Letters From the Sky

by Tamer Lorika

  “After this—whatever this is—is over. They won’t be pleased—the bells won’t, the Auditor. Where will you go?”

  Jericho shrugged. “Wherever you are, I suppose. Isn’t that what you’ve wanted? Both of us, in the same world?”

  “Yes,” Jeanne breathed. “But we don’t belong here, do we?”

  “Then let’s find somewhere we do belong.”

  The command was never voiced, but it didn’t need to be—they both began to move at the same time. Jeanne lay back on the bed, shoulders against the pillows, as she had the night she was marked. Jericho was on top of her, resting on knees and elbows, taking her in. They both took the other in.

  It was easy, after that.

  A touch here, a touch there, warmth and connection and something Jeanne hadn’t thought of before now, but of course she didn’t need to. It was just…easy. Something natural, something they needed—

  No light in the room, of course, but they gave off their own sort of light, as muffled and quiet as their voices but it was just another step, just another easy motion—

  And then, blessed and stretched quiet when it was over. Jeanne tried to catch her breath, face red and slightly perspiring, Jericho not much better. Never had the creature seemed so undone.

  “Jericho…”

  “We’re connected, for sure,” Jericho said, a strange and giddy smile stretched across her sharp face, her sharp teeth. But her expression wavered for a moment. “Is that—I didn’t ask—Jeanne, is that all right? Is it okay I want to follow you?”

  “Of course!” the girl exclaimed, clutching her blanket closer against her chest. “I can’t imagine anything else.”

  That was contentment, not being able to imagine anything else but Jericho.

  “Where do you want to go?” Jeanne asked, suddenly excited. “You know everywhere in the world—where do you want to go?”

  “I…” Jericho paused, unfocused, thinking, her hand absently stroking Jeanne’s burning and silvery cheek. “There is a deep pond in the woods to the north that is a perfect circle…”

  She was telling stories again, and for once, Jeanne was able to believe they were more than just stories. Maps, possibilities, new homes.

  “And just miles above that, a place where the sun never sets for half the year—an everlasting day, and then, an everlasting night…”

  Jeanne’s eyes grew heavy and she did not fight it. There was something coming, something that would change everything, something that would set her free. And she was warm and more sated than she had ever been, and Jericho was right next to her, whispering the secrets of the world into her ear.

  “Hanging off the side of a mountain, standing watch over a vast and limitless desert, is a little grey olive tree. It’s been hanging on for a millennium, in the bones of its ancestors, and its descendants will watch over the desert as well. It’s something that cannot be destroyed. Even a little olive tree can have such strength…”

  Jeanne fell asleep and waited for the destruction of the morning.

  Chapter 9

  That morning, a little before six and a little before sunrise, Jedrick had just woken up and was trying to dress himself before school. He could hear his mother hovering outside the door, ready to step in if she heard him fall over or sensed his clothes did not match. He finger-combed his hair with one hand as he rifled through his drawer, settling on a button-up shirt he did not find offensive. His mother made most of his clothes or hemmed his father’s, and there were very few he truly liked. Not that his looks mattered much to him, in any case, but it was the principle of the thing.

  “Mama, I’m fine,” he called out, struggling into his shirt and buttoning it by feel. He ran his fingers up the lines three times, making sure he hadn’t missed a hole or something equally unforgivable.

  “I know, I know, I’m just dusting out here.”

  He rolled his eyes, not believing a word.

  Soon he stumbled out of the bedroom, boots in one hand and socks in the other. He waited for his mother to lace the boots for him, wondering what the day would hold. Armand was attempting to teach a few of the fourth years some more advanced technique on the fife, and he could not envision that going well. After all, advanced technique would require that any of the kids had talent. He himself spent much of his time in the corner, practicing songs on his own. It was something easy to pass the time and put off doing the math work Armand had set for him.

