Planets Falling

by James G. Scotson

  “The house’s a mess Theo. They packed in a hurry and took all the food and most of their clothes. Three of the horses are missing. They left me.” I don’t cry. But I feel something like sobs emerging from deep inside my chest. Abandonment, anger, worry, betrayal, and sadness mix within me like a sick cocktail.

  Theo wraps me in his thick arms. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. I’m sure they’ll be back tonight. Let’s walk over to the house and see what we can find.”

  Theo is wrong. Wenn and father never return. I'm still torn about whether they left voluntarily or were forced. No one else in the village saw them leave. The only sign of a struggle was encased in three small drops of blood in the doorway that I noticed a few weeks after they vanished. I suspect all this has something to do with Fromer, but I'm unable to tell anyone. The green ones in the garden look at me with alien sympathy but are unable, or unwilling, to hint at what is happening.

  Seven months have evaporated since they disappeared and the baby, a girl named Eliza, has arrived. My extended family, mostly my father’s sister and Wenn’s mother have helped me the best they can. However, they can’t replace the void I feel and the tickle of betrayal that settles in my gut each night as I nurse the baby to sleep. A month ago, Theo and Bets went to the south ruins to search for father and Wenn, with no luck. Theo’s mother stays with me most nights, at the urging of her son more than via self-induced charity. I’m sure he worries that whoever forced the men to leave will return for me and that his mother will help protect me- or at least alert him. His view that Wenn and father were coerced is in the minority. Most of the townspeople believe that Wenn and father left me in search of precious metal that they could use in their blades. They whisper of an accident in the broken city that took their lives. Or perhaps Wenn and father were robbed and killed in the countryside.

  I’m unsure what to believe. It's difficult to fathom that they left without telling me, no matter how unpleasant my reaction. Regardless of the events leading to their departure, the thought of a violent loss beyond the village foundation isn't far-fetched. Since father and Wenn vanished, the number of merchants seeking father’s weapons has increased considerably. While talking about the unease in the countryside, I always ask whether the travelers saw a stocky, dark-haired man with an older, thin gentleman accompanied by three horses and a small cart. No one seems to have encountered them. Talk of unrest in many of the villages has been creeping into our conversations. As Fromer suggested, something is stirring outside. Other than losing my family, I don’t see how I’m involved. I wonder if that's what the god meant - I'd have to endure losing my family for the common good. The only positive of all this fear is the increased business. The income from the traders has been welcome and helps me to buy toys for Eliza and better provisions to stave off winter.

  I still have my responsibilities to the gardens. It is mid-summer now and Eliza is crawling in a patch of velvet moss while I tie vines to a trellis. To my muted delight, I’ve recently discovered that my baby girl sees the green ones. The creatures make the very best nannies, playing with Eliza as long as she remains interested. She accepts them as if they were a common beetle or a blade of grass. I suppose they cared for me when I was a baby while mother worked the gardens so many years ago. The day's one of the best since I lost father and Wenn, with the anger and sadness seeming far away in a distant bog, tamped down in a remote recess of my soul. It's one of those warm but dry days, where the sky is the darkest blue and the clouds are impossibly white and soft. My work is going well. I feel light, as if nothing could trouble me.

  Evening arrives and my spinster aunt, Felicia, fetches Eliza for dinner. She's my mother's sister and did not seem to receive the gift that my mother and now I have. In fact, she shows little interest in the gardens at all. However, Felicia adores Eliza and helps tremendously when she's not working at the bakery. I enjoy the silence. I’ll follow in a little while, but I have a few more vines to truss. I light my oil lantern to beat back the encroaching twilight. I’ve finished with my work, wiping my hands on my apron, when I sense something amiss that I can’t quite place. I head toward the path home and glance at the sky. It’s the new moon that is wrong. All the tiny pricks of colorful light are gone - the shadowed black disk is no longer illuminated. I’m petrified by the sight, which clearly bodes ill for all of us. The ancient ones have abandoned us. Or the gods have wiped them clean from existence once and for all.

