The Book of the Emissaries: An Animism Short Fiction Anthology

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Penarddun rose, scooped the Patolli pieces into a leather bag, and rolled up the mat. He used it to salute me and then faded from view.

  Thunder crashed outside again and I realized with horror that it was not thunder at all. I rushed to the door and tore away the curtains. I fumbled with the latch and then put my shoulder to it out of frustration and spilled onto the street. A high-pitched scream, like a woman in pain, sounded from overhead and the roof of a nearby temple blew apart, raining rocks and dust onto the street below.

  Cortes was shelling the city.

  Men and women in colourful garb ran past me as I pushed my way towards the castle. It was like swimming upstream against a raging torrent. I was the only one travelling in that direction. I heard people calling out for loved ones as dust filled the streets. On one street corner an abandoned child screamed for her mother. Surprisingly, the chaos had the feel of a revolution, not a war. Aztec fought Aztec in the streets, and not all of them were from the tribes that Cortes had bribed on the way upriver.

  I avoided small groups of Spaniards, who were using their iron armour and weapons to beat their way through numerically superior troops of jaguar warriors. I did not want to get involved. I thought only of Inez.

  At last I began to feel her at the edge of my senses. She was at the Old Houses docks.

  The harbour was in chaos.

  Citizens of Tenochtitlan fought each other for the few berths aboard the fleeing vessels, and captains put men on the rails with instructions to shoot anyone who got too close. The waters were red with the blood of those who tried.

  Cortes’s shelling of the area was intense, though I could see no strategic value in preventing a few frightened civilians from leaving the city. Cannon shot tore through rigging before exploding into the wooden-hulled boats. Splinters the size of a man’s arm sprayed in every direction. The casualties were horrific. Those who were already in the harbour might have fled if not for those who came behind them.

  I pushed my way through the crowds towards the small wharf where I’d met Inez on what was, for me, the night before, but for her was twenty days ago. Most of the vessels were gone and bodies floated in the water.

  I spotted her standing on the dock near her boat. It was laden down with several families, parents clutching at their children. There was no more room on board for her, so she untied the line and shoved the boat away from the dock with her foot. Above us, the air whistled and Inez spun around to meet it. Red energy lanced out from her spread fingertips and a cannonball materialized as if from thin air. Her magic had caught something moving so fast it couldn’t be seen.

  Suddenly, blue fire erupted from the cannonball and it began to press into the red. Wetiko’s magic was trying to kill a Defender of the Mother.

  “Inez!” I called. I raced across the dock towards her.

  Her gaze swung towards me.

  Her eyes widened in surprise, and she wavered. She looked up at the cannonball, and then back at me. Her face twisted in betrayal and then hardened into rage. She dropped her hands.

  The cannonball resumed its former speed at once. I flung out my magic, attempting to adjust the odds so that it missed, but it was travelling too fast and with too much power.

  She was obliterated in an instant.

  I can remember the day King Richard III was shot in the throat by a crossbowman in 1199. I can describe in great detail the look on General Cao Cao’s face in the year 193 when he massacred thousands of civilians to avenge his father’s death. But I can only remember fragments of what happened next, and I will ask your pardon if I do not share them here.

  The Trickster and the Bard

  by Gama Martinez

  "History. History. Always history!" Will banged his desk in frustration.

  "You've written things besides histories," a high-pitched voice said.

  Will looked up from his papers. A small man stood before his desk. Though barely a child's height, there was no question he was a man. His face had none of a child's roundness to it, and the emerald green eyes reflected in the candlelight spoke of wisdom no child ever possessed. His white hair looked natural rather than the result of age, and his ears had an odd shape to them.

  "How did you get in here? Who are you?"

  "The door wasn't locked. As for me, you may call me Robin Goodfellow."

  "Well, Mr. Goodfellow," Will almost spat, "I've created works other than histories, but they are pitiful things, destined to fade into obscurity."

