Mother, Maiden, Crone

by Gwen Benaway

it would be a lie to say that i don’t still miss those nights, sometimes.

  He took my singing voice away when i left the City. what Shining Daddy gives to you, Shining Daddy can take back. this is not a punishment, He said at the time. for I do not punish my children. even as you abandon me, you must know that I love you still.

  but he took it away, all the same.

  the warlord kneels at the mouth of my temple and performs the ritual sacrament, a hodgepodge of prayerful words and gestures that he does not know the meaning of. likely he learned it from a Below-dwelling priest or sage, some mumbler of fables and mythic half-truths.

  i take the offering from his outstretched hand, a jangle of metal coins and jewels and computer circuitry. a small fortune to those who live and die Below, but nothing to me except that it is a sacrifice. it is something that is given up for something granted in return. this, the most ancient of sacraments, still holds power in the Below.

  i put a hand to his chin and raise him to his feet. taking him by the hand, i lead him back into the temple, the gorgon hissing at our heels. he tries not to react but cannot help recoiling from Selen ever so slightly, which pleases me. powerful men should have something to fear.

  we enter the shadowy cavern of the temple’s inner chamber. the warlord cannot see in the dark, but i smile. i love this next part.

  raising my arms in the air, i rasp a long, guttural sound that rends the air and makes the warlord shudder. my days of song may be over, but my voice has some power in it still. behind us, Selen rises on her hind legs and croons in harmony.

  on the wall all around us, bioluminescent mosses and algae flare to glowing, blue-green life. the lichens growing on my dais alight as well. the effect is satisfyingly dramatic, and the warlord is suitably impressed. i turn to him, standing at my full height, and drink in his frightened wonder.

  bare yourself, i say to him, and he does, scrabbling at his garments like a child ordered by its parents to bathe. in moments, he is naked, and though his body is heavily muscled and criss-crossed with battle scars, he is boyishly shy, shifting from one foot to the other. so much the better. he will not think to try any violence against me, to seize against my will what i am not prepared to give.

  i am one of the lucky ones. there are others like me in the Below, fallen children of the Shining City, who have no temple to sleep in, no gorgon to guard them. when i left Shining Daddy’s side, i took with me the vestiges of the great power that his favour afforded me: the powers of creation, transformation, and healing.

  I was the first, the first that Shining Daddy called into Being and also the first to leave him. many of those who have since followed me were not so favoured, and so they brought less power with them into the world Below.

  those few of us whose Divinity remained intact enough to do so created temples and monuments on the edges of the society of Below-dwellers, drawing them in with our powers of glamour. we took our great familiar daemons from the City with us as guides and guardians, relying upon them to keep us safe from the violence of those Below-dwellers who sought to destroy or enslave us.

  but the greater part of my ex-Shining siblings had been granted no daemon familiars in the first place. their powers of Divinity had been small in the Shining City and are smaller still Below. unable to reshape the elements at will and without guardians to protect them, these members of my brethren are forced to wander the murky depths of the Below with only meagre enchantments for protection.

  they wander from city to city seeking offerings and sacrifice, seeking essence from the dwellers Below. sometimes they receive it, for there are dwellers who still know the true meaning of Divinity.

  but sometimes, marked as monsters by their wings, scales, tentacles, and other physical features uncommon to the Below-dwellers, they are often attacked and hunted down, tortured and slain. some are forced to endure such agonies of physical labour as have never been known within the ivory walls of the Shining City.

  worst of all, however, is when the Below-dwellers discover the power of the fallen ones’ Divinity, its miraculous effect on life, and attempt to take it for themselves. they do so with violence, instead of the offerings, the essence, that we require.

  yet despite these horrors, small scores of my fallen siblings continue to leave the City. every few centuries, another one arrives in the Below. they will follow you, Best Beloved, Shining Daddy said to me once. they will finish what you have begun.

  he did not say, you are leading them to ruin. he did not say, you have brought suffering and death to your brethren, Best Beloved, first of my children.

