by Jeff Wheeler
Celia stands beside me as I check Horse’s saddle; in the gloaming twilight, I cannot read the woman’s expression, but I hear the concern in her words. “I hope that I did not cause any problems,” she says. “It is just, he cannot travel quite yet and he has spent the past fortnight in near silence. He’s polite enough, mind, but not more than a few words at most. I thought—”
The sentence hangs unfinished because we both know what it is she thought: perhaps another old adventurer with a sword and too many memories would understand him. I only nod.
I cannot say that I understand him, because I do not know him. Still, I now have somewhere to ride each day, somewhere besides the tavern.
Over the coming days, Koert and I take to leaning against the split-rail fence, sometimes in silence, but more often, looking over memories that neither thought we would share. The memories are always different than the songs. Always. Tane and Mera often escape to join us, and they sit on the fence, begging to hear about long-done battles, fights with forest drakes, duels with knights. Neither Koert nor I tell them the bardic versions; we spare them the glory, but still they want to hear, and they soak it all down to their bones.
“Celia is not going to appreciate this,” I say as Tane and Mera go racing home one day, leaving us to linger in the last stretches of daylight. “Perhaps we are being, eh, a bit too frank.”
Koert looks me full in the face. “Those two? Do you honestly suppose that they’ll stay around on a farm? You know they’ll leave one day. You know they will. You would have; I would have.”
Silence gathers between us when I don’t answer.
After several long moments, Koert continues, “Best we can do is be honest with them. Be honest and train them.”
I whirl on him. “Are you insane? They are only children.”
“Aye. Children with ambitions far beyond this farm. How old were you when your father gave you your first wooden sword?”
“That is not the point,” I say, and heat roils in my words. I glance back to see matched silhouettes dashing for the cottage, and I hear them yelling, although I cannot distinguish the words. I know Koert is right, but I want him to be wrong. Oh, Avorthar, I know he is right. I would spare them this lonely fate, spare them memories that drift like phantoms through their old age—if they even reach old age. Knights, duelists, warriors: if those twins strike off down an adventure’s path, that is what they will face. Not just monsters, but fighters trained from youth to rend life from flesh. Those two farm kids would not stand a chance.
Koert knows me well enough by this point not to pursue the matter. He rests his hand on my arm and we turn to other topics: falconry, the grain harvest, anything that is not training two more people to follow this path.
Celia insists that I join them for supper. I would like to decline because I am certain they have plenty of children to feed, but Tane and Mera are standing next to her, nodding eagerly. They are a hard pair to disappoint, so I accept the offer.
Although the family has a table, it cannot fit all six children, so everybody settles around the kitchen, with the youngest ones at the table where Celia and Rewyn can watch that they eat. Koert sits beside me, as out of the way as possible, and Tane and Mera quickly appear. Right, well, that was to be expected.
“How have you managed to recover in all of this chaos?” I ask Koert.
“They’re outside most of the day,” he replies. “You were an only child, I should guess?”
“No, actually. I was one of seven,” I admit. “It just seems less wild when one is an active participant in the chaos.”
“We aren’t part of the chaos,” Tane says and motions to Mera and himself. “We look after ourselves.”
I intend to leave right after supper, but Celia finds excuses for me to stay, tells me to give Rewyn advice on the grain harvest. I know Rewyn, and I know he does not need advice on the grain harvest, but he asks questions until long after dark. It is not until the children are asleep that I finally go outside with Koert and Celia to gather Horse.
“When you started training”—Celia begins, and I tighten my jaw—“what did your mother say?”
“She didn’t really have much to say on it,” I say. “I was called by Avorthar, and that was really the end of the discussion. She cried a lot, if I recall.”
Please don’t ask me. Please don’t. Celia makes a sound as though she is about to speak, but then does not say anything. I breathe relief.
I pull myself onto Horse and am settling into the saddle when Celia finally says, “Tane and Mera, they adore you, you know. Both of you. I don’t know if I am doing the right thing, expecting them to be farmers.”
