Deep Magic - First Collection

by Jeff Wheeler

  “Whoo?” came the soft call of an owl.

  “Me. I have. I have failed my brother.” Gretel studied her bloodstained hands. Certainly this was proof of that.

  “Whoo.” The call came again, long and soft, a lullaby rather than an admonishment.

  One by one, feathers dropped from the night sky, floating downward until they landed on Gretel’s palms. Each feather soaked up its share of blood before disintegrating. When a lone feather landed against her cheek, she sank to the forest floor and fell asleep.

  The blaze woke her hours later, the gingerbread house lit with flames. The odor of burnt sugar and charred sweets filled her nose, her mouth, her throat, the stench so caustic it felt as if a noose had tightened around her neck.

  “Hansel?” She called his name again and again, her cries too thin to cut through the thick smoke that billowed from the house. “Hansel?”

  Near dawn, the fire burned itself out, the rock-sugar fence a slag that oozed its way through twigs and leaves. Only the witch’s oven remained, squat and low to the ground. It was from here a figure emerged, movements tentative as a newborn calf.

  Gretel leaped across the slag and ran to her brother.

  Hansel took her by the shoulders, his fingers thin and tight. “I had to go back. I had to be the one to kill her.” He shook her then as if that would help her understand. “Me, not you.”

  His blond hair had turned ashen. If she brushed it from his eyes, Gretel thought it might crumble to dust against her fingertips. He reeked of burnt sugar and acrid smoke, but when she turned his palms up, they were clean and pink, like a child’s hands.

  She took him by one of those hands and led him to the path that would take them home.

  Charity Tahmaseb

  Charity Tahmaseb has slung corn on the cob for Green Giant and jumped out of airplanes (but not at the same time). She’s worn both Girl Scout and Army green. These days, she writes fiction and works as a technical writer.

  Her novel, The Geek Girl's Guide to Cheerleading (written with co-author Darcy Vance), was a YALSA 2012 Popular Paperback pick. Her short speculative fiction has appeared in the Unidentified Funny Objects and Coffee anthologies, Flash Fiction Online, and Cicada.

  Thorns

  By Eldon Thompson | 2,700 words

  Pagus leaned into his work, moving the rake efficiently among the hedgerows of his master’s private garden. It was light toil, really. In some ways, he rather enjoyed it. The garden was beautiful, to be sure, a flowering profusion of sweet scents and vibrant colors. More importantly, it was a place of quiet, the one location to which he could escape to be alone with his thoughts. Sometimes, while laboring among the plants and shade trees, he was able to forget almost completely the truth of his place in the world. Despite the aches and pains and occasional blister, it was perhaps the most enjoyable of his duties.

  He bent to pick up a stone. As he came up, another bounced at his feet, as though falling from an overhead tree. He looked up, scanning the foliage. Sure enough, there was Fabius, crouched on a portico rooftop that lay beyond the encircling wrought-iron fence, upon the perimeter of the surrounding peristylium, his ruddy face creased with a stupid grin. Pagus watched as the son of Master Cornelius reached into a leather pouch, pulled forth a stone, and flung it right at him. It was a good throw. Pagus actually had to dodge in order to avoid a nasty thump to the skull.

  Biting back his anger, Pagus turned to collect the stones. He could hear Fabius’s laughter as he worked, and did his best to ignore the continuing barrage, other than to note where each missile had landed so that he could retrieve it. He wondered briefly how severe might be the punishment should he decide to throw one or more of them right back. It might well be a price worth paying. Nevertheless, it was a passing thought. He had no wish to embarrass himself or his master, who would suffer insults from the community for having selected such a rebellious youth as his chief servant. Nor did he wish to give Fabius the satisfaction of a reaction of any sort. In the end, it was best for all to just keep silent.

  “Fabius,” a voice rang out severely.

