This [disk] is the largest of its kind that we have yet recovered, and emits the most intense radiation from its glaze. The base material appears to be [granite?], some ten [untranslatable unit] thick, and has withstood repeated firings, possibly including one or more to test or anneal it before the glaze was applied. Some earlier units of this type, presumably made before the technique was fully developed, have cracked; this one, in contrast, is in splendid condition, with almost no flaking or spalling. It retains nearly all of its details, from glaze pattern to makers’ insignia to the highly distinctive tooling marks in the surfaces of the rock, which are visible where there is no glaze cover. The inscription on the central boss of the underside translates: “It is estimated that [untranslatable, name] spent 17 [time unit indicating long cycles, possibly “years"] at the desk [?] and bench, toiling to conceive and produce this flawless record of the events of [untranslatable (Place-name?)]. [Name, honorific form] went on to produce only one further object of note before succumbing to [?] in the [untranslatable phrase] times of wanting."
The plate is still hot in my hands, its glaze ashen-gray. There are no leaves at all on the trees, and the bridge is missing, though I can see the bases or abutments on which it once stood. The house at the left side is canted at a crazy angle and will surely fall in the next windstorm. The ancient man sitting patiently in the doorway looks at me and then at the gun in his hand as he points it toward himself, but when he pulls the trigger nothing happens. He ran out of ammunition long ago. Presently he will try again, however, and perhaps this time it will work. The streambed is dry except for a few pools of mud, and the plate falls from my hand to the smoking earth as I try to inhale the thick acrid air. There is nothing more for us here; we have ruined it all.
* * * *
A Great Idea (if such a thing comes to you) will fill your entire life. Almost nobody can sustain several; I don't seem to be capable of even one. Instead, perhaps partly as a result of my having so-called Attention Deficit Disorder, there's this huge swarm of little ideas flittering around in my head like butterflies and rarely alighting in one place for long. Two other possibly AD[H]D-related issues: I don't parse time in a linear manner and cannot plot worth a damn; and I am perhaps just a tiny bit Aspergerish, so I don't parse humans as well as I might. The net result is that I'm essentially incapable of writing fiction of a more standard or usual sort; in fact, I find it difficult to write fiction at all. The pieces that I do manage, at long intervals, to produce are typically shorter than 1,000 words. (I do write a certain amount of nonfiction.)
Jon Singer
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Black Feather
K. Tempest Bradford
Exactly one year before she saw the raven, Brenna began to dream of flying. Every night for a year. Sometimes she was in a plane, sometimes she was in a bird, sometimes she was just herself—surrounded by sky, clouds, and too-thin-to-breathe air. In the dark, in the light, over cities and oceans and fields, she flew.
Then, on the twelfth day of the twelfth month, the dreams changed. They ended with a crash and fire and the feeling of falling. Most nights she almost didn't wake up in time.
Exactly one year from the night the dreams began, Brenna struggled out of sleep, the phantom smell of burning metal still in her nose. She reached out for Scott—he was not there. He was never there. He had never been there. She fell back onto her pillows and groaned. Another dream of flying, another reaching out for Scott. She wished she could stop doing both.
Brenna lived in Manhattan—a small, insignificant corner of it way at the very tip-top. On an island of concrete and glass and steel she had found the one place still mostly untouched. It had a lake and a forest and a hill she could climb without ever realizing how high she was at the top. From there everything seemed far away, not far down. Not like when you're in a building. Or falling from the sky.
She had lived by this park, this forest, for two months now. The apartment, her new apartment, paid up for the summer. A graduation gift from her mother.
That morning, while the sky was still pink and yellow, she went out and up the hill to the small meadow at the very top. She thought of it as her place.
It was there in that meadow, amongst the crumbling remains of benches and street lamps long abandoned to the regrowing wilderness, where she first met the raven. She was meditating under a large oak tree when she heard a raven's cry. It didn't register at first, and might not have ever, if it hadn't been so persistent. It didn't stop until she opened her eyes and saw it standing on a fallen tree trunk. One black raven. It had been a long time since she'd seen one. Not since England, when she put aside her fear of flying to follow Scott across an ocean. A year ago.
"Did you follow me?” she joked.
The raven looked right at her and cawed. It came back to her then, a rush of emotion and memory, half hidden, half forgotten. One warm day by the sea, looking back over the ocean toward New York, a raven standing out on the rocks, and her plea to him. I want to fly. I want to fly and be free and go wherever and whenever—.—.—.—I want to fly! She wanted it so badly that she felt her heart would break.
The feeling had overwhelmed her then and it overwhelmed her now. Here in the forest, an ocean between her and England, and she could still feel it. She found that she was crying. The raven's call echoed in her mind, but when she wiped the tears away he was gone. Gone without a sound—or had there been wings flapping? She turned to pick up her bag and saw a feather, long and shiny and black, lying on the rock by her side. A feather just for her.
She showed the feather to a friend. The psychic one.
"Feathers are powerful messages and special gifts,” she said while Brenna absently shuffled a tarot deck. “Draw a card."