  Lost in the trill of the piece he wanted to work on today, Jedrick almost did not recognize the sound sneaking up on him, washing with a rumble over the house. Neither of his parents noticed, not yet, and he thought perhaps he was imagining it—but no. No, it was too deep in his bones, it was coming.

  * * * *

  Paris sat at her vanity and waited impatiently for her mother to finish yanking her hair back into its severe bun, wondering when her scalp had ceased to resist the tugging and just went numb. She had a bowl of oatmeal and raisins in her lap, but she largely ignored it in favor of making faces into the mirror when her mother pulled especially viciously.

  “Don’t complain; you want to look good, don’t you? You may find a suitable husband, in school or Cotillion.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Mama. My dancing partner is Jedrick.”

  It was Madame Orange’s turn to make a face, although it passed so quickly that perhaps it had not existed at all. “Well, I’m sure the other boys will be looking at you.”

  “The only worthwhile one is Charles, and his attentions are focused elsewhere,” Paris sniffed. “And although Michael is good-looking, he insists on being partners with Phillip, and I don’t want to have anything to do with that.”

  Madame Orange nodded knowingly. “Once the upheaval is over, you’ll find someone, especially after you leave for boarding school next year.”

  Paris’s eyes focused on the mirror, locking with her mother’s. “Boarding school?”

  “Yes, of course, dear. We have been saving up for it for such a long time. There you can learn to be a proper lady, a proper wife—they have dances and they will find you a suitable husband, to be sure.”

  Paris gasped.

  “Well, surely you don’t want to be stuck here all of your life,” Madame Orange chided. “Nothing for it; you said yourself there are no worthwhile men.”

  “But…to leave…to tell me now…”

  “It was a given, darling; it should not be a surprise. We have been discussing this for a long time.”

  “Yes, I know, but…”

  Madame Orange looked up with a quick jerk of her head. Paris winced as the woman pulled her hair with her. “Hmm…I’m sorry; I thought I heard something.”

  “Mother, really, I must—”

  Then Paris heard it, too.

  * * * *

  Armand was at school already, so early in the morning. He waited, wrapped in a scarf and a too-tattered coat, puffing and blowing on his fingers, until Madame Bonnefoy came pattering up the street and unlocked the door for him. She gave him an odd look and he smiled back, distracted.

  “Good morning, madame,” he said, nodding his head before slipping into the relative warmth of the school. She stared after him, not given the opportunity to ask why in heaven’s name was he here so early.

  Armand trotted past ice-cold and empty classrooms, realizing he had beat the custodians who turned on the boilers and silently cursing himself, but he had plans, he had something he needed to do. Those fourth years would need something new to play today, and he had just the thing somewhere in his closet.

  He brushed into his classroom, carefully setting his lunch on the desk before moving to the closet in the back of the room. The bottom of it was currently full of crates of little wooden fifes, a mess he daily despised, but today he was grateful. He used one of the sturdy boxes as a stepping stool, and pulled out a series of small, heavy wooden files from the top of the closet. Inside were reams of sheet music, things he used himself on occasion. Or he had, when he still owned a vio
lin.

  That violin was long gone, sold for food or firewood or something necessary he could not easily retrieve in a small town on a teacher’s pay. But the sheet music remained, for reasons unknown to him, and it was, at least basically, in a fife’s key.

  Something easy for the children to learn—they were all stumbling at best, except for perhaps Jedrick. Oh yes, he had noticed Jedrick, in the back, practicing the instrument when he was supposed to be reading Doyle or Dickens or Diderot. Armand did not stop him. The boy cared, and he could play the music by mimicry alone, hearing the melody rather than reading the notes. Armand was ever so slightly impressed, and, moreover, glad the boy had found something to keep his attention besides his insufferable friends. He would offer the boy lessons himself, he decided—private, after school. It would be good for the both of them.

  Finally Armand found the sheets he was looking for and spread them out on the desk. Finding one of the fifes from the box, he wiped it off on his sleeve. He knew it would be off-key—the cold did horrible things to instruments—but at least it was not metal.

