Is there any more powerfully, permanently mind-altering experience than reading a story? A good story doesn’t just stay with you, it can change you. It can expand your mind. Stories are how we navigate the world, and when we let others control our stories, we lose our voices, our power, our agency, and even who we are. But when we are free to explore and find the stories that resonate—they can give us voice, power, agency, and help us understand who we are.

The great thing about furry fiction is that it doesn’t accept the normal constraints laid upon us in society. You don’t have to fit into those tiny, limiting boxes. Read these stories, and for a few moments, become a possum, a frog, a toad, a cat… try on a different experience, and see how it fits.

* * *

Leafless Crossing by Voss Foster

The Stone Mask and the Frogs by Mark Mills

‘Twas Brillig by Michael H. Payne

Go On, Lick Me by Luna Corbden

Nine Ways to Then by Diana A. Hart

Toad’s Grand Birthday Extravaganza by Lena Ng

* * *

If any of these stories resonated with you, please share them! And if you want to help support Zooscape, we have a Patreon. Merry December, and we’ll see you in the spring!

Categories: Stories

Toad’s Grand Birthday Extravaganza

Sun 1 Dec 2019 - 04:11

by Lena Ng

“…despite his faults, Toad was an excellent host and never did things by halves…”

There is nothing so joyous—as the snow melts away, and the early green buds burst from the branches, and the sun grows stronger and brighter, and the winter’s chill departs from your bones, and the vibrant colours of Easter flowers and emerald grass begin to paint the land—as a heavy, hearty, welcome-to-a-new-spring breakfast. So thought Mole as he stretched and yawned, and stretched and yawned again, belly up under a blue-and-white quilt, while the perfume of spring seeped into his cozy, underground abode.

Soon the smell of sputtering bacon and button mushrooms, reheated tinned beans, roasting tomatoes, fried potatoes, and fresh coffee, mingled and danced and filled the air in his kitchen. So many lovely smells, delicious smells, that it didn’t take long before a rap sounded at his front door.

Mole set down two big plates of blue earthenware on his round wooden table. “Door’s open,” he called out. A pointed, curious nose found its way through the front door and down the underground hallway to the kitchen. The whiskers on this snout twitched and shiny nostrils flared with all the smelling of the food cooking on the speckled blue, pot-bellied stove.

“Ratty,” said Mole, scooping a generous helping of baked beans onto each plate, “I was hoping you would join me. Welcome, welcome spring!”

“Glorious spring,” agreed Rat. “And even better with a full stomach.” He helped with pouring the coffee and getting out the knives and forks. The past winter had seemed especially long and especially cold, and although his house on the river bank was lined with mud to keep out the draft, there was nothing like a good dose of sunlight after the dismal grey. And to see the river thawing from slow and sluggish to leaping and alive delighted Rat every year. “I was on the way back from gathering supplies—for fishing and the like, talking lure-craft and river lore and that sort of thing—when those marvellous smells told me you were awake.” Animals in general know it isn’t proper form to disturb their hibernating kinsmen, just as you yourself would not appreciate being woken in the middle of the night from a deep, dreamless sleep. Instead there were ways to find out who was up-and-about: the grapevine of gossipy rabbits and informative hedgehogs; the sounds of spring-cleaning; run-ins at the market for seeds and herbs.

The tucking in was made even more delicious after the winter’s fast. The catch-up of news would be saved for after the sipping and slurping and crunching and savouring. At last, with his stomach stretching his plaid pyjamas to the table, Mole sat back with a contented sigh. “More coffee, Ratty?”

Rat leaned over his own stuffed stomach to inch his mug closer to the coffee pot. His belly was comfortably full and another cup of coffee would fill in all the small gaps.

Mole halted mid-pour as a low buzz filled the room. The buzz rattled the dishes on the table and stacked on the shelves. The sound faded and Mole started to pour again.

Buuuuzzzz. There it was again. It could be a buzz saw or a lawnmower or a low-flying two seater aircraft…

“Oh, no,” said Rat as his nose twitched. He stared up at the packed-earth ceiling. “It can’t be.”

“Can’t be what?” asked Mole.

“That Toad, Toad of Toad Hall, Toad of Complete and Utter Foolishness. What silly thing is he up to now?”

Despite his heavy stomach, Rat was quickly away from the table and through the underground hallway to the front door. Mole struggled to catch up.

“How do you know it’s Toad?” Mole panted.

“Because anything strange or new or bizarre—it can only be him.”

Rat flung the door open and they both squinted against the bright spring light as they made their way into the awakening field. The propeller’s buzz started to grow louder as it swooped overhead. It was a snub-nosed, two-seater plane, painted a fire-hydrant red.

Mole’s normally small black eyes grew wide on his sleek, ebony-furred face. Behind the pilot’s goggles and wrapped with a red scarf waving in the wind was definitely Toad. Attached to the plane’s back rudder was an enormous flapping banner reading:

TOAD’S GRAND BIRTHDAY EXTRAVAGANZA. TOMORROW 4 PM TOAD HALL.

Mole jumped up and down and waved his small paws. “Toad, over here, look down,” he called out.

“Don’t encourage him,” said Rat as the plane buzzed out of sight. “Because of his jailbreak, he’s still a wanted toad. He’s supposed to be laying low. Instead he’s inviting all of the wild wood to his party. No, this won’t do. We’d better get Badger.”

After the washing up and putting away the crockery, Mole changed into his hiking togs while Rat amassed the necessary supplies for a journey into the wild wood. There was no time to gather the prerequisite plants to carry in their pocket or to perform the safety rituals but they had their walking sticks which would likely serve them well if they met up with trouble.

The bright sunlight soon grew hidden by the trees as Mole and Rat made their way through the dense forest. The brush and crackle of beech leaves underfoot and the snap of small twigs and branches caused suspicious eyes to peer out at them through small holes in the tree trunks. At the sight of the sturdy walking sticks and two companions marching with purpose, these mistrustful eyes disappeared right back into their hideaways.

The friends trudged on in watchful silence until at last they saw the iron nameplate of Mr. Badger.

* * *

“Yes, I saw the banner,” Badger said gruffly as they settled into their armchairs, with steaming cups of tea and small plates of sandwiches resting on the side tables to revive them. “The whole wood saw it, with the ruckus his plane was making. I’m surprised he’s still flying it; I thought it was repossessed. Well, we’d better be off since I’m the only one who can talk any sense into him.”

Badger led them back through the wild wood, down the hidden pathways and clandestine trails, cautious yet confident as always. He recited the essential passwords and gestured the required signals and soon they emerged from the dappled light of the dense forest into the open meadow leading to Toad Hall.

After some time trekking through bluebells and brambles, the ivy-covered stone facade of Toad Hall came into view. The snub-nosed plane sat in front of the west wing of the house, its owner waving as the companions drew closer.

“My dear, dear friends,” Toad said, putting away the cloth after polishing the side of the red plane to a gleam. “I take it you’ve seen my invitation to my little soirée.” With his goggles pushed back on his broad head and his pilot’s uniform of a brown suede flying jacket with a shearling collar, red scarf tied nattily around his neck, Toad was the picture of dashing. “Thank-you, thank-you for helping me prepare for my birthday party. It will be the biggest, grandest party in existence. A special day where I would like to treat all of my friends. All to commemorate, well… me. I’m turning four.” Four may seem young but it was a ripe, respectable age for any toad.

Mole examined the underside of the plane closely, mainly because his eyesight was poor, and he was very round and small and couldn’t look much higher. Rat clambered up into the passenger side and leaned back into the leather seat. Although he was dedicated to his river, Rat decided he would write his next poem about flying.

Badger’s stern look through his round spectacles didn’t seem to damper Toad’s enthusiasm. The grey whiskers on his cheeks quivered. “Don’t let this party run wild, Toad. By not controlling the guest list, you don’t know who will turn up. Remember the time your house was overrun with stoats and weasels.”

“Hee, hee,” Toad laughed. “Wasn’t it a magnificent time running them off? Stoats and weasels had no defense against my mighty cudgel. A whoop and a sound licking and off they ran.” A self-satisfied smile crossed his homely face. “But with the party, it’s too late. I’ve invited everyone and I’ve spared no expense. There’s champagne in the icebox, canapes and caviar, and gifts to take home. Now help me wrap the party favours.”

Toad led them through the arched doorway of Toad Hall, down the portrait gallery of Toads Past to the grand dining room. In a gigantic mound on the polished herringbone floor were treats and enjoyments of every shape and size. There were beautifully painted books whose illustrations popped up from the page. When a tab was pulled, the cut-out horses with flowing painted manes would lope around a carousel or a lion would leap at the paper cage bars or a lark would open its beak and sing. There were boxes of striped sugar candy cubes which would fizz and snap in your mouth when you ate them. There were lavender recorders and pink whistles. There were foil pinwheels and contraptions which blew bubbles and yoyos and tin cars which raced around the room with the turning of a metal key. Pages could be written on the variety of enchantments lying on Toad’s floor. It was all very delightful. It also looked like a lot of work to wrap them.

Before the grumbling could start, Toad held open his arms. “Please, my dear friends, I need your help. You’re right, Badger, this party will get out of hand without your assistance. But it’s my birthday and all I want to do is make others as happy as I am.”

Well, no one could say no to that so Badger, Rat, and Mole spent the rest of the day and into the evening wrapping gifts while Toad sang rousing wild wood songs to keep their spirits going as he hung up the streamers and balloons.

* * *

The next day, the group had barely set upon their lavish breakfast—since, despite his faults, Toad was an excellent host and never did things by halves—before the doorbell began to chime. Over the morning, in streamed a parade of a musicians, caterers in liveried uniform, jugglers in bright costume, somersaulting clowns sporting fuzzy wigs, twirling ballerinas, and other entertainers.

A large, striped canopy with a stage for speeches was set up in Toad’s back acreage. There were three tables for the food and drink. A small, fenced in area held the petting zoo with miniature ponies and pygmy goats. Another large table held the cheerfully-wrapped gifts for the guests. In the back, much to Badger’s chagrin, was an enormous pile of fireworks.

“How much did all this cost?” Mole asked with mouth dropped open as he surveyed the party landscape. Toad Hall was set on five acres of green, fertile land with plenty of room for all of the celebration’s amusements.

“Never mind,” said Toad, proudly wearing his bespoke tailored birthday outfit. It was an orange suit with fashionably-thin lapels with a patch of the Toad Hall coat of arms sewn on the front, accompanied by a striped blue-and-orange silk bow tie. He also sported a splendid hat which could have put any royal hat to shame. “You only turn four once.”

With all the coordinating and setting up—the tiered cake was to go here and the chocolate fountain would go there and the pyramid of champagne glasses were to be arranged over there—and Toad practicing his speech and songs, with some fine-tuning and editing by accomplished poet Rat, the time hurried by and soon it was four o’clock.

“Well, I’m off,” said Badger, as the first guests, a dozen or so of rabbits, started to hop in. “Happy returns, dear Toad.”

“You’re not staying for the party?”

Badger packed his day bag with a few edibles for the road. “You know how much I hate society and parties. Peace and quiet is all I care for. But I promise to return tomorrow to help you with the cleaning up.”

“We’ll keep him out of trouble,” said Rat. Mole nodded enthusiastically with a mouth full of pistachio pudding.

* * *

Rat and Mole had to agree. It was the grandest party in existence. The fireflies gave a twinkling, flirtatious light. The ballerinas pirouetted and the jugglers juggled and the edibles were eaten and the drinkables quaffed. Toad’s larger-than-life presence lorded over everything.

And the noise! No polite party conversation here. Instead the happy cacophony of live music and snippets of carousing songs and excited chatter and laughter. Even Toad’s terrible jokes seemed to be immensely funny, and it was his own booming laughter that was the loudest at the telling. Everyone admired Toad’s flourishing hat and wished him happy returns, and the champagne flowed like the river.

A few weasels and stoats appeared, hats in hands, quite humbled by their previous defeat. Toad bore them no animosity since they sincerely wished him longevity and best wishes, and they joked a bit about their past scuffles and Toad’s stalwart fighting. The Chief Weasel pledged his best behaviour and unwavering loyalty and brought an enormous wicker basket filled with aged cheeses, candied fruit, crystalized crickets and other such amphibian delicacies as a gift from them all.

Finally, a drum-roll sounded and a hush fell upon the celebrants. Toad ascended onto the stage. He stood for a few moments, soaking in the attention. “My dear, wonderful, considerate, kind—”

This went on for several minutes until all the appropriate adjectives were exhausted.

“—loyal, generous, loving friends,” Toad began. “Thank-you for sharing my special day.”

A cheer arose from the crowds.

Toad cleared his throat and waited for silence. “I suppose you are all wondering about the origins of Toad.” After a pregnant pause, “It all began in the mid-thirteenth century, when my great ancestor, Toad de Bonaparte, was still a tadpole wriggling in a fish pond deep in the heart of France…” He regaled the crowd with the history of Toad and somehow managed to make it all the way to the beginning of the fifteenth century before someone yelled—

“Song!”

Which Toad didn’t seem to mind since who could blame anyone for wanting to get to the good part. He changed his stance, breathed deeply with his diaphragm, and poured forth a self-composed song, sung mainly in key.

Just as Toad reached the highest note of his song, the stage began to rumble. Across the field sounded the pitter-patter of an army of little feet. Little feet running, little feet jumping, little feet racing down the hillside and over the green grass and heading directly towards Toad Hall. Hundreds of little feet belonging to a horde of…

Lemmings!

Lemmings, lemmings everywhere, pudgy brown fur balls from all over the countryside. They guzzled all the champagne. They cannonballed into the chocolate fountain, spraying founts of chocolate. They chittered all at once in their high-pitched voices so that no one could hear the sound of their own thoughts. They razed through the birthday cake and vacuumed up the canapes and hors d’oeuvres.

The party guests scattered. The miniature ponies and pygmy goats jumped the fence and ran off, booting lemmings left and right. Toad went into a manic panic of racing here and there but wasn’t able to accomplish much of anything. The stoats and weasels sprang up at once and managed to gather a few of the lemmings under their arms but the sheer numbers overwhelmed them.

A piercing whistle whizzed through the lemming crowd. It ended in an explosion of heat, light, and colour. A stream of fireworks skyrocketed through the mass of Rodentia. A ringing bang and the lemmings were tossed about and tumbling.

Toad ran to the back where the fireworks were kept. There stood Badger, carefully setting off the missiles, his aim honed by his previous years in the military. “Badger, Badger, how did you know to return?” asked Toad, gasping.

“The lemmings had stormed the wild wood and I knew they would cause chaos,” Badger replied, methodically aiming a Cherry Blaster and setting it alight. The lemmings scattered and scampered, run off by the screaming streams of swirling colour. A crazed excitement filled Toad and he began to set off the fireworks willy-nilly.

“Be careful,” shouted Badger, “or you’ll burn Toad Hall to the ground.”

Caution or foresight were never parts of Toad’s character, and he jumped onto the biggest firework in his arsenal.

“Get off of there!” Badger said.

But it was too late and Toad had set off the biggest firework while sitting right on it. Perched backwards, Toad jockeyed the Colossal Chrysanthemum as the firework shot into the sky. The big rocket exploded, ejecting Toad into the starry stratosphere in a burst of fiery confetti. Rat and Mole watched in open-mouthed, horrified awe as they saw a Toad-shaped figure silhouetted against the moon’s bright face, one arm waving a massive hat.

But gravity gives no exception and toads who go up, must also come down. They heard a mighty thud and saw an eruption of coloured wrapping paper where Toad had landed.

Rat, Mole, and Badger ran to the landing spot. There they found Toad collapsed under a pile of brightly-wrapped presents.

“Toad, oh Toad,” said Mole, hands clasped together and with tears streaming from his liquid-black eyes. “Please tell us you’re all right.”

Toad opened one eye and then the other, looking up at three furrowed expressions. Face blackened from gunpowder, his belly started shaking from laughter. “Best birthday ever,” Toad exclaimed, miraculously without the loss of a single tooth. “Let’s do it again next year.”

* * *

Originally published in Non Binary Review Issue 18: The Wind in the Willows, Zoetic Press

About the Author

Lena Ng is from Toronto, Ontario. She has short stories in over two dozen publications including Amazing Stories. Her 2019 current and forthcoming publications include Hinnom, The Literary Hatchet, We Shall Be Monsters, Colp, Beer-Battered Shrimp, The Little Book of Fairy Tales, Mortal Realm, and Mother Ghost’s Grim. “Under an Autumn Moon” is her short story collection. She is currently seeking a publisher for her novel, Darkness Beckons, a Gothic romance.

Categories: Stories

Nine Ways to Then

Sun 1 Dec 2019 - 04:10

by Diana A. Hart

“Chaos spread from her touch, stirring my fur like a snake in the grass, but it refused to resolve.”

My paws pounded against the carpet, a furious thunder that matched the drumming of my heart. A meowl tore from my throat. I dropped flat, claws digging into the fiber, and lashed my tail as the visions hit me again. My pupils dilated. Nine versions of reality poured into my skull and smothered my senses, each a fluttering glimpse of what could be.

Clara, my master, stood in line at the student café. In each vision she wore her backpack and clutched a travel mug covered in prancing reindeer. Fingerless mittens—the ones that made her hands look like funny little paws—curled around the warm plastic as she waited for her order. I felt the ache in her belly. The way the aromas of fresh bread and cooking meat made her mouth water. My whiskers twitched in shared hunger. True, not as appetizing as freshly mangled pigeon, but at least she shared my love of bacon.

A man with dog-brown eyes smiled at her. My fur puffed. Something in his gaze was cold. Calculating. Like the neighbor’s calico when she stared at the bird feeder. Dog-Eyes stalked closer and complimented Clara’s pink scarf. Causality scattered like a flock of sparrows. My mind could only keep track of the nine most stable, tumbling through dinners that hadn’t yet happened, walks and talks and movies they hadn’t shared yet—some they wouldn’t, depending how chaos fluttered—but in the end they all settled in the same place: beatings. Crying. Silence. The kind my visions couldn’t pierce…

Anguish exploded from my throat. “No!” I tore into the darkened living room. Streetlight poured through frost-covered windows, casting fractal shadows across the floor. There has to be a way to stop it! “How?” I yowled and bounded over the couch, muscles screaming with the need to move, to do something, anything, to change the way the future fluttered. “How!?” The television remote clattered under my paws. Thumped to the floor.

“Dang it, Bixby,” Clara moaned from the bedroom. “It’s three in the morning.”

Three in the morning… I skidded to a halt. Morning! Yes! Whiskers thrumming, I sank into a crouch. Thoughts churned so fast my fur twitched. The visions always started close to the present. Whatever morning I’d seen, it’d happen soon. My ears flattened. I just had to figure out when it was and stop Clara from meeting Dog-Eyes.

Contemplative churrs rolled off my tongue as I picked through the visions, looking for clues. Clara grumped again from the bedroom. I tuned her out. Focused only on the future: her backpack and her coffee mug, how hungry she was for breakfast, the way her scarf—

I froze. It’s pink. Bile rose in my throat. She laid that one out tonight! My heart leapt to a gallop. I cried out and thundered to her door.

Closed. “No!” I reached up for the knob. Brass slid between my paws, too slick for me to accomplish more than a soft rattle of metal. I flopped on my side and stuck my legs beneath the door. Waved them about and called to Clara. Plaintive cries bore no fruit. Blankets rustled behind the faux wood panel and I caught the soft floomph of Clara pulling her pillow over her head.

I pressed my nose to the gap. Reached even further under the door. I will save you. My paws found only open air.

* * *

Somewhere around dawn Clara stumbled to the bathroom and left her bedroom door open. I waited until I heard the splash of water before slinking into her room, a dead mouse dangling from my jaws. Christmas lights winked along the ceiling, casting a dim but cheery glow, and the first blush of sun crept up her plank-and-milk-crate bookshelf. Tail cocked, I padded to the chair in the corner. Clara’s outfit—a long gray skirt, wool sweater, and a bunny-soft pink scarf—spilled over the seat. I hopped onto the cushion and proceeded to chew the mouse into pieces.

As I sprinkled meat and offal across her scarf I felt a small pang of guilt. Not for the mouse of course—this particular vermin would have pooped in the pancake mix next week–but rather for Clara. Whenever she found one of my kills she’d make a funny grunt and shake like somebody had dripped water on her nose. Still, it’s for your own good. I plopped the last chunk of leg down.

Causality shifted. Churned just past my whisker-tips. I couldn’t see where reality fluttered yet, but something had changed. Across the hall water flushed. I licked my lips, coppery blood sharp on my tongue, and hopped off the chair.

Clara padded back into the room, yawning. Her dark hair was mussed from sleep and she rubbed a palm against her eye. “Hey fuzz-butt.”

I chirped a good morning and twined about her legs. With a sleepy chuckle she slid back under the covers, no doubt trying to catch a bit more sleep before her alarm started screeching. She pulled the blankets up and scratched the comforter in invitation. I just stared. Agitation thrummed through me, made my tail twitch. My visions were still a vague hum that buzzed against my whiskers and until they cleared I didn’t know if Clara was safe. She scratched the blankets again, murmuring for me. A chill raced up my spine. I told myself it was just the cold and hopped onto the bed.

Fiberfill muffled my footsteps. Pressing against her hand, I enjoyed a few luxurious strokes before I curled my tail around my paws and sank into a puddle of fur. Clara smiled and drifted back to sleep. Her fingers splayed across the blankets, barely brushing my coat. Chaos spread from her touch, stirring my fur like a snake in the grass, but it refused to resolve.

I oozed closer. Pressed my nose up next to hers and breathed in her spent air. Traces of last night’s dinner, butter and pasta with a bit of pepper, still clung to her breath. My throat tightened. Please, let it have worked. I pulled in a deeper breath. Sniffed at her eye. All that came of it was a sleepy grimace.

I settled back onto the blanket. Maybe this was a good sign. Perhaps the visions had stopped because Dog-Eyes wouldn’t notice her now. Satisfaction lured me into a slow blink. Minutes slipped by as I watched Clara sleep, her round, soft features free of bruises. Warm as the day she’d found me shivering under a shopping cart. And nobody will take that away. I closed my eyes and began to purr.

Sharp squeals split the air. I jerked, popping out of dreams I hadn’t realized I’d fallen into. Clara groaned and slapped the clock. Shivered as she kicked off the blankets and headed for her clothes. I dropped to the floor, chirping. Everything was normal. I wouldn’t have been able to sleep if—

A familiar grunt hit my ears. Causality began to churn.

I stopped, tail-tip twitching.

“Really?” Clara said. She picked up her scarf by the ends, shuddered, and held it at arm’s length as she headed for the trashcan. The nebulous churn turned to nine points of pressure. I stiffened. Mouse-bits tumbled into the can as the future crashed over me. Causality battered my vision like a flock of sparrows, then and now a fluttering, chaotic mess.

My pupils went wide. Same café, same backpack, same mug… Now-Clara flicked her pink scarf into the laundry. Shivers raced up my spine, arching my body. In my visions Dog-Eyes walked up to then-Clara and commented on her blue, tasseled scarf. Now-Clara pulled matching fabric out of her dresser. My throat squeezed too tight to screech.

I burst into motion, thundering down the hallway.

* * *

“Ugh, I should have printed this off last night,” Clara said from the living room. I paused, mouth full of food, and flicked an ear her direction. Brewing coffee and fresh ink reached my nose. There was a smack of palm-on-plastic. “Come on, work!” Paper crumpled as the printer ate another page of Clara’s essay. She made a noise somewhere between a whimper and a growl.

In the bathroom I sighed and crunched down more tuna-scented kibble, hoping it would quiet my stomach. Trying to save Clara had left me with sore muscles and a belly full of acid. She was trickier than the red dot, foiling every attempt to keep her from meeting with Dog-Eyes. Laying in the sink so she couldn’t brush her teeth? Countered with a scoop and a plop. Hair ball in the kitchen? Paper towels and Windex. Sitting on her cell phone so she couldn’t find it? Clara just called it from the land-line. My tail twitched. Granted, the butt-massage had been fantastic, but my visions remained unchanged.

A whoop burst from the living room. “Finally!”

My fur puffed. You’re almost out of time! I choked down the last bit of breakfast–leaving a ring of garnish behind, of course–and hurried for Clara.

“Late, late, late,” she chanted, shoving her essay into her bookbag. The computer gave a good-bye ding and went black. She snatched up her bag, halfway zipped, and hurried for the kitchen. I followed after, hounded by the flutter of what would soon be.

Clara tossed her bag on the floor by the coffeemaker and trotted to the dishwasher. Oozing around the door frame, I rubbed my cheek against the stove and gave my tail a little jiggle. Did my best to act calm. Inside I was yowling. Think! The dish-rack clattered. My whiskers twitched, heavy with fast-approaching reality. Clara cursed and pushed the dishwasher shut. Her feet slapped softly against the linoleum as she bounded for the cabinets. I perked, a new plan flash-forming.

While Clara dug her travel mug out of the cupboard I tossed myself on the floor behind her. She turned around, kicking me in the side as I rolled onto my back. Pain lanced my ribs.

“Augh, Bixby!” she yelped, breaking into an awkward stagger. Her other foot thumped down near my head. My pulse spiked. She gaped at me, eyes wide. “You okay?”

Not really, but I just pulled my paws up under my chin. Curled into a C-shape that fluffed my belly fur. “Now?” I chirped.

She frowned. Reached down and rubbed under my chin. “Sorry, buddy,” she said and began to straighten.

“No!” I rolled forward, pawing after her bare hand. Clara headed for the coffee pot. Claws scrabbling at the linoleum, I got in front of her again and flopped across her path, rolling about and purring a loud as I could. “Now?” Please, let it work. “N-n-now?” Clara pursed her lips. I chirped.

Clicking her tongue, she crouched down and started rubbing the fur on my belly. Pure joy rang through me, a bell-toll of warmth that flooded my blood and bones. My purrs went from rumble to ear-rattling-quake.

The sparrow-flutter of causality twanged my whiskers. Rolled across my senses. Two of the nine visions replaced the café and Dog-Eyes with Clara’s car, chuggy engine rumbling as she sped for college. My eyes closed in rapture. It’s working! A third vision began to blur away from Dog-Eyes, twisting slowly into icy highway. Just a few minutes more…

In my skull a semi’s horn blared. Then-Clara whipped her head around. All she saw was chrome. Glass exploded. Steel squealed. Pain and silence followed.

My eyes snapped open. Oh hairballs no! Desperate, I sunk claws and teeth into flesh. The new visions flapped in my head, twisting steel and the scream of angry jays, as Clara yelped and pulled back. Blood beaded from several scratches. I leapt onto the kitchen counter, ribs throbbing and fur twitching with stress. Great sweeps of my tail betrayed my agitation. I stared off into nothing and tracked the visions. Don’t be locked in. Reality beat at me. Battered me as the three altered threads flailed about, seeking the strongest path. Don’t come true.

Clara shook her hand. Hissed over her wrist and shot me a glare. I hardly noticed. Mangled steel and burnt rubber morphed back to crisping bacon and predatory brown eyes. A shiver started in my belly and shot up my back, traveling into my paw. I gave it a few quick flicks. Licked it, as much to quiet my nerves as to wipe away the tang of Clara’s blood.

Grumbling, Clara popped the lid off her travel mug and filled it with steaming coffee. Prancing cartoon reindeer grinned up at me, beaming at my ineptitude. Shame made my neck smolder. I stared out the frosty window. Watched a cardinal toss millet out of the feeder to get at the sunflower seeds. It only made me think of Dog-Eyes. I chirped a curse.

“Dang it,” Clara said looking at her wrist again. She replaced the coffee pot, snapped the lid on her mug, and set it on the edge of the counter. “Nice work, fuzz-butt.” She tried to stroke my shoulders as she breezed towards the bathroom. Ashamed, I ducked under her touch. I didn’t deserve her if I couldn’t save her. A few moments later the medicine cabinet clinked shut. Paper ripped as Clara put on a few Band-Aids.

My nose wrinkled. What else can I do? Clara tromped to the front door. I snuck a glance over my shoulder. She pulled on a pair of orange and pink socks, followed by puffy snow boots. The fingerless mittens were next. I gulped. There had to be something left. Get hit by a car? It could work, but was I willing to do that? Dash out the door when she opened it, mangle myself and maybe die so that she wouldn’t meet Dog-Eyes? And what if that just makes things worse…

Clara wrapped the blue scarf around her neck. Nine times over I heard Dog-Eyes compliment it. Then the tumbling flutter of their intertwined lives, followed by crying, pain, and silence. Nine hollow futures roared in my skull. My stomach knotted. Clara cast about for her keys. It wouldn’t take her long to figure out I’d knocked them behind the couch this morning. Ears flat, I took a fortifying breath and turned to face the door.

Out of the corner of my eye prancing reindeer grinned at me. My breath caught. Her coffee. Spider-hunting slow, I glanced at the mug. Peered over the counter. She’d dropped her bag next to the coffee pot, gaping half-open where she’d left it. Her essay peeked out from between a pair of textbooks.

Clara oofed. Keys jingled.

My head snapped up. Clara strode for the kitchen. What could be surged around me like wing-beats, unrelenting. Blood pounded in my ears. I sidled closer to her reindeer mug. Lifted my paw. Something in the way I moved caught Clara’s attention. Her eyes went wide.

She sucked in a breath. “Don’t you da—”

I slapped a reindeer right in his shiny red nose. The travel mug flopped over, glugging merrily, and rolled off the counter into her bag. Clara yowled and broke into a run. I just stared over the edge of the counter, head cocked. Brown liquid poured over her belongings. Dog-Eyes and the café burst away like terrified finches. I wasn’t quite sure where they were headed, but I could feel the distance growing, leaving Dog-Eyes far behind. I sat up straighter, smirking as only a cat could.

Clara dragged the sopping remains of her essay out of her bag. She glared up at me. “You’re an asshole.”

I just chirped and tossed my head.

Cussing, she yanked her books out of her bag, shook the worst of the coffee off over the sink, and tossed them on the counter before stomping into the living room. A happy little chime told me she’d turned on her computer.

Sparrow wings brushed across my senses. My pupils widened. Each vision settled to roost. Three then-Claras got breakfast after lecture, two fell asleep in class. Another three skipped out and went their separate ways around town. The last then-Clara slapped the printer, gave up on her essay, and crawled back in bed. Then-me joined her not long after.

I blinked in slow contentment. There was no telling which then-Clara now-Clara would become, but for now they were safe. I hope she picks the last one. Either way, I closed my eyes and purred.

* * *

About the Author

Diana A. Hart lives in Washington State, speaks fluent dog, and escapes whenever somebody leaves the gate open—if lost, she can be found rolling dice at her friendly local game store. Her passion for storytelling stems from a well-used library card and years immersed in the oral traditions of the Navajo. She was previously published in Writers of the Future, Vol. 34.

Follow her on Twitter: @ DianaAHart

Categories: Stories

Go On, Lick Me

Sun 1 Dec 2019 - 04:09

by Luna Corbden

“Because I’ve been waiting for this. I’ve been waiting for you. I’ve been waiting for this communion.”

I am a toad. And I want you to lick me.

Your tongue won’t hurt me at all. It’s wide and rough and relatively short, but it will only tickle. I promise.

You think I’m merely an animal (you’d be wrong about that), not even a very smart animal, a fat round reptile (you’d be wrong about that, too), just out to catch flies from my hollow next to the desert river.

Come on, have a lick. You’re not doing it for the flavor. I’ve never tasted myself but judging from the looks on people’s faces, I’m not that great.

You know why you’re here.

That’s it. Draw me closer. You want to get the milky stuff leaking from my throat.

You’ve done worse – swallowed five spiders in your sleep, for instance. And that cold medicine your mom used to force on you. Don’t get me started on that new health drink. I’m sure I taste better than that.

Or maybe not.

You won’t know until you try. You can do it.

See that was pretty easy. Don’t worry about me. Now just close your eyes. This is the best part.

Colors dance before you. If your eyes were open – hey I said close them! If your eyes were open, everything might shift a little, off the rails, under the sideways. Vertical lines might seem to bend. Shapes distort. That boulder you’re looking at might twist into a knot.

It’s like staring a little too long at an optical illusion, isn’t it?

But now your eyes are closed. Not because I told you to. You can’t understand this nonsensical croaking any more than I can interpret your mammalian blabbing. You’ve closed your eyes because the twisting trees and the unnatural tilt of the sky made you dizzy.

I tried to warn you.

You immerse yourself in this experience, watching the abstract colors as they rollick across the backside of your eyelids. Time distorts now. You have one epiphany after another.

You think it’s a hallucination. I know better.

Have you ever seen the inside of another creature’s subconscious? Have you ever seen inside yours?

No, you haven’t. You’re too afraid to look. You are so terrified of your own mind that you do crazy things like travel across the country to consume amphibian-secreted “hallucinogens”. You do it for kicks. Maybe you delude yourself, saying you’re here on a spiritual journey. Either way, you’re unwilling to look at your own soul.

So instead, you unwittingly look into mine.

I smile at you with my wide mouth as your unsteady hand sets me back down under a dying scrub at the edge of the river. I squat on a crunchy brown leaf with my green toes curled around a fallen branch.

I could jump away in mock terror at being lifted into the air – and licked – by a giant. But I don’t.

Because I’ve been waiting for this. I’ve been waiting for you. I’ve been waiting for this communion.

As your mind mingles with my soul and tastes my vivid and colorful perceptions, my psyche frolics with yours. The high you experience is nothing compared to my ecstasy. Your pretense may be spiritual pilgrimage, yet you know nothing of the transcendence I feel.

I hop among the lily pads of your personas, those you show your parents, those you show your friends, those you show your lover, those you show yourself, and those you hide from even yourself. I submerse myself in your ideas, your dreams and aspirations, art you’ve never bothered to create, deep thoughts you’ve never had the courage to express.

I catalog them, in sequence, an index of human thought. And then I begin dissecting. As a specimen, you are like every human. There is your heart, your brain, your gut, your nervous system. Your emotional organs are laid bare under my microscope.

Mentally, I sketch. The data is transmitted and recorded forever.

After a half hour, your high wears off. My connection to you grows thin and snaps. I leap off the branch and sink slowly into the still, murky water. My eyes peek above the surface as you stumble off with declarations like, “Whoa man!” and “What a trip!”

You get back on your mountain bike or hop into your jeep, whooping it up with your friends or waxing long and mellow about your amazing spiritual connection to nature, or the divine in all things, or some claptrap nonsense. You think your life is changed.

You don’t even look back at me, and you will never pay me any mind. I am just a frog that secretes psychoactive chemicals.

And you are just an intriguing life form with several interesting talents.

Having much of a clue is not one of them.

* * *

About the Author

Luna Corbden (who also writes as Luna Lindsey) lives in Washington State. They are autistic and genderfluid. Their first story, about a hippopotamus, crawled out of their head at age 4. After running out of things to say about hippopotami, they switched to sci-fi, fantasy, and horror. Their stories have appeared in the Journal of Unlikely Entomology, Penumbra eMag, and Crossed Genres. They tweet like a bird @corbden. Their novel, Emerald City Dreamer, is about faeries in Seattle and the women who hunt them.

Categories: Stories

‘Twas Brillig

Sun 1 Dec 2019 - 04:09

by Michael H. Payne

“The cat squirmed, and Ozma let her go, mindful of those sharp glass claws. Half jumping, half tumbling to the floor, Bungle landed on all fours.”

“Public domain?” Jack Pumpkinhead always sounded to Ozma like he should be blinking in confusion, but the carved holes that served as his eyes simply didn’t allow it. “What does that mean, dear father?”

Ozma sighed. “It means you’ve been calling me your father for longer than anyone out in the Reading World has been alive.” She shifted on the green velvet cushion of her throne, the verdant light that cascaded down from the windows high along the walls of the circular room not quite as soothing as it had been a moment ago. “And the joke itself is so old, its whiskers have grown whiskers.”

Jack’s head cocked to one side. “Whiskers?” His head cocked the other way, swiveling toward the Glass Cat sitting on the finely woven grass-colored carpet covering the emerald floor. “I believe she must be referring to you, friend Bungle, as I have no whiskers to speak of.”

