by Ben Galley
“She shook her head, full lips pressed tight, as she hummed a lark’s song.
“‘I will know it when he draws near,’ she answered. ‘I will warn you, my love.’
“‘And then?’ The young man growled. ‘Will you watch while he brains me?’
“‘I can hide you from him for a short while, dearest. But we will have to run. Flee this place and find and make ourselves a new home. Our own.’
“But the young man had torched his longboat, remember, lyubasha? He had run from the laws of men and wights and he had nowhere left to go, nowhere left to make a home, and no desire to build a new longboat. He wanted to stay in the Summer House.
“‘Must you hide me when he comes?’ He asked another time. ‘Can we not lay a trap for him like we would for a bear?’
“Again, she shook her dark-haired head, and pressed her lips tighter together.
“‘No, my love. You cannot kill him, cannot overpower him. My twin is given to Lara Herself, the Lady of the Silent Road. He is an instrument of death, and his curse is always at work in his temper.’
“‘And you aren’t?’ He demanded, his tone scaring her. He heard her gasp, as her hands flew to the moving seed buried under her skin.
“I am blessed by Tuil, God of Air, and kissed by Shinar, Lord of Light,’ she whispered, silver tears gleaming between the black hair falling over her cheeks. ‘Where I am is light, and warmth, and summer’s bounty.’
“The young man rued his words, and despaired, because he knew hers to be true. But he squared his shoulders and set his jaw and took to sharpening the knives anyway.
“Then one night, as the rain rattled against the red shingles of the house, she suddenly sat up in the bed, and let out a long low moan that woke him.”
“Was it the baby, Nanna?” I hugged a cushion to my own aching belly, painfully aware that one day, I would feel more than the dull, cold pangs. One day I would carry a man’s seed under my heart, and bear it.
“That is what the startled young man asked the lady,” Nanna said, taking another deep gulp of tea. “But she shoved him roughly from the bed, and bid him hide behind the curtain. For her brother was coming, and there was no time left now.
“‘Don’t move, my love,’ she breathed, sweat on her brow, her large black eyes wide in fright. ‘Don’t peek!’
“She brushed her lips against his once more, just as she had when she woke him from his deathlike slumber under the briars, and whisked the curtain before him. So the young man stood, naked as he was born, behind the red curtain, hiding, shaking, in his fist the knife he had hidden beneath his pillow.
“The door of the house banged open with a roar of wind that extinguished the last flames in the fire, and all grew dark and cold.”
“And he heard the bed creak, under the shifting weight of the lady, and a summer breeze that carried chill around its edges tugged at the curtain, making it flutter over his feet. He held his breath, and strained to listen.
“Though he heard not a step on the wooden boards, a deep voice spoke close by, so close its owner could only be mere inches away. It was deep like the roots of the Great Lake, deep like the groan of ice on ice in the winter.
“‘You,’ the voice growled. ‘Sister. What have you done in my absence?’
“‘You shouldn’t be here. Go back from where you came. It’s not your time yet,’ the lady cried.
“The narrow bed groaned and shook like someone was struggling on it. The young man raised his knife, and though his lover had forbade him to peek, he did. And what he saw, lyubasha ﹘ it was horrible. He gasped, struck with terror. The slash of his knife cut deep into the bloodstained white sheets, and he let go. His hands dropped to his side, his breath faltered, his heart skipped a painful beat as he came face to face with the transformation on the bed.
“His lady’s legs were forced apart, dislocated at the hips, so that her bleeding cunt spread into a silent scream as she convulsed on the bed. Her folds of flesh had become flapping gums that grew teeth, her swollen clitoris hardened into a cruel nose, and a face pushed itself out with an angry roar. Oh, that face, lyubasha. That face ﹘ an echo of her beauty, the high cheekbones, a stronger line of jaw, the large, rapacious black eyes, devouring all they see, insatiable in their hunger. Between her red, dripping lips ﹘ his head, shoulders and torso dragged themselves forward; one hand on her slender throat, the other holding down her crimson smeared thigh as she shook and fought his terrible birth. And while the male twin withdrew himself from her, the female twin receded, swallowed slowly, pulled inside those mighty muscles, darkness entangled in her long dangling hair.
