Write Outside Yourself

A Young Adult Story Writing Contest

Sponsored by Utah Valley University &

Community Writing Centers

Editor-in-Chief: Tom Memmott

Technical editor: Brooke Bolick

Selection staff: Stephen Allen, Brooke Bolick, Hailey Briggs, Leigh Ann Copas, Ally Deeter, Mike Edwards, Kelly Elcock

Staff editors: Stephen Allen, Corinne Bauer, Brooke Bolick, Drew Cordova, Ally Deeter, Kelly Elcock

Proofing staff: Stephen Allen, Benjamin Bailey, Mike Bowers

Layout and design: Brooke Bolick

Cover design: Brooke Bolick

The Write Outside Yourself young adult story writing contest and workshop series is presented by the Utah Valley University Community Writing Center for young writers in Utah Valley. Submission guidelines for the contest include:

Author is a middle or high school student in Utah ValleyFiction or nonfiction story is original (no fan fiction)Story does not exceed 15 double-spaced pagesContent is appropriate to a young adult audience

© 2014 UVU

UVU Writing Center Administration Faculty Director: Joshua HilstCoordinator: Leigh Ann CopasAssistant Coordinator: Rebecca Disrud

Table of ContentsA Dream Come True 1

Kendall Bailey

Drake’s Blood 6Malachi Dunn

Everyone’s Story 23Jessica Holcombe

Pink Ribbons 38Sarah Lawrence

Treachery at the Tower 49Madison Marshall

Dreams of Light and Shadow 62Collin Moore

Gloria the Spider 75Natalie Taggart

Princess of the Skies 89Ivonne Paredes Romero

Hard Contact 98Brennan Theler

Pandora in a Box 112Anneka Winder

Foreword

Growing up, my younger brothers and I loved the col-lection of Learn to Draw books at our local library. Dinosaurs, heroes, villains, animals—we checked out all the books we could get our hands on. I quickly grew frustrated because my dinosaurs looked nothing like the pictures in the book. Eventually, I took a different artistic approach to sketching; I placed a blank sheet of paper on top of the final product and traced the shape. On the other hand, my brother Trev-or followed the directions, drawing line upon line. My di-nosaurs looked like dinosaurs. His dinosaurs looked like blobs. Fast forward twenty years: I draw stick figures and Trevor creates beautiful lines. I learned the product by trac-ing. Trevor learned the process by creating.

What I didn’t understand as an eight-year-old boy is that creativity is a process. Creativity is not one thing; it is a myriad of explorations, expressions, and inventions. I believe that every person is inherently creative. Every person creates. Whether the creations take the form of (what some might consider) fine art or mindless scribbles on a page, the process of creation is important. I would argue that the process is the most important aspect of art. In fact, the creative process is valuable even if there is no created product.

The writers who contributed to this collection are all involved in the creative process. I am proud of all these writers, for they pushed through the barrier that hindered my progress: they drew line upon line instead of simply

ii

tracing a pre-fabricated product. Most of the writers partic-ipated in a three day workshop series where we discussed character, setting, plot, and the writing process. I am pleased with the work that each of the writers put in to their stories and revisions.

I would like to thank the Writing Center and my col-leagues who helped complete this project. Special mentions to Leigh Ann Copas and Rebecca Disrud for their inspira-tion and motivation. Also, it would be remiss of me not to thank my wonderful committee members, especially Brooke Bolick (typesetting and design), Corinne Bauer (planning and event organization), and Brynna Boetcher (advertising and workshop creation). These three have been invaluable to the entire process of this workshop series and writing contest.

I hope you enjoy reading these stories.

Tom MemmottEditor-in-Chief

iii

Acknowledgments

This project was made possible by a Phased Grant through the Utah Valley University Office of Engaged Learning and funding from the University College Dean’s Office. Special mention should be made to the Orem Public Library for graciously hosting the Community Writing Center and to the Orem City Council for supporting the cause of literacy in the Utah Valley community.

iv

t

The social worker sighed, “Look, James, I know you think you can take care of your mom and siblings, but who is going to take care of you? She forgets she’s supposed to buy food for you. She forgets to take you to school. You can’t stay with her anymore, James. She’s had her chance over and over again and she’s lost it every time. Please go sit in the car with Brad and your siblings while I grab your things.”

The apartment was not a place most sane people would want to live. The paint was peeling and crumbling. The wooden floors, which were covered in grime, creaked and groaned with every step. In the winter, they had to bury them-selves in worn, tattered blankets and huddle together to stay warm during the night. The apartment above was occupied by a bunch of meth addicts. Their next door neighbors were always drunk. Boys throughout the neighborhood were part of one gang or another. James struggled to keep his siblings

A Dream Come True

Kendall Bailey

t

A Dream Come True

2

safe and teach them the values and principles that their mother and step-father threw aside every day.

James seethed with frustration, but he could smell defeat, “Okay. Cindy, don’t forget my music stuff. Or Katie’s blanket. Or Jake’s skateboard. You know, all the important stuff.”

Cindy smiled. “How could I forget, James? You always remind me.” She turned to go to the bedroom, then stopped and turned back, “James, it will be okay. I know this isn’t easy. Your mom will get another chance, but even if she doesn’t change her actions, she will always love you.”

James smiled for the first time in days. It had been a rough week, yet Cindy always could tease a smile out of him. “Thanks, Cindy. You always get it. You always understand what I’m feeling.” Then, his grin widened, “Sometimes, I think you can read my mind.”

Cindy’s smile widened, “Don’t forget that I was a foster kid once too. I know what it’s like.” She was quiet for a moment, drenched in memories she would rather forget. She repeated, “I know what it is like.”

On impulse, James stepped over and hugged her. She laughed and squeezed him back. “Okay, go wait in the car. Tell Brad I’m coming.”

jJames, no longer even conscious of the snow-covered

trees, fields, and rivers that sped by, gazed out the window. He kept seeing a replay of the night before in his head and wondering if there was anything he could have done to change it. Probably not. He had been trying to get Katie and Jake

Kendall Bailey

3

into bed when the police had shown up. There had been a party in the apartment above and his mom and step-dad had gotten high, again. This wasn’t the first time James left home and school behind to go to a foster home. Usually, it was a relief. He didn’t always have to be on the alert protecting his siblings from his step-father’s drunken rages and his mother’s drugged forgetfulness. He could relax, thanks to Cindy.

Whenever an ‘incident’ happened, she either arranged for the kids to stay with her and her husband, Brad, or she found a nice family for them to stay with. Usually, they ended up with Cindy and Brad. James loved those times with them. He hated to sound disloyal to his mom, but his times with this couple were the only times in his life he could remember truly being happy. They played games. Brad and Cindy came and tucked them all in at night. They arranged for Brad to always be off work when James and his siblings weren’t at school, they let them eat sugary cereal, they had a movie night once a week, and most of all, it felt like a real family.

A few more minutes passed, and they pulled into Cindy and Brad’s driveway. Cindy’s phone jingled a tune, and she motioned for Brad to take the kids into the house while she took the call. James grabbed his music bag and bolted straight for the living room and, more specifically, the piano. He had to get the stress out soon or he’d lose his cool, and that always ended with him sobbing into Cindy’s shoulder, which, for a fifteen-year-old boy, wasn’t very appealing. The piano was his way to relax—to let all the tension, fear, and pain of the last twenty-four hours seep out of him. He laid his fingers gently on the keys, closed his eyes, and began to play a song

A Dream Come True

4

that always drained him of all the emotions he felt after his mom had, yet again, broken her promise to stay off drugs.

“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. . . When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I’m feeling sad, I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don’t feel so bad.”James opened his eyes. He allowed himself a small smile.

He wondered if Mr. Rodgers and Mr. Hammerstein knew how true their song really was; it worked every time! He played song after song, all with his eyes closed. A feeling of utter contentment filled him. He wished he could feel the way he felt just then, all the time. He heard Cindy come in and shut the garage door. He opened his eyes and suddenly felt the wetness streaking down his face. He realized then that he was sobbing. Why had he been crying? So much for getting all the emotion out. Cindy opened the door and came to him. She knelt beside the bench and opened her arms. James let himself sob in her arms until he was exhausted. Cindy brushed his bangs back. He took a shuddering breath, then let it explode out in frustration. Why couldn’t he keep control for once? He was worse than five-year-old Katie! His thoughts were cut off as Cindy spoke.

“James, I just talked to your mother’s lawyer.”“Oh?” James asked. Cindy nodded and he could see that

whatever she had to say was not good news.“Cindy, please just tell me so I don’t have to worry about

what it is. Especially since it has to do with my mom.”Cindy smiled sadly, “James you are a very brave boy. I

wish I could be as strong as you.” She let her breath out the

Kendall Bailey

5

same way James had a moment before, “James, your mom is giving up. She is accepting the fact that she will never be a good mother, no matter how much she wants to be. She wants you to be placed up for adoption.” Cindy turned to the door as Brad walked in. When he came over and sat down beside them, she began speaking again.

“James, Brad and I love you and Jake and Katie very much. I’ve looked into it, and made sure that it is legal for a social worker to adopt one of their clients. Your mom said she couldn’t think of anyone else she would like you to be with. All that is waiting is your approval.”

James stared at her in shock, “Are you serious?” he whispered.

Brad spoke up, “This isn’t normal procedure, but Cindy and I thought it would be a good idea.” Cindy wiped tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. Then James realized he was crying again as well.

“I can’t think of anyone I would rather have to be my parents.” James couldn’t believe it. The very thing he had been dreaming about, almost ever since he had met this amazing couple, had just come true. He stood and let himself be enveloped in Cindy’s embrace.

t

Friday, November 28, 1941Arthur sat down at his lunch table, alone, as usual. After

fifteen years, Arthur had given up trying to fit in. Slowly, he began munching his sandwich. Perfection incarnate. Well, at least to him. He had made it himself, just like every other day.

“Hey, um, is anyone sitting here?” Arthur looked up. A girl was standing there with a lunch tray. He vaguely recog-nized her. She had just come over from the mainland. He thought her name was Cathy something. She was actually quite pretty, large brown eyes and glossy black hair. Pale, so she was probably a Navy kid, like Arthur.

“No, that’s fine,” he said. Cathy sat down across from him.

“My name’s Cathy,” she said. “My family just moved here from Ohio.”

Drake’s Blood

Malachi Dunn

t

Malachi Dunn

7

“Arthur,” he replied, “I’m from a few miles east.”“So,” she began, taking a bite of an apple, “have you been

going here for a long time?”“For about three years,”Arthur replied, taking another

bite out of his sandwich.“I got here a few days ago,” Cathy said. “So, what’s it

like around here?”“For me, or other people?” Arthur asked, taking a Pop-

Tart from his lunchbox.She laughed, “Aw, man, I love Pop-Tarts,” gazing avidly

at the Pop-Tart.“I have an extra,” Arthur replied, taking another package

from his lunchbox and handing it to her.“It’s not a good trade, but here’s some banana bread. I

don’t like it too much, but my mom’s been making it every day since we got here,” Cathy said, pulling a small package from her box.

“Deal,” Arthur replied.“So, going back to your original question,” Arthur said,

“there’s the football stadium downtown, a couple of teams are currently competing, and there’s a museum of natural history about nine miles that way,” he pointed vaguely in the general direction. “It’s probably got the most fascinating collection of dinosaur bones in the state.”

“You use a lot of big words,” Cathy noted, a slight smile on her face. “Why’s that?”

Arthur flushed slightly.“I was home schooled for most of my life,” he admitted,

“but, when my mom died three years ago, my dad couldn’t take the time out of his job to keep teaching me.”

Drake’s Blood

8

“I’m so sorry,” Cathy said.Arthur shrugged. “I don’t like to talk about it that much.”A snide, singsong voice came from behind him. “Ah, is

the little twerp too shy?”Arthur recognized the voice—Pete Johnson, one of the

cruelest and most stupid bullies he had ever encountered. In all his fifteen years of life, Arthur had rarely wanted to put someone in his place. Pete was one of the exceptions.

“Lay off him,” Cathy rebuked the bully, standing up and pushing her bench back. She was only as high as Pete’s chest. The behemoth smirked.

“The little twerp gots a girlfriend,” he crooned. “Well, since she asked so nicely, I’ll catch you later.” He lumbered off, a few of his cohorts following after him.

“I hope someone flattens him like a hamburger,” Arthur muttered, “shows him how it feels to be small.”

“Not too likely,” Cathy replied, glancing distastefully after the bully.

“I can hope, can’t I?” Arthur replied, “Anyway, it’s not likely his gang will follow a hamburger.”

Cathy giggled. “You’re funny, Arthur,” she remarked. Just then the bell rang. “Sorry, got to go,” Cathy said. “See you later.”

“Sure,” Arthur replied picking up his bag. After school, as Arthur walked down the sidewalk to

his house, he thought about the day’s encounter. Currently, he was lugging a stuffed and heavy backpack. It was mostly from his schoolbooks, and the rest of the weight was his homework. All his life he had been the small kid that got picked on more often than not. It wasn’t because he wore

Malachi Dunn

9

glasses, or the fact that he was a nerd. No, it was just because he was different than the other boys.

