Universe Vol1Num2

by Jim Baen's Universe

  "You're going to use the Great Spell again," Agnon accused, leaping to his feet. "You, the Council. You'll Summon the Quiet God to destroy the P'okukii. You can't. You'll only repeat the mistakes of the past!"

  The three newcomers frowned in unison. Agnon lowered his head immediately, aghast at himself. A scribe's youngest apprentice, speaking out to challenge the most powerful member of Circle Cove's leadership?

  But when Dir Segnon said only: "You are right, " Agnon dared look up again. She didn't smile, but her eyes were warm on his. "Through you, Dir Skalda herself has been warning us. We must return the Quiet God to Her Depths. And it must be done so the P'okukii will see it, and know they are safe. This—she held up the roll, "will be our offering to toss on the water this night. The Spell of Departure."

  From the somber looks the other three dir-priests gave Segnon, they hadn't been frowning at him at all, they'd already known her decision. Three to Summon, Three to Aim. Three to Dismiss.

  "No," he said to them. Agnon felt the touch of the Ocean again, but this time it was soft and warm, the way the surface of the cove felt when you swam in summer. "It can't be you," he said, sure he was right. "This is Old Magic. There must be a sacrifice—"

  "We know, lad," said one of the men, his look and voice gentle. "At least the Spell of Departing asks for only three. Us."

  "No," Agnon repeated, the terrifying knowledge welling up. "It can't be you. The new legend, the one we toss in offering today. It's real, too. The sacrifice must be of magic, innocence, and hope. Her, for magic," his finger pointed at Dir Segnon. He stopped and licked his lips, tasting salt.

  It didn't matter that he was a scribe's apprentice, too young to live in the men's hall. The visions had come to him. This was, Agnon realized, his choice to make. He could tell them to find a child, perhaps a noble one as before, then watch that child drown. He could say nothing, then watch these wise priests fail. In either case, the P'okukii would attack the Cove and their fleet would fight back. There would be war.

  Or he could accept what was being offered him—a chance for peace.

  Agnon's hand flattened against his own chest; he could feel his heart pounding wildly. "Me," he managed to breathe out.

  "For innocence," Dir Segnon said quietly. All of the dir-priests bowed low. "And who is the third, young Agnon? Who is hope?"

  "She has been waiting for us," he heard himself say, "since legends were true."

  ****

  "Agnon." He heard the grief in the word and didn't know what to say. His father settled the folds of the white cloak, then his hands encompassed Agnon's shoulders. A squeeze, then their weight was gone.

  "I copied this for you." Master Caienthe held out a roll of new parchment, wrapped in gold thread and orchids. His voice was faint and rough, as if overused in argument. Dir Segnon's eyes hadn't left her brother since they'd arrived on the beach, but he looked only at Agnon.

  Whatever Dir Segnon and her priests had said or done to convince the Council, or if the rising severity of the tremors had been the Quiet God's own plea, the result had been this. The four of them were alone. Had he looked behind, Agnon knew he would see where their footsteps had marred the black sand, scuffed through fine whorls of drying foam. Looking ahead, he saw the waters of the cove, stilled by the end of day, yet ablaze with candles. Walkways and decks were filled with people tossing in their offerings. Their voices were like the distant piping of shorebirds, happy and unknowing.

  "Here they come."

  Agnon looked to the entrance of the cove. Sure enough, it was filled with the tilting masts of ships, their sails of unfamiliar design. The P'okukii, being granted first approach. The people began to cheer. Baskets of flower petals were tipped from upper terraces, raining color. Tasting of soil.

  "NOW," Agnon heard himself say in Skalda's voice.

  Dir Segnon took his hand. They walked into the sea together.

  ****

  Petals sank and spun their way through the columns of light, a rain of color, tasting of soil. Pinpoints of fire floated above, daytime stars, only to be pushed aside by the dark moving hulls of ships, so many they clouded the sky.

  So many. We tasted metal and fear, wood and anger. The pinpoints of fire spread in sudden flashes, as if the approaching night had become dawn instead, or as if a storm had broken from clear air. Then, drifting down, limbs given grace by the sea, came magic and innocence.

  The remnants of the great flock converged slowly, swimming around those who came closer and closer. They refused to feed.

  We had never seen this before.