“You’re doing the safe thing,” I say, and I don’t like how that sounds in my ears. It itches all wrong, but I have nothing else to tell her. “Thank you for supper.”
Horse clip-clops home and I give him his lead since he knows the way and I have a world full of thoughts to sift through. But today these thoughts are about the present and the future, not the past, and I relish them like rain after a scorching summer. Not because I like what I’m thinking—quite to the contrary—but because I am pulling myself from a world of ghosts, a world that no longer matters.
In the midst of my thoughts, I catch Horse’s deep snort and I come alert. He tosses his head and I feel his muscles shudder throughout his body. The shadows stretch long and wild now that only moonlight soaks the world, and I rein Horse to a halt as I scan across the fields.
On the edge of the weald that swoops down across the hills and ends against the farmland, I see the first hint of movement. Subtle as smoke at midnight, I see several figures drift among the shadows, skillfully avoiding the puddles of moonlight. One figure does skim through the splash of illumination, and I catch the outline of a wolf’s head. But the forms move crouched like humans stalking in the hunt.
My blood thrums high in my veins. The figures slip down toward the pasture where Celia and her family pen their sheep. I dig my heels into Horse, spin him back toward the farm.
“Come on, boy!” I urge him in a desperate whisper as I lean across his neck. I know that I am visible in bright armor under the wash of moonlight and I know that Horse’s thundering gallop will echo across the fields, but I do not yell. Not yet.
I draw my sword, feel the wildness of battle slam through my blood. Avorthar, will this be it? Is this my final charge?
“Give me victory, my lord,” I pray, and for one last time, I am the paladin of an unconquerable god.
I do not see the arrow, not in the gleam of moonlight. Even after it sinks home and shocks the breath from my lungs, I don’t realize what it is. I have set my whole world, my whole life, upon reaching the farmstead. I choke for breath, keep my grip on my sword only from long years of battle. Horse charges forward, shaking the world.
If I fall, nobody inside will know what is happening. And if these things have come for more than sheep? I gather my breath.
“For Avorthar! For justice!” I holler, raising my voice above Horse’s thunder. “At ’em, boy!” I yell to Horse.
Another arrow. I grunt against the pain, but Horse is already in the midst of the creatures. Some slip back into the darkness, giving tongue in eerie yelps. But others meet my attack with spears and gleaming eyes. I catch one with my sword, send him reeling backward, and the wolf head tumbles as the creature falls. A cloak—a cloak of wolf skin. These are not strange beasts prowling for food, they are humans raiding. In a righteous fury, I strike among the spears, snarling and growling, showing my own teeth.
“At your side!” a familiar voice calls, and another sword darts amongst the spears. Koert. He gives a feral battle cry, more shout than words, as he hurls himself amid the raiders. Scattered by my charge and confused by Koert’s arrival, the wolf-cloaked men race back into the shadows. One lingers, his fighting blood overtaking his sense, and he lunges too close with his spear—too close for him as I bring my sword through flesh and muscle, but too close for me as the spear dr
ives in past my armor. Pain like dragon fire blazes through my body, and the sword falls from my grasp.
Koert gets hold of me as I start to slip from the saddle. As I am sinking to the ground, I feel Koert put his arms around me.
“Alia,” he says, voice rough with urgency. Doesn’t he understand? This was my last prayer to Avorthar. “Come on, gently. Please, stay with me.”
The moonlight blurs, congeals with the starlight. The bright mistiness warms me as I see through the darkness of the world.
Sweet as mead, I hear harp song melding with Hrolf’s rich voice. Erard laughs—of course he laughs. When was he not laughing in those long-ago days? No, not long ago. They are just at my grasp.
“Remember the time Alia punched that baron in his own courtroom? That was a glorious moment,” Erard says.
“Well, she did say he was a demon.” Löfnar.
“Demon, sure,” Erard answers. Oh, Avorthar, I see them through the moonlight! The thief sets down a pint glass. All the years have fallen away from him. “I think half the time she said somebody was a demon, it was just an excuse to punch somebody who deserved a good thrashing.”
