I suppose I am, my son.” She longed to touch him, to hold him in her arms and take away his fears.
“Will you leave me now?” Nik’s lips quivered, and his dark eyes welled with tears.
“I’ll stay as long as I can,” she answered. She brushed her lips against his forehead, as light as a moth’s touch, but the burning sensation she was left with was anything but gentle.
“There you are, brat.” Dasaynah, her once dignified skirts rumpled and dusty, her hair in disarray, stalked toward them.
Nikam backed away from his aunt until he stood above Karima’s body, as if he would protect it with his own. “You killed Mama. I hate you!”
Dasaynah chuckled. “Why, such a tiger, Nikam.”
“I’ll tell my father, and then he’ll kill you.”
“Indeed, my prince?”
Dasaynah’s words were soft and calm, but Karima heard the threat within. She tried to push her sister down, but her hands, burning as if engulfed by invisible flame, went right through Dasaynah’s body. She fell to the dirt, frustration overcoming her. Why can I not help my son? It seems my sister was right—I am useless after all.
“Mama, are you all right?”
“Yes, Nik.”
“No, Nikam. Your mama is not all right,” Dasaynah said.
Her son glowered at her sister. “Yes she is. She just said so.”
Dasaynah blinked, then turned her gaze to Karima’s body. She sucked in a breath as she quickly crossed the small clearing. She jabbed the body with her toe, and smiled when there was no response.
“Look, Nikam. Your mother has tripped, fallen on a boulder, and sustained a dreadful injury. And then you, in trying to help her, slipped and fell into the pond. Alas, I cannot swim, and was unable to save you.” Dasaynah’s eyes glittered. “But I did try,” she added with a smirk.
Karima stumbled to her feet, stunned that her sister meant to drown Nikam. “Nik, run to the guards.”
Nikam took a step back, edging in the direction of the garden door. But he was too close to his aunt. Karima saw her sister would have him in two steps.
“Leave him be, Dasaynah,” she said. Her sister gave no sign she could hear her. Digging deep within herself, grabbing her anger and forcing it up through her throat, Karima tried again. “Leave him be!”
Dasaynah started and looked around. But she looked right through Karima.
“Mama is talking to you, Aunt Dasaynah,” Nikam said.
“Is she, now? Come, tell me what she said, my prince.” Dasaynah held out her hand. “Is she asking if I poisoned her and her other babes? You may tell her I did.”
A force ripped through Karima, blossoming into strength. Was her own sister a demon?
Dasaynah laughed, her mouth twisting into a cruel sneer. She grinned down at Karima’s still body. “And look, it appears I’ve just killed one more. That leaves just you, Nikam.” She held out her hand once more. “Come, my prince.”
A scream tore through her throat, guttural and raw, and not gentle in the least. Karima would save her son.
She launched herself at her sister, heedless to the pain she knew would come. At first she felt only empty air, then her arms closed around Dasaynah in a fierce embrace, their faces only breaths apart.
Dasaynah’s eyes widened with shock. “Karima,” she whispered as they fell.
The force of Karima’s attack carried Dasaynah backward, into the pond. Karima hugged her sister tight as they slowly sank to the bottom of the dark green depths.
Dasaynah’s struggles grew feeble. And then she stilled, her beautiful deep purple eyes wide open, almost innocent and loving. Karima watched the life fade from them.
One last bubble, small and insignificant, floated from Dasaynah’s mouth. Karima followed its progress as it drifted to the surface.
Nikam knelt at the water’s edge, a shimmering green blur. He stuck one hand into the water, reaching for her. A force pulled at her, as if to finally sweep her away from this world. But her hold on her sister tied her to this moment.
How she longed to take Nikam’s hand, to stay with him. To watch him grow, see him laugh, dry his tears, be there when he married.
But she could not. He belonged to the living.
She blew Nikam a kiss.
Karima held her sister a moment more, remembering times now gone, gentle and sweet.
And then she let go.
