Challenging Destiny #24: August 2007

by Crystalline Sphere Authors

  He chuckled at the memory. “But I think now that because those school people tried so hard to take my people's ways from me, that in my mind these ways had value. So, being a selfish boy, I held them close to me and would not let the school people have them. For many years after, I carried deep anger in me toward biliganas and tried to have no dealings with them."

  She sat with one knee up, hands stacked over it, and rested her head on her hands as she listened to him. Red Feather shifted and drew his knees up in front of him so he could wrap his hands over them. It struck her as oddly vulnerable, making him appear more like a frail old man to her than ever before. He darted a glance at her, seeming almost shameful. “When the elder brother of my blood came to find me, I had already begun my training with my first hataali, but still I burned with the quiet anger at the biligana. Each new time I would hear of how they treated people, lied, slaughtered the sheep and horses, or was made to deal with them was like a new branch added to a camp fire, keeping it alive. When I first went out with a Pack to hunt blood-drinkers, I went with anger, a dark wind, and I did not think about Blessingway."

  She could feel how badly these memories still affected him and the urge was strong to lay a comforting hand upon his shoulder, but something within told her that it was best to let him tell the story without interruption. “It was only later,” he continued, “that I began to question the ways of our Chermasu ancestors. I went to my hataali friend for guidance. He helped me to think carefully about my life, and Blessingway, and the history of the Chermasu—for I revealed to him the full truth of myself. It was he who first helped me to understand how to make both of our histories true and helped me understand how much I still wished to live in Blessingway. It took me many years to bring myself to beauty, but the decision that made it less difficult was to accept that I could not be Diné in all things. If Monster Slayer and Born-for-Water had not devoted themselves to ridding the world of the monsters that were harmful to the people, the people would not have survived to live in beauty.” He paused and, when he spoke again, his desolation was devastating to her in its rawness: “If I must be apart from my Mother's people and feared for a witch to do what Monster Slayer did, then I shall be so..."

  His knees left his chest and his posture straightened, his tone gained conviction. “There are many evil ways that the powers of our ancestors can be used, but I do not use those ways and I do not teach those ways to others. The monsters are not part of Blessingway, I think; if they are, then their purpose is to be defeated. I do know that to slay monsters is not evil, that Changing Woman herself told that the monsters would return one day. ‘They will make everything difficult and have no shame,’ she said. ‘When the people build a fire, the yei'iitsolbahi' will piss on it.’ And so, now the monsters have returned to prey upon the people and only we have power enough to fight them. That is why we fight them."

  Alia nodded, sitting up. Her heart had grasped his lesson long before he'd finished speaking and she felt it swell with hope and relief. She would remain true to her upbringing in her beliefs, in her heart, in her actions. She would take the responsibility this new knowledge had brought upon her and she would learn how to use the power of the Chermasu.

  But she would remain Hopi.

  * * * *

  Both Mark and Brian are lifelong vampire fans from New Jersey, where they met in the Garden State Horror Writers. Brian has written four screenplays (one of which is being adapted as a graphic novel by Wicked Karnival and Grafika for publication in 2007) and a stage play which won a state-wide contest. Mark served on the board of the New Jersey Romance Writers before becoming a founding member of the GSHW. For twenty years, he's proofread, written, and copyedited for CCH Inc., the country's leading legal publisher. As collaborators, they have had a short story published in Reflection's Edge.

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  Camouflage by Corey Brown

  The old hermit coiled himself around a rock in the middle of the desert and toyed with the bit of electronics at his tail. The wind-polished stone gave up its heat to his body as the Great Mother set in the west and the pale red sky began to darken.

  Presently one of the Hunchbacks arose in the east, drifting through the stars toward the zenith. Before long its twin appeared in the west, darker and somewhat larger, moving in the opposite direction. The old hermit, unmoved by the celestial display above him, twisted the knobs on his radio and listened to the eternal static. He knew all kinds of it now, the kind that came from high in the atmosphere and was caused by the wind from the sun, the kind that came from far beyond the outer planets and pervaded all the universe, and the kind that came from the ancient cities buried in the rock beneath him, the dying cries of machines made long ago to call out for help. That the help had never come, that most believed it never would come, did not prevent the hermit from carrying out his duty. He had been trained long ago in the sacredness of what he did, and though he could not imagine how the Matriarchs would find out if he stopped, he persisted, emerging from the shade of the canal at the brief twilight to point his radio at the stars and listen.

  The hermit twisted the radio's knob again, and paused at a minor shift in the static's pitch. A novice would never have noticed it, but the hermit was long practiced and heard every unexpected pop and hiss. He did not yet rush himself, but his pads trembled ever so slightly on the knob as he searched back over the spectrum.

  There ... faintly in the background ... the hermit twisted the fine adjustment, increased the amplification, and bent close to listen.

  His hearts nearly burst in his chest when he heard music pouring from the radio's speaker:

  * * * *

  "Shine on, shine on harvest moon, way up in the sky,

  I ain't had no lovin’ since January, February, June or July.