  he did not need to say it.

  the warlord lies naked on my altar. in the blue-green light of the bioluminescent algae, i can see the greying sores, open and weeping, that mark his body. the stink of decay, of mortality, comes from them. in these wounds, i see a future full of pain and slow dying.

  is it true, the warlord murmurs, his eyes wide, that you can heal me, goddess? or god, or whichever it is that you are?

  i do not answer him for a brief time. i let him rest in the fear, in the knowledge that his life is in my hands. i was not always so cruel. but time in the Below has hardened me.

  yes, i say finally. it is true. and he moans in relief, this fierce hard man who has tortured and slain. tears run down his scar-lined face to water the moss of my temple with liquid salt.

  the gift of my Divinity is delivered through touch. it has always been, since beginningless time. some of my fallen brethren perform the miracle of healing through the transfer of breath; others, through the sharing of blood. still others do so through acts of consensual violence, a deliverance through the pleasure that is born out of pain. there are as many ways to exchange Divinity as there are Daddy’s children.

  it begins, however, must always begin, with intimacy. with trust. with sacred exchange. this is an ancient law, a law that is older than the Shining City, older than me, older perhaps than even Shining Daddy himself.

  blasphemy, He would say, if he heard me say this. once again, you break my heart with your infidel thoughts, Best Beloved.

  with slow deliberation, i lay my hands on the warlord’s nude body. he cringes reflexively, for the feel of my flesh on his is strange, but i do not falter. i lay my palms against the hair and skin, the muscle and sinew of his chest, until his breathing is steady and his eyes are calm. and then i begin.

  it starts with long, slow, gentle strokes. at my mental command, my palms secrete a sweet-smelling oil that smooths their path. the warlord makes a small, wordless sound of pleasure. i continue on, my strokes gradually becoming deeper, until i can feel the radiance of his life within—the energy currents of essence that flow through all living beings. my Divinity calls to that essence, heightens and awakens it. the man beneath me moans.

  deeper and deeper into his body i dive, increasing each movement until my breasts are flush against his chest, my thighs pressed into his midsection. my head-tails coil and uncoil, caressing his face and throat, sliding down to touch each part of his body. he grunts and presses against me, hard, then harder still. with powerful hands, he grabs my arms and pulls me against him. emotion and sensation roil within him, his essence burning beneath my touch.

  overcome, he grabs my throat.

  the gorgon roars and crashes down from above, slamming her forelegs onto the altar on either side of my and the warlord’s entwined bodies. he cries out in terror as her jaws plunge down, but caught in the gaze of the golden-eyed snakes that make up her mane, he cannot move. he is transfixed.

  Selen holds him there, caught and squirming for a long, terrible moment. the bravado drains from him. i feel his terror, his surrender. i pluck his hand from my neck and catch his gaze with mine.

  do not presume, i say, and he makes the barest of nods. Selen withdraws and his muscles go slack beneath me.

  i give him time to recover, and then we begin a
gain.

  there are those who might whisper that i was banished from the Shining City for crimes of blasphemous thought. others still might say that i attempted a coup, that i grew arrogant and prideful of my own powers. they might say that I gathered a host of rebellious brethren by night and led them in fruitless revolt against the omnipotence of our creator.

  those who say such things are credulous fools, or else venal gossips. they know nothing of Shining Daddy nor the nature of His love. Shining Daddy banishes no one; his methods are not so crude. Shining Daddy never withdraws his affections, for a love that ends is an imperfect love, and my Father is perfection itself.

  i want you to know, He said to me on the day that i left, that you do this by choice, and by choice alone. my love is infinite and unending. you are the one who spurns it.

  i know, i replied, for what else was there to say?

  let it be known, He further decreed, that I am as merciful as I am powerful, as powerful as I am wise. and so my forgiveness is always available to you, my child. you need only repent, and you may return to me.

  i know, i replied.

