Kikuyu_Black_Paws

Melody Tam Tam

CheerMynx

Worth

Crazy

Gone

warrior

Flesh

what?

Wow. Just.... Wow.

I do not like being angry. It starts a tiny bubble in my chest, That pops and spills a shudder Golden lightning fills my throat At first a glowing mutter. The acid burns along my veins, That came from bubble popped The shiver raises every hair Until at last it's stopped. My insides churn with storm enclosed, My fury thus no limit knows And builds and builds a creature's throne Where now my name is not my own. I love being angry. The creature quickly grasps my hand, And stifles my protest A fleeting smile, all teeth and nails It sets my speech to rest. I see through eyes I do not know, I hear with ears dark tainted And if I looked in mirror hung Not my face be painted. The acid, fire, and tempests rage, My face as white as inkless page I beg the monster now to stay And wailing cry to go away. Can't escape becoming Angry. When it leaves I'm left askew, My puppet strings are broke Legs and arms lay down unmoved On fire-burnt throat I choke. My eyes are streaming with the heat, My every muscles screams Latent images flutter by In remembrance of my dreams. I raise my face up to the stars, I must have wandered very far For the me of then is not there nor here Thus Anger is my greatest fear.

He kneels there Holding a smushed And bloody doll I've never seen such a vacant look in anyone's eyes The look of loss The look of 'Non' When there is nothing Non-happiness Non-victory Non-life He leans on his sword, sunk into the ground As if it cannot Possibly hold him Up Cannot hold up the Non in his heart And another stands near A scrap of cloth From a fallen comrade Fluttering at its hilt A non-memorial The blood stains the ground His clothes In a non-shape What is he thinking? Non-thoughts No doubt Because at this point The last moments remaining to him All that's left Is Non.