  The young teacher was so busy picking out the tune of the melody line of the Kanon und Gigue für 3 Violinen mit Generalbaß, he didn’t even hear the buzz on the horizon until it was too late to do anything at all but keep playing.

  * * * *

  Charles was up early, as he was every morning, running in the field outside of the school. There was a rugby team at the secondary school up in the city, one that might allow him to join if he were good enough. So he woke up very early to train in the field when no one was looking. In fact, he had just finished a long run and flopped, panting, into the night-wet grass. He stared up at the grey-blue-yellow sky and tried to catch his breath, knowing he still had a round of push-ups and sit-ups to do before he could run home and change his clothing before school started.

  He caught the sight of someone pacing and blowing on his fingers in front of the school, face swaddled heavily in a thick scarf. Charles wore a sweater himself, but he wasn’t cold in the least. It might have been the exercise—but what was anyone doing out here this early?

  He knelt to begin his push-ups, sneaking glances at the figure from time to time, watching as Madame Bonnefoy bustled up and let him into the school. What a mystery.

  “Ninety-nine…one hundred!” Charles forced out, falling flat on his face in the dewy grass as he finished. Push-ups were harder than they looked. He rolled onto his back, staring at the sky again, telling himself he really ought not fall asleep but unwilling to move, in any case.

  It was because he stared at the sky that he saw the line of vicious black dots steadily coming closer. Oh, God, no—he stood and ran as fast as his legs would take him towards the town.

  * * * *

  Cello ushered the first paddles full of bread out of the oven as the sun came up. They smelled sweet, and even though the last shipment of flour had been almost a week ago, he was content he had enough dough to keep in business for a long time yet.

  He wondered, vaguely, if those three children he spoke to sometimes would come in for sweet-bread soon. They came more frequently when the weather began to turn cold. After all, he always let them have a cozy corner and perhaps some tea when he had it to offer.

  That poor, cursed one, though…He didn’t think there was anything wrong with the child; she was always the politest of them, the quietest. She would be all right, he thought hopefully. They all would.

  He watched steam rise from the bread. He didn’t mind the scent so much at all.

  His dog, a little stubby thing with waddling legs and a sad face, flopped in from the living quarters behind the kitchen. He looked up at Cello and whined.

  “Now, now, Claude, you’ve got to wait a bit. I fed you in the other room—you can eat in there. I’m not sharing any rolls with you today, dumpy one,” he said, bending down to scratch the dog’s ears.

  The canine whined again, butting its snout against Cellos’ fingers.

  “Come on, Claude, out you go; I have to open up shop,” Cello said, shuffling the dog towards the inner door.

  Claude did not move on its own, but rather slid across the floor as Cello pushed.

  The baker paused, raising an eyebrow at the dog. “Now really. Claude! Go!”

  The dog let out a deep, growling, panicky sort of bark.

  “Claude!”

  It growled again—or so Cello thought, but the sound went on and on and was echoed in the air outside.

  * * * *

  Ms. Milovskaya—Cecilia, to anyone who was not shorter than she was, and Cece to the one woman at the school who was—had slept far past the time she should have. Stirring, she caught the first rays of sun slanting through the slats of the shutters.

  “Marianne,” she whispered, jostling the woman sprawled across her abdomen. “Marianne, wake up, we’re late for school.”

  “Five minutes,” Ms. Roma mumbled. “C’mon, Cece, m’ too old t’ be late fer school.” She didn’t move an inch and barely opened her mouth, dead weight across Ms. Milovskaya’s stomach.

  “Love, really. We overslept. Come on…” Ms. Milovskaya ran her hand lazily through Ms. Roma’s hair, knowing she would have to be the one to motivate them both. But she really didn’t want to.

  “S’ warm here,” muttered Ms. Roma, nestling closer to the other woman, burying a nose into her neck.

