“The sea is in our blood, and our blood is your blood. We felt the shock, even so far away,” the Seal Prince said. “We felt you return home, felt you swimming straight out from shore as far as you could, thinking you’d swim so far out you couldn’t get back and so not have to make a decision to keep going at all. You thought maybe one of the white sharks would take you, but they know better than to hunt the son of the Seal King. And now here you are ‘cause you’ve nowhere left to go.
“Take it, Richard. Come with us.” He knelt, touched the skin, nudged it forward.
Well, he’d told Doug he might try going freelance.
The water was the only place he felt safe. He was born for the water, webbed hands that worked best when he was swimming. But he wouldn’t be a true seal any more than he was a true human.
A mutant in both worlds.
At least when his teammates called him Fishhead, they did it with love. What would they call him here?
Richard chuckled. “I know this story, too. The soldier home from war, who gets advice not to drink what the dancing princesses offer him. He doesn’t drink, so he stays awake, and he sees where they really go at night.”
The Seal Prince snorted. “Do I look like a princess to you, then? Does this look like poison?”
“No. Are you really my brother?”
“I could say yes or no, and you wouldn’t believe me either way.”
He was right. Richard smirked. “I have a place waiting for me back home.” He wasn’t born for land or sea. He wanted to keep a foot in each place. That, he could do. He wanted to go home.
The Seal Prince studied him, and Richard couldn’t read his expression, if he was surprised or disappointed or full of contempt. He had a feeling he could have known this man his whole life and he still wouldn’t be able to read him, to understand him.
“Don’t you even want to meet your father?” the Seal Prince asked.
“If he’d wanted to meet me, he would have come himself,” Richard said. His half-brother didn’t deny this.
“Go then, selkie’s child,” the prince said, gathering up the borrowed sealskin. “Go back to your world. We’ll be watching you.”
Richard said, “Tell the Seal King—tell him that my mother died last year. She never stopped looking at the waves.”
The Prince’s smile fell. The two guards, henchmen, whatever they were—they looked to their leader. None of them had expected him to say what he’d said. His news had shocked them. They might have known many secrets, but they hadn’t known this.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” the Seal Prince said.
“Thanks.”
The three men, tanned bodies shining, disappeared behind the same outcrop of rocks they’d emerged from. As a mass, a rippling mob of shining mottled skin, the barking seals lifted themselves, scooted on blubber and flippers and heaved into the waves, splashing a wall of water and mist behind them.
And suddenly the world was quiet. The barking and belching ceased, leaving only waves lapping against the rocks. Richard looked back to the mainland. The audience of seals and mermaids was all gone. The stretch of waves between here and where he’d started was unbroken. He sat there, nothing more than a man who’d lost his boat in an ordinary world. He turned his face to the sun and grinned.
He had a long swim ahead of him.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Carrie Vaughn is the bestselling author of the Kitty Norville series, the most recent of which is the twelfth installment, Kitty in the Underworld. Her superhero novel Dreams of the Golden Age was released in January, 2014. She has also written young adult novels, Voices of Dragons and Steel, and the fantasy novels, Discord’s Apple and After the Golden Age. Her short fiction has appeared in many magazines and anthologies, from Lightspeed to Tor.com and George R.R. Martin’s Wild Cards series. She lives in Colorado with a fluffy attack dog. Learn more at carrievaughn.com.
PATHFINDER
T. C. McCarthy
Hamhung, Korea
2 January 1951
Hae Jung frowns at the smell but shakes her head because it isn’t an odor as much as it’s a sensation—that something irritates the inside of her nose. The way hot peppers burn. Her inner alarms ring, and before she can show any sign of fear a litany scrolls through her mind, the words keeping her nerves from firing. Once she regains control Hae Jung looks up to turn her head from side to side. It’s gone; the smell disappears as if it were never there and she makes a note to remember everything, to tell Dae Nam that something may have followed the last batch of wounded into the caverns.