Erard. Löfnar. Hrolf. My friends. I reach for the thinning mist, try to tell them that I am finally here with them, but the words sink in my throat.
“Alia.” The bright mist grows deeper, darker, spills away. I blink and everything is gone. The moon hangs over the world, and the stars sweep across the sky in glittering bands. Koert still has his arms around me, supporting me against his chest, his grizzled jaw pressed to my head as he holds me close. I no longer hear the high notes of Hrolf’s harp. The emptiness aches more than the wounds bleeding through my armor. Why? Why did he pull me back?
“Please don’t leave me,” Koert whispers. “I cannot be alone anymore.”
“M-milady?” A young voice nearby. I turn my head and see Tane and Mera, both crouched beside me. Mera has hold of my sword, which she has to grip in both hands. Their faces have gone gray, and I see the fear in their wide eyes. Fear for me—fear for a bitter old warrior who refuses to train them to this life. You know they’ll leave one day. You know they will. Yes, they will leave, and will their blood be on my hands? Would I have them end like this before they reaped the beautiful moments in life, and before they could harvest memories?
“Th-this will be the rest of your life if you follow our road,” I say to the twins. “Would you still have us train you?”
Tane and Mera nod in unison, their expressions still verging on panic.
“Then for Avorthar’s sake, go have your father fetch Brytha before I bleed to death,” I answer. Mera lays down my sword and then the twins leap to their feet and go charging toward the house. Koert is shaking. “Get hold of yourself, man. I had my shot at death already and turned it down.”
“I know,” he whispers. He strokes my head and I listen to the panicked pulsing of his heart. “We will train them together, you and I. We won’t be alone.”
I see the moon-cloaked figure of Rewyn atop the family’s farm horse, watch them gallop over the fields. Twin figures dart across the distance from the house to Koert and me. Despite the lung-choking pain, I smile when Tane and Mera crouch down beside me. Mera again claims the sword.
Koert motions with a nod toward the forest and its still shadows. “Keep watch out that way,” he says to the twins. “Let me know if you see movement.” There will not be any more movement tonight, as the raiders have slipped away to lick wounds; they can be tracked in the daylight. But Tane and Mera do not pull their gazes from the forest, aware of the gravity of their order. Koert winks at me, and I settle my head more firmly against his chest.
Koert is right—we won’t be alone. One day, I will go through that mist and Erard will hand me a pint of mead and punch my shoulder. We will be together then and, perhaps, I will even hear Erard apologize to the young guard whom he once taunted as a coward.
Melion Traverse
Melion Traverse lives with one spouse, two dogs and an acceptable amount of chaos. She is occasionally found playing with swords, studying martial arts, and lifting weights. Other times, she hides with a book as she avoids the tumbleweeds of dog hair overwhelming her house. Melion’s short stories have appeared in, or are forthcoming in, Fantasy Scroll Magazine, Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores, Scarlet Leaf Review, and T. Gene Davis’s Speculative Blog.
She haphazardly blogs at: https://delusionsofsanityblog.wordpress.com/.
February 2017
Science Fiction
Pirate Readers
by James Van Pelt | 4,300 words
Kelsie tapped her desktop rhythmically, switching the display’s background image each time. As long as she interacted with the interface, it wouldn’t flag her as being inactive. Mr. Dettis, the instructional coach, was helping a student across the room from her, so she wasn’t worried he would direct her to spend more time on task. He moved with studied efficiency. Short, wiry, a mouth that never smiled. Close-set eyes. She checked her achievement status update: 27 percent through eighth-grade social studies, 42 percent through math, the same with science, 11 percent through Spanish, 14 percent through ninth-grade literacy, and only 33 percent through seventh-grade PE. It seemed as if it had been days since any of the numbers had moved.
School was so boring! More than that; it was claustrophobic. Almost no place to go where she wasn’t watched—where she wasn’t evaluated and measured. For being such a big building, it was the smallest place she knew.