  Hands, warm and living, touched us. Eyes filled with wonder gazed into ours. Words poured from mouths, jewels of air seeking the surface alone.

  THERE IS MORE THAN NOW AND HERE, said the voice within. THERE IS HOME. THERE IS PEACE.

  ****

  Where am I? Agnon asked the darkness. He'd forgotten breath, lost light, abandoned time as his hands touched the black and yellow orb that was the Quiet God's centermost eye.

  But curiosity remained.

  The answer surged from beneath, pushing him higher and higher until he was blinded by light again, felt air surging into his lungs, grabbed for anything and found himself held instead.

  "Be still, boy." He knew that voice. Agnon turned.

  The woman treading water beside him smiled. She looked like anyone he'd pass in the corridors, the same dark hair and skin, older than some, younger than others. Then he looked deeper, and saw the rare beauty in the lines of bone, the will etched in flesh, the warm laughter brimming in her eyes. He knew that face. "Dir Skalda!" he gasped, caught between an honest terror and rising joy.

  And a rising world. They clung to one another as the sea beside them swelled overhead, then burst into a hill, then a mountain, draining down its sides in a thousand waterfalls adorned with black sand, drowned candles, and flower petals, hapless fish caught on spikes and spires of coral.

  The water calmed and an impossible head turned, its three eyes, each taller than a ship's mast, gazing not at them, nor at the people lining the terraces, nor at the ships cowering along shore, but to the opening to the sea.

  "Agnon?" A hoarse whisper, close enough that Agnon wasn't surprised to see Dir Segnon stroking towards them.

  "Here! We're here!"

  In the distance, the Quiet God answered a call as old as time itself, freedom. With a heave that carved the cliffs on both sides, it shoved its way through to the open ocean, ignoring the ships scattering from its path. With a last mighty whoopmf of air, it disappeared into Her Depths.

  In the sudden calm, Dir Segnon's astonished "We?" skipped along the surface like a pebble tossed by a child.

  "We," said Agnon happily. He rolled on his back, floating beside a legend come true.

  Immense plumes of every colour suddenly shot upward from the decks of the P'okukii ships, as though, like the islanders, they honored their heaven with flowers. Answering cheers ran out with each new explosion, until the cove rang like thousand bells.

  And the legend laughed.

  ****

  Shafts of sunlight disappeared, reappeared; they filled at times with motes of life, golden suspended dust, then at others reflected silver as the great flocks swam through their columns, dancing with the light.

  I was content thus, to gaze upward through the lens of my eye into the living magic of my world, my place, and see only that which belonged here. I felt the surge of waves over the crust of my side, reading there the approach of storms, the tug of moon and sun—events distant yet intimate. I slept, as some life reckoned this state of consciousness. It was as true a description as any; since I needed nothing and need do nothing.

  If this is sleep, I sometimes wondered, struck by some particular beauty above me or caught by starlight through a rare clarity of ocean, perhaps I dream the world.

  ****

  Julie Czerneda is the author of many novels and short stories. To see this author’s works sold through Amazon, click here:


  Benny Comes Home

  Author: Esther Freisner

  Illustrated by Apis Teicher

  "Crazy, that's what she is," Gertrude Rosenfeld (née Gratz) told everyone on the IRT local. She couldn't help it: Like all the Gratz women, she was possessed of an internal amplification system that was the bane of librarians, movie theatre ushers, and sermonizing rabbis everywhere. "My poor sister, she's gone out of her mind. It has to be. There's no other reason for her to be doing something like this. I don't know where to hide my head from shame."

  "Why, Ma?" Crammed onto the wickerwork seat between his mother's ample, apple blossom-scented flesh and his father's slumped bulk, little Oscar Rosenfeld looked up eagerly from his Detective comic book. He had just turned eleven, old enough to realize that the adventures of the Batman were pretty good entertainment for a dime, but this was better. "What's to be ashamed of?"

  Heaven knew he wasn't ashamed by the prospect of having a madwoman for an aunt. On the contrary, he found the possibility rather stimulating. If Tanteh Rifka was crazy, maybe this Cousins' Club meeting wasn't going to be so boring after all. The Joker was crazy, and he was a criminal mastermind. To Oscar's way of thinking, Tanteh Rifka already resembled the Joker insofar as her over-generous application of red lipstick and pallid pancake makeup, to say nothing of her rather gaudy taste in clothes. All she needed was to dye her hair emerald green to complete the picture and then could fabulous jewel theft be too far behind?

