by Shona Husk
For a moment he sat not sure what to do, only that he had to do something. He wasn’t used to sitting still. He slid out of the bed and his feet touched the cold floor. It was smooth, unlike the dust of the Shadowlands. He flexed his toes. He was still in the Fixed Realm.
The door swung open and a woman pushed in a cart. She spoke a greeting.
Meryn copied. “Good morning.”
She put a tray of food on his table and swung it around so it was over the bed, as if she expected him to eat in bed like an invalid. He was about to argue, then realized it would be a waste of breath.
He mouthed the words again and committed them to memory. Good morning. Not Decangli or Latin. Then what language? And what did the greeting mean? He shook his head. He would learn better with food in his stomach—even if he didn’t know what that food was.
On his tray was bread and stuff in a box. There was writing on it, that he couldn’t read, and a picture. So he followed the picture and poured the contents into the bowl and added milk. Then he picked up the bowl and began drinking and crunching through the contents.
He smiled as he ate food he hadn’t had to hunt and kill. The skinny deer of the Shadowlands that rotted almost as soon as he killed them were barely a decent feed. The food in his mouth changed taste and texture. He glanced down at his bowl. The milk had curdled, as if he were still in the Shadowlands and being punished for not eating fast enough. He dropped the bowl and everything spilled on the tray.
His throat tightened but the food in his stomach stayed put. He scanned the darkest corners of the room, but nothing hid in the shadows. The spilled milk had only soured after he’d thought of the food he’d scavenged in the Shadowlands. He shuddered. Had the Shadowlands followed him? Or was he still goblin enough that he could sour milk with a smile?
Meryn pushed his tray away, his appetite gone. He didn’t know what was going on. Was he man or goblin? He didn’t belong in the hospital; he knew that. He wasn’t sick. He touched the bandage on his head and pulled it off. The blood was old, but the area was tender. Most of the wound was in his hair and would be hidden from a casual glance. He got out of bed and pulled on his boots.
Had it been the dust still on his boots that had brought his fear of rotten food to life? He rubbed his fingers together, feeling the fine dust between them. It seemed harmless, but he knew better. The Shadowlands bred nightmares from a single thought. His thoughts.
He ripped the blanket off the bed and scrubbed the dust off the boots. When they were more brown than gray he shoved them on. The pale blue trousers were what people wore in bed, not on the street. Once again he looked too different and didn’t fit in. The memories of the crowd closing in around him last night were too fresh. He didn’t want the soldiers in blue to arrest him again.
He glanced over at the clothes folded on a chair on the other side of the room, then paced over and picked up the first item: dark gray trousers. He shook them out and measured them against his body. They were twice his width.
The next item was a lightweight tunic with fastenings up the front. The last a tunic with the same fastenings but made of a heavy brown fabric. He slipped it on over the pale blue top he’d been given. It was too big but passable.
The person behind the curtain stirred.
Meryn froze. He glanced down at himself. He was stealing clothes like a goblin. No, not like a goblin. Goblins stole gold. He was a man who needed clothing. It still didn’t feel right. The curtain moved. Meryn made a quick decision. He strode back to his bed, grabbed his coin pouch, shoved it into the pocket of the brown tunic, and hurried out of the room before the other person could wake and raise the alarm.
He retraced his path from last night to the metal box. He looked at the buttons—arrows pointing up and down. He’d gone up last night, so it was down this morning.
A woman frowned at him. “Are you okay?”
“Okay.” He nodded and smiled and hoped he’d guessed right. Then he turned away, hoping the box would open before the other person realized he’d stolen some of his clothes and came after him. He was tempted to tear off the tunic and leave in just the clothes he’d been given, but that wouldn’t make things better. The only course of action was to move forward.
The doors opened. There were already people inside. Last night it had been just him and the other man and it had seemed crowded. He forced his shoulders back and got in as if he used magic boxes every day.
“Are you going down?” an older man asked him as he pointed to a button.
“Down,” Meryn agreed, hoping that the word meant what he thought it did.
He stepped inside and the doors closed. His heart lurched as the box moved, and for a moment he thought they would fall to their deaths, but the box stopped and everyone got out. He followed the people; then down a short corridor, he saw glass doors and the world beyond. Meryn stepped out of the building and drew in a relieved breath. He’d gotten out.
He tipped his face up. Above him the sun crept higher in the pale blue sky, giving him direction. But where would he go? West to the coast or inland? Did it matter?
Without thought, his fingers found the gold in his pouch, fingering the cold metal as if holding it and cradling it as he once had would calm his mind. His hand closed around the points of Nadine’s cross for a second; it was the balm he needed. If he thought of nothing but mindless metal, he might have a chance of holding on to his sanity. It was bitter comfort to know his hope came from theft of the one person who’d showed him some measure of care. He opened his hand. The cross had left marks on his flesh. The figure’s agony mirrored his own. An eternity of pain and the knowledge he could’ve stopped it all. He could’ve prevented the curse from ever happening if he’d found the traitor sooner. He could have saved his family. And his tribe.
