A Mosaic of Stars: Short Stories From Other Worlds

by Andrew Knighton

  “Fine.” Carausius gripped the edge of the tank and hauled himself out. As he stood dripping on the hillside, he turned to the labourer in grey. “Make an offering. Summon the god of this blasted hill.”

  “Um…” The labourer pointed past Carausius.

  A face had appeared in the freshly dug dirt beside the tank.

  Letting out a deep sigh, Carausius turned to the god of the hillside.

  “Oh spirit,” he began.

  “You mean ‘oh mighty spirit’.” The hill god’s voice was deep, rich and arrogant. Apparently it thought it was one step down from Jupiter, not one step up from a pile of rocks.

  “I mean oh noxious vapour,” Carausius replied. “Now tell me what you want, so we can get this over with.”

  “What I want is some respect,” the god said.

  “Respectfully, what do you want?” Carausius snarled.

  “I knew you were too proud.” The god frowned. “You’re one of those humans who thinks you’re good enough without gods.”

  “I built this siphon.” Carausius pointed at the pipeline. “I’m good enough without anyone.”

  “You didn’t ask my permission to build on my slope.”

  “I didn’t need to. The senate priests did that.”

  “You didn’t ask for help.”

  “I didn’t need your help!”

  “You still could have asked.”

  “For what? To protect your feelings?”

  “To show some respect.”

  “How’s this for respect - let the water flow and I won’t turn this hillside into plebeian housing.”

  “See - too proud.” Dirt flew as the god snorted. “You’d delay Rome’s water supply rather than say please.”

  On the verge of shouting, Carausius caught a glimpse of the city in the distance, and of his team looking at him in resignation.

  Closing his eyes, he took a deep, calming breath.

  “Oh mighty spirit,” he said between gritted teeth. “Please help the water to flow.”

  “And what do you offer me for this assistance?” the god asked.

  “Offer you?” Carausius yelled. “You wanted me to-”

  He caught himself, took another deep breath, and held out the measuring stick. His hands trembled with anger.

  “I offer you the instrument of my craft.” He snapped the stick in half, then plunged it into the dirt. “Which is nothing compared with your power.”

  Everyone turned with bated breath to look at the god.

  “Very well.” It smiled. “Thank you for your offering.”

  The dirt face disappeared, and a moment later there came the sound of water running down the lead pipes.

  “Itimerius, take a note,” Carausius called out as he strode away.

  “Yes, master.” His assistant ran to catch up with him, a wax tablet in one hand and a stylus in the other.

  “Note for our next project,” Carausius said. “Get a commission for something ugly, dirty or smelly.” He waited for Itimerius to scribble that down. “And then build it on this hillside.”

  He looked back up the hill with a sneer.

  “I’ll show him what pride’s about.”

  Love That Never Lived

  Around three in the morning Bradley realised that the grief was too much for him. A shape had appeared on the hospital bed, curled up beside Jen in the soft light from the bedside lamp. A baby, as small and wrinkled and perfect as he had always imagined, curled up in a white blanket. A hallucination taunting his sleepless brain.

  The infant opened its eyes, peered around with the unfocused gaze of a new-born. Bradley wanted to reach out and take it in his arms, to hold it safe and close.

  ‘You’re not real,’ he whispered. Jen wouldn’t hear him, she was too wiped out by morphine and blood loss, but the louder he spoke the more real this would be. ‘We lost you.’

  The words struck him as hard as the blood that had trickled down Jen’s leg, the look of horror on her face as they sped through the dusk shrouded streets to the hospital.

  The baby lifted a hand, reaching out towards Bradley. Already it had grown, face filling out, eyes widening to stare across Jen towards him. It still looked only a few months old, but he could see that it had Jen’s eyes.

  It? She. The baby was a girl.

  Bradley shrank back into his chair, pulling away from the bedside. A nurse looked in through the window, smiled sadly at him and moved on. But behind her a little old lady peered in, smiled and waved at the baby.