  "'What's to be ashamed of?'" his mother echoed. "'What's to be ashamed of' he asks? Is this what they teach them in the schools these days, that it's nothing to be ashamed of, having a crazy person in the family?"

  "Sha, Gertie, sha." Gertrude's husband Abe spoke with the flat, weary air of a man who knows he has already lost the battle, the war, and the writing of the history books afterwards. "He's only a boy, he doesn't know what he's talking about. Let it go."

  The Statue of Liberty would turn butterfingers and drop her torch before Gertrude Rosenfeld would let go of an argument. "This is how you talk to your wife among people?" she demanded. "This is how you teach the boy he should respect his mother? By undermining my authority? Oh, it's easy for you; you don't have a sister who's gone crazy!" Her voice broke and cataracts of tears drenched her cheeks. Mrs. Rosenfeld's command of strategic waterworks was deadly.

  "Gertie, Gertie, don't." There was a note of genuine panic in Abe's voice. Twenty years of marriage had taught him that his blushing bride had absolutely no qualms about making scenes in public. Scenes? Whole dramas. Grand operas, yet! He still woke up in a cold sweat from dreams of her famous production, You Want I Should Do WHAT in the Bedroom, You Pervert?! which had debuted on their honeymoon, in the lobby of Kutscher's resort, to Standing Room Only and thunderous critical acclaim.

  Abe crammed his huge white handkerchief into Gertie's hands. "Shhh, shhh, stop crying, forget I said anything. And you—!" He rounded on Oscar. "Who asked for your opinion, you little pisher? If your mama says there's something to be ashamed of, you be ashamed!"

  "Abie, don't yell at the boy!" Gertrude exclaimed. Her eyes went from flood to flint in an instant. She gathered her son to her bosom, nearly smothering him in the process, and glared fleischig daggers at her husband. "Is it his fault that Rifka's crazy? Is it?" And answering her own question before her husband could get a word in edgewise (Why start a precedent?) she declared: "It is not! It's that no-good boy of hers, that Benny's fault, that's who. Like a bitterness in the mouth, he is, eating out his own mother's heart with anguish. Other boys, the war's over in Europe, they come home. But Benny? He stays! For over ten years, he stays. What, Europe's a bargain? Our people couldn't run away fast enough from such a bargain! No wonder Rifka's gone mishuggeh! May God take me from this earth if I ever have to know from such a thing!" On that note, she gave her own son a monitory squeeze and released him from her embrace.

  Little Oscar fell back against his father, breathing hard, his face lightly dusted with talcum powder, his comic book a crumpled mess. He was both terrified and elated by his recent ordeal and what it foreshadowed. If Ma was this upset by Tanteh Rifka's supposed madness, the odds were favorable that the rest of the female Gratzes would be likewise all a-flutter. An otherwise tedious evening of family socializing might well be relieved by pyrotechnic outbursts of hoo-hah seldom seen anywhere outside of Greek tragedy.

  Plus, there would be herring.

  There was herring. There was always herring by the Gratz Cousins' Club. The three immortal immutables—the only sacred Trinity in which that extended clan believed—were Death, Taxes and Herring, with maybe a nice shtik prune danish, for after. The imminence of pickled fish enveloped the Rosenfelds like a supernatural presence almost from the minute they stepped off the train at Flatbush Avenue and walked the three blocks to the apartment building where the former Rifka Gratz—now Strauss—lived with her husband Max.

  The Gratz family Cousins' Club met on the third Sunday of every other month because that was the way it had always been from the time that the Gratz brothers, Ludwig and Morris, had brought their families to the goldineh medina of America, back in the 1890s. The procedures and underlying organizational tsimmes governing the Cousins' Club were originally the brainchild of Chaia Gratz (née Siegel), Ludwig's first wife from back in the Old Country. It was she who decreed that the club should convene when it did. ("So we should have less chance of a meeting falling on the High Holydays, and so I shouldn't have to see that farbisenneh sister-in-law of mine more than six times a year, God willing.") It was likewise she who determined that the club should meet only in the afternoons, to give those family members who lived in the farther flung reaches of the New York City area sufficient time to get home at a decent hour. ("You never know what's out there in the dark," she'd say, rolling her eyes meaningly.)

