All These Shiny Worlds

by Jefferson Smith

  The Ruler of All Eral smiled as the Master of Myron leant over and whispered something to him. Bronwen saw the exchange and saw also the rapt expressions about her.

  Pawl finished.

  For an instant there was total silence, and then cheering such as Bronwen had never heard, led by none other than Marika. Bronwen frowned, puzzled, but put the matter aside to congratulate her husband.

  “That was for you,” he told her, as he held her briefly.

  There were still seven to play.

  ***

  “Fourth place–Sareb Delver.” They had come back into the hall, the judging complete. The moment of truth had arrived. Sareb Delver a silver miner from the south coast, was cheered onto the dais.

  “In third place–Gloran Smithson.” A not unexpected result, and well received.

  “In second place–Pawl Shearer, and–The Finder–Marika of Myron!”

  Bronwen’s heart missed a beat. She glanced quickly over to Pawl, but his face was unreadable. Whatever he felt, he composed himself enough to take Marika’s hand in a gesture of goodwill before joining Sareb and Gloran on the dais. Marika followed him to take her place, amid the applause of the gathered company.

  ***

  The Piper’s Quest was not a competition to discover the most talented musician in all Eral. If it had been, it could have been decided in a day. Rather it was exactly what it claimed to be–a Quest–undertaken by the pipers of Eral, one of whom would be successful, would be named The Finder. The greatest obstacle facing the contestants at the outset of the Quest was the fact that they had no idea what it was that they were searching for.

  Pawl walked alone, alongside one of Myron’s twin rivers, absorbing the truth regarding the nature of the Quest–and the reality of his failure.

  He had left the celebrations taking only a question with him, a question put to him by Bronwen: had he wanted to be the best piper in Eral, or had he wanted to be The Finder?

  Until that day he had assumed that the two were actually one and the same. The Ruler of All Eral himself, had dispelled that misunderstanding, had given him a gold ring of High Favour, and had caused Bronwen to ask the question that was now troubling him. He understood, as well as one who was not chosen as Finder could, that the Quest that year had been for one in tune with the sea: with the tides and the fish shoals, the ocean winds and currents–that was Eral’s need. His music was that of the forest and the field. “Losing” in the Piper’s Quest meant failing to find rather than being bettered, and he had not found the songs of the ocean in his music.

  When Pawl returned to the hall, he found Bronwen speaking quietly with Marika, in whose arms was little Rosa, dressed in a green and cherry-red gown. As Marika turned to accept congratulations from the Mistress of Myron, Pawl presented Bronwen with two tiny white flowers.

  “I discovered them by the river, struggling through the ice. Too soon–they came to their fullness too soon.”

  She breathed in the delicate perfume of the blossoms, “Yet their roots remain. They can flower again next year. It may be that the climate will be kinder then,” she suggested.

  “Yes, it may be,” he agreed. “Though we shall not be here to see if it is so.”

  Bronwen felt the relief flooding through her; she linked her arm through his. “And where shall we be?” Not that it really mattered.

  “North of here, the Kauri grow.” He smoothed the honey-red wood of the pipes hung about his neck. “I thought we might buy a few sheep, build a house, settle there, at least for a while. We shall still be poor, yet with time, who knows? The timber there is the best in the land, the ground beneath the trees rich in amber. The grazing is good. We have a horse, you have your spindles, and perhaps I can make you a spinning wheel. It will not be an easy life—”

  “Can we go straight away?” she interrupted him.

  “Tonight?”

  “Well, in the morning.”

  ***

  They travelled all day, eventually finding shelter in an abandoned cottage. Myron was behind them, out of sight.

  “What are you making?” Pawl asked, coming in with his arms full of firewood.

  Bronwen glanced up from the small pieces of sky-blue silk on her lap. “A gown,” she said. “In blue for safety; sky hues for broad vision.”

  “A child’s gown,” he stated, in tones that clearly said: Another child’s gown!