The great hilly moors of the upper-fold were shaded in a thick blue mist from valley to crown. Every now and then the light of the struggling pre-dawn sun would pierce through a gap, only to be quickly swallowed again in swarthy dimness. A snow bird peeped its head from the depths of its warm nest, ruffling its dew soaked feathers and blinking. Through the fog, surrounded by quiet, damp creatures that dared not raise their bleats against the stillness of the murkiness, a goat-herder led his charges up the moor. His low calls echoed eerily back from the silver crags of mountain and the blank wall of vapor. The goats, long-eared things in black and white and grey-blue and russet-gold, turned their heads at his voice. The bell of the lead goat chimed a single time and hushed. It too feared the silence and the disruption its own noise caused. The young herder kicked dew off of his damp boots and clicked to his goats, urging the littlest with a small nudge to the rump. It bleated in protest, quickly hushed again, and huddled against its mother. They broke the dim shield of the cloud and pushed their way into sunlight, bright and warm. The great upper fields, surrounded in mountains like a bowl, glistened in dawn and emerald grass. The waving stalks of sun-enriched plant were speckled with tiny jewels of blue and gold, spattered with tiny spots of white lace. The goat-herd smiled and the goats, freed of the oppressive atmosphere of cloud, trotted forward with happy bleats. The newborns jumped and chased each other as their mothers settled down to graze, watching with half-lidded eyes and rotating jaws. The great male, a shaggy beast with curling horns and a long beard, positioned himself at the crown of the herd, a great gold eye surveying his harem and those under his protection. The young man always felt that he himself was included in this protective arrogance. He stretched out his legs, lying down on top of his long coat, and broke into a loaf of bread kept warm by a towel and a pile of apples he spilled into his lap. The old hut was nestled four miles below the upper-fold, in the bottom of the valley. It perched atop a cliff at the very end of the valley, with the barn set far behind and away from the precipice. As the sun set, the golden and red light speared in and lit the valley for one brilliant moment, catching the hut just before darkness set in. The young herder shouted and urged his goats into the barn as the sun drifted close to the horizon. The goats milled and chuckled, butting their heads against his legs and tapping their sharp hooves on the sill of the door. Safely barred and laid down for the night, the young herder made his way to the hut, stretching. He paused at the door, turning his head to watch as the sun slipped beneath the horizon, sending the red-gold explosion of light towards the valley, turning light to dark and dirt to precious metal. Then it was gone, the painting lingering in the sky as dark purple night set on and the first star twinkled hesitantly into being. The young man grinned and opened the door, kissing his fingers and touching the sill where a bit of lace was tacked as he went. Inside the firelight flickered in every corner, wreathing the woodwork in russet hues. The smell of roast fowl lingered in the air and he shrugged his coat from his shoulders. “Minst, you’re back.” Minst Gruffe looked up with a sigh and a nod. By the fire sat his two older brothers, Mellersta Gruffe, two years his senior, and Aldst Gruffe the eldest at twenty four—seven years older than Minst. Mellersta had asked the question, a glitter in his eye that was no cause of the fire. Aldst looked away drearily into the light, a pipe trailing smoke lazily. “Any good grazing?” Mellersta asked. “Not much,” the youngest said, turning to load dinner on an earthenware plate. “I found a good pasture up in the fold, but only enough to last a few weeks at most. The goats were so hungry they cleared almost an acre of it today alone, and it’s four miles away. We’d have to move up there to make that trip worthwhile for the goats—they can’t burn so many calories in one day and graze it all back, there’s just no way. And the air is so thin and there are no resources to make it worthwhile for us.” Aldst groaned in his chest. “If we don’t find good grazing land the goats will starve—and so will we. Without milk to send to the traders on their route or cheese to eat in winter, we’ll have no source of food or income.” His eyes turned to his brothers. “I don’t need to stress the severity of our problem?” “Of course not!” Mellersta said vehemently. “We take the goats out just as often as you do—we see how much they eat.” “I wasn’t questioning your integrity, dimwit,” Aldst said darkly. “I want you to realize that without grazing we’ll have to slaughter the goats while they still have meat on their bones and move south, perhaps forever.” The terrible words hung in the air like a death knoll, like the terrible gong that had been played at their parents’ funeral. Minst shivered as he heard the tone again and wrapped his arms around him. Mellersta toyed with a carving knife in anxious anger. Aldst put the pipe back to his lips and took a deep draw, his smoky-grey eyes distant. “If we don’t find any grazing within the week we’ll have no other choice. We’ll trade off taking the goats—spread out and search in every direction, as far as you can. This is our only hope.” Minst woke before dawn for five days straight, searching ten, twelve, even twenty miles out north, south, east, and west. On the sixth day he took the goats to the upper fold, the stress of luckless searching creasing his and his brothers’ faces. He sat uneasily, staring at nothing as the goats milled around him. The fold had not lasted as long as Minst had estimated—already the grass was chewed to nubbins with nothing but dry chaff to eat. The goats bleated in dissatisfaction but set to it, seeing no other choice. Minst tossed his apple cores to the goats with a wry twist of his lips. “Sorry little fellas,” he said softly. “We tried. We really tried. But there’s one day left, yes?” He trailed off, not believing his own words of hope, waiting for the sun to reach its descent so he could go home and see the disappointment on his brother’s anxious, worn expressions. “Not one blasted patch of grass that the goats would eat,” Mellersta exploded, kicking a chair over. “It’s all woodland and rocks for miles and miles around. The drought has just knocked out too many plains.” Aldst glanced at Minst expressionlessly. He didn’t even have to voice his question. “The field won’t last another week,” Minst said dully. “Then we have just one more day,” Aldst said emotionlessly. “I’ll take the goats tomorrow. The two of you cover as much ground as possible, but don’t be idiots. I’ll expect you both back with my supper waiting.” Even the dry humor could not lift their spirits. Without another word the brothers went to bed, leaving Aldst sitting gazing into the fire, his pipe casting a red and grey glow on his cheeks. Minst waited until both Aldst and Mellersta had gone before he exited the house, pack over his shoulders, and stared at the open land beyond the cliff. He had lived in the southern regions, the towns, before, and he would rather die starving in the mountains than return. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and swung himself around. “Find the plain, find the grass,” he whispered. He stopped as a scent caught his nostrils—the tantalizing sweet scent of new grown foliage, and he opened his eyes. He was facing east and slightly north, towards the uncharted areas of mountain that he had roamed before, always cautious of going too far. Caution...Minst thought, and swore under his breath. He set out with long, quick strides that would have him in the uncharted hills by mid morn. The mountains were beautifully displayed in the full bloom of spring, and Minst could not help but feel like the ground was pushing energy and warmth into his feet as he walked. The great cupping peaks of the mountains speared above him ominously, spattered with a thick dusting of snow despite the warm weather below. Thick patches of flowers every color of the rainbow sprang along the copses of giant boulders moss and lichen covered. A stream trickled with a musical gurgle, and Minst angled a little more towards the east to follow it. He came to a bridge. At the sight of it, Minst paused, his foot half-raised in the air. It was a normal looking bridge—wide and spanning the now ten foot width of the creek. The grey-brown planks of wood looked old but sturdy, but the hand rails were carved with some strange markings he could not make out. A bit of dried moss, or hair, Minst thought uneasily, was draped across the rails at the beginning and end of the bridge. The young herder finally ripped his gaze away from the bridge and looked at the land beyond it, and his eyes widened. Guarded by a curve of the mountains, a great plain that he could see stretching for miles up hills and crests in the range waved with thick grass so green it made his eyes hurt. There were the plains he had been looking for—they had all been looking for. The river would provide fish and water for their cooking and cleaning, and the grass was close enough they could take the goats out in their backyard. It was a rich, beautiful set of land, and the sight of it almost brought tears of relief to Minst’s eyes. Minst took the first steps across the bridge—it held well enough, though it made deep, pounding noises under his feet as if he were an oversized goat pinging his way across the oaken planks. The bridge creaked under his weight and he hesitated, fearing a collapse into the ice waters below, but the bridge fell silent. He paused to look at the water rushing past underneath, danger past, and smiled again at the beauty of the blue-green river, thick with fat mountain fish and swaying with thick water plants and lilies firmly attached to their stalks. The shadow cast by the bridge shivered and twitched in the flashing light of moving water. Then the shadow blinked at him. Minst jumped back as the darkness pulled itself together and leapt bodily from beneath the bridge. It knocked him over with a very real, muscular arm and pinned him against the wood. Minst cracked his head against the bridge and gasped for breath as lights pin wheeled before his eyes. When he could see again he looked at what he was gripping tightly in an effort to keep from strangling. The forearm was hairless and covered in a thick, almost granite-like grey skin. The nails were long and yellowed set in hands too long for any living thing, like a spider’s legs set to human frame. He followed the arm and its bulging, rocky muscles to a shoulder. The shoulder branched into what looked like bark and a gnarled ridge on a tree, swept back in a sharp spike. The skin on the chest was scaled, hard, and still grey. Minst gasped, no longer because the pressure on his throat kept him from breathing, but because the creature was so inconceivable. Its hind legs were that of a goat’s, grey-furred with massive, sharp hooves, and a great curling tail like a lion’s draped on the planks beyond. Minst raised his eyes to the creature’s face and was pierced by golden eyes with owlish slits surrounded by emerald green speckles. They were set so far back in the skull that the shadows around them gave the appearance of staring into darkness. The face was human, but the cheekbones were too high and the mouth too wide and the eyes too far set apart and the skin too harsh. Two curling horns of ebony arched back along his skull to rest just above his shoulders, and the shaggy mane that made up its hair trailed down its back. Minst pushed even harder on the arm pinning him to the ground, gasping. “Tro—tr—troll!” The troll bared its very sharp canines at him and snarled. “Very well done,” it said in a masculine, gravelly, seductive voice. “Give the child a prize. And while you’re at it, you could explain what you’re doing on my bridge?” Minst flinched and screamed as the troll’s voice rose to a blinding shriek that made the bridge shake and the water beneath roil and froth. A bird dropped dead from the sky and Minst felt blood trickle down his temple from his ear. “I was crossing the river to get to the field!” he said all at once. “We need the grazing for our goats or we’ll starve!” The troll cocked his head and leaned back, gripping Minst’s throat in one long hand. He pried him up off the bridge as easily as he might have picked up a kitten by the scruff of its neck. Minst choked as the troll reared to his full height, dangling the young man’s legs three feet above the bridge’s surface. “We? Goats?” he asked, almost incredulously. “You dare to cross my bridge…for goats?” Minst cried out in surprise as the troll dropped him. The monster threw back his head and laughed, long and hard, the noise shaking his chest and making Minst cover his wounded ears. The troll crouching down again to be eye-level with Minst. “Do you fear death, human? Eh? Would you scream if I devoured you alive, right now? Your blood would stain this dry wood black and the waters would run thick with your life-fluid.” He bared his sharp teeth in a fierce smile, lapping up the fear that oozed from Minst’s skin like an audible presence. “But let me guess—this dangling ‘we’ sent you out to find grazing land for your ever precious goats, is that right? Eh?” He slapped Minst, prompting an answer. “Yes!” Minst gasped. “My brothers.” “Eldest or youngest?” the troll purred. “Youngest.” The troll pursed his black lips, long nails scratching his jaw. Minst stared in horror, unable to move his legs, face aching from the slap. Finally the troll turned his pondering eyes back to the young boy and the goat-herd flinched. “Very well,” the troll grinned, baring his jaws again. “I’ll step aside and let you have the field if you bring me the children of the sun by noon tomorrow.” Minst stared at him. “What are…” “Don’t ask,” the troll growled, the threat of another bellow rumbling in his chest. “Just do it. That’s the fun of the game. And when you return, bring your, ah, brothers.” A sly grin twisted his lips. “If you don’t come back, I’ll find you and kill all three of you. Slowly. And I’ll leave you for last. Perhaps I’ll make you join me in my feast first. Are we understood?” Minst nodded, feeling like he was going to vomit. Under the intense glare of the troll he could almost see his brothers being rent to pieces, their blood thick and metallic in the air, hear their screams. He trembled, but still he could not move. The troll stood again and lifted a hand as if in afterthought. “And those goats—you’ll want to be crossing immediately before I change my mind. Bring them as well.” The troll grabbed Minst by the back of his coat and lifted him off the bridge, throwing him the rest of the length until he was back on dry ground, five feet from the river’s edge. He struck the ground with a heavy thud and groaned in pain as the air left him in a whoosh. For a moment he lay there, trembling in agony and fear. Finally he looked up, but the troll was gone as if he had never been. It was almost midnight before Minst got back. He had not stumbled four miles before fainting, his ears hurting so badly it made his eyes black. Upon recovery the sun had set and he was in darkness, forced to use the light of the moon and the stars to guide his way. He met his brothers halfway in their search for him. The grabbed his shoulders, picked him up like a babe, and carried him back to the hut where he was set in a chair. Aldst bathed the blood from the sides of Minst’s face in silence as Mellersta sat in brooding rage. The story of the perfect field, the unbelievable creature and his threats, as well as his demands, had already been related. Minst winced at each sound, but he did not think his eardrums had burst. Aldst put the bloody water and cloth down. “The field is our only hope,” he said slowly, as if unsure how his words would be received. “It’s either the troll or the cities.” Minst kept his thoughts to himself—facing the troll so soon and so terribly, he wanted to go to the cities. But Mellersta gripped the table tightly, so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “The cities are no option,” he snapped. “If this troll wants to play, we’ll play. I’ll go