She drew the Hanged Man.
"Sacrifice."
"But of what?"
The next day she saw the raven again. He was staring at her through the bedroom window—the one with the view of the hill. She thought he was the only one, but soon there were two, then three. One day she saw them all. Twelve ravens, high up in the oak tree, watching over her.
* * * *
She showed the feather to another friend. The non-psychic one.
"Crow's feather, you mean,” she said.
"It is? How can you tell?” Brenna asked.
"Because we don't have ravens in New York, we have crows."
They called to her in her dreams. She heard them but couldn't find them. Their feathers littered the floor; long and shiny and black. She dreamed of flying through a forest of black trees and shiny ebon leaves, always following the raven's song. Six nights of this. Six nights of searching and never finding. Six nights of waking up sweaty with raven feathers in her hair.
On the seventh night the dream changed again. She found herself in a little wooden cabin, fire crackling in the hearth, twelve small beds along the hall. In the middle stood Brenna, wearing nothing but a man's white shirt.
The ravens called to her from outside, but she did not want to go. One by one they flew in through the open door. And in a moment, a blink, an instant, they were not ravens but young men. The youngest of all looked a lot like her.
"Who are you?” she asked.
"We are your brothers,” one said.
"We died for you,” said another.
The dream ended.
She ran into Scott (accidentally on purpose) in front of the building where he taught his summer course.
"So you live in Inwood now?” he asked as they walked toward his office.
"Yeah. Right by the forest."
"There are some interesting cave formations up there. Do you want to come explore them with me?"
"Sure, that'd be cool."
"Okay. Meet you by the baseball diamond at noon tomorrow."
He went into the building and was gone.
Brenna sighed. Twenty-four hours. Yeah, I'll survive.
u
On the eighth night she dreamed again. The cabin, again.
This time the young men were already there.
"We're hungry,” one said.
So she cooked them dinner.
They were each careful not to stain their white shirts.
The dream ended.
Scott took her up the hill to where the village Shorakapkok used to be at the base of a cliff—black rocks piled on one another, embedded in the soil, rising up and up and up farther than Brenna was willing to look.
"See up there?” Scott pointed. “An opening. Want to go take a look?"
"Uh—.—.—.” She didn't want to admit that she'd always been afraid of heights.
Scott started making his way up, hopping from one large rock to another. For an old guy, he certainly is spry. He looked back at her.
She was torn. Should she go up? Risk being that high? If she slipped she had no wings to spread, to catch the air, to glide higher.
If she slipped and stumbled and fell she would die. She just knew it.
"Don't worry,” he said. “I won't let you fall."
She carefully made her way to him, then went ahead, glancing back to make sure he was close.
He talked while they climbed. “This was an Algonquin village. You can still see some of their markings on the rocks."
She focused on climbing, taking her time—finding the footholds, the handholds, the way up.
"You're part Native American, aren't you?” he asked.
"Yeah, on my father's side."
She did not look down. She did not look up. She only climbed.
"And on your mother's?"
"Black and Irish."
They reached the shelf he'd pointed out. Brenna timidly peeked over the edge and down to the bottom. She'd always been afraid of heights, but loved high places. She'd discovered this two summers before while rock climbing in Arizona. She'd been trying to impress a guy then, too.
"Did they really live in these caves?” she asked. The opening seemed awfully small to her.
"No, the caves were used for different purposes.” He pulled an aluminum flashlight from his pocket and started to crawl in.
"You really should see this,” he called back a moment after his legs had disappeared.
She poked her head into the opening—still dark, even with the faint glow of flashlight ahead. The cave, not much wider than she was, felt oppressive and smelled foreboding.
"Initiation rituals,” Scott's voice bounced back to her. “Remember the Glastonbury Druids I discussed in class?"
She made some affirmative reply, but could barely breathe. The walls were pressing against her. The darkness was pushing her out. The flapping of wings. The call of ravens. Panicked, she scrambled backwards, catching herself just before falling off the shelf.
A while later Scott slid out, head first, and smiled reassuringly at her.
"No initiation for you today, huh?"
"I guess I'm just not ready.” She smiled back.
Later, in her apartment, she showed the feather to Scott.
"It's not from a crow,” he said.
"It's not?"
"No. Not a feather that big. That's definitely from a raven."
She stared at it.
"They're rarer than crows in New York, but not unheard of.” He stared at her.
She invited him to stay longer. He declined.
On the ninth night, she dreamed again. The cabin, again. The young men were asleep. She went outside, into the forest, but there was nothing to see. In the garden behind the cabin, twelve lilies grew. She picked one for each brother.
The sound of wings. She looked up. They were ravens again, flying away.
The dream ended.
"It's a symbol. You have to find the meaning,” her psychic friend said.
"It's nothing. You're overtired,” her non-psychic friend said.
"Ravens are messengers from the otherworld. Someone there wants your attention,” her psychic friend said.
"You probably ate too many tacos before bed,” her non-psychic friend said.