  Most important of all, it was she who laid out the plan for rotating the site of club meetings, every household within the family taking its proper turn hosting the event. Only established married couples counted as households. Singles, newlyweds, widows and widowers, and—God forbid!—those who had brought the shame of divorce onto the clan, were all excluded from the rotation.

  Although she was not a Gratz by blood, Chaia held an unassailably solid claim to authority within the family: Having borne her Ludwig six little female Gratzes like six pearls, and having set down the rules for the Cousins' Club, she died while bringing forth a seventh child, a boy, thus acquiring that most indisputable prerogative to supremacy, martyrdom-via-male-producing-motherhood. This automatically made her the Gratz equivalent of a saint.

  Thus it was that Chaia Gratz achieved her own kind of immortality, her familial decisions continuing to carry weight and to annoy people for better than thirty-five years after her death. It was a legacy more deeply carved into the spirits of her descendants and corollary kin than any of the letters chiseled into the old-fashioned brownstone marker on her grave.

  So when (in the Year of Their Lord, 1958) Mrs. Becky "Rifka" Strauss declared that this time the Cousins' Club would meet on Sunday night, it was almost the same as if she'd announced that she would be serving a lovely lobster bisque to go with the ham-and-cheese sandwiches.

  As he walked along the sidewalk en route to his recurring date with Destiny and danish, little Oscar contrived to fall back a few paces from his mother in order to tug at his father's sleeve and ask, "Papa? How come Evie doesn't have to come to this?"

  Mr. Rosenfeld sighed. "Your sister will be there," he said, speaking as heavily as he walked. Twenty-three years of his wife's delectable, schmaltz-laden cooking had worked their magic, transforming a young man who once resembled Fred Astaire into a replica of Sidney Greenstreet, only not half so nimble. "She had something important to do tonight with her girlfriends—a nice party for the Dreyfus girl, Joanie, she's getting married soon, your sister should only be so lucky already!—but when Tanteh Rifka sprang this last-minute nighttime meeting mishegass on us, Evie had to go first by the girlfriends, then c
ome here all by herself, and at this hour, so your poor mama should drop dead from worry, cholileh!"

  While Abe went through several ritual gesticulations to avert Gertrude's imaginary death-by-maternal-anxiety, Oscar set to work parsing his father's words. The results were both disappointing and encouraging, a paradox unworkable anywhere else in the real world except du côté de chez Gratz.

  Point the first: Oscar's sister Evie was coming to the Cousins' Club meeting fresh from a bridal shower for Joanie Dreyfus, a young woman who looked like a bundle of throw pillows drenched in vinegar. Everyone at the Cousins' Club meeting must know this beforehand, otherwise Evie's delayed arrival would be sniping-fodder. ("So, Gertie, your daughter's now too good to show up on time like the rest of us? What, Miss Big-shot Career Girl can't afford, maybe, a watch?")

  Point the second: In the Gratz family culture, it mattered not how pretty, smart, well-educated, refined, creative, or successfully employed a girl was; if she wasn't married, she was nothing. Worse than nothing: A cipher, a nebbish, a humiliation, a living reproach to her parents and, more specifically, irrefutable proof of her own mother's bitter failure as a woman, a matriarch, and a nag. Evie could stand up at the Cousins' Club meeting and announce "I've just been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize!" only to hear, "And this gets you a husband how?"

  Point the third: It was a given that every last female at the Cousins' Club was going to make at least one stinging remark to Evie about her ongoing state of unblessed singleness. This would aggravate Evie. (All the more so because if Evie dared find the gumption to make any sort of retort, it would inevitably be greeted by, "What's wrong with you, you snap at me like that? I only ask how come you're not married yet because I care. By you this is a sin, to care about your own niece/cousin/obscurely related single female family member? Hmph! With a temper like that, no wonder you still can't get a man!")

  It was likewise a constant of the universe that every last female at the Cousins' Club would also manage to needle Gertrude about her daughter's lack of matrimonial success long before Evie showed up. This would get Gertrude worked up to such a degree that when Evie finally did arrive, she would be White Sands to her mother's fifty kiloton why-aren't-you-married-yet-you-want-to-kill-your-own-mother-from-shame A-bomb.