“Why can’t they find somebody else to pick on?” Arthur muttered, shifting his pack to ride more comfortably between his shoulders. “There are other smaller boys,” he continued, “But no, those bullies want to pick on me.”

A large white van screeched up to the curb, and someone in a black trench coat grabbed Arthur and stuffed him in the car. He tried to struggle, but someone pressed a foul smelling rag into his face, and he blacked out.

Arthur woke up inside a large circular room bathed in bright lights. People in sterile white lab coats bustled around, examining what looked like dinosaur bones. Arthur tried to get up, but found that he was strapped to a lab table in the middle of the room. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the nurses walk over to him. At least, Arthur assumed she was a nurse. Arthur noticed she was holding a notebook in her hand.

“You’re going to be fine. Arthur, isn’t it?” she asked.“What’s going on?” Arthur demanded, struggling against

his restraints. “Where the heck am I?”“You’re currently in a secure facility far away from your

home,” the nurse replied. She smiled slightly, “You probably don’t understand most of what I said, do you?”

“I do,” Arthur replied defensively.“Well, if you do, then I’ll just continue, shall I?” the

doctor continued. “Right now, we are testing a new experi-mental genetic process, and you are one of the subjects.”

“Why me?” Arthur asked. “Is it because I was the most available kid on the block?”

Drake’s Blood

10

“Not quite,” the nurse replied, writing something down on her notebook. “You have a unique genetic makeup that makes you aptly suited for the process.”

“Let me go, please,” Arthur pleaded. “I’m sure you can find someone else.”

“Not really,” the nurse replied, taking something from her lab coat. “You might want to brace yourself, this might sting a little.”

“What—ow!” Arthur exclaimed, feeling a syringe enter his arm.

“That anesthetic will deaden your body so this will be as painless as possible,” she continued, slipping the syringe back into her coat. Arthur’s head bobbed loosely. Whatever the drug was, it was powerful. He could already feel himself going under. Then something, not a syringe, more like a tooth, was pushed into his arm. Arthur screamed. The pain was excruciating, even with the anesthetic. Arthur kept on screaming, coughed up something red, then blacked out.

jAlani got back from driving around town looking for

her nephew to find him lying asleep on the porch. Arthur wasn’t wearing a shirt, and he was missing his backpack. Alani hurriedly parked the car and rushed toward Arthur. He was asleep, like he was in some kind of coma.

“Thank you,” Alani prayed, “Thank you, God. Thank you.”

She began helping Arthur up, only to have him sag. After a few seconds, his eyes fluttered open.

Malachi Dunn

11

“Aunt Alani,” he said, “where am I?”“Hush, now,” she commanded. “We’ve been looking for

you for ten days. Where have you been?”Arthur shook his head as if to clear away hazy memories.

“That’s not right,” he muttered, “I remember just coming home from school.”

“Well, we’ll just get you inside,” Alani said comfortingly. She had believed that her nephew had run away, and that thought hadn’t totally gone off her list of probabilities. How-ever, it wasn’t like Arthur to run away. As they went up the steps of their porch, Arthur began to regain his strength and walked up the stairs on his own. At the door, though, Arthur sagged, looking sick.

“What is it?” Alani asked, concerned.Arthur grunted and shook his head. “I’m not sure. I feel

sick, though.”“Then you’d better get yourself rested,” Alani said firm-

ly, helping him to his bedroom and tucking him in. He began shivering immediately after he got into bed. She left him alone to rest and went back to the car. She had to tell David that his son was okay. The man had been working day and night for the past few weeks, keeping the battleships in perfect condition. When David heard that his son had gone missing a week and a half ago, he had been grief stricken and had requested a leave of absence to look for him. Now she could tell him that Arthur was all right.

Where had Arthur gone, anyway? That thought repeat-edly played through her mind. He disappeared for ten days and then turned up at her doorstep looking as if he had been mugged. Maybe he would tell her in the morning. If not, it

Drake’s Blood

12

was probably because the experience was too traumatizing for him to remember. She wouldn’t press him; either way, it was his to talk about if he wanted to do so.

jDecember 7, 1941Arthur opened his eyes and looked around. His room was

not what he had been expecting, but he couldn’t remember what he had been expecting. In fact, he couldn’t remember anything after he left for school. He didn’t know why or how that had happened, but, now that he was home, he wouldn’t let that plague him unduly. As he got out of bed, his stomach grumbled.

Arthur was in no mood to argue with his stomach. After he had dressed and opened his bedroom door, he found himself swept up in a bear hug.

“Hey, kid,” his dad said. Arthur hugged his dad back and found that he could easily lift the larger man up. Dad looked surprised as his feet left the ground, but no more than Arthur. His dad had always been a large man; it came from long years as a military mechanic, but Arthur had never been able to pick his dad up. He wasn’t even breaking a sweat.

“Wow,” Dad exclaimed, as Arthur set him down. “What happened? Did you juice up or something?”

Arthur shook his head. “Honestly,” he replied, “I don’t remember anything after leaving the school.”

“You’ve been gone for over a week,” Dad said. “We thought you might have run away or been kidnapped.”

Malachi Dunn

13

Arthur shook his head. “That can’t be right. I remember walking home from school.”

Dad clapped him on the shoulder. “I won’t press you,” he promised. “If you say your mind is a blank, then I believe you.” He looked at the clock on Arthur’s bedside table. “I’d better get going,” he said, “or I’ll be late. There’s been some kind of internal problem on the Arizona,” Dad explained. “The boiler’s acting up, so it’s all hands on deck for the moment. Problems don’t wait on your timetable, they hit you when they feel like it.”

“Okay,” Arthur sighed. “I hope that it isn’t too bad.”Dad smiled and hugged him. “Take care of yourself while

I’m gone,” he said. “I’ll see you for dinner.”Arthur hugged his dad again and watched him go

through the door with his kit on his back. He went to the kitchen to put together some breakfast. The pantry wasn’t well stocked: a loaf of bread, a half-empty jar of cinnamon, a bag of powdered sugar, some eggs, and a carton of milk in the cooler. Arthur looked at the assorted ingredients and nodded; he knew exactly what to make: french toast, one of his personal favorites. When Arthur reached up on tiptoes to grab the powdered sugar, a puff of white sugar drifted from the top and he accidentally got some up his nose.

He sneezed violently. Fire streamed from his mouth, coating the floor in smoldering flame. Arthur yelled and grabbed a towel. As he beat the flames, they licked over the towel and his hands, yet he didn’t feel the heat of the flames; it was like a pleasant warm breeze. Finally, Arthur managed to put out the flames with minimal damage to the floor, just a few scorch marks.

Drake’s Blood

14

Frantic, Arthur considered what had just happened. He had sneezed and a stream of fire had come out of his mouth. He wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it. The lack of heat from the fire was odd. It was almost as if he had placed his hands near a warm, soft surface rather than directly into a fire. He ran his hands through his hair. People did not sneeze fireballs.

He shook his head vehemently. It didn’t matter right now. He could figure it out later. Right now, he had to get some food in his stomach. Carefully, he lathered the powdered sugar over the french toast, making sure that he didn’t sniff any of the powder. He used breakfast as an excuse to stop thinking about what had happened.

The toast was perfectly prepared. Arthur had always helped his mother prepare the food for the family meals, and now that she was gone and his father was usually gone from 6:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m., it was usually his job to make his own meals. Today was unusual though. What kind of damage had his father meant? There were any number of things that could happen on a cruiser, but, for some reason, Arthur had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He thought about turning on the television to see what programs were playing, but it didn’t feel like the right thing to do. Arthur closed his eyes and leaned back on the couch. A piece of memory clicked into place. It was unclear and the colors were wrong, but he felt that it was true.

He was sitting in a chair, not strapped down, feeling a comfortable heat inside his stomach. He opened his mouth slightly, letting his tongue roam over his slightly curved fangs. The last few days had been devoted to learning to control his

Malachi Dunn

15

new abilities; now he was in full control. He didn’t know why this had been done to him, but he knew that this was some-thing amazing that he couldn’t have gotten by himself. He heard people talking outside the room. His hearing had been improved significantly since the experiments. Carefully, he listened in.

“I’m not sure that Arthur is ready.” Arthur recognized the voice as Dr. Erwin, who had administered his treatment. “Mr. President. . .” Arthur was startled. F. D. R. knew about this? This was a government program? Arthur felt sick. He clenched his fists and allowed his lips to peel back from his fangs in a snarl of rage. Dr. Erwin continued, “If what you say is true—”

“It is, Doctor,” a strong male voice cut in. “The Japanese plan to bomb Pearl Harbor on the 7th so we will be unable to combat an encroachment movement that will encompass the entire Pacific. Even if I wanted to, there is no way to send reinforcements, and this boy might give us an opportunity to halt the Japanese intentions.”

“You’ll still be putting him in terrible danger,” Erwin protested. “Mr. President, he’s simply not ready.”

“He’s able to give knowledge transfers, or whatever you call it,” the President said. “That could be enough. You’ve already injected blood samples into a large number of subjects that have, for better or worse, been extremely effective in controlling their powers.”

“There’s no telling whether or not they’ll be at the Harbor,” Erwin insisted, “we can’t risk them.”

“If we don’t risk our investment,” Roosevelt replied, “thousands could die. If we do, then hundreds of lives will be saved, maybe even thousands. We have to do this.”

Drake’s Blood

16

Arthur had heard enough. He stood up and prepared to transform, but something struck his arm and he blacked out.

Arthur came out of the dream knowing what he had to do. The Japanese were going to bomb Pearl Harbor, and the only chance of stopping them from killing hundreds of innocent people hinged on Arthur getting control over his new powers. He remembered something important; his father was at Pearl Harbor, probably in the line of fire. Quickly, he checked the clock, 7:27. He might still have some time.

He had to reach the harbor before the Japanese arrived. If he didn’t get there in time, a lot of people were going to die. Arthur dashed out of the house and ran toward the harbor. He found that his speed was a lot faster than a human being should be able to manage. Arthur redoubled his speed, pushing himself to reach his destination before the carnage began.

When he reached the harbor and saw the battleships, Arthur thought that he had gotten there in time. Instead, he was the first to see the initial bomb collide with the Arizona. The shock wave of the bomb felt like a physical blow to his stomach. Arthur looked up and saw dozens of Japanese bombers beginning to unload their bombs onto the ships in the bay. Arthur felt sick; there were so many of them. He couldn’t possibly hope to fight that many planes. It was impossible. He shook himself and, gritting his teeth, he tried to transform. Nothing happened. Arthur cursed, ran to the dockside, and dove into the water. Several men were trying to get away from the sinking carrier. Some of the men had sustained extremely terrible injuries, making

Malachi Dunn

17

their progress to shore dangerously slow. Arthur grabbed two and ferried them to shore. After several minutes, an-other bomb struck the harbor, this time much closer to Arthur. He turned around just as the shrapnel struck his chest.

So this is how it feels to die, he thought as he began to sink. All this for nothing.

No, it wasn’t all for nothing. He would not let these people die. The shrapnel was pushed from his chest and fell into the darkness below, the wounds knitting themselves up instantly. Arthur closed his eyes and bared his teeth. The transformation began. Snarling, he moved his arms and rocketed from the water—a massive red dragon, complete with wings, tail, and bad temper. Arthur roared and spat fire at the Japanese fighters. Six exploded and took several oth-ers, but there were still more fighters to smash. Arthur flapped his wings and sped upward, feeling so strong that he could move a mountain without trying. The fighters were fast, but Arthur was even faster. With his clawed feet, he grabbed and hurled the bombs at their original owners.

Out of nowhere, a dozen faster aircrafts with machine guns began shooting at him. Arthur growled and hurled a fireball at them, but the jets dodged adroitly. One of the missiles struck his stomach, exploding with a force that would have killed something without his enhanced healing ability. Nevertheless, he began to plummet to the ground. It wasn’t the water that broke his fall; it was one of the cruisers, ready to fire on the planes bombarding the harbor. He crashed hard, landing right in the middle of the deck.

“Careful, lads,” Arthur heard someone say. “That thing’s

Drake’s Blood

18

on our side. It took out a dozen of the raiders all on its own, and it might take your arm off if you try to touch it.” Despite his fall, Arthur grinned. At least he had done some good. Not enough, but still better than he could have expected. Arthur growled and heaved himself upright. He roared, loud and long. To his surprise, other roars joined his—not the roars of humans, but the roars of dragons. Arthur looked around to see that at least a hundred people on the docks, on the cruisers, and even a few in the water were now dragons.