tomorrow—Minst can tell me the way. By nightfall we’ll have this field.” Aldst peered at his brother. He knew Mellersta was a strong wielder of his long pike-staff, its eighteen inch blade curving like liquid light from the six foot staff of black wood. But he was fierce and foolish, and a troll was no laughing matter. “You know the stories,” Aldst said cautiously. “From what Minst has told us, they must be true. Don’t be a fool.” Mellersta glanced at his weapon hanging above the hearth and nodded stiffly. “I won’t.” The bridge looked eerie in the cloudy light of noon, slightly golden in the haze trapped by the low storm mist. Slowly Mellersta unhooked his pike-staff from the harness on his back and set its base on the ground with a small thump. He felt his heart quail in his throat as two golden eyes blinked to life from beneath the bridge. “Another whelp,” the voice growled, dark enough to curdle milk. “I take it you’re one of the brothers.” “Second eldest,” Mellersta said fiercely. The troll slowly pried his way from the shadows and stood in the middle of the bridge. “Then the young human did not fulfill my requests.” Mellersta slid his legs apart in a sturdier stance, his teeth ground tightly together. “I’m here to make you pay for what you did to my brother, and to step aside and let us pass." The troll sneered, bending his shaggy knees slightly. “Make me pay, are you?” he hissed. “Fool!” “Not so foolish as you think!” Mellersta screamed, and he flung himself forward, circling the pike in a fierce underhand swing. The troll stepped back, arching his spine to miss the blade cutting in on his belly. He spat angrily but did not have time to snarl again—the blade was swinging back on his head. The troll ducked and shot his feet out, landing on his back with a smack. Mellersta felt the hooves smash into his stomach and screamed as he shot backwards, though he had no air left to scream with. He clutched his stomach, coughing blood. The troll got to his feet and looked down as pain seared on his leg. Thick blood stained his thigh and he touched it with a curious finger. Rage shivered down his arms and he looked up again with blood lust in his eyes, his lips peeling back in fury. Mellersta blinked and rolled to the side in shock as the vague storm light was blocked out by a thick black shadow. The ground shook under the force of the troll’s strike, knocking the young man to the side as he caught the nick of the blow. Mellersta grabbed his dropped pike-staff and shoved it up. The troll seemed to part just as the metal touched his side, dodging it in a manner that made the young man gasp and blink. Something gripped his arm, painfully, and Mellersta screamed as the pressure snapped. He sobbed in agony, white light flaring over his eyes, and he lay panting on the ground as pain screamed on his arm and up his body. The troll stepped back, panting, blood running from his leg and side. “You are strong, human,” he snarled. “But you tried my patience and see how it has rewarded you. My demands still stand, but now you must bring me something in return for your pitiful life.” Mellersta gasped and tried to drag himself away by one arm. He knew his other was broken, but he dared not look at it in terror of what he would see. “I’ll never…do anything for you!” he gasped. The troll’s face contorted in anger and he grabbed Mellersta by the head, dragging his neck up to his mouth. He sank his teeth into the young man’s flesh and the boy screamed, blood running from the deep wound. “How precious is your life?” the troll shrieked, blood smearing his mouth and hands. “You won’t be the first to die, I assure you! You’re little brother will be the first to go, from the bottom up, and I’ll make you watch his agonized writhing with every mouthful!” “NO!” Mellersta wailed, his mind near breaking with agony. “What do you want?” “Bring me the keys to heaven and hell, along with the children of the sun, and your brothers and your herd. Do so by noon tomorrow or you will all die. I have been merciful so far—do not test me again!” Mellersta didn’t know how he made it home—the smell of his blood should have brought predators from miles around. He could only guess that the knowledge of the troll kept them away through some inane animal instinct, and perhaps also because the troll was watching him, ensuring that he got home to deliver the demands. The idea that the monster’s eyes were on him sent chills racing up the young man’s spine that had nothing to do with the fever setting in or the chill of the night. The middle brother met his family halfway, collapsing into their arms and their cries of horror. The pike-staff had been snapped in half and smeared with blood—human blood—and their brother’s wounds were terrible and already beginning to heat with infection and fever. Once Mellersta was bandaged, splinted, and comfortable, loaded beneath quilts to dispel the fever, and with Minst tipping a medicinal broth between his lips every few minutes, the two conscious brothers watched each other through the shadows. Aldst stood with his back turned on the fire, his pipe stowed away, arms crossed with tight passion. For a long time neither spoke. “Is it worth it?” Minst asked hesitantly. “Perhaps the cities will be safer—we can’t kill ourselves over this field.” “No,” Aldst said tightly. “But we can kill ourselves for vengeance. This troll has hurt you—it has nearly killed Mellersta. It must be stopped.” He turned to Minst, his stormy eyes smoldering. “On the morrow I will go—you stay with Mellersta and tend to him. I will deal with this troll and bring him what he asks for.” “The children of the sun and the keys to heaven and hell?” Minst asked incredulously. “Such things are impossible!” Aldst stroked his lower lip thoughtfully, still brooding. “There are ways,” he said. Without another word he made his way upstairs and disappeared into his room. Aldst knelt before a large wooden chest in his room, his hands hesitant above the lock. He sat frozen, like one staring at death. Finally, with a shaking breath he unlocked the chest and tilted back its cover. Inside was a lace dress, neatly folded and preserved against age. Aldst touched it with the very tips of his fingers, as if afraid of hurting it in any way. Strewn among the folds were dried yellow flowers—large blossoms with dark eyes at the center of the thick, rustling petals. A pair of golden rings lay among the flowers, glittering in the sudden light. A locket was hung from the top of the chest, so that when open it hung at eye-level. Inside was the painted face of a young woman, her large eyes dark and sweet, and her mouth just slightly crooked into a hidden smile. Aldst swallowed, staring at this picture, and closed his eyes as if he felt the agony of his brother’s wounds in his own flesh. Then he scooped up a handful of the flowers and the two rings, put them in a sack, and closed the chest. He fell into bed without a word or sigh, waiting for dawn. “Be careful, Aldst,” Minst said in a hoarse voice, the pale rose light of morning just bathing his youthful face. He didn’t know what he’d do if his solemn, fierce older brother disappeared and never returned. “Don’t get yourself killed, alright?” Aldst managed a paltry, stiff smile before he turned and set his course east and slightly north. The way was easy and pleasant, but he couldn’t help thinking about the gruesome wounds his brothers had endured, the terror. He stiffened on the way, snapping a twig underfoot without thinking. A reindeer lifted its head in the woods in alarm, watching his way with large liquid eyes. No, Aldst thought coldly. I will not let another close to me be harmed. He took his time, as was his manner, walking with a long, ponderous stride. Every now and then he packed and lit his pipe to smoke in silence, leaving a trail of blue-grey smoke in his wake. The wind was in his face, giving him the scents of honey suckle, fir tree, fox musk, and river. He lifted his head at that—river water. He was close. He came to the stream and angled east, following the small creek. As it swelled, Aldst felt his heart beat fuller in his chest, a thick pumping that made him heady and uneasy. When the bridge came in view he strode away from the river, circling the curve of wood like a wary animal. Once he was level with it, the eldest took a deep breath and strode up the slightly worn path to stand on the edge of the bridge. At first there was nothing. He heard the chuckle of the river, and the song of some bird far on the northern side of the bridge, but there was no violent roar or attack from beneath. Aldst eyed the planks suspiciously, waiting. He saw the troll as it shifted in darkness beneath him, the penetration of knowing, burning eyes, the roll of foul air that puffed its way up behind a sigh. Then the troll grabbed the side of the bridge, hauled itself over the rail, and stood before the young man. Aldst eyed the troll calmly, his pipe tucked between his teeth. He let out a gentle ring of smoke in thought and scratched his chin before he knocked the contents onto the bridge, ground it out with the heel of his boot in scorn, and stashed the pipe into his chest pocket. “The eldest child,” the troll mused. “You are not afraid, or angry, as the others were.” “You are mistaken,” Aldst said, his voice thicker than usual. “I am very angry. But I have brought the two items which you asked for.” “I asked for four,” the troll reminded, but Aldst ignored him and opened his small embroidered sack, dumping the golden flowers and the golden rings on the bridge between them. The troll looked down at the flowers and gold with a blank expression and then back up at the man with a curl to his lips. “Do explain.” “Gladly,” Aldst said tightly. “You asked for the children of the sun, so I brought you sun flowers, or sun’s child as it is called among my people. You asked for the keys to heaven and hell, so I brought you my and my wife’s wedding bands. They are the key to heaven on earth in the love between two, but my wife is dead, and so they also unlocked the door to hell on earth with my survival.” The troll grunted and scooped up the prizes, weighing them in his gnarled hand. “Clever,” he said. “Very clever. But you failed to bring your brothers and the goats with you. The pact is broken, and your life is forfeit. For your wit I will spare you the sight of your brothers’ deaths.” “You will not touch them,” Aldst said softly. “Really?” the troll purred. He crouched slightly, his tail lashing in excitement, and he spread his arms under a bared smile. “It does not matter where they go. I will find them. Unless you plan to kill me here, human?” Aldst shifted his stance and held up his hands loosely. His half-lidded eyes did not bespeak confidence or concentration, but the intensity behind the stormy-grey made shivers run along the troll’s spine. The troll cracked his jaw, eyes widening in pale hunger, and he lunged forward without a noise or shadow of his movement. Aldst side stepped and struck, his hand parried by the swift back lash of the troll. The troll’s sharp hand reached out for his face, but Aldst flung his leg up and knocked the grip askew. They stumbled back a few feet, eyeing each other. The troll grinned, his mouth widening until it split his face. His fingers elongated and turned as sharp as spikes and the horns on his head and shoulder pushed further out of his rock-like skin. The troll screeched something in a gravelly tone and dropped to one knee, an arm shooting out. Aldst gasped and leaned to the side—the troll’s stretching arm missed his side by a scratch, and he felt blood trickle down his hip. His eyes found the troll’s gaze—smug and vicious as a cat’s. With a scream of fury Aldst charged, weaving and ducking to keep the troll’s ever lengthening and stabbing hands away from him. He felt several more nicks tag his body, but he made it through and forced the toll to his feet with a series of punches and kicks that the monster could only shield himself against. The troll screamed, raising his voice to the pitch that had made Minst’s ears bleed. Aldst clapped his hands to his ears and backed a step, to the center of the bridge. He felt something punch his chest and looked down—one of the troll’s hands was stuck straight through his chest. The troll yanked it free—Aldst felt it tug, but he could feel no pain. Dark blood began to well from the wound and he looked up at the troll again with a confused look. The troll grabbed him by the neck and held him up, his mouth opening, looming close. Aldst grabbed a golden ring that had somehow become looped on one of the troll’s spiky protrusions, grabbed it and shoved his hand into the troll’s mouth. The troll bit down in defense and Aldst screamed, but he shoved the ring back into the troll’s throat and down his windpipe. The troll choked, stumbling. Aldst swung his weight forward, and the two crashed over the rail into the water below. The river was not deep enough to sweep them away, and they lay where they had fallen. Aldst, still gripping the troll by the throat with his hand between the monster’s teeth, shoved the creature’s face under the water. The current rushed up the troll’s nose and mouth, blinding him, drowning him. One of his hands gripped Aldst’s wrist, the other clawed at his face, drawing deep bloody furrows on cheek and brow. Aldst pressed his knees into the troll’s chest, holding him down with all of his weight. Slowly the troll’s movements slowed, then stopped to the occasional twitch. Aldst remained on his body in the cold water until there was no chance the monster was still alive. When he tried to stand, he found he could not move his legs. He glanced down at his chest—the wound had not stopped bleeding all this time. His skin was so white he looked waxy in the dimming light, and the pain was beginning to come, though dark and murky as though through a deep tunnel. Blood stained his face, neck, his clothes, his hands. Was it all his? Somehow he made it to the bank, dragging himself out of the cold water and onto the grass. He pressed both hands to his chest, but it was useless—the wound had gone through to his back as well and he bled out on the grass beneath him, staining the emerald blades ruby. The moon rose as the sun set and the stars twinkled at him with an eerie laughter. A flash of lace ripped from the sky and dangled tauntingly before his eyes. He tried to reach up and grab it—it was her lace, hers, torn from her funeral gown—he couldn’t lose it. But his arm was too heavy, he could not move. He blinked and frowned—there shouldn’t be lace in the sky. He was hallucinating, and Skönhet, his beautiful, loving Skönhet was never coming back. He closed his eyes, felt two stars trickle down his cheeks to mingle with his blood, and fell unconscious. He heard a bell in his dreams. Perhaps it was the bell the guardian of heaven or hell wielded, urging the dead on to the gates. He couldn’t see enough to tell which he was headed towards. It was dark, and he smelled goat musk. Oh. He must be in hell then. He heard someone calling his name, desperate cries mixed with weeping. He opened his eyes, great heavy stones they felt pressing on his face. He saw Minst’s face hovering over him, hazy and indistinct, but it was his brother. “Minst,” he whispered, “so you’re here too. You’re too young and innocent to be in hell...” “You’re not in hell, Aldst!” his brother wept. “You’re alive, I don’t believe it but you’re alive!” He felt the agonizing pain in his face and chest then, and felt the pressure of the poultice his brother must have shoved into his wound. The lead goat, the protective goat, was standing nearby, his fierce eyes fixed on the bridge. “The goat found you—I always knew he was looking after us as well. I just knew it.” Aldst blinked as Minst’s voice faded in and out. He couldn’t move, but Minst was right. He was alive. You’ll have to wait, my Skönhet, he thought breathlessly. I’m sorry. “I’m sorry I worried you,” Aldst said in a whisper. “Where’s Mellersta?” “At home. I left him sleeping to come find you, he should be ok. I can carry you back to the hut—” “Minst.” His youngest brother looked at him with eyes full, ready to do anything he asked. Aldst smiled weakly and, with the strength of a hundred men, or perhaps just one wounded man, put his hand on his brother’s arm. “Bring the goats home, Minst.” 