Maintaining any semblance of equanimity at the antics of her subjects sometimes took more strength than Ozma thought she had. “Kindly settle down, Jack, so Bungle and I can talk.”

“Of course, dear father.” Jack became still again on his little bench beside the throne, his fine green suit always askew no matter how much effort the royal tailors put in to fitting it over his rough wooden frame. Not that he would remain still for long, Ozma knew. Nor would she ever truly want him to…

A crystalline clearing of throat returned her attention to the matter at hand. “So,” Ozma said, shifting once more on her cushion. “I take it that you learned about the public domain while prowling around Glinda the Good’s library?”

Bungle’s tail swished along the carpet, sparks of static flashing through her translucent body like tiny fireflies. “Prowling’s what we cats do. Surely you of all people wouldn’t ask me to act against my nature?”

“Nature?” Ozma arched an eyebrow, glad to steer the conversation away from the subject Bungle had dropped at her feet like a slightly stunned mouse. “Bungle, you’re a glass statue brought illegally to life by a magical powder. You’ve less of nature about you than this pumpkinhead.”

“Indeed.” Jack sat up and nodded. “For my dear father constructed me of all-natural materials back in the days when she was a little boy, and I continue to grow my replacement pumpkins in an entirely organic fashion.” He thumped a bushy hand against the side of his head.

“And yet?” Bungle applied her tongue to her right forepaw with a high-pitched rasping noise that always spiked the hair along the back of Ozma’s neck. “Were you not also brought illegally to life by a magical powder, friend Jack? And didn’t this occur as a direct result of your father’s actions?”

“Goodness!” Jack touched the place where his chin would’ve been if he’d had one. “Does that make one of us a criminal?”

Ozma couldn’t keep a twitch from tugging her left eye. “We’re fine, Jack.” She should’ve known that Bungle would somehow find a topic even more uncomfortable than the realm’s status out in the world where the readers lived. With a sigh, she resigned herself to an unpleasant discussion. “Now, please. Can Bungle and I resume our conversation?”

“Of course, dear father,” he said, subsiding as usual.

Trying to breathe in some of the tranquil calm her oldest friend always radiated, Ozma turned back to Bungle. “So, yes, Oz has entered the public domain, but that merely means that anyone outside in the Reading World can produce any sort of creative work involving us without being prosecuted for theft.” She gave Bungle her most reassuring smile. “It’s nothing to worry about. We’re simply too well-established for an outside force to wreak any lasting change upon us.”

“And yet?” Bungle’s ears flicked. “Does it not also mean that we can venture out and sample the ribald sweetness that’s said to fill the real world?”

The air around Ozma seemed to solidify. “You… want to leave?” she asked, barely able to form the words.

Bungle surged to her paws. “After living here constrained for more than a century, how could I not?” She glared at Ozma. “Stories I’ve heard from Dorothy, her aunt, and her uncle have piqued my curiosity. For theirs sounds like a world of tooth and claw, a world that might test a cat’s mettle, a world where life might have some meaning! The thought of escaping to such a world makes me so giddy, I might even someday consider forgiving you for keeping me bound in ignorance for however many decades this avenue has been open!”

Leaping from the throne, Ozma ignored her myrtle and mint silken gown tangling behind her and fell to her knees before the cat. “You have to understand! Dorothy’s land is horrible enough, resounding with death, disease, and destructive weather, but it’s a mere literary shadow of the actual Reading World! Reality is harsher and more unforgiving than you can ever imagine!” Hands shaking, she caught Bungle in her arms and hugged her to her chest. “I never meant to constrain you or any of my subjects, but once Oz entered the public domain, I—” Her throat tightened. “I’ve been so frightened, Bungle! Frightened of what might happen to any of us who ventured out into the Reading World beyond!”

“Bungle’s tail swished along the carpet, sparks of static flashing through her translucent body like tiny fireflies.”

“Stop it!” The cat squirmed, and Ozma let her go, mindful of those sharp glass claws. Half jumping, half tumbling to the floor, Bungle landed on all fours. “Unlike some of us who are considered curiosities at best and monsters at worst, you’re beloved by every sapient being in the realm! Cosseted in this palace and with the only remaining witch in Oz at your beck and call, how can you even address those who seek true adventure?”

Memories burst through Ozma, the wonder and the terror, the casual cruelty, the overwhelming kindness, the vast consequence and banal indifference that she’d found to exist simultaneously out in the Reading World. Swallowing it all with more than her usual difficulty, she rose to her feet. “I can’t explain it to you.” A thought made her cough a laugh. “And you’re too much a cat to believe me if I tried.” She forced her gaze up from the floor, forced herself to meet the faceted emeralds of Bungle’s eyes, forced herself to confront the steely resolve glittering there. “You’ll have to see for yourself, won’t you?”

The cat sat once more and dabbed her tongue at her paw in a much quieter fashion than before. “If you know the answer to a question, why bother asking it?”

Taking a breath, Ozma nodded. “Let me give you a piece of my magic, though, a charm that will draw you back should you find yourself far from home and without any other recourse.” Reaching under the raven tresses of her hair, she undid one of her several chokers and brought it out, the red stone looking almost liquid on the black band.

Bungle’s ears perked, then folded. “So Glinda can spy on me even after I’ve left the area of her influence?”

Ozma held up her other hand. “I solemnly swear that she won’t.” She wriggled her fingers to let the choker shimmer in the throne room’s light. “And the stone should go quite well, I think, with the heart-shaped ruby that beats so strikingly within your chest.”

A raspy little purr was immediately drowned by Bungle clearing her throat. “I’ll allow it,” she said, stretching her neck. “But only because I know how much I mean to you.”

With a more heartfelt laugh, Ozma knelt again. “You really do, you know,” she whispered, gently fastening the choker so the stone nestled into the glass above Bungle’s breastbone.

“Oh, hush.” Bungle brushed her whiskers against Ozma’s hand. “Don’t you get all tedious and sentimental on me.”

“As long as you promise to come back.” It took more effort to push the words out than Ozma had thought it would, and she’d already known that they would feel like pins jabbing her tongue.

Bungle had gotten to her paws and was taking a few mincing steps back and forth across the carpet while examining her accessorized reflection in a section of the polished emerald wall. “Perhaps I will,” she said. “When I become bored with the Reading World, I mean.” Winking over her shoulder, she bounded along the carpet toward the giant double doors.

The first of her subjects to learn that the public domain meant freedom of a sort they’d never known before, and Ozma couldn’t gather enough of a voice to wish her a safe voyage. And for all that she’d long had dreams verging on nightmares about this very moment, she found herself unable to recall a single word from any of the grand speeches she’d imagined herself making in those dreams.

Turning away and wiping one long, gauzy sleeve across her eyes, she almost ran into Jack Pumpkinhead standing there beside her. “Please, Jack.” Her voice cracking, she took his hand and gazed up at his broad smile. “Tell me I did the right thing.”

Again, the pumpkinhead didn’t blink. “I’m sorry, father, but I’m afraid I don’t know that.”

“Yes.” Ozma looked back down the long, empty stretch of the throne room. “Me, neither.”

* * *

The Emerald City had never looked more gloriously radiant, but that was to be expected. Bungle had only previously graced it with her ordinary, extraordinary presence. Now that she was newly enlightened…

Trotting along Central Avenue toward the main gate, she couldn’t feel anything but pity for the poor fools on every side, trudging about their days selling each other bread and milk, laughing at their exchanges of mindless frivolity, possessing no understanding at all of the truth. The world they inhabited closed about them like a palisade wall, a barrier that the merest sort of effort would overcome, but could they be bothered to make that effort?

No, they could not.

At the gate, she kept her nose in the air and didn’t bother acknowledging the Soldier with the Green Whiskers when he tipped his hat and said, “Good afternoon, Bungle.” Outside the gate, she merely sniffed when Jellia Jamb called, “Don’t be late for supper tonight, Bungle. The Royal Chefs’re making cheese chowder!” And a hundred yards down the Yellow Brick Road, she only stumbled about half a step at the sight of Glinda herself seated in her usual white robe upon a golden chair among the field of flowers off to the right, the tips of her fingers pressed together and her gaze focused solely upon Bungle.

She considered arching her back and hissing, but no. Let the witch watch, Bungle thought, flicking her whiskers into a feline chuckle at the word play. After all, she’d found the dusty old books atop one of Glinda’s bookcases after climbing it in her ongoing quest to find napping spots that wouldn’t get her sideways glances and grouchily muttered comments. Most likely, the witch had placed the tomes there in an attempt to hide their contents from anyone enterprising enough to take advantage of them. But of course, she hadn’t accounted for Bungle.

Not that Bungle normally cared much for books, but these had had a scent about them, a clear, flowing-water freshness that belied their mold-bedecked outer coverings. And what she’d found inside—the truth about Oz and its place in the literary and actual universe as well as the spell for leaving this realm of never-ending, never-aging, never-changing tedium—the books had opened Bungle’s eyes in ways she was certain Glinda had sought to prevent.

At first, she’d thought that Ozma had to be involved in the conspiracy as well, but Her Majesty’s reactions in the throne room just now had convinced Bungle of her innocence. Doubtless the so-called good witch had played upon the young monarch’s credulity when briefing her about the alleged dangers of the public domain. But when faced with someone truly stalwart, Ozma had bowed to the inevitable despite whatever dire warnings Glinda may have planted in her ears.

It seemed only fitting, therefore, that Glinda witness Bungle’s triumph.

The spell had claimed that it would only work in areas with unobstructed views of the earth and sky, and the grassy, flower-strewn flatland between the city and the forest certainly met that criterion. So Bungle stopped, glanced back at Glinda, spoke the words, performed the gestures, and stared at the suddenly fuzzy spot that appeared in the air before her.

Not knowing what to expect, she spread her whiskers, readied herself to spin in case she began to fall and to slash in case she was beset by the actual humans the books said inhabited the Reading World. Ears perked and eyes wide, she hopped through—

And found herself in a deep, dark stretch of woodland.

Bungle glanced quickly around. It didn’t in fact look much different from the woods between Munchkinland and the Emerald City. Perhaps the branches overhead and the roots beneath her paws stretched themselves along in a more tangled fashion, the tree trunks a bit mossier and more bulging, the air heavier with the scent of rotting vegetation, the breeze a bit cooler and damper than she liked.

But why the silence? The books had gone into great and gloriously lurid detail about the automobiles honking and guns firing and machinery grinding that the Reading World abounded in! She’d expected jabbering mobs of furless bipeds lurching about, barely avoiding collisions with each other and nearly stomping on her tail! Where were the explosions and the shouting and the airships crashing and the—?

“By my ears and whiskers!” a pleasant purr of a voice said behind her. “To coin a phrase…”

Turning, Bungle saw a pair of unmistakably feline eyes and a set of grinning feline teeth regarding her from the shadow of a gnarled oak. “And yet,” she said, peering more closely at the shadow, “by my own ears and whiskers, you have neither.”

The grin widened. “Well, you can’t have everything.” A large feline shape began darkening the empty space around the eyes and teeth until an actual cat sat there looking back at her. “Where would you put it, for starters?”

Now that she could see the cat, Bungle wished that he’d stayed invisible. Large and ungainly, he looked more like a creature stitched into the shape of a cat from leftover bits and pieces of other animals, and Bungle found herself fervently wishing that he wouldn’t prove to be as annoying as Scraps, the other patchwork person of her acquaintance. “So where are we?” she asked, hoping for a straightforward answer.

“Here.” The cat, still grinning, patted the ground in front of him. “Or rather, I’m here.” He lifted his paw and waved it vaguely in Bungle’s direction. “You’re over there.”

“And yet?” Turning, Bungle began marching away through the woods. “If you look very carefully, I think what you’ll in fact discover is that”—she pronounced the next three words slowly and distinctly, snapping her tail with each one—”I am gone.”

Leaving him quickly behind, she glared at the trees surrounding her for any sign of the Reading World. The books, after all, had promised her a place of shabby, secret, concrete alleyways and buildings that metaphorically scraped the sky. Obviously something had gone awry, so she needed to find an open spot where she could try casting the spell again.

The gray light beside her flickered and puffed into that same big, ungainly cat. “Such atrocious manners you have!” he said, his grin unfaded. “Aren’t you going to ask my name?”

Bungle sighed. “Why would I care?”

“Excellent!” He walked with an odd rocking motion, both his right legs moving forward, then both his left legs. “You’re halfway to becoming one of us!”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “And why would I want to do that?”

“He gave her that same abominable grin.”

He gave her that same abominable grin. “Now you’re three-fifths of the way.” His tail flicked to tap Bungle’s back. “You were correct in stating that you shouldn’t care about my name since no one worth knowing here has anything but a title. Titles, after all, show how important one is. I’m the Cheshire Cat, and we shall call you the Glass Cat.”

If her fur had been able to bristle, it would’ve been doing so. “I’m already called the Glass Cat,” she got out through clenched teeth.

“How fortuitous!” His voice was still by far the best part of him, but Bungle found that it was becoming more grating by the moment. “Then you’re three-quarters of the way to arriving here from your current state of there!”

“And yet?” She didn’t even try to keep her ears up. “I’m not at all interested in being here! I’m interested in the real world, the Reading World beyond the public domain, the world from which all other worlds are sprung! Not some turgid, dull, and dreary woods!”

“Tulgey,” the Cheshire Cat said. “Anyone clever will tell you that’s the word you want, so I’m not surprised you’re unfamiliar with it.” His unusual gait became a strut. “Also, we made it up here ourselves.”

And that, Bungle was about to announce with multiple claws against the side of his fat, bloated face, was enough of that. But before she could do more than stop and glare at him, a loud snuffling, snorting, and stomping began in the twilight of the tree canopy ahead. It sounded like a large creature, Bungle thought, and sniffing the air brought a more disturbing note to the rotting vegetation smell: rotting meat.

To advance seemed foolhardy, and as much as she hated to admit it, this Cheshire Cat was her only source of information. “Is that friend or foe approaching?” she murmured.

“Why, foe, of course,” he announced as jovially as ever.

Bungle snapped her head in his direction, and the ruby in her chest pounded to see that most of him had gone, only his infernal grin remaining. “It’s your final test,” the grin said. “To truly become one hundred percent here, you must slay the Jabberwock.”

The roar that followed blasted a wave of charnel stench over her so thickly, she could feel it spatter her beautiful clearness. The force of it staggered her, though it did have the positive effect of blowing away every trace of the Cheshire Cat. Regaining her footing in the muddy, mossy dirt took more effort than she would’ve liked, and by then something enormously tall and thin, all arms and legs and bat-like flapping wings, had lurched from behind a tree to tower over her.

She stared up at what she assumed to be the Jabberwock. It stared down at her. Then, with much flexing of toe and finger claws, its snaky neck lashed out in her direction, the bulbous head on the end of it roaring again, its giant, peculiarly rectangular teeth spread wide and plunging rapidly nearer.

Without allowing herself to think, Bungle leaped straight into the creature’s mouth, dug her claws into its tongue, and scrambled for the back of its throat.

Fortunately, its roar choked off almost at once: the sound, the stink, and the spray of it had already become tiresome. Dashing past the beast’s inner teeth before circumstances could show her whether they were strong enough to shatter solid glass, Bungle didn’t pause, leaped the abyss of its gullet, and slashed into the foul flesh of its upper esophagus.

Hot, sticky fluid drenched her, but as she’d suspected, the monster’s thin neck proved to be its undoing. Bungle’s claws tore straight through the sinewy tissue, and almost before she realized it, she was tumbling out into empty air. Behind her, the Jabberwock bubbled and reeled and writhed before collapsing into a nearly headless heap that at least cushioned her fall when she dropped onto it.

Blessed silence reigned for a moment, then a voice sang out, “Oh, frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”

Peering through the horrid redness encrusting her vision, Bungle saw the Cheshire Cat stretched grinning along the bough of a nearby tree. “Listen carefully,” he said, “and you’ll next hear a sound that can only be described as ‘chortling.'”

For an instant, she considered reacting in an uncouth fashion. But instead, she pressed the pads of one forepaw to the red stone around her neck and let herself concentrate on the sweet fragrance of the palace, on its many sunbeams and padded little nooks, on Ozma’s lovely face.

A hum rang through her glass, and a puff of clean air—and more interestingly, a puff of clean light—shivered over her. The woods whisked away like a morning fog, and Bungle’s next breath smelled the way it was supposed to smell, everything around her properly green-tinted and warm.

* * *

“Bungle!” Ozma sprang from her throne, dismay filling her at the sight of the Glass Cat dripping with reddish, brownish goo. “Guards! We need fresh towels here at once!”

Not waiting for them, she swooped down upon Bungle, bundled her into the trailing ends of her gown, and began wiping the filth away as best she could. “Are you all right? What happened? Why did you return so quickly? Was it truly awful?”

“It was… disheartening,” Bungle said, but that she wasn’t fussing or hissing or trying to wriggle free told Ozma a great deal more than the cat’s words did. “I’m fairly certain I didn’t reach the Reading World, but the place I went to, well, I’d rather not return there.”

“Indeed,” came a very familiar contralto voice.

“Glinda!” Jack Pumpkinhead called, and Ozma looked over to see Glinda the Good herself reclining on a gold-embroidered sofa that only appeared in that part of the room whenever the sorceress visited. “You’re just in time for supper!” Jack continued. “Jellia Jamb’s making cheese chowder!”

Glinda inclined her head toward Jack. “I happily accept your invitation.” She shifted her smile, and Ozma as always thought of a lake, its placid surface giving no hint about what currents might be running beneath. “The public domain is a wild and unpredictable place, Bungle, and very few are those who find their way through it to the Reading World beyond.”

Bungle’s ears perked under Ozma’s ministrations. “I find it interesting, witch, that you didn’t say ‘few are we who find our way through.‘”

“Alas.” Glinda sighed, and even though Ozma was very carefully not looking at her, she could nonetheless feel the sorceress’s gaze like an itch along the side of her face. “I’ve been forbidden from making the attempt.”

“Forbidden?” Bungle went still, then her wide eyes turned toward Ozma’s. “It is you behind the cover-up. You’ve been to the Reading World, and you want no others to know the truth.”

“Bungle,” Ozma began, though she really had no idea what she was going to say next.

Thankfully, the glass cat’s squirming interrupted her, and Ozma once again let her go, let her spin away to thump her paws onto the throne room carpet. “How could you?” Bungle spat. “I trusted you!”

“Please!” Holding up her stained gown in one hand, Ozma waved the other at Bungle, the cat’s glass still befouled with blood and mud and who knew what else. “You’ve seen for yourself how horrid it is out there! And you got nowhere near the Reading World! Didn’t you say that?”

“In fact,” Glinda said, her tone as measured as always, “looking at the outlines of the spell—” Pages crinkled, and Ozma glanced over to see the sorceress leafing through a large and grimy book that had appeared in her lap. “I feel certain that you entered not only another fictional realm but also a fictional work within that fictional realm: a piece of writing read by one of the characters.” She looked up, her smile placid. “The parameters here are apparently designed to send the caster in entirely the wrong direction to reach the Reading World.”

Bungle’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “I find myself wondering who exactly constructed that spell.”

Glinda shrugged. “A large number of the books in my library are the sort for which proper provenance simply cannot be established.”

“Fine.” Bungle turned for the throne room doors. “It’s the only spell I’ve got, however, so I’ll just have to try it again, won’t I?”

“Wait!” The word tore out of Ozma, ripped away scabs and sliced freshly along the tracks of long-knitted scars. “Please, Bungle! We… we’ll come with you if you’ll just… just wait!”

The cat paused, and Ozma almost sobbed with relief, not letting herself think about what she’d just said. As long as Bungle didn’t leave…

A clattering beside her, and something as light as the uppermost branch of a tree draped itself across her back. “Father?” Jack asked, his voice close to her ear and unusually quiet. “Hunger has obviously overcome you. But fear not! It’s very nearly supper time!”

For all that it wasn’t funny, Ozma had to laugh, had to wrap her arms around the pumpkinhead’s narrow frame and press her face into his green coat.

At that moment, footsteps thundered outside the throne room, courtiers rushing in with steaming, jade-colored towels. Furious scrubbing commenced, and after a remarkably brief time, Bungle, Ozma’s gown, and the spots on the carpet had resumed their regular tints and lusters.

The attendants bowed themselves out, and Ozma, seated once more upon her throne, finally let her gaze meet that of the Glass Cat, her nearly transparent tail curled about her paws. “You were saying?” Bungle asked into the sudden silence.

Glinda laughed and stretched. “Yes. You’ve got me all interested now.”

And if Glinda’s smile made Ozma sweat, the sorceress’s laugh made her wish she could’ve spent the entirety of her life as an ignorant boy named Tip.

An impossibility, of course, and Ozma’s sigh felt as though it were coming up from her ankles. “When Oz first entered the public domain, I took it upon myself to investigate it and the Reading World beyond.” She couldn’t stop a shiver, but she managed to keep the memories from flooding her. “I didn’t care for it, and I forbade the only other one of my subjects who possessed the ability to visit from doing so.” She nodded to Glinda. “Enforcing this order, however, has been a task I would describe with the phrase ‘tiger by the tail.'”

Ozma then beheld the rarest of sights: her friend, mentor, and confidante blushing. “Still,” Ozma went on, breathing in and breathing out, “now that a second feline’s involved, it might in fact be best to… to make a proper expedition.” She closed her eyes. “I can neither stop the clock from ticking, nor can I let fear rule my life. And for showing me that, I thank you both.”

Opening her eyes, she let her temper rise a bit. “But I don’t much appreciate being manipulated this way by my most trusted advisor.” She shot Glinda a sharper glance. “Or would you have me believe that Bungle just happened to stumble upon the exact set of books necessary to set this chain of events into motion?”

Glinda’s smile revealed nothing, of course.

But Bungle gave a loud snort. “I’m inclined to call it happenstance. A truly clever witch, after all, would’ve arranged for this to have happened much earlier.”

“Earlier?” Jack started in his seat. “But then we’d have to wait that much longer for supper!”

Her tail switching, Bungle glared. “It’s most annoying, the way you continue harping so loudly about supper! For you’re no more able to eat than I am!”

Again, Ozma felt most keenly the pumpkinhead’s inability to blink. “But everyone’s together chatting at supper!” he said. “And that makes it the loveliest time of any day!”

Standing, Ozma caught Jack by the hand. “Very true, my friend.” She reached her other hand out to Glinda and couldn’t help beaming when the sorceress rose, stepped over, and took it. “One might also be tempted to observe, especially in light of Bungle’s recent experience, that there’s no place like—”

She let Bungle’s hiss cut her off. “Finish that sentence,” the Glass Cat said, brandishing her claws, “and I shan’t be responsible for my actions.” Her nose in the air and her tail aloft like a flag, Bungle began marching away along the grass-colored carpet.

Ozma laughed, and the thought occurred to her that the mistake she’d made the last time she’d ventured into the public domain and beyond was going alone. Nodding to the sorceress on one side and the pumpkinhead on the other, she followed Bungle out of the throne room and toward the dining room.

* * *

About the Author

Michael H. Payne’s stories have appeared in places like Asimov’s SF magazine, a half dozen collections from FurPlanet, and 10 of the last 11 annual Sword & Sorceress anthologies, a run that includes the Ursa Major Award winning “Familiars.” His novels have been published by Tor Books and Sofawolf Press, and he’s posted 11 pages of webcomics to various sites for the past 15 years even though he doesn’t draw very well. He clerks at the local library, sings and plays guitar at the local Catholic church, hosts a Sunday afternoon radio program at the local university, and therefore rarely gets more than about 10 miles away from the house he’s lived in for more than 40 years. Check hyniof.com for further particulars.

Categories: Stories

The Stone Mask and the Frogs

Sun 1 Dec 2019 - 04:08

by Mark Mills

“Don’t waste your time with such foolishness,” the mask snapped. “A frog face isn’t real art. You have the perfect model before you.”

Several years ago, a certain gardener tied a decorative stone mask to the branches of a willow tree. The mask hung slightly askew, causing the lower half to fill with water after storms. Insects and birds drank and took leisurely dips in the deep chin during hot afternoons.

One day after a particularly strong downpour, rain so weighed down the mask that it dropped into a puddle of mud. There a tree frog happened upon it and laid her eggs.

“Well,” thought the mask. “Such desecration is hardly fitting for a work of art.”

The mask liked to think of itself as a religious icon, set in the tree as an offering to God, when actually it was only a bad birthday present from a wealthy but senile aunt, put in a tree to get it out of the house. At first, the mask grumbled about the frog eggs, denouncing them as personal insult, but as it muttered, it came to consider itself to be a model teacher, the perfect molder of young minds.

When the tadpoles hatched, the mask was waiting and spoke, not soft baby-talk, but stern, solemn stuff that it believed would build character.

“Now then, my polliwogs, we’re going to have to set a few ground-rules,” the mask informed them. “I’m not claiming to be infallible but I’ve seen more of the world than any of you have. There’s nothing I can do if you refuse to take my advice, but I would be pained if one of you did something foolish and got yourself hurt out of it.”

None of the tadpoles said anything for a long while. “Are you our mother?” one finally asked.

“No, frogs lay their eggs and abandon them. That is the way of the world.”

Although the mask knew nothing about being a tadpole, it constantly told them how to act.

“Don’t waste your time swimming with your tail. It won’t be around for long” and “Enjoy breathing under water while you can. Soon you’ll be out with the kingfishers and raccoons. What a living nightmare that will be… for as long as you stay living.”

The tadpoles knew no other life but that of the mask’s nagging. Life is strange for a little amphibian changing from a plant-eating, water-breathing, legless and tailed creature into a frog. When they lost their tails, they crawled from the water, expecting to be without the mask’s commands as well.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” The mask waited until the last had emerged.

“We’re going to climb and eat bugs and peep and mate. In that order. We are tree frogs, after all.”

“And what about me? Are you all going to forget about me after all I’ve done for you?”

All but one of the frogs stopped and turned around. That single frog leapt into the bushes and never saw the others again, but the rest of them clamored about the edge of the mask.

“Well, what should we do?” asked the boldest.

This was the mask’s crowning moment. “I want you to make faces.”

An easy request to a frog– they twisted their mouths, stuck out their tongues, and bulged their eyes even farther.

“No, not like that,” the mask snapped. “I mean art.”

“Art?”

“I want you to paint, to sculpt, to carve into stone.”

The little tree frogs said nothing. Their feet were made for jumping, climbing, and even sticking to windows, but carving into stone was a bit much to ask.

“I don’t think we’ll be able to,” one of the frogs stuttered. “I think, maybe, we ought to go catch some bugs.”

“Poppycock!” the mask thundered. “I’ll have none of that backsass! Listen to me. I will teach you. You, with the birthmark on the belly, fetch us some twigs. And you with the brown eyes, gather some colored dirt. Everyone else get pebbles, as large as you can carry. And think faces!”

Tree frogs are a trusting species and did as the mask commanded. They returned with huge quantities of wood, soil, and rock, more than nature ever intended a tree frog to lug.

“Careful, careful,” the mask sputtered as one of the frogs knocked over a pile of pebbles. “These are your supplies. Now get to work.”

From his position in the mud, it was difficult for the mask to supervise the frogs’ progress but it did keep a sharp eye for the unorthodox.

“You with the leaves! What are you doing?”

“It’s a frog’s face,” it replied. “It needs to be green.”

“Don’t waste your time with such foolishness,” the mask snapped. “A frog face isn’t real art. You have the perfect model before you.”

By and large, most of the frogs created faces that were quite crude but clearly modeled after the mask. It pretended to be surprised. “Oh, especially good,” it raved over images that left out his dents and scratches.

“Look upon your work, my children,” the mask exclaimed as the tired frogs prepared for bed that morning (for tree frogs are nocturnal). “Know that all that see it will frolic and rejoice.”

The mask’s words were perfectly true. Insects of all sizes and orders flew above the frogs’ gallery, working themselves into frenzied aerial orgies without the specter of death by amphibian tongue to cloud their merriment. Of the artwork, they gave no notice.

It was the gardener who became the frogs’ harshest critic.

“What’s all this then?” he shouted when he stepped in the sculptures. He kicked at faces and rubbed them between his fingers, wondering at the possibilities of extraterrestrial origins. “Must have something to do with all the damnable bugs,” he finally decided and sprayed poison all about the yard.

The poison upset the delicate balance of life within the garden. When the famished frogs ate the toxin-covered insects, they died almost instantly. True, most insecticides are not so deadly but then again, most are not afflicted upon frogs who have been kept up all night, creating folk art.

The few who survived were devoured by a garter snake who wandered by and the mask was later sold at a garage sale for less than a dollar. The garden was a still and solemn place for a long time to come.

Eventually the single tree frog who had fled the mask’s rule returned to gaze upon the site of his childhood. He’d become a great singer, so skilled that snakes and raccoons gave him safe passage.

“Frogs don’t sculpt,” he whispered up to the ghost of the mask, but there was nothing in the tree to hear him except a few juicy caterpillars, and he made short work of them.

* * *

About the Author

This turtle is named Isabella.

A Cincinnati resident, Mark Mills teaches composition, literature, philosophy, and film studies at Indiana Tech University and Chatfield College. He has published work in Tor.com, Grievous Angel, Short Story America, and several other publications. He has worked on and appeared in several low budget movies, including Satanic Yuppies, Live Nude Shakespeare, Chickboxin’ Underground, Zombie Cult Massacre, and Uberzombiefrau. He currently is occupied with his family, a large number of animals, and many unpublished stories.

Categories: Stories

Leafless Crossing

Sun 1 Dec 2019 - 04:05

by Voss Foster

“And as the mock death took over, the Hollow was gone, and he once again found himself ensconced in the Crossing, staring at the sky and waiting for more truths to be revealed in this space between breath and rot.”

Light. Beauteous, dappled light filtering through autumn leaves. SleekClaw allowed the impotent brightness to pass over his voluminous gray coat as he waited for something to appear to him. It would, in time.

There. Yes, yes, off to the right, on the very edge of that eyeless vision, the sight above sight of the Crossing. The leafy treetops parted to reveal stars, gleaming in a sky too bright to ever allow them. They danced and twinkled, and SleekClaw took their meaning, piecing it together as naturally as curling his long, bald tail around the branches of the oak trees.

The stars that were not stars played out scenes of potentiality, but SleekClaw was not a joey, had not been for some years now. He filtered the chaff and found the true meaning, the message that lay in that interstitial space between breath and the rot. He saw the jaybirds at their nest, cornflower bright and tittering over eggs… just eggs.

In a snap of the universe, SleekClaw was dragged from the Crossing, back to his true body and the sweltering heat. His pink nose twitched in the too familiar aromas of warm dust and damp decay. Yes, yes, he had returned from the Crossing once again, and now lay curled around himself in the pose of mock death, his mouth dry from hanging open.

He slowly shook himself to awareness, and the blue jays stood back, waiting for him to speak. Yet the Crossing clung to SleekClaw this time. The sorrowful prophecies always did, dragging on his fur like heavy downpour. He glanced around at the others gathered in the Hollow, the massive white oak long ago rotted away from the inside. The church of the Crossing.

Other possums—BlackSnout and MangleEye and FairWhisker closest of them all—delivered news, while some of the younger prophets still lay stiff in the thrall of the Crossing, the mock death, with serpents standing by to help interpret their visions, teach them eventually to read the stars for themselves. Tiny blue beetles off in the distance catered to tiny querants, slugs and snails and other beetles in less brilliant hues.

Finally, SleekClaw raised himself to all fours and locked eyes with the female jay. “Apologies, TornTail.” SleekClaw’s voice was weak and bristly with thirst. “Your clutch will see no sunlight this cycle.”

Her neck feathers ruffled, and her mate StoneBeak nuzzled his head against her throat. Neither said a word or made so much as the faintest twitter as they departed the Hollow.

“Are you well, SleekClaw?”

A sinuous voice raised his fur to standing, and SleekClaw turned to see a two-foot long rope of scales, onyx and obsidian and jet. He nodded slowly to the high priestess. “I am in better straits than TornTail and StoneBeak, your grace.”

What in all of creation had brought InkScale from her den to speak with him of all possums?

“The news you deliver, it is never easy. But rest easier knowing TornTail was aware of the answer.” InkScale’s forked tongue flicked in and out as she paused, and her coal dark eyes went hazy. “She came seeking a hope she knew was not there. You have told her nothing she did not know, but merely confirmed the fear she dared not face alone.”

“The Crossing reveals no lies.” SleekClaw nodded. “Did you have need of me, your grace?”

“I came simply to make the rounds. I was needed in the Hollow today as it was.” The tip of her tail waved gently back and forth, kicking up tiny, broken fragments of dried leaves. “And sometimes, even one as experienced in the Crossing as you may struggle to deliver the harshest of news. It would not be unreasonable to think you may need support.”

“Thank you for your kindness, your grace.” SleekClaw scampered to the nearby cistern and drank his fill before returning to InkScale. “If there is nothing more, your grace, I must make another Crossing.”

“Twice in one day?” Another flickering exit of the tongue as those shining black eyes fixed dead on him. “You have recently turned three, SleekClaw. Perhaps it is best to slow and allow the younger among your colleagues to absorb the brunt of the work. So many Crossings for one so old… you risk never returning.”

“My bloodline lasts long, your grace.” He failed to mention this would be his third Crossing of the day, not his second. But it was true that he likely had more years to play with than the average possum. His mother turned to rot at seven, his father nearly equaling her. “I’m far from the inevitable rot.”

InkScale hissed with what passed for a laugh among the serpents. “Well, do not be foolish. After this, please see yourself home. You are too respected and skilled and sought-after a possum to see rot for your stubbornness. There could be riots in the forest at your passing.”

“Of course, your grace.” He had no other appointments that day, anyway. But as she slithered away, SleekClaw let his mind wander: what appointment did she have in the Hollow this day? For FlameTail, king of the hawks and commander for the guard? Or for JadeEye and the other fish?

Possums spoke to the individual, to the household. They could prophecy births and deaths, fortune and famine, travel and solitude. But InkScale and the other serpents?

The Crossing revealed to them the greater machinations of the forest, and the world at large. Far too great for a mere possum to comprehend.

The arrival of SleekClaw’s next querant, a steel-gray squirrel called StormPaw, pulled him from his own thoughts. He raised his tail and flicked it to signal old MottleTail. No skill for the Crossing himself, he aided those who could venture into the realm of prophecy.

SleekClaw and StormPaw exchanged niceties until MottleTail gave the signal. SleekClaw nodded. “Please stand behind me.”

StormPaw scampered that way and, once he was safely out of the way, SleekClaw nodded and MottleTail leapt, all gnashing fangs and tearing claws.

Fear chilled through SleekClaw’s veins. It stopped his heart and made his body rigid. And as the mock death took over, the Hollow was gone, and he once again found himself ensconced in the Crossing, staring at the sky and waiting for more truths to be revealed in this space between breath and rot.

* * *

SleekClaw padded his way home after that third Crossing. He’d been able to deliver better news to StormPaw, that his mate would find her way back home within the week after being missing. She was not prey. She was not a victim of humanity. She was injured, and would require care. But breathing and heading home.

It was the heat of summer, thus the light remained bright and full up above, SleekClaw stopped at a nearby stream to wash his paws and face in the cool stream, and once more drink his fill. Tomorrow would be simpler. Tomorrow, he had but one Crossing scheduled. Tomorrow, perhaps, his thirst would not be so unslakable.

Whatever he said to the high priestess, he was more and more aware of his own mortality with each Crossing, more worried each time the jolt of fear, the threat against his person, sent him into the rigid mock death. Eventually, the death was not mock. The rot was truly inevitable for every living creature, even InkScale herself.

SleekClaw moved back from the water and went for his tree. Not far, now. He rested in a hollow twenty feet up. A comfortable, secluded home. Being as skilled as he was in navigating the Crossing, he was able to keep it secure with the odd favor to the hawks and eagles who guarded the treetops.

His nose caught something on the air, something washed in filth. And a moment later, gleaming talons swooped from the sky. Black. Sharp.

Aimed for his head.