The other dragons took off into the sky, ready to join the battle. Arthur’s injuries were quickly healing. He growled, unfurled his wings, and shot into the sky like a scaly bullet. The dragons had already engaged the Japanese fighters. Fireballs and bullets were flying almost constantly across the morning sky. Arthur smashed into one of the jets and began tearing through the underside with his titanium-hard fangs. The plane began to lose altitude, but Arthur had a plan. As the plane fell, he began guiding it toward a large squad of fighters facing off with a group of dragons. Arthur guided the bomber toward the Japanese and then flared his wings. The dragons saw the bomber coming toward them and disengaged. The Japanese were not so fortunate. The bombs exploded, creating a massive chain reaction that took out a good half of the remaining fighters. The Japanese were beginning to see that they had no chance in this fight. They tried to circle away from the battle, but the dragons descend-ed on them like vengeful thunderbolts. Only about fifty of the original force escaped the wrath of the dragons.

Arthur bellowed his triumph to the skies, daring any force that the universe had to offer to challenge him and his

Malachi Dunn

19

brethren. They were unstoppable. Arthur turned to look down at the people on the docks. They were all staring at the massive beasts circling above them. Arthur felt a pang of sadness as he saw that he hadn’t been totally successful. Several buildings had been destroyed, killing everyone inside. There were so many corpses. Arthur looked down and saw something familiar. He gasped. Oh no, no. He dived, gently seized a survivor, and carried him to one of the less damaged ships.

His father was clutching his side, where a huge piece of shrapnel protruded through his shirt. It was a miracle he had survived this long. Arthur transformed back to his human form and cradled his father in his arms.

“Hey, kid,” his dad gasped, opening his eyes a fraction. “Did you see those dragons? They were amazing.”

“I know,” Arthur said, tears running down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I should have come sooner.”

“You couldn’t have done anything about it,” his dad said, patting his arm weakly. “Arthur, I’m off to see your mother. I’ll give her your love.”

With those last words, he breathed one final rasping gurgle and moved no more. Arthur screamed. All this effort, all this pain, and he had failed to save his own father. What was the point of going on if his father was dead? Arthur transformed and leaped into the sky, roaring his sorrow to the world. His dragons joined with him. There was no doubt that they were of one mind, and they would take their revenge on those who had so treacherously attacked them.

Arthur thought grimly, I have to pay a visit.

Drake’s Blood

20

jFranklin Delano Roosevelt wheeled his chair through

his office door. A few days had passed since the attack on Pearl Harbor. The reports were of strange creatures attacking the Japanese and inflicting heavy casualties. Franklin sighed as he settled back into his chair. At least his sins were bearing good fruit; those creatures had saved lives and had prevented a great deal of damage to the United States. Suddenly, he became aware of another person standing in the corner. At first he was convinced of an assassin, but the figure raised its hands.

The figure spoke, “I thought that it might be best to keep this between the two of us, Mr. President.”

FDR carefully slid his pistol from behind his chair to under the blanket covering his legs. The man, more a boy really, glanced down and smiled slightly. He had slightly lighter coloring than a negro, but it wasn’t quite a normal tan either.

“That little toy of yours wouldn’t do you any good if I stupidly decided to kill you,” the intruder remarked. “I think that you have a number of things to explain, Mr. President.”

“I don’t quite follow.” The young man’s eyes hardened then changed, becom-

ing yellow slits. Comprehension dawned on Franklin and he placed the gun on the table. “I see,” he said, “well, I suppose I do owe you that much.”

“Why did you do it?” the young man asked. “Why?”Franklin folded his hands. “Because the United States

Malachi Dunn

21

had to enter the war,” he replied calmly. “Tensions between the US, Germany, and Japan have been boiling for too long. The last straw was when I received intelligence that an attack was coming from the Japanese. I knew only one of the targets, Pearl Harbor. A few other possibilities were on the table as well, but I couldn’t take the risk of a wild goose chase.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I needed some type of weapon, and I believe that I found it in you and your fellows.”

The young man grimaced. “How did the experiments work?” he asked.

“It actually started with one individual, a young boy, the son of one of the mechanics aboard the Arizona,” Franklin replied. “Apparently, this young man was somehow able to absorb the genetic material inside of a recently uncovered fossilized tooth that was revealed to be something akin to the mythical creatures known as dragons. After that, his blood, or his bite, could change a person into a shapeshifter like himself.”

“All right,” the young man said grudgingly. “I still think that you took a horrible risk.”

“I can’t say I blame you,” Franklin replied honestly, “but I think that demanding explanations of me isn’t the only reason you came here.”

The young man folded his arms. “We will fight for the Allies,” he said coldly. “Not for you, but for the forces of good, but we want something in exchange.”

“And that would be a cure, I assume,” Franklin remarked.The young man shook his head. “No,” he said, “we want

our existence erased from history. No record, no matter how classified, ever stays private after a century or two. We want

Drake’s Blood

22

all of the data, research, and documents even remotely men-tioning us destroyed. Make the record say that Pearl Harbor was more heavily damaged than it actually was. Have any reports involving us destroyed. We will fight, but, after the war, we’re going to disappear, never to be seen again.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Franklin replied. “If people found out about you, you’d probably never have any peace.”

“We will always be outsiders,” the young man agreed. “If people don’t know what we are, then we can assimilate within normal society.”

“I agree to your terms,” Franklin said, extending a hand.The young man looked down at the hand distastefully.

“Goodbye, Mr. President,” he said, then leaped through the window. Franklin watched as a massive leathery silhouette rose into the sky and disappeared against the stars.

t

Once, in a land tucked into the crevice of a mountain range and bordered by an extensive sea, there lived a well-known and beloved storyteller. Despite his wracking old age, the elderly man was known to travel all about this tiny province, visiting anyone who requested his presence. One day, the Storyteller was stopping by an out-of-the-way town, forgotten or ignored by most passersby, when he noticed a young man watching him from the middle of a field filled with cattle. With a genuine smile that would have warmed the most frigid of hearts, the Storyteller waved the young man forward. Hesitantly, the boy approached, twiddling a worn cap in his work-calloused hands.

“No need to be so timid, lad,” the Storyteller laughed hoarsely when the nervous young man finally reached him. “Come, sit down and tell me a story.”

The elderly gentlemen gestured to a patch of particularly

Everyone’s Story

Jessica Holcombe

t

Everyone’s Story

24

thick grass near the side of the wagon worn road and, with more than one groan, eased himself to the comfortable ground. The boy watched him with fascinated eyes, spherical as the orbs that circulated the sky, but made no indication of joining the Storyteller.

“Well, are you going to join me or did I go to all the work of sitting down only to learn that you wished to have the pleasure of staring at me moon-eyed?” the Storyteller asked in good humor.

The boy resumed toying with the frayed edges of his hat before speaking, “You asked me to tell you a story. I don’t understand. You’re the Storyteller. I’ve heard about you from nearly every traveler that happens to stumble upon our village and yet you asked me to tell you a story.”

“I don’t recall asking you to tell me a story,” the man observed while scratching the gray stubble near the edge of his chin, “I believe I told you to tell me one. There is a very large difference between asking and telling, my dear lad.”

Scarlet-cheeked, the boy turned away. “If you wish for an exciting story, I don’t have any. I’m the lowest of the low here in my village. I lost my parents at a young age and was forced to become a thief, which earned me general distaste amongst the people. It was only after I was offered a job of watching cattle all day that I quit my unfortunate habits, but I’m still not trusted by anyone here. The women scorn me and the men give me the most disapproving looks a person can possibly muster. The girls in my village take after their parents and treat me in the same manner, but the boys prefer to mock me. They’ll often come and scatter the cattle, so I have to chase them all over the pastures, and, more often

Jessica Holcombe

25

than not, I return with one less than when I started and get a good cuff over the ears for it. No, I’m not an intelligent or creative genius like you. I don’t create tales of great heroes saving damsels in distress from any assortment of creatures. I’m no storyteller.”

The older man analyzed the boy as he finished his ex-planation, making note of the hair, too long for its own good, falling into curious eyes that watched from a dirt smudged face with a sun dappled nose and slightly swollen ears.

After a brief observation, the Storyteller shook his head, “It seems, lad, that you have held onto one grievous habit that undoubtedly emerged during your stealing days.”

“What would that be?” the young man’s face fell in alarm at the unexpected assertion from the Storyteller.

“You have blatantly lied to my very face. It isn’t good to fib to one’s elders—very impolite,” the old man responded with an even tone of voice.

A cavern formed between the youth’s furrowed eyebrows and trouble gripped the edges of his mouth, weighing them downward, “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t seem to understand a great deal, young man. If you’d open your eyes, perhaps you’d be able to see your own lies.” Once more, with an age gnarled hand, he patted the earth beside him, “Come, now I will tell you a story. I do believe you will recognize this one.”

The boy obeyed with a baffled sigh and listened as the epic began.

“Once, in a village known only by a choice few, there lived a notorious thief. Indeed, this young man was well known for his skill at picking a pocket and swiping an apple

Everyone’s Story

26

or two. He was hated by the people of his village for his unbeatable skill and was banished to the fields to keep watch over the townspeople’s most precious collection of cattle whose fine meat could feed their entire population for years and years. The boy took his job very seriously, not wanting to gain more animosity from the people he truly longed to be a part of, but the dreaded goblins from the east wished for nothing more than for the poor thief to be miserable. They would run amongst the livestock, snapping at them with sharp little teeth and frightening the poor creatures until they were scattered about the entire expanse of the land. Undaunted by the task, the young man would travel about until all the cattle returned safely; however, those nasty goblins would always sneak away with one of the cows while the boy roamed the countryside. The people, not understand-ing all the work the boy went through to gather the livestock, angrily beat him when they found one missing. They had the sheer audacity to believe that a good soul like him, who had turned his back on his thieving ways, would steal one of their precious livestock.”

“This continued for months until, one day, the boy saw the strangest of sights. A rickety old man passed along the road beside the field where the boy stood watch. Waving a wrinkled hand, the man asked the young man to join him on the ground. You see, the elder was weary from his travels and wanted to hear a fantastical story before he continued on his way. However, this thief-no-more was no fool and, despite the traveler’s kindly appearance, feared he might be one of those horrid goblins in disguise. With wary hands, he took his cap off and rubbed it between his fingers to

Jessica Holcombe

27

release a magic dust he had gathered on his travels that would reveal the true identity of the traveler.”

“Once the young man was sure that the gentleman was human, he engaged him in tense conversation, still worried for the safety of his cattle. After a few moments of speak-ing, they found themselves sitting on the ground together enjoying a festival of stories in which one would tell the other of their adventures across the land. And then, well, I don’t quite know what happens next. What do you think of what I have so far?”

The youth’s face hardened into a stoned expression, “Why you’re nothing but a liar! You called me one, but you’re the real one here!”

“And where did you get that idea, young man?”“That was my life you just told, but you made it all

fantastical and exciting. More than what it is. I’m not infa-mous, the boys who chase my cattle are certainly not goblins, the cows are not special in any way, shape, or form and I don’t care to be a part of my village.”

The elderly man gingerly rose to his feet, “Then, it’s settled.”

Frowning, the boy stood after him, “What’s settled?”“You’ll be my apprentice. You say you have no promise

as a storyteller, but I can see a little talent in you. All it needs is a bit of stewardship and it can grow into something great. We leave as soon as possible for the king’s palace. I’ve been summoned there and would like to arrive promptly.”

“I—I can’t just leave!” The youth stammered, following the Storyteller as he strode calmly towards the all-but-de-serted town, “Who will watch the cattle?”

Everyone’s Story

28

“One of those naughty boys you told me about.”The boy grimaced, “But what abou—”His sentence was cut off as the hunched pantaloon turned

and met his eyes, “My dear boy, why in the world do you want to stay here? Are you so attached to what you’re familiar with that you are not willing to have a little adventure?”

“An adventure?”“Indeed, lots of traveling and plenty of stories to tell,”

continued the Storyteller in a whimsical and distant tone of voice. “People of all different backgrounds, all with wonder-ful stories hidden in the deepness of their hearts.”

A snort escaped the youth involuntarily, “You mean tales to twist?”

“I think you’ll find that all the best stories ring with the truth of the trials and triumphs of real human souls,” came the calm reply with an amusing sparkle in the eye. “And there is no harm in adding the mystical to real life. Sometimes that is exactly what people need to make it through the day: a little bit of fantasy to help them distinguish the reality in their life.”

The newly made apprentice nodded slowly, even though he didn’t exactly understand what his master meant. After he had explained the situation to his former superior, the Storyteller and his apprentice set out for the king’s palace, all the while traveling on an out-of-the-way, unpaved path-way.

They had been traveling several days when they came across an old shanty town even more neglected than the boy’s former home. The apprentice assumed they would pass by the rundown village, but, instead, his master turned and led

Jessica Holcombe

29

the way directly into the plaza of the area. Few inhabitants populated the market and the ones who did glared under suspicious brows at the two unfamiliar characters. With a smile, the elderly storyteller waved over a middle aged farm-er with dirt blackening his face and thick calloused hands that hung from work chiseled arms.

“Might I be of some sorta service to yuh?” the burly worker’s voice, despite the accent it clung to, was pleasant sounding and seemed to tell a hidden tale of its origins. “Are yuh lost er something? The nearest town is quite a’ways from here.”