  ‘You can’t be real,’ Bradly whispered, but he reached out across Jen, lifted the baby up in his arms. She was just like he had imagined her, and yet so much more. That smile, those eyes, the tiny fingers curling around his own.

  The breath caught in Bradley’s throat. He felt as if he were choking on the enormity of loss.

  ‘I can’t…’ he whispered. ‘I can’t hold you. You aren’t real.’

  Tears poured down his cheeks. His whole body shook to the rhythm of his sorrow.

  ‘I miss you,’ he said. ‘I never met you but I miss you. How does that happen? How do you love someone who never got to live?’

  ‘Bradley?’

  He looked up at the murmur of his name. Jen’s eyes were open, tears in them too. He made to lift the baby up for her to see, but the little girl was gone. Instead he went to the bed, lay down beside Jen and let the tears flow.

  They left the hospital the next afternoon, Jen pale but well enough to go home. As the doors slid open Bradley saw another figure beside them, a little girl wobbling along with a toddler’s rambling gait, unseen and ignored by the staff and patients around them.

  All except one old lady in a wheelchair who waved at the girl, then looked up at Bradley with a smile. He stopped, knelt down to speak with her.

  ‘Does the sorrow ever leave you?’ he asked.

  ‘No dear,’ the woman said, patting his hand. ‘But neither does the love.’

  Straight Poker

  Some folks thought the devil’s card hands were all about spades, full of death and darkness. Others that he chose hearts for men’s passions. But Rick had seen enough of the cabalist tables in New York to know better.

  That was why Rick had come out west, to get away from the magic before his soul wore through. To play some straight poker – no weaving of power, no double layered games, just good hard bluffing and good cold cash.

  It was getting on for midnight in a two shack town when he realised that something wasn’t right. It wasn’t the wind whistling in through the door of the rickety saloon, or the candlelight flickering in the cheap gilt-frame mirrors.

  It was the old lady’s play, sticking on a weak pair. That pair was fours, a match for the players around the table, revealed with the diamond on top – man’s greed and payment to the Beast. She played it cool, her other hand patting at her tight grey bun.

  Too cool. Poker face even as she lost the pot. They’d all stuck, bound themselves to the game while their guard was down. Rick fought to keep his breathing steady even as his heart hammered. This here was some nasty goings on.

  He played it safe for the next few hands, waiting for her to make her move. He didn’t like to be the dove at the table, but the stakes had just rocketed.

  Not that the others realised. It was the Apache who went all in, giving his best dead-eyed killer look as he pushed forward a big heap of pennies.

  The Indian’s face fell as the old lady’s full house beat his flush. His eyes went blank and he flopped back in his seat.

  The old lady ran a finger along her cards. Clubs high, warrior’s cards, tapping into the brave’s soul and snatching it away. A glimmer of power flickered at the corner of her eye.

  Rick’s blood ran cold. Not just horror at seeing another man’s spirit stolen but terror at the thought that it could be him next.

  The black fellow, a railroad worker out of DC, tried to leap up and away. But his chair was stuck to the ground, and he was trapped just as surely in it. Fear fil
led his face.

  Rick threw his blind penny out onto the table, nodded to the railroad man to do the same.

  ‘Just play to win,’ he said.

  But the real game would be down to him, whatever became of the pot. Rick’s soul might be tarnished but he sure wasn’t willing to give it up easy.

  A few more hands went around, the old lady’s eyes flickering with hellfire while Rick’s pile of pennies slowly seeped away. He had to find a way out before his pot ran empty and the witch had him trapped, able neither to win nor to leave. He’d seen zombies made that way, down in the Big Easy, men without a will of their own. Men blank-eyed as the Indian, feeling what was done to them but unable to prevent it. Better death than that.

  But there was no way out, not without a good hand or knowing how bad hers was. He tried to buy his way out magically by sticking on two pairs, diamonds in both, but she countered with the three incorruptible men – club, heart and spade of jacks. No good playing diamonds against that.

