Seasons Between Us

by Alan Dean Foster

  We climbed the stones with lightness, with rhythmic leaps, toes barely brushing the rock. Near the top, my stepfather’s voice blasted my ears like the whack of a practice sword. He and Kaya stood close to the mouth of the falls. His face was twisted like an ogre mask, his arm arcing viciously as he shoved Kaya away. She fell, crashing against a rock, almost slipping into the water.

  My next leap took me right to Kaya. I grabbed her shoulder, helped her sit up. I glared at my stepfather. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Took you long enough getting out of that ratty cave,” he spat. I noticed his wine jug some distance away, smashed to pieces.

  “Are you okay?” I asked Kaya. She nodded and tried to push my hand away.

  “Who do you think you are, telling me what to do?” Stepfather growled. At first, I thought he was talking to me, but then I realized his beady eyes were trained on his daughter.

  “The wine, Father.” Kaya climbed to her feet and shook me off, facing her father. “It’s not good for you.”

  He laughed. “Not good for me? Nothing in this stupid place is good for me! I thought I’d find myself a better life, find you a better life.” His gaze found Mother. “A child with Swordbearer blood. That would have . . .”

  “Husband, let us head back to the carriage,” Mother placated him, wringing the sleeves of her damp robes. “You are not thinking straight.”

  “It’s over! I’ve known it was over even before we set out on this damned journey!” He jabbed a finger at Kaya. “Now even this brat wants to control me!”

  “She’s your daughter,” I said. “She cares about you.”

  “Is she? Is she really?” Stepfather’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Or has everyone been lying to me this whole time?” He lunged at Kaya.

  My body . . . moved. I was Swordbearer, and my words had all failed. My sword flashed into my hand.

  Stepfather stumbled to a stop, staring at the blade. It was a finger-width from his throat.

  “Yulina, no!” Kaya screamed.

  My stepfather laughed. “Yes, kill me! Kill me!”

  “Ignore him, Yulina,” Mother said. “He’s gone insane.”

  I took a deep breath. Replayed his words in my head. His words from today, from that day. “No.” I sheathed my sword. “He knows.”

  I pulled Kaya back with me. “Sorry,” I said. “I should not have done that. I have forgotten my vows as Swordbearer—to protect the weak. Including you, Father.”

  My stepfather looked more frightened now than when I’d pointed my sword at him. As if he finally understood what he’d said. As if he were calculating whether he still had something to lose, something he’d forgotten.

  I had been torn between two vows. My loyalty to Mother, and my Swordbearer principles.

  Way of the Swordbearer, Part Five. A Swordbearer shall strive for truth. Not veiling her own eyes to the truth, not uttering falsehoods to others.

  I kept a firm grip on Kaya’s arm and felt her tremble. I met my stepfather’s bloodshot eyes. “You went to a doctor, did you not? Before we left?” I pitched my voice to carry above the river’s rumble. “You know you are sterile.”

  The air weighed upon me like a mountain. I dared not look at Mother, for then I would stop.

  “Do you know why that is?” I asked. “You don’t, do you? I promise you, whatever else, Kaya is your daughter.”

  Kaya began to sob. I couldn’t look at her either.

  “It was the hishu, the wine Mother gave you as a wedding present,” I said. “She laced it with black yew extract.”

  I didn’t know if he knew what black yew extract was. But he didn’t need to. I had said enough for him to understand what it had done. What Mother had done.

  My stepfather took a step back. “Reina . . . you . . .”

  Mother’s face was stone. “What a fool you are. Your ambitions would’ve amounted to nothing regardless, as no child of yours could have done much. But they would have been . . . unnecessary.”

  “So from the beginning, you’ve never given me a chance?”

  “Should I? You, a commoner?” She shook her head in disbelief. “Who thought a simple marriage could raise him above his abilities? A man who would throw away his own daughter if she dragged him down?”