Pam Wallace lives in California with her husband of 30 years. She has two grown sons and a two-year-old grandson. When she’s not baby-sitting or writing, she enjoys working in her garden. Like most writers, she has the resident muse cat. Like most cats, he refuses to get involved in her writing shenanigans. Her short stories have appeared in several print and online venues.
Visit her at www.musingaloud.livejournal.com.
SLIDER
by David Niall Wilson
The old man had been staring at the showcase so long that Ted could no longer stand it. He walked over and stood on the far side of the glass enclosure and gazed inside.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” he asked at last. “There has never been another ball like it.”
The old man glanced up at him, and something flashed over his worn features—some emotion Ted couldn’t make out. The guy was older than he’d thought, weathered and dried up, as if he’d spent too many days standing under the hot sun. His hair was gray and wispy, thinning on top and standing in random tufts that moved gently in the grip of the overhead fans.
“Never,” the man agreed. “Never before, or since.”
They both stared into the display. On a tripod, enclosed in an acrylic case—which was itself walled behind glass and protected by a multi-alarm security system—sat an aged baseball. The stitching was rough, and there were scuffs on the horsehide surface. There were also scrawled signatures, slightly faded, but clearly legible. The auction lot number, a folded bit of cardboard proclaiming Lot 65, sat beside the ball.
There was another mark on the ball. A dark smudge feathered out from one line of raised stitches. It was dark brown, lighter at the edges. One of the signatures cut across the edge of the stain with bold strokes.
The old man reached out and brushed the fingertips of his right hand lightly across the glass. Ted was about to say something about fingerprints, or smudges, but the man seemed to realize what he was doing and pulled back.
“It’s not real, you know,” the man said softly. “This isn’t the ball.”
Ted stiffened. He hadn’t seen it coming, and he cursed under his breath. He’d thought he was facing off with an aging fan, or someone trying to relive a past moment of glory. Instead it was something all too common and irritating.
“I assure you, sir,” he said stiffly, “that you are mistaken. We have absolute provenance on this item. A private collector consigned it, and we can trace this ball through three sales and four owners to the day it left Jeb Rabinowicz’s hand and returned, care of Kevin ‘Knock it to Heaven’ Smith’s bat. This item is absolutely genuine, and I’ll have to ask you not to spread stories to the contrary before or during our sale.”
The old man glanced up at him sharply, almost like he was only just realizing whom he was speaking with. Then he returned his gaze to the ball and shook his head. “I won’t queer your deal, son,” he replied. “Wouldn’t do any good for me to try. I’m just telling you what I know. That’s not the ball that killed Jeb Rabinowicz, and I ought to know.”
“Why is that, sir?” Ted asked, glancing around for security.
“Because,” the man replied, looking up once more, “I was there.”
Ted contemplated his options. He could humor the guy and see where it led. As long as no one overheard them, and no doubt was cast on the auction lot, there was probably little harm in it. He took in the stranger’s stooped frame and slender, weakened form. One thing was certain: the guy looked old enough to be telling the truth.
“This ball,” Ted explained slowly, “was pitched by Jeb Rabinowicz on June third, 1939. The count was three and two, and Jeb had a strong arm. He was used to blowing his fastball past every batter he faced, and that was what he intended to do that day. They didn’t have radar guns back then,” Ted continued, “but experts guess that ‘Rocket’ Rabinowicz’s fastball closed in on ninety-five miles per hour. It was a little wild, but things were different back then.
“Some say he was trying to dust Smith off the plate with that pitch, and his bit of wildness steered him wrong that one time—slid the ball right over the center of the plate, hot and fast. Me? I think he just thought he was too fast to be hit and served it up straight. I’ve read everything there is to read on Rabinowicz, and that seems more his style than the duster. It might have been different if it was some other batter, or some other out, but Smith was hot. He’d already singled and doubled in that game and the bases were loaded. If Smith got a hit it would have driven in the tying run. A double would have won the game. But a strikeout? That would have won it for Rabinowicz, and the only way through the batter was through the batter, as they say. That pitch was a point of honor.”