Lanterns hang from the rock ceiling. They cast a warm light on the injured soldiers to distract her with an illusion of peace, and Hae Jung wonders why it’s quiet before she remembers what happens at night, the time when injured sleep instead of scream and her chest feels lighter; this is when many of the dying let go. Maybe the stars draw them out, she thinks.
The last time Hae Jung went outside her wet hair froze and she had trouble breathing in the wind, but the American Marines hadn’t yet lit Hamhung on fire and more stars than she could imagine emerged to make the sky glow. They had spoken to Hae Jung. She smiles at the memory and imagines that stars are candles of her ancestors and wonders if her mother waits for the time when Hae Jung herself will make the trip across. The thought makes her happy enough that she almost misses it when the wounded man next to her sighs with rattling lungs.
It’s his time; Hae Jung imagines she can see his spirit and rests a hand on his chest before leaning over to whisper. “Your ancestors have been told. They will welcome you, so do not be afraid, because your grandmother asked me to show you the way.”
Hae Jung wants to tell him everything but she can’t because this is an important moment, a procedure that requires concentration so she can find the path, a road home that makes all fear melt into nothingness. She meditates. Within a second her hands begin to glow and then the man smiles because he sees something; it is invisible to her, but his joy is infectious and Hae Jung grins without realizing. This means his ancestors are laughing. She feels his existence in the hospital start to fade, which means it’s the last stage, and she prepares to light the way by going deeper into her trance.
Hae Jung is about to do it when the smell returns. Now it’s clear, a scent of burning cinnamon that makes her eyes water at the same time she feels her heart race because she had hoped that whatever it was had moved on and it’s her first time in the presence of this, the kind of thing she’s been warned of but hasn’t yet experienced. She waves her hands over the soldier; Hae Jung tries to fan something away but now she’s crying and confused because the gesture is useless and what comes for the man can’t be stopped with a wave. The path slips, forcing the man’s eyes open. Then he tries to scream but his breath is already gone and so he looks at her with terror and she nods while wiping tears from her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know this would happen and it wasn’t supposed to; I will tell your ancestors so they can pray for a way to bring you out of darkness.”
A second later it’s over. The man stares at the ceiling and Hae Jung has to turn away because she feels the anger and sorrow of his dead mother, a rage and a blame that somehow it’s her fault—that his soul is lost because Hae Jung is weak.
Someone puts a hand on Hae Jung’s shoulder and she jumps. One of the other nurses asks, Who are you talking to? and she shakes her head but then smiles because it’s only Mi Yae and seeing her makes the cavern feel safe again.
“To him.” Hae Jung points at the dead soldier. “To his ancestors, to ask for forgiveness.”
Mi Yae shakes her head. “If you are religious, hide it. You know when this is over, they will return to the ways from before, and even in this place there are informers, Hae Jung. You are my best friend and we are good little soldiers. Remember?”
Hae Jung says I know at the same time the bombs fall. She feels the rock vibrate under her feet and detonations shake the wo
oden cots; dust rains from the walls and ceiling while the things land far overhead, against the mountainside, with deep booms. The lanterns still cast a dim yellow light but some of them wink out because of falling pebbles that smash their glass and Mi Yae grabs her friend’s hand, pulling Hae Jung through the maze of cots where some of the Chinese soldiers are now awake, reaching to touch their hands. One asks, Are we safe here? But the girls are already gone by the time Hae Jung understands the man’s words.
Mi Yae guides them in a winding path. She moves so fast that it takes some time before Hae Jung realizes they have a candle, its light barely enough to keep her from stumbling on rocks, but soon it gets slippery because water trickles down the walls, so any light helps. Finally, they arrive at their bomb post: a tiny alcove with two wooden stools and two buckets of sand.
Mi Yae flinches at the distant blasts. “Even this deep you feel them.”
“American bombs must be very large. My brother is lucky because he was posted with the Chinese in Dandong; the Americans fear war with China and won’t bomb across the border.”
“When this is over, I will marry your brother.”