The Storyteller chuckled, “No, we are not lost. I was actually wondering if you could tell me about this village and about your life in particular. You see, I am a teller of tales and am interested in hearing yours.”

“Mine? Well, there ain’t much to say about meh. I’m just a farmer. ‘Ave been since I was a tot. Meh daddy taught me how to sow and water and weed and fertilize a field byin’ the time I was just three years old,” the man replied, scratching the back of his head and waving his sweat streaked face with an old leather hat. “Meh momma taught me a whole bunch o’ songs to sing while I work, and I married meh sweetheart and now we got three little ones we call our own, but there’s nuthin’ much to meh.”

The story gatherer indicated for them all to take a seat in a shaded patch of earth, “Do tell me how your farm is doing.”

The question seemed to surprise the farmer, “Well, it’s doing right well if I do say so myself. The soil’s been mighty kind and yielded me nearly twice what it has other folks.”

Everyone’s Story

30

“What do you think causes such bounty?” The youthful apprentice frowned at his master’s persistent questioning.

The burly man smiled bashfully and pulled his brimmed hat down over his ears, “If I’m to be honest sir. . . no, you’ll think it silly.”

“My good man, I am a storyteller—silly is what I live for.”“Very well then, if I am to be honest, I think my singin’

has a bit to do with it. No one goes out and a’sings to their field, just me. I think the earth hears meh singin’ and just bursts with life!”

The elderly gentleman chuckled and nodded in under-standing, “I wouldn’t be surprised if that was true. There is something magical about a good song sung by an honest, hardworking man. Thank you for taking the time to speak to two strangers such as ourselves. Could you by chance tell us where we might find an inn where we could get a good meal?”

“We don’t have no inn, but you all are welcome to come to meh home. We’ve plenty to share and a guest room where you both can rest.” The farmer stood and led the way before any protestations could be formulated.

The kind gentleman’s house was a humble cottage with a healthy field surrounding it and two hearty boys with a toddling girl running about its perimeter. In a garden just to the right of the snug abode was a rather plump woman with a beaming face and bright, attentive eyes.

“Pap! Pap’s home!” The children raised the alarm and dashed to their father who scooped them up into his large arms. Curious eyes, peeping out from behind broad shoulders, fixed steadily on the Storyteller and his young companion, “Who’s the old man and the other boy?”

Jessica Holcombe

31

“Now, kids,” their father exclaimed, setting them all on the ground. “Is that any way to talk to new folks, especially those older than yuhrself ? Now go and show these folks yuh can be good, proper children.”

The two older boys hung back shyly, but the fumbling little girl stumbled forward and offered a tiny hand of friend-ship that was accepted by the two newcomers. Her elder siblings followed after, given courage by their sister’s boldness, and the last was the mother who had been tottering her way over. Once introductions and explanations had been settled, they retreated into a home of laughter, overflowing with singing and storytelling, the latter proving to be a great joy for the raconteur to engage in.

Once the appetites of the youth and his master were satisfied, they started off once more after being thoroughly supplied with food. The youth didn’t say anything, but he wished to stay more than anything. It had been an unfamiliar pleasure to be in such a loving environment with people who cared for anyone that passed through their small expanse.

A few short days of travel followed, however, they were enough to wear a good-sized hole through the soles of the apprentice’s already worn shoes. When they entered the immense kingdom, despite the insistence that his feet were fine, the first place they stopped was the cobbler’s shop to get the youth’s footwear mended.

“They don’t need any mending,” the young man grumbled as he and the Storyteller sat at a petite table in the corner of the shoemaker’s shop. “I’ve got tough feet; this isn’t the first time I’ve had damaged shoes. You should have simply let me go barefoot.”

Everyone’s Story

32

His companion sighed and gave a crotchety reply, “If I had wanted you to go barefoot, then I would have let you go as you wish, but, as you can clearly tell, I do not wish that upon the boy who I have claimed as my apprentice. Besides, we are meeting the king and I don’t think it would be very appropriate to show off your toes, as wonderful as they may be, to royalty.”

Despite himself, the young man smiled and even let the hints of laughter escape his normally caged expression of stoicism, “What story are you going to tell the king?”

“I’m not quite sure. I am never positive what story I will tell before I start telling it,” was the reply.

This response made the young man’s brows furrow into a befuddled formation, “You don’t plan at all what you’re going to say? You follow your whims wherever they may go?”

“No, no,” the tale teller replied with a laugh. “I am always in control of my whims; I tell them where to go and how I’ll use them. They are the paints on my pallet. Though the colors may be unplanned, the skilled hand will always create a masterpiece in the end.”

“I don’t understand wh—,” the apprentice never finished his sentence due to the shoemaker’s interruption.

“Here are your shoes, young man. Good as new. I don’t suspect you’ll have to get them fixed again anytime soon; that’s some special leather there, beaten and dried to its peak of strength. You could walk all over this land, and, by the time you got back, you wouldn’t even have the beginnings of a hole showing through. Not to mention your feet will feel as though heaven has wrapped your feet in its gentle cloth!”

“Thank you very much, good sir,” the Storyteller said

Jessica Holcombe

33

with a smile and handed the amount of currency needed to pay for the shoes.

“You’re the Storyteller, aren’t you? No charge for such a prestigious figure,” the cobbler said, raising his hands in denial of the coinage.

The elderly man chuckled and set the money on the table. “I am only a man who sees a bit differently. No need to make special exceptions for me.”

Indeed, the shoes were comfortable, a fact begrudgingly admitted by the grim youth as they strode through the busy streets of the kingdom. Bodies pushed against them and the air was filled with the calamitous cries of street vendors and their customers, asking what one thing was and how much another cost and how beautiful this object was, but how much better its more expensive sister product was. The scenes, scents, and sights were all unfamiliar to the apprentice who stared bulge-eyed at the world around him, but the Story-teller pushed onward without much hesitation.

Only once they reached the center of town where a gaudy fountain garnished with statues of the kings of the past did the raconteur depart from his course. The sudden switch forced his young apprentice to shove through crowds of people in order to keep up with the surprisingly crowd-nim-ble elder. When the apprentice finally caught his master, he was disappointed to find the old man conversing with a young flower girl, no older than himself, most likely a year or so younger.

“These are daffodils and these ones are called snap dragons because they have similar looks to the mythological creatures.” She indicated each floral species on her cart as

Everyone’s Story

34

she spoke their names, “These are tulips. These are forget-me-nots, said to replenish the memory of anyone who sniffs them.”

“What are these ones?” The Storyteller pointed at a small patch of flowers near the back of the cart, hidden from immediate glances and only apparent to those who actually took the time to look.

The girl seemed genuinely surprised, but pleased, at the attention the dead looking florets received. “Those are my favorite flowers. They’re called nightfall candles because they only bloom at night when the moon shines on them. When they do bloom, they release a soft glow from all the sunlight they’ve gathered during the day, but, because they are closed up and look wilted in sunlight, no one really likes them. Not to mention, they are rather difficult flowers to find, so few people even bother to gather and sell them, but I’d go over mountains, across seas and through swamps to get them.”

“I’ll take one,” the Storyteller said.“Y—you really want one?” The girl asked excitedly,

gently selecting one from the secreted patch and holding it out to the Storyteller.

He reached for his coin purse, “How much do I owe you young lady?”

“No charge.”This made the aging eyebrows of the author of words

rise, “This wouldn’t be because I’m a well-known storyteller?”“No, sir,” the girl replied, smiling faintly. “You’re the only

person to have ever bought a nightfall candle from me. The greatest payment you could give me would be to take good care of it.”

Jessica Holcombe

35

“It will be safe with me.”With that, they started away and the apprentice glanced

over his shoulder and smiled wanly as the girl produced a happy wave. He asked, “Why have you stopped to speak to these people? The farmer, the cobbler, the flower girl, me? Why us?”

“Have you ever heard of nightfall candles?”Confused the boy responded, “No. Why do you ask?”The elderly man didn’t reply, and they soon found them-

selves being welcomed at the palace gates. Guards in silver- plated armor led them eagerly through the vast halls of the king’s castle until they entered the exquisitely detailed throne room. On a mahogany carved throne resided the king and at his side was the queen and several of the king’s children. The sides of the room were crowded with the many nobles of the court. The tickle of all the stares made the Storytell-er’s apprentice squirm, but together they took a seat on two chairs set up in the center of the chamber.

The king drew all the attention of the crowd as he rose from his seat, “I am very pleased that you were able to safely arrive, master Storyteller. Please, do entertain us with one of your tales. We have been eager to see you ever since I sent word that I wished for your presence.”

“Of course, good king. Please, have a seat so that you may listen comfortably to the story of a thief from a far off land.” The king obediently did as suggested and even his young children settled to listen to the booming voice, which did not seem to match the fragile frame of the maturing man. “Once, in a land tucked in by a mountainous expanse, there was a long forgotten village where a notorious thief

Everyone’s Story

36

made his home. His unfortunate choice of occupation made him an unfavorable part of the community, but at heart the young man was rather gentle and really did wish to be accepted, though he never showed it.

“To lighten the gravity put on his name, he took charge over the village’s most prized cattle, but terrible goblins, who delighted in torturing the young man, would scatter and steal the cattle from the poor boy. Thus, his name grew blacker and uglier despite his efforts to change. He was offered a chance of true redemption, however, when an elderly wizard wandered along his path one sunny afternoon.

“‘Excuse me, young man!’ The wizard wheezed, ‘Have you by chance ever seen a flower of deception called nightfall candles?’

“‘No, good wizard, I haven’t,’ replied the boy. ‘I’ve never even heard of such a flower; why do you ask?’ The wizard explained that the ruler of the land had taken ill and was in desperate need of the healing properties that the nightfall candles released under the moonlight. When asked if the boy would aid him on his quest, the boy hesitated but finally agreed and off they went. They traveled many days and, unfortunately, found that their food supply was failing when they happened on what appeared to be an abandoned town. However, a humble farmer and his family did abide in a small cottage and invited the travelers in. They were amazed to see that the farmer’s singing filled their plates with food of the finest quality, and, when it came time for them to depart, a short melody filled their pouches with all the food they needed.

“The young man’s shoes soon grew worn and, despite

Jessica Holcombe

37

the toughness of them, he was in dire need of a new pair. Luckily for the travellers, they met a wandering cobbler who fashioned a pair of shoes that would never wear in the least. This aided them much in their journey, but, alas, they could not find the needed flower. It was only while wandering through a crowded street that a young woman caught the two travelers’ sights and, to their shock, she had a whole patch of nightfall candles. ‘Where did you find these?’ The wizard cried happily.

“‘These?’ The girl asked, ‘I had to go a good distance to get them, over mountains and seas and sorts. They are my favorite flower, but, due to their wilted look, they don’t get much attention from the people. They just haven’t seen how beautiful they can be at night.’

“‘We’ll take one!’ The two companions cheered and rushed to the palace, just in time to save the dying king.

“They were hailed heroes of the nation, but would accept no treasure. They simply went back to their traveling and doing of good deeds.”

An erupting applause sounded, “Wonderful! Absolutely wonderful!”

The Storyteller pulled his apprentice close and whispered in his ear, “You asked me why I spoke to you and the others. Do you understand now?”

It was the youth’s turn to not reply. His only answer was a smile that said he did.

t

My life was perfect. I never had to ask for anything. I never worked hard. I had a couple of troubling school proj-ects, an injury, and a concussion (which is a whole other story), but nothing hard had come up. I had the perfect family: a loving mom, a creative dad, a silly brother, and a playful sister. I even had an adorable dog. I had a big role (not the lead, but a role with lines) in the school play.

Then everything changed.I remember finding my parents talking to our bishop

after church one Sunday. The bishop put a hand on my dad’s shoulder and said, “If that’s what happens, let us know.” My dad nodded. I figured he was getting a new calling, nothing too exciting. The next couple of days passed without anything unusual.

Tuesday, my parents called everyone into the living room. As I walked in, I asked, “Are we in trouble?” in a sarcastic

Pink Ribbons

Sarah Lawrence

t

Sarah Lawrence

39

voice. We all sat around my parents, who looked like they had been crying. I’m not sure how my parents introduced the idea, but I remember Dad saying, “Mom has breast cancer.”

I felt numb. I thought of bald heads and ribbons. I thought of Sister Dayton, a lady in my ward who was still bald from her cancer treatment. I felt as though I knew this was coming, a little. My life was too perfect to not have any challenges. And it was here, in a big way.

I wrote this in my journal the day I found out about Mom’s cancer:

“Today, I found out that my mom has breast cancer. We don’t know if it’s really bad or anything yet. When I f irst heard the news all I could feel was shock. Was this really happening to me? Does my mom have this disease? Then I thought of all of the good things that will come out of it. Maybe I’ll get closer to my family, to the ward, or something awesome like that. I’m already really close to my heavenly father, and I can probably help my family through this. I can do the laundry, I learned how to for one of my projects. I can cook too for my mom! When she’s not feeling well I can help her with dinner.”