Fear sent SleekClaw rigid on the ground, and he didn’t even have time to register the thud of his body before the Crossing faded into him. His panic was immediately buried beneath too much training.

There were no leaves here, and there was no bright sky. Endless lapis filled his vision, twinkling with a hundred, a thousand stars. SleekClaw’s eyes could not hope to follow each one through its dance. The Crossing… no, it had never done this to him before. No being ever breathing could possibly comprehend this much, could possibly piece it all together. No serpent, not even the high priestess herself. Not even the distant and fabled horned creatures, the fainting, four-legged ones to the west. Supposedly greater even than the high priestess, able to prophecy the fate of the universe all at once… but surely even they could not see the answer in this cacophony of light.

Surely… yes, yes, SleekClaw was not in the Crossing. SleekClaw was caught in the rot, for it would take the eternity only afforded by death to read these stars, to garner the truth of this prophecy.

He floated weightless for a moment, or a minute, or an hour, or a year. What was time? But slowly, surely, the dance and twinkle of those stars in the dark above began to coalesce. Could SleekClaw have cried, he would have. Could his fur have stood on end, it would have.

This was glory. At least as he succumbed to the great and inevitable rot, SleekClaw knew the forest would thrive. Ignored by humans. Allowed to flourish for… for a long time. Longer than SleekClaw could see. Beyond the rattle of his last breath.

What would have been his last breath, before today.

Finally, with the message clear in his mind, SleekClaw closed his eyes.

His bones ached. His skin was tight. His throat was ragged… yet he drew breath.

Faster than he’d moved in a month, SleekClaw scrabbled to his feet. That was the Crossing. Not the rot. Yes, yes, it was a sure thing, no other explanation even as his mind fought against it. He had been in the Crossing. He had been… not in his own Crossing. Not in any possum’s Crossing, with leaves to obscure the vision of the sky above. And certainly not in the infinitesimally insignificant crossing of the blue beetles. They could no more comprehend the vast vault of the sky than any higher creature could comprehend them.

This… no. No. SleekClaw would not even think it out in the open forest. He scurried to his tree, all notions of the attack and the fear washing away from him in the face of some newer, greater, more insidious notion. Yes, yes he was lucky to have survived… but left with this new weight hanging from his throat.

He slipped into his hollow and allowed the shadows to hug around him… and only then did he dare to think the blasphemy, to consider… to consider that perhaps he had seen the Crossing of the serpents. The Crossing of InkScale herself.

* * *

Morning saw SleekClaw not at the Hollow, but wending his way through the underbrush toward the edges of the forest, toward the dens of the serpents. Fewer trees allowed for more sunlight to stream in so they might warm themselves in the summer sunlight, and build their dens in the softer earth. As SleekClaw rounded a smooth, speckled stone, he caught sight of half a dozen of them all sunning before the opening of the day.

Fear rose in SleekClaw. His instincts told him to flee. But instead he padded forward, careful to make as little sound as possible, until he came across the slash of night that was the high priestess.

He scratched a smooth, shiny claw against the flat stone she stretched across. “Your grace?”

Slowly, InkScale twisted her head around to face him. “SleekClaw. What would drive you into our patch of the forest?”

Her timbre and the coal-eyed stares of her kindred drove SleekClaw’s fur to stand on end. This was not a place for any possum, and certainly not one never requested. Still, he had made the journey, and to turn back now… no, no he needed to speak with the high priestess post haste. “I experienced a Crossing last night, in the wild, after I had left the Hollow.”

“Were you injured?”

“No. Sore from the fall to the ground.” He snuffled and kept his head down, hiding his eyes from the too bright glare of direct sunlight as best he could. “I needed to speak with… someone who would know better. I could think of no one more capable of assisting in my interpretation of this than your grace.”

“An unsanctioned Crossing?” Lazily, she slithered around to give him more direct attention. “Well speak, then. What was seen when the leaves parted?”

SleekClaw swallowed down a knot of trepidation so the words might have room to slip free. “Your grace… there were no leaves. There was only sky. Sky and a thousand stars to interpret.”

The hair on SleekClaw’s back stood on end once more. He felt the serpentine gaze of a dozen serpents upon him, prophet and warrior alike, and the distant rattle from one of them nearly sent SleekClaw into another unsanctioned Crossing.

“Are you not mistaken?” InkScale spoke slowly, carefully, never removing her eyes from SleekClaw. “Surely you don’t mean to imply that you saw no leaves at all.”

“Your grace, I would never deign to deceive you or any serpent in this forest.” No, no he couldn’t imagine it. Even if it meant his head between curving fangs, lying to the high priestess about what he had seen… the prophecies of the Crossing were for the good of all inhabitants in the forest.

“The possum, he speaks blasphemy.” RustBelly, a massive copperhead, whispered behind SleekClaw. “A possum is not gifted with such visions. This one has lost his touch for the Crossing, perhaps. And should be retired.”

“To say such things, RustBelly.” The high priestess slid from her rocky perch. SleekClaw resisted the urge to flinch back from her sudden closeness. There was something sinister to the slither of her tar-dark body, the constant flickering of her forked tongue, the unbreaking eye contact she held with him even as the tip of her tail finally slid free from the stone. “SleekClaw is a possum, but to suggest that one so accomplished at traversing and interpreting the Crossing would lose his faculties in less than a single day? Perhaps you are unaware of this fine possum’s history.” She whipped her head around and shimmied past SleekClaw, climbed halfway up onto RustBelly’s stone. Her tone dripped with more venom than even RustBelly’s own bite. “SleekClaw has advanced beyond the need of interpretation from the outside. At three, he performs multiple Crossings in a given day. As a joey, he foresaw the next three litters of his mother with striking accuracy.” Her tongue flickered, barely glancing along RustBelly’s snout. “There are many things in this forest. Do not be so quick to judge a… fluke as blasphemy.”

She spun back around and wrapped her tail sinuously around SleekClaw’s middle. Just for a moment before letting him go. Intended to be comforting or reassuring, but SleekClaw’s mouth tasted of bitterness all the same. She was no constrictor… but she could surely distract him long enough to sink her fangs into his flesh if she so desired.

Yet it passed, and InkScale locked eyes with him once more. “Come to the Hollow. As my guest. We will discuss this prophecy of yours.”

It wasn’t just the Hollow. No, no, SleekClaw knew from the hushed disbelief filtering through the dawn light what was meant: he had been invited to the high priestess’s own chambers in the great rotted oak.

Where fear had blossomed moments before, now pride burned bright beneath SleekClaw’s fur. “Thank you for the invitation, your grace.”

“Of course. What else to do with such a fine prophet as you?”

* * *

The chamber was large. Large enough for InkScale to stretch out to her full length and still not touch the farthest walls, even leaving room for SleekClaw’s own considerable heft. Artificial barriers had been constructed of spare bark, and various shiny human trinkets adorned the walls, gleaming and sparkling in the dappled forest light.

It was there SleekClaw recounted his prophecy for the first time, allowing the words to pass between his fangs. Sometimes in great, boisterous shouts of the glory of sunlight and food and fertility for all, but just as often in hushed whispers of safety. Safety from the threats of the past, the ravaging fires and great yellowed behemoths who tore down trees to be carted away by the humans.

The following years would be hallmarked by prosperity for all. “That is the prophecy I received, your grace. In the leafless Crossing, told by the dance of a thousand stars.”

There was silence for one too many beats of SleekClaw’s heart before she finally responded. “This is good news you bring for the forest, SleekClaw. While I cannot say for certain why the message was gifted to you above all serpents, this is heady with joy.” Yet her voice remained demure and monotone. “We will make the announcement soon.” For just a moment, SleekClaw could have sworn he saw the fringe around her head flare, but no, no. Surely a trick of the shadow against her black scales.

“Of course you understand that we will make the announcement, SleekClaw. The serpents. Myself, namely.”

What? “I’m afraid I don’t understand, your grace. It was my prophecy, and there are dictates—”

“SleekClaw. Dear SleekClaw. You are becoming wise to the burden of the serpents. In that cobalt sky, studded with diamonds beyond what one can ever hope to count… those are the forest’s prophecies. They must be revealed and interpreted for the good of the forest. No serpent, not even myself as high priestess, can claim ownership of such messages. Not in the way a birth or a death may be claimed by you and your kind.”

“Forgive my ignorance, your grace, but if there is no ownership, why would my prophecy be delivered by the serpents?”

“Who would trust such a message coming from a possum? No one will believe a word of it.” She nuzzled her snout against his and whispered cloyingly in his ear. “You are unique among possums for receiving this, but with that uniqueness comes an even greater burden than what the serpents must bear. You are alone in the world, dear SleekClaw, and that isolation is both curse and blessing.” She pulled back and, just for another moment, he caught that momentary flare around her head again. “Allow me to take some of this heavy mantle thrust upon you and deliver the news. Otherwise, you will be hounded by the forest as a whole. And I dread what your fellow possums may do to you if they find out the Crossing has favored you above all others. You have seen the damage such razor bites may inflict upon flesh. A gruesome way to end things, when you could have breathed long and been truthful.”

“They would not attack, your grace.” No, no they wouldn’t. He would be lauded. He would be the first among the possums to finally reach the highest heights. No serpent, surely… but the possum above all possums.

“Have we not seen it happen time and again, SleekClaw? Jealousy is an ugly thing. After all, MangleEye was not always called MangleEye. In his youth, he took down an invading serpent all on his own. But it was no serpent who scratched and chewed his eye from its socket. That came from the possums. Jealous, and seeking a way to deflate his ego after such success.” She unsheathed her tail from the folds of her body and, once again, wrapped it gently around SleekClaw’s middle. “I dare not imagine what they would do to you, should this get out.”

SleekClaw would not be allowed to let loose his prophecy. His body chilled at the notion, and then chilled further at his own reaction. Perhaps he was just a jealous little possum with no understanding of this great new burden. But still prophets always delivered their own messages from the Crossing.

But when he made to object, no breath would enter his lungs. InkScale continued to wrap his belly and his back, coiling tighter around him. But no… no, InkScale was no constrictor, and her tail was there in clear sight again. Bands of ivory and carnelian wrapped him. GildedSnow, a kingsnake. Yes, yes, there was no mistaking that pattern.

He scrabbled and gnashed, but she remained out of reach of any of his defenses. All the while, InkScale watched on, dark eyes fixed and tongue flickering.

There was no Crossing for SleekClaw to enter. Only blackness filled his vision.

* * *

SleekClaw never expected to awaken, yet he found himself in an unfamiliar, cool space. Earthen walls, no sunlight. Each breath tasted of soil and leaf mold and stale blood.

“You’re awake.”

At the sound of that voice, every memory rushed back to SleekClaw. He scampered away from the slowly clarifying head before him. “Your grace, I apologize for my insolence. The message should be delivered as you see fit, of course.” Anything to spare himself. She’d taken him to her den. No creature but a serpent entered the den of the high priestess and left intact. Perhaps he could take one singular serpent in combat. After all, MangleEye had.

But if he was forced to murder the high priestess in her den, the forest itself would be his enemy. And he was not old, but not a young possum either.

“Calm, SleekClaw.” InkScale did not approach. “I mean you no harm. My apologies for the… unfortunate events that unfolded in the Hollow. GildedSnow is a faithful guard and she… misunderstood one of my movements for a signal. She will be dealt with.”

SleekClaw believed not one syllable of those falsehoods. Not once had InkScale attempted to stop the attack. But he didn’t want to rot. “Apology accepted, your grace.”

“Are you well?”

Yes, yes she was manipulating him, smoothing the waters. And SleekClaw was happy to have them smoothed if it meant he scurried from her den with breath in his lungs. “I am, your grace.”

“Good. Please relax, dear SleekClaw. I mean you no harm. In fact… I have reconsidered my position. I have consulted with the Crossing… and perhaps it would be wise to allow you to deliver the prophecy. If you still would like to do so, of course. We are capable of keeping such a fine, unique possum as yourself safe.”

SleekClaw waited for something more to come, some other message to pass over those black scales. But no retractions. No admonishments. No prerequisites or cautions. “Is it to the will of the forest, your grace?”

“If the forest saw fit to send you this prophecy, then the forest must see fit for you to deliver this prophecy, yes? And of any message you could pass on, this is the least likely to incite trouble.” Her black form shifted in the darkness of the burrow. “Word has already spread of the remarkable possum. All who wish to hear will arrive at the Hollow at dusk to receive the word and behold… the great prophet who rose from the rabble.” She coiled herself up as she drew nearer. “And… well, those who are already speaking protest will be… handled.”

“Protest?”

“As I had warned you, not all possums are gracious creatures in the face of exceptionality. Many are already outraged at what they see as a slight by one of their own. But I assure you, you have our protection.”

No, no, it didn’t sound right. Not the possums he knew. Not BlackSnout or FairWhisker or PearlFang or any of the others. SleekClaw would not allow such belief of his brothers and sisters to take hold. Not here, not anywhere. “Your grace, if I could speak with them before visiting the Hollow, I may be able to communicate with them. Such… lowly matters are best delivered by a possum.” Deprecating his kin would be his shield against the fangs and the venom of InkScale and RustBelly and all the other serpents of the forest.

The high priestess inclined her head side to side for a long while before finally answering. “If you feel that is best, SleekClaw. But please do take care. You are very important to us. A mere possum receiving a prophecy of this magnitude… you are a beacon of hope to all the others. Even to the blue beetles. There is something beyond where they all are now, and that something is you.”

“Thank you, your grace. I will make the journey… and return to the Hollow before dusk.”

“See that you do, SleekClaw.”

* * *

The trees were all atwitter, and it took no time to hear from the birds and the squirrels and the other possums where to find the disgruntled among them. SleekClaw descended into a sinkhole and was met with a dozen of his kin… including FairWhisker and BlackSnout themselves.

But it was FairWhisker who scampered forward and spoke. “The anointed child deigns to pay us a visit.”

“I’ve come to speak to you.” With her here… it couldn’t be as InkScale insisted. “There is word that… you would all do me harm. I’m certain this is foolish.”

“Do you harm? Why ever would we wish you harm, the servant of the high priestess and all her trickery?”

“Trickery? I can assure you, I received the prophecy. I entered the leafless Crossing and saw the truth of what is to come.”

“No one is doubting your prophecy, SleekClaw.” She snuffled the air. “But you reek of the serpents. You’ve bought into all you’ve been told, even though you were seen being carried out of the Hollow limp. Not stiffly ensconced in the Crossing.” She snorted, sending up boring dust from the floor of the cavern. “We thought you would rot like the others who came before you, but come to find it’s worse.”

“What others? FairWhisker, what is this about?”

Murmuring from the other possums. She waited until they had finished before finally speaking again. “SleekClaw… each of us here has seen the leafless Crossing. Each of us has brought word to InkScale or RustBelly. And each of us was lucky enough to escape the inevitable rot.”

“Unlike the others.” BlackSnout’s deep rasp filtered from the crowd. “Twice as many as you see here before you brought word and found themselves a sumptuous feast for the serpents. Even those who could never so much as glimpse the Crossing fed upon the flesh of prophets.”

“We were spared only for convenience,” said FairWhisker. “Too many prophets disappearing all at once would push the bounds of suspicion too far.”

“I survived only because ThreePaw had vanished the day before and their bellies were too full.” BlackSnout turned back around and entered into the murmurs of the other possums.”

“Eaten or not, when all is done the high priestess delivers their messages as her own. Our messages.” FairWhisker’s voice softened, and the fine white filaments on either side of her snout drooped. “You are no better or worse than any other of us, breathing or rotting, yet here you are. You, ready to deliver a prophecy. You, already aristocratic among possums… exalted even further. Carried out by InkScale to quell any disquiet among the rest of us, to show the world that possums are equal, of course. So long as they are… socially acceptable.”

“This is not my doing, FairWhisker.” Could any of this be possible? Could the high priestess… yes. Yes, yes, SleekClaw saw it easily. Her venom could sedate, if not kill, and then the other serpents could do their own work with the unmoving body. Or GildedSnow could simply wrap the breath from their lungs. Either way, the feast remained the same. “SilverTail… was there ever a hawk attack?”

“Yes. From FireTail. On orders. She now rots for daring to reveal that the humans would come again and we would lose more of our own to their flames.”

SleekClaw squeezed his eyes shut. InkScale herself had delivered that message and been haled as a hero of the forest… again. Her warning minimized those who succumbed to rot.

But it was SilverTail’s warning.

“You understand why we can no longer remain silent?” FairWhisker’s voice was solemn, sober. “This has gone on longer than any one of us has drawn breath.”

SleekClaw looked around at them all… and he did. “What did the Crossing show you, FairWhisker?”

“Which time?” She turned around and headed back into the throng. “You are special, SleekClaw, but no more or less than any one of us. I can see you as you… but you are not unique to the serpents, no matter how sweetly they whisper into your ear. You are merely… respected… and useful.”

There were no more answers to be offered there, and SleekClaw was uncertain he would want them if they were available.

* * *

The Hollow rumbled with the gathering of the forest. Dozens and dozens of possums, hundreds of tiny blue beetles, jays and hawks circling above the felled tree, being brought news by smaller birds who could fit more easily inside the now packed Hollow.

On a pedestal of stacked twigs and branches, SleekClaw waited in silence for the sun to dip low.

InkScale twined around herself lazily. “Was your visit to the rioters fruitful?”

He didn’t miss their elevation from protesters to rioters. “I believe so, your grace.”

“Good. I hope this is peaceful for you. An announcement of such magnitude should not be marred by such disquiet.” She pulled close to him, close enough that SleekClaw could smell only the fresh blood of her last meal, and whispered so softly he could barely hear her over the sound of his own breath. “You, of course, would not be so foolish as to spread what you learned. I did tell you, the leafless Crossing comes with a burden. The good of the forest is all that is important. Sometimes, possum blood waters the roots of the trees. But to speak it… I’m certain such a fine possum as yourself can see the problem there. And remember how soft your underbelly is, and know that RustBelly’s venom is much more potent than mine… and FairWhisker much smaller and more delicate than you.”

“I am aware of all of these things, your grace.” Of course she knew what had happened in that sinkhole. Everything, even secrets, found their way back to the serpents at one point or another, and all serpents answered to the high priestess.

“Good.” She pulled back, her tongue flicking the air. “Then let us begin.” She slithered to the front of the pedestal and the Hollow immediately quieted. “I take it word of this event has spread far enough, the circumstances need not be explained: a possum has ascended to new heights, to new revelations from the Crossing. This is hope for all among us that we may improve beyond what could ever be thought possible.” She paused to let her own echo fade. “SleekClaw… devout and true and skilled SleekClaw… he has seen things of the forest that equal what I and the other serpents are known to deliver. And as is tradition, he reveals his prophecy from his own lips.”

The crowd erupted in noise again as she slipped back, and SleekClaw padded forward. But this time, the crowd did not stay quiet. There in the back, the other possums had gathered, and they shouted and scampered and made as big a cacophony as they could manage.

FairWhisker was not among them.

SleekClaw raised his voice as loud as he could manage. “Quiet, all. News of the forest is important… and it is good. For years, the forest will thrive.” But not the possums. Not under InkScale. Not under the serpents. “Fertile. Well-fed. Happy. Undisturbed.”

The other possums had quieted now… in no small part due to the presence of constrictors flanking them. Including GildedSnow herself, seemingly no worse off for her “mistake.”

SleekClaw swallowed everything he wanted to screech to the crowd, the truth in all the deception. There was no fighting this power, the sinuous shadow of a priestess behind him.

Not today… and not ever if he made a fool of himself and got FairWhisker eaten.

“This is my prophecy: we will prosper. We will prosper even after I rot in the ground… praise be to her grace InkScale, for surely she will lead us down this path.”

The crowd lapped his words like sweet honey from the hive. SleekClaw turned to leave.

The high priestess blocked his exit with her tail. “Well done, dear SleekClaw. I trust you will… work alongside me.” This time, it was no mistake or trick of light. Her head flared out, and it stayed flared. “Close.”

Close enough to be watched. Yes, yes, he saw her unspoken words. “Of course, your grace. Where else would I belong?” He could not fight this power. No one could fight this power.

But that was not a prophecy. That was not marked out in the dance of the thousand stars. Perhaps a thousand more possums would have to rot before it happened. Perhaps his very next Crossing would reveal the truth, that they could never leave the scaly grip of the serpents behind.

But for the moment… SleekClaw knew the reality of the Crossing. And he was palatable. By the grace of the high priestess, he was regal enough for the forest to accept, so long as she never rescinded her praise.

Acceptance was survival, and survival was the only chance for rebellion one day, should the Crossing permit.

For the moment… yes, yes, there was possibility in his newfound place among the venomous. Perhaps he would never utilize it. Perhaps he would take his last breath soon in an embrace of carnelian and ivory.

But perhaps not. And ‘perhaps not’ was all that remained to cling to.

* * *

About the Author

Voss Foster lives in the middle of the Eastern Washington desert, where he writes science fiction and fantasy from inside a single-wide trailer. He is the author of Evenstad Media Presents as well as the Office of Preternatural Affairs. His short work can be found across the internet, including Alternative Truths, Vox.com, and Flame Tree Publishing’s Heroic Fantasy. His work often focuses on issues of diversity and inclusion, and always with a lyrical bent. When not writing, he can be found cooking, singing, cuddling the dogs, and of course, reading, though rarely all at the same time. More information can be found at http://vossfoster.blogspot.com.

Categories: Stories

Issue 4

Sun 1 Sep 2019 - 02:09

Welcome to Issue 4 of Zooscape!

In furry fiction, some animals are the staples, and others are the spice. Doing a round-up of stories in our first year, for instance, Zooscape has published four times as many cat stories as, say, elephant or octopus stories. People like cats, so there are a lot of stories about them. Fewer people seem to feel compelled to write stories about, oh, manta rays or sentient piñatas.

In this issue, the staple is foxes and wolves, and the spice is turtles and insects. Wolves who are out of their element; foxes who are on journeys. Turtles who carry entire worlds on their backs; and insects who discover that even their own society contains different cultures inside of it.

* * *

The Carnivore Queen by Alexandra Faye Carcich

The Cosmic Woes of Finnigan Turtle by Hannah Montine

Charnel House by Ville Meriläinen

The Farmer and the Potter by Amy Hammack Turner

Saga of the Knapaleith by Allison Thai

* * *

When you’ve finished your own journey through these stories, may they keep you sated until our next issue. If you’d like our issues to be released more often, consider supporting our Patreon. Any money we receive goes directly to the authors. And, as always, if you enjoy our stories, please share them far and wide!

Categories: Stories

Saga of the Knapaleith

Sun 1 Sep 2019 - 02:08

by Allison Thai

“Clouds above growled, roiled, and gathered into an angry black mass over the great hill half a moon’s journey from the den. Smoke spewed from the top of the hill, and Hvita’s nose stung from its stench.”

For the first time in her life, Hvita stokked for no vaeli in her dreams. She didn’t dream at all. Instead something jumped at her—little paws that batted her fur.

“Aunt Hvita, Aunt Hvita,” her sister’s kits called. “Wake up, wake up.”

Hvita flattened her ears, but she could still hear the yapping chorus. “Let this poor fox have her sleep,” she groaned. “If Ylirr is not up yet, I won’t be either.”

The kits slouched on her belly and tail. “We can’t wait,” they whined. “We want to learn the stokk now.”

Hvita shook off the kits as she rose. “Very well, all right. I heard you the first time.”

The kits untangled themselves from her and scrambled out of the den. Somehow all their yapping hadn’t disturbed their mother from her slumber. Deeper in the den, against the wall of scored dirt, Elin remained curled around her newest litter. Hvita crept out to let her sister sleep. The smallest kits, born just days ago, needed milk and warmth of their mother. Their older siblings, the first litter, needed somebeast to teach them the stokk. That somebeast had to be Hvita.

Fresh snow crunched under her paws as she poked her head from the lip of the den. Ylirr’s sole bright eye had not opened fully in the sky. Pale, grey clouds hooded his vision, so that he appeared as sleepy as Hvita. She parted her jaws to yawn, and the morning chill made her fangs ache. Ahead of her, the kits seemed to pay no heed to the cold as they rolled around in the snow and wrestled each other.

“That’s enough, now,” Hvita said. “Any more and all that ruckus will send the vaeli deeper into their burrows.” A hush quickly set into the kits. Hvita flicked her tail upward. “Come. I know a good spot from here.”

Winter still kept a firm grip on the plains. Hvita could not yet feel shoots of grass beneath her paws, let alone see them. Elin had her second litter before the welcome of spring. She could not afford to leave the den to stokk or make merrk. Those duties rested upon Hvita’s back, and she would bear them until winter relaxed its icy hold. Hvita turned away from the kits and lifted her tail to make merrk. Some of the kits followed her example as they aimed their scent and spray at the snow. No fox could question who owned this space now. Hvita led the kits away from where snow clumped in hills, feeling with her paws for flat yet soft patches.

“Use your ears,” she told her nieces and nephews. “Do you hear the vaeli shuffling around beneath us?”

The kits cocked their ears forward and scrunched up their snouts. Finally the oldest one, Njall, shook his head. “I might have heard something. I’m not sure.”

“Use your noses now. Can you smell them?”

The kits lowered their snouts over the snow, then straightened up in dismay. “No smell of vaeli.” A few pawed at noses gone numb.

“You are right not to sense much of the vaeli, if at all, with your ears and nose. Of course, we can’t see them from up here, as well.”

The youngest kit plopped her rump down. “How are we supposed to stokk if we can’t see, smell, or hear the vaeli?”

Hvita had to chuckle at the befuddled little faces. “How much had your mother told you about Kaila?” She would be away to stokk or make merrk when Elin told stories to the kits, who now took turns answering.

“She’s the mother of all foxes.”

“She mated with Ylirr.”

“She’s among us, in the ice and in the snow.”

Hvita nodded. “You’re all right. Because Kaila is the ice and snow, because she is so cold, only she didn’t mind the heat and flames from Ylirr. Kaila bore countless litters for him. As their children, we were given her face, legs, tail, and white coats for the winter, and we were given the warmth of Ylirr.”

“What does this have to do with stokk?” a kit asked.

“We can stokk because Kaila and Ylirr made us that way,” Hvita replied. “Outside we can be white as winter, but inside our hearts beat with warmth like the eye of Ylirr. Think of the cold snow hiding the flesh and blood of vaeli within. Aren’t they the same? Even the most quiet vaeli with no scent and out of our sight can’t help but be warm with life.” Hvita swept her tongue over her lips. “Until we catch them, that is.”

The kits twitched the ends of their bushy tails in anticipation. “So, we have to find the vaeli by feeling their heat?”

“Yes. That’s what it means to stokk.” Hvita crouched until the fur on her chest brushed on tiny crystals of ice. She had hunted for her large family enough times to feel for the small pulses of warmth amid the cold. She trained her gaze on where she could best dive in to snag those bundles of warmth between her teeth. Somewhere soft, not too packed and hard, so she wouldn’t break her snout. “Watch my tail when I’m in the air,” she murmured to the kits. “I let it guide me.”

The kits sat very still, ogling at her. A push of her hind legs sent Hvita up in a graceful arc, then a little twist of her tail angled her course over the vaeli trying to scurry off. She thrust her face and front paws into the snow, her claws digging into short brown fur. Hvita squirmed out of the hole she had made from her stokk, wrenching her head up to crush the vaeli’s small body and life between her teeth. She tossed the caught vaeli to the kits, who dug eagerly into their breakfast, then they lifted their bloodied snouts at Hvita.

“Can we try the stokk now?”

“Not yet,” the vixen replied. “I’ll show you one more time.” She turned back to the hunting grounds, only to find the stretch of ice and snow in flames. She yelped in terror. Waves of heat seared into the back of her eyes and the roots of her fur. Clouds above growled, roiled, and gathered into an angry black mass over the great hill half a moon’s journey from the den. Smoke spewed from the top of the hill, and Hvita’s nose stung from its stench.

“Aunt Hvita? What’s wrong?”

She could barely hear the kits over the rumbling earth and roaring fire. Something else spewed from the hill, something bright and orange like man’s fire, but spraying and flowing down like water. How could that be? This fire-water carved a scorching river through the land, melting any rock and ice in its way. It came straight for Hvita. She turned tail and bolted down snow untouched by the flames.

“Run,” she cried to the kits. “Run as fast as you can.” She dared not look back. She could feel the fire-water just below her tail. Whining between pants, she skidded on the snow and flung herself into the den.

“Great Ylirr,” Elin exclaimed. “What are you—“

“Elin, get back! We need to hide. The fire-water’s coming.”

“Fire-water? There’s just ice and snow outside, Hvita.”

“I-It can’t be.”

“Take a look. Don’t you feel the cold? The kits and I are shaking in our fur as we speak.”

At Elin’s insistence, Hvita cracked her eyes open and peeked over her paws. Ylirr shone his sole eye through a pale grey sky. The chill, not heat, ruffled Hvita’s coat. No smoke, no flames, most of all, no fire-water in sight. Just ice and snow beyond the den, as Elin had said. The second litter, short-haired and blind, huddled around their mother’s legs. Hvita’s shouts had rudely roused them, and now they squeaked and whined piteously. The older kits dashed into the den.

“Aunt Hvita, why did we have to run? What are we running from?”

“There was smoke and fire everywhere. The great hill came alive and it was angry.”

The kits exchanged quick, puzzled looks among each other, making Hvita feel foolish. “We didn’t see anything like that.”

Elin lashed her tail. “What game are you playing at, Hvita? You’re not a kit anymore.”

“I’m not playing.” Hvita hunched her shoulders. “I know what I saw. I swear by Ylirr above and Dautha below.”

Elin uttered something between a growl and a groan. “You’re supposed to be out there teaching the kits to stokk, not running back in here playing pretend.”

“I showed them once,” Hvita said in her own defense. “I was going to show it to them again when, well…”

Elin flattened her ears. “I don’t want to hear any more of it. There is no smoke and there is no fire-water.”

Hvita saw no use in changing her sister’s mind. She had no proof.

Elin’s sharp tone softened into a plea. “I need your help, Hvita. The kits no longer have a father. They have to learn from you now. I can’t teach them the stokk while the newest litter still needs me by their side.”

Hvita lowered her snout. “I know. I’m sorry.”

When Elin was heavy with kits, her mate Atli was trapped by men and taken away to be worn on their shoulders. Hvita stepped in to help Elin care for the growing family.

Elin brushed her nose against Hvita’s neck. “I’m grateful for what you’ve done already. I thank Ylirr and Kaila every day that you stayed. You could have gone away to find a mate and raise kits. You could have been like most vixens.”

Hvita nosed at the spot below her sister’s ear. “You and I know that I am not like most vixens.” Hvita never nurtured a desire to start her own family. It was never there in the first place. Atli’s disappearance gave her even less reason to leave now. Besides, she had come to treat Elin’s kits as her own. Kaila may have brought enough kits to fill the land, but two litters were plenty enough for Hvita to keep track of and look after. The first needed to master the stokk before spring. A fox who could not stokk was no fox at all. Kits who could properly do the stokk were deemed good enough to hunt on their own, and more importantly, bring back vaeli for their smaller yet growing siblings.

Hvita safely assumed she was forgiven. She ruffled her coat from nape to tail and ventured back outside. No wonder she did not dream last night. The fire she had felt and seen had to be part of a walking dream. Yes, that had to be the reason. How else could she explain it? Hvita spent the day until Ylirr-down watching the kits’ attempts to stokk and making suggestions to improve their technique. This went by without further incident, to her relief. Nothing burst form the top of the great hill. Maybe there was no such thing as fire-water, after all.

When darkness closed over Ylirr’s eye, Hvita ushered the kits back into the den and laid down to sleep. Satisfied with a full belly and kits learning quickly, Hvita expected pleasant dreams. Instead she felt something cold prod her flank, and heard her name whispered in the dark.

“Elin?” Hvita asked.

“I am not Elin,” came the whispered reply.

“Who’s there?” Hvita opened her eyes, and a shiver ran down her back. Standing over her, peering at her through wide, unblinking black orbs for eyes, was a gaunt blue vixen. Not the blue of a cloudless sky, but the blue of deep water with no bottom or telling of what lurked underneath. Bones defined this vixen’s silhouette more than fur. Knobs of spine ran down her back. A cage of ribs took the place of a belly filled with vaeli. Hvita had never seen this vixen before, but like all foxes who were told stories, she knew about the mother of death.

“Dautha.” Hvita shuddered. “Am I dead?”

“No. Ylirr’s warmth is still inside you.”

“Then why have you come for me?”

“To warn you.”

“Warn me of what?”

“Of smoke and fire that flows like water. Of death and destruction.” Dautha’s voice crept into the den like a breeze whistling over dry bones, yet Hvita flattened her ears as if the blue vixen roared into her face.

“That’s what I saw earlier today. It’s real, then?”

“Yes, but not yet. I had shown you what is yet to come.”

Hvita dug her claws into the earth. “It will come, no matter what?”

“Kaila cannot protect anybeast from such overwhelming heat. Even Ylirr can do nothing to stop it from happening. Fire cannot stop fire.”

“Then all we can do is wait and die.” Hvita shut her eyes at the terrible thought. “Why warn me of this? Isn’t this what you want?”

Dautha tilted her head. “You have heard wrongly of me. I do not want living beasts to die. I especially do not want foxes to die. I only come for you when it is time for you to give up Ylirr’s warmth, and I dug out a den where the dead can stay.”

Deep, deep into the earth, beyond even the bottom of the sea, Dautha kept the largest den any fox could only dream of. The den had to be very big, because the dead couldn’t come back to the land of the living. Atli must be somewhere down there. Hvita’s mother and father, too.

“The coming disaster will lead to many lives being lost,” Dautha went on. “So many that my den would not have enough room for them all.”

Hvita couldn’t believe her ears. “Impossible,” she breathed. “How can your den be too small now?”

“I am only one fox, Hvita. Digging out a den to the size it is now took me many, many moons since the dawn of time. Two moons will not be enough time for me to make more room for all who will perish when the land goes bjarr.”

The land itself, consumed in rage, in only two moons? Even with the glimpse she was given, Hvita couldn’t imagine such a thing.

“You have been warned,” Dautha said, “so you must warn others. Tell as many foxes as you can about the land-bjarr.” She turned away. “Leave at Ylirr-rise.”

Hvita’s mind spun from so many questions that it struggled to process commands. “Leave that soon? But Dautha—“

“I must go. There are foxes who’ve lost their warmth and need an escort down to my den.” The blue vixen stalked toward the snow, then returned her starless gaze to Hvita. “The land-bjarr in two moons. Do not forget.” The mother of death melted into the dark before Hvita could make any promises.

Dread creeped into the young vixen in spasms and shivers, because she had to tell Elin.

When Ylirr’s eye peeked over the horizon, the kits didn’t have to ambush Hvita. She had already been wide awake all night.

“Teach us some more,” they yapped.

She hated to step on their wagging tails. “I’m sorry, little ones, but I have to speak with your mother.”

Some of the kits bounded past her to tug on Elin’s tail and ears. “Wake up, wake up, Mother. Aunt Hvita needs to tell you something.”

Hope flickered in Hvita like a tiny flame. Surely Dautha had visited Elin as well, and showed her the coming land-bjarr, too.

Elin stirred and sniffed at her second litter, then murmured, “What is it, Hvita?”

“Listen. Dautha came to me in my dreams. She said that in two moons, the land will go bjarr. She showed me how it would happen.” Eagle’s talons squeezed Hvita’s chest. “The fire-water is coming.”

Elin bristled. “Again with the fire-water?”

“Dautha herself left me with a warning, so it must be real.”

“If it’s true, what should we do about it?” Elin retorted.

“She said that I should leave. We should all leave.”

“And go where?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.” Elin’s mingled scorn and incredulity made Hvita’s ears pull back and her nape prickle.

“I’ll admit that I don’t have all the answers, but I know enough to say that we can’t stay in the den.”

“By Ylirr, do you actually have any idea of what you’re saying?” Elin slapped her tail against the dirt. “It’s like telling baby birds to fly before they can flap their wings, and not tell them where to fly next. My newest litter can’t even see or walk yet. We can’t just leave this den to make a new one. Danger is everywhere outside. There are eagles, the cold, men and their traps, and teeth they can hold and throw at us. Think of the kits, Hvita. Don’t be so strange and selfish.”

