Or maybe Driftwood is their joke on us.
Part of me hopes so, and hopes that the gods are getting a good laugh out of it. Nobody else is.
~ ~ ~
She stayed in Last’s rented room, first sitting numbly on the tiled floor, later curling up and going to sleep. When she woke, she looked around and wondered if there was any point in staying. He had possessions here, yes, but a man who had outlived the death of countless worlds probably did not attach much importance to mere objects. There was no reason to believe he would return.
But if there was no point in staying, neither was there much point in moving. What would she do? Go home? She could get more seashells, start another search, maybe find Last again. But he would not give her the answer. So she might as well go home and admit defeat to her people.
And then wait for Valrassuith to finish dying.
She would probably die before her world did. They had perhaps another two generations left—maybe more, maybe less; no one knew what hastened or slowed the inevitable decay.
Except Last.
If that was all that going home held for her, then Alsanit might as well stay here and die. It would hurt less than facing her people with her failure.
Night came and went; it seemed longer than night in Valrassuith, but perhaps despair lengthened it. Alsanit sat with her back to a bedpost of carved bone, stared at the wall, and wondered what she should do with herself. Commit suicide? Starve to death? Set up a new life, exiled from her own world? The question filled her with such apathy that when Last reappeared in the doorway, she simply stared at him, dully, half-believing him a figment of her imagination.
He looked down at her for a long moment. The morning light coming in through the room’s one small window made him shine slightly, like a god.
“I make no promises,” he finally said, in a quiet, heavy voice. “Other people have tried this, and it didn’t work for them. They must have done something wrong. But it’s the best I can give you.”
“I don’t ask for promises,” Alsanit whispered. “Just for hope.”
He nodded, slowly. “Very well.
“Lots of people try to stay in their own realities, and never go anywhere else. Doesn’t save them. But you can’t abandon your own world, either; it needs you to survive. So you have to compromise.”
Alsanit waited, the words burning themselves into her memory, blazing with the possibility of survival.
“Have someone—your own shoemakers, if you still have any—make boots with hollow spaces in the heels. Take soil, or small stones, from Valrassuith, and put this into the spaces. Wear the boots at all times. If you do that, you bring your own world with you, wherever you go. You’ll always be standing on the ground of Valrassuith, no matter where you are. And this may—may—save you.”
Hope gave Alsanit new life; she roused from her stupor and began to crawl across the floor to where Last stood. Tears of gratitude fell from her eyes.
Last stepped back before she could kiss his feet. “Don’t. Please. Just go back to your people.”
“I will,” Alsanit whispered. “And—thank you. Words are not enough, but . . . thank you.”
And carrying his words like the treasure they were, she went to give her people hope.
~ ~ ~
The night after I saw Alsanit for the last time, I drank myself into a stupor. If you want to solve problems, that’s a shitty way to do it, but if you want to wallow in your misery, drinking’s the way to go. My problem had no solution. All I could do was wallow.
Alsanit wasn’t the first to ask me that question, nor the last. I’ve sworn to myself time and time again that I won’t answer when they ask, that I’ll just leave, hide, stay away from them. And I try. But they always hunt me down. What else can they do? I’m their one chance at salvation, their final hope for saving their dying worlds. They can’t leave until they get their answer.
So I give it to them.
No one ever wants to hear the truth. I’ve tried telling them, and they refuse to accept it. They prefer lies. So I tell them what they want to hear. I make up some interesting falsehood, something that sounds plausible; maybe I take it from the rantings of a streetside preacher who died four hundred years ago, and to them it sounds new. And they smile, and weep, and thank me; sometimes, like Alsanit, they try to kiss my feet.
And then they go away, and their worlds die.
The lie I gave Alsanit is a special one. It’s one I actually tried, along with all the people of my world, back when there were such people, back when there was a world I called my own. We put stones in our boot-heels and prayed it would make us safe.
