The dreams were more than dreams.
Somehow the girls—some part of them anyway, some of their energy—were inside of me. They communicated with me through my dreams. Maybe they’d done more. Maybe they’d given me the strength to win the race. Maybe the woman I was becoming had a little bit of each of them inside.
I dropped to my knees and retched and retched. I’d hardly eaten all day, so nothing came up but a white acidic foam.
I couldn’t get them out of me.
I sat on my haunches, gasping, trying to breathe, unable to see anything but blurry cornstalks through my tear-filled eyes.
That’s when I heard Mr. G say, “Hello, Kara.”
The bag that I’d been dreaming about came down over my head, soaked with the same chemical smell I was now familiar with.
I held my breath.
Mr. G yanked me backward into the corn. I struggled, but he pinned me down, using all his weight to keep me from getting up. I hoped that the cops might come running, but the generator was making too much noise. If the cops heard anything, they might think a coyote or a deer was running through the corn. That’s all.
“I was going to let you grow up a little bit,” Mr. G growled, his hands holding the cloth sack tight around my neck. “Another year and you’d be just my type. But since your Daddy has gone and fucked everything up for us, I’ll make an exception.”
I kept holding my breath.
I couldn’t fight him. He was too big, too strong, had too much advantage. I remembered how unconsciousness had taken the girls, the way their limbs had lost strength, the way they’d stopped fighting.
I let my muscles slacken. I let my body go limp.
How long had I been holding my breath? A minute? More?
Mr. G waited a good thirty seconds after I stopped moving. Then he took a deep breath and sat up. The sack was still over my head, but he’d let go of it. I could feel the blackness of unconsciousness approaching. I pretended I was underwater. You can’t take a breath underwater, I told myself.
I heard Mr. G’s body shift. He was looking away from me, checking to make sure none of the police noticed our struggle.
I yanked the bag off my head and inhaled deeply—taking in the beautiful aroma of the corn. To this day, the smell of a cornfield fills me with an overwhelming sense of relief.
Mr. G heard me and whirled around.
“Daddy!” I screamed with everything I had. “Help!”
Mr. G lunged at me, and I tried to scamper away. He got one hand on my shirt, and we barreled through the corn. I heard voices shouting. Bodies bursting through the stalks. The German Shepherd—the cadaver dog brought in to smell for bodies—was barking like crazy.
Mr. G threw me onto my back in the dirt. He didn’t bother with the bag—he put his hands around my throat and squeezed.
A gunshot rang out and he toppled over. Dad was standing above us, holding his gun. Mr. G lay next to me, bleeding, injured. No longer a threat. Dad didn’t care. The look on his face haunts me as much as anything that happened. He shot again and again, the reports booming in the night air, until the gun clicked empty.
Dad was arrested and suspended without pay for a while, but the charges were eventually dropped. No jury was going to convict a man—cop or otherwise—who shot a serial killer trying to strangle his daughter. Even if he did keep pulling the trigger long after the man was dead.
It was good to have him home because I was such a mess. I had no appetite. I refused to eat any produce at all. It got so bad that I had to go to a hospital and be put on a feeding tube.
School started, but I was in no shape to go.
Mom quit her job, and the severance pay was good enough that she didn’t have to work for a while. I guess that’s one upside to screwing your boss.
Mom and Dad, to my knowledge, never talked about the affair. They acted like it had never happened. Just like they never talked about Dad shooting Mr. G, the way he paused a second before firing the last round execution-style into the already dead man’s forehead.
When I was out of the hospital again, eating enough to subsist on, Mom and Dad decided that the best thing for me would be to leave, go somewhere where I could start over. Even though Dad didn’t go to prison, he wasn’t wanted back at the sheriff’s office. But he too got a good severance package.
After a year of homeschooling, I finally started my junior year in a new school in a new town. Mom and Dad seemed in love again. Mom got the same kind of job—thanks to a good reference—and Dad started a landscaping company. He worked hard all day, but he was always home at night.