Dettis followed the same route going from station to station, narrating in a monotone as he went. “Tom is working on an algebra problem. Tina has finished annotating a poem. Kipp is . . . asleep.” Dettis nudged the student’s shoulder. Kelsie knew she had at least six minutes before he’d check with her again. She slipped a book from her backpack, a forty-year-old paperback she’d bought online. Strictly illegal in school, of course, since her reading rate and comprehension couldn’t be measured, as it was when she read electronically. Also, she wouldn’t keep a progress log, nor would she write chapter by chapter predictions of what would happen next in the book. In short, she was pirate reading, an offense that had cost her detention three times that year.
She opened the old book delicately, careful with the yellowed pages, then sighed with contentment at the first sentence: “Petrified with astonishment, Richard Seaton stared after the copper steam-bath upon which he had been electrolyzing his solution of ‘X,’ the unknown metal.” She glanced at the chapter’s subheading: “The Occurrence of the Impossible.” That’s what she wanted, the impossible, or at least a world where the impossible was a legitimate concern. At school, everything related to her “individual strengths and weaknesses,” her “long-term goal,” and her “growth plan.” All reading was mandated or chosen from the “developmentally appropriate independent reading list,” mostly political nonfiction.
“What’s the book?” whispered Gilbert, a tall, plump boy who wore his black hair short. He tapped his desktop too.
“It’s about space travel,” she whispered back.
“Oh.” Gilbert looked disappointed. “That’s my alternate career track, communications satellites.”
“No, not commercial applications. People going to space, like to other planets. It’s an adventure with characters. It’s . . . interesting.”
“Why read? You can watch a movie.”
“I get two recreational movie hours a week, just like you. The school suggests documentaries. That’s not enough.”
Gilbert glanced over Kelsie’s shoulder, straightened, and turned his attention to his work.
Kelsie slipped the book between her legs and called up the multiple-choice questions on the chart displayed on her desk. Question number one was “According to the graph, which month will Farmer McDonald have to increase his water requisition to save his crop?”
“Kelsie is reading a chart,” Dettis announced. She sighed with relief.
At lunch, Gilbert lined up behind her. “Where do you ge
t books like that without your parents finding out?”
Her tray popped out from the dispenser along with her nutritional goal card: “I will consume no more than 140 grams of carbohydrates today.” She looked doubtfully at the main course, a pile of oily-looking brown rice with little orange cubes that might have been carrots.
“Don’t browse for books. That’s a tip-off for sure. Search for household decor. There’s a subcategory for a den or study. Some people buy books for the retro look. Don’t get leather-backed facsimiles. They cost a fortune and there’s nothing inside them. But if you look under “budget decorating,” you can order books with real pages. They sell them by the pound. You can also check antique stores, but they’re pricey again.”
“I don’t know,” said Gilbert wistfully. “I set up a fake name on our account at home when I was nine, and I downloaded some cool stuff. There was a graphic novel, and this great story called Little Brother. I don’t remember who wrote it, but the school caught me. Mom and Dad were furious. ‘You’re derailing your education,’ Dad said. If they catch me again, I’ll be chained to my desk.”
“That’s the best thing about these.” She held up the book. “No trail. I’ve been reading in my room at night. I have a curfew, and my parents can tell when my lights are on, but my e-reader gives me enough light to see my book, and no one knows.”
“Clever.” Gilbert studied his tray, which held steamed vegetables and a serving of limp lettuce. “I’m cursed by a slow metabolism. If this doesn’t work, they’re going to feed me cardboard. Do you have any extras?”
“Food?”
He blushed. “No, books.”
She fished in her backpack, made sure no one was looking, and passed him another copy. “I have this title twice. Tell me what you think when you’re done.”
That night, Kelsie read under the covers about Dick Seaton and his rival Marc DuQuesne. She found herself smiling at the science, which was terrible, but also hopeful. Seaton built a spaceship, the Skylark, to rescue his kidnapped fiancé and ‘Peg’ Spencer. There were battles and aliens and marriages. When Kelsie fell asleep, she dreamed about floating above far planets, about suns with strange light, about looking out her window and seeing possibilities.