  My stepfather looked at Kaya. His face, previously red with anger, was now pale as the rushing waterfall. “This was a mistake from the beginning,” he said. “Kaya, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  He leaned back over the edge. Let himself fall.

  “No!” Kaya screamed.

  I leapt off the cliff after my stepfather, stretching out an arm, snatching for him. But I hadn’t reacted fast enough. He was already plummeting to the bottom of the falls, and this wasn’t how lightness worked. It couldn’t make me fall faster.

  My stepfather hit the large rock in the middle of the river, the same one I’d refused to use as a stepping stone earlier. It wouldn’t have mattered if he’d hit water; he was not Swordbearer, and he would not have survived either way. He left a smear of blood before sliding off the rock. I landed a moment after, just in time to see the water swallow him.

  “Father!” Kaya’s scream came from the top of the falls, but it felt so close.

  I dove into the water. Despite the afternoon sun, it ran mercilessly cold. The stories said the first Swordbearers could dance on water, but I’d never heard of any present-day ones doing so, and I certainly hadn’t that ability. So I swam, cutting through the water in desperate strokes, chasing the pine green robes of my stepfather.

  I caught his ankle. Rose for a gasp of air. Towed him toward shore. It was difficult to keep both him and myself afloat, but I did it. I had to.

  Mother had already leapt down the steps and stood at the river’s edge, looking fearful and livid. She stretched out a hand, which I ignored as I clawed my way up the muddy bank. My eyes were fixed on Kaya, who stumbled down the last steps of the falls, tears shining in the late afternoon light.

  I laid my stepfather on the riverbank. He was dead. His neck was broken, and half his head had caved in where it hit the rock. The water had washed away the worst of the blood.

  Kaya fell to her knees and buried her face in his chest, sobbing. I stared down at my hands, riverbank mud almost hiding my stepfather’s blood.

  The sky turned the gold of sunset. Mother stepped around Kaya and bent over her husband’s body. “This was . . . an unfortunate accident. Understand?” she said. And she shoved my stepfather’s body back into the river.

  Kaya lunged at Mother, teeth bared, a jagged rock in her hand. I mustered a shout, a half step, then Kaya’s rock was flying through the air and she with it. My sister landed in a heap some eight paces away.

  Mother dusted off her hands. “That was a foolish thing to do, girl. I will be generous and pretend it never happened.”

  I ran to Kaya. Stretched out a hand as she sat up, but she flinched away.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  She groaned, coughed. Climbed to her feet.

  “I know nothing I say matters anymore,” I tried. “Not after . . . not after all that’s happened. But . . .”

  Kaya turned her back on me and started walking. Not quite steady yet from Mother’s blow, shoulders shaking as she continued to sob.

  “Kaya, please. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!”

  She ran, then, weaving toward the trees. I caught up, wrapped my arms around her.

  She fought me like a wildcat, her nails ripping bloody scratches down my arms. “Let me go! Why can’t you let me do what I want for once?”

  My grip slackened, not from her attacks but her words. She broke free and walked into the trees.

  I followed, at a distance now. “Please, Kaya. Don’t go.”

  “Why? It’s not like you care!”


  “I do care. You’re my sister.”

  “I was never your sister! I’ve never thought of you that way, not once!”

  I stopped. My heart pounded harder than when I’d leapt from the waterfall after my stepfather. Tears blurred my vision. “You can’t go, Kaya.”

  “Let me go! If you care, if you really care, then listen to me!”

  I took one step. Another. Stopped. What could I do? My actions had only led to this. I was useless. Maybe I should trust Kaya this time.

  Trust her. Which meant standing there, frozen, as my eleven-year-old sister walked off in the bloody glow of a late summer sunset.

  You cannot force your love upon someone. You cannot make them stay.

  The trees soon shielded Kaya from view. I wandered back to the riverbank and sank to my knees. Mother stood over me.

  “She’ll be back,” I muttered. Even if we had killed her father. She was an eleven-year-old child with no family, nowhere else to go.