I finally put on weight again. Two months after starting the new school, a boy asked me to the Homecoming dance, and I went. I broke up with him shortly after because I felt that if it got serious, I would have to tell him what happened to me.
And I wasn’t ready for that.
Not yet.
The new town had a swim team, but I didn’t join, no matter how much my parents encouraged me. I couldn’t stand holding my breath underwater anymore. The one time I tried, my mind immediately went to that night, holding my breath to keep from inhaling the chemicals, and I jumped out of the water verging on panic.
Mrs. G—whose real name wasn’t Gardner at all—ended up in a women’s prison on the other side of the state. Dad kept tabs on her and one day told me that the prison had a community garden where Mrs. G apparently spent most of her time. When he said this, I had a powerful nostalgic memory of eating the carrots and tomatoes and zucchini that I helped them grow. I had the craving to bite into a tomato I’d just plucked off the Gardners’ vine. I tried to eat one from the store, but the taste just wasn’t the same. I couldn’t choke it down.
As for the nightmares, they stopped a long time ago, although I’m not sure if the girls ever left me completely. I feel like they’re still inside me, somewhere, just a spark, you know, a little bit of their energy, and the thought of it doesn’t disturb me like it used it.
It comforts me, actually.
G is for Garden
Beth Cato
“Would it be acceptable for me to place my flowers out here, captain?” Miran cupped the small terracotta pot of golden poppies with both hands. “They would add some cheery brightness to the room.”
“The window in your quarters gets gentle morning light,” I replied. If my newly-arrived cleric was the sort who sought to add ‘cheery brightness’ with flowers, soon followed by fresh paint and lacey curtains, my future replies may not contain quite as much tact. This was a functional sky island, not a summer retreat. “The afternoon sun gets intense in here due to our high elevation.”
I moved around the table and she deftly sidestepped to block me. She stood high as my shoulder, and by her youth and size she seemed like a child. Or maybe I simply felt outright old compared to everyone and everything these days.
“I hadn’t considered that. I talked to some clerics who’ve worked the sky islands, but they didn’t say much more than that it’ll be boring for days or weeks, and then...”
“That’s the truth of it.” After a pause, I asked, “How long have you worn full red?” Acolytes of the stars began their service in white, and through experience ascended to wear cleric’s crimson, from leather boots to robes to hooded mantles.
“Six months now. My only previous station was in the mountain frontier.” The girl’s bright smile confirmed for me the gentleness of her previous duty. What had the monastery thought, sending an innocent like her here? Our island wasn’t in the war zone, but if things went poorly for our units, we at Hamblin were among the first to know. “I’m excited to be here, though. To live, on a blessed sky island!” She waved at the whitewashed brick walls as if she were in a gilt palace.
“Hamblin is nothing to enthuse about, truly. This has long been my home, but most everyone else tires of it quickly.” I shrugged, well aware that I sounded like a sour old woman. “The isolation, the frequent fresh ghos
ts, the inability to walk any distance... it gets to people. Hamblin is the smallest sky island, you know. One can walk a loop around the lower tower in ten minutes, and all the while the wind tries to blow you to the continent a mile below.”
And yet, I loved the place. When I died, this is where my spirit would linger in my last months. The star-blessed sky islands were chunks of rock that floated by no discernible means, all at different, consistent heights within the atmosphere. Hamblin consisted of an ancient stone tower built into a nugget of moss-draped dark granite, with space enough to dock one airship at a time.
“How long have you lived here?” Miran asked.
“Twenty years, intermittently, and now five years under a permanent residency grant in reward for my service.” For most people, this station would be more prison than reward.
“Twenty years!” The number took her aback. “I was told most stints are six months!”
“For clerics, yes. Your work is harsh. My mechanics and storekeep don’t interact with fresh ghosts as you must.”
The girl frowned down at her poppy. “I see, captain. I do wish other clerics had been more open about their experiences here so that I better knew what to expect.”