  From where he knelt, Pagus glanced up to see Cornelius Jucundus, duumvir of Pompeii, cutting a path through the inner courtyard. The master’s eyes were fixed upon his son’s rooftop position. From the corner of his eye, Pagus watched as Fabius withered beneath his father’s stern gaze, abandoning his assault and slinking from view. When he had gone, Master Cornelius produced a key and stepped through the gate that marked the entrance to his garden, approaching Pagus’s location.

  Pagus rose to his feet and bowed. “I am sorry to have offended him, Master.”

  Cornelius shook his head. “It would seem my son is offended with life, these days. We can only hope he will outgrow it.”

  Pagus bowed again.

  “May I?” Cornelius asked.

  Pagus stepped out of the way, allowing his master to walk past until he had reached an array of rosebushes that sprouted in the exact center of the garden. One rose in particular stood tall and proud among the others, its stem stripped of thorns, save one. Cornelius did not hesitate, but reached up and pressed his thumb squarely upon the tip of the thorn, wincing only slightly as he drew blood. He then tipped his head back and drew a deep breath, closing his eyes against a stream of sunlight. At last, he turned and walked back toward the garden entrance, pausing to place a hand upon Pagus’s shoulder as he went.

  “Life grants us another day,” the older man said.

  Pagus nodded, then faithfully repeated his half of the ritualistic exchange. “Let us do with it as we may.”

  Cornelius patted the younger man on the shoulder, leaving him to his work.

  * * *

  Pagus lay in his private quarters that night, thinking as he often did of who he was and who he might one day be. He had just about fallen asleep when the attack woke him. Though he could not remember any sensory triggers, he must have felt it coming, for he bolted upright in bed an instant before it happened, his eyes snapping open to stare into moonlit darkness. As soon as he did so, the attacker was there, pressing a dagger against his throat. Pagus held his breath as a sneering face thrust into view.

  Fabius.

  Pagus blinked several times to be sure of what was happening. He started to speak, but the other signaled silence. A moment later, Fabius whispered, “We’ve been summoned.”

  Pagus swallowed hard and nodded, doing what he could to disguise his fear. He must have failed, because Fabius’s smirk only widened as he pulled Pagus to his feet.

  Moments later, they had worked their way outside the house and into the streets. A gusting wind blew down the roads and alleys, chilling Pagus’s skin. Pagus shivered, but said not a word. He glanced continually at Fabius, who prodded him forward with the dagger, saying nothing about where they were going, or why.

  At the end of the block, Fabius shoved him into an alley. There, Pagus came face-to-face with a young man, a beggar by the looks of him. After a moment, however, Pagus was surprised to realize that he recognized the lad.

  “Lucretius,” Pagus whispered in stunned greeting.

  Lucretius hissed at him to be silent, then motioned both Pagus and Fabius into the deep shadows. There, he took a moment to look Pagus up and down, as though sizing him up for some task. “Congratulations, Pagus,” he said finally. “You are about to win your freedom.”

  Pagus stared at the young man, dumbfounded. Lucretius was well known to him, a chief servant with whom he had often met. The boy’s master was none other than Sallust Severus, a close friend of Master Cornelius and a prominent citizen in his own right.

  Lucretius cast about furtively, then produced a folded square of leather. He opened it up to reveal what appeared to be an oily frog skin.

  “Poison,” he explained. “A venom that, when it reaches the bloodstream, can fell a horse within minutes.”

  Pagus studied the item, then looked up at Lucretius, making no attempt to hide his confusion.

  “My master wishes
to be elected duumvir next month. He would not care to lose to yours a second time.”

  Pagus gaped wordlessly. He glanced at Fabius. “You’re going to poison your father?”

  Fabius snickered. “No, Pagus. You are.”

  Pagus groped for a response that would not come, his lips forming any number of unspoken words. “I ... I have no cause,” he stammered at last.

  “No cause?” Fabius laughed quietly. “You’re a slave, Pagus.”

  “You are being given an opportunity,” Lucretius agreed, pulling forth a scroll and extending it to him. “Do this one thing, and my master is prepared to secure your freedom.”