  I run down the path and drop the damned oil lamp. It’s dreadfully dark without the light of the houses on the moon, or whatever they were. All I know is that those moon lights used to be quite handy and now I can't see. My eyes adjust and I continue heading home. The house is warm and inviting in the unusual darkness. My panic lifts as I open the door to see Eliza sitting on the floor, cooing at my arrival. Theo is rolling a ball to her and she’s laughing.

  “Hi Sprouter. I sent your aunt Felicia home. Mom will be here soon, but I’d thought Liza and me’d play catch up.”

  “Theo, have you noticed the moon?”

  “Whatcha mean? It was there last I checked.”

  “The houses, I mean lights, on the surface. They’ve gone out.”

  Theo runs outside and returns dazed. “I’ll be scorched in pitch. They’re gone. How’s this possible?” We can hear other townsfolk shouting their concerns in the streets.

  “This can’t be good, Theo. You don’t think this is the start of the return of the ancient ones? Teacher says – “

  “Amy, relax. This isn’t the return that Teacher’s foretold. I’m sure it’s just some clouds or bad weather.” His face shows me that he’s not confident about his conclusion.

  I know Theo’s completely wrong. He’s never seen a giant black bug-like god step out of the forest. I have.

  We both jump at a bang on the door. Eliza throws her ball across the floor. “Theo, Marksman, are you in there?” It’s Bets. She’s the only one that calls me by my father’s family name.

  Bets comes crashing in, adorned in her leather and hemp hunting clothes with a bow strung over her back. She’s clearly not here for a social visit. Bets ignores me, thrusting the hilt of a hunting knife at Theo. Theo responds. “Bets, this ain't your knife. Where’d you get this?”

  “I just removed it from the body of a stranger on the outskirts of the village. It seems that outsiders are on the move with the moon going out. I’ve heard of raids on other towns, but never thought it’d happened to us.”

  I clarify. “Bets, I presume that the body was a person before he met you?”

  “Yes, Marksman. This person was going to kill our people. And there're more out there. Theo, we need to get the militia moving.” Without looking at me and the baby, she heads out the door. “Theo, come on.”

  Theo looks at me. “Amy, stay in the house. No matter what you hear outside, don't you go outside until I come to get you. He hands me a small blade. “I'm assuming you know what to do with this. Of course, there’s more in the armory out back.” I put Eliza into her bed, turn down the oil lamps, and hope that no one suspects we're here. The voices of the townspeople fade as the town militiamen tell them to go indoors. Eliza’s auburn curls sprawl on her pillow, wrapping her tiny head in a warm cocoon. I wish I could feel her peace.

  A single, muffled scream slices through the baby’s room. I grasp the knife and draw closer to the baby’s bed. More screams and shouts drift toward us, getting closer. A smoky, acrid funk fills the room. The front door rattles; it clearly is time for us to retreat. I grab Eliza and head to the corridor that attaches to the armory. The weapons storage building is fortified with stone walls and a sheet metal roof. The building predates our village and my father often called it the bunker, whatever that means. Eliza's bawling and I feel like puking. If the entire village burns to the ground, the armory should hold. Of course, it also may pique the curiosity of the attackers. We have no food or water to sustain us during a siege. I light a single candle and hope that Theo, Bets, and the remainder of our
protectors are winning the fight outside. I can only imagine what's happening to my fellow villagers in their unfortified dwellings.

  We call the building an armory but it holds more than weapons. Father and Wenn use it to store spare tools as well as common items that they fashion such as stirrups, hammers, crowbars, spoons, and nails. The walls are adorned with father’s favorite items, including some that he didn't make but collected over the years. Some of these items are strange sticks with hollow barrels and a thickened end. He called these guns and told me never to touch them. A few times a year, father, Wenn, Theo, and some other men take a bottle of shine out into the woods with the guns. They come back all riled up, usually carrying some unusual game - strange birds, impossibly large elk, and once a huge brown bear. These guns are powerful weapons, opening up new opportunities for hunting and accelerating the mens' joy in killing. They scare me.