Hae Jung sees Mi Yae’s grin and from her voice knows that she tells the truth.
“He asked?”
Mi Yae nods. “When you and I were up north. He stopped by our camp for a day and told me not to say anything because there was no time to see you and he wanted to give the news himself. I’m sorry for keeping it secret, Hae Jung.”
“Don’t be!” She hugs her friend and feels tears roll off her cheeks while she laughs. “I am so happy. Remember we used to pretend we were sisters when we were little? We were so good at it that the old men at the police station thought we really were.”
Mi Yae nods again and smiles. “I know; I was thinking the same thing. You will help me plan the whole thing—my entire wedding!”
Hae Jung lets go, unable to stop smiling. Even with only the candle for light she sees that Mi Yae is beautiful and knows why her brother chose her for a wife, recalling how the two would stare at each other all those years and how he never had the courage to speak in Mi Yae’s presence. She is a year older than her brother. Even now that they are all older, it still would have taken him courage to ask Mi Yae to marry, and Hae Jung wishes that he were there because now there are so many questions and so much to plan and nobody knows how long they will be stuck underground—or how long the war will last.
“Hae Jung,” Mi Yae asks, “why do you spend all your time with the hopeless?”
“What are you talking about? Who is hopeless?”
“The wounded Chinese. You always tend to the ones who have no chance, the ones who are sure to die.”
Hae Jung says nothing. She had forgotten about the dead and the thing that now haunts the tunnels, the thing that until now only existed in stories, and Mi Yae’s question erases the joy that a second ago had felt so promising. There are no words to explain it. Even if there were, her friend wouldn’t believe any of them because this is the People’s Hospital 157 and there are no Pathfinders because people like Hae Jung don’t exist—not officially.
“Because they need me the most,” Hae Jung says, which is at least part of the truth. “The dying are alone, Mi Yae, and far from their homes in China, so they deserve attention because they all seem so lost.”
Mi Yae sighs, and Hae Jung hears that she’s crying. “I am tired. They stand no chance even if we could treat their wounds.”
Hae Jung doesn’t know what to say and rests her back against the wall, not caring about the dampness because exhaustion now begins to wash her brain of memories, its temptation of sleep sending feelers into the deepest parts of her mind, scrubbing it of details; she almost forgets the thing’s smell. But just as her eyes shut, a blast sends sharp pebbles to fall on her leg, forcing Hae Jung awake so that her thoughts land in a place where the dying soldier waits, his eyes staring at her as if asking How can you just sit there?
Hae Jung grabs Mi Yae’s arm. “Have you seen Dae Nam?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he is with the equipment section. I heard someone say that ‘the crazy monk’ is working on boots and refurbishment, and only Dae Nam is called that. Why do you want him all of a sudden?” When Hae Jung stands and begins running, Mi Yae shouts after her, “Where are you going? This is an air-raid, Hae Jung, stay at your post!”
But Hae Jung can’t grasp the words. All she hears are her own boots slapping on the rock and the sounds they make when she splashes through puddles, and even in the pitch black she doesn’t slow because she has spent almost a year in the tunnels and knows the way. Plus she needs to speak with Dae Nam as soon as possible; he will know what to do.
“You are a Pathfinder and haven’t met the enemy before?” Dae Nam asks, and when Hae Jung shakes her head he sighs. “From your description, I would say this one is different from those in the stories, Hae Jung, so abandon that idea. Let me fix more shoes; we need information.”
Hae Jung watches. On one side of the small rock chamber is a pile of shoes and boots, some of them still blood-soaked from the injuries of their former owners. Dae Nam picks out a canvas sneaker. To her it looks like a ritual, where he first soaks the shoe in dark water for a few seconds, letting it penetrate the fabric before he submerges it to the bottom of a deep pan, pressing the sneaker down and then bringing it up, repeating it until he’s satisfied that its canvas is clean. Then he inspects it under a lantern. Dae Nam runs his finger along the seam joining the sole to the fabric, and where it begins to separate he takes a thick brush and pushes glue into the gaps, pressing the sole downward for a few moments so it re-seals. He then tosses the sneaker into another pile.