  Mother didn’t speak, didn’t come close but didn’t walk away either.

  Sunset turned to nightfall.

  “We need to leave,” Mother said.

  “No.”

  “Kaya isn’t coming back. You know that.”

  “I’m not leaving.”

  “We need to get to Dari. We’ve already spent half a day longer here than planned.”

  “I’m not leaving without Kaya. You can . . . you can leave without me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Yulina.”

  “I’m serious. If you want to go, go. I’m not going.” I swallowed a lump in my throat. Whatever else I’d lost, I had never considered losing Mother. But now those words were spoken, and I could not take them back. I was Swordbearer.

  Ten heartbeats of silence.

  “I’m going back to the carriage,” Mother said. “I need to speak with the servants. They’ve probably taken off without us now, and I can hardly blame them.”

  I doubted that. Kiei’s family had served mine for seven generations. I trusted him, if no one else.

  “You’re staying here?” Mother said. I nodded.

  I was left alone by the riverbank, listening to the evening song of cicadas, watching stars slowly blink into view. My mistakes were truly irreversible this time. Even Mother had left me.

  After an eternity, I heard footsteps. I looked up to find Mother holding an armful of twigs.

  “You’re back,” I said. Surprised.

  “If you’re not leaving,” she said, “I’m not leaving either.”

  “But you need to get to Dari . . .”

  “I told you,” she said, “I need you. It’s foolish of you to wait for that girl, but if you stay, I’ll stay too.”

  Later, by the crackling fire, I said the words I should have said all along. “If Kaya comes back, can you not treat her better? After all you’ve done to her, to her father . . .”

  Mother’s lips thinned. “I had no idea you cared so much about that girl.”

  We waited for ten days. We waited until our rations ran low, as we supplemented our supplies with fish from the Jade River, roasted over a sputtering fire.

  Kaya did not return. I’d hoped she would, but I knew she would not. After ten days, even I admitted there was no point in waiting any longer.

  We rode north along Yutai Road. Mother was terribly late for her anticipated starting date as Governor. The Emperor was probably worried or enraged—if he had even been the one to appoint Mother. If we were even important enough for him to care about. After all, no search parties had been sent to look for us.

  Mother’s tenure as Governor of Dari was short and disastrous. I could not say it improved our clan’s standing. I could only hope it wasn’t memorable enough to be a hindrance.

  I would fix all this, when I become First Sword.

  I can now defeat Mother ten matches out of ten. I plan to enter the Imperial Tournament next spring. Perhaps I am not yet ready to win, but I need to cross swords with Princess Eda, with First Sword Okowo, to see how far I have to go.

  As for Kaya, my dearest sister, my greatest failure . . .

  I loved you. I hope you are alive, and that you found your prince.

  But I don’t know if I’ll continue looking for you. I’ve seen the hatred in your eyes, heard the accusation in your voice. I know if we meet again, we will meet as enemies. As is my fate as the ash girl’s sister.

  Author’s Notes to My Younger Self: To my teenage self: I see, you’ve gotten in trouble again. You’re wondering if you can ever become a functional member of society. It’s all right. It’s better to be dysfunctional with a passion, rather than functional without one. Trust me, I’ve been on the other side. Sometimes I still wish I could become you again.

  Hope to See the Ghost Tonight

  Patrick Swenson

  We’re ten years out of high school. It’s too damned soon to be reliving those years, in my opinion, but I’ve survived the hastily-planned class reunion, caught up with my old buddies I’d never expected to run into again, and now the August weekend is over.

  Except for this.

  An impromptu run with friends to the lake.

  We’re jammed into Scott’s red pickup, all ten of us, and this is exactly how I felt all weekend. Cramped. Forced. Squeezed into a tight spot. The Flathead Lake cabin belongs to Marcy’s grandparents, but they only come to Montana from Arizona in June and July.