"Past life regression.” The psychiatrist spoke with authority.
It sounded like something her psychic friend would suggest.
"I assure you, I am serious,” he said to the look on her face. “I've done them before and they've helped my patients every time."
She said she would try anything once. And if it didn't work, at least she'd get some sleep.
She lay on the couch listening to his words. She went back and back and back. Back along her life's path, growing younger with each breath. Back through high school, middle school, her first kiss, her first pitch, her first word, until she came to a place, comfortable, warm, familiar, red, the place just before birth, her mother's womb. Her arms wrapped around another, protecting him. She knows that she must hold on tight and never let go. She cannot lose him. But she is going back and back and back and his eyes open and his heart beats along with hers and he looks at her (I am your brother—I died for you) then the sound of wings.
She did not know when she began to scream, but she knew it took a long time for her to stop.
As a child she had desperately wanted a brother. She would try to adopt the neighborhood boys into her family. She would try to walk away with babies at the mall. Other girls her age had crushes and pretend boyfriends. She had pretend big brothers.
When she was nine her mother told her that she was a twin. She had had a brother in the womb with her, but for some reason he died in the eighth month. Her mother told Brenna that on the ultrasound pictures she seemed to be hugging him. The doctor advised her mother to give birth to both of them naturally. The labor was difficult. Brenna held on to her brother until the end—he was born first, though born dead.
Her parents had named him Benjamin. When she was twelve, her mother finally took her to see his grave. Beloved Son and Brother. After that, the thought of a brother only made her incredibly sad. She no longer wished for one. She pushed it out of her mind and forgot about it entirely. Intentionally. Until now.
She was reluctant to go to Scott. Lately he'd been quiet, restrained, uninterested. But she was desperate.
"The shrink didn't know what he was doing,” Scott said.
"And you do?” she replied.
"Yes."
She believed him.
"Don't worry,” he said. “I won't let you fall."
Again she went back and back and back, this time one hand in the physical world, safely tucked in Scott's, his voice guiding her back along the path of her life. She watched her life roll back and back and back like a movie on rewind, and when she came to the womb she was inside looking in, apart from the two small not-yet-people holding on to each other. The one that was not her opened his eyes (I am your brother—I love you) then the sound of wings.
She flew through the air, faster and faster and faster, flew back through her lives, each one freezing at one moment, a picture in her soul. She flew through them all until she came to the last one, the first one, and she could fly no more.
She is just a baby. They carry her out into the courtyard while they watch. Each son is led to the block, the oldest first, to have his head chopped off. And as the oldest falls, the next one becomes the oldest. Then he falls, then another, then another, until the twelfth son, the youngest who is now the oldest, is led to the block. He looks at her, his baby sister (I love you—I died for you) and he falls, too. She cries and cries. Her mother coos and cuddles. But there is no end to her crying.
"She cries for them,” her mother says.
"She could not possibly understand,” her father says.
She understands.
That night she didn't want to dream, didn't want to sleep. She lay in bed watching the stars roll across the sky like hieroglyphs holding all of the answers. Yet she could not read them. She looked over the pictures in her mind, the lives frozen. Twelve including this one, but not including the first. In each she saw a brother. In each he died.
She took the feather, her gift from the raven, and placed it beside
her pillow. Her eyes drooped, then closed. She slipped into sleep, then into dreams.
She is flying. Back and back and back through her lives, frozen in place, until she comes to the first one and she can fly no more. So she speaks instead.
"Why are there twelve white shirts in the wash, Mother?” she asks the queen.
"Because they are not clean, Daughter,” the queen answers with sadness. She has always been sad, even when she is happy.
"What soils them, Mother?"
"Blood."
The dream ended.
The next night she flew back again.
She is in a garden.
"Why does this plot have twelve lilies and nothing else, Mother?"
"Because nothing else will grow there, Daughter."
"Why is that?"
"Because that is where your brothers are buried."
The dream ended.
The next night she flew back again.
"Why are all my brothers dead, Mother?"
"Your father had them killed, Daughter."
"Why did he do that?"
"So you could have all the wealth and kingdom for yourself."
She asked Scott, “Are they dreams, or are they memories?"
"What's the difference?” was his enigmatic reply.
Brenna was starting to get frustrated.
"Try asking your dream what it wants you to understand."
That was a thought.
That afternoon, she lay in bed; too afraid to sleep, too depressed to rise. So you could have all the wealth and kingdom for yourself. How senseless.
A raven stared through her bedroom window. She mouthed to him, “I'm sorry."
That night she reluctantly slept again, dreamed again. This time she did not pick a destination, but she still ended up flying back and back and back until she could fly no more. She was running away and into the woods. She had to stop herself. Stop and think and ask—.—.—.—ask what?
"You're a very inquisitive child, aren't you?” A voice from above. She looked up. From a tree hung a man. He hung from one foot, upside down. He didn't seem at all affected by it. “Go ahead, ask me something. I know almost everything now."
"Why—.—.—."
Interfictions: An Anthology of Interstitial Writing Page 9
