by Various
It was illegal—and nearly impossible—to release time without a Tax Collector present. The time was kept in by enchantment, and only things designed to contain enchantment could break the magic seal.
He should have flashed on the needle before—he’d only seen one other like it. Leiwood remembered the needle from when he was young. From when they’d made him pay the tax.
It was special, and rare, something you had to have a license to obtain. Probably Belladino had such a license, so Melanie hadn’t thought twice about taking it from the apothecary.
What would happen when the time was let go? He’d never heard of anyone setting it free before. All he knew was that he needed some—more than what he had. Time to think before Melanie threw herself into the flames.
He jammed the needle deep into the spongy cork and pulled back on the plunger. As the barrel filled with a swirling pink and turquoise essence, the bottle cracked. Once empty, it turned to dust.
Without another thought Leiwood pointed the needle in Melanie’s direction and shot time into the air.
Everything stopped. There was a stillness to the room, like on a winter’s morning after a heavy snow. When he noticed even his breathing had stopped, he started to panic, but quickly focused.
He was seeing double—as if two stained-glass images were superimposed. But not quite, because the images weren’t identical.
There were new things in the room—wispy, ethereal things, the same color as the essence of time. There was a new plant in one corner, a handprint on the windowpane, and smoke—as from a pipe—over the bed.
Melanie was frozen, her rigid, burnt fingers outstretched for the grate once more. He was grateful that the mask hid her expression, because surrounding her head was a creature. It was something between an amorphous blob and a tentacled sea monster. The bulbous body grew out of the center of the mask, and the translucent arms reached out behind her, like streamers caught in a high wind.
He wanted to lunge at it, but wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to do.
What were they, these newly revealed things? They couldn’t be physical objects; he’d stood right where the new plant sat.
Perhaps they were things that existed in time only, separate from space.
A faint pulsing drew his attention to the ceiling. Splayed across it were symbols, constantly shifting. They weren’t words, or astrological signs. The speed at which they changed reminded him of a countdown.
There were five minutes in the bottle—that was all the time he had to decide what to do.
He moved to put the syringe down, but caught sight of what it had become. The superimposed version of the needle was bigger—almost like a dagger. And the two metal circles of the finger grip now extended up and over his hand to his wrist in a partial gauntlet. Things that looked like spiny vines wound up his arm from there, all the way to his shoulder, where a protective plate with moving—living?—parts rested.
The syringe let him interact with time without being caught in it, like Melanie was. It was the key.
And the cure.
Leiwood ran at her. Diving forward he plunged the dagger-needle between the frog’s eyes—Melanie’s eyes—and pulled on the plunger. A small drop of blood entered the barrel with a faint fog of time. He’d pushed too deep, failing to consider the softness of the balsa. Lightly, he scaled back, pulling the needle out just a tad.
When he pulled on the plunger again, the creature on the mask suddenly moved. Its tentacles clamped down around Melanie and its body quivered. The bulbous portion shimmered and resolved into an ugly caricature of a human face—Belladino’s face, tainted and twisted with hate. It bit and howled at Leiwood.
“I’m sorry, I—” But there was no use in Leiwood apologizing to a half-formed time-specter of a man for things that he had never done.
He struggled with the creature, sucking at it, more desperate to separate it from Melanie than before. His arm shook as he applied force to the plunger. Soon the thing began to shrink, absorbed into the mask and then drawn up the needle and into the barrel.
The last airy bit of the creature caught, Leiwood withdrew the needle and backed away, examining the syringe. The mass inside swirled like an angry, bottled storm.
• • •
One moment Melanie had been fighting the torturous rift in her mind, struggling to plunge herself into the fire. And the next she was in Leiwood’s lap, his arms wrapped tightly around her, holding her close. The mask no longer covered her face.
“It’s gone,” she said, amazed. Leiwood smiled a sad, scared smile, and her heart dropped out of her stomach. “I’m sorry.” She felt like slime. What had she done? “I couldn’t—I—”
He rocked her back and forth. “Shh. It’s all right.”