“‘I smell the blood of a man.’ An animal sniffing the air. ‘I smell him on you, Sister, the stink of your rutting fills my nostrils. It’s palpable. It’s disgusting. Where is he?’
“‘No! Please, Brother, there is no one here. I had someone, yes, but he has long gone from here﹘’ the lady choked on the words. The young man bit his lip bloody as helpless tears ran down his face.
“‘Liar!’ The male twin snaked forward, his black eyes livid when he saw the young man.
“‘No,’ the lady begged. ‘Not yet, Brother. Not again.’
“The male twin’s body glistened in the flickering light, his glossy black hair fell into his face like hers had done. His skin was a deeper shade of ivory, alike to vellum, on her bridal white. Not a mark, nor a blemish on the newborn nakedness, no hair on chest or arms. When their eyes met over the hilt of the knife, the young man lost himself in the dark reflection for a moment, like a rabbit before a ravenous wolf.
“‘You filth,’ the brother said. ‘How dare you?’
“For a moment, they simply held their gaze. Then the twin twisted his body towards the young man and reached to grab him.
“‘How dare you intrude? Usurper! Befouler! I will break you. I will devour you. I will shit you out like the waste you are.’
“The young man pressed himself against the wall, paralysed with horror, as his beautiful lady was sucked deeper into her brother’s greed; her slender, pale hand raking its nails against the powerful abdomen in futility, a last scrabble for freedom, before it hung between the trails of her black hair.
“The young man shook as the twin creature turned on him. He dashed away, out of the reach of those long arms, and stumbled, fell, and propped himself up on his elbows, naked, weaponless, defenseless.
“The twin crawled after him, pulling itself forward, raking its contorted form across the bed and onto the floor in pursuit, hissing and cursing the young man as it drew near. An audible crack and breaking of bones sickening our young man, and he saw the legs of the lady twist and ripple into the strong legs of her brother. He saw her arm, shrinking, the skin of her wrist rippling as her bloodied hand clenched into a fist that became the bloated head of his erect penis.
“What could he do? How could he go up against this monster and expect to escape? There was no way, and so he bolted. Out of the door of the Summer House, out through the garden, hurtling over the rows of summer flowers drooping their heads, dying their winter deaths, the leaves in the garden turning from green to red and yellow, his whole world changing.
“But the twin was always behind him, threatening to tear and render; his hot breath on the young man’s bare back. And in his maddening fear, the young man threw himself at the mercy of the briars, onto their thorns ﹘ any fate was better than surrendering to that evil force pursuing him.
“And the thorns, they bit into his skin, ripped it open in red kisses, wrestled with him as their sickly blooms threw their petals over him. But on! Always moving on, regardless of the pain, regardless of the flesh he sacrificed, onward, onward, for any stopping meant death. And even when the thorns pricked his own manhood, and their hooks would not let him go, the young man, sobbing, retching, tore himself free, a spurt of blood trickling between his legs. But he was free, thou
gh changing, as he left the circle of enchantment behind him. His wound closed in upon itself, the agony spreading through his body in waves as the magic did its work: his legs grew shorter, his hips became fuller, his breasts filled out and bounced with every pounding footstep.
“And I ran on, lyubasha. He ran on, until he had run out of the forest, past the forked lightning tree and the godstone in the birch glade, and as he burst through the underbrush and into the ruins, his transformation was complete and he had indeed become a young woman.
“But there were no more wights there to see her; they were gone two hundred years. And as she staggered to the wintering fleet of mankind, to the handful of longboats that remained true to the old customs, her small feet left bloody prints in the snow, and no one knew her or her story. They all thought it wondrous to hear her speak of what had befallen her, the half-wight twins in the woods, the Summer House, her manhood ﹘ the poor maid, they tutted as they took her in, she must have gone crazy in the wild all on her own.