“What?!” My mother turned to me with a small frown, a frown she only wore when she knew she had done something rash but didn’t want to admit it. It was also the look she gave me when I was being ‘difficult’. “Do not speak to your mother in that common fashion,” she said severely. “I will not have it in my house.” “Do you know what you’ve done?” I railed on. “You could be killed for this! I could be killed for this!!” “It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” she said snappishly. “The emperor’s wife, Ling! No other girl has that chance out of rank, not even for the other ministers’ daughters.” “But you’ve promised something impossible. I can’t weave invincible armor for his army! I can’t even manage a straight shirt!” Mother glared at me again, sifting through my clothes for things to pack to the palace. She knew as well as I did that as soon as I got there I would be treated as a queen, prospective or not. But the things I was sent with would reflect on her status as well as mine. It was the farthest thing I could care about, but that glare sent shivers up my spine nonetheless. “You will be empress—once he sees you and your beauty he won’t care if you can weave invincible armor or even darn a sock. This was never about the weaving, Ling. The emperor will see you, will see your face. Even his consorts don’t have that privilege half the time. Now I don’t want to hear another word about it. The emperor’s men will be here at dawn, and we have little time to prepare.” I turned away as she pulled out my finest dress, a beautiful emerald with golden birds and cream rivers speckled in flowering branches. But now it looked pale and ugly, a herald to my impending funeral robes. If I was even offered those. To deceive the emperor…I did not know if it had been done before. They might not leave enough of me to bury. I swallowed back my tears of rage, rage that my mother had again put me in a difficult position, this time with the highest head of state. Wordlessly I tiptoed to my room and threw myself on my cot, determined to spend what I considered my last night in peace and misery. When dawn approached and the stern-faced soldiers of the emperor appeared on our doorstep, I was still pale with grief. Of course my mother rejoiced—denied makeup for the journey, I was a ghostly beauty by all standards, my cheeks scrubbed free of tear stains. I did not look at my family as I was borne away in a carriage with golden trim. About halfway there I discovered yet another problem I had not considered. If this was pulled off, which I highly doubted, I was to be the emperor’s wife. I had never thought of marriage until now, always managing to elude or ignore my mother’s plotting for prospective husbands. But now I had no choice. Weaving or no, if the emperor decided, I would be forced to become his empress, head consort, and entitled to providing him an heir. I twisted my mind away from the idea quickly, my heart fluttering and clogging my throat in panic. I would probably be dead before I had to worry about that again. I confess I fell asleep during the ride—I had not slept at all the previous night and could not hold back my improper yawns any longer. I suppose being jolted awake by the rough, but polite, voice of one of the soldiers was less embarrassing than yawning in front of the emperor. The next hour was a flurry of motion and colors. The palace was breathtaking, but I had no time to admire before I was hustled inside, undressed, washed, and redressed in such expensive, beautiful clothing that I was almost afraid to move. My long hair was coiled and pressed, braided and tucked into what seemed a million different intricate ornaments and embellished with gold and flowers dyed sapphire. My dress was the same color, adorned with a large center image in real gold thread and obsidian jewels no bigger than the tip of my pinky finger. Next I knew I was standing before the massive doors of the emperor’s court. I did not think my heart could beat any faster. Someone yelled something in a loud voice and the doors creaked open. I felt blind as I felt my way down the long hall, eyes on the floor, my breath frozen in my chest by my thundering heart. Someone stopped in front of me, I stopped. I heard my name and dropped to my knees instinctually as the preceding feet moved aside. I saw the tips of the emperor’s shoes, and they were gold. I felt my heart stop and I could not move even if I had wanted to. I heard something in the back of my mind, a command, and I looked up. He was young—about my age. I was too scared to appreciate that I was not betrothed to an old man. His clothes of rank and his hair were even more elaborately designed than mine, and his kind face was set in a cool mask of propriety. But as he looked at me I saw something flicker in the depths of his eyes. I flinched, but it was probably not seen beneath the swaths of my dress. His eyes moved over me, and I could not deny that he was handsome, breathtakingly so. But I did not want to marry him. The roaring in my ears stopped as he began to speak, another blessing. He said my name softly, as if tasting it. Then he lifted his chin and addressed me. “It has come to my attention that you are the girl who can weave magic cloth for my men in battle. Such a blessing would be a true miracle in our time of unrest.” For a moment he closed his eyes, as if already he heard the screams of soldiers on the field. Then he opened them, and the challenge in his gaze was so severe that I dropped mine. “Three days. You will live here for three days. At dusk each night you will be locked in your room. You will have till dawn each night to weave five hundred shirts. If by the third night you have fulfilled this claim, you will become empress.” He closed his eyes again. I was dismissed, without even hearing the dreadful What if. I dared not ask, but I thought it. What if? What if I failed? The night came too quickly. I was locked in my room with nothing but the loom and yards and yards of cloth. I stared at the loom with blurry eyes. I sat down at the chair, determined to do something, anything. But my hands were shaking and the tears spilling down my face blinded me from touching the cloth. I sat there and sobbed silently. I heard the sound of bells and smelled sweet cinnamon before I saw him. One moment I was crying, and the next he was there, leaning arrogantly against the loom with his black eyes fixed on me in a way no man had ever dared look at me. I jumped back, almost knocking the stool over, but I managed not to fall. “Who are you?” I said angrily. He eyed me again, his full lips twitching into a small smile. I realized I was only in my nightgown and grabbed my overcoat, slinging it around my shoulders with a vindictive glare. He ran his hand along the strings of the loom and turned his eyes again on me. “You’re in trouble.” I swallowed hard. He knew. He must know. The cinnamon smell still pervaded the air like a provocative perfume and I trembled. “You are a demon, aren’t you?” “Demon? No!” he said scornfully. “Petty demons don’t dare come near me.” His answer was not at all reassuring to my question. “No,” he continued. “I am far more than any mere demon. I can help you. I can weave these shirts for you.” I stared, stunned. “Why?” I whispered hoarsely. “You and I both know you can’t,” he answered back sharply. He smiled, and again his eyes raked my figure. “Besides—it would be a great loss to the world if you died.” I clutched my robe tighter and wished I could stare daggers into his eyes. “You are taking advantage,” I said huskily. “And if you do this, what do you want in return? Demons never do anything for free.” I ignored the slight irritation that crossed his face at my repetition of the label ‘demon’, as well as my sinking terror at the idea of making a deal with a spirit. “Nothing much,” he said. “Certainly not what you imagine. Tonight, I want a lock of your hair.” I blinked and stared at him, then convulsively gripped at my long locks. “That’s it?” “That’s it.” His eyes bored into me, but this time they were fixed on my eyes. I swallowed and considered. I would rather be indebted to a demon and forced to be the emperor’s wife than die. But I did not know what the demon would ask for the next night, or the next. “Alright,” I said slowly, “but I am free to refuse you tomorrow or the day after if what you ask for is too great.” He smirked and sat down at the loom. “Of course,” he purred. “But come sit where I can see you.” I hesitated again, but then I pulled up a chair just beyond the loom and sat. For a while I was uncomfortable as the loom whirred, glancing at him every now and then to realize he was not looking at the loom but at me. Soon, however, I was asleep. Just as dawn touched the horizon I felt breath on my neck and heard the laughter of bells. “My reward,” he whispered, and I heard the snick of a pair of scissors. I jumped awake, but he was gone. A tendril of hair shorter than the rest fell into my eyes as I stared at the room packed with gleaming shirts neatly folded and stacked. Five hundred magical shirts. The door opened and the emperor himself came in, flanked by ministers and a full guard. He looked surprised, and I quickly swallowed my own shock, replacing it with a mask of deference and nothingness. The ministers exclaimed mightily under their breath as the emperor took the shirt and draped it over his own arm, dragging the sword from one of his soldier’s belts, and slashing at his own wrist. I jumped, amazed that he would risk his own flesh, but the blade glanced away from him as if it had struck an inch of steel. He looked at me with a flush in his cheeks and wide eyes, but turned away without a word. The shirts were removed and I was allowed to leave my room. The woman assigned to me exclaimed and scolded over the missing lock of hair. I hastily stammered an excuse—the lock had gotten caught in the loom…I had cut it to free myself. She clucked and did not look convinced, but it stopped her wonderings and I escaped. I wandered the gardens aimlessly, nervous for night and jumpy should the emperor come and try to figure out my secret method of weaving. I could not lie to him, I knew that much, but I was terrified of revealing the truth. Thankfully, night neared again without a sight of a living soul from the palace and I rushed back to my room to be locked in, the corners filled with linen, and a single loom standing in the center. I waited patiently, and right as the sun dipped below the horizon, plunging the world into darkness, I smelled cinnamon and heard the chuckle of bells. He appeared behind me this time, his arms snaking around my waist as quick as butterfly’s wing. I jumped and pulled to get away, but he clung tight. “I forgot to mention,” he breathed in my ear. “Granted I know you won’t tell about me, to save your hide, but I can’t help but fear you will tell that prying mother of yours. One word, and you will encounter a poltergeist so fearsome you won’t sleep a wink for the rest of your very short life.” He squeezed me slightly and let go, walking straight to the loom. I pressed my hands against my chest to calm my frightened gasping. Once I was in control of myself, I glared at his straight back. “And what is your price tonight, demon?” He glanced at me and a little of his smile was gone. I did not know if it was because of my jibe about demons again. Perhaps I was hurting his feelings, and he would not come back. Immediately I cursed my own prickliness and vowed to be sweeter. “When the dawn comes,” he said, “I will collect a single kiss.” I felt a blush sting my cheeks and I opened my mouth to protest, but he was whirring away, staring pointedly at the chair I had occupied the night previous. I bit my lip and sat so he could see me. Besides, a single kiss was better than death. Again I nodded off to the sound of his movements and the feel of his gaze on my shoulders. Dawn warmed my back and I stirred awake just as he finished, the loom quieting once more. His cinnamon scent washed my face and I felt lips brush mine in a teasing way. But again, just as I fully woke, he was gone, leaving the warmth of his mouth on mine. Again the emperor appeared and performed the testing ritual. He was still surprised, but less so, and he gazed at me with a possessive pride I did not entirely like. But he came and kissed my hand, and I felt my heart flutter. He found me in the rose garden towards mid-afternoon. I jumped at his approach—his golden shoes made no noise on the stone pathways. I saw his guards not far off and snapped my eyes back to my hands in my lap. He sat beside me with a small sigh, stretching. “When you first came I was afraid you were just a bragging mother setting up her daughter for status.” I cringed inwardly as he smiled. “But…you have indeed performed miracles.” He glanced at me. “And you are very beautiful. I do not know why I never heard of you before. You come from the…” “Sa family,” I replied in a whisper. “My father is one of your ministers.” “Hmmm,” he answered. He seemed bored, distracted, and my inner spirit rebelled. He wasn’t interested in me—just a pretty face and a way to ensure his heirs. I shifted away from him slightly and felt tears well again in my eyes. What was it I was saying was better than death? He left me as the sun set, tucking a flower behind my ear and kissing my hands again. But I rubbed the kisses away as I reached my room. The yards of cloth were there, and the loom, but I sat on my bed and cried. I did not smell his cinnamon through the salt of my tears. I did not hear the bells over my sobs, but he was lying with his head propped in his hand behind me. He realized I was crying and did a double take, like a performer realizing his audience has absconded to another stage. Then he sat up and rested his chin on my shoulder, his hand wiping away some of my tears. “What’s the matter?” he asked, and there was impish concern in his face. I grabbed that concern and cried into it—I so desperately needed a friend. He sat quietly until my crying ceased and then he pushed me back to see my face. “Why this sudden deluge?” he joked. “I don’t know what to do,” I whispered. “The emperor isn’t interested in me as a person, no matter how much I want him to. I’m just a consort to provide an heir and live my life in ritualistic obscurity. Somehow death seems more preferable.” “Death is never preferable,” he snapped. “Are you gone mad?” He sat up and left me on the bed, sitting down at the loom. Immediately his hands started whirring. Halfway through the night I left my sulking spot and sat in the chair, staring at him. He did not look at me this time, but bent heavily to his work. By the time the sun was peeking at the windowsill I was sure he had sewn one thousands shirts. He stopped, resting his hand on the loom with a small sigh. “And what is your price tonight?” I asked limply. I did not have the will to care. He looked at me with a deep and troubled gaze. “You do not appreciate life,” he said simply. “And you give in with little willpower. You would be unhappy no matter where you are.” He stood up and strode to the window, pausing at my side. “You will live, and you will become the emperor’s wife. And you will be happy. But a year from now I will come for your firstborn child and take him as my final price. Perhaps then you will learn to appreciate the gifts that are given you.” I stared at the spot he had occupied, but he disappeared with the dust motes of the dawn. The door opened, but I did not turn to see the emperor arrive. I heard the cries of amazement at the double portion of shirts—enough to clothe his entire army. Suddenly I was swept up in a hug entirely improper for the new emperor’s wife, even from the emperor. He was crying slightly, his face glowing. “You are a miracle,” he wept. “Now no woman will have to fear her son and husband departing forever.” He smiled at me like a child, but his emotions were beautifully courageous. “You have provided us with a great gift.” He bowed at my feet, and as he did, the rest followed suit. I stared down at the emperor in amazement. He did not want an invincible army for the sake of conquest, but for life. I trembled and fell to my knees, hands spread in genuine shock. “My lord,” I whispered. He sat up and his joy was again hidden beneath the veil of manners. He glanced at his ministers but his gaze found mine again. “Come to my chambers at noon.” They left quickly, taking the shirts with them, and I sat stunned, fearful. I did not continue the thoughts his command inspired. At noon I appeared in his private quarters, beautifully garnished in the full regalia of empress. The dress I had appeared in first paled in comparison, but I barely saw it. The emperor was sitting at his desk, writing frantically on rice paper in neat, swift characters. He looked up immediately as I entered. I was taken aback, fully expecting him to make me wait, but he broke off his correspondence to turn to me. He stood up and approached me cautiously. “I am afraid I have been very abrupt these few days,” he said, “but I had to ensure that you were truth. But do not worry—your days of weaving are over. You are now empress, and will be provided with the full privileges according.” He bowed his head and his hands were trembling. “And I would love to learn more about you…if you are…willing to talk to me.” My eyes widened and I felt my heart leap into my mouth. He cared about me, more than just a pretty face and a womb. I placed my hands on top of each other and knelt. “I was hoping you would say that,” I confessed. “I was afraid you just thought of me as another consort.” He looked startled. “I don’t have any consorts,” he said. I was even more startled. “You don’t? But…” “My ministers spread the tales of my harem only to make it seem like I was behaving like a normal emperor,” he said grudgingly. “They find my stubbornness hard to handle, and so they lied. You aren’t angry?” his eyes pleaded with me. I started to giggle and then I started to laugh. “No!” I said. “I’m not. I’m very glad.” His face lit up again and I was reminded he was my own age. He took my hands and squeezed them, and then he kissed me. We were married a week later, with the tiny white tree blossoms falling around our golden robes. His hair and mine were braided together and bound with golden ribbons, and we strode the rose garden hand in hand, our long hair joining us together. Half a year later I was pregnant and bore our first child, Shu Lin Ko. Until that time I had not forgotten my demon, but I had ignored his proclamation. Now, with the beautiful babe in my arms, I remembered the promise and the payment I still owed. The first few nights I lay in constant terror, still bedridden from childbirth, my child clutched tightly in my arms. But I was not disturbed. The scent of cinnamon did not haunt my dreams. Once we were moving about my fear lessened—perhaps my demon had forgotten me, moved on to more interesting prey. We spent a day playing in the rose garden with the emperor. When dusk fell, I felt a strange urge to stay the night in the old chamber, where the loom still stood. Perhaps I wanted to see if he would appear. Perhaps I just wanted to come full circle and tie off the ring that my life had taken. My husband was confused by my request, but he did not deny me. “I will miss you,” was all he said. The day faded and I held my child close to my chest, feeling my heart flutter just as it had that first night. The stars blinked to life, like tiny eyes watching my vigil. And I waited. At high moon I took a deep breath, thinking myself safe. I drifted, rocking my child as I half-dozed. The curtains fluttered open and I smelled cinnamon, but I was still sleepy enough to think I was dreaming. Only when I felt his touch on my cheek did I fully wake. He was staring at me with burning eyes, again rakishly grinning. But he glanced at the baby in my arms and most of his mischief fell away. “Ahh,” he said. “A pretty whelp. Didn’t take you long, now did it?” My cheeks flushed at his hidden implications and I glanced at my baby. “I hoped you wouldn’t come.” “I never break a promise,” he said. “I suspect you’ve learned to live, and live well as it looks, but have you truly understood the precious gift of life?” His hands reached out for the child. “Now you will.” “No!” I screamed. He stared at me, his hand gripping my wrist tightly. “Oh? A year ago you were so eager to give it all up, simply because you were afraid he didn’t love you. Two thousand shirts, do you remember? I remember. Do you wish to see?” He held out his hands to me and I closed my eyes. The palms were scarred and bruised, not the smooth palms of a young man…well…demon. Scarred from the sewing he had performed for the meager gift of hair and kiss. I glanced down at my baby and held his little hand. “I’m…I’m different now. Then it was all so difficult, so sudden. When you realize your only choices are death or marrying a complete stranger, you tell me how you would react!” The demon raised his head, looking down his nose at me. “I would live,” he said coolly. “I would live.” He eyed me. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, his mischievous gleam returning. “If you can guess my name on the third night, I will let you keep your baby. I will return each night for your guess. If you cannot, the child comes with me. Sort of a delicious mirror irony, isn’t it? Are we agreed?” I didn’t have any other choice. I closed my eyes, breathing deeply. Then I looked back at him. But he was gone. The next morning I was in the library, my hands on every book of old lore I could find, searching for the names of demons. I left the baby with his nurses and avoided the emperor, afraid of the questions he might ask. I wandered from shelf to shelf, opening any book that had an interesting title. I was amazed at the size of the emperor’s many libraries. I wandered for hours, finally giving in and asking a few servants to help me find books on old lore. They only blinked and wandered off to fulfill my request. What they thought to themselves I had no idea. The books gave me nothing specific, but I found the name of an old spirit renowned for guiding the lost and the confused: Liu Ba. Well, it was my only hope—the only definitive name of a spirit in the whole library. There is a superstition that recalling the names of demons will summon them to the writer or speaker, which worked against me and stuck out its tongue at my endeavors. Dusk was upon me and I trudged back to my room, feeling dejected and only slightly hopeful. The moon hit its peak and I sat with my hands folded on my lap, dressed in my nightgown. He appeared at the window as one stepping through a door, his hand on one sill and his foot still raised. He saw me in the gown and raised a dark, arching brow. “Trying to seduce me?” he joked. “You do that for yourself,” I replied darkly. He laughed and sat on the floor, his legs stretched out in front of him. “I trust your day was eventful.” “Busy,” I said shortly. “I was…studying.” “Oh I’m sure,” he drawled. “Well, give it your best shot.” I hesitated, afraid of failure, but I had two more guesses if I were wrong. I closed my eyes and sighed. “Liu Ba.” He laughed, long and hard. “That old fool?” he crowed. “No!” “Don’t laugh at me!” I said sharply. “I still have two more guesses.” “Ahh,” he agreed, “but you’re looking in the wrong place. Keep this up and your child will be mine. I think I’ll call him after me, you know. He’ll be a good servant, once he’s old enough.” I bit my lip and tried not to cry. But when I looked up he was gone. The next day I went to my father’s apartment and talked to him. We sat in the rose garden, drinking budded tea with little blossoms floating on the surface. His servant made sweet bean paste rolls, and for a moment I enjoyed the peace of letting my rank slip. We covered a wide range of topics, and finally I rested on folklore. I had always been able to talk to my father about anything, and I didn’t see any reason I couldn’t now. “Father,” I said, “some of the librarians in the palace have mentioned an old tale about a spirit, or demon, who arrives in the night to help those in need, but for a price. When the price is not paid he gives the debtor three tries to guess his name. Have you ever heard of such a story?” My father stroked his beard thoughtfully and shrugged. “I have never heard of such a story. But…I have heard of spirit of aid…name of…’The Fox’.” “The Fox?” He laughed even louder the second night. I think I saw tears. “One more chance, sweetheart. Or I take my reward.” I sat in the laundry district in some of my lesser clothes…which means it was bedecked in only half of my weight in jewels and gold…to attract less attention. Yes the serving women glanced at me askance, but I didn’t care. I was considering the loss of my child. I was ready to dissolve. “Mistress? Is there anything I can get for you?” I hadn’t realized I was crying. One of the younger girls, probably fresh from the farms, was knelt fearlessly beside me. I stared at her bewildered, almost not recognizing what I was seeing. Then I shook my head. “Not unless you have some guardian angel to fly me free.” She obviously didn’t understand me, but she was trying. “Well, maybe Rum Pi Shinta will help you.” “Rum Pi Shinta?” “Yes. Kind of a guardian angel, but with a vindictive streak. He does favors for little rewards. He’s a household spirit in my old hometown, and my mother used to say he would take me away if I was naughty.” I stared at her with glassy eyes. “Rum Pi Shinta, you said?” “Yes.” He stared at me. His eyes were like the deep sky, or the deep sea which I had only seen once. I had never felt more afraid of him—not when he had scanned me like a piece of meat, not when he had bargained a kiss, not when he had almost taken my child away. Now he was the true demon. “So,” he said. “You found it. Where, might I ask?” I smiled. “A country girl,” I whispered. “In the cleaning district.” “A sacrifice of status,” he said with a small smile, “to go there. Or perhaps the depths of despair. But because of your child.” He smiled again. “So you learned.” I drew a flower from my hair and handed it to him. “Thank you,” I said softly. “Though I am glad you did not win, thank you.” He stared at the flower and smirked. “Rum Pi Shinta. A pity you’re married. But I’ll see you again, Empress. And perhaps one day I’ll come tell your child bedtime stories about two thousand magic shirts.” I smiled and touched my short lock of hair, slipped my fingers on my lips, and stroked my baby’s hair. “Perhaps.” I blinked and he was gone, the curtains of my window fluttering in a sudden breeze. I tasted his old kiss on my lips again and my ears were filled with bells and laughter. For a moment I thought I saw him silhouetted against the stars, but then he was disappeared entirely. I made my way back to mine and my husband’s rooms. He was sitting up, staring into a candle. The baby was asleep in his crib against the wall, and when I approached he looked up as if startled from deep thought. He smiled at me. “Did you find what you were looking for?” he guessed. I smiled at him and kissed his cheek. “I did,” I said. “But what I want is right here.”