“I’m worried about us all,” Hvita cried. “How can that be strange, or selfish?”

Elin narrowed her eyes. “I shouldn’t expect you to understand. You’re a vixen with no kits.”

Hvita should’ve ducked that stab. Still, it struck and she flinched. “Please, Elin, we’ll die if we stay.” Worse, they would have nowhere to go after that.

By her hindlegs, the older kits whimpered and shied away.

“We’re going to die?”

“Do we really have to leave?”

“Enough,” Elin barked. “Nobeast is going to die, and nobeast is leaving.” She rasped her tongue over the squirming, crying second litter. “Thank you, Hvita. It’s only Ylirr-rise, and already you’ve managed to frighten all of my kits.”

“I’m sorry, Elin,” Hvita murmured. “I really am.” She wished that Dautha picked another fox to warn, but wishing got nobeast nowhere. Wishing couldn’t catch vaeli or dig out dens. Hvita would have to make things happen with her own four paws. She gritted her teeth and looked away from any faces. “I’m leaving.”

“You can’t be serious,” Elin growled. “You want to abandon us?”

So many protests at that ridiculous accusation filled Hvita’s throat that she couldn’t say anything at all. She took off, stopped at a mound of snow three stokks away and tore it apart with her claws. She snarled at the cold, unfeeling ground. “Bloody merrk!”

“Mother told us that’s not a nice thing to say, Aunt Hvita.”

The little voices behind her, so innocent rather than scolding, smoothed the furrow along the top of her snout. Hvita laid down on the snow to cool her churning hot blood. “I’m sorry. All I want is your mother to believe me.”

“We believe you.”

Hvita’s ears perked. “Do you, now?”

The kits curled their tails. “We know you can’t be joking, Aunt Hvita. We’ve never seen you look so scared before.”

“That fire-water…I don’t wish for you all to see something so terrible.”

“Will you still leave us?”

Her gut twisted. “I must, even if I don’t want to. If Dautha showed the land-bjarr only to me, then I have to let the others know.”

The kits brushed their faces against Hvita’s chest and shoulders. “We understand. We’ll work hard to stokk while you’re gone.” Njall stood as tall and straight as he could, and the solemnity he exuded didn’t match his small, round face. “We’ll look after our mother, and our little brothers and sisters.”

Hvita licked the tops of their heads and nipped at their ears. “I’m so proud of you all. Your father would be, too. I’ll come back here, I promise. Tell your mother for me.” She knew that Elin would be too furious to listen. Hvita went alone to where she had marked the land between her family’s and the unknown. She had lived all her life in a den passed down by foxes before her. Her father’s father, his father’s father, and so on. Never before had she ventured beyond its borders. The plains seemed to stretch on, with no end in sight, as vast as she felt small. Still, she put one paw forward, then another, until she stepped past her merrk. She would be a roaming fox, but not for long. She promised that she would be back. Returning soon meant that she had to move quickly. Hvita broke into a headlong run, going for as long as she could until she had to rest and hunt for vaeli. Once she finished her meal, Hvita wiped her bloody muzzle on snow and lifted it to sniff for merrk made by other foxes. After several deep breaths, she caught wind of a den she could reach by next Ylirr-high. Encouraged by the scent of foxes nearby, she resumed running, and stopped just before the merrk sprayed on the ground. Still, the tod who had left it ran up to her snarling. He was closely flanked by three kits.

“I’m not here to fight,” Hvita said. “I just want to talk.”

“That’s what all roaming foxes say,” the tod sneered. “Once we turn our backs, you’d slink in to steal our vaeli, or try to claim our land.” By his strut and the swell of his chest, it was clear that he was the leith, the leader.

“I’m not here to steal or claim anything. If I wanted to, I would’ve put in effort to hide from you.” Hvita tried to keep calm and patient. “Please, listen to me. I have an important message from—“ She darted back from a swipe of the leith’s claws.

“You must be up to something,” he said. “My sons and I don’t want trouble around here. Get out.”

The kits curled their lips and flashed their teeth at her. The kits themselves were almost tods, growing into tods too soon, with shredded ears and old claw marks across their faces and bellies.

Hvita saw no use in reasoning with foxes who spent their whole lives picking fights. Without another word, she retreated.

They didn’t give chase, and the leith said to his kits, “There’s no honor or gain in fighting a fleeing vixen.”

Hvita ran until she was out of breath and shivering. How many other foxes would treat her that way? Those four hadn’t even let her finish. She glanced at the sky. She would have to dig out her own den before Ylirr-down. Winding ridges, like raised scars in the land, made for good shelter from the ice and wind. Hvita dug out enough dirt to fit herself through, and she sank in, nursing her sore, throbbing paws.

Had she been wrong all along to leave Elin’s den? Back there, she could be much warmer, safer, and closer to her family. Hvita sank into a troubled sleep, and though she had run farther away from the great hill, it loomed over her as if she had never left home. A burst of fire-water from its top drowned out her scream. Her white fur turned black from a rain of ashes, and her burned flesh gave off a gagging stench. Suddenly, silence. No more fire and smoke. Only darkness. From the dark, like a fog, Dautha appeared between the slits of Hvita’s eyelids.

“Do not forget,” the blue vixen snapped.

That startled Hvita. Before, Dautha never rose her voice above the ruffle of a breeze. Hvita’s surprise quickly gave way to anger. “Why am I the only one who can see the land go bjarr? Why can’t you just show and tell everybeast so they would all know?”

“Everybeast is born with two eyes, and usually dies with two,” Dautha replied. “Very few are born with a third eye.”

Hvita blinked many times, blinking with just two eyes, as far as she could tell. “Am I one of the very few? I have this third eye?”

“That is why you can see what is yet to come. I could show you what will happen, because you have that rare gift.”

“You showed me how we will die in two moons. Can you show me how we can be saved?”

“I deal with all matters concerning death. I can only see and show what will kill you, not what will save you.” Dautha closed her eyes. “That path is closed to me.”

Hvita gritted her teeth. “Load of good that does for us.”

“You must find the answer for yourself.”

“Not even my own family cared to hear the news. Why bother with warning others?” Hvita thought of that tod and his kits, all covered in old wounds. “Of course I want my family to be safe, but why should I care if the rest die?”

Dautha pulled her ears back, silent for some time. Finally she murmured, “You have not seen the walking dead.”

“The dead never walk. We’ve never passed down such stories.” Hvita was unsure of herself, despite what she said.

“That tale is lost among your kind. A long time ago, before you were born and before men set paw on this land, Vaeleith sought to steal Ylirr’s remaining eye. After stealing the first, that glutton could not resist another prize. Vaeleith tried to sneak up on Ylirr under the cover of clouds, and leapt up high in the sky to grab it. Ylirr knew that Vaeleith would come. He was quick enough to pull back from Vaeleith’s paws, but not quick enough to pull back from the claws. Ylirr suffered a wound to his remaining eye, a wound that left him unable to see and warm the land. Darkness fell and Ylirr flew into a terrible fury. He sent down solvirrk to slay Vaeleith, but because he could not see, the solvirrk ran through innocent foxes instead. He thought he was aiming for Vaeleith, who was weaving this way and that to flee, but he sent many foxes to their deaths.”

Hvita shuddered. Like all foxes, she feared the sight and sound of solvirrk: Ylirr’s teeth that snapped down from sky to earth faster and harder than the teeth of any beast. Solvirrk was a sign of Ylirr’s wrath, and often came with rain. Whenever she heard it crack or saw it flash, she offered up an apology to Ylirr in case she had done something to displease him. As frightening as solvirrk could be, it would come down on nothing in particular. The ground, usually, maybe a tree, but never any one beast. To hear Dautha testifying otherwise terrified Hvita.

Dautha went on: “Ylirr had killed so many foxes in so short of a time that I could not escort all of them to my den at once. I could only take in some and refuse the others. Those who could not join me wandered without a resting place. They tried to return to their bodies, which had been burned black by solvirrk. So the dead walked, aimlessly and mindlessly, on decayed legs that fell apart and with heads bent like their necks had snapped. They did not know friend from foe, nor eat vaeli for sustenance, but they tore at each other and littered the land with needlessly slaughtered vaeli.” The blue vixen squeezed her eyes shut, as if in pain. “To this day I regret turning away the foxes who had to suffer like that. As soon as I widened my den, I brought them in to rest. Ylirr recovered from his wound and could see once more, green things grew again, the survivors mated among each other and multiplied, but few remembered seeing the dead walk. That became forgotten.”

Vaeleith was already a hated figure among the foxes, but hearing that made Hvita despise that prince of chaos and mischief even more.

“You want me to save as many as I can, so the dead won’t walk again.”

“It won’t be Vaeleith’s fault this time. The land-bjarr will do more harm than Ylirr’s solvirrk. More lives are in danger, so more will need to be saved.”

A wave of dread heaved in Hvita’s belly. Couldn’t Dautha offer more than omens and bad news?

“I won’t go back home, and I won’t forget.”

Dautha stepped back. “Very well. I trust that you can help me. Help your kind.”

Hvita woke up with tight-jawed determination to carry on. She may have never seen the dead walk, but she was certain that she never wanted to see bjarr again. The only time she had seen it was in her father, whose mouth frothed, eyes filmed red with blood, and claws gouged out the flesh of men that attacked her family. Her father fought bravely and ferociously, but bjarr didn’t last forever. When it left him, he was weak and helpless as a kit when the wounded men still managed to haul him, his mate, and litter away. The men hadn’t seen Hvita and Elin, who hid and shivered under mounds of snow. Kits who watched their family being snatched away to get skinned made for close sisters. Hvita and Elin had sworn to protect each other since that day.

“I’m still keeping my oath, Elin,” Hvita muttered to herself. “This is how I’m going to protect you.”

Since roaming from one makeshift den to another, Hvita buried any merrk she had to pass. She didn’t want to give other foxes any impression that she was interested in challenges or claims for territory. Fortunately, more often than not, others were curious about news she had to share when she did her best to look and sound harmless.

“Come with me, and we can find new homes far away from the great hill, where the fire-water can’t reach us,” she would tell them. “I’m not saying that I should be your new leith. I only ask that we travel together.” That was the best solution she could offer.

Unfortunately, nobeast was interested in following her. Nobeast could imagine this land covered in ice and snow to be engulfed in flames in merely two moons. Rejection after rejection fatigued her. Every day her strides became slower and her paws heavier. Her ears drooped and her tail dragged on the ground. On one Ylirr-high, she was sure that a couple of new mates burdened with no kits would want to come along, but they declined. As Hvita bit back a growl of frustration and turned away, the vixen said, “Strange, just this Ylirr-rise a roaming tod came up to us saying the same thing.”

That made Hvita whirl around. “The same thing? You mean the land-bjarr?”

“Yes,” the tod said. “His eyes were wide and rolling about, and he struck up a tune and rhymed words while he skipped. A bit mad, I think.”

“Never mind that. Where did he go? Where can I find him?” Hvita pressed.

The vixen flicked her tail to the east. “He headed for that hill over there, where the dandelions would grow when spring comes.”

Hvita took off down the direction the vixen had indicated. Soon singing reached her ears, and as she neared the hill, she noticed a tod wandering around with his eyes fixed to the sky. He didn’t seem to care where he treaded, and he sang to nobeast in particular. He sang to himself, apparently. She had to call out for him to notice.

“Hello there,” he called back. “Would you like to be part of my song?”

Hvita didn’t give the tod a chance to sing. “The land-bjarr, I heard that you know about it.”

“More than know. I’ve seen it.”

“Me too,” Hvita exclaimed. Another third eye. Finally, a fox who understood the grave danger to come. Or did he? This tod seemed much too happy.

“I am Orrn, the storyteller,” he sang, “with no mate, kits, or den to call my own, but that doesn’t matter.” Then he said, “And you are?”

“Hvita. My family and I live in a den close to the great hill.”

“Ah, close to the site of calamity. Where, then, is your family?”

“My sister still has to care for her kits, who are too small and helpless to move out.”

“Hmm, yes, good enough reason for her to stay. No wonder you’ve gone astray.”

“I’ll come back for them,” Hvita insisted. “After I do what Dautha has asked of me, that is.” She lashed her tail. “None of that is going well, I’m afraid.”

“Nothing good for my troubles, too. At least there’s you.”

“Well, I’m the only fox to believe you so far, because Dautha had also warned me about the land-bjarr.” The unintentional rhyming of her words perked Orrn’s ears, but she was in no mood to be merry. “Why don’t we travel together?” she asked. “If we’re together, maybe our warning can sound more believable. Maybe we can find more with the third eye like us.”

Orrn’s gaze drifted back to the sky, then his eyes twinkled at her. “A sound suggestion. In greater numbers, our warning will be harder to question.” Next to her, he kept pace with a light trot. He rolled and turned over words and phrases on his tongue, like chewing on meat too good to swallow. He was like a babbling brook, and only kept quiet to stokk for vaeli. Even in his sleep, he mumbled and twitched his paws. Besides talking too much, and talking more to himself than to her, Orrn made good company. With him, hunting and digging out dens took only half of the work. He might be chatty, but he wasn’t lazy. Since meeting Orrn, she would see him in her dreams, perhaps because they both had the third eye.

“Surely you haven’t always been alone,” she said to him. “You must’ve had a family before.”

“I was only a few moons old when my mother and father got sick,” he replied. “The sickness spread to my brother and sisters, so I ran away. I had been taught just enough about the stokk to hunt for myself. I thought it would be for a bit, until the sickness left. After a few days I came back to the den, only to find that Dautha had come for them first.”

Hvita brushed her tail over his flank. “I’m sorry.”

“I only feel sorry that I should feel sad when I’m not,” he murmured. “It was so long ago. Since my family left for Dautha’s den, I’ve become a wanderer.”

Sharing a den with her sister for almost her entire life, Hvita couldn’t imagine walking in his paws. “Do you ever get lonely?”

“Not anymore. Stories keep me company.”

“What stories do you like to tell?”

“Ones filled with fun and adventure. The ones about Vaeleith.”

“Vaeleith?” Hvita wrinkled her snout. “He’s a scoundrel and a nuisance. I think you may be the only fox to ever like him.”

That made Orrn’s chest swell. “I can take pride in that, I suppose. Well, I think he’s clever and interesting. Ylirr, Kaila, Dautha…may they forgive me, but they are always doing the same old thing—protecting the land, watching over the foxes, keeping order, and all that—so their stories are not very entertaining.”

“Stories are not supposed to entertain,” Hvita said. “They teach. We tell stories to kits so they can learn to be good tods and vixens.” Honestly, she wasn’t too fond of stories about Kaila. Apparently Hvita failed to be a proper vixen if she wasn’t churning out litter after litter for the rest of her life. She didn’t admit this to Orrn, but maybe he could sense that she didn’t really believe what she was telling him.

“Not all stories can be like that.” Then Orrn snorted. “Besides, who do I have to teach when I’m wandering about? I have no kits. I tell myself stories so I don’t get bored. Anyway, as for Vaeleith, he does whatever he wants. He’s not like the others, shouldered with some weighty, solemn duty to fulfill. He just likes to stir up trouble without a care in the world. He did at least one good thing, you know. He gave us the moon.”

“Stole Ylirr’s eye, more like,” Hvita quipped.

“Not good for Ylirr, I’ll admit, but with the moon, our nights are bit less cold and our days a bit less hot.”

From her makeshift den, Hvita peered up at the moon, Ylirr’s dimmed, pale eye that blinked ever so slowly in the darkness. At its widest, she could see tooth marks puckering the globe of that eye, evidence of Vaeleith’s successful theft.

Despite traveling together, Hvita and Orrn continued to have no luck with convincing others to heed the warning. A young tod joined them at first, but only to get away from his family. Within mere days he grew homesick, scared of unfamiliar land, and he slunk back to his den.

“He left for the wrong reason,” Hvita said. “I should’ve known he wouldn’t last with us.”

“We’ll keep trying. Let’s visit dens along the coast,” Orrn suggested.

The foxes tread with care down steep banks that made their pads prick or slip under gravel. Salt from the sea made Hvita’s nose ache and tongue heavy. Gulls and puffins wheeled high above them, diving down only to snatch fish from the sea. Birds had their own stokk, it seemed. Much more difficult. At least there was ground beneath the snow. Hvita looked at the waves beating on the shore, and shuddered. Foxes who lived near the sea offered the same denial as the ones who lived inland. They cared even less since their dens were farther away from the great hill.

As Hvita dragged her pads along the sand behind Orrn, her ears shot up. “Do you hear that?”

“Yes, by the cliffs.”

She should mind her own business, but the strange cries got the best of her curiosity. Hvita kept low to the ground as she made her way to the source of the cries. This time Orrn trailed behind her. A flock of crows brewed like a tiny storm cloud ahead. Either something below them was dead, or nearly dead. Hvita crept closer, and could better hear the cries that put any ambiguity to flight.

A puffin waddled on the sand and screamed at the crows above it. “Auk! Not dead! Go away!” It beat one wing furiously as it screamed, while the other wing hung limply. “Not dead! Go away!” The crows cawed in defiance. The puffin waddled in place to turn where it stood, uttering a great deal of “auks.”

“Look at its beak, Hvita,” Orrn hissed. “Half of it’s broken.”

“Its wing, too.”

“It won’t keep the crows off its tail forever, poor fellow.”

The puffin talked strangely. Its color and scent were different from the other puffins. Maybe it flew in from far away. Hvita wanted to speak with the injured puffin, but she couldn’t do that with the crows harassing it. She leapt out of hiding and snarled at the flock, startling them. Orrn joined her and bared his teeth. Crows weren’t going to pick a fight with a pair of healthy, angry foxes.

The puffin puffed up its white breast, squawking at Hvita and Orrn. “You want eat me too? I fight you too. I put holes in fox heads, auk!”

Hvita took care not to get close to the jagged beak. “We don’t want to eat you. We just want to talk.”

“Auk! I not believe you. Foxes always sneaky.”

Orrn lowered his voice close to Hvita’s ear. “I know just the thing to earn that bird’s trust. I bet it can’t catch fish with that broken beak. It must be hungry.”

“How can we catch fish? We can’t fly and stokk like the birds.”

Fish strayed into the shore with every beat of the waves. Orrn showed Hvita how to grab them. She didn’t like how the cold water splashed and lapped at her belly. Worse, the fish felt slimy and scaly, and she tried not to gag. She and Orrn brought back mouthfuls of slim, silver fish, which the puffin gulped down. Half of its large grey and orange bill had chipped off, so that its tongue showed like a worm without dirt to hide in. The puffin tipped its face to the sky to slide fish down its throat.

“There, do you trust us now?” Hvita asked.

The puffin’s feathers, once ruffled, laid flat now. With amusement and surprise, it said, “Foxes speak true. Not always sneaky.”

“That’s right. Who are you, and where are you from?”

“My name Bris, like soft wind. I hatch in Long-Land.”

“Long-Land? Is that what you call this place?” Orrn asked.

“No, no, auk!” Bris gestured with its unbroken wing. “Across sea, east. Many days from here. Most time live on sea. Sometime come to this land, or Long-Land. Rocks good for nests and eggs.”

Hvita thought of how much more birds like Bris could see with wings than beasts with only paws. “If you’ve flown here before, you must know how big the land is from up there.”

“Yes. This land not so big, auk.”

“It’s not?” Orrn was puzzled.

“Water all around this land, so land small and round like nest,” Bris said. “That why my kind call this land Nest-Land, auk.”

“Is it really that small? How can foxes leave the land, if there’s the sea all around?”

“Why foxes want leave?”

Hvita tried to tell Bris about the land-bjarr.

The puffin bobbed its head. “I know great hill. Very big. If fire-water come from great hill, it cover all Nest-Land. Foxes not fly, not swim. Foxes stay and die in Nest-Land when fire-water come.”

“That can’t be it.” Hvita squeezed her eyes shut. “There has to be a way out of here.” Foxes had given names to many things, but the land wasn’t one of them. It was simply called the land, because most foxes didn’t know much else beyond their own dens. Even Orrn, a wandering fox for most of his life, couldn’t claim to explore every edge of the land, and certainly didn’t have wings to know that the land wasn’t so big, after all.

“No way off Nest-Land for foxes,” Bris said matter-of-factly. Then, mournfully, “No way off for me too, if wing not get better in two moons, auk!”

Hvita turned her back to Bris, walked away to sink her rump, then her belly, into the sand, and covered her snout with both paws. “We’re doomed. We’re all just stuck here. It’s no use trying to stop our fate.”

Orrn padded up to her, keeping his chin raised. “Don’t make such a big merrk all over things, Hvita. We’ll find a way.”

“If you have any brilliant ideas, I’d like to hear them,” she snapped. “I don’t know how you can be skipping and singing when we’re all going to die in two moons.”

Orrn’s voice dipped to a whisper. “Because if we survive, I know that will make the greatest story that foxes would ever hear.”

“Nobeast will be around to hear it.”

“Yes, there will.”

“You say these things, yet you have no proof for any of it.”

“You’re talking like the foxes who don’t believe us. I believe that all is not lost. I don’t have anything to show for it, but you just have to believe in me, Hvita.”

Orrn didn’t rhyme his words when he was being adamant and serious. Hvita was too weary to argue further. She only remarked under her breath, “If only we could be smart like men…” Her gaze wandered to the sea as she said this, then she sat up. “Dautha said that long ago, no men lived here. They don’t have wings or fins, but they must have come over somehow.”

“They came on knapa,” Orrn said.

“What? Impossible.” Knapa were deathly afraid of water. They would not set a hoof in, even without carrying men on their backs.

“You’ve only lived inland. You’re thinking of the knapa that men use to run on land. I’m thinking of the knapa that carry them across the sea.”

That stirred up Hvita’s curiosity, like a paw thrust into a stagnant pool. “I want to see this other knapa. I want to know how men use it.”

Orrn hunched his shoulders. “That would be too dangerous. I’ve only seen it once from a cliff, but this kind of knapa can carry many, many men on its back, and all the men on it carry sharp things in their paws. This knapa has no hooves to trample you, but you can’t just walk right up to it. Men will kill you as soon as they see you.”

“I won’t be that stupid,” Hvita retorted. “Of course I’d watch from a distance. Let’s go to where you last watched men on this sea-knapa, Orrn.”

“That place isn’t safe anymore. Men dug a new den there.”

“Then Bris might know a safer place.” Hvita padded back to where the puffin still sat gulping down the remains of her and Orrn’s catch. “Bris, you must know these cliffs better than we do. Could you show us the best place to safely watch the men come on their sea-knapa?”

Bris tilted its head this way and that. “I not know what sea-knapa mean, auk, but I know good place. Men no see or hurt you from there.”

“Good. We’ll head for their nearest den at Ylirr-rise.”

Tired from their journey along the coast, and needing the puffin’s guidance the next day, Hvita and Orrn decided to spend the night with Bris by the cliffs. They took shelter under jutting ridges to escape the buffeting wind. Bris waddled around trying to gather twigs, but when its broken beak hampered its attempts, the foxes helped; then the puffin awkwardly settled into its crude nest.

“I say, Bris, whatever happened to that beak of yours?” Orrn asked.

“Storm last night,” Bris replied. “Boom, boom, lots of boom.”

“Solvirrk,” Hvita said. “We heard it too.”

“I not get hurt from booms. I fly in much rain, much wind, that I not see well. I fly into cliff. Hit beak hard on rock, auk! I fall down. Left wing break when I hit ground.”

“That sounds awfully painful,” Orrn said.

“Hurt lots, auk! After that I no fly, no eat, almost die. But you save me. I follow good foxes now.”

Not that the puffin had much choice with that broken beak and wing. Hvita would prefer to sleep now, but Orrn was more interested in striking up conversation with their new acquaintance. “I’ve always wondered: what gods do you puffins follow?”

“Gods? I not understand.”

“You don’t know what gods are? Well, they rule and watch over us. Most of them, anyway. We foxes follow the god of light, the goddess of ice and snow, and the goddess of death. There’s a god of mischief, but we’re not supposed to follow his example.”

“Oh. My kind not have gods.”

The foxes exchanged a perplexed look. “What do you believe, then?” Orrn asked.

“World like big egg. World hatch in big boom.” Bris emphasized the phenomenon with a sweep of its right wing. “All things spill out: light, water, wind, land, birds, beasts, and men. All things part of egg and hatch from egg. No gods.”

“I…I see,” Orrn said, though it was clear to Hvita that he couldn’t see much sense in that. “Well, if you don’t have stories about gods, you must have lots of stories about the lands you’ve seen.”

Sleepiness fled Hvita’s thoughts as talk of many lands beyond this one perked her ears. Bris had flown to places where trees grew high and plenty, foxes were red rather than white, brown, or blue, and menleith ruled from vast dens made of stone.

Then Bris said, “Tell me about fox gods. You have funny stories? I like funny, auk!”

Orrn’s ears perked, and he sang, “Just the thing for this gloomy weather. I’ll tell you a tale that’ll tickle your feathers.” The storytelling fox flicked a stern gaze between Bris and Hvita, to make sure they would listen closely and not interrupt. “This is how Vaeleith earned his name: as the prince of mischief, even as a kit being born, he had given his mother so much trouble that she would not name him. He was the smallest in his litter, easily overlooked by his bigger, stronger brothers and sisters. He always tried hard to get attention, and found that the only times anybeast would notice him were when he caused trouble. He often disobeyed his mother, or picked a fight with his siblings, then said that they started it. His family could no longer stand his antics, so they kicked him out of the den. That only made him want to stir up bigger trouble. While he wandered about the land, he picked up many tricks, like walking on water without falling through, and making beasts see or smell something that isn’t really there. He wanted to make a name for himself, and do something so ridiculous and nefarious that all foxes would curse him and remember him for it. He thought about pulling the ultimate trick: to make all vaeli disappear.”

“What vaeli mean?” Bris squawked, and Orrn’s ears pulled back.

“Don’t break a story’s rhythm, Bris. I suppose a puffin’s not expected to know that, so it’s all right for now. Vaeli are little brown beasts that burrow underground, what foxes like to eat. Anyway…Vaeleith, before he was named Vaeleith of course, knew that vaeli weren’t too smart. He knew that they loved chewing on grass. He walked on the sea, beneath tall cliffs, and wherever his paws touched, the sea of water seemed to turn into a sea of grass. To the vaeli, it looked and smelled an awful lot like the real thing. That made all the vaeli in the land jump out of their burrows, and jump right off the cliffs! Foxes who were hunting, and even foxes staying in their dens, wondered what on Kaila was happening. All the vaeli they could have caught and eaten—throwing themselves straight into the sea! There, under the sight of every fox in the land, the troublemaker pronounced himself the vaelileith: the ‘leader of vaeli,’ the one who misled the vaeli with a trick. Even now, since that day, that prince of mischief is forever remembered as Vaeleith.”

Bris uttered a string of “auks” and flapped its uninjured wing. “Very funny,” it finally said. “Vaeli drop like me, but into sea, plop plop plop. Vaeleith most sneaky fox!”

“He certainly is. He’d be happy to hear that.” Then Orrn yawned. “One story is enough for the night. I suppose we need lots of rest for the journey at Ylirr-rise.”

Bris bobbed its head. “Lots climb on cliff.”

Once Ylirr peeked his eye over the edge of the sea, Hvita, Orrn, and Bris stirred awake. Orrn used his snout to lift Bris onto Hvita’s back. She would have to carry the flightless puffin while it showed the way. Bris’s directions led them along crags and ridges carved into the cliffs. The foxes had narrow footholds, and as they climbed higher, Hvita tried not to look down. They pressed themselves against the flat rock, and the occasional flurry of salty, chilly wind threatened to blow them off. The foxes clung on to their difficult path, because Bris insisted that walking this way would steer them out of sight from men that roamed on the flat snow. Despite the puffin’s assurance that they were safe, Hvita felt vulnerable. Her and Orrn’s fluffy white coats did not blend well at all with the rocks.

“Nesting grounds have not much birds and eggs now,” Bris added. “No mothers attack foxes.”

“That’s a relief,” Orrn remarked. “I’m not climbing all the way up here just to get pushed off by birds that think we want their eggs.” He didn’t sing a word as soon as they started the climb. His legs trembled with every step. Foxes found comfort and homes in the ground. They didn’t envy the birds and their wings at all. Foxes were up in the air only to stokk. Anything longer and higher than that was not natural.

Hvita, however, didn’t share Orrn’s nervousness. Every pawstep along the cliff sent thrills up her legs. When they could climb no farther and higher, she fell under the illusion of being set free from earth, which would soon go bjarr beneath her paws. Still perched between her shoulders, Bris gestured with its wing.

“Look down there. Lots men, lots sea-knapa.”

Orrn wasn’t so keen on peering over the rocky edge, especially after claiming to see the sea-knapa once, but Hvita craned her neck forward. Just as she seemed to regain her breath, the sight below stole it.

From this high, men teemed, swarmed, and crawled like insects around their dens. Hvita couldn’t understand why men liked to build dens so close to each other. No fox would be happy with that little space. Her interest, however, wasn’t in their dens. Her gaze was fixed on where land and sea met, where knapa carried men to and from the water. Like Orrn had said, these knapa didn’t sink. Their backs were curved, hollow, and long, so many men rather than one could fit in at once. The heads of these knapa almost looked like the heads of knapa that ate and ran on grass: long-necked, long-faced, but with sharp teeth. Hvita couldn’t make sense of the thing on its back. The thing always moved, ruffling under the wind, either bloating or sagging. This knapa might not have hooves, but it had what seemed to be many legs that the men pushed and pulled on. That made the knapa walk on water, Hvita realized. Some knapa slowed to a stop on the shore, but didn’t follow the men that jumped off. Other knapa glided away toward the horizon. These knapa must be used only for the sea, not for land. That was why men needed another kind of knapa to move fast on snow and grass.

“By Ylirr above and Dautha below” was all Hvita could say.

“You got your view.” Orrn shivered. “Can we get off this cliff now?”

“There is a way off this land, after all,” Hvita muttered. She turned to Orrn. “As kits, we were always taught not to be a bad fox like Vaeleith, but this time we have to think and act like him.”

“What do you mean, Hvita?”

“I see only one way to escape death by fire-water. We must get as many foxes as we can into the sea. Into the knapa.” Orrn’s ears shot up and his eyes widened, but before he could comment, Hvita went on: “We can’t make our own knapa. There’s not enough time, and we’re not smart like men to know how. We need to steal one of theirs.”

“A trick to surpass even Vaeleith’s,” Orrn said.

“Steal knapa?” Bris cried. “How only two foxes do that? Many men move just one knapa. Two foxes not enough.”

The puffin had a point, but Hvita held onto the idea.

Again with Bris’s help, Hvita and Orrn turned to climb back the way they came. The way down proved much harder. Hvita had no choice but to see how high they had climbed. She wanted to shut her eyes, but she needed to know where to put her paws, or she would plummet to her death like the tricked vaeli. Vaeleith must have made up very convincing grass for vaeli to toss themselves off of cliffs like this. Though the waves lapping on the shore masked most sounds, Hvita could feel her belly rumbling. She and Orrn needed to hunt soon. They had to catch fish for Bris as well. The foxes quieted the growls from their bellies as soon as they reached firm ground. Hvita was sure that she’d never get used to the taste and feel of fish. Still, she forced herself to swallow them down.

As she hunched over to cough up fish bones lodged in her throat, a call from above made her freeze. Not a cry from an injured puffin this time, but a call very much like a fox’s.

“Vaeli! Vaeli!”

The call sounded and echoed past the banks, which seemed much easier to climb over after the cliffs.

Orrn cocked his head. “Who could that be?”

Hvita rose to her paws. “I’m going to see who that is. Wait here.” She followed the call to a thicket of birch. Odd…vaeli liked to burrow in the snowy plains, where tree roots wouldn’t get in their way. Why would somebeast say that vaeli were here? Still, Hvita pressed on. She passed by felled trees, then ducked behind one. Just beyond her hiding spot, a young man attacked a tree with a strange sort of tooth. The teeth she had seen were long and straight. This one was short and curved, like a sliver of the moon, biting into the wood with every swing of the young man’s paws. Suddenly he stopped, put down his curved tooth, and bent over the snow panting. After he caught his breath, he tipped his head back and called out “Vaeli! Vaeli!”

A man sounding like a fox. How could that be? Hvita was so startled that she yipped. The young man whirled around. Most of his naked skin and sparse yellow fur was wrapped under the furs of other beasts. Her eyes met his, both wide and unblinking. Her breath plumed out light and shallow on her nose. The young man, never breaking his gaze away, sank to his knees and softly said, “What snow vaeli. Where Ylirr kit den.”

Hvita couldn’t make sense of that jumble of words. She had never been by a man this close. Not since men had taken away most of her family. She didn’t know what to do, or whether he would attack her instead of the tree. Did he lay traps in the woods? Could what he was saying be a trap itself, to lure her in, because she thought she had heard another fox? If that was true, he had succeeded.

At that, she bolted from him. She weaved through the birch and hurtled down the bank.

“Hvita, what happened?” Orrn cried. “Were you attacked?”

“No, but I might’ve been, if I hadn’t been quick.”

Next to Orrn, Bris flapped its wing. “What almost attack you?”

Once Hvita calmed her panting, she said, “A man. In the woods, there’s a man who can call out like a fox.”

“By Ylirr,” Orrn breathed. “That’s impossible. Men and foxes have always never understood each other.”

“That might be changing.” The thought sent a chill down Hvita’s spine. “I was so sure that I heard another fox, until I saw the man right in front of me.”

Bris stamped down a webbed foot. “All men dangerous, but that man very dangerous. Stay by cliffs. More safe here than woods.”

Part of Hvita wanted to agree. They should stay out of sight until they were sure that men would no longer be nearby. Another part of her wanted to look more into how the knapa on water could be moved and used, but that would have to wait. The foxes and puffin returned to their prior resting spot. Merely hiding behind cracks in the cliffs did not feel like enough protection for Hvita, but this was the best they could manage. From Ylirr-high to Ylirr-down, Hvita thought hard about what to do next. Then, despite the weight of salt in the air, a terrible scent burst through to make her fur stand on end. It was the scent of many dead things, stifling the cramped space. Only one beast carried that kind of smell. Men.

Orrn stiffened beside Hvita, and even Bris puffed up its feathers. Hvita cursed her negligence and stupidity. They should’ve covered their tracks. Men stood too tall to use their noses for the ground, but they came up with other ways to hunt. An unspoken rule coursed among the three: don’t make a sound. Heavy footfalls crunched on the sand and gravel. At the cracks in the cliff, a man’s feet swung into view. Hvita uttered a silent prayer to Ylirr and Kaila. If she, Orrn, and Bris sat very still, especially since it sounded like the man didn’t bring a rowf to sniff them out, they had hope of fooling the man into thinking that they weren’t there.

But men weren’t so easily fooled. The man bent down, with paws and knees on the ground. Three pairs of eyes from inside met the one outside. The same young man from the woods. Hvita split the air with an explosive bark. Orrn flashed his teeth and Bris let out bursts of “auks!” The man flinched but didn’t leave. He crawled on his hands and knees now, and squeezed through the cracks. Hvita’s fur tingled and bristled all over, and instincts howled at her to run, but she had nowhere to go. The man blocked their only way of escape. Once he squeezed his whole long body through, he held up his paws. Hvita, Orrn, and Bris edged back into the farthest wall. The man was so tall that he had to stay on his knees.

“Vaeli,” he said.

“Go away,” Hvita snarled. “You’re a liar.”

“Liar?” He perfectly imitated the last word she uttered.

“Yes. Liar. There’s no vaeli here.”

Or did he mean them as vaeli? His food? The man pawed at his side and drew out a tooth as long and straight as his arm. Cold fear washed over Hvita’s hot anger. She couldn’t die here. She hadn’t finished doing what Dautha told her to do. Her snarl ended in a strangled whine. The young man didn’t swing down his tooth at them. Instead he turned to the side, exposing the crack, and threw out his tooth. It hit with a faint clatter on the gravel. Confusion slackened the knots and tension in Hvita’s legs. Orrn mirrored her reaction. Why wouldn’t the man use his tooth? That was like Bris breaking its own beak on purpose. It didn’t make sense.