  "Then write something better."

  "Write something better?" Will asked. "Just like that?"

  "Just like that."

  "As if it were so easy." Will looked down and started scribbling again. "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Goodfellow, I have work to do."

  "Come with me, Will." Robin opened the door. "I'm going to do you a favour."

  "Sir, I said I have work to do," Will said without looking up.

  "You also said your works are pitiful things. I'm going to help change that."

  Will looked up. Robin's eyes gleamed in the sunlight, and a chill ran down Will's spine. He almost refused, but he looked down and read what he'd just written. Beyond any doubt, it was trash. He crumpled the paper and threw it against a wall.

  "I may as well," Will said and got up from the table.

  He followed the strange little man into town. They attracted no attention, which Will found odd. A man of such appearance should have warranted some comment, but no one noticed. Robin looked into an alley. A young man and woman were in the shadows kissing.

  "Why do you suppose they're doing that there? If they care about each other, why not do it out in the open?"

  "Their families hate each other," Will said. "They would never approve of them being together."

  "And you see no story in that?"

  "Not really," Will said. "It's happened in throughout history. There's nothing remarkable about it."

  "Then make the emotions stronger." Robin emphasized the last word. "Make consequences dire. Make people feel what the lovers feel, and then rip them apart to bring a tear to every eye."

  Will closed his eyes and tossed the idea around in head. For a moment, he saw the threads of a story. The lovers were children from feuding noble families. He saw a story of love, honour, and death. An instant later, the moment passed, and the story was gone. He opened his eyes and found himself looking down into Robin's emerald eyes.

  "Star-crossed lovers," Robin said.

  "What?"

  "The story was of star-crossed lovers. I can give it back to you. I can give you stories to turn the hearts of man back to adventure."

  "Why?"

  "Because, Will, adventure belongs to me, and you can best tell them. It's my brother's time now, but I mean to take it back."

  Will looked at the small man again. His ears weren't just a strange shape; they were pointed, and when he smiled, Will saw pointed teeth. He looked around. They weren't just going unnoticed. They were going unseen. Will wasn't sure he wanted to involve himself with the family of such a creature, if Robin was indeed what Will suspected. He reached out and touched Robin on the shoulder. The man felt solid enough.

  "Are you one of the fair folk?" Will asked as a plan began to form.

  "I don't think I've ever been accused of being fair, but that's close enough. Do you want the story back?"

  "No, I don't think so. I have a grand idea for the circus."

  "The circus?"

  "Of course. Where else would two lovers meet?"

  "But they don't meet at a circus," Robin whined. "They're supposed to meet at a ball. What would nobles be doing at a circus?"

  "Oh, they're not nobles. They're performers."

  "What?"

  Will took Robin's hand and shook it vigorously. "Thank you for the idea. I'll make sure that everyone who hears it knows it came from Robin Goodfellow."

  "But that's not the story. This is."

  Robin put a finger to Will's head, and the whole of the story came into his
mind. They met at a ball. Her cousin was killed in a duel. He fled. The poison. The dagger. The world had never known such a masterpiece. Will fell to his knees.

  "Thank you." He wasn't sure if the words could be understood through his tears.

  "You cheated!" Robin almost screamed. "We're supposed to trade, the story for your servitude. I'm leaving. Someone else can tell my stories."

  Robin turned and stalked away. Will's eyes went wide.

  "No!" he cried out, horrified at the idea of having just one of Robin's stories.

  As soon as the word left his lips, he regretted it. Robin turned back, and for an instant, Will saw pointed teeth in the creature's smile. Then it was gone, and Robin's face looked like that of any pouty child. Will swallowed down his fear. He was walking a dangerous path. A misstep could land him as this creature's slave.

  "Like you said," Will's words almost tumbled over each other, "I can best tell those stories. Someone else wouldn't be nearly as good. Are you afraid I'll trick you again?"