Kikuyu, pulling the aptly placed cotton ear-plugs from her delicate hearing organs, appeared at Dego's side. Surreptitiously she noticed the many multi-colored feathers sticking from her pocket and stuffed them out of sight. She checked her face in a mirror and wondered if lip-gloss would be the most appropriate for a perhaps twinnish later gift. She shrugged and eyed the brightly colored yet lethally booby-trapped looking present in her hands. "I can't decide," she said, turning to Dego. Dego was giggling and bouncing up and down on her feet slightly, giddy from lack of air and the festivities to begin. Kikuyu grinned and handed her twin a feather, a tube of lipgloss, and one of the handles on the heavy present. They paraded down the hall, screaming at the top of their lungs. "WYYYYYYYVERN!!!!! WHERE AAAAAAAAAAREEEEEEEEEEE YOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUU??"

“What do you want?” The question was simple. Aptly put. There was no hidden meaning, no question other than what was stated. But underneath he could smell a metallic hint of menace. She pulled her legs up to her chest as she sat down beside him, eyes hooded. Beyond the cliff-face the triple, scarlet suns sank hazily into the dipping horizon with a thick shimmer. Dark purple clouds hung heavily, like ripe plums, a sure sign of dark weather in the morning. The young man beside her did not answer the menacing question. He let his hair cover his eyes, hiding the distaste and annoyance at her presence. She repeated the inquiry. “What’s it to you?” he finally said after a moment’s silence. “We have nothing in common—is it a crime to sit at a cliff and watch the sun set?” “It is to sit at this one,” she said solidly. “This is a place for the dead.” “Then why are you here?” the boy asked triumphantly. He knew he had her now. The girl turned her large, heavy eyes to his face and grabbed his gaze, despite the protective shield of hair. “Do you know what it is like to live to die?” He didn’t answer, surprised by her question. “What?” “To live to die. Your only purpose in life is to pass on, to make room for another. That is why this place is for the dead. The dead alone.” She looked back at the clouds as if to engrave their image on her memory, as if she had done this many times. “That is why I am here.” The boy stood hastily and kicked dust. “You’re talking crazy,” he snapped. “No wonder you have no friends.” He stalked away, hands thrust in his pockets, already regretting his words. The girl did not follow him, not with her feet, not with her eyes. She let her knees drop so that her feet dangled over the cliff and watched the furthest clouds release their rain. A leathery bird, perhaps not a bird, flew through the thick grey smudge of the rain miles away, a slight white sheen in the dark. Alone, she reflected that rain in her grey eyes until lightning sparked from the heavy clouds to the ground in a thundering shatter. The rain came down, drenching her hair and shoulders, and the silver raindrops looked like tears sliding down her cheeks. “What does it mean to live to die?” Mother nearly dropped the jar she was holding, her eyes wide and her face pale. She grabbed her son by the arm in her surprise, her shock making her voice harsh. “What did you say?” she snapped. Her son jerked away, irritated by her anger. “Never mind, forget I asked.” By her reaction he knew now that there was something true in the little girl’s words he had heard earlier. The mother gripped the jar very tightly and closed her eyes, anchoring herself to the earth with the feel of cool stone under her fingers. “Maryl,” she said, “there are…secrets in the world. Ugly secrets that have been kept to keep us all safe and alive. I don’t know where you heard those words, but you would do better to forget them. I don’t want my son mixed up in this.” Maryl frowned and turned away. “Whatever. I’m going out.” “Be home before dinner,” his mother called. “There’s a bad storm tonight. Stay away from the cliffs!” Of course that was exactly what he wasn’t going to do. The suns were setting again, and the clouds rolling in with a vengeance. Maryl looked up at the sky nervously and shivered, his bare feet pounding on the hot ground as he ran to the one place he knew he could find her. The place of the dead. She was sitting there, as he had imagined her. She almost appeared from the image in his mind, taking form because he wished her there. The suns were an angry green, fire and sparks visible from their wavering sides. Maryl gaped—he had never seen solar flares before, not even when the hurricane had come. His father said they boded disaster and illness. Surely not now… The girl looked up at his approach. She did not frown at him this time—instead she looked like she knew. She knew. “Josa!” he gasped, out of breath. “You have to come away from here! Didn’t you see the flares?” Josa smiled sadly. “I saw them,” she said. “That is why I am here. I told you—I’m only alive to die. And I won’t die at their hands, not as an appeasement to something that will happen anyway.” She looked out at the sky. “No. I will fly like a bird first.” “What are you talking about?!” Maryl cried. The clouds were thundering, lightning spewing from peak to peak. On the plain he could see great fiery boulders falling from the sky, the dry grasses catching fire. Suddenly Maryl heard heavy footsteps behind them. He turned; a group of men had appeared from the village. One held ropes, the other a small, child-sized white robe. They looked pale and uneasy, and sickened. But determined. “What are you doing?” Maryl asked warily, his voice shaking. What were the nasty secrets and unpleasant truths? His eyes widened as he saw his mother’s pale face at the back of the crowd, her mouth covered in one hand as her eyes rested on her boy. The men looked uneasily at each other. “The girl must come with us.” “Why, what do you want with her?” One of the men pointed at the suns and the burning plain fiercely. “Have you not seen the flares, boy?” he snarled. “She was chosen at birth to be the Taker,” another said. “She must come with us.” Maryl glanced between them, knowledge too terrible for him to understand crushing his shoulders so he crouched back towards the cliff edge and a long fall. “You’re out of your minds!” he gasped. “You’re going to kill her?!” The men glanced at the ground, uneasy for a moment. One stepped forward, bearing a long sword. “If you don’t get out of the way now you can join her,” he grated. “Two sacrifices is better than one I say.” There were uneasy but firm mutters of assent. Maryl’s face went pale and he seethed with rage and fear when he saw that his mother was not protesting. Her face was tilted towards the ground. “Maryl!” He turned towards Josa, eyes wide, face pale. The girl stretched her hand out, hair flying in the wind. A small, cynical smile twisted her lips and her heavy eyes looked like chips of violet in the dark light. “This is the place for the living dead,” she said softly. “Come fly with me.” Without thinking Maryl took her hand and leapt towards her. They stood tilted on the edge. A single cry went up from the men, a wail from the mother, and then they disappeared as they plummeted over the side. The group rushed to the edge, peering down in macabre interest to see their bodies fall and break on the bottom. But they were gone—no bodies white against the charred rock, no blood and from that fall they could not have gotten up to run. There was no trace of either. As they stared two birds broke away from the side of the cliff, their white wings flapping fiercely towards the storm. They disappeared into the clouds, tiny specks of white to the very last. The suns spat their final sparks and sank beneath the horizon, drenching the landscape in silver and fiery red. The tiny white birds were vanished.