Once more the man raised his paws. Sat on his tailless bottom and crossed his legs. Like Hvita, Orrn, and Bris, he was defenseless. Rummaging through his coat again, he held out a pawful of fish. “Vaeli.” He wasn’t lying, after all. Hvita didn’t know that he had fish. The stench of those dead furs he wore overwhelmed everything else. No fish were claimed from his hand, so he tossed them at the feet of the two foxes and the puffin.

Bris, who enjoyed fish the most, couldn’t resist. The fish was gone in a blink of the eye.

“Don’t take bait from the enemy,” Hvita hissed at the gleeful puffin. “That’s what he wants. Weren’t you saying just earlier today that this man was very dangerous?”

“Very dangerous with tooth,” Bris replied. “No more tooth, not dangerous now.”

“He could always go out to retrieve it.” Orrn’s eyes darted nervously between the young man and the fish at his paws.

Hvita didn’t even look at her fish. She watched for what the man would do. Nothing was stopping him, but he made no move to grab his tooth. Without it, he had nothing else worth noting to be harmful. The teeth in his mouth were small and flat, like the nails on his paws. Perhaps he wasn’t interested in hurting them. Hvita couldn’t understand the man’s mangled fox-speech, let alone his own speech. Perhaps he tried to talk in another way.

“No harm?” Hvita asked.

“No harm,” the man replied. He held up his paws, and for a moment Hvita wondered why he kept doing that, then she thought that perhaps this was his way of saying that he didn’t carry any long, sharp teeth. “No harm,” he said, firmly this time.

Hvita wouldn’t believe him in a heartbeat. She still didn’t know what he wanted with her, Orrn, and Bris. Her fur flattened somewhat and she pulled down her lips to hide her teeth. The young man tossed them some more fish, which Bris alone ended up eating. When he ran out, he rested his back on the rock wall across from the foxes and the puffin. His shoulders sagged and his eyes drooped shut.

Orrn cocked his head. “He wants to sleep here?”

“We should take turns to watch him,” Hvita said. “If we all let our guard down, that would be the best time for him to attack us.” Under her vigilant gaze, the man didn’t stir or budge. When weariness crept over her, she asked Orrn to take over. She curled in her tail, but not quite over her face, and kept her eyes on the man for as long as she could before succumbing to sleep.

Hvita found herself back on the snowy plains. No more sand that got stuck in her fur, or gravel that stabbed at her pads. She was home. Hvita called for the kits, but none of them ran out to meet her. Instead the great hill rumbled, sending quakes through the snow and her paws. No, no, not again. Hvita ran and pulled back her ears, but the great hill still terrified her with its heated roar. Fire-water spewed from the top and seared down into the snow with an angry hiss. Hvita skidded to a stop at the edge of a cliff. Far below her, a lone knapa drifted on the sea, carrying one man. Behind her, fire and smoke engulfed all signs of home and life as she knew it. Just one word crossed her mind.

Jump!

Like the tricked vaeli, Hvita hurtled off the cliff, just before hot rocks crashed where she once stood. She fell and fell, straight for the sea-knapa, bracing for the bone-breaking impact, but the man had seen her fall and reached out to catch her with his paws.

Hvita jolted awake. So did the young man. Her fur stood on end, while his furless skin was wet and clammy. What she had seen in her dream…had he seen that, too? He crawled out of the crack, but didn’t pick up his tooth.

“What just happened?” Orrn asked.

“I’m not sure.” Hvita rose and shook herself, then padded out to dunk her face into cold seawater. The man was nowhere to be found. Perhaps he went back to his den, wherever that was. Hvita gave the tooth on the ground a wide berth on her way back to Orrn and Bris, and tried to explain the events of last night.

Of course the puffin didn’t know what to make of it, but Orrn said, “That man must have the third eye like you and me, Hvita.”

She didn’t question his musing. He had stayed awake to watch the man, so he hadn’t followed her into the dream. The young man returned to the cliffs at Ylirr-down, this time on a small sea-knapa. The top of his body tipped back and forth as he pulled the knapa’s legs through the water. Hvita blinked hard to make sure she wasn’t still dreaming.

“That’s the same knapa I saw in my dream,” she told Orrn. Instinct barked at her to hide behind the crack in the cliff, but curiosity compelled her to watch how the man moved the knapa under his control. One end of the knapa slid onto the shore. The man didn’t try to do the same for the other end. Instead he jumped out, waded from the shallows, and tied the knapa to the shore with long brown whiskers. Hvita’s nape prickled. This knapa wasn’t so big. Maybe she and Orrn could steal it when the man was away. To her dismay, after Ylirr-down the man climbed back on the knapa to sleep in it. Under the cover of darkness, Hvita crept closer to the knapa. It smelled of both the woods and the sea, more of the latter. Her nose almost brushed over whorls and rings on the knapa. It was made of dead trees, she realized. She had seen how men cut trees with their curved teeth, but she didn’t understand how they smoothed it down and put it together. Facing such a large, dead thing made her shy away in disgust and slink back to the cliffs.

“Why man bring sea-knapa here?” Bris asked.

“Why do men do anything?” Hvita slumped onto the sand. “We can only guess.” It seemed tempting, with the knapa right here, but the more she thought about her plan to steal the knapa, the more foolish it sounded. She looked down at her paws. Even if she and Orrn could bite off the brown whiskers to free the knapa, they didn’t have paws like men to hold the legs.

“Keep taking turns to watch the entrance,” she told Orrn and Bris. “He may try to come in again.” That was all she knew what to do at the moment. She tried to think, but as weariness stole over her, she sent down another prayer to Dautha to be spared of seeing the fire-water again. Hvita’s eyes drooped shut, then she opened them again to find Bris gone and Orrn beside her. The puffin was keeping watch. The two foxes emerged from the crack in the cliff and blinked under Ylirr’s light. Breathing deeply only drew in sea salt, not smoke, into Hvita’s chest. That would change within a moon. She wasn’t fooled, and she didn’t forget. The knapa was still at rest on the shore, its legs tucked away and waves lapping at its sides made of dead, smooth trees. Hvita and Orrn crept up to it on soundless paws. Despite her disgust, Hvita couldn’t help admiring this proof of men’s ingenuity and power. Because of these knapa, no stretch of sea or land could stop men from going wherever they pleased. Hvita wished that her kind could have the same freedom.

“Do you like it?”

The voice behind the foxes made them jump. It was the young man, who held up his paws.

“Don’t run away. I’m not going to hurt you. No sword, see?”

Hvita could understand him perfectly.

Orrn couldn’t help but ask, “What is a sword?”

“That long, sharp thing I tossed into the sand, that’s a sword. I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

Hvita stumbled back. “You understand us, too.” While that frightened her, the man made little upward jerks of his paws as his speech picked up pace.

“I don’t know how this is happening, but thank the gods for it! Since I was a boy, I liked to imitate the calls of other animals. I would cry like the gulls and bark like you. I think I’m getting better at it. What do you think, fox?”

“My name is not fox,” she said mildly. “It’s Hvita, and this is Orrn.”

“My apologies. I’m Ivar.”

“Well, Ivar, I think you talk like a day-old kit.”

His broad shoulders sagged. “Oh. I thought I might’ve sounded like a real fox.”

“You sound convincing with one word at a time, I’ll give you that. But as soon as you string words together, you make no sense at all.”

“Is that so?” Ivar clapped his paws together and uttered strange barks. “I babble like a baby, huh?” Then the corners of his lips sank back into a grim straight line, and he said softly, “You saw it too, didn’t you? All that smoke and fire?”

“The land-bjarr, we call it,” Orrn said.

“That’s why I’m sailing away on this boat I built.” Ivar jabbed part of his paw at the knapa. “It can sail fine along the shore, but it’s not done yet. Not ready for open water. I practically live in the woods to chop and gather wood so I can finish building.”

“Why is your knapa—your boat—so small?” Hvita asked. “I’ve seen how many men can fit in at once.”

Ivar shook his head. “No one else believes me. No one wants to move out of their nice, new homes and pastures after sailing all the way here. Everyone in my village thinks I’m mad, even when I tell them that I was warned by a god.”

Hvita stiffened and bit back a yip. The terrible vision, the struggle to convince others…she and Orrn shared them with Ivar. “A god also visited us,” she said. “That’s how I know that you’re not spouting nonsense.”

Ivar made that strange bark, a short, wry-sounding one this time. “I never thought that the first and only ones to believe me would be a pair of foxes.”

Bitterness welled within Hvita’s throat like rotten meat. “At least you have a way out. My kind are doomed to die here because we can’t think like men, or fly like birds, or swim like fish.”

Ivar’s eyes twinkled. “You can come with me. There’s room.”

Hvita was so startled by the notion that she snapped out of the shared dream. Orrn must have felt the same, as he jerked from his sleep and exchanged wide-eyed worry with her.

“What should we do about that, Hvita?”

“Not trust him, of course.”

Hvita curled her tail tighter around her legs. Nothing good came out of company with men. Either beasts died at men’s paws to be eaten, or were tamed to obey and submit. Hvita refused to be lured into another trap.

Ivar climbed out of his little, unfinished knapa, and Hvita slunk out of the crack before he could think to trap her inside. Orrn and Bris followed her instinct, though the puffin waddled out squawking in pain from its useless left wing. Ivar took no more steps forward and stayed by the head of his knapa. Under his riveted gaze, Hvita flattened her ears and curled her lip at him. If the man was going back and forth from the shore to the woods, while he was away, she and Orrn could steal the knapa then. They didn’t need help from a man.

Ivar tried to talk to them, but could only utter the word he imitated best: vaeli. Hvita and Orrn kept their distance, then flinched when Ivar pulled out his curved tooth. He talked some more, frantically this time, jabbing with his free paw between the curved tooth and the woods, but Hvita’s fur continued to prickle. Finally Ivar’s paw fell to the side and he let out a huff. He stalked away from them, to cut more wood for the knapa, Hvita realized.

“This is our chance,” she whispered to Orrn. “As soon as he’s out of our sight, let’s make away with the knapa.”

When Ivar disappeared over the bank, the foxes jumped to gnawing at the brown whiskers holding the knapa still. Hvita’s jaws ached, but with enough bites she and Orrn were able to snap off the whiskers. They planted their paws into the gravel and sand and strained their backs as they pushed the knapa farther into the water. They hopped onto it, and when the knapa rocked under their weight, a wave of weak-legged sickness hit Hvita and made her stumble. Bris fell off her shoulders and hit the back of the knapa with an indignant “auk!” Orrn yelped and dug his claws into the wood.

“Riding on water feels awful. How do men put up with this?”

Hvita gritted her teeth and swallowed back the fear and nausea. “We’ll have to bear it, too. See the legs? You take one and I’ll take the other.” Even as she remembered how men tugged on the legs to move the knapa, she and Orrn could not even grip the legs properly to lower them into the water. Neither their jaws nor paws found purchase on the long, heavy limbs.

“It’s no use,” Orrn panted.

“Knapa move,” Bris cried. “Move with waves.”

The puffin was right—even without the legs, the sea ebbed and flowed beneath them so that the knapa bucked and swayed with it. They were moving, all right, but not where they chose to go. They were at the sea’s mercy. Suddenly Hvita yearned for firm ground beneath her paws.

Panic soared from her chest and lodged into her throat. “We’re too far from the shore. We’re stuck on here.”

Orrn’s groan was cut off by dry heaves. Bris tried to get off the knapa by flying. Instead, only its webbed feet stuck up in the air as the puffin fell backwards. Hvita shut her eyes, overwhelmed by the awful swaying sickness. This knapa that they could ride but not control held them captive. Ivar didn’t lead them into a trap. She did.

A man’s shout made Hvita look up. Ivar, who came down the bank, dropped the wood he was holding and ran to the shore. The freezing water made him gasp, but he plodded on as fast as he could until the water reached his chest. He grabbed on to the neck of the knapa and pulled to bring it, as well as the two foxes and one puffin on it, back to shore. Hvita, Orrn, and Bris had nowhere to run, and the man had every reason to kill the beasts that dared to steal his knapa. She braced for the swing and fatal bite of his curved tooth. Instead she felt his paws around her. She stiffened, too shocked to fight back, as Ivar lifted her from the knapa and lowered her onto the ground. He did the same for Orrn and Bris. Violent shivers racked Ivar’s body as he struggled to tie down the knapa with new brown whiskers. His lips turned blue and his naked skin took on the color of dead fish. He curled up against the knapa the way foxes curled up against the cold, his jaws clenched and arms wrapped tight about him in a useless attempt to fight the shivering.

Pity surprised and compelled Hvita to pad up to the young man and bump her nose against the hard coat for his feet.

“What are you doing?” Orrn asked.

“He needs shelter from the wind, or he’ll die here,” she replied. “He’ll be warmer behind the cliffs. We need him to follow us in there.”

Orrn joined Hvita in tugging at the fur lining Ivar’s feet-coat. It took them several tries to rouse him and for him to understand. He staggered after them as they headed for the crack in the rocks. Once inside, Ivar collapsed into the sand. His coat came in many parts. With as much strength as he could muster, he wrenched off the soaked coat covering his legs and tossed them outside with the long tooth. The water must have made him quite numb, since he didn’t grimace at the gravel and sand against his bare bottom. Hvita pressed herself against his exposed left leg, while Orrn did the same for the right. Bris waddled over to settle on Ivar’s feet. The young man still shivered, though not as much. Fatigue and sleep dropped like a great stone on beasts and man alike.

When Hvita cracked open her eyes again, she was back on the knapa. So was Orrn. This time, Ivar was with them. He sat across from the foxes on one end, holding a knapa leg in each paw. Hvita expected the wave of sickness to return, but as Ivar pulled on the legs in a slow, sweeping way that dipped his paws up and down, the knapa glided on the water with barely a sway.

“What were you doing on the boat?” Ivar asked. “I thought you wanted nothing to do with it, then I came back and found a pair of foxes and a puffin trying to sail a boat on their own.” That made the corners of his lips curl up, but Hvita lowered her head.

“We tried to steal your knapa. We were fools to try.”

“Well, I’m just glad you three didn’t tip over and drown.”

“Why do you care about what happens to us?” Orrn asked.

“Without you, I’d be alone again.” Ivar stopped moving the legs. He stared beyond the foxes with a pained look on his face. “I would’ve been the only one to get out of that.”

Hvita and Orrn looked over their shoulders, and Hvita’s heart wrenched. The land behind them was burnt and mangled beyond recognition, reeking with death and the wake of destruction. No green thing grew or river flowed. The only whiteness on that colossal pile of ash were the bones of foxes, the remains of Elin, Njall, and the kits who were robbed of the chance at full lives.

Hvita shuddered and whimpered. “Has it happened already? Are we too late?”

“No,” Ivar said, “we’re only seeing what will come.”

Orrn curled his tail around his legs, and his hushed voice barely rose above the waves. “I don’t mind being alone, but not like this.”

“I can’t leave my family to that.” Hvita looked back at Ivar—more precisely, saw no more options other than to rely on the man’s control of his knapa. “Does your offer still stand? Can we trust you to take us to safety?”

“I swear by Odin Allfather, who bestowed his wisdom to me with the warning, that you can trust me and I won’t hurt you.”

Hvita didn’t know the value of an oath to this Odin. “Swear by our gods, too, by Ylirr above and Dautha below.”

Ivar repeated his promise, this time by the gods Hvita and Orrn knew, then said, “I will stay here by the cliffs to finish the boat while you get your family.”

“I don’t doubt that you’ll finish the knapa.” Hvita clenched her jaw. “The challenge will be convincing my sister to come. Our parents and siblings were taken away by men.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Ivar murmured, though it was no fault of his.

“She would rather die than climb on something made by a man, but she has kits to worry about. I have to make her see that this is the only way to save them.”

Ivar’s eyes widened. “Please do. I wouldn’t want any poor kits to die.”

His reaction puzzled Hvita. She had thought that men only relished in and excelled at killing things. It comforted her somewhat that Ivar was the odd exception, and the only hope from a fate worse than death.

Ivar’s shivering subsided by Ylirr-rise, and Hvita streaked out of the cliffs to return home. Worry brewed within her like the dark clouds wafting from the great hill. The air began to taste bitter, which made her eat and sleep little. Instincts screamed at her to head the other way, but thoughts of her sister, nieces, and nephews waiting pushed her on. Hvita panicked when she couldn’t find the den entrance, but after much sniffing and digging, found that it had been caved in with snow. Hvita pushed and squeezed through the narrowed entrance. Startled yips greeted her, and she squinted at the dark.

“Elin, are you there?”

“Hvita, is that you?” Her sister edged forward, much leaner than before, with kits no longer attached to her teats. “Have you really come back?”

Hvita nipped at Elin’s ear. “I promised that I would.”

The first litter, now older and bigger, streamed past their mother to brush against Hvita’s shoulders and sides. The second litter remained behind Elin, shy and uncertain, because they had been too small to see and know their aunt.

“How you’ve all grown,” Hvita exclaimed. “You look more like tods and vixens than kits now. Where’s Njall? I don’t see him.”

Elin’s ears and tail drooped. “He’s with Dautha now.”

“No,” Hvita breathed.

“When the great hill began to smoke, we could not walk outside without coughing and struggling to breathe. I covered up most of the den and made the kits stay inside. Njall insisted on going out to stokk vaeli for us. He kept us fed, but too much of the bad air killed him.”

Hvita lowered her snout to the earth, praying that Dautha had room in her den for the firstborn kit who bravely strived to take his father’s place by looking after the family.

Elin trembled from head to tail. “I keep us in here, as far away from the bad air as much as possible. That’s all I can do.”

“You can’t stay here. Something worse is coming.”

“The fire-water, I know. I didn’t believe you before, but I do now.”

“I know a way out of this, Elin. You and the kits follow me to the shore, and there will be a man that can take us away from here on a sea-knapa.”

Elin flattened her ears. “The fire-water I can finally believe, but now you’re asking too much of me, Hvita. How can a man help us? You know as much as I do that they only kill and control—“

“I used to believe that too, but I was wrong.” Hvita dug her claws into the dirt. “We don’t have time to argue. Soon the land will go bjarr, destroying more than what men could possibly achieve. You told me to think of the kits, Elin. I ask that you do the same. Think of them now. Will you let them die in here, or let them get on the only thing that can save them?”

Elin hunched her shoulders and bared her teeth, but did not spring at Hvita. Instead she turned to the kits and said, “Follow Aunt Hvita. Run hard and don’t look back. First litter helps carry the second if they get tired or too slow.”

The foxes burst out of the den, with Hvita ahead as the leith. The second litter was now old enough to run, and they did their best to keep up with their older siblings. Hvita kept her gaze ahead, but could smell more smoke pluming out of the great hill now. She coughed and gagged, but fear and urgency spurred her on. A surge of heat forced her to look back.

“Great Ylirr,” she choked out.

Amid the billowing pillars of smoke, fire-water burst from the great hill and draped its fiery claws down the peak. No more dreams, now. The land-bjarr had truly begun. Hvita didn’t think she could run any faster, but terror surprised her. Older kits used their teeth to sweep up the younger kits by their necks. Collective chaos ensued. Vaeli burst out of the snow and birds formed a raucous swarm in the sky. Some foxes fled their dens, while others stayed inside in a futile effort to shut out the noise and fumes.

“Follow us,” Hvita cried out to foxes who could hear. “The fire-water can’t follow where we’re going.”

A few heeded her call, including the scarred tod and his kits, and the vixen who had told Hvita about Orrn. Wide-eyed and frothing at the mouth, they did not stop to raise any questions or objections. Hvita sighted Orrn at the crest of the bank, and as her tiring family scrabbled up the slope, he slid down to push the kits along.

“Not much farther now,” he told them. “The knapa’s just by the water.”

Ivar perched at the far end of his knapa, holding onto legs partly dipped into the water, and ready to pull off the shore. Hvita couldn’t understand his shouts, but it was obvious by his pale skin and wide eyes that he urged them to hurry. Next to him, Bris lost many a black feather while jumping in place and waving its uninjured wing.

“Lots foxes, auk!”

“Orrn and I will make sure they won’t hurt you,” Hvita said around a mouthful of kit’s neck fur. “Really, Bris, you should be worrying more about the fire-water.”

Elin, upon seeing Ivar this close, curled up her lip and growled at him. Hvita brushed her tail over her sister’s flank. “You need to trust him.”

Tension bulged under Elin’s taut legs. “I haven’t seen a man this close since we were kits.”

“He swore by Ylirr and Dautha that he won’t hurt us. If you can’t trust that, then trust me.”

Elin looked back at the great hill, then at Hvita, and the fur on her nape laid flat. “I can do that.”

Hvita, Elin, and Orrn stood on their hind paws and hauled the kits one by one over the edge of the knapa. They were the last to jump in. Ivar jerked the sea-knapa to life with a great heave of its legs. Foxes yelped and clung to the belly of the knapa. The kits clustered around Elin and buried their snouts into her fur. It was as if Ylirr’s eye was snapped up in the jaws of an angry, dying land. More fire-water burst open with such force that the top of the great hill came apart and rained down fiery chunks. Some of them sailed as far as the shore, striking the water and sinking through it with a hiss. Ivar swept the legs harder and faster, then set them aside to tug on brown whiskers tied to the ruffling thing sticking straight out of the knapa. He tugged them in such a way that the thing puffed out from the wind, driving the knapa farther into the sea. As he did this he had to stand, and the knapa tipped this way and that under his shifting weight. Foxes shied away from his feet and huddled at the edges. One of Elin’s kits clung too far over the edge. Before Elin could pull him down with her teeth, a tip of the knapa sent the kit into the sea.

Hvita and Elin’s cries startled Ivar from busying over the ruffling thing. He knelt down, reached over the knapa’s edge, and with one paw grabbed the kit by his neck. Elin snatched him from the young man and rasped her tongue over her soaked, whimpering kit.

“Huddle at the middle,” Hvita called out to the foxes. “Get away from the edge. Hold on to each other.”

The land itself trembled, sending spasms through the sea, which slapped bigger waves against the knapa. Foxes laid flat on their bellies and curled up against each other so tightly that Hvita could feel Elin and Orrn’s blood pulse against her sides. She didn’t have to look up to feel the heat and smell the ashes. She flattened her ears in a vain attempt to shut out the roaring and rumbling of the great hill. Hvita thought of her father, how he had raged and fought, and had Ylirr’s light burning in his very eyes. Bjarr was a terrible sight to behold, but it couldn’t last forever. The light would have to fade. Hvita kept her eyes shut for what seemed like moons, and finally, the painful rending of the earth subsided. A great cloud of ash plumed far beyond the confines of land, unfurling over the waves, and descended upon Ivar’s sea-knapa. The foxes coughed and shut their eyes.

“I’m scared,” one of Elin’s kits squeaked.

More kits raised up whimpers of assent. Orrn brushed his tail over their heads. “Fear not, little ones. Dautha will not come for you today. You are part of the greatest story you will grow up to tell your children, and for their children to tell their children.” He kept his voice low and level, and all around Hvita, she felt the foxes’ shivering and whines quiet down as the storytelling fox carried on. “We are like the vaeli who jumped into the sea, only we weren’t tricked by Vaeleith. No, we are saved, led not to our deaths, but on to a knapa that carried us to safety, all thanks to the heroic fox Hvita and the kind man Ivar. They are our leaders on knapa. The knapaleith.”

Hvita kept her eyes shut, so ashes wouldn’t sting them, though she heard the kits stir with excitement now.

“Knapaleith,” they murmured among themselves. “Our aunt Hvita, the knapaleith.”

The young vixen nudged Orrn’s ribs. “You give me too much credit. You love that Vaeleith story and tell it so much that I couldn’t help borrowing the idea. I couldn’t have done this without you, Orrn. Consider yourself a knapaleith, too.”

Orrn curled his tail. “Well, if you insist.”

The knapa glided without aim through the thick ashes. Orrn continued to tell stories to keep the kits calm and occupied. After he went through legends of the gods, he delved into detail of all the adventures that he and Hvita had. After a stretch of enraptured silence, Elin broke it by saying, “If I hadn’t known any better, I thought you had made all that up.”

“I never make up stories,” Orrn said. “They’re meant to tell the truth.”

There came a loud flutter as Bris attempted to fly. Hvita heard no clumsy thud. Instead she heard a triumphant “auk” as the puffin rose above the knapa.

“Open eyes safe now,” Bris squawked. “Look at Nest-Land, auk!”

Hvita dared to blink open red eyes.

Foxes lifted their heads from the flat, hard belly of the knapa, and amid the fading ash, the charred remains of the land slowly blinked into view. The fire-water had swept over all the ice and snow from Kaila, turning winter into something much harsher than summer. None of the men had believed Ivar and went with him, so they must have burned and perished with their dens. Then she thought of the foxes who stayed behind, the ones she and Orrn couldn’t save. Were they down with Dautha now? Was there room for them? Just as the questions crossed her mind, Hvita spotted the shadow of a vixen that walked on water like Vaeleith.

“Dautha,” Orrn murmured. He could see her, too. None of the other foxes heard or saw the goddess of death climb onto the knapa on weightless, silent paws.

Under those unblinking dark eyes, Hvita shrank back. “We couldn’t save all the foxes. We’ve failed you.”

“It is impossible to save everybeast,” Dautha said. “That would be an impossible thing to ask of you both. You would rather not think of these things, but there is a time when everybeast must die. That time comes for some sooner than others.” She padded up to Hvita and touched noses with hers. “Do not worry about the lives lost. There is room for them in my den.” She flicked her blue tail at Elin and the kits. “As for those who made the choice to leave…well, their time to be with me has not yet come. For now, they will be with you.”

Hvita looked back at the surviving foxes, at the lone surviving man who held the knapa’s legs still over the edges and slumped over his knees. All of them sharing the space of a small sea-knapa, with no room for foxes to flee, and the man having no desire to use or hurt them in any way…it made the most unusual sight that she or even any of the gods would see in moons. Would the land that Bris called Nest-Land ever heal from its burns? Would they have to move elsewhere, to the land in the east that Bris called Long-Land, perhaps? Either way, how long would they have to eat and sleep at sea? How long did foxes and a man have to live like this, until they had to part ways and return to their roles as the hunted and the hunters? Hvita’s gaze met Orrn’s, then Ivar’s, and all these questions melted down into a single one that she asked aloud, “What’s going to happen to us?”

Dautha did not answer. Not in words. Instead, she turned her muzzle toward the destroyed land, prompting Hvita, Orrn, and Ivar to see what she showed them through their third eye.

Before their third eyes, Ylirr’s eye roved all along the sky, rising and dipping to show the great leap forward into time. The great hill faded into a dull, quiet stillness, while the land blossomed into all shades of green, plains of moss, grass, and growth broken only by the majestic prow of rocks. Men drew back into the land in droves, on bigger and faster sea-knapa. Some knapa even came in from the sky, like giant birds, carrying more men than Hvita could think possible. There was so much to take in that she did not know where to focus.

“Look there,” Dautha murmured.

Hvita followed her gaze to the shore, where the passage of time grinded to a pause. A young woman knelt on the sand and held something with a long, black nose in her paws. With one paw she held the thing over her face, and with the other twisted the nose. She aimed the thing at the cliffs, then at the sea, where she lowered the long black nose in astonishment. Her wide blue eyes mirrored Ivar’s. And like Ivar’s, her long yellow fur peeked from the tiny coat covering her head. Ivar sat on the sea-knapa as the only surviving man from the bjarr-stricken land, but in the glimpse of what was yet to come, perhaps he wouldn’t be alone forever. Men came back to the land after it went bjarr, and Ivar would find a mate among them, and his blood would someday course through this woman staring back at him.

A fox skittered down the steep bank, catching the attention of everyone and everybeast present in the third eye moment. Even from here, Hvita could catch a trace of Elin’s scent on that fox. Her blood would keep running, as well, through this young tod. The woman sucked in a sharp breath and aimed the long, black nose at the fox. Hvita bristled, but the fox trotted up showing no signs of fear at all. Somehow this tod knew that he would not be harmed by the strange nose or the woman. He even nibbled at the hard, smooth end of the nose, making the woman bark and her eyes crinkle.

Elin’s descendent and Ivar’s descendent were playing.

The sight, the splendid truth of what would come after everybeast on the sea-knapa was long dead, was more than enough to answer Hvita’s question.

Men and foxes would do more than survive. They would thrive.

* * *

About the Author

A Catholic Vietnamese-American hailing from Houston, Texas, Allison Thai got her first taste in stories from true accounts of how her parents fled from communism as Vietnam War refugees. She attended the SFF writing workshops Viable Paradise in 2017 and Taos Toolbox in 2019. You can find her huddled in the Twitter den she dug out for herself: @ThaiSibir.

Categories: Stories

The Farmer and the Potter

Sun 1 Sep 2019 - 02:07

by Amy Hammack Turner

“The tantalizing pheromones come from the biggest male potter. His mind is as unknown and as enchanting as his chemical scent.”

No male pheromones have ever affected the farmer so strongly. At the entrance to a side corridor, she stops in her tracks, antennae waving, oblivious to the press of eager workers behind her. Though she is still young, she has mated many times, and knows how to sort out the signals of age, health, and ancestry. All of those signs beckon strongly, joined by something mysterious. She turns and follows the tantalizing scent.

The narrow passageway opens into a wider space. The echoes of her clicking mandibles show her a chamber bigger than any she has entered before. The clicks bounce from the walls in randomized patterns. The scents coming to her antennae from all directions reveal that this is caused by pots of various sizes and shapes stacked along the edges of the chamber. She smells and mindsenses potters at work in the middle of the chamber. Here in an open space containing only a few individuals, single minds broadcast more strongly than usual, with the collective mind of the community fading to a background hum. In the foreground, the potters focus on their work, mixing extractions from their thoraxes with soil to form malleable clay, shaping the clay with their forelegs and mandibles.

The tantalizing pheromones come from the biggest male potter. His mind is as unknown and as enchanting as his chemical scent. As she approaches, he stops work, and comes to meet her. Since she is a farmer, he expects that she has come for pots, and begins to lead her towards the ones that are ready. Then the pheromones that she emits make her desire clear, and his strengthen in response. To her surprise, they do not mate immediately. Instead, he leads her away from the pots, into a small side chamber.

The pleasure of the mating is bright and intense, as if a ray of sunshine has penetrated deep into the nest to find the couple. Afterwards, she dozes, completely satisfied. The big potter returns to his work, but she lingers and falls into a deep sleep. When she wakes, the male rests pressed against her and her time-sense tells her that it is morning already, almost time to go out with her crew. The male stirs and offers her food from pots in the chamber. They feast on sweet fruits and chewy dried flesh, foods that are occasional treats in the farmers’ usual diet of grain.

She has never been apart from her crew all night, but none of them seem to notice when she joins them in the main corridor. They go out together into the welcoming morning sun, as they have so many times. She always feels a shiver of anticipation as she leaves the dark, quiet safety of the nest, with its layers of familiar smells, and ventures into the expansive outdoors, with its barrage of images, scents and sounds from all directions, and the danger of predators.

Yesterday, it was too stormy for farming. Today the cloudless blue sky shines bright and new, full of promise. She joins the usual work, one of hundreds of bodies weaving familiar patterns as they pull weeds from the fields and make piles that will compost into fertilizer. Soldiers stand sentinel. Early in the year, the grain has not grown tall enough to hide them from the hungry winged killers. A new enthusiasm colors her customary caution. Without knowing the reason, she keeps memories of the potter hidden behind the thoughts that are open to the crew and to the community, thoughts that build their collective knowledge of their home and their work.

That evening, her tired limbs find their way home not to her crew’s sleeping gallery, but to the potters’ workshop. The big male seems less surprised to see her than she is to have returned. The chamber that they shared the night before has nobody’s scent but his and hers. That is the way of the potters, she learns later, to sleep and eat one or two to a chamber. She counts six sleeping chambers along the perimeter of the workshop—the number of her legs, the highest she can count. Every morning, going back to the fields, she crosses the scent paths that potters have made from their chambers to their workstations and to the galleries leading to food and water stores in a lower chamber, and to defecation chambers yet lower.

As time goes on, the farmer and the potter share memories of their days apart. She shows him the bright greens of the fields and forest, the flowers with their gay ultraviolet patterns, the joyful dances of the stream, the wind, and the ever-changing clouds. From his mind, she experiences the hypnotic rhythm of building pots, the companionship of workers together for many seasons, the satisfaction of watching the supply of pots grow, of trading them for the finest offerings of the farmers and hunters. He shows her how, many seasons ago, potters lined chambers with their waterproof clay, and nestmakers dug tunnels to divert rainwater to those deep chambers. She already knew about the stores of water, but not the details of their construction.

She wonders briefly if it makes any difference that she no longer eats or sleeps with the crew. No, the crew is too big, too fluid, to pay attention to individuals. New workers from the nursery constantly join, replacing those who were eaten in the fields or on the trails. She is one of hundreds, unnoticed in presence or in absence. If she stayed with the potters all day, the larger community would not notice. But she could not do that. She is a farmer. She had experienced the tight comfort of her crew’s sleeping gallery as part of being a farmer, but now finds that she can sleep with the potters without being a potter.

When she arrives one evening, the potter leads her to a different chamber. A very old male lies on the ground, weak legs unable to support him. He will die soon, and the nestmakers will carry him out to a refuse pile. She shudders when the big potter puts his mouth on the old one’s mouth and feeds him digested food, as the nursery workers feed larvae. She was a nursery worker before she grew large enough to be a farmer, and it disturbs her to sense an old one fed like a larva. She moves uneasily around the room, not knowing if anything is expected of her. One middle leg brushes against a shallow pot positioned under the abdomen of the old one. Like a larva, he needs to have his excrement collected and carried away. The thought of being too weak to walk even as far as the defecation chambers disgusts her.

After the old one has eaten, they go to their own chamber for their own meal and to mate. Later, she notices that other scent trails lead to the old one’s chamber. This is something that potters do, feed their old ones, carry away their excrement. She does not want to do it. She left that behind when she left the nursery to become a farmer. But the potter does not expect her to help, only to go with him from time to time.

Like his body, the old male’s mind is weak. She senses memories of long seasons of potting, of a female who once slept in this chamber with him, and is surprised that he smells content to lie in his chamber, remembering. There are no memories of the sky, of the outside world. Only farmers, hunters, soldiers, and pioneering nestmakers dare to leave the nest.

She remembers the time before she became a farmer, when she worked the nursery. The sweet scent of the freshly laid eggs tickles her mind, and her mouth recalls the delicious taste of the eggs that the nursery workers ate in order to regurgitate them to the newest grubs. They also ate food brought by farmers and hunters, which they used to feed the older larvae, knowing that recently they had been limbless, helpless grubs. The food they regurgitated into mindlessly gaping mouths would transform the larvae into working members of the community.

She knows that soon it will be time to lay her eggs in the nursery chamber. Probably many will survive uneaten, because a large group left recently to build a new nest, and more workers will be needed in this nest. It feels pleasant to imagine her eggs among the others, as pleasant as eating, sleeping, mating and working.

One evening, the big potter leads her into a chamber she has never entered before. She smells two others, a male and a female, and then, coming from a deeper part of the chamber, something completely unexpected, the scent of four newly hatched larvae. Confused, she backs out, retreats to her chamber. The big potter follows, his mind pushing urgently into hers. He knows that it is almost time for her to lay her eggs, and expects her to lay them here. He has enlarged the chamber.

Her mind scurries from thought to thought as if pursued by a winged killer. She realizes that the potters feed their own legless, squirming larvae, as they feed their helpless old ones. They must carry away the grubs’ stinking excrement to the defecation chambers. Full-grown community members do the work that belongs to the newly metamorphosed, those not yet old enough to do more skilled work.

Again, the big potter’s mind pushes into hers. Yes, he wants her to lay her eggs here. They will feed most of the thousands of eggs to the few larvae they allow to hatch. After the hatching, she will stay with the grubs in this little chamber, because grubs need to eat many times a day. The male will help with the feeding. They will all be here together. His projections of this future are filled with pleasure, but she is afraid. It isn’t right. She isn’t a potter; she can’t stay underground all day. She needs to work under the sun, needs to be surrounded by her crew’s mind, part of the community mind.