  willful Beloved, most ungrateful of children, Shining Daddy said to me, I see that you are resolved in this, to carry your corruption to the ends of space and time and back into the Void from whence I summoned you. and for what? for foolish pride? for some juvenile, short-sighted rebellion against the order of things, which neither you, nor I, nor any thing in this wide Creation might change?

  no, i said, though i knew better than to argue. i go for a freedom of my own making. i go for a Divinity that is mine and mine alone, to give or withhold as i decree. i go because i have seen what lies Below, and i have seen the Shining City, and i have seen your great Design through to its end, and i will have no part of it, not while this freedom of will that you have given me still beats inside my chest.

  and he might have been angry with me then, and stricken me, had he not been so perfect a being. perfection is not petty.

  my child, he said, and his voice was terrible and gentle. my love and my Design are one and the same. they are as infinite and undying. freedom of will i have given you, for that is the nature of loving, but you cannot and will never be free of my love.

  i know, i said, for it was true. what else was there to say?

  the warlord hums and writhes beneath my glowing hands. the essence within him rises and falls like the surging of the tide beyond my temple. higher and higher i ride its waves, until it crests and bursts within him, filling me with its light.

  and for a single instant, i am there in the place where i was made. i smell its perfumed air. i see its skies, blue and free of the smog that chokes the Below. i hear its music, taste the sweetness of ambrosia. i soar among the vaulted arches and spires wrought in architecture so glorious that the memory of them still makes me long to weep.

  essence. it is the power of Creation, of light in the Void. it gushes forth from the warlord’s body, filling me with life, and i drink it in thirstily—enough to last for several moon cycles, and to save for times of need. my Divinity flowers in answer, a glorious unfolding of silent song that nonetheless makes the air hum and the temple walls tremble. i blaze like a star, so bright that the warlord must shield his eyes.

  and when the light fades, his sores are gone. his sickness is healed. this is the power of Divinity when fed by the essence of dweller Below: life for life, a sacred exchange, the oldest sacrament.

  the warlord shudders a final time. i sense the relief that rolls through his bones, followed by a sweet, aching sadness that wells up from the core of this wicked, wretched creature. in my presence, he longs to be more than what he is—more than this limited being ruined by the unrelenting violence and suffering of Below.

  there was a time when i believed that my Divinity could cleanse the corruption of the dwellers Below. i thought that if only I could bring enough of them to me and my brethren, bring them to their knees with my power and grace, i might love them enough to turn this entire putrescent world into something both beautiful and free—a place purer than the Shining City ever was. for a time, I pursued this prideful dream, so that cults of Below-dwellers lived and died building monuments in my name.

  the more fool, i. Shining Daddy’s love indeed runs deep—so deep that it found a home in my heart and tried to remake me in His image. i would have ruled the Below with His hand, in His Design, and thought myself free. but i know this now:

  love that you cannot leave is not love.

  the warlord is gone when the dusk begins to fall, returned to his petty wars of conquest. outside my temple, the ocean rises and falls. there were once giant creatures that swarmed through the waters of this place Below—leviathans that ruled over ecosystems of infinite variety. now, the boiling seas are full of poison and acid, giving rise only to vast fields of algae and the bacteria that live there.

  my Father’s Creation is dying. it is collapsing in on itself, consuming itself. it may take eternity, but the day will come when it is gone.

  from the ziggurat of my temple, if i strain what powers of vision are left to me, i can still glimpse the Shining City. it shimmers through the smog-filled skies of Below, invisible to all but me and my fallen brethren. even i can barely make it out—perhaps, after all this time, i am only imagining that i can see it.

  further and further away it drifts from Below, unmooring itself from our inevitable descent into the Void. despite the unending chorus of anguish that echoes from this world, it has been many, many millennia since Shining Daddy or the children who still serve him have descended to answer those prayers.

  that is why those who dwell Below still seek us out, me and my fallen siblings—monstrous though we may seem to them, with the stigma of blasphemy still clinging to us. ours is the only Divinity they might still hope to see.

  it is not too late for me to escape this fate. even now, i can feel the pull of Shining Daddy’s promise. i need only repent. i could ride my gorgon into the sky, back to the Shining City, i could sit in His lap and sing to him in the highest tower. He would redeem me, forgive me, is waiting for me to return. i can feel it now, as i feel it every moment of every day.

  i am tempted, sometimes.

  but here i have chosen. and here i shall remain.