Kikuyu strapped her katana to her back and stuffed her pouches full of shuriken. She sighed as she contemplated a series of ninja bombs and stuffed them in along with the rest. Beside her Degorram sharpened her scythe neatly, one of the only weapons she needed since her entire body could become one giant shifting arsenal. She touched the blade experimentally, leaving a thin line of blood on her finger. She stuck her thumb in her mouth and joined her twin's sigh. "Never stays peaceful for long, one way or another, does it, Dego?" "Nope." "You have no doubts?" "Nope." "Good. We can't hold back at any point, not ever." "Nope." Kikuyu sighed again and slid the buckles in place that held on her bracers, their three, backwards curving blades shimmering along her forearms. A single strike with her wrist and her gauntlet would slice through flesh and bone with the backslash of her forearm. "Well then," Kikuyu said. "Ready or not." Degorram's eyes narrowed and she bared her teeth. "Here we come."

Kikuyu followed her much toozed twin and the captive Almost-Dragon (Dego's grip could be pretty tight) as they escaped towards the far end of the hall. As they disappeared around a corner, Kikuyu put on an extra boost of speed to catch them... The hall around the twist was empty. Kikuyu harrumphed and glanced along the walls, grinning grimly as she noticed a lump behind one of the curtains giggle in a very drunk Degorram voice that whispered very loudly "They'll never find us here hee hee." Kikuyu pushed aside the cloth. Degorram had Wyvern in a headlock and the Almost-Dragon was turning slightly blue and red at the same time-- blue from lack of air, and red from the close proximity to Degorram's chest. Degorram grinned widely at Kikuyu and hiccupped again. "'Lo Kiku!" she burbled. "Care te join usss?"

The Almost Dragon whirled as he felt breath hot on the back of his neck. Kikuyu was standing close enough to press her nose very threateningly against his, which she did. "K-Kikuyu! Where did you come fro--" "Wyvern," Kikuyu said in a very, very calm voice. "I thought I'd find you here." Her eyes slid over the empty cages and back up to Wyvern's face. "Might I ask: can you explain this to me with your wide expanse of knowledge?" Wyvern's eyes crossed as she held an object right between them. Her wallet-- it was empty. Completely. Utterly. Empty. "And this." Another object pressed too close to his line of sight. Wyvern's head was starting to hurt. Sweat rolled down his brow as he squinted at the second offense. Two quick-shot photos of Kikuyu charging towards the holder of the camera, only to catch last second a shower of plane-phazing sparks and her enraged expression. "And of course, lastly, this." A long, sharp kunai was pressed against Wyvern's nose. With a big chomp out of it. "I'm sure you have a very interesting, perfectly logical explanation about how this isn't your fault. Don't you?" Her voice could have flatlined a hospital patient just by listening to it. "W-well..."

Kikuyu stared broodingly out of her large window, flipping a kunai on one finger. She crossed her legs and stared at the clouds, as if a mere glare could send them whisping away. Beside her Degorram slouched, arms crossed, also staring at the sky. Her hair had faded to a dull purple, like a disorganized bruise or ripe plum. The two pairs of eyes did not blink. The tatoos under Kikuyu's lids fluttered through a series of colors. Degorram's scythe gleamed with a sharp, toothy light. Neither spoke. Neither had to.