  “Yes.” She waited. He put more wood on the fire. “Are you not supposed to remind me that we are still poor, our future still uncertain?” she asked mildly.

  “Why? You know all that. Anyway, I have learnt a lot since last time, including the folly of jumping too quickly to conclusions.”

  “Last time was different,” she pointed out.

  “How so?”

  “That time I was merely using up old material, I was not preparing for the birth of our own child.”

  And the evening rang with the pure sound of joyous laughter.

  About The Author

  Belinda Mellor describes her work as mythopoeic-fantasy. She has two novels published, which explore the relationship between humanity and nature, and is working on a folklore-inspired YA novel about faerie changelings. When she is not writing, or editing other people’s writing, she is to be found pottering about her lifestyle block (mini farm) or else planning something sociable, as she lives in an area where people still “make their own entertainment.” English by birth, Irish by choice and a Kiwi by adoption, Belinda and her family are currently happily settled in New Zealand.

  For more information, visit http://silvana.belindamellor.com/.

  The Spider and the Darkness

  Russ Linton

  Editor’s Note: Is there anything more inspiring than a young woman mired in a hopeless situation who takes charge of her own destiny rather than waiting for help? Chalk this up as another victory for the self-rescuing princess society.

  “Things live down there.” Blind Old Jai wagged a finger directly in front of Kaaliya’s face as if he knew right where her nose was. “Terrible things the ancient priests, the Murti, were waiting on to come and fill their empty altar. You mustn’t seek that place.”

  Could she really be the only one that wondered what the darkness was like? Daylight from the surface world could only penetrate so far and the deeper one went into the Pit, the closer one felt to slipping under that smothering cloak. Sometimes, she wanted nothing more.

  She looked up from the rope bridge where the two of them sat, up through the opening of the Pit many spans above her. Light burned in like their own personal sun, netted by a crisscross of bridges. It was a clear day. No mist, no curtains of water from rainy season floods pouring over the lip. The cave mouths and decorated facades of the cliff dwellings surrounding them stood out as empty voids against gray walls. The clamor of busy households was a hushed whisper echoing strangely from the depths.

  “I’ve seen the empty altar,” Kaaliya whispered. “It’s a stone dish, polished and smooth, with a hole in the center. The hole runs down into the pedestal, down past where anyone can see. And there are paintings on the walls. Old and peeling like dead skin, but you can still see them. Mountains growing on the clouds and blue people without faces.”

  Normally she wouldn’t have told anyone about her exploration of the forbidden ruins, but Old Jai was different. Before he’d lost his sight he’d seen more of the world than anyone in the Pit. They’d come to an agreement of sorts where they traded story for story—a kind of currency she didn’t mind, and an escape from the dreary confines of her world.

  Rarely were these trades even, for she never felt she had good stories to share. She’d been saving the one about the temple, unsure how he’d react. He had yet to answer and she wondered if she’d gone too far.

  Old Jai’s pearly eyes widened. “You know the temple is a taboo place,” he stated.

  “I know,” she said, avoiding those eyes.

  Carved into the far cliff side, the dilapidated temple’s imperfections
were hidden at this distance. Cracks in the aging relief melted away and only the standing pillars were visible, not the toppled ones that littered the ground. Those priests had been the first to live here ages ago. Worshippers of a forgotten god. Or a dead one, Kaaliya wasn’t sure. She’d broken taboo and climbed through their lost sanctuary. Seen that empty altar.

  She’d seen every habitable part of the Pit though she’d never fully explored the surface world. Her father forbade her from wandering too far. He often visited the towns and villages outside but rarely returned with anything except the men he traded her time with.

  “Don’t you tell anyone,” Old Jai finally said, “but I’ve seen a taboo place or two myself.” Kaaliya couldn’t help but smile. “You’ve seen trees, haven’t you?” he asked.

  Though she’d only ever seen them in her imagination, she nodded, then remembered to say, “Yes.”