With his thumb he wiped away a drop of blood from her forehead. How had that gotten there? She stared at the smear for a long moment. Did I black out?
There was a quick, sharp tap on her forehead, and then another. He was crying. “I didn’t know,” he said. “My mother took me away when I was ten. I didn’t come back until he was gone. He hurt a lot of people, but Master Belladino’s daughter… I didn’t know.” His arms suddenly tensed around Melanie. “And your mother. Your poor mother.”
Melanie began to cry herself, and the tears burned as though they were molten. The idea that something had happened and she couldn’t remember it was frightening, but the thought of her mother sent her over the edge. The solution in the crucible had to cure, but then what? The next steps had been lost with the—
But no. She thought hard, and found she knew the process. And it was not fading; it was strong and clear in her mind.
How—?
Yes, there were more formulas in her memory, more healing potions and techniques. She was almost sure she knew them all. But the anger and hatred had fluttered away. All that was left was knowledge.
“I can still save her,” she whispered. “But, why do I still know how?”
“Perhaps when I pricked you…” he started, then took a shaky breath. “I took the poison out, but maybe I locked some things in, too.”
She didn’t understand, but the joy at realizing her mother could be saved shoved the curiosity aside. “She’ll be all right. Leiwood—” He looked into her eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t resist hard enough. I should have kept him back. There was more I should have done.”
“No,” he smiled. “It’s not your fault. It was Belladino’s mask.”
They sat locked in silence for a long while. Melanie let relief, and sadness, and terror, and calm, and happiness flood through her freely.
Eventually Leiwood helped her stand. “We need to get you to a healer.” He gazed mournfully at her ruined hand. She hadn’t even noticed it.
“I can do it myself,” she said firmly. “I know how.” She smiled, and curled the blackened fingers despite the pain. “I know how.” She had a gift now—a master healer’s knowledge and all the long years of life to improve upon it. She’d always been a helper, devoting her life to her ailing parents. But they hadn’t sucked away her time—they’d enriched it. “And I know what to do with my life. I can share Master Belladino’s genius with the world. Just the brilliance. Hopefully his loathing is gone forever.”
Leiwood glanced over to the syringe on the floor, but didn’t say anything.
She hugged him close. “I’ll make sure people don’t have to waste their lives being sick.”
He nodded. “Because real time is worth more than bottled time.”
Melanie’s heart fluttered. “Life is always worth more when it’s lived.”
THE PRAYER LADDER
by Marina J. Lostetter
First published in Galaxy’s Edge (Sep. 2013), edited by Mike Resnick
• • • •
THE LADDER stretches up and up before me. Into the sky, past the clouds—past the sun, perhaps. I cannot see the top, but I know it ends in Heaven.
Chill winds sweep the ice covered mountain, and I hunk
er into my coat of caribou skin. The sleeve of my left arm is too long—Mama meant it to last me another two winters. The other is capped next to the stub of my right elbow.
The sack full of my village’s prayers hangs lightly around my neck. Hundreds of little scrolls fill the burlap, written in hands both illegible and refined.
Once every five years the prayers are carried to Heaven.
Once every five years a citizen leaves and never comes back.
And now it is my turn.
I lay my boot on the first rung. I’ve learned to do everything with one limb that most do with two. I know how to deftly climb a ladder. But this…
It’s a long way to forever.
The ladder is made of something light and flexible—like the bamboo the traveling tradesmen bring. But it is also sturdy. The ladder has stood for a thousand years and will stand for a thousand more.
When the Carrier of Prayers is selected, the entire village gathers on the square outside of the temple. The priest makes sure all of the doors and windows are splayed wide, so that we can see the choosing. He drapes garlands and sprinkles seeds around the fat, golden Idol of Prayer, then touches its stomach and whispers in its ear. After a moment, the idol opens its mouth. The priest reaches in and retrieves a name burned into a small strip of parchment. The gods choose the Carrier, but the priest pulls the name.