No, the picture and story were all Kikuyu, but Degorram's love was definitely behind it! Thanks for all you do, Wyvie-poo

Kikuyu peeked around the corner and an impish grin split over her face. She put the walky-talky to her mouth and spoke in a subdued mutter. "Target spotted dead ahead. No contact has yet been made. Suspect...unaware." The speaker crackled to life and Degorram's slightly muffled voice spat back from the plastic box. "Just as I like 'em," she piped gleefully. "Also have him in sight. Ready when you are." "On my mark," the ninja grinned. "One, two, three..." Wyvern screeched as both his arms were grabbed and he glanced nervously from side to side into the grinning faces of the twins. "Oh," he gasped. "K-Kikuyu...Degorram! You ssssstartled me there!" "Oh did we?" Degorram said innocently. Her grip on Wyvern's elbow did not slack. "So sorry about that." "It's almost Valentine's Day, Wyvern," Kikuyu reminded with a wicked smile. "And we're impatient. So we decided to give you your present early!" Wyvern's head blurred as he glanced back and forth between the girls as they leaned in. "What?! What are you--" "Dego, grab the camera!!"

Kikuyu watched Wyvern and Degorram dance from the entrance as she swept through the scarlet drapes. She flicked them aside with a small flick of her wrist, glancing up at them and jumping when she realized that the velvet had been designed so that the only shiny parts reflected a 30-foot tall image of Cheer Mynx on each drape. Kikuyu shuddered and moved on, the silk of her kimono rustling slightly. She crept up behind Degorram and draped her arms around her twin's shoulders. "I brought Plushie-Wyv's bow tie," she said, fastening the miniature tux bow around the doll's throat. "There, now he looks up to the occasion." Degorram glanced at the chain and scythe looped in Kikuyu's obi with a wry grin. "Ahhh, so you came prepared as well." "I'm always prepared," she said, sliding one of her hair sticks partly out of her locks to reveal the blade at the tip. She glanced at Wyvern and grinned. "Hullo Wyv. Looking forward to Valentine's Day? I've heard there are several plots to surprise you with something...special." She winked at Degorram, who returned her toothy smile. The ninja waggled her fingers in a little wave and pulled away. "Pardon me while I enquire at the food table. Those sausages are so reminiscent..."

“Now get out of here before I blow your brains through your ears!” The man stumbled away, blood pouring from nose and mouth, his eye swelling shut under a dark black bruise and smudge of street grime. His attacker grinned after him, waving a gun menacingly in the air as he rifled through the man’s wallet and bag—a newly bought sapphire ring, a diamond necklace. “really hit the jackpot tonight!” the thug laughed roughly. He strolled casually down the alley, throwing the pictures of wife and children on the ground and stomping on them with a cruel twist. He spat and laughed again, stuffing the diamonds into his dirty pocket. A sound made him jump and he whirled, firing a single shot from his gun at the empty wall. He stared, shivering like a startled hind. He glanced left and right, waiting for someone to come after the gun shot, but the alley was silent. “Need some more sleep,” the thief said shakily, wiping sweat from his brow. He looked up again as a white cat, its face half white, half black, yowled loudly from a tower of precariously stacked cardboard boxes. The thug sneered and raised his gun again. “Stupid cat,” he muttered. “You shouldn’t shoot cats.” The thief felt strong fingers grip his wrist, prying the gun from his hand. The cat had disappeared. He turned angrily. It was just a man, tall and thin and dressed in a knee-length black coat. His sallow face was long and sorrowful, his ghostly pale blonde hair cut in an angle around his jaw. The thief took one look at the man’s face and froze in shock—his apprehender had two different colored eyes, one sloe black, the other an albino pale white. The pupil dilated weirdly in the white iris, and the thief wrenched away with an oath. “Get away from me, you freak!” His fist swung around to strike fiercely at the man’s temple. The thief stumbled as his own momentum caught him. “Wait,” he gasped. “Where’d he go?” “You mean me, I presume?” The thief turned around—the man was now behind him. His lips were curled in dislike. “The ‘freak’ I believe you said.” He glanced at the gun he now held loosely in his gloved hands. The thug held up his meaty palms, taking a faltering step backwards. “Now take it easy man,” he stuttered. “Don’t need to do anything hasty. A brother doesn’t do another brother like that, you know?” The man stared at him coldly. “I am not your ‘brother’,” he said. The gun tip raised. “I am your Judgment.” JUDGMENT’s DAY My name is Judgment. I don’t know what you would call me, exactly. A fallen angel? Hmm, no that’s not exactly right. The Scriptures say that the Devil is a fallen angel, as are his minions. I am certainly not the Devil’s minion, nor another Devil myself. There is only room for one master of Evil in this world. I guess I am...an avenger. An avenger of all the darkness that human beings and that Angel have polluted this beautiful world with. I like cats. My personal appearance...I don’t look at the outside. I concentrate on the inside of a person. Ok, not really. I don’t like the way I look. The pale, dour face that looks back at me from the mirror doesn’t instill confidence that I’ll ever find love, and my eyes... I live alone. My appearance and occupation assure that. It isn’t a bad existence exactly; I found a cat like me, with half a face of white and half of black. I call her Misty. She’s been my companion from kitten-hood and has never asked any questions or looked at me with terror. Terror...hmph. My heart tells me I should feel hopeful—the only people who look at me with terror are the only people who see me, and they’re the only people who need feel terror. But I don’t think that would change the reception if I were to meet someone that was not assigned Judgment. In any case, I broke the mirror three days ago. Now it shows my true self, shattered and incomplete. Misty looked at me askance when she saw all the broken glass and started cleaning her startled fur into a more appropriate neatness. If only I could share her disregard. Her freedom. In any case, I must set out her milk now. The little girl walked down the sidewalk with her hands in her pockets. She was just old enough to have stopped skipping, but the lightness in her step hinted that, were she not the stately age of eleven, she would have been. The grimy apartment buildings, cracked paint smeared with ash, mud, and other unmentionable city slime, did not seem to match her. Or, rather, she did not seem to match the buildings. Which did she live in? Where was her mother, a guardian to keep an eye on her in the dangerous outside world? The girl crouched near to a grate in a building and poked at a fallen bit of silver under the mud. She dug and pulled up an old, broken pocket watch. Enchanted she twirled it on its chain, clogged full of dirt and mildew. A movement caught her eye and she looked up. A cat, sitting at the edge of the building, blinked lazily at her with large blue eyes set in a white-black split face. It licked its whiskers and meowed pitifully. “Oh, pretty cat!” the girl cooed, inching forward carefully. “Let me pet you, please!” The cat purred and arched its head under her stroke, digging its jaw into her fingers. The girl glowed with delight, scratching the proffered chin. “Who do you belong to?” she whispered. “You’re far too pretty for a street cat, and too well fed. If you’re lost, your mommy will be worried about you.” The cat stood, trailing its tail through her hand and sauntered away. The girl glanced over her shoulder and followed. They left the open street behind to wander into the darker, shadowed alleys. Misty brought a girl today. She couldn’t fit through the small window that my precious cat finds suitable for an entrance, but she did try. I hid in the corner, but she ended up heading home frustrated. I never thought there would be a soul courageous enough to brave the dark alleys that I consider my address. But Misty kept her safe, even though it was for nothing. I wonder what her purposes were, my little kitten. Perhaps she thinks I am lonely. Ha. She came again. This time she found the door. I was not expecting her—she came in as if she lived here and plunked a few notes on the piano in the corner. I was so startled I dropped my ink bottle and spilled it on the floor. It was the noise that scared her, as she had scared me. “I’m so sorry!” she cried. “I didn’t know anyone lived here! Do you live here? It’s so dark and hard to find.” I was amazed she could pack as much into a fearful cry as all that. I admit I was struck dumb. It has been so long since I have met a child, and a respectful, pure child at that. Kids today are almost as corrupt as their parents, and twice as wicked. She immediately grabbed a scrap of cloth and tried to mop up my spilled ink, even gripping my pale hands and cleaning the black from them. I could not stop her, or pull away, or say anything. She held me spellbound with her fearlessness. I did ask her about it, once I found my tongue. “Are you not afraid?” She looked up at me—at my eyes. Her own widened slightly and I saw her gaze flickering from one to the other. But she swallowed and shook her head. “Do you live here all by yourself?” she repeated. “I have Misty,” I replied lamely. The girl’s eyes went to the cat, sitting elegantly with her tail curled about her paws on the piano’s top. “Misty,” she repeated. She put down the ink-stained cloth and dusted her hands off on her shorts. “What’s your name?” I asked breathlessly. I was weak: the idea of a normal relationship made me forget who I am, what I do. It was the most foolish decision of my life. “Lydia,” she said. “What’s yours?” I stumbled over it even as it came to my lips. “J—” I gasped. “Jaye.” “Jaye,” she said. “I had a friend named Jaye once. But he pulled my hair and he wasn’t very nice. But that was a long time ago. Why are boys so mean?” I bit my tongue at this, stories of how little girls can be real witches popping into my head. Perhaps I would be disappointed. Perhaps she, perhaps Lydia would turn out to be just like the rest of them. I turned away as bitter hopelessness constricted my throat. She put her hand on my shoulder. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Are you sick?” “No,” I said softly. “You should probably go. Your parents will be looking for you.” She came back the next day with a bag of animal crackers. I don’t know what to make of her. Why did she come back? There is nothing here appealing except Misty, and even she is a small sort of reward for creeping through dank alleys where any number of monsters could be hiding, figuratively and literally. Her answer to my question stunned me most of all. “To be with you of course,” she said. “It’s so dark here, and quiet. Do you play the piano?” I nodded mutely. She shrugged and sat on the bench, trailing her finger down the white keys. It is the only clean thing in the room, other than Misty and myself. I like to believe my only sin is pride in my cleanliness, or vanity. Or cynicism. “I like the piano,” she mused. An idea came to her and she brightened. Her whole face lit up like a flower and she turned her glowing eyes towards me as if I could somehow give her happiness. “Will you play me something?” she asked. I did not know what to say so I said nothing. I stood and strode over to her, feeling awkwardly tall next to her tiny stature. I chose this apartment, first, not only for its isolation and privacy, but also for its high, lofted ceiling. It tends to make me feel less out of place. I sat at the bench beside her and set my fingers on the keys. I hesitated. “What would you like me to play?” I murmured. “Anything,” she said, leaning on the top of the piano’s lid. “What you like best.” Again I paused in thought. Then I began to play. She listened, though it didn’t seem the kind of music a child would appreciate. She and Misty, even the rafters and walls of the building seemed to listen. She sighed when I finished and leaned her cheek on her arm. “What was it?” she breathed. “Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 23,” I replied. “One of my favorites.” “Mine too,” she agreed. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a broken pocket watch, cleaned of dirt and grime. She put it in my hand and smiled. “I’ll be back tomorrow.” I watched her go and felt the weight of the watch in my hand, but I did not look up. I kept my eyes on the piano and felt the weight of her gaze as heavy as the silver watch until it disappeared from the room. The strains of the Concerto still trilled in my head. I squeezed the watch and put it in my pocket, beginning another song on the piano. Misty watched me with, I think, a smug smile. She was hovering over me when the sun was spitting its sparks through the broken glass of my ground-level window. I blinked, uncomprehending, then started from bed. I must have risen too fast, for the blood rushed into my skull and I gripped my temples irately. “I brought you breakfast,” she said, holding something flaky and steaming towards my mouth. I took it in both hands curiously, forgetting my former irritation. The scent of apples filled my nostrils and I hesitantly took a bite. The hot paste exploded into my mouth with a pleasant, soft sensation and I chewed thoughtfully. She giggled and I looked up at her. “You should see your face!” she laughed. “When was the last time you had an apple pie? It’s just a single serving, but it’s filling.” I swallowed and murmured my thanks. Lydia grinned and bent down, opening a can of food for Misty. The meaty smell of cat food brought her down in a leap and a skip, and she nibbled daintily, hungrily at the dark sauce. I felt a tinge of guilt for never obtaining cat food for her somehow. “I want you to come with me today,” she said. “It’s the city faire, and there’s a carousel and cotton candy and popcorn, and even a Ferris wheel! I’ve never been on a Ferris wheel before, but you have to have an adult with you, so...” I stared at her as she rattled off her reasons only to pause staring at the floor, scuffing her toe nervously awaiting my answer. I replied by standing up and walking towards the piano. “It’s just one day!” she said urgently. “Just one day and then I won’t ask you again. We can stay here and you won’t be bothered by anyone else. Please!” I paused at the instrument, resting a hand on its sleek surface. “Tell me you aren’t just using me,” I said darkly. She took a nervous step backwards as I turned a stare on her, a stare I didn’t even realize I was wearing. A stare I only used for those to be Judged. “Of course not!” she said vehemently. “I’ll swear by anything you want!” I held up a hand, convinced by the fire in her voice and the indignation, hurt in her eyes. “You don’t need to swear,” I said in a gentler voice. “You don’t need to.” “So will you come?” she whispered. I stared at the piano, suddenly wanting to go. I had not been among other people since...I could not remember. I glanced at Misty; she licked her chops and stared at me lazily, flicking her tail towards the door. It was all the advice I needed. I grabbed my jacket and slipped it on over my white shirt and black vest. Her little pocket watch she had given me was looped in the chest pocket—she smiled shyly when she saw I was wearing her gift. I pulled on my loose cap and sighed, glancing in the broken mirror. I looked quickly away again and let her little hand pull me out of the door and up into the sunlight. The faire grounds were packed with people. Popcorn flying, cotton candy ballooning in great gobs at the corners, great tents of vibrant stripes set up at every possible square of land selling cloths, toys, and crafts in silver, steel, and wood. The little girl jumped up and down with delight, rode the carousel and the Ferris wheel, and ate cotton candy until her tongue was red. All eyes inadvertently turned to her strange overseer and quickly away again. Like a great black crow, he was thought to be a body guard, a child-services agent, anything from A to Z but a friend. A companion. His wild eyes and dark demeanor out ruled that possibility. Next to this charming, brightly colored child, he was a black rose already beginning to wilt. As the sun began to set the man held back from the tension on his hand that the little girl had kept constant pressure on. She looked back in surprise—the man was staring at the horizon, up and over the faire grounds. His eyes were distant, and no pulling on his arm could grasp his attention. Finally he started and looked back at the girl, who was close to tears in worry. “What’s wrong?” she gasped. “You didn’t move for so long, I thought...” “I’m fine,” the man said. “I have to leave you now—can you get home by yourself?” The girl blinked, nodded, and watched as he melted into the crowds. Each bystander leaned unconsciously away from him, so that she watched him disappear as though traveling down a very, very long tunnel ribbed with people and faces instead of stone and metal. “Hey, gorgeous, come back!” The woman walked quickly, terror and disgust rising like gall in her throat. The sound of drunken laughter followed her down the street, and she reached into her purse for her pepper spray. How she hated being out at night! She refused to look behind her, but quickened her pace as she heard multiple, heavy footsteps speed up behind her. A rough hand grabbed her elbow and she swung around, slamming her purse into the thug’s head. He swore and fell back, but another grabbed her waist. “Get off me!” she screamed, and the pepper spray went right in his eyes. He screamed loudly, but the third grabbed both her arms and pinned them behind her. She cried out in pain, the spray falling from her limp hands. The first thug touched a small cut on his forehead and grimaced. “You’ll pay for that one,” he hissed. He reached out and grabbed her jacket. “But first we’ll all have a little fun with you. An eye for an eye, eh?” “That sounds about right.” The two thugs looked up in surprise. A man in dark clothing stepped out of an adjoining alley and let the peppered man fall from his grasp. The men followed his descent with wide eyes. The gasping woman stared in horror but had the good thought to kick out wildly, catching the thug in front of her in the groin. He screamed and flung his hand out, backhanding her across the face. The black-clothed stranger swooped on the cringing, agonized criminal, grabbing his throat in his long, gloved hands. A moment’s struggle. He stood up again, panting slightly, his blonde hair somewhat mussed. His eyes turned to the last thug, the white and black both gleaming brightly in a fall of light. The final man was holding a gun to the woman’s head, panting so loudly it echoed off the walls. “Now take it easy man,” the mugger gasped. “You move one step and she gets blasted.” He took a few faltering steps back, glancing over his shoulder for the exit to the alley. Each step he took was mimicked by the black clad avenger. “I said stay back!” the man screamed, his voice so wild that even the woman cried out in fear. “Mom?” Lydia was standing at the edge of the ally where the pseudo-hero had first appeared, watching with wide eyes. The woman looked at her and groaned in terror, tears spilling from her eyes. Her mouth moved, wordlessly crying the same negative over and over. “Lydia, get away from here!” the stranger cried. “But Jaye,” the little girl gasped. “What...” From the alley a white cat with a split face yowled loudly. A shot rang out as the terrorized criminal screamed in fright. Jaye turned—Lydia’s face was pale. A small hole darkened the front of her shirt in the middle of her chest, grew with surprising speed as blood poured from the gunshot wound. The woman yanked free from the criminal’s loose grasp with a shriek and grabbed her daughter as she fell. The criminal stared dumbly at his handiwork. “I didn’t mean to,” he muttered dumbly. His eyes turned to the stranger, his old fear rising in his face again. “Whether or not you meant to,” the stranger breathed hoarsely, “you did it. And such an act requires due Judgment.” His eyes met the murderer’s and a chill of horror ran between the two gazes. Jaye watched the scene unfold from a distance. Three dead men and a shrieking, sobbing mother cradling her dead baby’s body. Her little girl. Lydia. The police were scrambling, trying to lift some trace of the one missing link. But none would be found. Not ever. Lights flashed yellow and blue and white and red against the dark alley walls, but no light could penetrate the blackness. Jaye looked down at Misty and tears swam to his eyes, pouring out grey on his cheeks. “Love,” he whispered, looking back at the woman. “You did this to show me there was love in the world still? Well, you can have the world. I’ve done with it.” He turned and walked away from the cat. He crossed alleys and streets, not caring who saw him. The entire night passed as he paced away. Finally, as dawn approached, he found himself in a cleaner, brighter alley with clotheslines and neat trashcans. A household nearby was just beginning to wake, opening a restaurant of some cuisine or other. Music caught his ears and Jaye turned his head, listening to the piano that crept along the air. “Chopin’s Piano Nocturne in Ebm,” Jaye said softly. He smirked and closed his eyes, swaying as he listened. He turned away again, took a few steps, and sank to his knees. Blood pooled between the fingers of his hand pressed tightly against his side-- he had not been quick enough this time to dodge. An image of Lydia running down the alley towards him made him start, but there was nothing there—only the rising sun. The music swam through his trailing thoughts, mixing with reality and imagination. The light swelled around him, leaving nothing but the dawn and the music. Jaye gasped, his eyes widening as if he had been struck by a thought, or as if a tiny hand had just grabbed his own again. “Judgment,” he whispered. The piano swam to its minor crescendo and light spilled over the edges, purging the darkness and leaving nothing in its wake. The ground tilted, rose to a dark vertical hatch of black stone against white dawn, and shuddered as if something heavier than the world had fallen against its surface. The blackness faded to white and the piano trilled its finale, petering out the last, beautiful note.