While I understood her curiosity, her gripes about past workers grated upon me. “Have you smelled gangrene?” I asked.
Miran recoiled. “Of course! I’m trained to heal bodies as well as souls or I wouldn’t wear—”
“Clerics who’ve worked the sky islands, especially Hamblin, near to the front as it is now, can’t tell tales because there are some circumstances that cannot be put into words. How can you describe gangrene to people who’ve never before smelled it? How can you adequately portray a rot so strong, the taste meets your tongue even as you stand feet away? You can’t.”
Her brow furrowed, dark skin scrunching. “But if they won’t talk, how are newcomers to know what to expect?”
“Your previous training should have prepared you.” I pursed my lips in clear disapproval. “The rest, you learn the hard way.”
Her gaze shifted to her plant. “I see. I should put my poppy in my room, captain.”
“Of course, cleric,” I said, waving her away.
Only after I’d settled my old bones into the chair did I worry. Truly, I wanted to support Miran, but when I repeated my words in my head, I sounded like an abrasive fool. I sighed. Hamblin had lost two clerics in five years to suicide. Those spirits were long gone, but regrets haunted me still.
Being a cleric on Hamblin was a challenging job. I needed to find the means to best offer support without adding to those difficulties.
Three days later, we had our first docking since Miran’s arrival—and as when Miran came, the Fortitude flew our way from west, from home.
As my other crew scampered to fasten lines, Miran joined me atop the mooring mast. “You’re to prepare soldiers for what may await them,” I told her. “Not as onerous a day as it could be.”
“I may not need to face mauled ghosts today, captain,” Miran spoke with some hesitance, “but conversing with scared, very alive soldiers is not necessarily easy, either.”
Ah, I had promptly put my foot in my mouth yet again. I acknowledged my error with a dip of my head. “You’re right, Cleric Miran. I’m sorry. I spoke from my own narrow experience. When I’ve been required to act as substitute cleric, it has only been because of an influx of ghosts.”
I knew the rituals, I had the faith, but—stars preserve me!—those days had been as hard on me as the privation of an actual battlefield.
“This was after the cleric suicides aboard?” she asked, causing me to face her in surprise. “I may not have garnered many details about life here, captain, but those statistics are readily available.”
I’d underestimated the girl. “Yes, it was then.” The ramp dropped with a metallic clang. “Hail, Captain Roget!” Despite the subject matter of a moment before, I couldn’t hold back my grin.
The old man wore his uniform with the same crisp confidence that he had at age twenty. “Captain Claybourne.” We saluted each other, then dropped formality to clasp hands. “Good to see you, as ever. I have three fresh brigades aboard.”
“We can accommodate them, gladly,” I said. Hamblin offered each eastbound soldier a final chance to imbibe in drink, or to purchase smokes, stationery, and other supplies. They also had an opportunity to visit our chapel, should they wish to address their spiritual needs.
Minutes later, the first brigade marched aboard, their young faces reflecting both anxiety and awe.
Miran motioned the stars’ blessings as soldiers passed her, her smile welcoming without being too enthusiastic. After the last soldier boarded, she saluted both me and Roget. “Pardon, captains, but how long will they visit?”
“An hour, cleric, followed by the next brigades in sequence,” said Roget, with a respectful dip of his head.
“I had best get down to the chapel, then. Captains.” She saluted again, grim confidence in her demeanor, and departed.
I stared after her. Miran seemed ready for the duties of the day—but how, by the stars’ grace, could a cleric so young cope with westbound ships? I said as much to Captain Roget as we sat together in his stateroom a short while later.
“You’ve fallen into a dread habit that many of us old gray-haireds do.” He smiled within his beard. “You’re confusing youth with immaturity. Childhood can be the most dreadful part of a person’s life. This woman may have endured more in her twenty years than most people do in seventy, and through her faith, learned to cope with horrors you’ve never faced yourself.” I didn’t miss that he made a point of calling Miran woman whereas I kept using girl.