And this year, it was me.
“No!” Mama cried. “There’s been a mistake. Not Damien. Please.”
It’s not often that the gods choose a child. Though at thirteen, I’m nearly a man. Usually they pick the elderly. Those who are still on their feet, but won’t be for long.
Mama pushed through the throng and into the temple. She stomped up to the priest—invading the holy circle of space around him that no one is ever supposed to breach—and demanded he pull another name.
“You can’t send a child with one arm,” someone in the crowd insisted.
“Yes,” agreed another. “What if he falls? What if our prayers don’t make it?”
“The gods have spoken,” the priest said in his stately tone. His harsh, black eyes stared at Mama without feeling. He had done his job, and she was to be thankful. Her boy had been given a great honor.
I took my place at the altar, next to the priest. The scent of crushed evergreens and scorched offerings permeated the sanctuary. “I can do it,” I declared, ignoring Mama’s sobs.
When we left the temple, she would not meet my gaze.
I’m way up now. Frost-blue Kaneq birds fly below—the gentle kind, with wingspans five times a grown man’s height—but the clouds are still above. With the stump of my arm I can push myself up the rungs, grabbing hold once my fingers are boosted to the right level.
The knot that holds the sack is tight. I will not lose a prayer.
Only half are ever answered. Exactly half. Always good prayers, but typically little ones. People who ask for a good harvest or a safe journey are blessed. Only sometimes do the gods answer a big prayer.
Mama’s prayer when I was little was a big prayer. I was going to die, she says. Horrible fever and rash—something terrible was eating me from inside. Mama prayed for me to live. And I did. All of me, save my right arm.
This morning, after the choosing, we wrote our prayers together. She got out the blessed parchment and the holy ink and we sat at the family table.
I asked her what she was praying for, but she wouldn’t tell me. I told her my prayer and she cried again.
My shoulders feel strong and my legs aren’t tired. And yet, I’ve reached the top.
There’s a trapdoor, just recognizable by a narrow square outline and a silver handle dangling within my reach. Bracing myself between the rails, I knock on the sky.
Bright, white light blurs my vision as the door opens. A thin, silver hand beckons for the sack.
Teetering precariously, I pull the sack over my head. It disappears into the light. Then the hand extends for me. I am to follow all of the great Carriers of the past and ascend to Heaven.
But as I move to take the hand, I slip. My fingers brush past the silver ones and I topple backwards.
I’m falling. Air rushes past as the ground rushes forth.
Down.
Down.
And when I pass through a cloud I realize what my mother prayed for. For my return.
Not like this. She couldn’t have prayed for this.
But, perhaps this means both of our prayers will be answered, and that this is not the end. I repeat mine now, to myself: Please, make my mama happy.
A sharp tingle in my stump draws my gaze to the right. A silvery, ethereal forearm and hand have sprouted from my sleeve cap. The fingers flex at my command.
Not even the thick hide of my coat could hinder the growth of a god-limb.
But, what use is a new arm, god or otherwise? Why give me now what I’ve gone all these years without?
Below, the frost-blue Kaneq birds soar in spirited circles, their wings shimmering in the late-day sun.
I don’t need fingers. I need feathers.
The god-arm morphs at my behest. A giant Kaneq wing extends to my right. But, it’s worthless without a mate.
I clutch my left fist. It has been a good hand, a good arm, doing the job of two. But I need something else now.
Change, I will it.
Change.
Change!
A silver glimmer engulfs my left side. Blue plumage bursts into existence.
With wings outstretched, I catch the wind and it ferries me home. All the way to Mama.
Sean F. Lynch became eligible for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer with the publication of “The Cave” in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction (Mar/Apr. 2013), edited by Gordon Van Gelder.
He does not have a website, but may be contacted via [email protected].