I had recently posted my favorite lyrics from the Owl City song “Take to the Sky” on my Google+ page. After the announcement, I decided to add the words “Pink Ribbons.” My status went like this:

“Pink Ribbons Birdseye view, awake the stars ‘cause they’re all around you, Wide eyes will always brighten the blue, Chase your dreams, and remember me, speak bravery, ‘cause after all those wings will take you, up so high, So bid the forest floor goodbye, as you brace the wind and, Take to the sky. . . you take to the sky.”

Pink Ribbons

40

My parents cried when they read my status.The next day, I went to play practice. None of my peers

knew about my mother’s cancer. I felt separated from them. As soon as I saw my sister Katie, I felt like she knew what I was going through. It was a bond that we shared that no one else could understand. I needed to let my emotions out with my sister. We found a quiet place, she laid in my lap, and we both cried.

I spent the rest of the week still in shock. I would often forget that anything had changed, and then I would sudden-ly remember. Oh, right, Mom has cancer. After a while, it stuck.

Over the next couple weeks, my family tried to go off sugar until Mom’s surgery because we felt it would be a little way to combat the cancer. Mom’s doctor was very popular. Her first surgery was scheduled a month after Mom’s diagnosis.

Spring break was both a curse and a blessing: it was a blessing because I wouldn’t be at school worrying all day how my mom was doing, and it was a curse because I was the only person who didn’t want spring break to come. Everyone else was so excited. When one of my teachers remarked that spring break was almost upon us, I wanted to sink into my chair and cry. I felt so separate from everyone else; I was the only one who was going through this.

Our ward fasted and prayed for my mom on the Sunday before her surgery. They all wore pink ribbons. I had never felt so loved by my ward. They even hosted a party after church where they gave her a quilt and a matching bag full of games she could play while at the hospital. My next door

Sarah Lawrence

41

neighbor made us cinnamon bread that day and for several Sundays afterward.

My grandma came for the week of spring break. We played with cousins, went to the Provo Beach Resort, and watched movies. We visited my mom that Wednesday and she seemed alright. She was very tired, but very smiley. When Mom came home, she had scary looking tubes coming out of her. She explained that the tubes transported liquid to and from the bags that she wore at her hip. She also had a breather machine that sounded a lot like Darth Vader.

The day before Easter, my mom saw something wrong, so she called the doctor. She was called in for an emergency surgery that day. Mom and Dad went to the hospital up in Salt Lake. Luckily, our neighbors were having a pre-Easter egg hunt party, so the kids just played at their house. We stayed long after the party just playing games and being silly. Our neighbors had wanted to help because they were my mom’s closest friends. They helped out in a big way. I didn’t have to worry about keeping my siblings entertained. I was worried Mom wouldn’t come home for Easter, and I would have to do the Easter Bunny thing for my sister Ka-tie. After some medication, my mom decided to come home. Dad was the Easter Bunny, and I had nothing to fear.

A couple of weeks later we went to a Race for the Cure event in Salt Lake. It was cool, but a little weird. Breast cancer is not pink ribbons and bald heads. That’s all I thought it was. It was weird because it seemed that, even though my perception of the whole thing had changed, no one else’s idea of breast cancer had changed.

Soon after, my mom began chemotherapy. The first dose

Pink Ribbons

42

was a couple weeks before school got out. I had gone to the dentist with my brother while Mom and Dad were at the hospital. Apparently, chemo takes a couple days for its effects to set in, so my mom seemed like her normal self when she came to the dentist. On Wednesday, though, she got really sick. She couldn’t pick us up from school and asked a neigh-bor to pick us up. It was strange that she was sick again, but we just stayed away from her this time. We didn’t want to bother her.

This is from my journal from that day:“After school we were picked up by Sis. Orton. (Love her!

She is so nice) and we came home to mom almost as bad as after her surgery. It kicked in today.”

Mom got sicker as the weekend came, but after that she got better and better.

The last weeks of school passed quickly. On the last day of school, a guy whose mom had died of breast cancer wrote a note to me about moving forward. It was sweet, and I cried when I read it. I still cry every time I read it. It was great to know that I wasn’t the only one who knew what this was like. People could speculate, and it’s a different experience for everyone, but it was nice to know that he understood as well.

My mom was told that chemotherapy would make her bald at around two weeks after the treatment. She still had her long beautiful red hair, but we knew that it was coming out. It was supposed to come out starting that Sunday, so we had a hat/wig party on Saturday. It was at a neighbor’s house, and they had decorated the house with pink balloons and ribbons. Their table was covered with fruits and candies.

Sarah Lawrence

43

I was there to take pictures, so I took pictures of every-thing—the balloons, the food, and mostly the people. They gave Mom soft scarves for her head, hats and earrings to balance out the emptiness of her head. They had a jar where they put cash for a donation for a wig. They raised $505. It was wonderful, yet again, to feel the amazing support of my ward.

On Sunday, her hair began to fall out. She pulled on it and a little clump of hair would come out. On Tuesday, she got her hair cut a little shorter than a bob. She only had the hair until that Saturday. That morning, my dad found a large bald spot on the back of her head. She decided to shave it off. I had the camera and took a couple pictures, but it didn’t take long for me to feel that Mom didn’t want to have pictures taken of her as she did this. It was weird to see Dad shaving Mom’s head in the middle of the kitchen. Steven and Katie walked through once or twice, stopped to look, and then moved on. I felt I needed to stay and support her as she did this.

She was bald. This was my journal entry for that day:“‘Gone’ my mom’s status on facebook read. Dad found a giant

bald spot on mom’s head, so we shaved it off. She’s been wearing a cute floral white w/ orange flower scarf. She looks like she’s in the army or something cause she has a buzz cut, not all of the way bald.”

The strangest thing was the way people looked at Mom. She was now a hero. Her suffering was very physically ap-parent, so in public people almost looked sad at us. My mom never looked sad. She was bright and happy. She was beau-tiful with her bald head, flowery scarves, and dangley earrings. What really made her beautiful was her smile. Her smile was much easier to see without all of the hair there.

Pink Ribbons

44

The next chemo treatment was given while I was at Trek. I wanted so badly to go and see her get her treatment, even though it was just her sitting in a chair at the hospital for three hours with a needle stuck in her arm. I wanted to know just how it happened. It just so happened that I had something every three weeks that summer: Trek, Girls’ Camp, and EFY. I knew that, for some reason, I wasn’t supposed to be there for my mom’s treatments. I still don’t know that reason, but my parents thought it was a blessing. It was one less kid they had to worry about while they were trying to make Mom better. I wanted to be home though, to help Mom out.

While I was on Trek, the biggest thing that kept me going was I wrote letters to my mom in my head. I left on Wednesday, which was the day that the chemo would settle in. I figured if she could somehow listen then she would know that I was ok. Maybe the letter would help her keep her mind off her pain. I never wrote any of them down, but I remember one going like this:

“Dear Mom,We’re on our way to the campsite. I’m holding the baby. We

named her Rose before we left off. Just like Katie’s middle name that I picked! I think she is the cutest flower sack baby. She has beautiful green button eyes and a fun floral pattern for her dress. There is a large ominous cloud up ahead, and everyone is hoping for it to be rain. I don’t want it to be, but I have a poncho in my backpack in case it rains.”

Around ten minutes later.“Dear Mom,It’s pouring rain, and everyone is soaking wet. Except for

Sarah Lawrence

45

me! I’m the only one with a poncho that’s not stuffed into the vacuum of my sack bag. I’m still holding the baby. It’s fun to be the caretaker of the baby. And now it’s hailing. That’s weird. Hail in the middle of June? I’m still doing f ine Mom, I have my poncho!”

After Trek, I remember Mom taking me and Katie out for a shopping day. We went to the Cheesecake Factory and went shopping around the mall there. It was Mom’s third week in her chemo cycle, which meant that she was feeling at her best. When we went shopping, she would always look for a spot to sit and tell us to just look around. Even when she was on her best week, she was still very sick. We still had a blast at the mall though.

The next week, I went to Girls’ Camp at Heber Valley campground. This week, my mother was trying to decide if she was going to do the harder, more aggressive treatment because the one she was doing gave her neuropathy, which basically made her hands and feet feel asleep all the time. She didn’t like the neuropathy and the doctor said that, if she maybe took the more aggressive treatment, she wouldn’t have the neuropathy.

The more aggressive treatment also meant that she would have to take another four doses after already having taken the two doses of chemotherapy. My parents hadn’t made the decision before I left for Heber Valley. It was hanging at the back of my head as I went to Girls’ Camp. On the second night, they were able to call me on one of my leader’s cell phones. I went away from the main pavilion with my miner headlamp. My parents told me that we wouldn’t be doing the treatment, and not to worry about them while

Pink Ribbons

46

I was at Girls’ Camp. I felt much better and didn’t worry about it any longer.

Girl’s Camp was fun, and passed by quickly. I got home on the Fourth of July. A week later, we went on a trip to Cedar City. It was a little far, but not too far so that we wouldn’t wear Mom out.

This time I was sicker than Mom. I had a really bad cold when we went, and I couldn’t even hear out of one of my ears. I was pretty miserable. I had fun seeing the plays though. During the second play, my ear felt like it was going to burst. It was a pain that I had never felt before. I fell asleep during the play, but, afterwards, I just cried as we tried to find a drugstore. It was strange that the roles had been switched for me and my mom. I had been taking care of her for so long that it was a little strange that she was now taking care of me.

A couple weeks later I went to a religious youth confer-ence called Especially for Youth. It was a stay at home EFY, so I could see Mom at least a little bit each night. The last day was my birthday, which I was happy about. I knew we wouldn’t be doing anything for my birthday at home because my mom had just gotten her last chemo dose that week, so it was better to be surrounded by my friends and teens from around Utah.

On my birthday, we all decided to go to my friend Elise’s for a sleepover. First, I went home to say “hi” to my parents; it was my birthday, after all. After saying goodnight to my parents, I went over to my friend’s house and we ate dough-nuts and talked.

On Sunday, I told the young kids in my ward about my experiences on Trek. I felt such peace and power in my soul.

Sarah Lawrence

47

I had never felt like that before. It was amazing. I was hap-py and confident. I felt that nothing could go wrong.

Radiation was the next thing to come in the following weeks. I went with her once and the ladies there showed us the big machine. Mom laid on her back on the table, and lasers shot radiation at the spot where the cancer had been. The thing I remember most clearly was the giant door that blocked us off from Mom as she went inside, and it had a radiation warning sign. It was like a crazy movie.

The next couple of weeks weren’t too bad. Mom was getting back to normal—she still had to go to radiation but the summer ended more normally than the rest of the sum-mer had been. Katie made Mom a countdown chain in blue and green to break every time she went to radiation.

The first time my mom went out in public without a wig or a scarf was when we went to Stake Conference again. We were singing in the choir, and Mom decided that her hair was long enough to go in public. Although it was still stubble on her head, she went out and sang without anything on her head.

She was almost better. We just had to finish radiation. Once she was done, we went to the Cheesecake Factory. It was so exciting that she was finally finished. She had recon-struction surgery in December.

That was the end of an era for my family. It was the surviving era. We just attempted to help Mom and survive as a family. We all got closer to each other for it, and I wouldn’t replace that time in my life for anything.

I don’t know if this was true for the rest of my family, but I was happy. I felt that I had a purpose: to get Mom better.

Pink Ribbons

48

Mom’s health and happiness were my primary goal. If I could help her by watching a movie with her, or making dinner, or doing laundry, I felt complete. I was so happy because I had a purpose. I was her daughter, but her friend as well. And, as her friend, I tried to make her as comfortable and as happy as possible as she endured treatments.

As we went through chemo treatments, and Mom being bald, and annoying daily trips to radiation treatment, I was still happy. Having a purpose was all I needed to be happy. Once it did end though, after her reconstruction surgery, it seemed like it had all been a dream. That real life was com-ing through, and that it was dull and purposeless. I didn’t have anyone to fight for anymore. I was almost lost.

Eventually, I did get lost. I was questioning my faith to the point where I didn’t believe anymore. I didn’t have the testimony I wanted. I was sad almost all of the time. I pre-tended not to be, but I was. I was desperate for answers. I was doing everything I was told. I was doing everything right, but I was still sad.

I got over the inward sadness, and it made me so much stronger. My purpose now is to find my purpose. The only thing I really want to do is tell stories through writing, film, or music—whatever way I end up telling them. I’ve always been fascinated by stories, how they’re told, or how the original idea came to be. It’s wonderful that humans connect through stories. Once we hear one another’s stories, we connect with each other.

t

Anne Boleyn sat on the floor of her filthy, frigid cell. Her face was wet with tears. Her eyes, which usually sparkled with joy, were those of a cornered animal who knew death was imminent. A rat scurried across the floor, and Anne watched it nibble at her hard crusts of bread then scamper back into its hole. How she envied its freedom! She ran her fingers through her thick, brown hair, something she did whenever she was apprehensive. Though this action normally had a calming effect on her, today it only heightened her anxiety. Dawn was just beginning to creep through her tiny, barred window when she heard the jingle of keys outside her door. It creaked open, and Anne saw the two looming guards standing before her. Timid and frightened, she gasped, “Is it. . . is it time?”