It didn’t save them. And it didn’t save me. I kept those stones in my boots for seventy-five years after the rest of them were gone, thinking they were the only things keeping me in existence, until the day I got mugged in Ettolch and the mugger stole my boots. Then there was nothing keeping me “grounded,” keeping me on my native soil, and still I didn’t die, didn’t fade, didn’t vanish.
I don’t know why.
That’s the truth no one wants to hear. I don’t have the first clue why I’m still around. I’ve outlived the normal lifespan of my race many times over; even if my world hadn’t gone away, I should be dead. I tried all the theories that were in fashion back then, but so did everyone else around me. They’re gone, and I’m not. Maybe the answer lies in some subtle interaction of the things I tried; maybe you need to spend precisely this amount of time in your own reality and that amount of time outside of it, while simultaneously eating specific food in specific weights, and if you get the numbers exactly right, behold, immortality.
I doubt it. But then again, what do I know?
Not much. Except that I’m still here, unlike everybody else.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Marie Brennan is an anthropologist who shamelessly pillages her academic fields for material. Her short stories have sold to more than a dozen venues, including Talebones and On Spec, and a previous story set in the Driftwood world appeared in Intergalactic Medicine Show. She is currently working on a series of historical fantasies centering on the faerie court of London, beginning in the Elizabethan period with Midnight Never Come and continuing in the seventeenth century with In Ashes Lie.
UNREST
Grace Seybold
PAPA SAYS often you will be looking for one thing and find another, and Papa is very wise and often right, for I was looking out for trolls in the pasture when I saw the soldiers instead.
We see soldiers often, because the road between Kulosep and the Hado runs along the northeast edge of our farm. The Kuloseppae are very tall and paint their faces in war, and carry long spears. The Suhado wear helmets like birds’ heads and their women fight. We are neither. We are Esh. We were here before the armies came.
These soldiers were Kuloseppae and they were off the road and coming across the field. I could have hidden but three dozen sheep could not, and if all they wanted was provisions and they stole a sheep because there was no-one nearby to buy it from, Papa would be angry. Instead I rang the night bell, and stood in place as they came.
“Where’s your father, boy?” one asked as they stopped just past the sheep fence. His face was unpainted, which I took as a good sign. We had not heard of a war, but one’s first news might well be a night fire or a knife. So Papa says, and so he listens to the wind.
“Coming, honored sir,” I told the soldier, hoping it was true. For good measure and to seem eager to please I rang the bell again. The sheep stirred uneasily, butting against each other. I felt the same. Sheep are not clever as people are clever, but they are not stupid as city people think. We Esh understand these things. I felt the threat in the wind and the dark, whispering in my ears like a hungry ghost, and I stood and waited longingly for Papa.
He came out from the house soon, his coat over his shoulders and a cudgel swinging from one hand. Once I saw him kill a full-grown troll with it, smashing its ribs with his first blow and then caving in the
back of its head as it doubled over. Now as he saw the soldiers his posture shifted a little, became more shuffling and slumped. Just an old farmer, worried about his sheep. We Esh have been here a long, long time.
I went back to watching the sheep, a few of whom had decided to make a foray along the fence toward the trees. As I was urging them back to the flock and away from where trolls could be hiding, I heard Papa sob, once, as though trying not to. They will take one of the sheep without paying, then, I thought. Papa is a great bargainer, but he is wise enough not to argue too far.
“Tekel,” he said to me when I came back within earshot, while the soldiers grinned at each other, “you will go with these men.”
I could not understand. The words were sounds only, without meaning. Papa would not send me away, not ever. I had misunderstood. I touched the fence, the back of one of the sheep, my father’s sleeve, seeking reassurance in solidity. He moved away, and the world shifted.
They told me then that they were a recruiting party, and that the laws had been changed so that Esh and all who lived between Kulosep and the Hado were now citizens of one or the other. As citizens of Kulosep it was the duty of all able-bodied males to serve a term in the army, but in their kindness they would allow one man of the new citizens to serve for all his family.
“You’re lucky you’re not on the Hado side, boy,” the speaker added. “They’d take you both and your mama too. War’s coming.”