  Snow time ain't no time to sit around and croon,

  So shine on, shine on harvest moon, for me and my girl."

  * * * *

  This language was like nothing he had heard before. He tried to repeat it, but his mouth could not wrap around the strange sounds, and he only hissed and spit into the dry sand.

  "What manner of speech is this?” he said. The hermit had heard a dozen languages from as many worlds in the libraries of the ancient cities, but never any words like these. “Where could it come from...” He stopped with a sudden feeling of dread. He looked up into the sky and saw the tiny blue dot that the stargazers had long studied, the Sister of their world, which the wise men had always thought to be lifeless.

  "And remember, friends,” said the radio, “don't risk the lives of those you love on worn tires. Buy only genuine Firestone brand tires and enjoy the roads in safety!"

  The hermit unwrapped himself from the rock and slithered as fast as his old bones could manage to the east, where a long straight line cut across the desert, straight and narrow as a knife edge.

  He raced down to the canal, dry these million years, and shouted to the black forms he could see indistinctly moving around at the bottom. “Listen! Listen!"

  Heads turned to look up at him. He held the radio up and turned the volume to its maximum. The music echoed from the stone walls of the canal:

  * * * *

  "Way down upon the Swanee River, far, far away,

  That's where my heart is turning ever, there's where the old folks stay.

  All up and down the whole creation, sadly I roam,

  Still longing for the old plantation, and for the old folks at home."

  * * * *

  "What is it?” they called up to him. “Is it our help at last? Are we rescued?"

  The old hermit slithered down to them, winding along the narrow switchback carved into the sides of the canal. “It is not our help,” he told them. “These are not the friends we await."

  Then they huddled around him and listened with wide eyes, and the music from the Dead Sister carried up into the swirling winds of the night.

  * * * *

  "What shall we do? What ca
n we do?"

  The Matriarchs crammed into the little meeting room in the underground city of Hatibe, curling their long bodies around sitting posts until there was hardly an inch of open space. The eldest, Anharmam, looked around and tried to remember when she had last seen such a gathering. She decided that she never had, and saw also how many of her old friends no longer appeared in the crowd. This realization, and the trouble which had brought the Matriarchs together from all over the world, made her feel very old indeed.

  The room in which they met was in the oldest part of the ancient city, built by the Xantys who had abandoned Redworld in the days of encroaching drought and banished Anharmam's people from their own watery world. This city had served as the capital from the earliest days of the Exile, and the domed room in which they now met, with its picture screens showing live images from the icy poles and the parched equator, had hosted a thousand generations of Matriarchs, ruling over a civilization consumed with keeping itself alive.

  In the center of the room sat a radio tuned to an Earth frequency, now pouring forth a description of a new tonic to aid digestion and promote vitality. A young scholar sat curled up beside it, giving a running translation of the strange words from the box. In the two years since the hermit's discovery, exolinguists had worked day and night deciphering the Earth language, a feat much complicated by the fact that the humans had more than one. Their success had provided the Matriarchs an education on the new world fifty million miles away, a civilization that only a short time ago had not existed and now seemed on the verge of reaching out to grasp them.

  "They are very young,” the Polar Matriarch, Gemam, said from the back of the room. “Perhaps their society is only a few thousand years old. But they are numerous, and very hungry. They may swallow us up before many more generations pass."

  "We have nothing left to swallow up,” an angry voice answered. This was Anharmam's friend Yeunmam, who occupied one of the places of prestige near the center of the room. Her brittle old voice drowned out the radio. “These humans are already powerful. In a hundred years they may be strong enough to rescue us. Their world is drowning in water. It would be a paradise."

  A clamor of debate erupted at this, and the shouts echoed from the high domed roof, through which the pink morning sky could be seen.

  "All night we have listened to these humans, as they call themselves,” one of the younger Matriarchs said. “They are riddled with wars, diseased with anger. Can anyone fail to see the similarity with the race that stole our world and marooned us here? Have we learned nothing from our own history? The humans are not to be trusted.” She paused before going on. “And they are ruled by their men."

  Another tumult broke out, and Anharmam felt older than ever. She looked up at the sky, the only sky a thousand generations of her people had ever known, and wondered how many more would live to see it, humans or no.

  "What about you, Mother?” Yeunmam said, addressing Anharmam by her informal title. “Do you wish to make contact with the Earth men? Our radios could be made ready in hours."

  Anharmam paused to consider her response. In the silence while they waited for her to speak, the radio blared on ... “The Red Sox edged the Athletics today six to five as Babe Ruth hit two home runs for Boston. Detroit slugger Ty Cobb wrapped up another batting title with three singles in a four to one victory over the White Sox."

  "I cannot agree with you, Yeunmam,” Anharmam said. Though her bones ached, she twisted herself higher on her post so that all could see and hear her. “The humans are not peaceful people. It may be that they could help us, though they are not the ones for whom we have waited. But it is just as likely that they could destroy us, and ruin the world our ancestors struggled to preserve. The risk is too great. We must hide ourselves."