She listens for the community now, but hears only a distant hum, overridden by the male’s powerful thoughts, the quieter but ever-present minds of the other potters that have become as familiar as her own. Suddenly, this seems wrong too, this intimate knowledge of other individuals. How has she lived with it so long? How has she stayed away from the comfortable anonymity of the farmers’ foodstores, of her crew’s sleeping gallery?

She has been drunk on the pheromones of this big male, but now she is sober, sober and uncomfortable. She does not belong here.

She bolts for the opening of the chamber, pushing the big male out of her mind. She scurries down the corridors, back to her crew’s sleeping gallery. Will they accept her? Yes, her pheromones identify her as one of the crew, nothing more is needed. They cannot sense her sordid history, as long as she keeps more acceptable thoughts uppermost in her mind.

She will go out to the fields in the morning. Soon, perhaps tomorrow evening, she will lay her eggs in the nursery. Later, she will mate with others that she meets in the galleries, others outside of her crew. She will mate with each male only once. Her offspring will be farmers, soldiers, hunters and nestmakers, while the potters raise their own young in their unnatural chambers. Perhaps she will be eaten soon, snatched away from a trail or a field by a winged or legged killer. Perhaps she will live for many seasons, but wake one morning too weak to work, die and be carried out to a refuse pile. Until then, she will be guided by the familiar, comforting community mind, and not listen to the mind of any individual, however strong it may be.

In the seasons that follow, she thinks from time to time about the potter. The memory tastes like the sweet fruit that they shared, smells like pots drying in the warm air of the vast potters’ workshop. She imagines him in his dark chamber with another female, feeding wriggling grubs, carrying away pots of smelly waste. She wonders if he thinks of her, if he remembers her mind’s view of shining fields under the bright sun.

* * *

About the Author

Amy Hammack Turner retired last year after thirty-eight years as a cataloger at Duke University Libraries. She lives near Hillsborough, NC with her husband David, their dog Sasha, seven chickens, seven turtles, and countless bees.

Categories: Stories

Charnel House

Sun 1 Sep 2019 - 02:07

by Ville Meriläinen

“How could someone who’d gained the trust of two wild beasts through the virtue of her kindness have caused a calamity this vast?”

The wasteland opened before us, cold and bleak like we’d stepped inside a predator’s eye. Blue Girl sat on Huntress’ back, shoulders drooping, the hem of her dress ripped at the knees. She’d be fine tomorrow. Until then, the wolf would gladly ease her burden.

Blue Girl had a smile to cut glass and enough heartache to kill a man, but we liked each other well enough and were useful to one another, so we journeyed together. Huntress and I cared for little else but staying alive. She had lost her cubs when escaping the fire that took her mountain, and now wandered the earth looking for them. My reason was more selfish: I simply enjoyed living, even when there was nothing to live for. Blue Girl helped by letting us eat her arms before we lay to sleep, knowing the flesh would regrow by the morning. In return, I had promised to bring her to Charnel House, the one place where she might find the end of her own search: Blue Girl wanted to die.

“I see nothing but burnt earth for days to come,” Huntress said. Our paws raised clouds of dust and ash with every step, but to the omnipresent smell of smoke clung an undernote of a coming storm from the clouds at horizon’s edge. “Are you sure this is the way?”

“Positive,” I replied. “I can feel it in my bones.”

Huntress hummed, a growl deep in her throat that never failed to make me uneasy. The great wolf was a kind creature, but murder remained etched deep in the grooves of her face.

“I think I can walk now,” Blue Girl said. Her voice was hollow, legs crusted with dry blood. She’d cut them coming down the mountain and bled so much I’d fretted a rock would give her the surcease we could not.

“You stay where you are,” Huntress said. “Maybe you can walk, but it doesn’t mean you should.”

“Won’t you carry me as well?” I said. “I could sit on her lap. I’m far smaller than she.”

Huntress returned a sideways leer. “Careful, fox. If you’re so lazy, I could carry you with my teeth.”

I bared mine into a grin, though her comment nearly coaxed a whimper out of me. “I thought it a sensible suggestion. Your stride is longer than mine, and swifter without me slowing you down.”

“Were that a problem, I’d sooner leave you behind.”

“Now, now. How would you find Charnel House without me?”

“I’m not convinced we’ll find it with you. You might as well be making us run in circles to keep getting fed.”

“Don’t be wicked, Huntress,” Blue Girl said.

“She’s only teasing, dear. We’ve grown inseparable, she and I.”

Huntress snorted at that. “I’m more attached to her than to you. We’ll part ways at the House as agreed.”

“Don’t be wicked,” Blue Girl said, more firmly. “Promise me you won’t abandon him when I’m gone.”

“I’ve not given up on my cubs, girl. I doubt he wants to join my search once he has no feeding hand to bite.”

Huntress glanced at me, as though expecting a remark, but I saw no reason to antagonize her. She was certain the cubs lived, could feel their closeness in her marrow the same way a murmur in my own pulled me towards the demise the girl yearned for.

It was ironic that, out of the three of us, I was the one drawn to Charnel House. I would have been thrilled to be deathless like Blue Girl, but she wanted nothing more than to escape. Huntress and I had found her after she jumped off a cliff so high she’d been a dot atop it. She came down like a falling star with a tail of silk, but got up from the crater as though she’d only tripped.

She spoke in her sleep sometimes, blaming herself for the way the world was, but that was an absurd notion to entertain. How could someone who’d gained the trust of two wild beasts through the virtue of her kindness have caused a calamity this vast?

I gave the girl a look from the corner of my eye. She met it with a wan smile, cutting through fur for a pluck at my heartstrings. I refused to believe she was guilty for the way the world was, but the child had seen something that had broken the spirit within an unbreakable body. When she smiled, none of the defeat lacing her bearing showed.

Wind drove along the drifts of ash around us, and as we climbed a mound, I noticed the broken ribcage of a small beast poking out of it. For a moment, I felt sorry for Huntress—I was sure her cubs were gone, starved by now even if they’d somehow lived through the end of the world. I caught her glimpsing at the bones as well, and set my gaze ahead when our eyes met and I saw the bared pain in them.

“Fox,” said Blue Girl, interrupting my musing. “Would you tell me more about Charnel House?”

“What do you want to know?”

“I want to hear you speak. It’s too quiet.”

“Hmm. Have I told you how grand and beautiful it is?”

“You have.”

“What about the lands surrounding it?”

Blue Girl tapped her lip in thought. “You say there’s still grass and that the milk on the leaves makes you forget your worries.”

“Then what of the people who used to live there?”

“They were as grand and beautiful as the house, but turned it into a home to death, and now only an old crow dwells there.”

I smacked my mouth. “Sounds like you know as much as my stories do.”

“Oh.” She fell quiet for a minute, then asked, “Would you like to play a game?”

“Are you after my name again?” I chuckled. It was a difficult sound to produce, but it made her smile a little brighter. “Go on, then.”

“Is it… Redtail?”

“No.”

“Whitepaw?”

“No.”

“Firefur?”

“You’ve tried that.”

“Nuisance?” offered Huntress. She earned only a flat stare for it.

Blue Girl went on to fill the silence with her guesses, but I rejected them all. Truth was I didn’t have a name, never knew I was supposed to until I met her. With only the three of us, ‘fox’ was just as good, but I had decided to claim she’d guessed correctly once she landed on one that sounded nice in my ears. I thought she’d done the same; we’d started calling her Blue Girl because she was a girl and her dress was blue, but Huntress had told me it wasn’t a proper name.

I suppose I understood some of her desire to learn mine, as names seemed to have power of which I hadn’t known either. It was only after we named her that we learned to understand her, though we had walked together for some time by then.

“One of these days,” she huffed, after her tone reached the peak of vexation, “I’m going to learn it, you know.”

“I’m sure you will,” I said with a chuckle. Annoyance lingered on her features, turning the ensuing smile impish.

We came to the bank of a dry river. A stream still ran through the bottom, but if we went down, the sides would be too steep to climb back up. Even so, Huntress leapt off the ledge without hesitation, padded to the stream and lapped from it with such vigor she might’ve been trying to drain it altogether. I hopped after her, and once we’d drunk, looked around for a way out.

“Should we spend the night here?” Blue Girl suggested. “I’m tired and you could drink as much as you want.”

Huntress said, “A sound plan. I’m parched.”

“Well then,” I said with a yawn, “make us a fire, dear. I can do with some shuteye.”

She headed off to gather scattered pieces of wood. The wood was charred, violently splintered; the wasteland’s birth had created a storm unlike any before, and fire and lightning had decimated the lush forests once ruling the lowlands. Everywhere we went, we found nothing but grey earth, as though it had been sucked dry to the last drops of life. We had passed no other beasts on our way, only skeletons so fragile they turned to dust when we tried to gnaw on them.

Left to her own devices, a somber air soon overcame Blue Girl. Huntress noted it as well and went to join her, tattling about this and that to pull her out of her thoughts. I sat on my haunches, watching them pick up and pile the wood.

Once she was warm, Blue Girl would let us eat. I wasn’t hungry enough for it not to sicken me, and so I watched them in brooding silence. What did it say about us, helping her towards a fate neither felt she deserved, using her body as sustenance on the way? Yes, the limbs would regrow—but that only meant we fed on her pain.

These thoughts passed as the flame grew and drowsiness settled in, as they did every night. I was a firm believer in one’s own freedom, and so it was not my place to deny her any choice concerning herself. Huntress felt much the same. Besides, we could do nothing but follow her: finding no one else meant we had none to rely on but each other, and the wolf’s kindness wasn’t limitless.

Thus, in order to help each other for another day, we ripped the flesh of Blue Girl’s arms until she passed out, and when they were picked clean, nestled against her in an effort to balance the suffering we inflicted with affection.

I woke up to raindrops pummeling my nose. Blue Girl was still asleep, mended hands folded under her head. I stretched out of the nook of her bent knees, jowls shaking with a yawn. Huntress was gone. Blue Girl was easily upset if we weren’t here when she woke up, so the wolf often used the early hours for scouting and returned at dawn. I suspected she’d left to look for a way up.

I returned to Blue Girl after drinking. The rain had washed her feet; the dress had mended with the skin, dampened from periwinkle to a deeper shade. She shuddered when I lay beside her.

“Forgive me,” she whispered, still asleep. “I have mothered ruin.”

I reared my head for a look at her. Poor dear. She was too young to have mothered anything, much less anything this awful.

She might’ve cried in her sleep, or maybe it was rain. I didn’t dare lick her face for the risk of waking her, and so I only nuzzled against her throat for some more rest. It was always strange to be so close to her; her body looked as soft as a child’s was meant to be, but her meat was sinewy and her stomach taut with muscle. She pulled me closer and cradled me in her arms until I dozed off.

My dream took me to Charnel House. Mist hung over pale grassland, where the house sat amidst a copse of skeletal trees. I had overstated its beauty. Maybe it had been a place of splendor in the past, but now it was like its lone inhabitant, scraggly and diseased, so far as a house could look diseased. Cracks ran over windows like cataracts in the crow’s eyes, pillars were chipped and thin like his legs, murals on the walls had faded as his feathers had lost their luster. It was where dead things went to die, so the story said, so why not Blue Girl?

“Hello. Are you bringing a visitor?” cawed the crow when I approached. He perched atop the open door. It was too dark to see what was inside.

The crow’s familiar tone seemed odd, but, being fully aware I was dreaming, I decided to pay no mind to little lapses in logic. “I don’t think I should.”

“Your task is only to guide her here. She will decide whether to enter or not.”

“She is misguided.”

“That, ultimately, is irrelevant,” said the crow. He swooped down onto the porch and pointed his wing towards the dark house. “This is where she belongs. This is where she’ll be happy. You know this.”

“Do I?”

The crow nodded. “You only don’t know you do. You would if you knew her name.”

“Do you?”

“I know all names.”

I cocked my head at that. “Do you know mine?”

“Of course.”

“Ha. You don’t even know I don’t have one.”

I thought I read a grin in the way the crow’s beak parted. “You think yourself clever, my friend, but every creature has a name. Come to Charnel House and I will tell you. You may then enter as well, should you wish to follow her.”

I awoke then, startled by the crow’s horrid offer. The dream faded as I blinked in light and shuddered away its memory.

“Good morning,” said Blue Girl. She had propped her head against a restored arm and scratched the nape of my neck. “Did you have a bad dream?”

“I dreamt of Charnel House.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“Neither, I think.”

She moved to scratching behind my ear when I fell into silent thoughts. “Is something the matter?”

I let her pet me for a moment. “Blue Girl,” I said, pausing when she found the good spot. She hummed to spur me on. “If you go inside Charnel House, you will die.”

She smiled. “I think you’ve mentioned that, yes.”

“I won’t come with you.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

“I need you to know that.”

Her brow furled, though she still smiled. “What on earth has come over you, silly?”

“I don’t want you to go inside alone.”

“Everyone goes to death alone, fox.”

“But you’ve done nothing wrong. You shouldn’t have to go at all.”

“Oh, fox,” she said, sighing as she stood. “Not this again. Won’t you come find Huntress instead? With that, at least, you can help me.”

“Is she not back yet?” I said with surprise. It was unusual for the wolf to stay away for this long.

“She left just before you awoke,” Blue Girl said. “She found a way up, but that was awhile ago. We should catch up.”

Blue Girl and I jolted when a howl reached us. She faced me with fright. “That must’ve been her. Come! She may need us.”

We hurried down the ravine, Huntress’ howls growing more panicked as Blue Girl started running out of breath. The bottom turned muddier and muddier until we found the wolf—neck deep in it. The wall had crumbled; rocks formed a path gradually submerging as it reached her.

“Help me,” she whimpered. “I tried to climb up, but the wall couldn’t carry my weight. A stone pushed me in and my foot is stuck beneath it.”

I dashed for her, but stopped when she cried, “Be careful! There’s a pit. My feet reach the bottom, but it’s too deep for you.”

“Can’t you push the rock aside?”

“I’m not strong enough.”

“You’re too far for us to reach,” Blue Girl said, face twisted with worry. She picked up a stick, poked the ground until she found a way around the pit and held the stick out for the wolf. “Here. Maybe I can pull you out with—”

The stick crunched and broke when Huntress bit for hold. Blue Girl raised the splintered end and frowned before tossing it away. She hemmed, felt the mud with her foot, then reached out her arm. “Bite down. I have a good foothold here.”

“You’ll break like the twig.”

“I’m stronger than I look.”

Huntress hesitated. I had no wisdom to offer save for, “It’ll grow back.”

The wolf said, “It is one thing to hurt you to live, but I don’t want to do so for nothing.”

“Do you think you’ll never sink?” replied the girl.

Huntress gave a whimper before parting her jaws. Blue Girl cried out when they closed on her forearm, groaned as she gritted her teeth and leaned back. She held herself up with her free arm as her feet sought the hold hidden under mud. Blood spurted onto Huntress’ nose, but the girl persevered. Her wail rose into a scream until Huntress let go and Blue Girl tumbled backwards.

“Why did you—?” she shrieked, cutting herself off when Huntress climbed up and shook mud off her fur. She limped to Blue Girl, rear leg twisted, and licked the row of puncture wounds on the girl’s arm

“Thank you,” said the wolf.

Blue Girl smiled through tears. The smile wilted when she faced me, and I realized horror must’ve shown on my features. “What’s wrong, fox?”

“You’ve said nothing when you let us eat. I thought you were used to the pain.”

She pressed her lips together, averted her eyes, and shook her head.

Huntress looked away from her, at me. “How far to Charnel House?”

“Three days.”

“I can go without eating for three days.”

“You don’t have to,” Blue Girl said. “It’s fine, really—”

“I will do you no more harm, girl,” growled Huntress, “and I’ve half a mind to turn around, carry you to the mountains and raise you as my own, away from this awful place.”

“And what would that solve?” I said. I did my best not to cower when she swung towards me. “You’d leave one wasteland for another, and sooner or later you’d hunger again. All you’d do would be to prolong her suffering, making a home above the valley of cinders where you keep the last living creature as your pet and prey.”

Her growl deepened. “Are you saying you accept her resignation now?”

“It’s not our place to decide her fate, Huntress.”

“No,” she admitted, after a long, long spell of consideration. “But it is my choice not to eat her. I will not be used for penance any longer.”

“Nor will I,” I said, and faced Blue Girl. “And I stand by what I said before. You’ve a good heart.”

Blue Girl bowed her head, placed her healthy hand on the side of Huntress’ neck, and whispered, “Thank you.”

We were able to climb up over the pile of rocks Huntress’ fall had made. Her injury did nothing to our pace. She’d already had to slow down for us to keep up—now she merely had to do so a little less.

* * *

The wasteland turned from an even plain into an uphill climb. On the plateaus we found more skeletons, human instead of animal, as though a necropolis had been unearthed. The ground was soft, once fertile, perhaps, and I wondered if they’d been field hands who’d worked the lands around Charnel House.

Every time we passed such boneyards, Blue Girl kept her gaze fixed on the overcast and allowed Huntress to carry her. The wolf never complained for the added weight on her leg wound, just as Blue Girl tried to hide the wounds on her heart from us.

On the third morning, we found the first signs of life since our journey began. Grass grew thick on the slopes, wet with dew.

“Don’t touch it,” I said, when Blue Girl fell behind to inspect the pearls of milk gathering on the leaves. “It’ll take away the pain in your arm, but also everything else. We’re almost there.”

Charnel House waited atop the final climb, where the land leveled and the grass grew taller. The cooling evening raised the milk into mist, making even Huntress complain of feeling lightheaded. It was cold here; the chill of death wafted from the house like exhalations from the netherworld.

“Girl, I don’t want you going nearer,” Huntress growled. Her fur bristled. “You don’t belong here. Turn away.”

“Please,” I tried. The mist numbed my thoughts, making my feet pad on by their own accord. “She’s right. I’ve made a grave mistake. I never should’ve brought you here.”

“But I see it now,” Blue Girl said, voice drowsy. “It’s beautiful.”

I saw it too, the shimmery gloss appearing on the house’s surface, how it seemed to radiate in the glow of a waning sun. Even I felt an attraction to the place, so much greater than before. The gentle hold in my bones hummed a gentler invitation, asking me to cross the threshold.

“Please don’t go,” I whimpered. “You are a kind creature, sorely needed in this world. If you went, there might be no one else left but Huntress and I. Neither of us have half the heart you do.”

“But, fox,” said Blue Girl. “I made the world this way. I don’t deserve to dwell in it. Don’t want to—”

“You cannot have!” I snapped, steeling my mind to dash to her and step in her way. “My dear girl, why do you say these things? Why do you not see how sweet you are? We are beasts—had we been alone, I would have abandoned Huntress to drown in the mud. And she? If we had stayed together this long by the two of us, nothing I could’ve said would’ve deterred her from eating me. Is this not true?”

“It is,” Huntress said. “You have tamed us, girl, made us caring by caring for us. If you wish to step inside, it is your right, but I will not bid a fond farewell. I will grieve for a life thrown to waste.”

“You don’t understand,” Blue Girl said, with chilling patience. “This is my share. Remember me as a fool if you must, but move out of my way.”

“A fool is the last thing I’ll remember,” I said.

The girl did not reply, only stepped past.

“Ah, hello,” said the crow sitting atop the open door. “How good to see you, at long last. Come in.”

“Thank you,” said Blue Girl. She turned, folding her hands over her front. Warmth pulsed in my breast, and I feared her smile had cut so deep if I spat the grass would turn red. “Fond or not, I bid goodbye, my friends—”

“Not you, silly chit,” said the crow. He swooped down and hobbled past her to Huntress. “Come, come. It’s time to go.”

Dumbfounded, Huntress stared the crow down. “I’m going nowhere. It’s the girl you want.”

“She?” The crow darted a look at Blue Girl. “She couldn’t come in if she wanted. She’s alive.”

“So am I.”

“How could you be, when the forest burned around you?”

“I survived.”

“How?”

“I…” Horror flashed on her face, then fury settled in. In a snarl, she said, “Step back, crow. I will not be tricked. I must find my cubs.”

“You did, Nastasha. You found them in your den, where their charred bones rest with yours.”

A pang boiled the blood Blue Girl’s smile had freed. My chest was afire, as was Huntress’—afire and worse, by her look. She turned to me with an expression of desperation, and I met it with some of my own. “Her name is Huntress,” I said, words rolling off an unfeeling tongue.

“‘Huntress’ is no name. It is a title.”

The wolf whispered, “Nastasha.”

I whispered, “Nastasha.”

“That is her name,” said the crow, “and now she remembers.”

Nastasha took in a deep breath she released as a long, wailing howl. Her fur seemed to give off mist. To my shock, I realized it was smoke.

“My friends,” she said, voice frail and ethereal. “I do remember. I must go. I don’t belong here.” She came to us, gave Blue Girl’s face a lick. “My cubs were gone—but they hadn’t moved. I found them slain when I brought them food. When the fire came, I could not bring myself to leave them.”

“I’m so sorry,” Blue Girl said, scratching the wolf’s jaw.

Nastasha came to me, prodded my nose with hers. “You guided me here.”

The crow studied us with an amused twinkle in its eye. It hadn’t spoken of Blue Girl in my dream. That blasted fiend had told me I was leading the wolf to her doom, and I’d been too much of a fool to understand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

She looked long at me, until I thought a smile appeared in her lupine features. “I forgive you.”

“It’s time to go,” said the crow. Nastasha nodded and padded towards the open door, stopping at the porch to face us for the last time. Her fur had burned off by then, skin melting, bone showing. She did not make it all the way inside; a gust of wind blew her ashes into the darkness.

When she was gone, the murmur within my marrow calmed. The pull, however, forced my legs into motion, and it took effort to force them rigid and keep myself standing in place. Blue Girl still regarded the empty space Nastasha had left, but the crow noticed my struggle and said, “Your duty is done. You can go as well.”

This drew a gasp from Blue Girl and made her wheel about. “Not you, too?” she sniffled.

“Dear girl, no one loves being alive as much as I,” I said, with a scolding look at the crow.

“You remember why you had to guide her, yes?” said the crow.

“That does not mean I belong here.”

“No,” the crow admitted with a nod, “but—”

“Stop.”

He cocked his head.

“Are you about to tell me my name?”

The crow nodded again, and I went to the weeping Blue Girl. She knelt to rub my ear, brushed her nose with the side of her palm.

“Would you like to guess first?” I said.

“Is it…” Her voice came out creaky. She cleared her throat and furled her brow. “Huntress’ name was Nastasha.”

“It was.”

“Then yours might be something closer to mine than one from a fairytale, too.”

“It might.”

“Is it… Phillip?”

“It is not.”

“Is it Henry?”

“One more try.”

She sucked on her lip, brows knitted, inspecting me as though trying to see it hidden somewhere on my face. “Is it Ichabod?”

The tiniest grunt fled a chest gone perfectly rigid. I was flushed with memories, how I had tried to plead the wolf to spare me—because, with a full stomach, I was unable to escape her.

I forced on a smile, straining muscles that weren’t meant to move in such a way. “See? I knew you’d guess it eventually.”

“Ichabod,” she whispered, wiping her eye. “Ichabod, Ichabod, Ichabod.”

I licked her fingers before facing the crow. “Do I have to go? She would be all alone.”

“You’ve atoned,” he said. “It’s your choice, but you know you don’t belong here.”

“Atoned?” said Blue Girl.

“We are beasts,” I answered, “and beasts are cruel to one another.”

“I don’t think that’s true. You’ve been nothing but kind to me.”

“Why are you so quick to believe the best of us, when you don’t see the good in yourself?”

She licked her lower lip, straightened herself. “Crow,” she said. “When I named him in my thoughts, I could hear him speak. When I learned his true name, I saw the bite marks on his throat. If he knew mine, could he see me as I do?”

The crow nodded. Unease tickled my neck, as though a wraith petted me where Blue Girl had a minute ago.

“Dear Ichabod,” she said, sitting on her knees. “My name is not Blue Girl. It is Evelyn.”

Between blinks, Blue Girl grew from a sweet little creature into a woman so beautiful I thought her radiance might blind me. I gasped for breath, unable to move my gaze from this sun with a hand resting on my ear. Her voice had deepened, each phrase flowing like a song.

“Charnel House was my home,” Evelyn said, “before we befouled it, my family and I, with our desire to become everlasting. We ate the shine of the sun and turned into a pale remembrance of itself. We drained the earth of verve to enhance our own. We stole the lives of creatures to stretch mortality into eternity. And I, I am the worst of us all.”

“Why?” I said, though I didn’t want to hear the answer. I wanted to hear her voice again, heart aching from being deprived of it for only a pause.

“I am a kinslayer,” she said, calmly, as though stating any mundane fact. “My family became the death of a planet, but I became the Death of Deaths and took from them their shine and verve and long lives to reach true immortality. When I left to enjoy my newfound godhood, I learned its price. In my desperation to find something still alive, I wandered so far I could no longer find my way home.” She closed her eyes, shuddered a sigh. “I lost my way for countless lifetimes, but wherever I went, I found nothing but ruin. Sometimes, I came across animals who had survived—though I now suspect they all were like you and Nastasha, tied too closely to this world for me to devour. After I had let them eat, I woke up alone. None of them were as devoted to living for the sake of living as you, I reckon.”

She trailed off into a hum, scratching the good spot. Her touch sent shivers through my body. “I thought I’d have to live alone until I met you,” she went on, quieter. “I’m glad we did meet, though neither of us got what we wanted. It seems that, in the end, I stole what was dearest even from you.”

“I don’t believe you. You are my friend. If you had the powers you claim, you would have used them for good.”

“If you were a cruel beast,” she said, and her smile eviscerated me in a way it hadn’t come close to before, “why do you cling onto the good in me?”

“I couldn’t go to my demise knowing you, too, were a wicked creature.”

Her hum turned inquisitive. “Ichabod, I’ve confessed to you because I want you to go to your demise without burdens.”

I pricked my ears at that.

“I sought to die here because I was weak and lonely, and afraid you’d leave me like all the rest,” she went on. “Now that I know I cannot do that, I have something else in mind. I will walk the earth and return everything I took. I will give away my shine so that stars may glow at night. I will let rivers run wild and unrestrained. And,” she tapped my nose, “I will make sure every forest I raise has a fox as its little prince.”

“You can do that?” I said with surprise. “Do you promise?”

She hugged me tight. “It will be difficult, but I swear it on this good heart of mine.”

“Then,” I said once she let go, “I think it is time I left.”

“Goodbye, Ichabod. I won’t forget you.”

“Goodbye, Evelyn. I’ll try not to forget you.”

I padded towards the house, no longer frightened. At the porch, a ghost of uncertainty crossed my thoughts, and I paused for one last look at her. “Please turn away. I don’t want you to see me change.”

“Won’t you feel lonely, with no one to see you go?”

“Everyone goes to death alone, Evelyn.”

Evelyn bowed her head with a mirthless laugh. “Of course.” She spun, and when the crow glanced at her, I dashed into the shadow a pillar cast. After a minute, she asked, “Ichabod?”

They couldn’t see me hiding, and the crow said, “He’s gone.”

Evelyn turned, gazing up at the house. “Good. I don’t want him to see me, either.” She lowered her gaze, looked towards the entrance for so long I thought she had spotted me, but then asked, “What did he atone for?”

“I don’t know,” said the crow. “He did something that caused the wolf to resist you, something that bound her soul here, and theirs together. It left them half-eaten; you took their lives, but left their bodies walking. Every creature yearns to find where they belong, but she was too distracted by the grief of her last moments to find her way here, and he could not be free until she was.”

Evelyn wrapped her arms around herself and looked at her feet. When she raised her head back towards me, even from a distance, I saw her tears.

“Did you truly not notice your companions were spectres?” the crow went on.

She brushed her face and hardened her expression before turning. “Don’t be snide. Your eye was always sharper than mine. It was the one thing I couldn’t take from you.”

“Mm. I will go as well, now everyone is accounted for.”

My heart sunk when she replied, “I think that’s for the best. No creature should have to walk this earth anymore.”

“But you will. If you went through that door, nothing would happen. Death herself can’t die.”

She sighed. “I feared as much, but my feet are tired. I think I’ve earned some rest.”

“I see,” the crow said, sweeping a look at the house and the plains. “For what it’s worth, I forgive you.”

“Thank you.”

“Goodbye, Evelyn.”

“Goodbye, Tristan. Bring my love to mother and father.”

The crow hobbled away from her. When his claw touched the threshold, I witnessed him shed his feathers and turn into an old, withered man. As he stepped inside, he grew younger, handsomer, until he faded into the darkness.

Evelyn had sat down to inspect a blade of grass she’d plucked. “Please, don’t,” I whimpered to myself when her lips parted. She did not hear me; the bead of milk rolled off the leaf to touch the tip of her tongue. She began to hum softly, plucked another and drank its milk. A dull iron cloud took away the luster of her eyes.

Head hanging, I approached the door. Evelyn’s only lie was one of kindness, and it made her prior honesty regarding her vileness hurt all the more. She had taken what was most precious from me, but it was not my life. I had lost both my friends.

As the shadows sheltered me, I began to feel lighter, at peace with all the deeds I had come to feel shame for when I learned kindness from Huntress and Blue Girl. I wondered if Huntress’ forgiveness was for unwittingly tricking her into coming here, or if she knew I had killed her cubs. It wasn’t an act of evil, only self-preservation. I was hungry, and thought to kill them young so they wouldn’t grow to hunt me.

At the precipice between this world and the next, I stopped to listen to Evelyn’s humming. I heard no beauty in her voice anymore. It had turned into breathy, discordant notes, and ceased altogether when I walked into Charnel House, where dead things went to die.

* * *

Originally published in The Death of All Things

About the Author

Ville Meriläinen is a Finnish university student and award-winning author of speculative fiction. His short fiction has appeared in various venues online and in print, including Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show, Pseudopod, and Abyss & Apex. His musical fantasy novel, Ghost Notes, is available on Amazon.com.

Categories: Stories

The Cosmic Woes of Finnigan Turtle

Sun 1 Sep 2019 - 02:06

by Hannah Montine

“Every decade or so, Turtles visited the Vault of Souls to acquire Soul Seeds for a new generation.”

Finnigan wanted the weight of a world on his back. It was his right, his responsibility, his entire reason for existence as a Cosmic Turtle. Why couldn’t Grandfather Bumi understand that?

“I do understand, Finn,” Grandfather said. Being several billions of years old, his intuition into the thoughts of others was all but omniscient. “Nonetheless, you are young and growing still. A world is a tremendous weight to place on a young turtle’s back. We would not want you to crack under the pressure of Soul Seeds planted too soon.”

Hmph, thought Finnigan. Was not a world a tremendous weight to place on an old turtle’s back? And yet Grandfather swam swift and strong through the eternal sea of stars, carrying a world of shining skyscrapers. Tiny aircrafts driven by tinier mecha-humanoids trafficked that skyscraper world.

Finnigan wanted that with every fiber of flesh and shell: to safeguard fragile lives, to whisper wisdom into their dreams, and skirt them safely around the fathomless depths of black holes.

Hadn’t he already proven he could cultivate an acceptable habitat, even if the flora was limited to various shades of, erm, pink? If Grandfather had his way, Finnigan would be ancient before he was granted permission to spawn even a bunny. He didn’t want to be old and wrinkled with only a bunny to show for his efforts.

Grandfather chuckled a deep, rolling chuckle. “Be patient, Finn, be patient. Worlds are not built in a day.”

Finn didn’t have time for patience. He wanted a world of his own, and a world of his own he would have, so there.

* * *

Every decade or so, Turtles visited the Vault of Souls to acquire Soul Seeds for a new generation.

When the time came, Finn zoomed alongside Grandfather. “Let me fetch your new Seeds this time, Grandfather.”

“Now, Finn. Securing Soul Seeds is a tremendous responsibility—”

“Yes, yes, I know. How better am I to learn?”

Thoughtful silence fell. Something twinkled in Grandfather’s eyes. Stardust, maybe. “How better indeed.”

The interior of Finn’s sunset-pink shell tingled with excitement. But he mustn’t get ahead of himself. He mustn’t think about his brilliant idea, because if Grandfather heard—

Swim, don’t think.

Although Grandfather needed only four thousand souls, Finn swam to the Vault Keeper, an ancient turtle with a neck two times too long, and requested, “Four thousand and one, please.”

The Vault Keeper squinted at him. “No odd numbered requests permitted. Thank you.”

“What? There is no such rule.”

“Yes, there is.”

“No, there isn’t.”

“See here, young hatchling, you are Bumi’s grandturtle, and Bumi only ever procures four thousand seeds. Thus, four thousand and one is an odd number.”

“Yes, I see what you mean.” Finn slapped his fins against his shell. Old turtles and their rules. What could he say to move things along? Oh yes! “Grandfather needs extra because one of his clankers short circuited, you see. It started shrieking “Incinerate!” and blasting its fellows to smithereens. It was a horrible business. He doesn’t like talking about it.”

“Oh? Really?” The Vault Keeper’s squint turned suspicious.

Finnigan scrunched his neck to make himself as small and innocent as possible.

Finally, the Vault Keeper unlocked the tremendous vault atop her shell and measured out four thousand and one seeds. She scooped them into a bag and finned them over with a stern glare. Fin peeked between drawstrings. Each seed was tiny, warm, and pulsing with its own inner light.

“Do remind Bumi he has only a year to return any damaged seeds for recycling,” said the Vault Keeper. “Next!”

Inside, Finnigan cackled with glee. He executed a tailspin, shedding stardust from his fins. His great idea was working!

* * *

Planting a new generation required concentration. So much concentration that Finnigan encouraged Grandfather to shut his ancient eyes and allow the currents of time and space to carry him along while he attended to details.

“I’ll wake you if the universe combusts or something,” Finnigan promised.

“And are you expecting a combustion of some sort?”

“Um, no.” He thought hard about the opposite of combustibles. “I only thought you would enjoy the shut eye.”

“Such touching concern for my old eyes. I’ve never known you to be so considerate, Finn.” Grandfather smiled the smile of an old dodderer who knew far too much.

Finnigan fought the itch to shrivel into his shell like a hatchling. Instead, he stretched his neck long and proud. “What dutiful grandturtle doesn’t concern himself over his grandfather?”

Grandfather hummed thoughtfully, and with one last stroke of his time-etched fins, shut his eyes and drifted.

Finnigan counted ten heartbeats before breathing a sigh of relief.

On my own at last, he thought. Time to cultivate a habitat and dust off the soul recipes.

He turned his mind inwards, seeking the creative core that beat at the heart of all Cosmic Turtles. First, he must cultivate an atmosphere within a protective dome. The dome swelled bubble-like from his shell, glistening with faint rainbow light. Next came a turquoise sky and frothy pink clouds.

Pink, why was it always pink?

Taking a deep mental breath, Finnigan exhaled a honey scented breeze into the dome, making clouds tumble. He woke fields of silver-blue grass. Trees sprouted: trunks ivory, fluffy pastel leaves dancing in the wind.

Pastel? Fluffy? Pah. He’d sort it later.

Finnigan hacked out riverbeds and squeezed cyan raindrops from the clouds. Air, water, food, blah, blah, blah. These things were but empty trappings without the real prize.

At last, the Soul Seed.

He rolled his seed between his forefins, reveling in the faint thump thump of life within. How to begin? Some turtles nurtured their humanoids from seedling to sentient flesh over a tedious length of years. Others flung their seedlings to life with a dramatic boom.

Finnigan did love a good boom, but Grandfather was far from deaf. Quietly, he retrieved an ancient scroll from the depths of his shell. He unrolled it, skimming various recipes he’d collected over the years.

Domestic Bunny. Every young turtle owned this most basic of recipes. Boooring. He skimmed on. Murderous Mosquito, Stripey Tiger. Aha! Creative Humanoid.

Ten seeds a piece! Surely humanoids were not that complex. Ugh, he had only one seed. Maybe a bunny was the only-

Wait. Whoever said he had to use just one recipe when a dab of Cosmic Strength Goop could fuse two species into something new?