In stark silence, the soldiers bound her hands and led her down a long, dim corridor. She knew resistance was

Treachery at the Tower

Madison Marshall

t

Treachery at the Tower

50

useless, so she allowed the men to take her where they would. The click of her shoes on the crumbling stone floor echoed and sent chills of frozen fear down her spine as she thought of where they were leading her. Her life flashed before her eyes: her childhood in Wiltshire, her friendship with Claude, the Queen of France, and her meeting with the King. She recalled how King Henry had been excommunicated from the Catholic Church when he divorced his former wife, Katherine of Aragon, and married her, Anne Boleyn. A faint smile crept onto her face when she remembered the enormi-ty of their wedding feast. Henry had eaten so much roast boar that he was ill for an entire week. Then, her smile faded and she remembered the arrest, the trial, and the verdict.

In a dream-like trance, she looked on as the guards opened a door and an icy morning breeze brought her out of her reverie. The courtyard was before her now. She saw the plat-form with the chopping block at its center. A forlorn cry drew her frantic eye. She turned her head, and caught sight of her two-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, trying to break free from the woman who was holding her. That woman was Jane Seymour, the woman Henry loved more than Anne. A dark figure arrayed in black emerged from the crowd. He carried an axe. A glance passed between Henry and Anne, and the guards shoved her head onto the chopping block. The King hesitated for a moment then gave the signal, and the axe fell.

jSarah Watts had been having the strangest of dreams.

For a month now, the same unsettling nightmare had tortured

Madison Marshall

51

her sleep. Sarah knew she should be having delightful day-dreams of a joyous life at court. After all, she had been chosen out of all the women in Britain to become one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting. But, this disturbing vision simply would not go away, so Sarah decided to ask her father, the Earl of Preston, for his advice. She strolled gracefully down the maple-wood staircase to enter the sitting room where her father was penning a letter. The Earl was a silver-haired man with a fondness for all the arts, particularly books, poetry, and music. He ensured his daughter, Sarah, had the best possible education, something few girls acquired.

“Oh, Sarah, how good ‘tis to see you! Have you read that charming new sonnet yet?”

“Yes, and I quite enjoyed it.” She paused and added, “Father, can you spare a moment?”

Her father placed his quill back in the inkwell, pushed his spectacles up on his nose, and rose out of his chair to face Sarah.

“Of course, my dear. Is something the matter?”“Lately, I’ve been having this dreadful dream, and I don’t

know what it means. I have decided to ask the advice of Perdita the Witch.”

The Earl raised one eyebrow. He was aware of the severe penalty for associating with the enchantresses. “Why would you want to take the risk of being hanged because of a little nightmare?” he said.

“I’m convinced it’s not just a little nightmare. The whole thing is laced with omens that make me shiver just thinking of them.”

Now, Sarah’s father raised his other eyebrow. “Are you

Treachery at the Tower

52

absolutely sure this is a wise move, my dear?”“You know Perdita is known far and wide for being able

to discern visions. The Baron of Liverpool went to her several weeks ago and asked her about one of his dreams, and her interpretation ended up saving his sons’ lives. Who knows? Maybe simply talking to Perdita could save mine.”

The Earl sighed, “I suppose ‘tis your choice to make. You can do what you wish, but I still think it unwise.”

“Not to worry, Father. I shall take the utmost care.”Sarah turned, grabbed a purse of coins, and went

outside. She knew that the old gypsy woman Perdita would not answer a question without a price. Keeping an eye out for pickpockets, Sarah strolled through the bustling streets of the town. The smell of food, animals, and the occasional stench of dumped waste filled her nostrils. The sound of peddlers calling out their wares and the scratchy songs of wandering minstrels filled her ears. The bright robes of the rich and the tattered rags of the poor seemed like feathers and the people wearing them like birds, flocking to buy goods for Elizabeth’s coronation in two days. Sarah made her way through the town until she came to a crack in the city wall. She peered ‘round about her, slipping through the gap sepa-rating the loud, lively city from the serene, round hills of the countryside. After strolling through dew-laden fields for some time, she saw a stone cottage, partly hidden by a clump of pines. A withered woman was hunched on the dilapidated porch, hovering over a pot of. . . something.

Sarah gulped, clearing her throat and said, “Hello, good mother.”

The crone cackled without even looking up from her

Madison Marshall

53

project-in-a-pot, “I am old enough to be thy mother’s moth-er’s mother. Flattery won’t get thee anywhere in Perdita’s abode.”

Plucking up her courage, Sarah stepped forward and pulled out a gold coin. “I have some money,” she said, “which will surely compensate you for any time spent on me.”

“Very well,” Perdita muttered, dropping her ladle into the stew. “Why dost thou require my services, milady?”

“I seek your advice on a. . . a dream.”“That will be thirteen pounds, thank ye kindly.”Thirteen pounds was outrageous, but Sarah was at the

end of her tether. She flinched, closed her eyes, and pulled out the requested amount. Perdita’s eyes widened and glowed with greed as she accepted the money.

“Tell me of this dream.”“Well, I see myself at the Tower of London. . . there are

ravens everywhere, comets are soaring through the sky, I can hear someone wailing. . . and out of nowhere, a ghastly pale lady appears. . . and she speaks to me for a time.”

Perdita’s wrinkled brow began to furrow. Sarah contin-ued, “Then, I awake, and, when I fall asleep again, I have the exact same dream.”

Perdita asked, “How long has this been happening?”“Ever since I got word that I was to become a member

of the royal court one month ago.” Perdita raised her arms skyward and chanted an incan-

tation. Suddenly, Perdita whispered, “Child, go to the Tower as soon as possible.”

Sarah, befuddled by Perdita’s reaction, stammered, “But, but—why?”

Treachery at the Tower

54

Perdita, now firm and resolute, stated, “Thou hast an important part to play in the history of this country. Go to the Tower.”

Sarah sat in a carriage driving toward London. She did not know what to expect. She only knew that Perdita was adamant that she go, and Perdita knew more about the future than she did. Sarah tried to enjoy the passing scenery—the rolling rivers and towering trees—but she simply could not get the expression on the old woman’s face out of her mind. What was it, she wondered, that Perdita knew about the dream?

When Sarah’s carriage began rumbling over London Bridge, and she looked down into the murky waters of the Thames, she realized that she still did not understand a thing. A few minutes later, she arrived at her quarters in the palace. Her exhausted feet were greeted with a velvet carpet. To her further delight, she found a bed as soft as bread dough, a window overlooking the city, a sizeable closet, a table with a pitcher of water, and a porcelain chamber pot. Sarah laid down on her bed, and within seconds, fell fast asleep.

She woke abruptly to a muttering wind swirling through her bedchamber, which was now dark with night. Sarah thought she saw faces flash before her: a tall, regal woman in an ink-black dress, a little girl with wide, pleading eyes, and a short, muscular man holding a pistol. The faces all were mouthing the same word. That word was tower.

The daunting reality of what was happening hit Sarah like a load of bricks. She struggled to process it, lying par-alyzed for a few seconds. She grasped the meaning of the

Madison Marshall

55

dream, the faces, and Perdita’s ominous words. They all pushed her to put on her cloak and go outside.

She called out to a guard, “Good day, sir. Pray tell me, which way is it to the Tower?”

“Due north. But why—?”The bewildered young man did not have time to finish

his sentence before Sarah was already dashing down the street. Soon, she saw the spires of the Tower of London piercing the midnight sky, and, although she was panting, she quickened her pace. She ducked through a disintegrating archway into a threatening, vacant courtyard. The unforgiving clouds obscured the moon. The stars and a few dying torches were her only companions. Then, torches were suddenly extin-guished, and a faintly glowing figure emerged from the rub-ble. Panic rose in Sarah’s chest, filling her lungs and her heart with sinister foreboding. She felt completely numb. Her mind told her that she needed to run, but her body would not obey. The phantom floated towards Sarah. Upon closer inspection, she could see it was a woman, the woman from her dreams.

“Sarah,” the woman said, “you came.”Sarah tried to swallow her fear, wondering how one was

supposed to begin a conversation with a ghost. “Y—yes, I came. Who were you?”

“In life, I was known as Anne. Anne Boleyn.”“Queen Anne? The mother of Elizabeth?”“Indeed. It is because of her that I have summoned you

here. You see, ‘twas a month ago I saw two men, the Duke of Burgundy and Sir Charles Overlade, enter this enclosure. It was quite obvious that they were trying to hide something. I went over to eavesdrop for a bit to determine if they were

Treachery at the Tower

56

doing anything dangerous. The words I overheard were very disturbing.”

“What did they say?” asked Sarah.Anne ran a translucent finger through her hair, and

confided, “They are plotting to kill my daughter on the way to her coronation tomorrow.”

Sarah gasped. She could not believe that anyone, espe-cially noblemen, would even consider committing such treason. “Why are they doing this?” she asked.

“Once, they tried to court my daughter, but she told them she had vowed never to marry. Men think women are their pawns to do with as they wish. These malicious men planned to rob England of my Elizabeth and replace her with a man—a man called Phillip of Spain.”

Sarah gasped again. She remembered Phillip. He had been married to Elizabeth’s older half-sister, Mary. They were both Catholics, and had burned every Protestant they could find. Sarah and her Protestant family had fled to Scotland to avoid being killed. Then, five years after she became Queen, Mary died, stripping Phillip of the title “King of England.”

“But. . . but what can I do?” “Sarah, go and speak to Elizabeth. Tell her that Burgundy

and Overlade are plotting to kill her tomorrow as she passes by Parliament House.”

“I—I don’t understand why you haven’t spoken to her yourself.”

“I’ve tried. I really have. But Elizabeth is either too busy to come to me or too frightened. My wanderings are confined solely to this wretched tower and its courtyard. I can’t rest

Madison Marshall

57

until I am sure that my daughter is safe, and, out of all the people I could have summoned, I knew that you were the one that I could count on.”

Anne hesitated, then asked, “Will you help me?”“Yes,” Sarah said, “I will.”

The sun was glinting on the horizon when Sarah awoke. She was once again lying on the bed in her room, but she didn’t even have time to speculate how she had gotten there before she heard a quick rap on her door.

“Come in,” she said, rubbing the last lingering feelings of sleep from her eyes.

A stubby, middle-aged man, wearing the clothing of a courtier, stepped into her chamber. He had a long, pointed nose that wiggled back and forth as he spoke.

“I am Simeon Collins, assistant to Sir Francis Walsingham, the Queen’s Principal Secretary. Are you Sarah Watts, daugh-ter and heir to the Earl of Preston?”

“I am.”“Sir Francis Walsingham requests your presence. Please,

follow me.”“I must change my attire,” she said, glancing down at

her crumpled gown and muddy traveling boots.The man seemed to take in Sarah for the very first time. “Yes, I see that you do. Be prompt,” he said, closing the

door behind him. Sarah slipped out of her wrinkled garments and into her best dress, a cherry-red brocade with a generous lace collar, taking care that her stays were laced up as tightly as possible. She stepped out of her room and into the elabo-rately decked hall. It was lined with stunning tapestries and

Treachery at the Tower

58

paintings, all boldly declaring the glory of the Royal Family. The pudgy courtier tried to interest Sarah with talk of his brilliance and astounding accomplishments, but her mind was on dark secrets, murder plots, and ghosts of executed queens. They passed by steaming kitchens and polished marble ballrooms arriving at the wing of the palace where the Queen’s officials lived. Sarah took a deep breath and strode confidently into Sir Walsingham’s room. He was sitting in a chair facing away from her.

“Hello,” he said in an even, flat tone. “You are most likely wondering why I have summoned you. The reason is simply because you are new here, and you need to learn the proper behavior for the coronation today. No courtier may speak to the Queen as she journeys to Westminster Abbey.”

“But I—”“No courtier may speak, on pain of imprisonment. The

procession is meant as a symbol of power, not as a time for idle conversation. We will expect all of the ladies-in-waiting. . . ”

Though Sarah could hear his voice, his words were drowned out by her mind, I can’t speak to Elizabeth? I can’t speak to Elizabeth!

Sarah’s mental shrieking was interrupted as the Secretary asked, “Do you understand?”

She stuttered, “Y—yes. I do.”“Then that will be all,” he said, ushering the chubby

servant back in. “Simeon, direct Mistress Watts to the proces-sion.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I will do it well, sir,” said Simeon.Her mind racing, Sarah was led out of the palace onto

a street buzzing with activity. She was placed in a long line

Madison Marshall

59

of followers. A loud cheer erupted as Elizabeth’s tall white steed trotted forward, starting the parade. Sarah knew she had to act fast. Parliament House was only a few blocks away: her time was running out. Shoving to the front of the line, she made her way towards the Queen. Once she was just behind the councilors and noblemen, the white stallion entered the street where Parliament House had been built years before. Pushing, she leapt through the appalled digni-taries and directly in front of the white stallion. The horse reared and threw Elizabeth off its back, into the outstretched arms of Walsingham.