I swirled whisky in my glass. Roget had presented me with a bottle of my favorite vintage, and I found myself craving alcoholic numbness more than I ought. “I want her to succeed here. I don’t want...” Words failed me, and I drank.
“The suicides weren’t your fault, Nor.” Rarely did I hear my first name these days. Too many close friends from my youth had ascended to the stars. “Cleric Miran is here. She’ll confront the doom and gloom soon enough. Support her as best you can, and foremost, make it clear that you respect her. She’s not some acolyte in white, you know. She earned the red.”
“I’m not sure if I do respect her yet.” I frowned into my glass.
“That’s obvious,” Roget chided. “And what have you done to prove yourself to her, other than stick to this island like a barnacle?”
I guffawed at that. “Says the barnacle attached to the Fortitude. I don’t know how we do it, truly. Me, watching the build-up for another war. You, ferrying these bright young lives who may never make it home.” I sighed.
“We respect them and trust that they will do their jobs, Nor, and we do the same.”
“We do our jobs,” I echoed. “That seems inadequate.”
“Which is why we look to the stars to guide and comfort us. We’re not enough, but we do what we can.”
The words were common sense, but hearing them spoken by Roget resounded with me. I found myself nodding.
He clinked his glass against mine, and together, we drank.
A new airship approached from the east as the heavens began to tint dark.
“Rafia here makes regular supply runs.” I spoke loudly to Miran as the airship clang into the place recently vacated by the Fortitude. “If you need more flowers, she’d be your best resource.” The ramp dropped. “Hail, my friend!”
“Ahoy there!” Rafia bounded down to greet me. She stood as high as my armpit, her face dominated by a broad toothy grin. “You got a new red-robe, eh? What’s your name?”
“Cleric Miran, at the service of you and the stars.” Miran flushed, clearly discomfited by Rafia’s forwardness.
I felt the need to put Miran more at ease. “As you can see, Rafia isn’t military. Don’t expect formality.” Nearby, our mechanics exchanged loud laughs and greetings as they finished
securing the vessel to the isle.
“I’d sooner choke on those brass buttons than wear them,” Rafia said cheerily as she gestured to her careworn shirtwaist and trousers. “I got a job for you, Cleric Miran. Three ghosts joined me for the flight home.”
Miran’s awkwardness evaporated in an instant. “Could you please show the way, captain?”
“Call me Rafia, as on my ship I’ve declared myself Admiral Empress Extraordinaire, and that’s a right mouthful to say oft.” Rafia motioned us to follow. I ducked my head to fit my tricorn within the low doorway. The cramped interior reeked of ether and moldering freight crates.
“I tell you, it’s a relief to make it to Hamblin,” Rafia continued. “On the front, the tension, it’s thicker than three-day porridge. Those brutes’ll make their move soon, guaranteed.”
“What changed the mood so fast?” I asked. “Last week, peace seemed possible!”
“Bah. As if I can keep track. All I know is, my next trip from the front, I’ll be toting more of this sad lot.” Rafia pointed through an arched doorway. Moans and cries carried from within. Miran reached into her pocket as she stepped forward. I hung back, Rafia beside me.
Fresh ghosts only comprehended two things: the continued pain of their last moments, and the overwhelming need to get home. The translucent forms of these three ghosts bore witness to the grievous wounds that caused their deaths.
Miran began to chime a tiny bell, its peal embodying the sharp clarity of a frosty winter night. With the bell in accompaniment, she began to sing:
“Your bodies are no more
your pain an echo
know that
the grace of the stars is upon you
as you journey homeward
where you will know wholeness again
as you fade in these coming months.”
Within the first line, the agonized cries tapered off, the ghosts’ miseries dulled by her soothing song—and not because Miran had an incredible voice. No, I would consider it pleasant and on-key, but not amazing on its own.
G is for Ghosts Page 8
