Cõran looked behind him at the girl, ‘Why? Who is she?’
‘She’s Afirian.’
‘She’s what?’ He dropped Damariya’s hand and walked over to Galvahha, ‘You have the power to heal,’ he said to her, pointing in his sister’s direction, ‘Use it.’
Galvahha looked down at the floor, ‘I can’t.’
Cõran grabbed her shoulders, 'Why not?'
Galvahha pushed him away, tears in her eyes, 'Because I've been sent to Earth as a mortal. I have some minor abilities, but healing is not one of them.'
'Why?'
She looked into his eyes, 'Because I would have wanted to use it. You are a leader, their chief, a king. Even you cannot deny that immortality for all would destroy everything you've created here.'
Cõran turned around and sighed, 'You may be right. But it doesn't mean I have to like it.'
'You think I do? Being suddenly powerless to stop suffering when one once had that ability is not a pleasant experience.'
Cõran nodded in defeat and walked back to his sister.
*
Cõran supervised the cleanup, even pitching in to help dig graves, or to rebuild houses. Even before I stumbled from that hut, I knew him to be a good king. I'd heard tales of him, I'd witnessed his transformation from vagabond to leader, seen him settle down and build a community.
But he could be so much more. The Fates had given him a gift, but he would need to give the world a legacy before he could receive it. I knew my task, but he had to make the choice with no guidance from me.
*
Cõran looked up to the edge of the bowl and saw his men digging. He ordered them to position the graves to face the rising Sun, so they would remember their ancestry in the East. All of these people followed him across the waves to an unknown place for an unknown reason. They were fools; but so was he. It was a dream that led him here; but they all wanted away from the wars, so they believed as strongly as he did. It was a message from God. This land itself was a gift from God. It had just been left alone so long it was now infested with parasites.
‘Perhaps they would have been safer back home,’ Galvahha said beside him.
‘So, you leave behind your gift of healing, but keep your skill at reading thoughts?’ Cõran said, a little scorn in his voice.
‘It wasn’t my decision. Soon, someone may be sent who is allowed to keep that ability, but that is not now.’
Cõran turned to face Galvahha, ‘Then why are you here? What is your purpose?’
‘I was sent to help you; to shape your destiny; to build your legacy.’
Cõran scoffed, ‘Great start. I’ve barely begun this community and already half of them are dead.’
‘And why are they dead?’
Cõran looked at Galvahha as if she said something incomprehensible, ‘Because I ordered them to fight for me.’
‘And they had every chance of turning back. You are not their leader. You command the army, but that is all. And yet, they follow you. They believe in this land. It is their home now, and they will protect it and shape it for their futures and the futures of their children. And there is barely a human being on this Earth that will not protect that with their lives.’ Galvahha looked up to the graves as the Sun rose above the crest, ‘Their sacrifice was not done without thought. They died knowing the children hiding in the caves would grow up. And each one was happy to give them that chance.’ She looked back to Cõran and he felt the dampness of tears form in his eyes, ‘They did not fight because you ordered them to, they did it because they wanted to. Because you gave them the hope of a beautiful future.’
Galvahha rubbed Cõran’s shoulder and he fell into her arms.
*
A few months after the attack, the village had rebuilt the houses, replanted the crops, and held onto their civilisation. A few years went by with no attacks, and Cõran sat at his table, alone with his supper, a roll of bread and cheese. It was a small roll, the harvest hadn't been good last year, though the crops seemed to be flourishing ready for the coming autumn. Their fortune fluctuated like this, but they had never experienced a truly bad year.
He looked up as the door opened, and Galvahha walked through; 'How's the bread?' she asked.
'Stale,' Cõran said through a mouthful.
'I could get you some fresh if you would like?'
Cõran shook his head and indicated for Galvahha to take a seat; 'A king shouldn't feast while his subjects starve.'
Galvahha smiled, sitting down next to him, 'They're not exactly starving.'