  Soon he had cash for just a few rounds. He watched Titus, the railroad man, blow his last chance on a straight. It might have freed him if the top card had been a diamond, but that nine of spades went down to the old lady’s club flush, and she scooped up his cash along with his soul.

  The power in her eyes flared even as Titus went cold. No hiding it now.

  Rick dealt, watching the cards fall on the table. He had the queen and ace of clubs, and matching spades in the hole. If he went all in on those pairs it might just about break the spell. But she had two kings on the table, and the ace of hearts besides. With a diamond to match either, she’d take his very soul.

  Her eyes stayed steady as she looked at her cards, showing only an ember of their earlier glow. She was giving nothing away.

  Then it struck him. Maybe, just maybe, there was no power in her eyes ‘cause her hand held no power. Because right now her magic was weak.

  Maybe this was his chance.

  It was a slim thing to gamble his soul on. Was he judging her right, or had he lost his touch out here in the west?

  He hesitated for a moment, but what choice did he have? He slid his whole pot across the table.

  ‘All in,’ he declared.

  ‘You sure?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m sure.’

  She matched his bid and revealed her cards.

  No king, no ace, no fire in her eyes.

  Rick laid out his two pairs, pushed out what power he had, and the spell broke.

  The Indian looked at the table in confusion. Titus bolted from his seat and straight out the door.

  Rick gave a sigh of relief. He felt drained, like without the tension he had nothing left.

  The old lady shook her head, pushed the pot across to Rick.

  ‘I’m heading west tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Care to join me? We could make quite a mark, my power and your smarts.’

  Rick looked from his winnings to the dazed Indian, then back at her. It had felt good to play that way again. The game behind the game, gambling for life or death.

  Other people’s lives. Other people’s deaths.

  ‘No ma’am,’ he said, scooping up his winnings. ‘Straight poker’s good enough for me.’

  Counting Coup

  Ju-long crouched behind a pile of rails, arrows hissing past his head. Of all the Central Pacific Railroad workers, he was the only one who had known that the attack was coming, who had prepared a place of shelter.

  But then, he was the only one who must enter the fight unarmed.

  Behind him, the white workers had pulled out guns or run for horses. There were no other Chinese here today, their safety secured by the Cabal, along with the feathered coup stick clutched tight in Ju-long’s hand.

  Tension knotted his guts as he peered at the Indian braves. They stalked through the mounds of dirt and heaps of wooden sleepers, most with weapons raised, some carrying torches and axes to destroy the railway workings. The shaman was near the back, directing them with his own coup stick.

  It was a good thing for Ju-long that he had a plan.

  He waited for a moment when he was not observed, then crept forward to the next stack of rails, and then a mound of dirt beyond that, as careful and precise as if her were setting Go pieces on the board. Every moment was planned, each step bringing him closer to controlling his opponent.

  If only he could have used the magic of the Go stones. But the Cabal understood that, in the battle for America, one must learn to win the enemy’s games.

  A group of white men charged out of a ditch, wielding picks and shovels. Ju-long dived beneath a wagon as a brutal melee erupted around him. The Indian braves easily cut down their attackers, men Ju-long had worked with, talked with, shared tea with. He saw Olaf Gunderson fall, blood streaming from his neck. Brin Rourke stiffened as the shaman hit him with his coup stick, then turned at the shaman’s command and started attacking his friends.

  Fearing for his own life, Ju-long shrank into the shadows beneath the cart, even as he felt the sadness of Olaf’s loss. He had been a good man.

  Now the whole construction site was a surging mass of bodies, the smells of blood and smoke filling the air. Men fought with reckless bravery, the sheer chaos of their struggle ruining Ju-long’s plan. There could be no careful advance now, no creeping from cover to cover.

  He looked at the coup stick. Of course he could not win by calculation. Counting coup was not that sort of game.

  It was a game of braves.

  Across the workings, the shaman was advancing toward the men defending a locomotive. He was guarded not just by braves but by three white men who moved with lurching obedience, their souls under his thrall.