  Robin's eyes narrowed. "If you think you can defeat me in a battle of wits, then you're more foolish than most. Write down the story. Meet me beneath the big tree outside of town at twilight on midsummer. If you can beat me then, I'll give you another."

  Then he was gone. Will let out a breath he hadn't realized he held in. He almost ran back to his house and wrote down the story. As soon as it was done, he penned a letter to a friend. They'd planned to get together on midsummer, but Will had to cancel to make his meeting with Robin. If he was careful, he could get what he wanted from Robin without having to serve.

  First Song

  by Brennan Harvey

  Chase was the game today, and I was the chaser. My twin brothers were a year younger than I was, but swam faster because they were mermen, and more hydrodynamic. Water pressure on my breasts always slowed me down whenever I swam really fast. But, I was smarter than them and more experienced. They couldn't out-swim me for long.

  I had just rounded some coral when I spotted the Trickster headed toward the surface. Glancing in the opposite direction, the twins had sped away. I considered joining them, but the Trickster's presence intrigued me. If I was careful, I could follow him to the surface without him realizing. I'd been up to there a number of times, just to float and have the sun warm my fins. It feels so good! Hopefully, my mother wouldn't find out, get angry again, and incarcerate me in our shell for another apparent eternity. Even if she did find out, the Trickster was a good scapegoat and would get me out of trouble. The twins had seen him and that was why they were darting away. Them witnessing him would back up my story.

  I swam upward. The Trickster headed to a disgusting shipwreck – probably something he'd caused. The dead Humans littering this place didn't bother me; the floating oils and powders did. They adhered to my face, scales, and upper torso and cleaning them off would be arduous and time-consuming. I wondered if the Trickster had seen me and planned this. Stupid Trickster.

  Flipping my tail to stay afloat, I scanned the area. He'd disappeared. Ghastly debris floated everywhere and I was just about to dive back down when I heard something strange – a Human lying on a large plank moaning. It wasn't dead, like the others I'd swam past. Startled, I retreated to the deep sea's safety.

  I hadn’t yet experienced seducing Humans. I was not of age, but I was ready. I have a strong voice, just like my father's. In our lessons, he chose to sing songs of warning about the evil Humans, but I always begged him to sing me songs of delight about the warmth Human bodies provided. He never could resist my pleas. While he sang, I'd practiced along with him, waiting for the day I was old enough.

  However, Father disappeared when I was younger. He swam out one morning and never came home again. My mom thinks the Humans killed him, but I don't believe that. His song was too powerful; the Humans were powerless against him. They never struggled, even as father pulled them under the waves.

  Compelled, I returned to the shipwreck later that same day. I’d never seen a live Human and the possibility of studying one excited me. Slimy oils clung to my face and shoulders when I

  surfaced, and I had to blink several times to clear my vision. The Human was still there. To get a better look, I submerged and swam to a nearby barrel where I could hide.

  The Human wasn't horrific, as I'd imagined. It was beautiful. It was maybe a little larger than I was, lying on its side. Where its skin showed, it was a rich brown colour. Its breasts were about the same size and shape as mine, but rather than scales flowing up to cover its head, hair as black as the ocean bottom splayed around its head. And, it had legs – exactly as my father had described in his stories. In its weakened state, it didn't look like one of the dangerous creatures he'd sang about.

  When I swam closer, its head lolled toward me. I hesitated a moment, then saw its striking green eyes, sunk into dark sockets, grow wide. Dried blood caked its lips. It reached out to me. The Human was suffering.

  Instead of hating it, I felt sorry for it. I knew there was something I could do to help. I'd sing, charm it, and pull it under the surface to ease its suffering.

  Technically, I was still two years from the maturity ceremony where the chieftain would proclaim me old enough to hunt, but how often does an opportunity like this come around? I sang. At first, my voice came out shaky, then it steadied into a strong tune. The Human turned to me, its eyes wide. Then, it smiled, a weak upturn of its lips that beamed joy. I'll never forget it.