He shuddered and pushed aside the memories of the slaughter. Instead, he tried to remember every word of that last meeting between his king Roan and the druid Elryion. They’d argued about the rebellion; the Romans knew about their plans because one man had betrayed them to the Roman General. Then the druid had cursed Roan and the five men who had dared to stand with him and the rebellion had gone ahead as planned. As a goblin, Meryn had watched it fail. Meryn looked at the gold figure on the cross. If he’d known who the traitor was, he’d have hammered in the nails himself.
***
Solomon Nhial knelt on the cold church floor and closed his eyes. With his head bowed and his hands clasped before him, he prayed for the same things he had for the past twenty years.
He prayed his beautiful wife, Michaline, was in heaven where she belonged. As always his chest tightened when he thought of her. The old ache hadn’t lessened with time; he had grown used to living with the constant pain and loss.
He prayed his daughter, Nadine, was happy and loved. That her life had been better than the one he could’ve given her as a single father.
He prayed that they both forgave him for not being there when they had needed him most. He’d been driving his cab the night Michaline had been killed and hadn’t been able to produce an alibi. The police had been quick to convict him. They’d needed someone to blame for such a horrible crime and he was the easy target—and one they understood. In some ways, Australia was no different from France. The same biases lived on people’s hearts.
Because of that his little angel Nadine had been left alone, surrendered into state care. While he’d written to her, he’d never received a response. He didn’t blame her, and even though it tore at his heart, he suspected she hated him. For a short while, he’d received pieces of her artwork sent by the foster parent. He’d kept them all. A hand print, her wobbly letters as she wrote her name, and endless paintings all in gray.
Those paintings chilled him more than he’d ever admit. He knew what it depicted and what he could never tell the police. His wife hadn’t been killed by a human; her fate had been much worse. Michaline’s fascination with the goblin myths had finally claimed a price.
He praye
d that she hadn’t suffered and thanked the Lord that Nadine had been spared from the goblins let loose for solstice. Solomon shifted uncomfortably on the hard floor. His joints weren’t as good as they used to be.
He finished with the same wish he always did, that an angel would guide his steps back to his daughter. It was true he could never regain the time he’d lost and all the things he’d missed by not being there for her, but he wanted a chance to know who his daughter had become. He had to believe that he would get that opportunity. He had faith and love and hope. And after twenty years in prison with men who’d done things he didn’t want to think about, that was something.
Solomon kissed the dark ink of the cross tattooed on the back of his hand the same way he always did, and stood. His knees cracked with the movement. He’d gone to prison young and heartbroken and come out an old man with old memories.
For a moment he paused and gazed up at the Son of God, suffering all humanity’s sins. Wallowing in self-pity would achieve nothing. While he placed his life in the Lord’s hands, he also knew God was busy and helped those who were making an effort. Today he would try to find a job. Tomorrow he would come and pray and then go to the volunteer work his parole officer had arranged. He’d grown used to taking one day at a time and never looking too far ahead. Twenty years was too long to count the individual days when some hours lasted long enough to fill a life.
He pulled some coins out of his wallet and placed them in the dish. There would be someone worse off than him who would need what he could do without. The priest nodded a thank you.
Solomon smiled. It would be easy to be bitter, but as Michaline had always said: love is a stronger magic. It had held them together through her mother’s hate, through a move across the globe. Magic or miracle, if it brought his daughter back into his life, he wasn’t going to be picky.
Chapter 5
“How safe is Perth?” The news reporter raised her eyebrows as if the higher her brows were the more important the story. “New footage from the city at night reveals what happens when the shops close and the bars and night clubs open.”
“For real? Didn’t they do this story six months ago?” Nadine shook her head as she dressed in front of the TV to get ready for work. She was about to change the channel in disgust, even though she knew she’d be watching it again tomorrow, but the footage playing behind the woman made her stop.
A man dressed in gray clothes held a sword at a crowd that looked like jackals closing in on a wounded animal. Despite the drawn weapon, she knew who was really in danger. Bullies always hunted in packs and picked on the person who was different. She’d learned that lesson early.
The reporter rambled on about illegal weapons on the street and gave some statistics from the police about seized knives, machetes, and now a sword. All Nadine saw was the naked fear in the man’s gray eyes.
It was the man from last week, she was sure of that. Meryn. She’d gone in early the following morning to see him, but he’d been gone. Walked out and left a pile of paperwork behind. Had he woken and been better? Or was he out there now unable to communicate? She bit her lip. He wasn’t her problem. No, but that hadn’t stopped her from wondering about him and how he was; seeing him on the TV as he had been the night he’d been brought into hospital only spurred her curiosity.
The video footage cut to a knife fight caught on camera outside of a nightclub and was followed by a reminder about a spate of recent bag snatchings and car break-ins around Kings Park. She didn’t care about night-club brawls. They were commonplace; Meryn wasn’t. There’d been something about him. He might not have been able to speak English, but he’d understood everything else. Few people would’ve stepped in front of a drug-enraged man, yet he had without hesitation—and offered her his hand. She’d never gotten the chance to thank him. On a quieter night she might have been able to spend more time with him, working out what was wrong and how best to help. Maybe if she had, she could have prevented him from leaving before he was ready.
