Triumph Over Tragedy: an anthology for the victims of Hurricane Sandy

by R. T. Kaelin

  All’s quiet until I get to the top. There, sitting in his rocking chair in front of the house, is Daddy. His face is creased and sweaty, like he’s in pain and ain’t had rest—but it’s more than that.

  Fear.

  Just as I’m thinking that, I hear him yell “Run, Shade!” I step back just in time to see someone carrying a rifle stand up from behind the chair and bang the handle into the back of Daddy’s head. He slumps over.

  “Daddy!” I scream, my stomach feeling like it’s been torn in half. I stumble toward him, but I don’t get two steps before something grabs my arm from behind. I struggle, but whatever’s got me has me good.

  “Afternoon, Shade,” someone says softly in my ear. His breath reeks of alcohol, and without even looking I know who it is. The person holding the rifle steps in front of Daddy’s chair, dark greasy hair falling forward over his sweaty forehead, dark stubble of a beard around a nasty looking smile.

  Rael Canner. And that means the one holding me is…

  “Tace Canner,” I say.

  “Very good, Shade,” Tace says, still holding me from behind. “Very good. You was always a smart one.” His voice is quiet, but I hear how it’s straining…like the sound an alli makes coming out of the water before it attacks. “Funny thing about smart people, though,” he says as he tightens his grip. “Sometimes, it’s like they forget what made them smart.”

  “Like fixing their debts,” Rael says. He says the word “debts” real slow, like he’s found some coins under a rock and he’s looking at each one of them to make sure it’s real.

  “That’s right,” Tace says. “Now Rael and I ain’t as smart as you and your daddy. But we know when we’re owed something.”

  “Daddy says he paid you for helping with the boat,” I say, trying not to cry from the pain of where he’s got my arm.

  “It weren’t enough,” Tace says, “and we told him that a while ago.”

  “After you already set on a price,” I say, and suddenly feel pain shooting up my arm as Tace tightens his grip.

  “It weren’t enough,” Tace says again, voice low and angry. “We told him.”

  “We told him,” Rael agrees.

  “But he’s sick,” I say, my stomach twisting like no one’s business now. “Even if he did still owe you, he can’t pay anything the way he is now.”

  Tace makes a sound something between a laugh and a cough, and spits. “Then where’d he send you?”

  Damn. “Nowhere,” I say, and that’s pretty well true. “He didn’t send me nowhere.”

  Tace tightens his grip again, and I cry out a little—I can’t help it.

  “Now that’s what I mean about smart people forgetting things,” he says. “’Cause near as we can tell, you was gone all yesterday and most of today. If your Daddy’s so sick, Shade, why’d you leave him behind?”

  “Unless you was fixing to come back with something and take you and your Daddy out of here,” Rael says, smile gone now.

  “That ain’t what—” And then my stomach turns clean around in my body as I think of something. “Kann,” I say. “Where’s Kann?”

  Rael’s expression shifts some, and he shoots a look over me, where Tace should be standing.

  Then I just lose it. “Kann!” I yell as loud as I can manage. “Kann!” I hear Tace shouting in my ear, something about shutting my mouth or he’s going to shut it for me. I don’t care, I just want to know what happened to Kann, and I’m yelling for Kann and Daddy—

  —and then everything gets real quiet, like the way it does in the Mire before a storm. All of a sudden Tace and I are both quiet too, and I see Rael look to his left and hold up his rifle.

  Then I hear this high, musical voice. “You boys been making quite a noise around here,” it says, real soft, and then I remember whose voice it is, and I turn my head.

  The old man is standing there, hat tipped back on his head, holding something. Cherie is next to him, mouth open, and this time she ain’t got her head tilted like she’s curious. She’s making a low, low rumble. Then I see what he’s holding, and I feel the tears starting to come.

  He’s holding Kann in his arms.

  I hear Tace swallow. “What you want, old man?” he says after a moment.