  There was a general murmur, and Yeunmam spoke up again. “This we cannot do."

  "And why?” Anharmam said.

  Yeunmam assumed the tired posture of a teacher lecturing a student. “You are forgetting that our world is marked by the work of those who came before us. Though they are dry, the canals will surely be visible to the stargazers of Earth. They may have seen us already."

  "I doubt this,” the young Matriarch said. “The radio has not mentioned us, and none of the transmissions seem meant for us. I am certain they do not yet possess the skill to see the canals."

  "But unless I miss my guess,” Yeunmam said, nodding at the radio, “they soon will."

  Anharmam lowered her head. “I fear you are right."

  "We did not dig the canals,” Yeunmam went on. “The great machines which did the work are rusted hulks in the desert. Even if we worked for fifty years, we could scarcely fill in one canal, let alone all fifty."

  "She's right, Anharmam,” Gemam said from her post. “Our people are only a few millions. Already the Earth people may have seen the canals. We should prepare ourselves instead for their arrival."

  Anharmam felt despair creeping up inside her. “Our race has been abandoned to this world by those who wished us ill. All we know of the universe teaches us that the strong rule and crush out the weak. In the next encounter we may lose our lives, not just our world. I feel we must hide. But how?"

  There was a commotion at the rear of the room as the door opened and someone else squeezed in. From the murmurs of disapproval as the newcomer slithered forward Anharmam knew it must be a male, but she was hardly in the mood to enforce strict procedure. She waited until the man had presented himself at the middle of the room, and noted with some surprise that she recognized him.

  "I am Emric,” he said. “Of the Institute of Hatibe, student of Dallamam, caretaker of the water pipelines from the poles."

  "I know you, Emric,” Anharmam said. “Your teacher is my niece.” And your lover, she thought to herself with a private smile. He was young, but Anharmam knew Emric to be among the brightest in the city, some said even a prodigy. He held in his pads the white buds of the pillow plant which grew in the city's water farms, and which were used to make the fine rugs on which he now coiled. “What news do you bring us?"

  Emric raised himself as high as he could without a sitting post, and held the pillow plants up for all to see. “I can hide the canals,” he said.

  * * * *

  "This is foolish. The humans have already seen the canals."

  "Only one human, and his telescope was weak. By the time the telescope on Mount Wilson was finished we had already covered the large canals. They cannot see the smaller ones like this."

  "So the humans will believe it was all a hallucination?"

  "A trick of the mind. Save your complaining for after work, Quanric, and help me with this bole."

  Quanric grumbled, but he helped Velmam lift the heavy bole of stiff fabric into place. They moved slowly out over the canal, keeping the motorized car on which they rode positioned over the pilings driven into the sandy bottom. The fabric unrolled behind them, forming a screen which concealed the channel below. Workers followed behind the car to fasten the fabric to the pillars and spread sand and rocks across the top. For miles to the north, Velmam could see crews rolling rocks and shoveling sand, creating a perpetual cloud of red dust that hung over the canal. She tugged her mask closer over her face and held on as Quanric turned the car for another pass.

  "Sandstorm coming,” she observed, looking at the smear on the horizon to the west.

  "Hum,” Quanric said, and brought the car to a jerking stop as the fabric roll ran out. “Maybe we'll get to stop work early today.” He headed back toward the canal's edge to load another bole.

  As the car neared the storehouse Velmam noted a clamor among the workers. Crowds of them swarmed to the open storehouse door, centering around someone coiled on a sitting post. As she watched, more workers approached, wriggling hurriedly across the rocky soil. “What is going on there?"

  "I don't know,” Quanric said, turning the car toward the crowd, “but I'm going to find out."

  The center of attention was a male Velmam di
d not recognize. He had evidently come a great distance, for the gossamer-winged flyer beside the storehouse had not been there that morning and must have been his. He coiled now upon the sitting post and held a picture-screen out to the workers. Images flashed across it in shades of gray.

  "What is all this?” Quanric said, horning in among the workers on the back row. “Who is that?"

  "They figured it out,” one of the workers said excitedly, showing no annoyance at being shoved aside. “All those signals from Earth we could not decipher. They were pictures, not just words."

  "Pictures?” Velmam said, and pushed her way toward the front, too. The male with the picture-screen beamed as he held it up for all to see. “Watch,” he said.

  Raucous music played from the box, and the screen showed markings of a type Velmam did not understand, written in a flowing script:

  * * * *

  "Lucille Ball"

  "Desi Arnaz"

  "I Love Lucy"

  * * * *

  The audience lay spellbound as the first images of humans appeared on the screen. They were pale, fur-bearing creatures who stood upright and possessed two tentacles attached high up on their bodies. They showed an unusual amount of dexterity in picking objects up and moving them about, and soon it became clear that they had five small tentacles at the ends of the two large ones.