“So many shoes,” Hae Jung whispers. “And none of them suited for snow and ice.”
“But each one has history, and we need it. And it is worse where you work, where you see the ending of the story, the failures of men. I am lucky to have been assigned here. The research suits me and we need the intelligence.”
Hae Jung shakes her head and slides to the floor near his side, where she stares at a wall but sees nothing. “I don’t mind the hospital, Dae Nam. When I succeed in finding the way, I get to see them rejoin their families, and often the dead are met by friends forgotten—not to mention the fact their pain is gone.” Hae Jung wipes a tear from her cheek, but she is smiling, and what she says is true. “Still, it does hurt sometimes. . . . What have you learned since our assignment to Hospital 157?”
“You mean besides the fact that your friend calls me the crazy monk?”
Dae Nam smiles, but Hae Jung feels bad. His head is shaved and the man seems older than she remembers, but then Hae Jung thinks it might be the fact that his lantern is dim and the soapy water prunes his hands. He wears a stiff rubberized-canvas apron that resembles the robe of a monk, and she knows they are lucky to have him.
“I am sorry, Teacher.”
“Do not be sorry; I like the name.” Dae Nam picks up a boot and frowns. “Let me see what this one has to tell me—there is something here, Hae Jung; this was worn by one of our warriors.”
Now his hands glow. Hae Jung watches in fascination as he holds the boot over his water, and the glow expands around it at the same time Dae Nam’s eyes roll back to make them white and inhuman. Hae Jung looks away. This is her first time seeing him work, and even though she knows his specialty it disturbs her to watch his face contort. If the boot was worn by one of their kind—maybe a boy who trained with Hae Jung and who Eastern Command sent to fight both men and spirits, or maybe a master magician who had achieved the rank of full warrior but whose luck eventually ran out—the fact that he’s dead makes her sad. She is in the war within the war; Hae Jung is glad she is a nurse, glad she doesn’t have to share what Dae Nam now experiences: the last images of the man who wore those boots, and his last feelings at the moment of death. Dae Nam is crying when he drops the boot into the pan.
“This is too much,” he whispers. “Too much for us, and they think t
hey can control it. The Americans have gone mad.”
Hae Jung stands. “Control what?”
“That thing in your hospital ward; they have done something, brought a thing here.”
“What is it?”
Dae Nam grabs her shoulders and forces Hae Jung to lean over the pan where she sees the boot more closely, and the burn marks are clear and Hae Jung notices that it has been clawed by something that melted the rubber sole to form a twisted handprint. She pushes away.
“What is this?”
“It isn’t evil,” he says, “not in the sense that this is a thing driven by hate; it is nothingness. A being from the empty place, which feeds on the material and the spirit, and it has nothing against any of us because the thing has no understanding of humanity at all and would just as easily go after the Americans and British; it wounded the warrior who wore this boot and then tracked his soul here. Had you succeeded and finished showing your dying man a way to his ancestors, this thing would have detected the signatures and you would have been killed and your soul dissolved into nothing, too. It hasn’t seen us yet, Hae Jung. But it’s only a matter of time before it does.”
Hae Jung’s heart races. She feels like crying and wants to tell him that she’s only eighteen and that this is a terror beyond her, but then she realizes that there isn’t any choice because the war is all around and there is no leaving it. Whether she’s ready for it or not, it doesn’t matter; there’s no safe place anywhere.
“What will we do, Teacher?”
Dae Nam grabs the lantern and then her hand, and he guides her from the chamber, down a winding passage where the darkness seems to absorb almost all illumination and she has a vague sense of passing other soldiers and doctors. They nod to the monk. Most get out of his way and bow their heads, even officers, and Hae Jung wonders if she really knows who the man is, how great someone has to be to deserve this level of respect. Finally they arrive at another chamber entrance, where Dae Nam lifts a curtain; he ushers her in and drops it behind them.
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