The reporter concluded that the city was becoming more dangerous as more weapons hit the streets.
“Nowhere is safe,” Nadine said to the TV before she walked into the bathroom. Not even people’s houses. It didn’t matter how well the doors were locked. If someone wanted in, they’d get in. The trick was to not let the fear take control. As long as she wasn’t alone at night, she was fine, generally.
She hoped this spate of nightmares would pass once she got used to the idea that her father was free. She brushed her teeth and her hair. When it wouldn’t sit nicely, she added gel and made it look like she’d wanted it tousled—as if she’d slept all day and just rolled out of bed.
Around her neck hung the empty gold chain. Her fingers touched the place where the cross should have hung. Her breath caught, but she forced the next exhale and each one got easier. After a week of looking and hoping, she knew it was gone. With only a slight tremble of her fingers she unclasped the chain; there was no point in wearing it. Without the cross, it was just a gold chain with no meaning. Before, it didn’t matter how scared she got or where she was, she’d always had a part of her mother with her. Now she was alone.
And an adult. Her mother was long dead. It was time she stopped clinging to fairy tales and wishes and moved on. She put the chain in the box along with the unread letters from her father. The alarm on her watch went off, reminding her she had to leave for work in twenty minutes. She grabbed her bag, determined to be early today.
This time the memory of the man with the sword and gray eyes didn’t leave her. She wanted to believe his family had found him and he was with people who cared. But in her heart she knew that if someone had come for him, they would’ve done the paperwork. He was out there alone, even though someone must know him and miss him. Somewhere, unlike her, Meryn must have a family that was worried about him.
***
Meryn watched the sun rise over the hills in the distance. He doubted he’d ever get bored of seeing the golden light spill over and turn the sky pink. He shoved his hands into the pockets of the stolen jacket—he was learning the new words for everything and the way they were put together. He was also learning how the world worked.
His first evening in the park, two men had confronted him with the intention of stealing what little he had. Instead, Meryn had taken their knives and clothes. He’d seen them once in the parkland since then…and they’d seen him, so he was cautious, never taking the same route back to his campsite. They had a look in their eyes he’d seen before on men who didn’t like to be beaten and would stoop low to ensure a win next time. And Meryn was sure there’d be a next time.
Their clothes were odd but not uncomfortable, and they fit better than the clothes from the hospital. What rubbed was that they weren’t his. He had nothing but what he hunted or stole. He’d never begged in his entire life and wasn’t about to start now. He was a warrior, a leader of men. His hand fisted around the points of Nadine’s gold cross. If he couldn’t prove it to himself, how was he going to prove it to anyone else?
Meryn rolled his shoulders and stretched his back. Old injuries that had never troubled him while he’d been goblin were stiff in the cold morning after a night on the ground. After seven nights of watching and learning and listening, he knew enough of the language to get by. Knew enough about the people to know he wasn’t fitting in. He was living rough in the forest that overlooked the city, living off the lizards and snakes he caught, and washing in the public restroom.
He took a breath, enjoying the now familiar scent of the grass and trees. He had to find somewhere more permanent to live, some way to earn coin.
For the first time since he was a child, his days were his own. His nights were filled with memories he’d rather forget, and they were getting stronger. His fingers traced a cut on the back of his hand. He’d woken with the wound after fighting goblins in his sleep, as if he’d been to the Shadowlands and back. The implication of that was something he didn’t want to think too hard abou
t.
Each day he’d ventured farther from the park, a different direction each time. The forest was hemmed in by roads, traveled on by cars. Amazing advancements had happened in his absence. Two hundred years, three hundred years…more? The time was harder to grasp than the language.
Every new word he learned he repeated and tried to use in sentences the way he’d learned Latin. But he had no one to practice with. Back then it had been Roan and he and a few others, all trying to learn something about the invaders. Dai had picked up the language fast and could read and write fluently while he and Roan were still speaking like babies.
He stopped and tried to press down on the sadness that burst like a boil in his chest. He’d lost everything. His wife, his children, his tribe. Gone forever because one man had sold the Decangli out to the Romans. Wanting to know who was almost a reason to seek audience with his king. Almost.
But he couldn’t bring himself to admit he needed help. He’d been the one people came to for aid. He would not face his king until he had proven to himself he was a man who could care for himself. Yet he wanted to know what had happened to the other men who’d also worn Roan’s curse. Six of them had woken in the Shadowlands, confused and scared. Six of them had witnessed the rebellion failing. But then, instead of doing his duty and ensuring the safety of his king in the Shadowlands, he’d given in to the cold and mindless curse, welcoming it’s embrace instead of fighting.
He’d forever live with the shame of being the first to fade to goblin. If the man who’d dragged him free of the Shadowlands truly was Dai, then it meant he and Roan had survived and found a way to break the curse—thus also freeing him.
But while the man looked like Dai and spoke like Dai, the man he’d seen hunting him in the woods wasn’t the angry youth he’d known. This man had patience and magic. Had Dai changed so much?