'No, but it’s the thought that counts. I don't expect them to eat what I'm not prepared to.'
'There's been another engagement.'
Cõran laughed, 'What is it about hard times that makes people want to get married. I'll perform the ceremony tomorrow.'
Galvahha took Cõran's hand and he looked at her, smiling.
'It also makes everyone wonder why you don't have a queen yet,' she said.
'Because I'm not a king.'
'You're their leader, and they'll call you what they will. And don't change the subject.'
Cõran grasped hold of Galvahha's hand and absently rubbed it, 'I just don't have the time.'
Galvahha laughed, leaning towards him; 'That's the point of a queen. To share the burden of leadership.'
Cõran looked at her and his eyes flicked to her lips for a second before going back to her eyes; 'It is a lot of work.'
Galvahha closed in, and Cõran felt her breath on his moist lips as she spoke, 'I can handle it.'
Cõran smiled and his mouth brushed hers, 'I have no doubt you could.'
*
And in that one moment I became the angel queen, Galvahha Afiræna. Cõran's fate was sealed with mine, and we would leave our descendants to achieve great things. I watched them all from above, the kings and queens of Calnis, forging a great nation that would shape the history of the world. I mourned its destruction, but my people lived on and it is in honour of them that I now write the Chronicles, the history of Calnis and its legacy.
And I knew at Cõran's coronation that his statement to the people was God's truth; 'This small community, this country … this entire nation … will live forever.’
* * *
UK author J R C Salter trained as a chef and practiced for ten years before quitting to pursue a writing career. His epic series, the Calnis Chronicles, depict the adventures of different characters surrounding a mysterious artifact. During any spare time, he likes to dabble in photography, build giant Star Wars models from Lego, and make cookies. J has an unhealthy thirst for knowledge, and has been known to waste time on Wikipedia and YouTube.
www.calnis.com
https://www.facebook.com/jrcsalter
https://www.facebook.com/thecalnischronicles
*
My Contact
(Excerpted from The Package)
Cleve Sylcox
My name is Dave Winter. I work, or should I say I worked for, a snake of a lawyer named, Bill Tinsley better known as BT. He gave me the package to give to Al. He said he would do it himself but had a pressing engagement. With whom he didn’t say. He told me all about the forty G’s and then rushed off.
Shit, I didn’t have anything better to do and who couldn’t use that kind of money, so I hurried to the wharf.
BT told me to go into Moe’s, a flea trap of a joint at the edge of oblivion. The bar is built at the end of the wharf which hovers some forty feet above the bay. If you stagger the wrong way it might be your last because just below the bay’s surface lays Elizabeth, a sunken Russian vessel which exploded some years back. Her jagged belly points up toward Moe’s. I stared down at her in disbelief. Only thing separating me and a date with those sharp points was a thin railing. I turned and went into Moe’s dark ambience. You’ve seen joints like this. They keep the lights down low so you can’t see any…dealings, if you know what I mean.
BT’s instructions were clear, go to the back of the bar to a table wi
th a painting of a pirate above it. I was to sit there. Not talking to anyone and most defiantly not drinking anything. My first contact was to give me further instructions. Cloak and Dagger…kind of find this stuff exciting.
I did as I was told. I sat straining to see through the dim lighting and smoke. The place smelt stale, dirty. A bartender stood behind a makeshift bar made from lobster crates. A long plank rested on top of the crates forming the bar top. Dirty ashtrays along with bowls of shelled salted peanuts sat on a thin cloth used as a bar cover. As the patrons walked around the bar, peanut shells crunched beneath their shoes.
A large rotunda of a man with a patch on his right eye flicked his cigar in the peanuts, then tossed back a double Scotch. He slammed the shot glass on the plank with a sharp clack. He nodded approvingly at the bartender, and then limped out of the bar through a mob of patrons who mingled, drinking and chatting loudly, most of whom looked like dogs after a hard fight, hair unkempt and ragged clothes.