  Scott drives, and my elbows are in tight because Judy is so close to me. I smell the vodka martinis she’s been drinking all night. It’s ten miles from town to the lake, and here we are, ready for an overdose of honest-to-goodness nostalgia. Marcy keeps reminding me it’ll be fun.

  We arrive and Marcy doesn’t have a key to the house. It’s a two-story cabin, but it’s so dark I can’t see anything but featureless walls and a few boarded-up windows. I wonder what happens if an animal gets in there and dies. I realize I’m just fine staying outside.

  Marcy remembers the padlock combination to the pumphouse down by the dock, and we pull out lawn chairs, blankets, lighter fluid and dry matches. Scott and Judy start a campfire down on the beach, and it snaps and pops like amplified Rice Krispies. We huddle around the campfire, enjoying the beach, happy for the flickering light. The campfire marks a point halfway between the dark expanse of the lake and the silent cabin that looms behind us like an obsidian wall.

  I wrap a blanket around Vickie Brady and me to keep out the evening chill. A shimmering moonpath crosses the water from the beach to the far mountains, and it seems as if the wind is using the path to bring the threat of rain.

  I’m not that old, but I feel like a bit of my life slips away each passing year. My father and mother are gone, killed in a horrible car accident. Once I graduated high school, I withdrew from everything. Who could understand what I’d been through? Who cared? It’s a failing: I don’t know how to be around people, but at the same time I’m terrified at the prospect of being alone forever. At least the gang saw fit to touch base with me; otherwise, I’d never have come to the reunion.

  I thank the soft flicker of the fire, for at least it gives me a sense of security, its heat and light a kind of oasis between the black lake and the empty cabin and surrounding woods behind us. It’s not very adult of me, but I’ve never liked the dark.

  We sit quietly. I might’ve felt out of sorts all weekend, and even tonight, but this moment with old friends seems right.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Paul says suddenly. “Let’s play a game.”

  Well. The evening had seemed right, for a few minutes anyway. “Oh no,” I say. “I don’t think so. At midnight?”

  “Why not?” Paul says.

  “Play what?” I ask. “A game of cards?” I throw a rock out as high as I can over the lake, and five seconds later it sp
lashes the water with a ssshoook. A perfect chugger. “Go Fish, maybe?”

  “How about,” Paul says, “we play Hope to See the Ghost Tonight?”

  We’re all quiet for a few moments. Scott, who’s put on about thirty pounds since high school, is still breathing hard from the walk down to the beach.“Jesus,” he says, “I haven’t played that since the sixth grade.”

  “You and the rest of us,” I say. “We outgrew that game.”

  “Hey,” Henry says. “I never played it before.”

  “Don’t worry, Henry,” Paul says. “We’ll teach you the rules.” He glances around the campfire. “Well? What’s it going to be? If we do it, we all do it. Right, James?”

  “Look,” I say, staring straight at Paul. “We played it when we were kids, after suppertime, in town. You know: a big fenced yard, parents in the house, neighbours on every side. It’s now midnight. Does the word ‘civilization’ mean anything to you?”

  “Yeah,” Paul drawls. “Boring. C’mon, James. You’re not afraid of ghosts, are you?”

  “I’m for it,” Vickie says, next to me.

  “Me too,” Dusty Sherwood says, standing up as if his statement has decided it for the entire group. “It’ll be fun, right?”

  Everyone stands, one by one. Everyone that is, except me, but I know I’ll give in. I’ll play the game because the gang’s always done everything together, right? In our old age, when we can barely walk, we’ll all be wondering: Why is it we never spent that one last night playing Hope to See the Ghost Tonight with each other?

  I stand.

  Everyone else runs to the cabin, to the dimly lit porch, which is wooden and big enough for all of us. It’s covered with a shake roof. I walk to the porch, though, trying to act indifferent. When I step up, I announce, “Fine, let’s do it. But I’m not going to be the ghost. No fucking way in hell.”