Bang! A bullet hissed by the fallen Queen and whizzed off

into the distance. Sarah could see Sir Overlade with a gleam-ing gray pistol, his long finger pulling the trigger back for another shot. She sprinted toward him. If she could just get that gun away from him, she knew the Queen would be saved. He began to pull the trigger again, and Sarah jumped into the air, desperately trying to grab the pistol from him. Shocked, he dropped the gun. It fell onto the marble staircase as a second bullet flew through the air, but, this time, it simply imbedded itself in the stone ceiling of Parliament House. Sarah recovered first, and snatched the pistol seconds before Overlade.

“Give me that gun,” Overlade said through clenched teeth.

Sarah aimed the pistol at Overlade, “If you come one step closer, I’ll shoot!”

“Of course, you’re only a simple woman. You don’t un-derstand how terrible our lives will become if we do not have

Treachery at the Tower

60

a strong man for our sovereign. For the good of all England, give me that pistol!”

“No,” Sarah said, backing away. “If you give me that pistol,” Overlade said in a weasly

tone, “I’ll make arrangements for you at court. You can marry Phillip and become the Queen Regent. Imagine that for a moment. Your life will be perfect. However, if you don’t give it to me, you will only be a lowly lady-in-waiting, someone who works very hard and gains very little.”

Sarah saw it all: the reverence, the luxury, the power. Her mind was urging her hands to retreat and secure her new position. It would be that easy. Then, she remembered the divine right to the crown that belonged to Elizabeth. It was the sovereign’s mother Anne Boleyn who had brought Sarah to her current situation. She stepped back once again, and ran away from greed, away from treachery, away from darkness, away from evil.

jQueen Elizabeth grew to become one of the world’s

greatest monarchs. During her reign, England had its golden age. She never did marry. After her death, her cousin’s son, James, ascended the throne.

Sir Charles Overlade and the Duke of Burgundy were put on trial for high treason and were found guilty. They were both executed several months later.

Perdita and The Earl of Preston rejoiced with the rest of the kingdom when they learned of Sarah’s great bravery. Sarah became the Duchess of Wales, and Elizabeth’s best

Madison Marshall

61

and only friend. She often told her grandchildren a chilling ghost story from her childhood. They never believed it, but that didn’t matter to Sarah, for she knew that the truth is sometimes unbelievable.

t

“Some say the world will end in f ire, some say in ice”-Robert Frost

As I sat alone on the bench overlooking the distant sea of perfect blue green waves, I felt an inexplicable sense of dread. The feeling was, of course, completely at odds with the idyllic scene before me. I sat on a park bench on a narrow ridgeline overlooking an absolutely empty beach in the early hours of the morning. As the sun began to rise over the sea, I felt a presence. I turned to my right, and there it was. It was tall, in a well-made suit and tie, with sandy blond hair in a conservative cut and fashion. Its suit was a light gray and its skin was pale, but not the translucent pale of those who don’t get enough sun. Everything about it gave the appearance of some kind of young business executive

Dreams of Lightand Shadow

Collin Moore

t

Collin Moore

63

except for two things—its eyes and the thing it clutched in its hand.

Its eyes were its most distinguishing feature. They ap-peared to be made of perfectly polished and smooth clear crystal, and they glowed with an unearthly, savage light. In its right hand was a pure gold and silver sphere that glowed with the same light. Luminescent runes appeared, shifted, and faded on its surface in brilliant white flares.

Then, without opening its mouth, it spoke. Its words pierced my mind like a net of thorny vines wrapping around my very consciousness and seared with a heat that came from the surface of the sun. Its voice lacked all traces of human-ity, emotion, or anything recognizable—all except the words themselves.

It is time that you put away your foolish manipulations, human, the austere, ethereal voice spoke in my mind. Leave me and my enemies to our conflict. It does not concern the likes of the mundane such as you. I began to stand from the bench, and the crystal-eyed humanoid withdrew from my thoughts and took a step back. No emotion showed on its face. An ele-mental force does not experience an emotion such as fear. Then another presence appeared to my left. I turned and saw it. It was formless, incorporeal and seemed to be made of inky black smoke. It was a shifting and flowing shadow. I could feel its powerful hate for the being of Light to my right. It wanted to smother and swallow it up. To my right, I could feel the flow of power from the being with the eyes of glow-ing crystal. It was more than hatred—it was an inborn desire to destroy the thing across from him. It flowed with the same surety with which a boulder tumbles down a mountain, with

Dreams of Light and Shadow

64

which storms grow and destroy houses, cause floods and tear trees from their roots. If I didn’t stop the confrontation from turning to violence, I may very well be torn apart by the conflicting forces.

I stood fully erect, and both the beings of Light and of Shadow balked and moved backwards. “Resh,” I said to the creature with crystal eyes, speaking its name. I then turned to the shadow of living smoke. “Svraka, both of you must stop your battle. In the name of the Creator, I beg you. If you continue on this path, the very fabric of the universe may be torn apart.” The shadow and the being with crystal eyes lunged for each other, heedlessly. As I watched, I saw the world rip. Massive tears opened in the sky, cutting through the blue and clouds to reveal a void beyond. Sand on the beach began to fall away. I awoke.

jLight and Dark are forces that will always be in conflict.

Wherever Light exists, Darkness cannot. Light seeks to purge and drive away the darkness, and, because it is more powerful, Light is always able to. Darkness, however, is the universe’s greatest subversive force. Wherever Light is weak or nonex-istent, Darkness rushes in to fill the void. The Chinese had it right with the symbol of the Yin-Yang. It’s circular because the battle between Light and Shadow is a cycle, both sides evenly matched. Something Westerners always get wrong is the idea that it shows a good versus evil dichotomy. That’s wrong. Light and Dark are not Good and Evil, they simply are. They exist to destroy each other. Human understanding

Collin Moore

65

of morality and ethics doesn’t concern them. They are Forces, with one specific goal—conquer, destroy, remove all that is not yourself.

jI was twelve when I first discovered that I could manip-

ulate my shadow. As the sun was setting, I stood in front of my house and watched the long shadow my average height cast across the driveway. I noticed that my shadow moved slightly without me moving my body—not simply growing longer as the sun set, but almost fidgeting. Without shifting my stance, I could make one of my arms longer than the other in my shadow. When I called out to my father to come and see, he told me it must be a trick of the light.

I knew otherwise.Later on, I discovered that I could bend light as well.

During my time working on the junior high stage crew, I learned that I could change the angle of the stage lights without touching them, even bending the columns of light down to the stage in an arc when they were pointed direct-ly at the ceiling. I would experiment with a flashlight in my room at night, bending the beam of light this way and that without moving my hands. It was an interesting talent, something that I did for fun and to freak out my friends.

That is, until Resh began to invade my dreams.I knew little about how the forces that make up the

world appear in the spiritual realm. Apparently, in the Land of Dreams, all things have an avatar. Even Light and Dark.

When I first came across Resh, the Avatar of Light, it

Dreams of Light and Shadow

66

frightened me. I was having a regular dream, off doing something strange, when suddenly everything shifted. My dream became a landscape of pure, perfect white light. The glow enveloped all and everything. My feet stood in open air. Resh stood across from me, and I was startled by its appearance. At least, that of its eyes.

Resh’s head tilted slightly as it first spoke in that pain-in-spiring voice that was not a voice, Do you mock me, human? The pain of that first sentence drove me to my knees. Resh stared deep into my soul with its glowing, burning crystal eyes. It repeated the question. Do you mock me, human? Why do you interrupt my form? Do you seek to chain me to yourself ? Bend the very soul of light to your command?

Painfully, I tried to escape from the mental attack and accidentally lashed out with my hands toward the crys-tal-eyed being. Though I didn’t touch it, Resh staggered as if it had been stricken. “I don’t know what’s going on,” I nearly cried at the creature. “Please, leave me alone. What is this about?”

When the white hot thorns of the mental voice came, they came cautiously. In the physical realm. You bind my move-ments. Wherever you are, human, I am bent and forced into different shapes. I am not allowed to do as I do. Do you understand why this perturbs me so?

The fire in its eyes burned into me. “I don’t understand,” I whimpered softly.

The creature bent down and stared into me with its clear, crystalline eyes. I am Resh. I am the soul of light, and I do not take kindly to being bound.

At that moment, I experienced a feeling as if I was

Collin Moore

67

falling and plunged into a world of complete and utter blackness.

The darkness of the shadows was so intense that I could not tell whether my eyes were open or closed. I felt something move to my left, but I could not see it. Then, once again, a voice entered my mind. This one was entirely different from the voice of the crystal eyed being. While Resh’s voice was sharp and hot, this one was smooth. It spread across my mind leisurely and gently, like a drop of dark oil spreading itself across the surface of a still pool. The voice was smooth, slithering, and so very cold. Tell me truly, what are you? the cold voice asked.

I shivered. “My name is—” I began, but the cold voice stopped me.

I did not ask your name. I asked what you are. Like a snake sliding quietly through tall grass, the voice seemed to move through my head, searching for the answer it sought.

“I am a human,” I said simply, still not understanding what was going on.

You lie. The voice in my head was without emotion as if stating the answer to a math question. There are no humans who can mock me as you do. I began to understand what the creature was talking about.

“You mean, me being able to control my shadow?” I asked hesitantly.

Yes, you mold the darkness into the form you will it, and that is not permissible. Humans are beneath my notice, but you, you are something else entirely. Humans are dust and moisture giv-en life with heat and breath, but you are different. I can feel darkness in you, underneath the human taint. There is light as

Dreams of Light and Shadow

68

well. Only once before have I seen something like this. But. . . no. So similar, but it cannot be so. You cannot be him. Are you He Who Was Lost? I could feel the presence withdraw from my mind. The darkness swirled around me. Remember Svraka, He Who Was Lost. Remember the Shadow. The darkness around me abated, and I woke up in my bedroom.

I rubbed my eyes. “Well, that was a strange dream.”I went through the rest of the day in a haze. News reports

were telling tales of record high temperatures during the day, but every morning for the last month there had been frost on my front lawn. In August. The weather was strange, and now my ability to control shadows and beams of light was getting me mugged in my dreams. Things didn’t start making sense until I had another weirdo enter my dreams to try to explain it to me, but this one was the least weird of all of them.

This dream took place in a remote area. I was sitting on a bench on a ridgeline overlooking a completely empty beach. There was another voice, but, this time, it was a voice I heard with my ears. Oddly enough, the voice came from behind me. “Can I help you?” I turned around and saw a man who seemed to be trying to pull off a Gandalf costume. He was wearing medieval wizard robes of dark grey wool and had a long flowing beard to match.

You have got to be kidding me, I thought. The old wizard guy looked me over with a quizzical eye.

“I can see you chose an interesting new form for yourself.” I flatly stared at him.

“What?” I asked dully. The crazy old man tapped my forehead twice with his finger.

“Hmm, no memories of past lives. Bother.” He looked

Collin Moore

69

down at me through a pair of thick glasses. “Do you know who you are, boy?” he asked.

“My name is— ” I began, but was cut off once again by the old man dressed as Dumbledore.

“No, no, no. I didn’t ask what your name is. I asked if you know who you are, which you obviously do not.” He stared into my confused eyes. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I can see that the others have already gotten to you. Well, that can’t be helped. Keep sitting where you are, boy. We’ll both be here for a while yet.” The wizardly old man sat down beside me on the bench.

“Who are you?” I asked. “Call me Carolus if you want. I’m here to teach you what

you need to know before the world is destroyed.” Well, okay then, I thought. Tell me more, O mythical wise

man who just happens to know that the world is going to end soon.

Grumblings aside, I was interested in finding answers to what exactly had been going on for the last several years. The last few weeks had been particularly strange. Any kind of answers were good answers at this point.

“Before we get to any of the complicated stuff,” Carolus began, “you have to understand what exactly you face. Can you describe what you’ve seen so far?” I told him the tale of the being with crystal eyes and the cloud of smoke and shadow. He nodded quietly as I talked. “What you have met are the two Embodiments of Elements.” I cocked my head, perplexed at the term. He explained. “Think of them as you would the Greek gods or maybe avatars, if that suits your taste better. The beings you have met embody some of the

Dreams of Light and Shadow

70

forces that flow through the Waking World. Resh is the Embodiment of Light and Svraka is the Embodiment of Darkness. It is unfortunate that you discovered your ability to control them before I was able to find you. Now you’ve turned them from their battle with each other, awakened them to the reality of what the world is like.” He turned and looked me straight in the eyes. “What you’ve got to under-stand is that Light and Darkness cannot exist if not in conflict with each other. They were created that way, though for what reason I have no idea. Resh is the more powerful of the two, and, in any head-to-head confrontation, it’s able to destroy Darkness and send Svraka fleeing. But Svraka is a wily bastard. It bobs and weaves and grows to fill any space that Resh isn’t focused on. In the end, however, neither can win. Resh is powerful enough, but doesn’t have the agility or wit to catch Svraka, and Svraka, for all its maneuverings, cannot match Resh in strength. All the better for everyone else. If either of them did manage to destroy the other, the only difference would be whether the void that consumed all would be white or black.” I nodded in understanding.