* * *
Short Story: “The Cave” ••••
THE CAVE
by Sean F. Lynch
First published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction (Mar/Apr. 2013), edited by Gordon Van Gelder
• • • •
THE BOY tossed a stone into the darkness.
“One… two… three,” he whispered. “Four, five, six.” From somewhere far below came a faint splash.
The boy stepped back and looked at the bearded man.
“Let’s go the other way,” the man said.
He whirled and swung the torch in the opposite direction. A narrow tunnel loomed.
Their breaths cleaved the silence.
“I can scout it,” the boy volunteered.
“Alone?”
“I’ll be careful, Papa.”
The man—his name was Aaron—considered this. He could hear his own heart beating.
“Besides,” the boy added, “a rest will do you well.”
“I suppose I can’t argue,” the man said, kneading his beard. “My legs don’t feel… the same.”
“Then it’s settled,” the boy said. “Give me the fire.”
The man handed over the torch.
“Just remember.” He paused. “Last time you were gone—”
The boy sighed. “I know—”
A rumbling emanated from far off, a stirring from deep in the earth, and then it was gone.
He touched the boy’s shoulder. “Go with God. If you see the devil.…”
“Papa?”
“Give him my best!”
The boy’s eyes sparkled; he nearly smiled. He hugged the man quickly and then, with the torch, crouched and entered the passage.
Aaron stooped over his walking stick and watched the flare of the torch illuminate the tan-colored tunnel, and he saw the shadow of the boy larger than life, and then gradually the torch-light withered and his son’s presence could only be ascertained by the crunching clomps of bootsteps against gravel or rock and the splashing of puddled water.
Then there was silence, utter and complete.
Letting out a long
breath, Aaron shrugged off his knapsack. He raised a half-full bota bag to his lips and drained a meager amount before gingerly lowering himself to the cave’s floor. The ground was dry where he sat and he traced his fingers just beyond his body’s perimeter. Without a torch, visibility was nil. One could be standing inches from a calcite dagger or on the icy ledge of a two-hundred-foot-deep chasm and feel no discernible difference. Sometimes the temperature gave a clue. The ravines, the abysses, the nether depths—they were often cooler.
From somewhere far off, another rumble boomed, a deep sound felt as much as heard. When they were younger, the cave’s rumblings made the boy cringe and huddle up to his father—but the boy, Kaleb, had outgrown that.
He wiped his muddy fingers against his pants and stroked his beard. His back ached.
Sitting, tailbone against solid ground, didn’t help.
He wanted more than anything to rest, to lie down, but he feared the consequences of sleep in this cave—how seemingly you fell asleep one man and woke up another, possibly not in mind, but in body. The flesh. And whether this was true or not—how could it be?—he did not want to risk it.
He lay, knees bent, head on the blanket.
Ahh, better. I’ll just lie here and relax.… Kaleb will be back soon. And the news he brings, for better or for worse… either way it will be the truth… and better than doing nothing. One has to move forward, one has to try. Sometimes all you have is the trying.
• • •
Before they ever set foot in the monstrosity—back when Kaleb was an infant—a starving man had stumbled into their hamlet. He was pale and old, his skin pocked and scabbed, and although many villagers feared he carried the plague, he was allowed a bed in a remote barn. For a week they took him water and hearty meals, and surprisingly he regained some vigor, and the villagers’ fears were greatly lessened if not entirely banished.
The night before his departure, everyone gathered in the town hall. There were fireplaces and oil lamps, while outside it rained. The villagers dined on the autumn harvest: vegetables, mutton, quail, and bread. For dessert there were pies and pudding and, afterward, music and dance. Women and children sang; men told stories and drank. Aaron and a few others sat at a long table with the outsider. His face had recaptured some color and a few of the scabs were healing. Moving slowly and deliberately, he produced from a small pouch a shining gold nugget and pushed it across the table to the mayor. He expressed gratitude to the villagers for saving his life. The mayor examined the nugget, as a dozen others looked on, and shook his head, saying: “We have done what anyone would do—what our Maker would have us do.”