  Pagus accepted the scroll, and after a moment’s hesitation, read its inscription. A sudden twinge tickled his spine. The writ was a proclamation of freedom, signed already by Sallust Severus, duumvir of Pompeii. Help the man to assume the position, and he would be free.

  Pagus glanced quickly between the two conspirators, horror and disbelief vying for control of his features. “Why me?”

  Again, Fabius laughed, this time, without any trace of mirth. “You are the only one, other than Father, with access to his private garden. Who else?”

  “I am to poison the man in his own house?”

  “The venom must enter the bloodstream,” Fabius said, reiterating Lucretius’s description. He stared at Pagus meaningfully.

  Pagus shook his head, as if by doing so he might clear away this curious nightmare. What had Master Cornelius ever done that he should help to take the man’s life? “I cannot do this,” he said at last.

  “Be smart,” Lucretius urged him. “Your master is not long for this earth. Do not suffer for some misguided loyalty. Take this opportunity to profit from his demise.”

  Pagus turned back to Fabius. He could deduce easily enough the son’s stake in this affair. With Cornelius gone, Fabius would become master of House Jucundus. What would it be like working as a slave under the ill-tempered youth?

  But Fabius was quick to abolish any such notions. “Refuse this act,” he said, “and I will see you branded a thief. You will not escape the lions this time.”

  Lucretius took back the scroll and plucked forth a bag of coins, which he pressed into Pagus’s hand. “This is but a first payment,” he promised. “You shall be paid thrice over when the deed is done.”

  Pagus stared wide-eyed into the open bag, feeling its weight bearing down upon him. He looked slowly from one face to the other, still unable to believe this was happening. He had heard of such murderous intrigue, certainly. But to be drawn into such a plot, here and now ...

  He continued to glance from one face to the next. He could not trust either of these men; that much was obvious. But considering the choices ... He stared down at the bag of gold, more wealth than he could spend in a lifetime. He thought of all the good he might do with it. He thought of the words of his own master, who had often shared with him philosophies concerning the cycle of life. Death is necessary, Cornelius would claim without a hint of regret. The old must die that the young may take their place. A more natural progression did not exist.

  A cloud passed overhead, dimming the light of the moon. A night bird offered up a shrill cry. Pagus wondered suddenly whether one of his children or servants would one day be crouched in an alley, plotting his own unnatural demise.

  “Give me the poison,” he said.

  * * *

  A blustery wind swirled in the garden that day, shaking boughs, stirring leaves, and freezing Pagus to the bone. The events of the previous night were a blur. Only when he had awakened that morning to find the bag of gold and leather-wrapped poison skin did he believe that the strange encounter with Fabius, son of Cornelius, and Lucretius, servant of Sallust, had actually taken place. The very idea of what they had asked of him was absurd. But what was he to do? Run to his master with the story? With the evidence in hand, he might just convince the old man of the truth. But to what end? If Fabius and Sallust were determined to see Cornelius dead, what would stop them? Should this attempt fail, another would be undertaken. Even if the two conspirators were rooted out and convicted for their crimes, how long would it be before another followed their lead?

  The questions were maddening, a vicious circle of logic and illogic that had made Pagus sick to his stomach. He had gone about his chores that morning without an answer in sight. Although he wanted to deny it, there was a certain amount of temptation that he could not quite overcome. All of a sudden, his dreams were not just fantasies, but possibilities. In any case, this affair was not his decision. He was but a tool being used, as a hammer by a carpenter. If a murderer was caught in the act, which was destroyed—the knife, or the wielder?

  He was still pondering these questions as he went into the master’s garden that day. He was still pondering them as he smeared the venomous frog skin onto the master’s rose thorn. Enough for one prick, Lucretius had said, and one prick only. But one prick was all it would take. A fitting end, really. For Master Cornelius had explained to Pagus the philosophy behind his strange ritual as the need to remind himself each day that if he could still feel pain, then he was still alive. Only on this day, the scale by which he measured his life would tip in the other direction.

  Pagus thought of this as his master approached, stepping through the iron gate. He reminded himself that it was his master’s choice, his master’s ritual. He was merely a servant, someone who did what he was told. That was his place in the world.