  Eliza is fussing. I offer her my breast and that seems to calm her and I feel better too. The walls of the armory mute the terrible sounds outside. It does seem that the cries and shouts are abating, which heartens me. The smoke smell is filtered by some material in the vents near the ceiling, so I have no idea whether the burning continues. It’s impossible for me to measure time in this space but I’d guess we’ve been in here for several hours. I'm half conscious when a distant pounding on the external door stirs me. My heart skips. I wrap Eliza in blankets and tuck her behind some barrels. If something happens to me, perhaps a friend will find her and provide protection. I especially hope Felicia is alright. She'd make a great foster mother.

  I cautiously approach the door and peek through a tiny glass hole. Relief flows through my veins. It's Theo. I crack open the door – a terrible smell of smoke and something else, burnt flesh, perhaps, assaults me. My mouth opens but no words come. I’m terrified for the very first time.

  Theo looks horrible - his face a montage of ash, sweat, and blood. His left eye socket is swollen. “Amy, get Liza. We’ve got to go.” His voice is raspy and shrill but very controlled. His bravado is gone, replaced by the true, brave Theo I’ve always known lurking below the surface.

  I rush back into the armory to fetch Eliza. I kneel down by the barrel and search her blankets. She’s gone. My terror is now heightened by panic. My vision blurs and I swear I’m going pass out. Instead, motherly instinct takes charge and I begin calling her name while frantically searching the space. Certainly, she crawled away and must be hiding says the strong mother inside me. I look down the room to see light that shouldn’t be there and my very core freezes. The instinctual mother vanishes and I'm nothing more than a frightened little girl.

  The door to the corridor leading to the house is ajar. An eerie, flickering, snot-green glow mocks me from behind it. I run forward, barely noticing Theo beside me. Theo throws the door open and my world completely dissolves. The corridor no longer leads to the house, because my family’s home is completely gone, replaced by a pile of sticks and smoldering ashes. I scream Eliza’s name and then the scene vanishes into a void that seems endless and hopeless. I don’t want to leave.

  “Wake up Marksman, I mean, Amy.” Bets hovers over me looking ragged. Her hair hangs in greasy strands in her face. Her hunting cloak is covered in blood stains, mostly not her own I suppose. I jump up and begin searching frantically. “You found Eliza, right? Tell me that you found her.”

  Bets looks genuinely concerned. In a gentle voice, she says, “Amy, no we didn’t find her. If we’d stayed to search much longer, we’d all be dead. I’m pretty sure they took her.” She spits into the grass.

  My panic returns. “We’ve got to go back. She’s in the rubble – I know it.”

  “No, Amy, she’s not. Theo, Samuel, and I searched the armory and the immediate area. No sign of her. If you ask me, I think those people and things were after you and your kid. Once they got what they wanted, they began to clear out.”

  “Where are we? If you won’t go with me, I’ll go alone.”

  Bets’ hard-ass persona returns. “First, we’re safe Marksman. And second, you’re not going anywhere. You’re not gonna do your kid any favors getting killed or kidnapped. Theo told me to watch you and that’s what I’m doing. Sit down.”

  I try to stand. Bets pushes me down, fairly gently. Given that I have no bearings, I’d have no idea how to get back to town. Bets hands me a jar of some shine, which I sip with shaky hands. I feel as if I’m going to burst. “Bets, what’s happening?”

  “The moon went dark. The town was sacked by some very organized marauders. The raiders were real assholes and burnt the west-side to the ground. They only killed a few folks – people that were in their way. They did steal a few young women - the Killin girls, the Bences, and the Mitchells. If we don’t get the girls back, they’ll likely get sold into the slave trade. Samuel has sent some trackers to find your baby and the girls and rescue them if possible. I’d say there were fifty attackers, most on horses with torches and some nice weapons. The attack was clearly directed on your compound and the armory. We thought they wanted the weapons. Instead they took your girl. Puzzling.”

  “This has to be related to the disappearance of my father and Wenn. I just don’t understand. What about the rest of the townspeople?”

  “Most opted to return to their homes if the houses were still there. A few folks, including those that lost their houses, have gone over to Millsboro. Millsboro sent a small squad of militia to aid us. Too little, too late, I’m afraid. Marksman, you have to know something about why they’re after you. Do you think it has something to do with what your father and Wenn did when they left town? Maybe an unpaid debt or a grudge?”