  Taking a deep breath, Ju-long scrambled from beneath the wagon, and he ran.

  Bullets whistled past him, the rifle-wielding whites mistaking him for another brave. The Indians lashed out at him with axes and spears, seeing a stranger in their midst. Something hit him and his legs went weak with pain, but he kept running even as blood ran hot down his side. There was more at stake here than him. He was just one piece on the game board.

  His strength was fading, his body threatening to give in on him. With a last surge of will he summoned the spirit of the game, channelling a strength and daring he had never known before. It was exhilarating. He felt so alive.

  The shaman turned, looking in confusion at Ju-long. But he was too late.

  Ju-long ducked beneath an attack and leapt, touching the shaman with his stick. As he rolled in the dirt he saw the shaman stiffen, an angry fire battling with the coup magic clouding his eyes.

  “You have me, brave.” He looked at Ju-long. “What is your will?”

  “Your men will not attack me.” Ju-long clutched his side. He felt weak, too weak for a long battle of wills.

  “Of course.” The shaman held up his hands and the Indians backed off, not just from Ju-long but from the relieved looking white men. “The attack is over.”

  “No.” Ju-long shook his head. He had lived and worked with those men, but European power was still the enemy, expanding like a blight across the continent. The Cabal had their own plans for this land. “I am here to offer alliance. Kill them, and then we will talk.”

  The shaman raised his coup stick, the fire gleaming more brightly in his eyes.

  “Gladly,” he said.

  With a series of war whoops, the fighting began again.

  The Making of Meredith Brown

  Menelaeus’s fingers were sore from picking cotton, his back stinging from Mr Stenson’s lash. But he wasn’t going to let that stop him. With one hand he clutched his totem, intertwined figures of man and woman, diviner and spirit. With the other he picked up a handful of corn and scattered it across the skin of the drum.

  “What do you see?” Octavia’s expression was serious, making her face appear even more wrinkled in the oil lamp’s light. He had learned much from her wisdom, her strength and her grace, but had still more to learn. With her man’s clothes and her fierce re
solve, she embodied the world in between, the place where boundaries fell, where humans and spirits met. She was, in so many ways, the person he wanted to be.

  Most of the kernels had bounced away to the floor. He looked carefully at the positions of those that remained, where they lay on a grid that served as both game board and tool of their art. The signs were all too familiar.

  “This is Stenson.” Menelaeus pointed at a dark, twisted symbol marked by the corn. “Tomorrow we will suffer his wrath.” He pointed to the signs for suffering and for the field hands, both singled out by his spirit twin through the grain. Another symbol had been marked, one that filled him with even more dread. “There will be a death.”

  “Again.” Octavia nodded. “Now tell me anything we can use to lessen the harm.”

  “Keep back, boy.” Blood dripped from Stenson’s whip. At his feet, Octavia Brown lay dead beside the cotton buds she had dropped in the dirt – ruined, as Stenson put it.

  At least Octavia’s son Saul was not here. His fury would have got him killed. Thanks to Menelaeus and Octavia, the Brown children would not be orphans.

  That knowledge did nothing to still Menelaeus’s pounding heart. He wanted to rip out Stenson’s throat with his bare hands. But Stenson and his men had guns, and Menelaeus would not be the only one they would punish.

  So he stood still and silent. But now he knew – divining the future was not enough. He had to shape it.

  In the stillness of the night, Menelaeus stared at the totem, two carved beings intertwined. He could still feel his spirit twin, but without Octavia he was weaker, and he needed to be stronger than he ever had. He was just a man, and that was not enough.

  “Stenson comin’ for you.” Saul stood beside Menelaeus’s bed. “Says you been stirrin’ trouble. You want I should kill him?”

  His voice was ragged, torn up by hate.

  “No.” Menelaeus rose from the bed. “Ain’t no-one else gonna fight for me. But I’m gonna need some things of your momma’s.”