Behind the bar was a makeshift wooden shelf holding bottles of Scotch, and whiskey. A fish net draped down from the wall covering a corner of the shelf, an obvious attempt at decoration. Oddly to say, it worked. At least it fit in with the tables made from old lobster crates with a small plank laid across them. These tables filled the place. On each table sat a candle in a bottle, which most used to light their stubbed cigars or cigarettes. The chairs were wicker and old. I felt if I move too fast theses would-be assassins would collapse, killing me.
Adding to the ambiance are the walls. They were made of old planks with tight lines of grain with a knot or two. Rough prints of pirate ships hung from old nails driven into their knotted mass. I sat beneath the only painting not of a ship, it was a pirate.
I looked at the black bearded pirate in the painting, wondering who he might be. That’s when I heard a voice that somehow didn’t fit in the surroundings. The voice was soft and sweet. I turned to see an absolute angel.
Her young face smiled at me from beneath two large blue eyes. Her blonde hair lay on her shoulders like a layer of golden cream. As I gazed down her perfectly proportioned figured, I was instantly enchanted. Jessica Simpson holds nothing on this dame.
“Excuse me,” she said in an English accent, “May I get you something to drink.”
I sat gazing into her eyes wondering if she had a name ...or a price. Her perfume, sweet and alluring, danced in my nostrils. I liked it.
She asked again, “Sir…would you like a drink?”
I smiled, “Sure, Scotch straight up.”
She smiled back, twirled on one foot then trotted up to the bar.
I watched her walk away…and nearly fell off my wicker. Then I remembered the package and patted my shirt pocket, reassuring myself. I opened the top of the pocket and stared in at it. It was a small manila envelope with the top-glued shut and stamped with a wax seal. I jiggled and heard something rattle inside.
“Here’s your drink,” said the waitress.
I looked up into her eyes while her perfume drew me toward her, “Thanks.” I mumbled, and start to pay for the drink but she stopped me.
“The lady at the table by the door paid for it,” my young infatuation told me as she pointed to a woman dressed in a body length overcoat and wearing a large brim hat. Even in the dimly lit room, she wore dark sunglasses, more cloak and dagger. I was intrigued.
The woman raised her glass to me.
I raised my drink to her, thanking her, “Who is she,” I asked the waitress.
“I don’t know, never seen her here before.” Then she trotted off, with my eyes watching her every step. That’s when the mystery woman made her move by stepping into my line of sight. All I saw was her black overcoat. I followed the line of buttons up the coat to her face, which sat recessed in the shadows of her large brim hat.
“May I sit down?” she asked with an unusual, heavy accent. Her voice was feminine but deep as if suffering from a cold.
“Sure, I mean, please do.”
I watched her slide gracefully onto the wicker chair across from me. The candle did little to cast a glow onto her face. Her red lips shimmered in the light but the rest of her face remained cloaked in the shadows of the hat.
I sipped on my Scotch with my eyes fixed on her. “So, what brings you here tonight?” I asked.
She didn’t answer right away but sat motionless in the candlelight. “You,” she finally said in almost a whisper.
“Me,” I questioned, “Why, I don’t even know you.”
“You have the package,” she said.
BT’s instructions came rushing back to me. No talking. No drinking. I sat the glass down with hardly two sips out of it. She might be my contact but how would I know. Something inside my chest told me she wasn’t.
“The package,” I questioned trying to de-rail her suspicions.
“You’re known as, ‘BT,’ aren’t you,” she said, sliding the sunglasses off her thin nose, revealing deep brown eyes. You know the kind, the kind that melts your soul with a passing glance.
“No, I’m sorry…I…I’m not him. My Name is…Will….Willard Humphrey. I work with the offshore men …HR issues.” I tried making things up but no matter what I said it sounded like a lie. Not even I believed it.
She stood, “Quit with the fun and games. Give me the package,” she demanded while patting her side coat pocket. “I’m sure you know what I have in here. Don’t make me use it.”