“And after a month had gone by, a full moon reflected in the sacred sea, her short hair fell to her freckled shoulders, and the bleeding came upon her once more. So she resigned herself with a sigh to her change. However, the older women had noticed her menses. They took her aside, and had her marry a kind and gentle man who had been born deaf so that he would never hear her tale. And after a while, she bore him three children, and they lived a quiet life in their longboat on the shores of the Great Lake, and she never, never went into the ruins or into the woods on her own again.”
I stared at my Nanna for a while after her story was finished. Her eyes were bright on me, though her face was nearly cast in darkness. Then she broke the spell and reached over to throw more wood into the stove.
“But … that’s it?” I asked, blinking. My eyes were dry, as was my mouth. I had been following intently, not daring to move.
“That is it,” she said, taking a last sip of her now cold tea. “The end.”
“Nanna!” I cried in exasperation. “There must be a moral. A proper lesson.”
“Must there?”
“Well, yes! So what is it? There are too many things in your story. Too many points and morals. It doesn’t make sense.”
“What points, lyubasha? You asked me to tell you a story. We passed the time, and I told you a story.”
“But was it a real story? I mean ﹘ was it really a young man or a young woman? You confused a few stories in which they are normally young women. And where did the wights go? Why weren’t they there when the young man returned? And was the twin brother inside his sister’s pregnant belly all the time?”
She looked at me bemused. “That’s a lot of questions, lyubasha. I don’t know the answers.”
“But you do,” I pointed an accusatory finger at her. “Why won’t you tell me?”
“I just did. I told you everything.”
I threw my hands up.
“Nanna! You told me nothing! It was all mixed up ﹘ a man, a woman. A female twin, a male twin. I could have just as well asked Babcha Masha to tell me a story.”
“Enough!” Nanna commanded, and my mouth snapped shut, immediately. She labored herself out of her chair and onto her feet. “Did I ask you to come here, to bring me cheese and bread like an old frail woman? Did I ask you, Jelena?”
“No, Nanna,” I answered meekly.
“No. Did I ask you whether I should tell you a story? Or were you expecting one?”
“I just want to understand better, Nanna,” I mumbled.
She huffed and grumbled for a while, busying herself with a few chores. I sat still, nibbling on panfried oatcakes she made us, watching her bustle about her one room home, with the dried herbs hanging in bunches over the stove, and the canopied bed that was so old, Nanna had born my mother into the world on it.
My mother and my two uncles. Their father ﹘ my grandfather ﹘ a kind and gentle man who was deaf.
And as I sat there, I grew afraid of all the lingering resentment, of the darkness filled with twitching shadows, and the dull ache biting me inside, and I started to cry.
When she noticed, she came bustling over, my Nanna once more, solid and dependable, cooing and caressing, until I fell asleep in her arms.
“Lyubasha, lyubasha, my little dove. Don’t cry. Here, have another oatcake. Have honey. And here is a little herbal paste for you that will help with the cramps a little. Take it with you, lyubasha, when you go home. Home to your mother, to your wooden house overlooking the beach. And when you go,” she whispered, “walk among the ruins. Dance with the wights if they come. Stray in the forest if you want. Live your own story, and not your mother’s. Promise me, little one.”
“I promise,” I murmured against her wrinkled cheek pressed to mine, and I slept on the longboat, the wind howling outside, wailing in the ruins. And the creak of the wood was like the waves lapping against the boat, and I dreamed I sailed far far away, and coming to a distant shore, set fire to my boat.
And the next morning after breakfast, Nanna sighed, and walked me across the broken flagstone pier, up to the winding path, towards the wight ruins, but she wouldn’t come with me, not to our village, not into the ruins, not into the woods. She refused even when I begged and cried some more.
She chided me, gently, then, wiped away the tears from my cheeks, and bade me to go. For I wasn’t a child any longer. And if I wanted to be, I could be a woman.