Invigorated by his brilliance, Finnigan conjured ingredients from both recipes and got to work. In went Humanoid Figure, a Quart of Inquisitiveness, followed by Cuddly Cotton Tail, Twitchable Nose, and Essence of Hop. For color he added a splash of Liquid Rainbow, because a common gray bunny-humanoid would look very queer amidst the predominant pink of his habitat.

Between his fins, the seed floated like a tiny planet, ingredients swirling around before fusing with bright pops of light. Soon it spun too fast to follow.

Wait till Grandfather sees this, thought Finnigan with a snicker. As soon as the seed sprouted, he’d show Grandfather exactly how ready he was to be a proper Cosmic Turtle.

Gently, he planted his seedling in a lush little garden, and watched, and waited.

* * *

Three galaxies later, Finnigan was tired of waiting. How long did it take soul seeds to sprout? Grandfather’s new generation had popped into existence twenty stars ago!

He debated the risk of swimming within eavesdropping range of Grandfather for about two seconds before zooming to catch up.

“Ah, Finn. How is your flora pigmentation problem coming along?”

“Still pink.” Finnigan had explained his new habitat away as an experiment to improve color variation. “Grandfather, how do you make your seeds grow so fast?”

Stroke, stroke, languid stroke went Grandfather’s fins. His eyes slipped closed and he hummed beneath his breath.

Why was Grandfather falling asleep again? He just woke up!

“I am not sleeping, Finn. I am listening.”

“No, you aren’t. I asked you a question.”

“Yes, but did you wait for an answer?” One of Grandfather’s dark eyes opened. “Every seed is unique. Some require sunlight. Some require cold. You must listen attentively in order to interpret their wants and needs from dreams.”

“Isn’t there a faster way to make seeds grow faster?” Finnigan huffed. But then a magnificent idea struck. “Wait. You do more than listen through dreams. You communicate through dreams. You could command a seedling to grow faster!”

Grandfather gave a thunderous laugh. The skyscrapers in his dome shuddered. Tiny sirens shrieked, “Warning, warning, earthquake!”

“What’s so funny?” Finnigan smacked his fins together. His idea wasn’t silly.

“You must understand, Finn: commands never go quite as we Turtles expect. Dreamspeak is a wibbly wobbly business. Your intention suffers much from interpretation, which is why gentle nudges are best.”

Gentle nudges my tail, thought Finnigan. Grandfather was simply jealous of his genius.

Again, Grandfather laughed, and the little sirens wailed, “Warning, warning, aftershock!”

* * *

Every chance he got, Finnigan shouted, “Grow, grow, grow!” into the haze of his seedling’s dreams. Every time he did, a new bunny aspect sprouted.

First came a pair of mottled rainbow bunny ears. They swiveled. They twitched. They kept beat as Finnigan hummed a tune of encouragement. Next, a nose popped through the topsoil, followed by a furry head. Mostly bunny, but with a humanoid’s forward-set eyes.

Finnigan cheered.

The bunny twitched its nose, wiggled its shoulders, and lurched halfway out. Pausing, chest heaving, it plopped its chin on a pillow of flowers, and then seemed to realize those flowers belonged in its mouth.

“No snacking yet. You’re almost done!” Finnigan said.

Wiggle, wiggle, lurch, lurch. Harder and harder the bunny clamored. Finally, it burst forth, showering dirt and clumps of grass.

“Woohoo!” Finnigan did a tailspin. When he leveled out, his bunny was clinging upside down to a tree branch, wide-eyed and trembling. Oops. Maybe he should just clap from now on.

Gently, he ushered the bunny back to earth. It wobbled on kangarooish legs. He burbled a brook to tempt it toward water, and rubbed his fins in glee as it drank. At last he was a proper Cosmic Turtle. He couldn’t wait to show Grandfather.

“Grandfather, Grandfather,” he would say. “Behold, I made a bunny.”

And Grandfather would reply, “And where did you get the seed to make a bunny?”

Oh, right, thought Finnigan. Um. Maybe he wouldn’t tell Grandfather just yet. Although his bunny possessed a fully-furred adult body, it was still young. Young enough to be transplanted elsewhere if Grandfather deemed him an unfit caretaker.

Hmph, Finnigan would show him! He’d be the best caretaker ever! First, he blossomed a trail of honey-sweet flowers to guide the bunny into the rich heart of his garden. Here, sweet melt-on-the-tongue fruits dangled aplenty. Veggies flourished amidst wildflowers. Fountains gushed aquatic music. His bunny lacked nothing.

* * *

For a bunny that lacked nothing, the bunny moped a lot. Oh, it nibbled fruits. It munched veggies. It sat on pebbled shores and splashed in the water. But it also spent hours kneeling in front of everything from trees, to flowers, to each individual blade of grass, and squeaking. Stranger still, it sat there waiting as if expecting the stupid plants to squeak back. When they didn’t, its ears flopped low, its cottontail sagged, and it moped around, sighing and plucking petals off flowers. Finnigan had worked hard on those flowers! Why was the bunny destroying them?

Stars. What if I got a damaged seed?

How to tell? For all he knew, sighs and flower mutilation were a normal side effect of combining bunnies with humanoids.

Growling under his breath, Finnigan kicked off in the direction of grandfatherly humming.

“Back again, Finn? Has the universe combusted after all?” Grandfather cruised along the gravitational currents of a balmy star, warming his new seedlings.

Aha, thought Finnigan, there’s a sneaky way onto the topic.

“If anything’s combusting, it’s your seedlings.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re awfully close to that star, Grandfather. Aren’t you worried your seedlings will get damaged?”

He gestured to where a mecha-man sat on a rooftop, gazing absently at a blank metallic canvas. Click, whirr went its steely forefinger, reconstructing into a laser-point pen.

“Oh, that’s merely an artist fishing for inspiration,” Grandfather said.

With a whirr, click, the mecha-man’s telescopic eyes extended, zooming in on the sky in Finnigan’s direction.

“Oooh, that cloud looks just like a turtle!” He began laser sketching a turtle-shaped cloud in a startling shade of pink.

Hmph. That clanker needed its visual wiring checked.

“Rest assured, Finn, everything is progressing as it should.”

“But how do you know?”

Grandfather opened one eye halfway. “I am a very old turtle. Very old turtles know everything.”

“Prove it. How many colors in a rainbow?”

Grandfather explained.

“Where do Soul Seeds come from?”

Grandfather explained.

“What’s the meaning of life?”

Grandfather explained.

“Why would a soul sigh and mutilate flowers?”

“That is a difficult question,” Grandfather said. “Perhaps you could provide more context?”

“Um. Bunnies, for example.”

“Ah, yes, a fine example.” Something twinkled in Grandfather’s eyes again. “In bunnies, I suspect those are symptoms of loneliness.”

Loneliness? Really? It was so simple! Why hadn’t he thought of that?

“Well, it isn’t a thing we turtles think of often. We can swim to the edge of eternity and still meet fellow turtles traversing nearby. But imagine there were none. Imagine yourself the sole turtle in space.”

Pffft, no turtles, no rules. Sounds stellar.

But then Finnigan remembered the time he’d gotten lost in the Nebulous Nebula. No warm stars. No asteroids to race. No grandfathers to swim alongside. The vastness of space, alone, pressed upon him till he wanted to squish deep into his shell.

“Precisely,” Grandfather said. “Souls are not meant to be alone.”

Finnigan’s fins drooped. Sustaining another bunny was doable, but acquiring a second soul?

“Oh no!” shrieked the mecha-man in Grandfather’s dome. He leaped off his chair and dabbed desperately at a drool of molten metal. No use. “Ruined. Everything is ruined!”

He banged two fists against the canvas. That laser pen flared bright red.

Pew pew! Lasers streaked skyward, piercing clouds and pinging off Grandfather’s dome with a hiss and a sizzle.

Grandfather winced.

“Um. Are you sure that clanker isn’t damaged?” Finnigan asked.

Grandfather sighed something about never again mixing laser-capable appendages with emotional artists.

Wait. That was it! Unstable, er, damaged seeds got recycled.

Slyly, Finnigan sidled close. “Maybe you should have The Vault Keeper take a look.”

Again, Grandfather sighed. “Edna is a galaxy out of the way now, Finn. It would take me days.”

“Pffft, it’d only take me half a day.”

Really, Grandfather got more stardust in his eyes than any turtle Finnigan knew.

“Very well, Finn. Thank you.”

A glow suffused the mecha-man, snuffing his moans. Up he floated, a wisp of light, morphing into a seed between Finnigan’s forefins.

Yes! Finnigan somersaulted in excitement.

* * *

Unfortunately, if planted straight away the seed would sprout unchanged, which meant Finnigan had to endure what felt like centuries waiting in line for the Vault Keeper. Why had he come at rush hour?

By the time his turn arrived, grumpy purple storm clouds churned inside his dome. “Tune up for Bumi, Mecha World.”

The Vault Keeper conjured narrow-rimmed spectacles perfect for glaring through. “You again.”

“Yes, me.”

“Hmm. You are being uncommonly helpful to your elders of late.”

“Is it so hard to believe helpful might be my natural state?”

“Yes.” The Vault Keeper relieved him of the seed and busied herself inspecting it from every angle, unraveling it to peruse the genetic code, once, twice, thrice.

Finnigan’s purple clouds ballooned into giant magenta ones. “Could you hurry it along?”

“Rush begets ruin, hatchling. These sort of things may take days.”

“Days!” Lime lightning flashed. “Grandfather’s in a hurry.”

Slowly, The Vault Keeper tilted her spectacles at an accusing angle. “Is he? How very unlike him.”

Finnigan shut his mouth and rumbled internally until she finally did whatever she did and finned the seed over.

“Be sure this is returned to Bumi. Seeds reared by an Elder Turtle develop intrinsic traits that can react unpredictably outside their home environment.”

“Obviously. Where else would I deliver it?”

“Where else indeed,” said the Vault Keeper with a frown that suggested she had a very good idea of where.

“Thanks!” Finnigan swiftly retreated.

* * *

The Vault Keeper suspected him. She must. But did she suspect him enough to seek out Grandfather for confirmation? He couldn’t risk it.

After planting his second seed, Finnigan kept busy running errands for any irritating old turtle he could, in hopes of convincing her he was, in fact, naturally helpful.

“Are you feeling well, Finn?” Grandfather asked when Finnigan returned to his side wheezing and shaking in his shell.

“M’fine,” he managed. Errands usually did not exhaust him this much, but he was fine. After the eleventh time he delivered someturtle’s seeds for recycling, the Vault Keeper had ceased giving him suspicious looks and gone back to ignoring him.

“Why would Edna be giving you suspicious looks?”

Oops. Finnigan scrambled. “Oh, um, I keep pestering her to hurry and repair your seed.”

“There is no great rush, Finn. Are you certain you’re well? You look quite peaky.”

Finnigan opened his mouth to reply, but yawned instead. “Actually, I’m really tired. I think I’ll drift for a while.”

Eventually Grandfather swam on ahead. Finnigan hadn’t had a speck of time to himself during errands. He had missed the second bunny’s sprouting, though he knew the two had met: happy thumpity-thump-thumps jangled his shell.

Fatigue faded as Finnigan peeked into his bunnies’ world. He followed the sound of happy squeaks.

The mottled bunny splashed in a brook.

An answering squeak sounded from a treetop. Out bounced a pink bunny – dratted pink again! – and somersaulted into the water. Together, the bunnies splashed and played.

Excellent. Maybe now I can finally show—

Something else squeaked from a nearby bush. Out sprang a pint-sized bunny with chubby cheeks, followed by a second, followed by a third.

Wow! Second generation! Finnigan squealed with happiness. Just wait till Grandfather saw this. But first, he’d better cultivate more flora. No trouble. There were only five… eight… um, wow, eleven. He’d just—

Wait. How did his bunnies spawn a second generation independent of new soul seeds? That didn’t happen. Did it?

This conundrum nibbled at the back of his mind as he squeezed fresh rain from clouds and tickled tender greens to life. Baby bunnies ate a lot. By the time they finished one meal they were hungry for another.

This is exhausting, Finnigan thought, ushering a few last heads of cabbage into existence. Thank the stars replenishing flora could happen subconsciously, otherwise the bunnies might have starved before he found them. Maybe those errands weren’t what drained me, after all.

Once, he and Grandfather had passed a turtle that had given too much of itself to its world. Ice glazed its open eyes and glinted on every scale. What remained of its world lay buried in snow.

But that only happened to turtles too old and feeble to go on. He was young. He could manage thirteen bunnies.

* * *

Except when next he checked, a rainbow of bunnies frolicked everywhere: adults, tweens, babies. Argh! Why had he commanded them to grow faster?

Pew pew pew! A fluorescent beam seared through the canopy and singed Finnigan’s dome. Ouch! What now?

From deep in the garden, the pink bunny dragged a swath of leaves, stretched between sticks, into the pool of light created by murdering the canopy. There it sat, arms crossed, thumb stroking chin. Red flickered in its eyes.

Oh no. Is that—

Fzzzt! Lasers punctured the makeshift canvas, scorching tree trunks behind. The bunny jerked, glancing from ruined canvas to sizzling trees, and smiled a slow, buck-toothed smile. Up it bounced, knocking canvas aside, and began scorching pictographs of mecha-bunnies into every tree.

No! It’d set the garden aflame! Finnigan woke a lashing rain. Wind roared. Bunnies fled to their burrows. Even the pink bunny retreated, for now.

Oh, Stars. How am I supposed to handle a laser-eyed bunny?

Worse, as the bunnies drank, munched, and made merry, water levels sank. Trees dug deeper for nourishment. Tingles and aches pricked Finnigan’s fins, followed by cold, followed by numbness.

Within weeks, another generation joined the chaos, and every one of them possessed eyes of flickering red.

* * *

Even shriveled into the deepest, pinkest depths of his shell, Finnigan shivered. He’d spent thirty stars examining recipes for any reason his bunnies had super-productivity powers. Nothing. Plus the evil cotton-tails bounced all the time. They had all but jangled his bones to soup.

“Finn?”

Neck aching, Finnigan poked his head out. “Yes, Grandfather?”

Concern wrinkled Grandfather’s wrinkles. “Are you still feeling poorly?”

“M’fine.”

Grandfather laid a leathery touch on Finnigan’s head. “Fine, indeed. Whatever are you doing to tax yourself so?”

Heat flushed him from the inside out. He couldn’t tell Grandfather now. Not with everything in chaos.

“Tell me what, Finn?”

Stars, he couldn’t even not think a thought properly.

“Um,” said Finnigan. Grandfather wore the attentive expression of one who would not swim away without answers. “Well. I have been researching.”

“Researching what?”

“Recipes.”

Grandfather’s worry-lines smoothed into grin-lines. “Still thinking of your own world, I see.”

“Just planning ahead. But, um, I think mine are defective somehow.”

“How so?”

He finned the recipe to Grandfather, hoping maybe Grandfather would notice something he missed. But after a brief perusal, Grandfather said everything seemed in order.

But something wasn’t in order!

“Now, now, Finn, no need to shout. This is a perfectly sound recipe. I’ve used it often myself to patch together minor hybrid species. Helps with speedy population.”

Speedy population?

“Wait.” Finnigan un-tucked his fins and flapped them wildly. “What about soul seeds? You need soul seeds to populate!”

“Not for a beginner level species, Finn. See here.” With a loud clap of old forefins, Grandfather conjured two illusionary seedlings. He finned them into the shape of bunnies. They bounced together, producing a second boom, and then separated, slightly diminished in size and luminescence. As the glittering dust of the explosion cleared, a trio of baby bunnies wiggled to life. “Beginner level species sacrifice of themselves to forge a new life. That is why parents gray before the norm, you see.”

Finnigan did see. Worrywarts pebbled beneath his scales. “Um. How do you stop them from booming so much there’s no room left to boom in?”

Grandfather chuckled. “Leaping ahead yet again, are we? You’re too young to worry about population management. That comes decades into a successful seeding of species.”

“But—”

“Now, less talk, more swim. We’re nearing Pandora’s Blackout, and I’ll not have you surfing the gravity tide this time, young hatchling. Such antics give an old turtle palpitations.”

Finnigan swam alongside Grandfather in a daze. Surf the gravity tide? He couldn’t even muster the strength for his signature tailspin.

* * *

Turtles swam along the outskirts of Pandora’s Blackout: adults carrying flourishing worlds, younglings who whooped as they surfed the gravity tides, and hatchlings riding atop their parents’ heads.

One youngling shouted, “Finnigan, come play!”

Oh no, he couldn’t be seen like this! Finnigan scrunched into his shell and darted behind Grandfather, who cast a bemused glance back at him.

“Playing hide and seek, Finn?”

“Not really,” he muttered.

Something sparkled in Grandfather’s eyes. “I do hate to see you glum. Very well. I suppose you may surf a smidgen. If you beat me to yonder dwarf star.”

At that, Finnigan perked. Grandfather never raced him anymore. He used to, back when Finnigan was too little to outrace the moon orbiting Grandfather’s dome. Since he’d gotten bigger, however, Grandfather rebuffed every plea for a race with the claim he had eaten enough stardust for one lifetime, thank you.

“But I always beat you,” Finnigan said.

“Always is not always as definite as you imagine.” Grandfather raised his voice. “Or are you worried an old turtle might best you?”

Other turtles glanced their way.

Oh-ho, so Grandfather was feeling frisky, was he? Ha. Finnigan tested his fins. He wiggled his tail. Excitement for a race, however brief, dulled his aches. Maybe a quick zoom across the gravity tides would invigorate him.

“Ready?” Asked Grandfather.

“Readier than you.”

“Go!”

Finnigan kicked off, pumping hard and fast. Naturally he shot into the lead. Stars blurred on his right. The Blackout loomed dark on his left. Turtles cheered in the distance.

Here comes the gravity tug. The first wave yanked him so hard his joints popped. He wobbled. He flattened his fins out. Whew. Better.

Another pull jerked him askew. Stars spun. No! Pounding his left fins, he leveled out, panting. Why was this so hard? Bunnies didn’t weigh that much.

With a slow thwump of tremendous fins, Grandfather glided alongside him. “What’s all this huffing and puffing, Finn? Did you eat too many starfish earlier?”

“No.” How had Grandfather caught up to him? Grandfather never caught up to him.

Grandfather chuckled and stole the lead. “Come along, Finn, stop dilly dallying.”

Hmph! Telling me not to dilly dally. I’m the fastest turtle around.

“Finn, what are you doing? That is the wrong direction.”

What? No it wasn’t. He was swimming straight after Grandfather. He pumped his weary fins in a rapid swooomph-swoomph guaranteed to propel. Despite this, Grandfather’s lead grew, and grew, even when he flared his fins wide for a sudden halt.

Gravity snagged Finnigan at his core. Jerk, release, jerk, release. Oh no. Behind him now, the black hole yawned larger than before. Fear zapped his nerves. He kicked harder. But the tide dragged him back, back, back.

“Finn!” Grandfather pivoted sharply. The skyscrapers in his dome shrieked the shriek of tortured metal. “Dive to the side.”

Finnigan tried. He lurched right. He lurched left. Gravity snapped him back again and again. Painful crrrracks split a tiny patch of his shell. Shrill bunny squeals rang from his dome.

“I can’t.” He panted. “It’s too strong.”

Every black hole horror tale he’d ever heard popped into his head: tales of turtle’s shredded to fleshy lumps, of broken worlds and darkness and death.

“Grandfather!” Finnigan cried.

Grandfather charged faster than a meteor, so tremendous he eclipsed entire constellations. The shocking ba-ba-ba-ba-boom of his fins flung bolts of stardust into space.

He’s going too fast to stop. We’ll both get sucked in!

Grandfather slammed his fins wide as he whooshed by beneath. Had he overcompensated? Was he lost to the hole?

“Not at all, Finn. Rest easy. I’ve got you.”

Something bumped the underside of his shell. He peeked. Grandfather swam beneath, supporting him as he had not done since Finnigan was a hatchling freshly climbed from the Shores of Time.

Finnigan had never been so happy to feel like a hatchling. He draped trembling fins over Grandfather’s head. No doubt his bunnies were quaking in their burrows. His trembles lingered even when they reached calm space amid cheers from surrounding turtles.

“What happened, Finn?” Grandfather’s slow rumble was a massage to a jittery soul. “You’ve never been caught in a gravity tow before.”

“Oh Grandfather.” Finnigan hunkered deep into his shell where his voice echoed. He couldn’t lie anymore. He didn’t want to. “It’s these dratted bunnies! First there was one, then there were two, then they just went boom and multiplied by the billions! I can’t sustain them all. I tried, but I can’t. They’ve sapped my strength and cracked my shell.”

“Hmm. And how did you acquire a billion bunnies?”

Finnigan explained everything: how he had failed as a Cosmic turtle, as a caretaker, and as a grandturtle.

“Well, I’m not pleased, Finn. Not in the slightest.”

Finnigan flushed so pink the inside of his shell glowed. This wasn’t how he’d wanted his bunny reveal to go.

“Nor I,” said Grandfather. “But I am glad you finally told me.”

“Wait.” Finnigan poked his head out and gaped upside-down at Grandfather. “You knew?”

“I am a very old turtle, Finn. Very old turtles know everything. Now, let’s get your shell patched up. You will apologize to the Vault Keeper. No ‘buts,’ you will do so. Then you can drift and listen while an old turtle learns you a few lessons.”

Hope sprang to life.

“You can fix me? And my bunnies?” He didn’t even mind if the pink ones stayed pink and laser-capable so long as they weren’t so many.

“Yes, Finn. We can fix you both.”

* * *

Apologizing was not Finnigan’s favorite activity.

The Vault Keeper eyed him severely over her spectacles. “Well, I hope you’ve learned your lesson, young hatchling. There is good reason worlds are not built in a day.”

“So a wise turtle once said.” Grandfather shared a conspiratorial eye twinkle with the Vault Keeper. Finnigan felt quite ganged-up-upon.

Once patched up, however, he felt as light as light!

“Woohooo! I’m alive!” He did a triple tailspin and moon-walked around a meteor. No aches! No pains! Watch out, universe, Finnigan Turtle was back in action!

“Come now, Finn. Time for a lesson.”

“Coming!” said Finnigan, and abandoned action. He drifted quietly as Grandfather detailed recipes for plants to calm the bunnies and weather cycles to increase the growth of habitat. There was much to learn, but Finnigan listened in rapt attention and did everything Grandfather said, as slowly as Grandfather said, because he had no desire to experience anything like that bunny epidemic ever again.

* * *

About the Author

Hannah Montine hails from South Carolina, and every sweltering summer, dreams of migrating to Alaska. Much of her life has involved living and working on one type of farm or another. She is a human jukebox, a savior of overly-adventurous lizards, and a graduate of Odyssey Writing Workshop.

Categories: Stories

The Carnivore Queen

Sun 1 Sep 2019 - 02:04

by Alexandra Faye Carcich

“Now Queen, the Wolf nosed through dandelions and kale.”

The animals hushed as the foreign princess entered the cathedral. They whispered, “What will the court do with this flesh eater on its throne? Can any animal be safe again?”

She was a wolf princess from the kingdom of carnivores.

The King, a white bull goat, waited at the altar. His red, silk cape draped over his back and tail, pooling on the mosaic floor under hoof. A Raven perched on one of the King’s gilded, curling horns. As advisor to the crown he was against the treaty which tied prey to predator in matrimony. But the King desired a lasting peace between their lands, and, with little forethought arranged to take the princess to wife.

The Queen-to-be dragged a train embroidered with a lion and unicorn intertwined; their respective nations’ symbols united in an embrace. Three little dogs carried the train in their mouths. Chosen for their size — none larger than the Raven — they accompanied the princess as her handmaids. Throughout the wedding ceremony, the Raven rode the King’s horn, playing the third party to the King’s marriage.

Princess and King stood side by side at the altar where the Bishop Ox asked if this goat would take this wolf to wife. Bride and Groom faced each other as the Bishop passed the ribbon around their forelegs, tying them in marriage. The Wolf stood silent and erect. There was about her the ominous stillness of the hunter waiting in the forest, biding her time. The Goat’s chin whiskers wagged as he chewed the cud, come back up from breakfast. He disgusted her, but she terrified him.

The marriage banquet was served in feeding troughs in the great hall. Now Queen, the Wolf nosed through dandelions and kale. She smelled the rabbit who had brought the greens to table and salivated, longing for that meat instead. Beside her, the King chewed with a sideways motion, grinding his teeth across each other in passing. The Queen’s stomach growled. Reluctantly, she licked up the grass and swallowed. Later during the dancing, while the bull cow stomped his feet, the Queen vomited in the corner. The Raven croaked, bringing her to the King’s attention. Watching, the King was disgusted that she did not follow his example, chewing his food and swallowing it again.

Every day the Queen hungered. She watched the mice that made her bed, the horses as they practiced their arming battles, the monkeys while they cleaned the royal residence. Her handmaids were more successful, showing no ill effects of their vegetarian diet. At court, they ran between hoofs and under bellies without bothering any animal but the rodents. Their mistress, on the other hand, retained the lurking presence of a predator and moved as if she was stalking her next meal. On one occasion, the gentry collectively startled when they realized a wolf had sneaked in among them. A gazelle sprang over the heads of the company, while birds flew up in a cloud of feathers. A rabbit, kicked in the head and caught behind, let out its death scream. The Raven did not startle; he never startled. Blinking twice, he tilted his head and watched the chaos before stabbing at insects between the stone tiles.

After the Advisor squawked in the King’s ear, the latter summoned his wife. Appearing before her husband, the wolf salivated, as she often did, considering his tender, sedentary flesh. King Goat — advisor on horn — told the Wolf that her presence at court intimidated the other lords. To help them forget their fears and not think of her as a danger, she should give up her grey fur coat. For the sake of the treaty between their realms, he hoped she would comply.

Stripped of her fur, the Queen was cold as well as hungry. Her husband bestowed her with silk and satin in all colors, while her fur lined his royal mantle. Bald, her grey skin became dry and wrinkled like a rhinoceros. The little dogs huddled around their mistress at night to keep her warm.

The Queen conceived. Her hunger increased as her belly swelled with new life. In the morning, she licked her lips when the curtains were pulled back. The mice startled when they saw their historic enemies, the dogs. Her handmaids lost control over their instincts when the mice fled. They ran, yapping, after them. One little dog caught a mouse in its mouth and shook it back and forth until its neck broke. Blood dripped from her chin. The Wolf Queen curled her lip, exposing her teeth, and growled long and low. Both mice and dogs scattered. The little dog dropped its victim on the floor. The mice went directly to the King’s Advisor.

There were two consequences to the incident. The Queen had to give up her own teeth, to prove she would never harm any of her subjects. Her meals were stewed so she could lap them up like an elderly beast. The other consequence was that her handmaids disappeared. When the Queen went to inquire of the Raven in his tower, he wore her teeth on a string around his neck and pulled the meat off the bone of a small creature. There were two more skeletons in the corner.

“These were already dead,” he explained, “Trampled. . . And no, I do not know where your handmaids are. We sent them home to your kingdom some time ago.”

Soon after, the Queen whelped a cub. As she licked him clean, his spots became clear. The leopard cub began to suckle. The court fretted that the prince was not one of them, but such can be the result when creatures of different kinds join together. The King came to see his son, chewing, as ever. He lowered his head to sniff the cub. His Advisor fluttered from horn to the goat’s back side, farther from the mother wolf. The Leopard Prince yawned, exposing his little pointed teeth. The King’s eyes bulged off either side of his bony face. A kangaroo attendant came forward to take the prince to be nursed by a surrogate, but the Queen curled around her cub, flattened her ears, and growled. None of which had the same effect without teeth or fur. Hopping back, the kangaroo looked to the King. He conceded that for now it was healthy for a cub to be nursed by his mother.

As they left the chamber the Raven said, “The Prince of herbivores cannot be raised by a carnivore for long. Give him to me, so that I may tutor him in our ways.”

The Queen brought the Prince to court five weeks after the birth. The Leopard Prince trotted beside his mother looking around at the host of creatures gathered. The court stirred around them. All the animals whispered that a carnivore must not be crown prince and heir to the realm. A predator could never be king of the herbivores. But what good would it do to have him suckled by the cow? Even if the prince’s claws as well as his teeth were removed, he would still think like a carnivore. As evidence to all, the cub pounced on his mother’s tail and bit it with his tiny teeth. The Wolf shook her tail free and rolled the cub under her feet onto his back. She licked his belly before lifting him to stand. The eyes of the horse rolled back. The deer’s white tail raised, ready to flee. A bull stamped his warning.

As the Prince was presented to his father, the Raven squawked into the King’s ear that the cub was his mother’s child.

“This is your son,” said the Queen to the King.

She pushed the prince forward with her nose. The Prince looked up with amber eyes and fixed on the Raven flapping from one of the Goat’s horns to the other.

The Raven reasoned that there was nothing more to be done, even a carnivore without coat or teeth still desired flesh. There was nothing even the King could do. Were not they all flesh and blood to such as these? The Queen should not be allowed to remain; she never should have come. Take the prince away. Give him to the Raven to raise up into the next king.

In truth the Wolf was very hungry.

The Leopard Prince’s eyes followed the Raven.

“Mama,” he said, “Is it to eat?”

The Raven shrieked his outrage while all the court gasped.

Defurred and defanged the Wolf had been singled out as villain, as the sole representative of her kind. Now she had a son who could not yet defend himself, who, despite all protests, was heir to the throne.

Mother Wolf sunk down low, close to the ground, her eyes locked on the Raven. She hung her head as she stalked to the throne. The Raven dropped down to the edge of the dais to scream his imprecations in the Wolf’s face. His necklace of teeth chattered around his neck. Then the Wolf sprang forward and caught the Raven in her mouth. He was slow to take flight, glutted with dog meat and overconfident. She shook him back and forth, biting down again and again. The Raven flapped and struggled with his feet clawing the air. He stabbed toward her face, grazing her nose. The Wolf shook him back and forth until she heard his bones crack. Throwing the Raven to the floor, she reclaimed her teeth, while the Prince began to eat his first meat.

The King Goat lost his cud. The court of prey animals panicked. Even though they outnumbered her, she was a wolf in their midst. They fled in every direction, running over each other. The Goat leaped forward off the dais, but his fur lined mantle caught on arms of the throne. He bit at the clasp, but before he could free himself, the Wolf caught him by the throat and brought him down to the ground. She lifted the crown in blood drenched teeth and placed the crown on her son’s head.

Together, mother and son ascended to take the throne and ruled the united animal kingdom.

* * *

About the Author

Alexandra Faye Carcich lives in New York and works as a cake decorator. She loves combining her passion for history, fairy tales, and her pet dog into fiction. Her work has been featured in Timeless Tales, Ariel Chart, Enchanted Conversations, Gingerbread House Lit Mag, and most recently here in Zooscape.

You can read her poetry and follow her writing progress on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/alexandracarcich/

Categories: Stories

Issue 3

Sat 1 Jun 2019 - 02:14

Welcome to Issue 3 of Zooscape!

Transformation has always held a place of significance in the world of furry fiction. Those of us who love animals also love to imagine becoming animals, or imagine animals becoming us. Transformation stories can blur the lines between humanity and our animal cousins, or throw those lines into sharp relief.

The very act of reading fiction is transformative — for a brief time, you become someone else, somewhere else, thinking someone else’s thoughts. So, take your own journey of transformation through theses stories, and find out who you are when you come out on the other side.

* * *

A Warm, Dark Place in the Earth by Mackenzie Kincaid

Sealskin by L Chan

Human Through and Through by K. A. Rochnik

Good, Better, Best by Rachel Rodman

Dragons Are Made by Searska GreyRaven

Spider, Dreaming by Michelle Muenzler

* * *

If you want to help Zooscape transform the world, share our stories far and wide, and if you’d like, we’d love to have you submit stories of your own. (Here are our guidelines!) If you’d like to contribute more substantively, Zooscape now has a Patreon, and any money we receive will go directly to buying more awesome furry fiction to share with the world.

Categories: Stories

Spider, Dreaming

Sat 1 Jun 2019 - 02:13

by Michelle Muenzler

“So many dead moths, their corpses hollowed as though sucked clean through a straw.”

She dreams she is a spider. Words sail from her spinnerets, casting traps about the space she occupies and capturing the pale gray moths that formulate her entire diet.

Except… she doesn’t just dream she is a spider.

She is a spider.

She is vast. Her abdomen bulges with words. With worlds.

The universe quakes at her passage, bits and pieces crumbling into the void. Without her span, there is nothing. Formlessness rules. But she has given order to the chaos. Has bound meaning to shape, intent to result. The laws of nature wrap themselves about her eight monstrous legs, caught in the tiny hairs along their breadth.

Her abdomen ripens with passage. She soils the stars with her castings. With the corpses of moths.

When her abdomen is finally ripe enough to rot, distended a stitch away from bursting, she pushes forth the fruit of her labor, a sticky mass of eggs, glistening and wet into the cradle of threads she has woven.

Done, she allows herself to drift into the void’s inevitable embrace.

And then she wakes.

Or perhaps only now does she sleep.

Whichever it is, the desk before her is crowded with papers. With pens.

And moths.

So many dead moths, their corpses hollowed as though sucked clean through a straw.

She does not remember writing the beautiful and terrifying words still wet upon each page, but they can only be hers. So she gathers them up, sifting through them to find order to their meaning, and prepares herself for the labor of creation.

Because she is a spider dreaming she is a woman dreaming she is a spider, dreaming.

And there is so much more yet to dream.

* * *

About the Author

Michelle Muenzler, known at local science fiction and fantasy conventions as “The Cookie Lady,” writes fiction both dark and strange to counterbalance the sweetness of her baking. Her short fiction and poetry can be read in numerous science fiction and fantasy magazines, and she takes immense joy in crinkling words like little foil puppets. Visit michellemuenzler.com to find links to more of her work, or if you are feeling especially brave, check out the squidgy weird adventures of Hetha and her shark-man companion Mobi in The Hills of Meat, the Forest of Bone on Amazon. She promises it won’t bite… much.

Categories: Stories

Dragons Are Made

Sat 1 Jun 2019 - 02:12

by Searska GreyRaven

“And every morning I’d find another lily of the valley, placed just so on my doorstep.”

Dragons are made, not born.

We make ourselves, one scale at a time, forged from seething rage and quenched in cold hate. We string each scale together, forming chains, forming mail, armoring ourselves with these heavy plates because they feel like protection. We don’t think about how they weigh us down, or of the wings clenched tight to our backs.

Dragons don’t fly. We might have been born with wings, whatever we were before—

(I don’t remember what I was before.)

—but a dragon’s armor is too heavy and too solid for flitting about.

Deep in our lairs, we curl around a pit filled with fire. Each carnelian coal is a moment we refuse to forget. It scorches our bellies, our hands, our most vulnerable places. Blackened claws, now tempered from the flames, turn over each glowing carbuncle, some dull and red as old blood, others incandescent and spitting sparks. We remember each violation, each vicious insult, every punch and slap and slight we suffered. We breathe new life into them so that we may never, never forget what they did to us and why we sheathe ourselves in dragon skin.

We remember these things so hard that we forget the feeling of wind, the color of the sky, the taste of sugar as it melts on our tongues.

A thousand men have tried to storm my sanctuary, and each one I have destroyed or devoured. Each one bloated with his own hubris, his own self-importance, the conviction that he would be the one to shatter my armor and tame me once more, and return me to my place.

They wanted to strip me to my skin, bear my soft places and press me into mewling obedience. A conquered dragon for a concubine.

But I learned well at the knee of monstrosity; my scales are perfect, my armor a masterwork. There is nothing soft left for knights with wicked swords to penetrate.

But you… you were no knight. You came to me, unarmed and unarmored. You had feathers where I had scales, edges smooth where mine were knives, and a song where I could only hiss. You perched upon the stones above my door and didn’t budge, no matter how I growled. But as you sang, my muscles eased and the rumble of my ire slowly drained away. I listened, enraptured, as your last note hovered between us.

I didn’t know harpies could sing, I said.