  Ms. Milovskaya sighed in contentment, taking in the smell of citrus and cloth bandages accompanying her lover. That is, until freezing toes were shoved into the back of her knees.

  “Marianne!” Ms. Milovskaya yelped, scrambling out from beneath the blankets and dumping the woman unceremoniously on the mattress. “I was going to give you a few minutes extra, but not anymore! No cold toes!”

  Ms. Roma laughed into the blankets currently half-suffocating her.

  “I’m taking the first shower, and I’m using all the hot water in the boiler!” Ms Milovskaya announced, dashing into the bathroom.

  That got the other woman up.

  “No! No, I’m coming, I’m coming! Hey—let’s take a shower together,” she said with a laugh as she scrambled to intercept Ms. Milovskaya, grabbing her playfully around the waist.

  “Mm…if it gets us to school faster…” Ms. Milovskaya began, smiling. She paused. “Is it raining? It sounds like there is something falling on the roof.”

  “Snow?” Ms. Roma asked, her nose on Ms. Milovskaya’s backbone. “Bit early for that, isn’t it?”

  “Sounds like falling papers,” Ms. Milovskaya said with a laugh. “Or like little butterflies.”

  Vaguely, throughout the house, was a resounding, metallic echo.

  * * * *

  That morning, Jeanne stumbled backward out of the house, unable to stay within those walls any longer, calling to Maman, “I’ll be home by five hours past noon, I promise!” She didn’t want to go to school either, all cold desks and colder stares, though maybe Jedrick and Paris would speak to her, finally, today.

  She was too early to meet them at the corner; it wasn’t even half past six hours. Besides, she didn’t think she was ready to go back to normal so quickly. Her blood sang. She smiled to herself and felt like yelling in joy every time she thought about the way Jericho’s face had…and there it was again, that effervescent bubbling beneath her ribs and across her diaphragm. She jumped in the air and spun in a circle in front of the house, hands outstretched, laughing, laughing, laughing like she had not in her entire life. She laughed until she could not hear it anymore, her voice drowned out by the click whir hiss thrum of engines. Eyes widening, she looked upwards just as the shadows covered her face and blocked the green-orange-grey of the sun’s rays.

  A rippling of air, as if a million wings were beating and failing to rise, and a million pieces of white paper whirled through the sky from the cold underbellies of angry aeroplanes, whistling their secrets as they fell in a thick flurry towards her. Pamphlets, in that horribly edited language Jeanne could barely understand.

&n
bsp; A single piece of paper fell onto her bare head, slid down her nose, and onto the ground. Jeanne watched it fall, then bent to pick it off the corpses of its brethren. The sound of planes did not diminish, rather grew louder with every passing second, a wave, an absolute swell of sound and gasoline fumes.

  Jeanne heard none of it, saw nothing but the paper in her fingers. It was folded into a sail-shape, hand-creased folds and triangular fins. A plane. A paper plane.

  She opened it.

  Words were scrawled across the parchment in a hand she knew too well, despite never having seen it before.

  Go free.

  Go free beyond this town and beyond the forest and the river and leave anyone who would hurt you and come to me—

  Jeanne broke into a run without looking back as the first bombs began to fall.

  THE END

  ABOUT TAMER LORIKA

  Tamer Lorika is a legislation specialist in Washington, DC. She writes books to de-stress and give an outlet to her morbid imagination. One day she hopes LGBT fiction will be mainstream. Her life is completely take up by Hetalia fan fiction, cooking sweet things, and converting all class assignments so she may mysteriously incorporate some aspect of Polish history. She can swear in 11 different languages, and her scrambled eggs are legendary. If you ask her nicely, she will read your tea leaves.

  ABOUT QUEERTEEN PRESS

  Queerteen Press is the young adult imprint of JMS Books LLC, a small press specializing in queer fiction, non-fiction, and poetry owned and operated by author J.M. Snyder. Visit us at queerteen-press.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!