  That smile made my voice waiver. I swallowed some water to ease my throat and tried again, but my song wouldn’t come. The Human whimpered and inched closer to me. Those eyes pleaded for me to continue but my throat was closed. Embarrassed, I dove and swam off.

  Before long, I regained my composure and returned to the wreck, determined to help the Human die. I didn't think I was away for long, but when I returned, it was dead; its beautiful eyes closed forever.

  For the first time since my father had disappeared, I was glad he wasn’t around. I'd failed to use the only gift he'd given me. I'd failed to make the Human's passing less painful.

  This was what the Trickster intended – presenting this impossible situation to me. I should have known I was too young to help. He was probably watching right now. I cursed him until my anger turned to sorrow. As my tears mingled with the sea, I pulled the Human from the plank. It was still warm. I embraced it, and I pulled it down into the cold, dark sea.

  The Human's warmth, almost as glorious as the sun's rays, faded quickly.

  Last Kisses

  by Steven Savile

  Come here.

  Closer.

  That’s it. Don’t be shy. All the way in. Come on.

  I’ve got something to tell you.

  A secret.

  Ready?

  Love is a sickness.

  Never forget that.

  You’re young. You probably think it’s all hearts and flowers and pretty girls’ smiles and broody boys and losing yourself in sad songs and thinking you’ll never find the one. Sure, it’s that, but it’s other stuff too. Stuff they don’t like to talk about.

  But me, I’m contrary. I like to talk. Talking is as close as some of us come to magic.

  Think of me as a magician. No. Make that the magician. And a kiss is my spell.

  Imagine a sickness capable of lighting the darkness and firing the heart, inspiring poets to pretty words and torturing time until it stands still. That’s the L word for you right there. There’s a reason it can move mountains; it’s the same reason it brings down kingdoms. It makes fools of all of us. And the magic of it is it only takes a single kiss.

  I have to admit I like love. I can work with it. It’s my favourite mischief-making tool. I mean who doesn’t want to catch fire? And what is love if not the whole world set on fire?

  Let me paint the scene: 1646 and all is far from well. England is deep in the throes of

  Civil War, which always amuses me because let’s be honest, there’s nothing civil about war, is the
re? Cromwell’s Roundheads (the bad guys if you like the Royal Family, they’re the whole rule by the people for the people mob) are making short shrift of the King’s men (England’s always had this thing for blue blood, don’t ask me why). It feels like forever since the Royalists last tasted victory, but then three years is a long time when you are fighting for your lives.

  Picture painted, enter our hero, a tricky young fellow with a passion for a certain Calvinist’s daughter....

  If you didn’t catch the inference, that’d be me.

  ••

  I’m a bad man. I’ve got the attention span of a newt and I’m drawn to shiny things. Frankly, life’s so much more interesting with a little mischief to liven things up.

  Like I said, she was only the Calvinist’s daughter, and if I was feeling a bit more creative I am sure I could come up with a bawdy little limerick to finish that little thought, but for now you’ll just have to settle for the boring old truth: she was a wee Scottish lassie, flaming red hair and a heart-shaped face.

  I remember the important things.

  I remember that it was the last time I was ever going to see her.

  She didn’t know that.

  She had dreams. They included me. The poor girl was in love.

  So was I, of course, but my love only lasted a few minutes before it flitted off to some other unlucky lovely. I won’t pretend it wasn’t a poignant moment. It was. Two hearts beat as one and all that nonsense. See, I can be sentimental too.

  I leaned down and touched her cheek, knowing all it would take was one last kiss to set it all motion. Grand plans. Cogs grind the gears that turn the wheels that keep the world running.

  How could I resist?

  You know me; I couldn’t.

  Well, no, let’s be honest. I didn’t want to. That’s different.

  So I did the deed and sealed it with a kiss, and that was that.