  The man shrugs. “Some peace,” he says. “To forget some things I can’t forget, and remember some things I can’t remember.” He takes one small, slow step forward. “But you boys ain’t got to worry none about that. All I want from you is something a lot simpler.” He looks down at Kann’s body. “I was on my way here when I found this boy alone, half dead of fear and exhaustion and hunger. Only thing he told me before he passed out was some bad men was hurting his daddy. Now I think that’s funny, because that’s exactly what this girl told me yesterday. Why you think they would tell me the same story, boys?” His voice is still soft, but it’s got that edge I only ever heard once before, when my Daddy was talking about what he felt like when Mama died. Then he looks up, and his eyes—his eyes are all fire and ice at the same time, swirling, deep dark.

  Rael steps back, eyes wide, rifle trembling, and Tace pulls me back a step too. “You get out of here, old man,” Tace says, his voice a shivering croak. “You walk out of here alive or we’ll send you out dead, you and the rest of this scum.”

  The man raises his eyebrows, and now his eyes are dark pits. Cherie’s rumbling gets louder—though now it feels like the rumbling is coming from all around us. “It ain’t going that way,” he says, and now his voice is harsh, rough, like when Daddy plays his guitar out of tune. “You let them go, and you leave this family in peace from now on, and I’ll let you live. I won’t say it twice. Whatever your life’s worth to you, it ain’t worth a damn to me.”

  “Rael, teach this scum some manners!” Tace yells, so loud I flinch.

  Rael steadies his rifle, and the old man smiles a crooked smile.

  And then everything happens at once.

  The water all around the base of the hill shoots up in a burst of spray, and from every direction I see—I blink twice to make sure—allis, hundreds of them, pouring up the bank like a green wave. Rael shouts and fires, but the old man’s already gone from the spot.

  Tace yells in terror and lets me go, and as the allis reach me I close my eyes. A second later I feel something nudge my leg. I open my eyes and see Cherie next to me, looking away, and the allis flow around us like water around a tree. Behind me I hear another shot and then a scream, and as I peek over my shoulder I see Rael getting pulled down, and Tace screaming as the allis get to him, and—

  I turn away and put my hands over my ears.

  But I keep my eyes open, so I see the old man standing, eyes like dark black circles, hat on the ground, his coat and white hair flowing out behind him, still holding Kann. He’s standing tall, and he looks like—he looks like—

  Then it’s over.

  His coat and hair fall flat, and he stoops again. There’s a long silence, then a squishing and a scurrying as the allis rush past back into the water. It bubbles and froths, and then as it settles, the usual noises of the Mire start to rise as I take my hands from my ears. Daddy’s still slumped in his chair. The Canner brothers are gone.

  And the old man is there, his eyes just a normal dark brown now, holding Kann. He brings him over to me and lowers him into my arms. Kann’s dirty and cut, and his skin looks pale, but he’s breathing, and his heart’s steady.

  “You get him some rest and he’ll be fine,” the old man says. “And for your daddy—” He fishes something out of his coat pocket, looking like a bunch of leaves. “When I’m gone, you mash those together and boil them. Then give the water to your daddy to drink when he wakes up; twice a day for a week. He’ll get better. And for you…” He pauses, raises an eyebrow. “You’ll be fine too. You got you a strong family, Shade. Don’t forget it.”

  He picks up his hat and calls for Cherie with that low rumble, and she tilts her head at me before crawling to his side. Then the old man nods and turns to go.<
br />
  “You—” I say, my voice cracking. “You ain’t just the Caretaker of Mire. When you was standing there, I remembered…I remembered the map, and the stories. And the Wizard King Aervis taking back the Saman Borderlands. And he—”

  The old man stops and looks at me. “Ain’t nothing in a story but what you put in it, Shade,” he says, this time with a smile. Then he turns and heads down the hill, and I watch him all the way until he gets onto his boat, the one he’d loaned me. He pushes it off from the dock and paddles away, Cherie swimming next to him, her rumbling echoing behind them, low and loud enough for the whole Mire to feel it in its bones.

  *

  The Last Incantation

  by Alex Shvartsman

  There is no such thing as a young wizard.

  “Life is but a thin candle,” was among the first lessons Thalen taught us. “If you aren’t careful it can melt away before you know it.” I listened eagerly then, having finally come of age to study the arcane arts. I was intimidated by what lay ahead and excited about being lectured by Thalen himself.