The Beginning of Yesterday My shadow walks before me As the sun sets in my mind I turn to see the shadow That my shadow left behind I try to see my old past But it flickers in my dreams And suddenly I realize That nothing’s as it seems. The winding road dips up and down But withers as I walk At every high and every low At each hill my thoughts balk. My troubles and my triumphs Like leaves in a flowing stream At the beginning of my yesterday Are nothing but a dream.

“Do you really mean it? Do you really mean to leave?” He turned back, low-brimmed had pulled down to shield his eyes from the flying sands—like tiny pieces of glass. He yanked down the scarf from his lips, freeing him to speak. “You know the council’s orders are absolute. You shouldn’t even be here.” “But...what will I do without you?” The child of merely eight did not fully understand, and she raised eyes brimming with tears to her brother’s face. “Can’t I come with you?” “No, Kami!” her brother exclaimed, taking her in his arms. “You must stay here and grow strong, and live happily. Marry and have children and make flying bird-kites. You’re so good at that. Here,” he pulled an emerald pendant from around his neck and pushed it into her hands. “This will protect you and remind you of me. If ever you’re afraid, just clasp it tightly, and you’ll be safe. No matter where I am, I’ll be with you.” Kami sniffed, her tears spilling over as she gripped the glittering stone. She pulled a bone necklace from her own neck and pushed it onto his wrist. It’s small length clasped his arm snugly, still warm from her tiny child’s neck. “I want Nekan to be safe,” she whispered. “Don’t die.” Nekan bit his lip and hugged his sister. She disappeared in his embrace, her quiet sobs muffled against his thick coat. He stood up and mounted his black, flat-footed mnek elk, turning him towards the open, sandy dunes. He pulled his scarf up, drew his hat down, and rode away without looking back. Into the blinding sunset, into the desert of knife winds, glass sand, and shrieking pits. Into exile. Away from the home he adored, the family he cherished, and the safety vital to all existence. His survival had never been a question of maybe? He would be dead before morning.