  She always had to remind herself the old man was blind. His tales of the outside were so vivid, so real. Jai had only been forced to seek the sanctuary of the Pit after an illness cost him his status and his sight. A giant sinkhole in the lush pastures north of the hill-covered Paharibhumi, the Pit housed the dregs of society. Their human cast-offs and trash and those, like her, unfortunate enough to be born here.

  “Around the mountain city of Cerudell,” Jai continued, “the trees grow so straight and tall they brush the bottoms of the clouds. So close together, they clap their trunks in the slightest breeze.” Old Jai raised his arms, rigid, and slapped them together in lazy motions. “There, on the edge of that frontier city, is a troll hut.”

  “Troll hut?”

  “It is a dome, like the great rooftop porches of Stronghold or the mud dwellings of the Ek’Kiru, only this dome is woven from the roots of the earth.”

  “You mean roots of the trees?” Kaaliya had only imagined what trees were like, but she knew they were plants. Plants had roots, not the earth.

  Old Jai wagged his finger again. “The earth,” he said decisively. “The troll hut, Redburl’s Realm, is taboo. Many fear the trolls, a mystery of the wild spaces of the world beyond.”

  “What are these trolls?”

  “Harmless creatures who speak in riddles and take the form of plants. They keep to their own domains and are nothing to be feared.”

  “Domains? Like the troll hut?”

  Old Jai nodded.

  “So, you’ve seen a troll before?”

  “Kaaliya!” A voice broke the spell of Jai’s story and she tensed, her eyes darting toward the opposite cliff. She knew the small, irregular doorway that was her home—the lintel slanted at an off-angle she’d long since memorized. Her father stood there, calling. She hopped to her feet and the bridge shook.

  “Thank you, Jai,” she said and hurried across the bridge.

  “Take care of yourself, Spider,” called Jai, watching her, she knew, with those all-seeing eyes.

  She made it to the path quickly and turned toward her home. Her father stood there, arms folded and a satisfied look on his face that she knew meant work. Her stomach fluttered and she steeled herself.

  “Go fetch some water. We have a visitor tonight.”

  “Yes Father,” she whispered. She hurried down the path and her mind wandered into the darkness again as she ran.

  ***

  Even this far away the defect was obvious. How far down did she need to be before the doorway to her home became just another hole in the rocks? She dangled her feet over the ledge into inky darkness and the promise of one last place to explore or escape.

  Lost ages ago, a priest had rigged an old winch and bucket to collect water from a spring that fed into the black. No one else came here anymore. Too far out of the way along unmaintained paths of soft boards and frayed bridges. When her father sent her for water, this is where she came.

  Usually she came here alone. This time she’d brought a friend. Or rather, been followed by one. She didn’t want him here right now, but she couldn’t find the words to explain why he should’ve gone home.

  “Damn, it’s stuck!” Shailen stood behind her at the winch which was spooled with a worn rope, swollen and fuzzy like a caterpillar.

  “Well, fix it,” she called.

  He leaned on the winch, stringy muscles hardening under his skin. Before long his arms went slack. “No use. We should try another.”

  If Shailen lived in one of the surface cities from Old Jai’s stories, like Stronghold or Cerudell, he’d be swollen and fat like the old rope. He was lazy, always trying to find a shortcut. Today he’d followed her to the bottommost spring bucket only because he liked to walk behind her. When they were younger, he’d been a loyal companion, but since they’d both come of age she could sense there was something else keeping him at her heels.

  She wished he didn’t have to change like that.

  Kaaliya rose and stretched, her toes gripping the edge. The complex mix of alarm, indecision, and enjoyment in Shailen’s face was at least entertaining. If he had to change, no reason she couldn’t have her fun.

  “You should get away from the edge,” he said. She could tell he wanted desperately to move to her but was too scared.

  “What kind of a Pit dweller are you?” she chided.