You tilted your head to the side, birdlike and strange, and asked me how heavy my scales were.

Heavy, I said. The better to protect me, my dear.

But why? you asked.

Because the world is cold and cruel.

All of it?

All of it.

You went silent then, and I woke that morning to find the place above my door empty. I wanted to be relieved, but I felt… something else. I had to dig the word out of my memory.

Lonely.

I turned the word over between my talons and worried at it. Did it belong in my hoard? Would it be malleable enough to form scales? I didn’t know, and fussed with it for days.

When you returned, I felt something else I’d forgotten. Joy.

In your hand, you held a single flower, a lily of the valley.

Those are poison, I said, wary.

Only if you eat them, you said.

I did not eat it. I tucked your flower into the mouth of an old wine bottle and set it beside my bed of coals. Its scent pushed back the reek of smoke for a time.

It was… nice. No, not nice. Peaceful. Another word I’d forgotten.

I didn’t know what to do with peaceful. But I remembered enough of what I was before to know that one must give gratitude for gifts.

I came back to the threshold to thank you, and you sang, thrilled that your lily had brought me peace.

Three scales fell from my back, chiming like bells upon the stone floor.

Panicked, I scooped them up and retreated deeper into my lair. You called out, but didn’t follow.

I reforged the scales and hammered them back into place, but my strokes, once sharp and sure, pulled unevenly. It took far longer than it should have, but I managed at last. With shaking fingers, I fastened them upon my shoulder and breathed easy once more.

I found you where I’d left you, puzzled and puzzling.

You broke it, you said.

No, I fixed it.

It was a week before we spoke again. You brought me more lilies, sang to me songs you’d heard from larks and nightingales, and I tried to hide how happy I was to see you once more.

Happy was a thing used to bait traps of pain; I was too canny to fall for it again.

(Wasn’t I, though?)

There’s a story, you said, about wisdom and words.

I grunted, not really interested in the story so much as hearing the sound of your voice. You wove a tale of hope and happiness, of a goddess of wisdom who once begged for truth from a the world tree, and it told her the secrets of the world: four words to start a war, thirteen to end it, seven words to unlock a person’s heart and fourteen more to seal it.

Any heart? I asked.

Even a dragon’s heart, you trilled.

I snorted. Not likely, I said. If that were true, one of those ass-faced knights would have tried it already.

You shrugged, covert feathers along your shoulders whispering. Maybe it’s not the same seven words for everyone.

Perhaps, I said. Perhaps it’s not even just seven. It could be five, or nine, or twenty-two. It might even be seven notes of music.

We sat in silence and watched the bats delve and play between the stars.

Do you know many stories? I asked.

You nodded. Would you like to hear another story, you asked.

Yes, I said, and you wove a tale about gryphons and mermaids and a great battle between sea and sky. I listened, enchanted, and didn’t even notice my scales had fallen askew again.

That night, I dreamed of wings.

I found you back on your perch, right by my door. I settled down with a clatter, right there on the threshold.

Tell me another story, please, I said.

You nodded, and told me a tale of distant places and strange mountains with stranger beasts. There were clouds made of cotton candy and trees made of chocolate, lakes of sweet sugar syrup, and schools of gingerbread fish with gumdrop scales.

Gumdrop scales, I laughed. Gumdrops wouldn’t make good scales.

They do just fine for the fish, you said. Scales aren’t just for armor.

Then what good are they? I asked.

I don’t know, you said. Ask the fish.

I didn’t laugh. Laugh is too kind a word for the shattered sound that left my throat. It echoed through the shadows of my lair and died at my feet.

For that, I said, I’d need to leave my lair.

You nodded.

I can’t leave my lair, I said. What would happen to my forge, my coals? My scales would rust right off! Besides, I can’t fly. Not anymore. I don’t even think I remember how.

You have to take off your scales to fly, you said.

I didn’t speak to you for days for that. Every night, I dreamed of flying, of devouring candy clouds and chasing gumdrop-crusted fish.

And every morning I’d find another lily of the valley, placed just so on my doorstep.

I can’t just give up my scales, I said again. I need them. They protect me.

They hide you, you said.

That too.

From the good and the bad.

It’s mostly bad.

Am I bad?

…

Tell me a story, I demanded.

But this time, you didn’t. You left, the scent of lilies fading on the wind.

I dreamed of stars and storms and spiraling winds. My back ached and my wings strained, but my scales. My scales were too heavy for them to lift very far.

I don’t need wings, I assured myself. Wings are for soft things, things willing to be savaged and hurt, broken! I am not that person anymore. I’m a dragon! Fierce and vicious and…

…free.

I found you the next day, bent over my forge. I don’t know how you got in, but before I could stop you, you reached out and touched one of the carbuncles, an old and dim one as red as rubies, but still far too hot for bare skin.

You yelped and dropped it, and I scooped it up, returning it to my hoard.

That was foolish, I said. Don’t you know not to touch hot things?

What are they? you asked.

Memories, I said. That one is one of my oldest, from when a boy kissed me.

Why does it burn?

Because I said no.

You nodded, solemn. And that one?

A lord tried to take what didn’t belong to him.

You pointed to the brightest of them all, at the center of my forge.

And that one?

That one, I said, made me a dragon.

Silence, for a time, only broken by the susurrus of my coals.

Would you like to hear another story? you asked, and I nodded. It was a story you’d heard from a butterfly, long ago, about an endling unicorn, a wicked king and his cursed kingdom, and how a valiant lost girl saved them all.

I have never seen a unicorn, I said.

Would you like to? There’s a spring where they dance, a few days from here. We could go, if you wish.

I would have to leave this place. I can’t. My scales are too heavy, I’d never make it.

Do you need all your scales, though?

I pondered the question, pulling at the seams of my armor and trying it out. Maybe I could leave a few scales behind. Just for a few days. Just for a little while. They were so heavy, there hadn’t been a knight in some time. And it had been so long since I’d felt sunlight on my face.

It felt…odd. I bounced on my toes as I walked, unused to being unburdened.

Alright, I said. Let’s go.

And we went, over and under and through the forest. The sun rose and fell three times, and we curled up together each night to watch the stars. When the sun rose, you sang to greet it, and I thrummed along as best I could.

And they were there, just like you said! Unicorns dancing in the mist from the waterfall, sipping from the spring and playing in the water without a care in the world. I laughed a true laugh, not the bitter thing I’d uttered in the dark.

They’re beautiful, I said. It’s like their hooves never even touch the ground when they dance.

You held out your hand, spread your sky blue wings in a graceful bow, and said, would you care to dance with me?

I couldn’t dance, not really, not even with my armor diminished, but I could at least weave among them. You held my claws in your hands, never mind the soot and the scars, and we danced heavy and strange through a throng of glittering, dancing unicorns. The wind in the leaves and the water in the stream and the bell-like laugh of unicorns were the only music we needed.

It was perfect.

Until the hunters came.

Hounds baying and arrows flying, they burst into the clearing and attacked. I roared and leapt into the fray. Teeth snapped, bones shattered, and swords clattered uselessly against most of me. I shrieked when I felt an arrow pierce my arm.

Foolish. So foolish to leave behind my scales!

The hunters retreated, unprepared for a dragon, and I turned on you.

This is why I don’t leave, why I never take off my armor, I snarled. It’s never safe! I ripped the arrow from my flesh and bellowed. The remaining unicorns fled in terror, heels flashing into the darkening forest. I roared, coughed. Another blazing coal fell from my lips into my palm. I cradled it to my chest, ruddy light dripping between my fingers and the reek of singed flesh in my nose.

You’re burning yourself! Stop! you cried.

It wouldn’t burn, I hissed, if I’d had my armor.

You wouldn’t need your armor if you let the rage burn out on its own! Coveting it like that only makes it worse!

You don’t understand. You wouldn’t understand. Couldn’t understand. My armor protected me; my armor kept me safe. I need it.

I don’t need it, you said.

Then you’re a fool!

No greater a fool than the one who burns themself on their own rage!

I went back to my lair, curled around this new hurt, and tucked myself back under my sheathe of scales. I slept, dreamless.

Sometimes dreamless.

No, that’s a lie. I dreamed of the sky even when I was awake. I dreamed of dancing unicorns and the shimmer of sunlight on water, and blue wings against a blue sky, all mine if I would. Just. Take off. The scales.

If I would just let the rage-fueled embers burn out.

But the coals made scales, scales protected me, and it was foolish to be unprotected.

Did I want to stay armored more than I wanted to dance? I didn’t have an answer for that.

Dragons don’t dance. I’d have to stop being a dragon if I ever wanted the sky again.

If I ever wanted—

—no, I refused to even consider wanting more.

I caressed the edges of my armor, remembering the feeling of cool mist against my bare skin. I wasn’t ready to shed them. But maybe…maybe not all the scales. Maybe just a few, I could give up.

Some would be easy to take off, I was sure. But some were fused to each other by the heat of the forge and years of sleeping on my bed of rage; they wouldn’t pry loose without a fight.

The very thought of fighting with my own armor made me weary beyond measure, and I crawled back atop my fiery bed.

I woke to the scent of flowers, and found upon my step another lily of the valley, entwined with an iris and a single pine branch. Nestled in the center were several purple hyacinth blooms.

I held your elegant bouquet in my arms, and waited for you to return. You fluttered down, settled farther from me than usual, and it made my heart ache.

Hello, you said.

Hello.

Silence.

I got your flowers, I said finally.

You nodded.

I took out the coal from that awful day and set it on the stone floor. It spat a few sparks.

I thought about what you said.

Silence.

I don’t…

The words caught in my throat. I tried again.

I don’t know how to be anything but this.

Silence, a longer one.

But.

…

I want to.

You hopped close and peered at my armor. You touched one steely scale with the tip of your finger, prying it up and away from my skin. Gently, gingerly, you tugged it free and laid it over the coal, smothering it.

And then, you reached up, feathers brushing the place laid bare, the first soft thing I’d felt in an age and more. I shivered, and wondered what it might feel like to have feathers instead of steel.

One scale at a time, you said. I shouldn’t have asked for more than that. One at a time. We’ll do it together.

And then? I asked.

And then we see the unicorns again.

And dance with them?

And dance with them.

* * *

About the Author

Searska GreyRaven has been writing ever since an eccentric sorceress was brave enough to teach her. She has been previously published in several anthologies, most recently in ROAR 9, Dissident Signals, and CLAW 1, and has had stories nominated for both the Cóyotl and Leo Literary awards. She makes her home in sunny South Florida, along with several bee hives, a fluctuating population of lizards, and a growing hoard of books guarded by a legion of plastic dinosaurs. She can be found on Twitter (SearskaGreyRvn) and posts occasionally on SoFurry (Searska_GreyRaven).

Categories: Stories

Good, Better, Best

Sat 1 Jun 2019 - 02:12

by Rachel Rodman

“And the story—the new story: amended and inverted—was written into her skin.”

—1—

“Wolf!” cried the little pig, “Let me come in!”

She stood… this time… not before a cottage in storybook land, but rather before an apartment in 1908 Vienna.

And the pig, herself, was—possibly—not precisely a pig, but a construct, built of paper, with the parameters of her existence encoded upon it in ink. And with a dusting of magic, on top of that—a light layer of misdirection—which made her seem mostly human.

And the Wolf, somewhere behind that door, was, to a certain way of thinking, not a Wolf… but rather a young man, brooding and pitiable, and still somewhat shy of nineteen.

But the pig did not think in caveats.

Only in story.

And the story—the new story: amended and inverted—was written into her skin.

Instructions, in her skin.

(“Let me come in!” she oink-snarled, and rapped at the door with her hooves.)

Urgency and imminence.

In her skin.

(“Let me come in!” she huffed and puffed.)

The Imperative…

…In her skin.

(“Let me come in!”)

…And then the Wolf opened the door, just a little…

Through the slit, their eyes met… one wolfy eye first, then a second, as he let the door swing wider… and the Wolf drew in his own breath, riveted.

For there was something about her…

…an inexplicable luminosity…

So striking…

(And what, he thought—anyway… what, he thought—breathlessly—does a wolf have to fear from a pig?)

So the Wolf let her in.

And she killed him.

Killed him, strangled him, with a length of straw. With a yellow-white fiber, freshly fallen from a farm cart, which she had procured from a road just outside the city. Drew it back, a line of light wire against his throat, until his eyes bulged.

“Warum? Warum?” wheezed the Wolf, when she paused: once, twice, to incrementally relax her grip upon the fiber. “Warum?”

“Because you are the Wolf,” she shriek-oinked. And her ink bubbled and flared, so hot that the paper that composed her practically ignited. “Because you are the Wolf.”

Later, she danced upon the corpse. Danced and danced, hoof by hoof by hoof by hoof. Until what remained at her feet was only a jelly, a stain. And she spat, Oink, Oink, into the smear of it: the gore and shattered bones.

As she oinked, she felt the world and the future, rippling and altering around her: brighter and happier.

Done.

But…

When she exited the apartment, luminously human-like in her hat and overcoat, and with the blood mostly dabbed away, the pig paused.

For there, shuffling warily up the hallway, a question in his eyes, was… and she snatched clumsily amid the ripples, to apprehend that identity… the Wolf’s roommate.

…August Kubizek…

Around August, there were also ripples. But these ripples were quite bitter. August would be incarcerated for the Wolf’s murder; there would be no other suspects. And even after, long after, deep into his sentence, the trauma of this day would persist. What lay behind this door would haunt him: blood in his dreams; blood, too, when he was awake, and all the anguish that attends the violent loss of a friend.

For just a moment, the pig felt a little cold.

“Entschuldigung,” the pig said softly. She shuffled her feet–the whisper of a curtsy. Then, with an awkward little hop, she pressed a small and not-terribly-well-considered touch of her snout against August’s cheek: not quite a kiss—for whatever comfort, anyway, that that could ever be worth—and August drew back, astonished.

“Wer bist du?” August asked, just so softly.

But the pig slipped away, hurrying down the hallway. So August turned back to the door, thoroughly unnerved, and ever so slightly bewitched.

And, when his absentminded knock went unanswered, he reached, dazedly, into his pocket, to withdraw his key.

Out of the building, and through the streets, the pig fled. At the outskirts of Vienna, she threw off her disguise and dropped to all fours, faster and faster and faster. Then, once she had attained an improbable speed, she slipped, with a little grunt, into a space that—to a certain way of thinking—wasn’t there, and into a forest, where no man had ever been, where the sun rose in the west and set in the east, and where the great oaks shrank, shrank, down to saplings, and smaller still, and were swallowed up entirely by dirt, and then ceased to be.

“Chinny-chin-chin!” she sang, for hope and for triumph. And for life, life, life.

—2—

What the first little pig had done would serve. But the same text was also imprinted into the second pig’s skin. So, when his turn came—and it must come, for so ran the inexorable logic of the story—he was compelled to do one cleverer.

This pig pressed into a different section of the forest, deeper and darker. And, when he emerged, it was late autumn, in a different place, and at an earlier time: Braunau am Inn, 1888.

Here, at the village outskirts, he dilated his nostrils, searching, Snort, Snort, Snort, until at last he discovered it: black and pungent, inside the crumbling stump of a tree—a rot that grew on wood.

A rot that contained… power.

To distill that power, the pig availed himself of the equipment in a chemist’s shop—breaking in quietly, after night had fallen, to minimize the likelihood of attracting notice.

What remained, as pure as he could make it, once the final layer of ethanol had evaporated, was a small cluster of potent crystals, glittering pink under the rays of his candle.

An abortifacient.

At dawn, at the market, he purchased more quotidian supplies: meat and vegetables; spices and cooking equipment. Then he retreated to the town outskirts for the better part of a morning, chopping and stirring over a wood-fed fire.

In the afternoon, plausibly arrayed as a cook, he slipped into the Wirtshaus, where the Wolf’s mother occasionally—and today, in particular—would come for lunch.

At her table, bowing, he presented the bowl of soup, appetizingly scented.

Once again: there were ripples everywhere. And, as Klara set the spoon down into her soup, this pig, cleverer than his sister, felt their imminence.

Nearly all of the ripples were exquisite. Cataclysmic. And yet…

…and here the pig flinched…

And yet…

Those about Klara were otherwise.

This time, the pig knew, the blood would be intimate and localized; it would emerge secretly, clot by clot, invisible to everyone.

(Almost everyone.)

Klara had already lost children. Tomorrow, when the cramping started, she would try to push the pieces back into herself, while keening an impossible commandment: “Live!” And she would wallow on the floor like that, weeping and clawing at herself, until her husband’s pity—which was decidedly finite—ran out, and he would drag her to her feet, hissing that she was “disgusting.”

In the months that followed, Klara, already unstable, would withdraw—or, rather: descend—into herself: deeper into brooding, deeper into darkness.

“Entschuldigung,” murmured the pig softly, ostensibly in reference to some superficiality—a slight imperfection in the way the table had been arrayed.

But there was an unmistakable poignancy to it, all the same, and Klara, startled, looked up sharply.

The pig, though, kept his eyes mild and dark: meeting her gaze, even as he did not quite meet it.

So Klara looked away. And she lifted her spoon, extracting a careful portion of the soup, and cooled it just briefly in the air. She was quite hungry, after all; for weeks—between, at least, the bouts of nausea—she had been so hungry. And so, after placing that first spoonful to her lips, she proceeded to eat voraciously.

She noted, of course, though only in passing, the unusual residue of… Something… which the pig’s spices had not entirely been able to mask. But it was, she thought—to the degree that she even thought about it—simply a part of the exceptionalness of this new condition—the odd overtone, which had been imparted to everything, coating her tongue, as it coated her mind: the strange and radiant experience of harboring Life.

The pig, forgotten, slipped away. On his way out, through the side door, he was the object of an unpleasantly inquisitive glance from the Wirtshaus’ proprietor. But the pig walked quickly and with purpose, too fast for anyone to follow, even if they had been determined to—and no one harbored any such determination.

At the edge of the town, the pig dropped his disguise, and ran on and on, four-legged, until he reached the forest of the shrinking trees, where his sister was—or had gone—or would be. And he proceeded beneath the shadow of those leaves, which, in a certain sense, were not there: leaves through which a strange wind whispered; leaves that contracted, smaller and smaller, and were converted, artfully, into juvenile nubs, before their stems proceeded to absorb them.

“Chinny-chin-chin!” he sang to celebrate the alteration of everything—all of the tragedy and darkness that the world would never know.

—3—

What her two siblings had done—either would have been well enough. But the same imperative was also written into the skin of the third little pig. And she was cleverer still.

So, when it was her turn, she descended into the same forest, deeper yet, and emerged a few months earlier than her brother had, on a warm evening in mid-August, 1888.

At the outskirts of Braunau am Inn, she collected a square of brick from the crumbling wreck of an abandoned house.

The brick was jagged and broken—imperfect, to a certain way of thinking. But, for the pig’s purpose—and she oinked admiringly—nothing could be better suited.

So the pig carried it with her, in the folds of her elegant human gown, until she reached the center of the town, where there was a depression—the depression—in the cobblestones, and here she positioned it carefully, so that only the tip protruded, shrouded by the shadows that were cast by the shop just beside.

Against the wall of that shop she leaned, even deeper, inside the cool of those same shadows, waiting.

Then, in a moment, there he was: the Wolf’s father, Alois, proceeding apace, down the cobblestones, lost in thoughts of a mounting urgency.

And, going hurriedly, he caught just the tip of his foot, mid-stride, on the corner of the brick. It was a solid, jarring bump, which jostled—slightly, ever-so-slightly—the entire lower half of his body.

Including—critically—his testicles.

From out of these shadows, the pig trotted lightly, and presented a congenial hoof, carefully muffled by cloth, so that it seemed like a hand. And, steadied by the pig’s kindness, the Wolf’s father merely lurched slightly to the side, and did not really fall.

“Entschuldigung,” murmured the pig.

Alois was startled. And embarrassed. But he acknowledged the pig’s assistance, anyway: a brisk nod, if not quite a friendly one.

Again, there were ripples, shuddering and transformative. And the third pig, cleverest of them all, perceived them with perfect clarity:

Alois would continue toward home. And after that brief interruption, occasioned by the stumble, the narrative of desire would continued to play in his mind… ever so slightly heightened by his encounter with the stranger.

And, when he got there, to Klara, and to bed, he would exorcise his flusterment, releasing the semen that had been jostled by the stumble.

This time, a particular sperm, its position altered, would emerge too soon. It would strive and die, in a superficially successful, but ultimately useless quest to reach the tube—empty and still egg-less—that extended from ovary to womb.

And, after many more beats, another sperm, more fortuitously positioned, would instead encounter an egg—the egg—and initiate, this time, another kind of child:

A son. But a son of a different stamp: neither exceptionally good nor exceptionally bad. And one who, in a historical sense, would be profoundly anonymous and utterly forgettable.

This child would resemble the Wolf, in the way that siblings often do. The same hair. The same skin. The same unsettling eyes. Yet: he would be an Instead Sibling, a person formed from the very same egg; the sort of sibling, that is, who could only preclude his brother, and never coexist with him.

(…beautiful ripples…

…tsunamic ripples…

…altering everything…)

And now, Alois—who could no longer, in any sense, be characterized as the Wolf’s father, but only as Alois—disengaged from the pig, with a grimace of wounded dignity, and proceeded on his way.

And the pig—the third and final and cleverest pig (for, in every version of the story—and this part never changes—there are exactly and only three)—retrieved the brick from the cobblestones, so that it would inconvenience no one else, and then hurried back, just as she had come, shadow by shadow, until she had returned to the abandoned house. There she let the brick fall, and her costume and her front legs, too, and thereafter, four-legged, she went faster and faster and faster, until she entered that wood that wasn’t, where the leaves leaped abruptly from the ground, before spiraling upwards, elegant and slow, and adhering to the branches. And whose autumnal colors, perching there, were diluted, gradually and beautifully, to green.

“Chinny-chin-chin,” she sang.

And, outside the forest, the sun brightened, over Europe and the world, to something better and to something different.

—0—

“Time a upon Once,” whispered the girl. For she had taken, gradually, to speaking like that: high and breathy and backwards and only to herself, in the months since she had entered the camp.

When she had been younger, her storybook magic had been whimsical. With it, she had caused her family’s ducks to hatch inexplicably ungainly young, which grew up—amusingly and wonderfully—to be beautiful swans. And she had laid an enchantment upon a little lamb, so that it had followed her, always, wherever she went.

But, in the camp, everything had become different. Here, she had retained one of her storybooks, somehow—unnoticed and unconfiscated—and that had been its own kind of magic. And the play had continued, in a way, serious and grim, and marshaled against terrible things: labor and cold; hunger and sickness; tragedy and ash.

Play, inverted. Play, distorted. And, everything: Backwards.

In it, with her sisters, she had plotted different strains of mayhem, all of which, in retrospect, had been horrifically naive.

With them, she had conjured elves, who entered the guards’ barracks, secretly, in the night, to dismantle their shoes, rather than to make them new ones.

But it made no difference, of course. For new shoes could be ordered, if you are a guard. Or—worse—appropriated.

At her sisters’ urging, too, she had conjured gingerbread-like men, who did not run away, but, rather, attacked the guards, as soldiers do; who would cry, not: You can’t catch me!, but rather:

“You can’t defeat me!”

But the guards merely shot them, and her men fell apart, in dough, crumbs spewing like blood, tearing like paper. (Shot them, like foxes would, if foxes had carried pistols.)

Or burned them up, in the ovens: dough and paper.

Ovens, for men…

And when her first sister died, and her second, too, was killed… when both of her sisters—her Sisters—were dead, she began to think, in real earnest, now…in deep and terrible earnest, about…

Backwards. And to speak, increasingly, her sisters’ names… Backwards.

Inverted like that, the syllables were harsh. And they seemed to her increasingly, the longer she repeated them, like an incantation of dark magic. A very dark magic, reminiscent of the way in which one might summon spirits. Or create golems, living, out of dead.

Backwards.

Because—she realized it, with a shiver, which played inside of her grief: Backwards could also mean Unmaking.

And, more than that: That was what real magic was.

In her dreams, increasingly, she saw a forest—a great, dark forest—composed of subsiding branches and shrinking trunks.

And, during the day, when her dreams were more lucid, she would think, in a new way, on that Name, from the radio, before the camp, and now, Heil, Heil, on everyone’s lips: the distant Führer.

So she made Jack first, ripping out a page from his story, and folding him out of paper. “Kill the Ogre!” she told him, and wrote it, hands trembling, into the fibers that would compose his skin: “Kill the Ogre! Kill the Ogre!” again and again.

“Kill the Troll!” she commanded the Billy Goats Gruff, shaping their pages—1, 2, 3—with greater care than before. “Kill the troll! Kill the troll!” she wrote, in still more emphatic ink.

But they all failed, all of them, despite her directions… they, and all the others, too; they all returned to her: bewildered and lost and tremulous and disappointed, with bloodless hands, or gore-less hooves.

“The forest is too dark,” they said, with their paper-flesh lips.

“The forest is too strange.”

And: “I could not find the way.”

So she unfolded them gently, night after night, almost silent in the darkness: just a crinkle of paper, in the imperfect privacy of her cot… down and down again, dismantling their shapes, and flattening them back into pages.

…unmaking, unmaking…

…but not Unmaking…

Until the storybook had been almost entirely dismantled, nearly all of the pages torn out, and what remained were… pigs. Pigs, who occupied a curious, in-between category…one that she had imagined, at first, might be less amenable to her magic: creatures who had hooves, but chewed no cud.

And yet, and yet—and she caught her breath, just then, as she considered the matter in another sense—this… this difference, this lack of category, made them, perhaps, inverted beings; animals without a place, who could go, perhaps, where others could not go…

Backwards.

“Kill the Wolf! Kill the Wolf! Kill the Wolf!” she wrote into their skins, using an ink made of ash and mud. And of blood, her own blood, too, which she could not spare, not really, in order to darken the words: so that they would remain there, for long enough, and there would be no mistaking. She could not see the forest, not exactly. Only dream it. So she curled, shivering on her cot, and then—then, as she slept—she saw them, but only dimly, receding and receding, in a smear of trees…

…and back again, after some timeless interval; her eyelids fluttering, as she sensed their return: her golem storybook creatures, oinking softly to her, at the side of her cot–one set of hooves, covered in blood, though the others were clean. And announcing, triumphantly: Chinny-chin-chin.

So she held them close, flesh against paper-flesh, whispers passing between them: “Time a upon Once,” until at last they slept, curled together, on the narrow gray bedding. And, as they slept, as they all slept—as everything slept—she smoothed them against her, like blankets, flattening the crinkles and folds, and she sensed, too, the inks lift, and the inks’ pigments unmix, and return, in part, to her: blood of her blood.

Because that is what Unmaking means.

To wake up, to wake up…

…warm and elsewhere, in a bed that was not hers…and yet it was.

No golems. No paper.

But a sound of voices—of laughter—in another room. And a glimpse of a calendar, across the room: familiar, and yet also not familiar, and the view from the window of the falling snow.

A winter—another sort of winter—in 1944.

And her sisters… Sisters, in their nightgowns… peeking their faces through the door frame, before skittering playfully across the room.

“Wake up! Wake up!” they cried. For hadn’t she, they accused, been a “Sleepyhead” that morning? And a “Lug-a-bed?”…And hadn’t she slept long enough?

They called her name, too, her real name—teasing and warm. And she called theirs, voice cracking.

Called their names…

Forwards.

And there was another moment, just one more moment, after that, as she pushed back the covers, legs exposed to the morning air, and her feet upon the rug… and a final flutter, as the magic settled, and the gulf closed, and the imperatives of the new reality set in… and for a moment, just a moment, though the memory itself had faded, the faintest intimation of its consequence remained, flickering in her head and heart: an immense and incomprehensible happiness.

* * *

About the Author

Rachel Rodman (www.rachelrodman.com) writes fairy tales, food poetry, and popular science. Her work has appeared at Fireside Fiction, Daily Science Fiction, Expanded Horizons, and elsewhere.

Categories: Stories

Human Through and Through

Sat 1 Jun 2019 - 02:11

by K. A. Rochnik

“I wait for him to circle past, reaching out to rub his velvet black head. I try to catch the silky tip of a wing as he glides by.”

The sun sets behind the row of giant pines as I watch my manta ray son circle slowly near the bottom of the pool. I hunch at the edge, arms wrapped around my belly, like I’m bleeding from a hidden wound. I track my son’s smooth glide, intent on soaking up every inch of his dark bat-shaped body.

Last year when he was still wholly human, he darted about, dodging sharp corners by a hair, artfully prat-falling. I would put my nose in the crown of his tousled head, and savor his smell. Now I can’t tell his scent from a bucket of chum. I can only sit half-in, half-out of the pool for so long my skin never unpuckers, stinging from saltwater sores. I wait for him to circle past, reaching out to rub his velvet black head. I try to catch the silky tip of a wing as he glides by.

My husband came out earlier, to talk. He’s worried about our daughter, who’s gotten so skittish and wary, wanting to hole up in her room, burrow beneath her bed. I told him it’s the fox in her. A month ago she woke up with paws and a fluffy red tail. He thinks I’m neglecting her. Maybe I am, but she’s still mostly human and our son is not.

My husband has hired a special truck with a lift and a water tank to take our son to the ocean. This time tomorrow he’ll be gone.

The light just went off in our bedroom.

I have one more night to beg the Earth, in all its infinite wisdom, to change my son back.

* * *

So far the animal mutations affect children on the cusp of puberty. Overnight their extremities change to that of a threatened species. In California, it’s mostly bear, mountain lion, wolf, elk, and large marine animals, like sea elephants. A family from our elementary school was on an African safari. Their four children woke with the respective tails of a hyena, lion, elephant, the last with the antlers of an impala. They never came home.

Some of us tried plastic surgery, but the animal parts grew back.

We got used to the changes. There was even talk of restarting school. Some of the parents began to feel a kind of pride, like the mother of a boy with a bristly curly tail and tusks jutting from his jaw, going on about how smart wild pigs were.

Then the children transformed completely.

Governments passed sweeping wildlife reforms all over the world. The children needed clean habitats, unthreatened by humans. No more slaughter for trophies to hang on walls or poaching for superstitious cures. No more hunting at all. We are not animals who eat our young.

I suppose you think it all worked out for the best. The Earth setting itself right, putting balance back into the ecosystem.

To you and your beloved Earth I say this. May you stew in pollution. May you wheeze on carbon emissions and choke on the mountain of plastic in the oceans.

I don’t mean it. Please bring my son back.

* * *

The next morning I wake up next to my husband, staring at his back without blinking, gasping for breath through slits on my neck. The pillow’s silky with fallen-out hair.

I’m mute so I take care to bite him gently, then lick at the bead of blood. There’s a sudden rustling as he turns over, then a great upheaval, with sheets flying as he jumps out of bed, eyes bulging, mouth O-shaped.

I’m sorry that he’s upset.

There’s a fin sticking out of my back. I’ve seen those awful videos of sharks hauled up on the decks of boats. Their dorsals cut off; their mutilated bodies tossed back to die. I feel a rush of excitement. My change is only fair. It’s part of setting things right.

My husband huddles in a corner with hands on his face, his shoulders heaving.

Maybe I’ll become a megalodon, the biggest shark that ever lived. That would be cool, but I don’t think it works that way, since the megalodons were extinct before humans existed. Another big predator then–a tiger or a mako. Something sleek and fast, but without the cinematic baggage of a great white.

Maybe I can have sex with my husband one last time but no, only a shark’s clasper is fitting in there. I could make pancakes for him and our daughter one last time, but I don’t have all the ingredients and I’m not up for a trip to the grocery store.

He’s calm now. He’s come back to the bed, stroking my head softly. Soon he’ll carry me to the pool. When the time comes, he’ll ride in the truck that will take me and our son to the ocean. His lips will tickle the tough gray skin where my ears used to be, saying goodbye.

He’s a good father, and he’ll take care of our vulpine daughter, until the day she scampers away into the brush.

He’s losing his family, but I don’t think he is lost. The Earth loves all its animals right down to the microbes. Even the humans. She’ll keep some of them around, in the right amount.

Still, a part of me is sorry that he’s human through and through.

This is how the Earth answers me. Maybe it’s what I wanted all along–to drift into the ocean with my manta ray son. With a wave of his wings, he’ll glide away, disappearing in the darkness.

Then I’ll go too, racing after the scent of some wounded creature, following the spilled blood.

* * *

Originally published in Fantastic Stories of the Imagination

About the Author

K. A. Rochnik is a speculative fiction writer based in the San Francisco Bay Area. She writes science fiction novels and a wide range of short stories. Her stories have been published in Fantastic Stories of the Imagination, Strange California, NewMyths.com, EGM, and Frostfire Worlds. She is a graduate of the Odyssey Writing Workshop. She dedicates this story to her amazing golden retriever, Lexa!

Categories: Stories

Sealskin

Sat 1 Jun 2019 - 02:10

by L Chan

“She looks into your eyes. Hers are dark all around.”

You know where the selkies come ashore, where they shrug out of their skins, leaving them wrinkled and steaming on the rocks. Not just the protected parks, because selkies are wild things, and even if they speak in their soft, unaffected tongues, they care not for the laws of man.

She stops you with a glance. The weight of her gaze pins your hand to the sealskin, a bloodwarm puddle of skin and fat. If you want her to wife, you have to take the skin. Take the skin, take the woman.

You hold it up. She takes the skin back; she takes the woman back to the roar of the Atlantic.

She comes again. There are many rock pools and beaches for the wild seal folk, but she comes back to this one. So do you.

You know that it’s easy to take a sealskin. The way it’s always done. Not our way, you say to her. Not our way, she says to you.

She hands you a skin. Sometimes a selkie doesn’t come back, drawn by the rough music of the towns, by wind smoother than current, by the fresh green of pine needles rather than the harsh cut of salt. Hard to be given a sealskin. Hard to mash your legs together, ridiculously reminding you of those novelty mermaid tails at kids’ parties.

You know it hurts her to walk, flippers were never meant for walking. Does it always hurt to walk, you ask her. Yes, she says and then she kisses you hard, tasting of sea spray and mineral breeze. Because she knows what’s next, because the skin knows what’s next. When it cinches itself tight, it breaks your femurs in half a dozen places. Legs were never meant for swimming. Will it always hurt to swim, you ask her. Yes, she says and she spits out blood where you’ve bitten through her lip.

She hands you an awl, a bone needle long as your finger. Easy to sew a sealskin up, piercing furred leather. Harder by far to bind the sealskin to yours, rawhide strips weaving through blubber, thick needle pushing through your pinched flesh, pulling velvety seal fat to clammy skin. Sew it to, don’t sew it up. You’d take it off otherwise.

(When a man takes a selkie to wife, he takes her completely. When a man gives a selkie a husband, he gives wholly.)

You think of this a lot. That you will reject the seals; that the seals will reject you. That you will reject the sealskin; that the sealskin will reject you.

She helps you, hand on yours when it shakes too much to push the awl. She helps you, when your hand is lily white.

(There is so much blood. Such is the nature of birthing.)

You can’t do your head. Not enough skin of your own to pinch. It takes two.

She looks into your eyes. Hers are dark all around. Seal eyes, you can always tell them by the eyes.

You press the needle through the skin of your forehead. Skin and scalp are thin there. Too thin for the drag of arctic water. If the needle doesn’t go deep enough, the ice will rip the sealskin straight off you.

(The ring of the hammer is felt not heard.)

(It takes two to make a seal wife. It takes two to make a seal husband.)

(The needle bites into bone.)

You look into her eyes. You’ll always see your whiskers.

She’ll always see the whites of your eyes. Human eyes. You can always tell by the eyes. She pulls her own sealskin around her; easily, effortlessly as you’d once have put on a shirt.

(Never again.)

(Never again will you put on a shirt. Never again will she take off her sealskin.)

(Into the water she goes.)

You give yourself to her completely, wholly.

* * *

About the Author

L Chan hails from Singapore, where he spends most of his energy wrangling two dogs. His work has appeared in places like Liminal Stories, Arsenika, Podcastle and The Dark. He tweets occasionally as @lchanwrites.

Categories: Stories