I wasn’t sure of anything except that I was in deep shit. What had BT gotten me into? As for her pocket, it could be a gun or maybe a bluff. I was willing to take a chance. Besides, we were in Moe’s; too many people for her to kill me here. “Listen, Dark and Mysterious, I have no idea what you’re talking about…but hey, I’m willing to forget it. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll —”
“Enough of this,” she snapped, then stepped next to me reaching for my shirt pocket.
I reached for her wrist, but my reach was intercepted by the waitress who sat down on my lap, wrapped her arms around me, pressing her body against mine. She winked before kissing me deep and long. I was surprised to say the least. Our lips parted and she leaned back and said dramatically, “Darling I knew I would find you here,” then she kissed me again. Believe me, I wasn’t complaining. I could do this all night. It crossed my mind several times.
The dame with the hat stepped back and pulled the .38 snub nose from her pocket, “The packet, give me the packet,” she demanded.
Without hesitating, my new found friend kicked the pistol from the dame’s hand and punched her in the nose. The dame fell back into the makeshift bar, spilling peanuts and knocking the plank off the crates. Drinks tumbled to the dirty floor, and the bartender did not look happy. The dame was knocked out cold. Then the blonde Rambo turned to me, and kissed me again.
I said to her, “I kinda understand that you’re my contact and you kissed me to ward off the dame but what was that last kiss for?”
“Me,” she said and kissed me again.
* * *
Cleve Sylcox is the author of six books with many more on the way. To read his short stories and poems check out his blog,
http://csylcox.wordpress.com
*
The Call
Corrie Fischer
(Based on a True Story)
I suppose I should start from the beginning. How does one define such a point? Does it truly start at conception or perhaps at birth? Of course the question here is not where life began. No, it is something far more. Where did the pain arise? For that, we must go back to my first memory.
It was a cold November morning and I was four years old. I do not remember playing in the gym’s daycare. One may hypothesize they did not have memorable toys there. It was most likely filled with donated objects that scattered across a plain, ordinary carpet. The scene must not have been within my mental capacity to hold dear.
Debra arrived there to get me. My mother, Nancy, was standing behind her, yet she was a world away. I cannot pictur
e their faces or the words they spoke to me. The thoughts simply vanished from my young mind. All I have of the missing pieces is their own, distorted accounts. After all, memories are a tricky, fragile thing. This is part of what makes eye witness statements so unreliable. One person may see a red ball cap while another swears it was a tan cowboy hat on the suspect. The causes of such distorted recollections have baffled scientists for years. They have theories of course, but that is what they remain. They are hollow speculations to provide answers to one of humanity’s greatest phenomenon. Of course, I am getting off topic.
From what their combined memories recollect, the three of us ventured into the gym parking lot. Arriving in front of the beaten, blue car, it was obvious my mother could not drive. Something was wrong with her, something very wrong. Debra plucked the keys from her hand and helped her into the passenger side of the metal contraption. She opened the door for me, but I refused her help and crawled in of my own will. They always said I was stubborn. The fact is certainly true in recent times.
The vehicle began to move. I cannot recall how long it traveled or the number of turns it took to reach our destination. I would like to believe I asked my mother if she was okay. I hope that I told her how much I loved her and that everything was going to be alright. Unfortunately, I was only four. My mind was unable to process such complex thoughts. One can only assume I sat in the back, playing with some now irrelevant toy that meant the world to me then. Isn’t it funny how things change like that? At one point in life, a simple object can be everything. It is lovingly carried from one place to another, attached at a child’s side as though it was a section of their soul. If anyone attempted to remove such a thing, they would be hated, revoked as horrible and most likely subjected to a terrible tantrum. At the moment in that car, my mother would have probably welcomed such torture compared to the daunting reality of what came next.
The Kiss: An Anthology About Love and Other Close Encounters Page 33