I walked the path alone, singing to myself, my head uncovered, the wind free to run through my hair if he wanted to.
Nanna had burned my mother’s red headscarf in her stove.
Head to timandrawhitecastle.com to discover more stories by Timandra Whitecastle.
6
Paternus: Deluge
Dyrk Ashton
It was 2348 B.C., by modern reckoning. Middle of the afternoon but dark as night, the sky a low ceiling of black clouds and lightning, the ocean a jagged, heaving floor beneath. Water was thick in the air, fog and icy rain whipped by the gale. The storms were more frequent and growing fiercer of late. Whatever was coming would come soon.
Three ships pitched and plunged, sails stowed, masts unpinned, pivoted back and made fast to the curved roofs of the cabins, cabins which stretched like halls along the top decks. All hatches were battened, the portholes locked tight. The only spaces for water to enter were the O-shaped rowlocks, and these were mostly blocked by oars that pulled in rhythm on either side of the ships.
Visibility alternated between poor and practically nil, but standing firm on the shifting deck at the bow of the lead ship, Fintán mac Bóchra could see just well enough. Only a half-mile ahead, backlit by bursts of distant lightning, a craggy landmass thrust from the frantic sea.
In spite of the cold and driving wind, Fintán wore just a cape of reddish-brown over a white tunic plastered to his chest by the rain, V-cut at the neck with untied laces whipping in the wind. He was clad below in loose pantaloons, with golden leather leg wraps below the knee and matching boots folded down above the ankle. Fintán was well over six feet tall, with medium length, silver-white hair tipped golden-blond. He looked to be no more than thirty, with noble features and eyes the color of citrine gems.
Angry waves charged over the bow, salty, slippery, stinging cold, but Cessair, the young woman next to Fintán, refused to go below. A long slicker of light-colored oilcloth hung drenched on her body over an equally wet white robe. She threw back her hood in an attempt to clear her sight. Her hair, curled and brown, flapped wet in the wind as her hazel eyes glared into the watery gloom. Soft and lovely on the outside, Cessair was hearty within. Sovereign. Spirited. Strong. And Fintán loved her. More than any other he’d ever known.
With one hand Fintán gripped the bulwark, holding Cessair tight around the shoulders with the other. She didn’t cling to him, but braced herself with a hand on the horn, a bronze tube that rose from t
he deck and curved to a flared end.
“Raise the signal fire!” she cried over her shoulder to the only crew member on deck, a young man tending the ship’s beacon. She spoke in Aramaic, the language of her father and grandfather. The beacon—a fortified oil lamp, its flame protected from the elements by framed sheets of crystal—topped a short pedestal on the forward roof of the cabin hall. The man sat behind it, securely tethered with cord, his legs locked round its base to keep him from being blown or rocked from his perch. He squeezed more oil into the lamp from a pouch and lengthened the wick with a turnkey.
The lamps of the other two ships grew brighter in response. They bobbed and pitched on either side and just back from the bow of the lead ship, close as they dared. They feared to spread out further for the likelihood of being dashed on the rocks or lost in the storm. Only Fintán could peer through this murk, and he knew these waters well.
Lightning sizzled and snapped. Thunder shred the air. Wind roared and the ship began to pivot off course. Fintán spoke close to Cessair’s ear in Old Egyptian, from the land where they first met, and where they’d married less than two years before. She pressed her face to the mouth of the horn and shouted.
Two decks down, below the berth deck where none were sleeping and no fire burned in the galley, stood Ladra, the ship’s pilot, near the stern on the row deck. He heard Cessair’s voice through the opposite end of the horn, then relayed her orders to the stroke, who in turn called out to the rowers.
Men and women together, belted to the benches for safety, heaved on the oars with renewed fervor. These weren’t frightened slaves, but free people, determined passengers who knew exactly what they’d volunteered for on this journey. They were traveling to a new land, a “magical” island known to them only in myth, on the very edge of the world as they knew it. With any luck, they’d be safe there from the pending disaster.