  “We do not teach magic to young people,” said Thalen, “because most of them lack the maturity to use it wisely. The sort of patience necessary for studies cannot be learned, but rather acquired only with natural age. That is why you had to wait until you turned thirty to begin your studies.” Rumor was that Thalen himself had broken this law and learned his magic as a young man. There are many such rumors of Thalen and Gessa, the best among us.

  They had not trained at the hall. When they arrived, they were already masters of sorcery, crackling with power and madly in love with each other. Thalen and Gessa were the stuff of legends. Together they could undertake any challenge, cast any spell. They healed the sick and won battles with an easy grace. They gave generously of their magic for the benefit of others, and in doing so they aged quickly. By the time their bodies turned sixty, Thalen and Gessa retired from active spellcasting.

  After two years of study, those of us who persevered gained the wrinkles and gray temples of middle age along with arcane wisdom. You can’t learn magic without practicing it, and that takes a toll. To mend a broken leg steals a week of your life. To break a drought and summon rain will cost you a couple of months. You can kill a man with a glance, but you will instantly age a decade. Anything is possible; the more powerful your magic, the higher its price.

  Some of my former classmates appeared old and wizened but others remained in their forties. A few chose a quick and easy path—trade a decade for a trove of treasure. Is it so different from toiling much of your life away as a farmer or craftsman?

  Precious few were idealistic enough to use their powers for the benefit of others, to give of themselves the way Thalen and Gessa have done. I harbored my abilities like a miser with a fistful of copper. A mere threat of magic could serve nearly as well as the real thing.

  In their twilight years Thalen and Gessa came to believe that magic could be tamed, that spells could be cast without draining one’s life force. Had anyone else suggested such a thing, they would have been laughed out of the hall, but these two had earned our admiration, and their theories were treated with respect even if they never seemed to yield any results. They kept trying to cheat the universe of the price it demanded for miracles, until Gessa ran out of time.

  Anything is possible with magic, even rejuvenating a person. However, the bargain isn’t a kind one. You must age three years for every year of life you bestow. Thalen, who would have gladly sacrificed anything for Gessa, watched her body succumb to old age. He did not have enough magic left to help her. As she wasted away, Thalen worked feverishly to master the new magic. Then she slipped into a coma, her final hours upon her.

  Thalen announced that he would make his attempt. He would combine old and new magic to bring his lover back from the brink. He invited his favorite students to observe and study his new methods, to preserve the new magic after he was gone. We did not have much faith in his plan but came to say goodbye to the greatest of us all. For no matter the outcome for Gessa, one thing was certain: Thalen would not survive his incantation.

  One hundred wizards filled the hall, bright sunlight through stained glass windows illuminating the center where Gessa’s frail body lay. Thalen whispered a spell over Gessa, her ragged breathing loud enough that I could hear it from where I stood. Thalen’s voice grew into a strident chant. Soon, he was shouting the words of power, shedding weeks and months of his life with the casual disdain of a youngster. The air sizzled with energy. Thalen gave everything he had left until he collapsed onto the ground, nothing more than skin stretched over a skeleton. The last thing he must have seen as he died was a forty year old Gessa, stirring under the blankets, her breath no longer belabored by age.

  I looked around at the faces of my fellow wizards. Their eyes were moist with grief and brows sweating from their own arcane efforts. The math of a rejuvenation spell is brutal. Three years will buy you one, and that is a poor bargain. Thalen must have died happy, thinking his last incantation proof that he had discovered a way around paying this price. Except that he hadn’t.

  One hundred friends and students, volunteers all, each gave a year of our own lives to Gessa. Over thirty years shed from her body’s age in moments. A gift we gave gladly, even if Thalen would have never knowingly accepted it of us.

  Gessa will wake soon, never knowing of our contribution. She will believe that Thalen’s incantation had worked, and likely continue their research. If anyone besides Thalen is capable of creating an entirely new way to do magic, it is Gessa. One day she might even succeed, and everything will be different.