The old guy had remained silent through his speech, and for a moment Ted wasn’t certain if his words had even been heard. Then, without turning his gaze from the case, or the ball within, the man spoke.
“It was a slider. They didn’t really call it a slider then, and it wasn’t the pretty dipping fastball they throw today, but it was a slider, all the same. Rabinowicz never intended to hit him with the ball. It came in fast, slightly high and inside, and then it jerked out over the center of the plate at the last minute like it had clipped a bumper on a pool table. If it had come inside, Smith would have popped up, or missed completely, but that pitch dove for the strike zone, and it found the bat. I’ll always believe that. The swing was straight through the heart of the plate with no thought given to the pitch, the curve, or anything else. That’s where logic said the ball would have to come. No one throws a ball when the bases are loaded, the count is full, and the game is on the line. It was pitcher against batter, and the swing took nothing into account but that confrontation.
“A fastball would have snuck past. A curve would have left Smith swinging on his heels and spun him around like a fool. Any pitch but that one and everything would be different now.”
The man’s voice trailed off.
“I don’t know about the slider,” Ted said, “but I know about that ball. Smith cracked it straight down the pike. It came so fast that Rabinowicz was still sideways in his motion when it caught him just behind the right ear. He spun halfway around and dropped, and he never got up. That smudge,” Ted pointed to the deep brown stain on the ball.
“I know,” the old man snapped. “I know what happened to Rabinowicz. I know what you think that smudge is, too, son, but I’m here to tell you, whatever it was that stained your ball, it never leaked out of Jeb Rabinowicz. That’s a pretty convincing setup, with the Doctor’s signature, and the papers that come with it. I see it’s signed by the catcher, Randy ‘Big Dog’ Sherman, and Smith, too.”
“And I have certificates of authenticity on all three signatures,” Ted cut in. “I’ve had this checked and rechecked, valued by more experts than I can even remember. I don’t know why you came here, or who you are, but I know t
hat ball. I think I know more about it than any man on the planet.”
“You don’t know the first thing about that ball, son,” the old man said softly. “But I’m here to tell you, if you’ll listen. What do you have to lose? No one is going to question all those signatures and letters, why should they? You say it’s the ball, and as far as the world is concerned, it is; but I’m here to try and set some things straight.”
Ted was willing to do just about anything if it would get the old guy out of the auction house where no one could overhear the conversation. “Tell you what,” he said. “You buy the beer, and I’ll listen to what you have to say, but not for too long. It’s getting late, and tomorrow is going to be a long day.”
The old man smiled thinly. “That’s fair.”
Ted nodded. “Let me get my jacket. There’s a sports bar right down the street that isn’t too loud for a quiet conversation, and they have most of the league games on.”
The old man did smile then, and held out a gnarled hand. “It’s still a great game,” he said. “No matter how hard they try to kill it.”
Ted shook the man’s hand, and then hurried off after his coat, wondering what he’d gotten himself into, and how difficult it would be to extract himself if it started getting crazy.
• • •
They sat at a table by the bar, beneath a big mounted TV. The Yankees were playing the Red Sox. It was the fifth inning and the score was tied. Ted was a Yankees fan, and, as it turned out, his companion favored the Sox, so they were able to crack the initial ice with light game-time banter.
Soon, though, the old guy just stopped talking. He stared off past the television and into the long mirror behind the liquor bottles that lined the bar. He stayed like that for so long Ted thought something must be wrong, but just before it was time to break the silence (or break for the door), the man turned to face him and started talking.
“That game happened a long time ago, son. I may not look it, but I’m coming up on my eighty-seventh birthday. I’ve seen a lot of baseball in my time, and I don’t have so many innings left to go. Still, there’re times when it seems like only yesterday I stepped up to the plate in my first little league game and faced off with ‘Big’ Matt Scharf. He was the tallest kid in the league, and the meanest. He had a fastball that made your knees knock—particularly if you knew just how accurate he wasn’t. Strong memories, but my time in the little league isn’t important. The thing that is important, is this. I was there the day Jeb Rabinowicz died. I saw it with my own eyes.