  I'm too exhausted to be angry. “I’ve told you all a thousand times. My men were taken by force. They did not leave me and the baby intentionally.”

  Bets rolls her eyes and takes a long draught from her water flask. “It’d be easier if you accepted the fact that they left you for profit and paid the price. Now we’re paying the price.” She throws her knife at a tree. It sticks in knot.

  “Where’s Theo?”

  “Theo, Samuel, and English are at the perimeter of the town searching for any activity. We’re still sworn to protect our citizens. They’re still there. And you’re here. Reality is, we can’t let you go back if you’re the danger.”

  “So, I’m an outcast?”

  “Maybe. Try to get some rest. Theo’ll be back soon and we’ll decide what our next steps should be.”

  Hours pass. Bets gives me some jerky and unlevened bread, which I nibble and then promptly throw up. I sip a little water, curl into a ball, and recede into hell. I never thought of myself as a weak person. However, I can't seem to find any strength inside. My mind is jumbling with violent, incoherent images - bodies, blood, brown stains, wild eyes, and, most strangely, the wicked grin of an unknown woman.

  The thrum of Theo’s voice lifts me from my trough of despair. “Amy, honey, please wake up. We got to get moving.” My vision is blurred but it’s still clear enough to see that Theo’s completely spent. One thick hand is on my wrist and the other is bracing the small of my back. And I’m on the back of a horse, holding on with desperation. Consciousness fades again.

  Chapter 48 - Extinguished

  Oh damn. I’m having one of those dreams where I know I’m dreaming but unable to wake up.

  I look down at my youthful, sixteen-year-old hands and realize that this is the terrible day all over again. I’m in the gardens working on a compost pile. As I turn the mass of leaves, steam rises into the sky. I always enjoyed this work, taking something so potentially vile - meats scraps, manure, straw, rotten fruit- and making it into rich, sweet-smelling, functional soil. The green creatures stir in the small wood plot beyond the meadow. They gesture to me. I put down my pitchfork and walk toward them. The little ones have never acted this way before. They’re agitated by something.

  I follow them into a small clearing that we use to grow cold-weather crops – deep green lettuces, sweet onions, and st
rong garlic, mostly. Tiny shoots of green peek out of the dirt in orderly rows. Something’s amiss in one section of the field. The sprouts have vanished and the soil is mounded. A deep growl from the chaotic dirt pile stops me. I back off and gather three of my fellow students – muscular boys with shovels and pitchforks.

  We run back to the area, where a pack of fifteen mangy wild dogs, fur matted with blood and moist, mud-like slime, are fighting over the rumpled body of some poor creature. We rush the mongrels, swinging our tools and shouting. All but one of the dogs scatters into the woods. The remaining scruffy animal hunches down, teeth bared, staring straight at me with angry, cataract-ridden eyes. I discover viscerally that I can see its mind; this is similar to my ability with the green beings. Whereas my green friends send benevolent images, this dog mind is blank but very hungry. It wants me next.

  One of the boys yells and swings at the animal, his shovel hitting it squarely in the head. The dog yelps- its pain and unbridled fear searing through my skull. It falls on its side and the other boys pummel it to a messy, furry pulp. While gulping air and bending with their hands on their knees, the boys examine the pack’s victim. They freeze. Will, the largest, boldest of the boys looks at me with a mixture of horror and pity – an image that is all too clear in this relentless replay in my mind.

  I run forward although Will tries to hold me back. I’ve spent the last ten years trying to forget the sight before me and yet it still plagues these damn dreams. I wish I could find an herb that erases the memory and lets me sleep peacefully. Shine doesn't help. On the precious earth is the most woeful thing imaginable burned permanently in my mind. My mother's splayed on the ground, dirt wetted to mud by her blood. Her face is flawless - her expression serene, happy. The remainder of her body is unrecognizable and indescribable. Her favorite blue dress is shredded and mucky with dog spit, blood, and fur. It seems the dogs were playing with it before we arrived.