  Dreamborn

  Kylie Ariel Bemis

  A long time ago, when I should have been a little girl, the elders told stories about the way the world would end. The sky would open up, and poison rain would fall. Star-people would descend upon the land and eat our dreams. The children would be transformed into monsters, and their nightmares would consume the world.

  Now I’m an old woman and the world is ending. The stories never told us how to stop it.

  All I know is this: we were tricked.

  Three years ago on that day, I stood at the outskirts of Hilowa village as a storm approached. Lightning in the sky flickered from the direction of the World Breach. They came from there: a hundred Nahaka soldiers marched on Hilowa.

  I pulled my shawl tighter around me as they approached, weapons raised.

  I knew from stories that their weapons shot fire and metal and left no survivors. Behind the soldiers loomed their death machines that strode across the earth on iron legs and sowed destruction in their wake. These were the beasts that wiped out so many Anishu warriors.

  They’d come to take our children. They’d come to take my god­daughter.

  I wouldn’t let that happen.

  I reached for the earth and she responded eagerly. Power coursed through me. The sand and soil. The clouds and sky. The wind and rain. They were all at my fingertips. I focused my mind inward. Decades of honing my dream-magic had prepared me for this.

  The leader of the Nahaka soldiers stepped forward. Like most Nahaka I’d seen, his skin was deathly pale, nearly white, and he had no dream-marks.

  “Step aside,” he said
in bad Anishutsi.

  “Turn back,” I replied in my best Nahakatsi. I’d learned what I could of their language in the twelve years since the World Breach opened and they arrived in our world. They had not always been our enemies.

  “And who will stop us?” said the Nahaka leader. “You?”

  “Yes.”

  “What will an old man who dresses up like a woman do to stop us?”

  The other Nahaka laughed at this.

  So I made the earth shake.

  Just a little. Just a warning. Like any pissed-off godmother with dream-magic at her fingertips and too little patience would do.

  The ground cracked. The closest of their death machines collapsed to the ground as I opened a sinkhole beneath its metal legs. The lower-ranking Nahaka panicked. One screamed “witch.” I could’ve destroyed them all. They knew that. I should’ve. I know that now too.

  But fear and mercy got the better of me. I had seen too many nightmares in my lifetime.

  “So powerful,” said their leader, smiling wide enough to bare a set of shiny white teeth. “I wonder how much of your village we can destroy before you can kill all of us?”

  Their weapons are fast. Deadly. I couldn’t risk Kiwu’s life. Not if I could help it.

  So I made a deal with them: I would go with them as their prisoner, and they would leave Hilowa and never return.

  So they promised. I believed them.

  They lied.

  I’ve been gone three terrible years.

  At the outskirts of Hilowa, I’m standing on the scars in the earth I made the last time I was here. The dream-priests did their best to cover the wounds, but I can still sense where the ground cracked. The earth will heal though. That’s her strength. I pause and take a deep breath.

  Finally, I’m home again.

  Hilowa is different and yet the same. The central village is built on a small hill in a valley surrounded by mountains and mesas and sky. A network of mudbrick homes climbs up the hill, surrounded by terraced farms where vegetables grow in irrigated squares of earth. Walking through the village is like walking back into the memories I’ve clung to for the last three years. There is still the smell of bread baking in the mud ovens outside each home, the chatter of gossip echoing from the village plaza, and the familiar cushion of hard clay soil beneath my moccasins that I missed so much. The sacred mountains still etch their jagged outlines across the horizon. The Twin Moons glow red in midday sky. The wild sakwa grass still smells sweet.