  “Good day, Pagus,” Cornelius greeted. The old man looked down at him with that kind and knowing expression, seeing right through him, and continued past.

  Pagus began to tremble. What had he done? He remembered suddenly another of Cornelius’s philosophies, shared with him on the day that the elder statesman had brought a starving urchin, caught thieving from the master’s orchard, into his magnificent domus. Whereupon that surly, shamefaced youth had snidely congratulated the old man on all his marvelous accomplishments, only to be told that it was not the treasures accumulated during one’s life that mattered, but the manner in which they were claimed.

  This before the esteemed Cornelius had spared that filthy, criminal vagrant, offering instead a place of service, of belonging, in his household.

  In an instant, the truth was revealed, the arguments and excuses that had covered it skittering away like dry leaves. Pagus knew in that moment that he had been deceived by his own aspirations. He knew in that moment that he had been blinded by the selfish need to improve his station in life. And he knew in that moment that he would sooner perish without achievement or the comforts it might bring than to steal from another that which he had not earned for himself.

  Casting aside all other thoughts, Pagus dropped his rake and rushed after his master. He caught the man in two easy strides, then lunged past. Without slowing, he reached the rosebush and pressed his thumb deep onto its lone thorn. One prick, and one prick only. But one prick was all it would take.

  He shuddered, feeling a warmth course through his veins, feeling all doubt and fear drain from him in an instant.

  “Pagus?”

  The slave turned slowly toward his master, his eyes upon the ground. “I have failed you, Master.” He looked up. “Life grants you another day.”

  Cornelius said nothing for a moment, then smiled sadly. He stepped to one side, sweeping his arm out wide. Through the entrance to the garden, Pagus watched as Fabius was drawn into the courtyard by a pair of guards, thrashing against their hold.

  “Unhand me!” Fabius screamed. He stopped when he saw his father. “It was Pagus!” he cried. “He threatened me to keep silent! I wanted to warn you, but he ...”

  His tirade tapered off as he caught sight of Lucretius stepping free of an alcove, followed by the boy’s master, Sallust Severus. The elder man nodded to Cornelius.

  Cornelius returned the greeting, then turned his back to his son. He stepped forward and reached out instead to his chief servant. Pagus made no move as the other slipped free the wide
leather belt encircling his waist, that which carried the brand of the family Jucundus, the symbol of Pagus’s slavery.

  “You have proven your loyalty, young Pagus,” the older man proclaimed softly. “You are free.”

  Pagus blinked in confusion.

  “There is no poison,” Cornelius explained. “The council asked that I nominate a new aedile, a member of my household. It was assumed I would select my son, but I was uncertain of his worthiness.” He paused. A heavy sigh rattled from his chest as he glanced back at a sullen Fabius. “The council agreed to let me test it—and yours—before a decision was made.”

  Pagus shook his head, aghast, humiliated, ashamed. “Master, I thought to profit at your expense.”

  Cornelius offered a compassionate smile. “Had you not been tempted, it would not have been a sacrifice.”

  “Master, I—”

  “Life grants us another day,” the older man said.

  The young servant studied his master. In the courtyard beyond, Lucretius nodded encouragingly.

  Pagus swallowed his pride, swallowed his shame. “Let us do with it as we may.”

  Eldon Thompson

  Eldon Thompson is the author of the epic fantasy trilogy The Legend of Asahiel, which launched with The Crimson Sword in 2005. He is also a graduate of the UCLA Professional Program in Screenwriting. In 2007, he sold a screenplay adaptation of Terry Brooks’s The Elfstones of Shannara to Warner Bros—his favorite book since the age of nine. Since then, he has primarily written for Hollywood, with numerous assignments both original and adapted. His next set of novels will feature fan-favorite character Kylac Kronus, whose origins can be glimpsed in in a short story appearing in the popular Unfettered anthology from Grim Oak Press.

  October 2016

  Science Fiction

  The Drawer

  By Brock Poulsen | 5,800 words