  Until then, there will be no such thing as a young wizard.

  *

  Welcome to New York

  by Addie J. King

  “Demon, BEGONE!” I yelled, as I jumped into another dimension and landed right in front of a giant metal monster. “I am Lady Amyssa d’Kant of the Highlands Region, Native of Blue Ridge, Daughter of the High Priestess. I command that you leave this dimension at once!”

  The demon screamed, a loud, honking shout, with light beaming from its eyes and black smoke coming from the top of its head. I’d never seen anything like it. I reached for my magic, but nothing happened.

  Something hit me from the side and knocked me to the ground. I tried to roll away, but there was something around my waist, holding me down. It didn’t take long to realize that it was the arm of a man about my own age; I had just recently marked my twenty-fifth summer before the final battle in my own dimension. I fought my way free as the metal demon shrieked its way past me and kept going as if I hadn’t even been there.

  The man holding me down was three or four hands taller than me, with brown floppy hair and long, lanky limbs. I had the irrelevant thought that he probably had a long sword reach, and wondered how graceful he’d be at swordplay. Tall men either are very graceful or very uncoordinated. I was betting that he was no stranger to fighting skills from the feel of solid muscle in the arm around my waist.

  “Lady, are you stupid?” the man asked, fending off my attempts to get free. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed. What possessed you to step in front of a truck?”

  What sort of demon was a truck? I wondered. Obviously, my magic didn’t work on it. Maybe he knew what to do. Even if he didn’t, maybe he’d know a priest. Before I’d jumped into this dimension, my colleagues advised me to seek out a holy person if I was disoriented or confused. The battle had barely been over, but we all knew that we could not wait to follow the demons threatening chaos in other worlds. “I didn’t step in front of it. It came at me,” I said.

  “Well, if you step into the street, you can bet something’s going to come at you. You’re lucky I saw you.” He was still grabbing at my arms, and I kept smacking his hands in return.

  But the demon truck was still on the loose. “How do we stop it before someone gets hurt?” I asked. “I don’t know how to banish it.”

  His eyebrows shot up. �
�Banish a truck? It’s not…why would you even try? Never mind; I’m not sure I want to know.” He helped me stand up, and brushed some of the loose dirt and gravel off of my long skirt. “You can’t banish a truck. Besides, a truck’s not dangerous; at least not if you stay on the sidewalk and out of the street.”

  He explained. Apparently, a truck was like a supply wagon that didn’t need horses to transport goods. I wasn’t convinced, but it wasn’t my world. It was his. I’d take his word for it; at least until I was sure he wasn’t wrong.

  “You know something of banishing?” I asked. Maybe there was a different technique I needed to learn to fulfill my mission. Did magic work differently here?

  “Something, for sure,” he said. “I’m not an expert. It’s a good thing you’re talking to me, though. Anyone else would have you committed to a mental institution.”

  “Who are you?” I asked. He was wearing a dark blue shirt and pants, with a small shield pinned to his shirt and a strange belt that had all kinds of equipment strapped to it. I was used to men in long clerical robes or those who wore armor over their ragtag clothing. Maybe I’d been with the army too long, through muddy fields and bloody engagements.

  That small shield on his shirt was too small to stop a weapon. What use was something like that? It had to be magical. And what was a mental institution? It didn’t sound pleasant, from the way he said it.

  “I’m Officer Andrew James, of the New York City Police Department. Did I hear you say your name was Amyssa?”

  No one ever addressed me so informally. I tried not to take offense. Perhaps everyone in this dimension addressed each other this way? So far I’d faced a demon that no one was doing anything to stop, I’d been knocked down, and I’d been addressed informally. I was not impressed with the manners of this place.

  I glanced about and saw other people walking around. I was glad I was wearing a sturdy bodice, blouse and long skirt. Some of the other women I could see were wearing less material than I’d seen on the prostitutes who begged at the back door of the cathedral at home. And those women had been poor; they couldn’t afford material to cover their modesty. I reached up to make sure my dark hair was in its waist length braid, and then ran my hands down the bodice of my dress to smooth out wrinkles in the brown and green fabric.