“Esh do not fight in wars,” I said numbly, and they laughed again.
“Well, you’ll be the first, then, won’t you? Come on, boy, say goodbye to your daddy and let’s get moving.”
Then I understood, and seeing my father’s face knew I was right. If war was coming, someone would have to keep Mama and my little brothers safe, and if I refused to go, they would take Papa instead. And would I, Tekel, fifteen years old, keep looters from our doorstep or lead our family to safety if the farm burned? No, Papa must stay, and I must go.
Then it was darkness around me and a long walk through the night, and finally a cleared place where other men and other boys slept bewildered sleep. I wondered where we were going, and if I would see the walls and towers of Kulosep tomorrow or in days to come. I had never wanted to leave the farm, but if this was to be my life, let it at least be filled with marvels. Let me yield to fate and be borne up by it, like a plucked leaf that soars far from the tree. It is no disgrace, to yield to fate.
We are Esh, after all. We understand these things.
~ ~ ~
You’d think the damned greenies would teach these poor kids not to sleep on watch, first thing. He was leaning on his spear when I got up to the sentry-line, and I could tell even in the dark he was a new one, because he was out on his feet and didn’t wake up when I came up behind him. When you’ve been out awhile you learn the trick of sleeping so lightly a dragonfly on your shoulder wakes you.
Not that I ever sleep on watch. No sir.
Didn’t wake up even when I came up behind him and dropped my wire over his head. Garotte’s a quiet way to kill if you can manage it, that or a stab in the kidneys. Don’t ask me what kidneys have to do with not screaming, but it works, ask anybody.
Left him and the next one and the next all in a nice pile under some bushes, after I took the trophies. That part I hate, I’m not ashamed to tell you. Leave a soldier some dignity, let the family have a body to weep over that looks like their boy or girl, not one so hacked up they’ve got only the sergeant’s word who they’re burying. You think when I die I want my mama looking down at me and telling them “No sir, that’s not my daughter, I don’t believe you?” But orders are orders and we were told to scare the bastards, so we did.
No idea why they were out recruiting along the highway anyways. That’s what they were doing, we knew it, we’d been following them for days. I’ve been out with recruiting parties before, yes sir, but the farmers between Kulosep and Hado-home were supposed to be exempt. We’re not stupid; we know who grows our bread. If the damned greenies had been able to offer them something, or threaten them with something, to make them take sides (and I’ve talked to Esh and I can’t for the life of me figure out what that would be) we needed to stamp the whole thing out as hard as possible.
So: the recruits died. By now the rest of our squadron would have done their parts. Adadaro and Omibibiro were sneaking into the camp itself to kill all the new boys who were sleeping, while the rest, me included, took out those on watch. That was most of them. It was part of their training, I get that, but still stupid not to have somebody keeping an eye on them. But by now I don’t expect greenies to be too smart. Tricky, sure, they’re tricky as all hell, but stupid.
So back to our camp I went and what did I find on the way but Madidiyu asleep at her post. Kicked her awake and explained at great length how easily I could have strangled her just like those poor Esh bastards whose tongues and ears I had in my pouch. She was nearly in tears when I finished but trying not to show it, and I pretended not to see. Wasn’t too long ago I was a new girl myself. She had to learn not to be careless, though. Careless gets you killed.
~ ~ ~
Bek eat you all. Bek eat blood-smell-man and water-smell- woman and angry-short-woman and poke-Bek-with- sticks-man. Bek strong hands. Bek big teeth. Bek break moving wood cave run run eat you all.
Day, night, day, moving. Back and forth, back and forth. Bek stomach hurt. Once Bek sick on angry-short-woman. Other man all laugh. Bek no food, day, night, day. Last good food just before all man came. Iron claw woman, hot salt blood, good good. All gone now. Not even blood left on skin. Bek hungry. No food. Man smell good good. Bek eat you all.
Sleep, blood-smell-man. Sleep, angry-short-woman. Sleep long quiet no wake up. Bek break moving wood cave. Bek sneaky quiet. Eat you all. Eat you all. Eat you all. Then run run far away, never come back never. Never catch Bek again.