  “One who isn’t a spider,” he replied.

  Spider. She’d always liked the nickname. As a child, she’d drop in on neighbors in the most unsuspecting ways—showing up on their porches by hopping down from above, or scaling sheer faces and scrambling over the edge like a beast clawing its way up from the depths. The women would scream in mock surprise, “Look! Look at the size of that vicious spider.” They’d point to the weave of bridges above and below. “I should’ve known better than to make a home in your web,” they’d say. They’d call to their husbands to squish her and instead, they’d bring her a treat. A bowl of goat’s milk or piece of candied ginger if she was lucky.

  Like with Shailen, things had changed. The women no longer called to their husbands. Instead, her father called to the men and she, she dreamed of what lay in the black.

  “I think I can see where it’s wedged,” she lied.

  Shailen inched toward her. “Leave it and we’ll get water elsewhere.”

  “Pretty sure I can reach it.”

  “Come on, there are better places to get water. Safer,” called Shailen.

  Kaaliya left the ledge and walked over to Shailen. “Don’t worry about me.” She kissed his cheek and his eyes glowed in the dim light. “Just be ready to pull me up.” Then she disappeared over the side. How hard could following a rope be?

  She’d made her way down several body lengths before Shailen’s face appeared close to the ground, one hand gripping the rope. “Be careful,” was all he could manage to say.

  She looked at the smooth spot on his cheek where she’d kissed him and where blood still flushed his sandalwood skin. She hadn’t minded it. So different from the scratchy faces of the men her father brought home. She cast her eyes down into the dark and didn’t look up again.

  Before long she reached the bucket. The rope handle had hooked on a chunk of stone jutting out from the wall right along the bucket’s path. She could hear the spring trickling from the wall only a span below her. Odd that the bucket had never caught here before. Shailen’s luck, she supposed.

  A few quick tugs on the winch, maybe a re-positioning of the guide rope, and he could’ve reeled the bucket in. She clicked her tongue and slid the handle free. Water sloshed inside.

  Only half full, the Pit’s window to the surface world was reflected as a small white disk floating on the satin surface. She stared into it, an odd symmetry against the walls of the bucket. A crisp blackness floated over the disk and she felt sure a lid had settled over the Pit. She almost gazed into the light above to check.

  But the floating shape was too real, too substantial. Closer than the reflection of the opening. She steadied herself against the wall and reached into the bucket.

  Between her fingers she held the st
em of a leaf. Shaped like a spade, she could see green in the meager light. She twirled it from side to side in wonder.

  It was common for surrounding villages to leave things at the Pit’s rim or toss them into the black. Many things cluttered the upper ledges, beautiful and vile, useful and wrecked. Some were offerings from an aging group of believers. Some were secrets never meant to be found. The worst she’d seen was a broken form no bigger than her forearm. Rotted flesh around thin bones.

  One thing she knew for certain the open pastures around the Pit didn’t have was trees. She ran the stem between her fingers.

  “Are you okay?” Shailen called from the ledge, his shout thin and distant.

  “The bucket’s free,” she replied, her eyes on the leaf.

  Water trickled down her arm where she gripped the cliff face. That was strange. She probed the edges of her handhold. More water trickled out.

  “Grab on, I’m going to pull you up,” he shouted.

  The crevice where she’d wedged her hand began to spray. The rock that had blocked the bucket’s ascent shot from the wall, a geyser behind it.

  She clawed with her hands and set her feet. The leaf plunged into the depths, snatched by the cascading water. She’d be fine as long as the footholds stayed stable. Hands were for balance, she told herself. More water gushed down her arm and she pressed against the wall in the chilly eruption of the spring.

  She tucked her chin to her chest. Her heart hammered and with every breath she fought to swallow only air. She needed to move. It was the worst thing she could do, her hands still searching for that balance.

  She squinted into the spray and saw the bucket creeping out of her reach. She could yell for Shailen to lower it.