~ ~ ~
How was I supposed to know it was a woman, for God’s sake? They said it was a troll and I swear it looked like one, all matted hair and hooked nails and those stinking hides they tie on themselves to mask their own smell from prey. It tried to bite me when I got near the cage, and the soldiers who brought it in laughed.
“Be careful, Thibo,” their captain warned me. “It killed one of us before we caught it. And ate her. Well, bits of her.”
I was amazed they did catch it. Troll cubs do command high prices, who knows that better than me? But you’d think if it killed one of their own there’d have been a few of them who’d’ve wanted to skewer it. Either they were better disciplined than I gave them credit for, or they were shorter of coin than they looked. I was betting on the latter, and revised my offer downward accordingly.
Even then, the captain’s eyes lit up at the amount I mentioned. I didn’t tell him I could get four times as much from a certain man in Bannertown who trained troll cubs to fight bears and such for show. I’ve never seen such a thing myself, of course, but some people will watch any kind of barbarism.
The purchase concluded, they left the cub and the cage and went off bragging to each other about how many butterfly-girls they’d have tonight. I sent a boy to my warehouse to fetch my cart, then sat down beside the cage to keep an eye on it. People will steal anything in this city. The troll was still muttering and growling to itself in the corner. Yes, a troll, I was sure of it. All right, a she-troll, with dugs nearly down to its waist, but I’ve seen she-trolls before and they do look like that.
The boy came running back to tell me that my foreman, Abiru, said the cart was at the smith’s and did I want him to hire one instead? This on market day when there wouldn’t be a cart for rent in the entire city. I thought about it for a moment, then gave the boy a penny to watch the cage and went off to make some purchases.
When I returned, it was with a waxed paper packet of raw offal from the butcher’s, into which I’d carefully poured a small vial of a certain sedative I knew to work well on trolls. I’d used it before and the apothecary had assured me
of this batch’s strength. Once the beast was unconscious, the boy and I could remove it from the cage and carry it home ourselves.
I pushed the meat through the bars, keeping my hands well clear. “Good troll,” I coaxed it. “Nice troll. Eat the nice food. That’s right.” The troll sniffed at it suspiciously, then began stuffing the bloody organ meats into its mouth with both hands. The sight made me want to vomit, right there in the street. A crowd had gathered to watch by this time, and a few of the ladies fainted at this new spectacle.
Gradually the troll’s frantic eating slowed. It lifted its head, looking puzzled, then abruptly convulsed, howling, and collapsed to the floor of the cage and began to claw at its stomach and throat. I had never seen that happen before.
Then, by God, the caterwauling turned to words, and I felt my own blood turn to water. “Hurts. Mama, mama, hurts, help me, help meee—” The troll was tearing great rents in its gut, its blood mixing with the mess on the floor. Trolls do not speak. Their throats are made like dogs’ throats, and they don’t speak. But I couldn’t have known, could I? It didn’t try to speak before. All it did was growl.
I didn’t know. May God strike me dead if I lie, I didn’t know.
~ ~ ~
Adondé vedu how I hate this warm country and all who live in him. Many and many years I have been here and in all this time I have not found one woman of honor or one man of decency. Malu vedu it is enough to make one mad.
The watchman who buys dreams from me, and who thinks therefore that I am like one of the grubbers after coin to whom he is accustomed, brought a prisoner to me some time past noon. He was a murderer, said the watchman, a poisoner, condemned to die and therefore easy to lose. Adondé vedu how he smiled as he spoke, such as a rat clicking her teeth at bound prey. He has been bringing me the forgotten dead for two years and more, and has been as loyal as such men are ever loyal. Malé lisu how I despise him.
The prisoner was sweating despite his nakedness and the pleasant chill of my home. He was fat not only as all in this rich land are fat, but more, a corpulence of soul. He stank of terror. I would not have thought him capable of murder, had I not known that all men are.
The Best of Beneath Ceaseless Skies Online Magazine, Year One Page 11