“But where do I figure into this? And how can I bend light and shadows?” I had been puzzling over that question since Svraka had asked me what I was.

Carolus chuckled softly. As if from thin air, a Yin-Yang symbol appeared in his hand. “You see the divided but equal light and dark sections? Those are Resh and Svraka. Now, do you see the white dot in the black section and the black dot in the white section? Those are you.”

He stood, the symbol disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. “You are He Who Was Lost. If my suspicions are

Collin Moore

71

correct, then you are the banished Embodiment of Harmo-ny who was cast from the Realm of Dreams when you last tried to force your will on the warring elements. It is your duty to keep the war between Light and Dark in check, or else they may end up destroying the physical realm. Haven’t you noticed the bizarre weather patterns lately? Record high temperatures during the day, but frost covering everything in the night. Light and Dark are growing more powerful in their conflict, and humanity is standing in their way. The days grow hotter with the increased power that Resh holds, and the nights grow colder as Svraka uses all its strength to subvert its foe. Their battle will bring an end to the world unless you stop it.” Carolus stood, and began to walk away.

“Wait, what am I supposed to do?” He turned back to me, and bowed his head. “Save the

world,” he replied. He disappeared into thin air as if he had never existed in the first place. The landscape began to fade, and I awoke in my bed once more. I still didn’t know how I was going to go about “saving the world,” but at least now I knew what I was up against.

The next couple of days passed in a haze. I knew what I was supposed to do but had no idea how to do it. The only way I could see would be to confront both of them simulta-neously and try to force them to stop their battle. Otherwise, I would watch the world be consumed in Ice and Fire, in Light and Shadow.

I began to bend light in more complex ways, turning the lights out in my bedroom and drawing moonlight in through the window. I gave myself five shadows with only a single source of light in a room. Shadows began to show

Dreams of Light and Shadow

72

on the ground where no men stood. All the while, the days grew hotter and the nights colder. Try as I might, however, I could never blend light and dark together. All that Carolus had said was true. Light and Dark were fated to battle for all time. Fortunately, that hadn’t been a problem until they began to destroy the world.

After a long enough time, I found myself on the aban-doned stretch of beach again. Once again, I could feel Resh appear to my right, the furious heat wafting off it. I turned and looked into its white-hot glowing crystal eyes. Behind them, I saw the surface of the sun, pulsing and undulating, flames and pure light radiating forth. A massive jet of fire burst from the surface, so large that it wafted over the entire solar system, scorching across Mercury, Venus and then the Earth, burning the green surface black in the space of an instant, boiling the oceans and turning the ice caps to steam in as much time. I stared into its inhuman eyes, and I hated it.

To my left, I could see my vision darken. There I saw the ominously growing mass of ink-black shadow spread across the beach, all the way to the horizon. Resh seemed to glow more brightly in comparison, its eyes flashing with malice for the thing across from it. Svraka generated an ice-cold field of loathing in opposition to the burning hatred that Resh showed. The shadows lashed out towards Resh, ink-black tentacles seeking to strangle it. Resh lifted its golden ball, and its eyes flashed brightly. The tendrils were burned from existence, and a beam of light struck directly through the center of the massive dark cloud. Shadow was burned, and the massive cloud was split in two. The black

Collin Moore

73

cloud simply merged back with itself and grew in return.“Stop!” I screamed at both of them, standing up sharp-

ly. I held a fist out to each of them. My left hand actually managed to grab the hem of the shadow cloud, and I pulled it towards myself. I reached out again and snatched Resh’s golden ball from its hand. I pushed the golden ball towards the patch of shadow, struggling as the conflicting elements pushed against each other. The struggle was tearing the flesh from my bones, burning away my right hand, freezing my left. I gritted my teeth.

I am He Who Was Lost. I am the Embodiment of Harmony. I will not be denied.

The shadow collided with the golden ball, and then both of them exploded, releasing a massive amount of energy. Energy rolled across me in a shockwave, and I drew it into myself. I could feel the power inside me grow, bolstered by the storm of Light and Shadow. Opening my eyes, I saw that Resh was on its hands and knees, its glow diminished im-mensely. Svraka, no longer the enormous storm front of shadow, was now a cloud of inky black darkness the size of a small dog. I had destroyed the excess of power in both of them. I had won. I had saved the world and bent the very forces of Light and Dark to my will.

I am a god.Svraka began to grow again, taking the form of a pure-

ly black humanoid shape, like a three dimensional shadow. Resh struggled to its feet. While the fire in its crystal eyes had dimmed somewhat, the hate that filled them remained. The sharp prongs of its mind-voice entered my mind, though now they were nowhere near as painful as before. What have

Dreams of Light and Shadow

74

you done to me? The voice was pained. If it had been spoken out loud, the voice would be gasping for breath.

Yes, came the slick voice of Svraka, now much warmer than it had been.

You both have grown too powerful in my absence. I have repaired the. . . discrepancy, I said, mind-speaking the same way they did. It was so easy. How had I not been able to do it before? I am no longer Lost.

Resh gritted its teeth. I bend the knee to no one.Svraka’s mind-voice agreed. Neither do I. For the f irst

time, we are in agreement. Resh smiled bitterly. You were lost once, you can be lost again.

Svraka poured over me, liquid shadow enveloping my body. Resh walked over silently. It will take us millennia upon millennia to regain what we have lost this day. Sleep well, Harmony. Resh’s eyes glowed with an intense red light as it placed its hands on my forehead. The world went white, then black.

jI sat on a beach, alone entirely, waiting for the sun to

rise. The air was lukewarm and blew around me in gentle gusts. The scene was vaguely familiar, though I could not say from where I remembered it.

t

My name is Gloria, and this is my story—not of becom-ing a princess, but becoming a queen.

One day, my mother and I were working in our family’s tailoring shop. We were completing orders for the king: thirty-six curtains and twenty-three blankets. We were work-ing fast for only two people. Usually, my father would help, but he had caught the plague. No one knew exactly what the plague was. It wasn’t contagious, but it was hard to get rid of. My mother took care of Father until she caught the plague herself. From then on, I was left to complete the orders myself.

A few days later, the king and his son, Jacob, came to the shop to request an outfit for the prince for the New Year. I had to tell him about my parents.

“My king, I am sorry, but I am already behind on your current order. My parents have the plague and cannot work,

Gloriathe Spider

Natalie Taggart

t

Gloria the Spider

76

but—” The king held up a hand, cutting me off mid-sentence.“I understand,” he said in his soft but commanding voice.

“I will let them stay in my castle until they are well. You may come along, but you must work until they are well. I have maids who can help with your other orders.”

I gratefully curtsied to the king.The king looked at me, “What is your name?” he asked.“Gloria, sir,” I said with another curtsy.“And how old?” he raised an eyebrow.“Twelve, sir,” I said. The king scratched his beard, “Two years younger than

Jacob.” He turned to his son and said, “Now, my boy, you are to leave this girl alone unless she needs to measure your height, understood?” Jacob nodded in agreement and the king turned to me, “A carriage will be here soon to pick you up.” The king and Jacob left.

I ran to my parents and told them the news. I helped them pack and packed my things. When the carriage came, we left the shop to start a new life.

When we reached the gates of the castle, the carriage stopped and I looked out the foggy window behind me. I saw a man climb atop the carriage. I heard some yelling and saw the would-be intruder hauled off by the king’s men.

“Was that man trying to sneak in to the castle?” I asked my mother.

“Yes, he was,” she said, her voice raspy. “Men are always trying to sneak into the castle to kill the king.”

The carriage door flew open and a gust of cold air filled the carriage. The carriage driver poked his head in, “Sorry for the hold up.” He turned to me and smiled, “I hope you

Natalie Taggart

77

didn’t mind that. We will leave shortly.” The man closed the door and the carriage started forward.

When we reached the castle, the carriage jerked to a stop. I stepped out and gazed in amazement. I walked up the steps and saw Prince Jacob in the doorway. He was wearing a blue tunic with gold vines embroidered on his collar. Socks covered his shins and his shoes were as shiny as silk. I curtsied and looked at his face: angelic, deep blue eyes; powder-white skin; and golden, almost brown, hair.

“My father sent me to show you where you will work and sleep. Follow me.” He said and turned around.

“Wait!” I yelped, my face turning red in embarrassment. The prince turned, confused.

“What about my parents?” I asked quietly. Jacob smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Our servants will

help them to the castle. I’m sure you don’t want to carry them up all these steps, do you?” The prince grabbed my hand, “Come on, Gloria. I can’t wait to show you around the cas-tle.” Jacob’s eyes sparkled like the stars.

Inside the castle, the walls were green with the same golden vines from Jacob’s collar climbing to the ceiling. There were flowers everywhere. It smelled so wonderful.

The prince pointed to one of the many staircases as he talked, “Your work room is up those stairs on the third floor, eight doors to your right.” He grabbed my hand and led me up a different flight of stairs, “This way. I want to show you to your room.” He went a bit faster than me; I wasn’t used to going up so many stairs. He turned a corner and entered a room where beautiful flowers stood on stools and hung in baskets. There was a bed in the far corner and a dresser in

Gloria the Spider

78

the other. I walked over to the dresser and opened it.I gasped. There were dresses, shoes, leggings, and lots

of jewelry. The dresses were different colors but each had the familiar, climbing golden vines. I smiled. “I remember my mother making these dresses. I’ve always wanted to try one on, but they were too big.” I grabbed one and put it against my chest. The prince walked over to me.

“They belonged to my sister. She married the prince of the Eastern Kingdom,” the prince stood there, staring.

“Prince Jacob. . . ” I began.“Please,” he said with a smile, “Call me Jacob. Come, I’ll

take you to your work room.” I quickly grabbed his hands and held them in mine.

“Thank you.” I told him in a soft voice with my head bowed. Jacob lifted my chin and hugged me.

After Jacob left, I went straight to work. I hoped my parents would feel better soon. I wanted to give them some-thing to work on when they were better, so I worked hard and fast. When I woke up the next morning, I wasn’t tired. I worked so hard that I hadn’t noticed Jacob was in the room until he tugged my sleeve.

“Here,” he said, “I got you some breakfast.” He placed a bowl on a stool next to me and sat on another stool. He pulled out his own slice of bread and we ate together. When we finished, he stood.

“When you’re dressed, come down to the courtyard. I’ll meet you there,” Jacob said.

When I reached the courtyard, Jacob was sitting on a stone bench between gardens full of flowers. He was holding flowers in his hand.

Natalie Taggart

79

“You look beautiful,” he said, standing to hand me the flowers.

Daisies, I thought, Mother’s favorite.“Thank you.” I said. Jacob smiled and said, “Let’s play hide and seek.”“Hide and seek?” I echoed. “That’s a child game.” “I know, but I’ve never played it with someone my age,

and, now that you’re here. . . ”I made a face of disbelief. “Oh, please? It sounds fun.” I sighed and nodded. He grinned. “Okay, you go over to that tree and count to thirty.” With

that, he ran off.I shook my head. I can’t believe I’m doing this, I thought

as I counted. When the counting was over, I searched behind bushes, columns, trees, doorways, but he was nowhere. I started to think he had a secret hiding spot, but then I found him in the hallway speaking to the king’s physician. He looked up from Jacob and saw me. The physician’s face turned a shade of gray. He looked back down to Jacob, said one last thing, then left. Jacob turned to me, his eyes full of water and his face even paler than usual. He walked up to me, dragging his feet. He held me tight, as if he was never going to let me go.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He started shaking. Tears stung my eyes and that was when I knew why he was sorry. My parents had died.

j

Gloria the Spider

80

Over the next six years, I stayed at the castle as the king’s personal tailor. I worked hard to stay in that position. Jacob often visited while I worked. He told me stories of all the places he’d been and all the beautiful sights he’d seen.

On a rainy day, I was sitting in my parent’s old room when there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” I said calmly.

Jacob walked in. He was taller now, but his eyes were still as blue as ever. His face looked even paler with his now dark brown hair. “I brought apples,” he said, tossing one to me. “You need some sleep. You’re slacking off at work, and. . . ” he sighed.

“I know,” I said in a soft voice. “I haven’t been able to sleep. I keep messing up on the quilt your father wants. It frustrates me, so I walk around the castle to relieve my thoughts. I seem to always end up in here.”

Jacob stared at the bed, mumbling to himself. He clenched his fists. “It’s my fault,” he said. Red lines ran across his palms where his nails had dug in. “Gloria, I’m sorry. It was my fault. I take the blame for your parents’ deaths. I thought they could wait until morning to get the cure; I didn’t even let you say good night. I wanted to spend time with you. I cared for you. I still care for you.” Jacob paused, “I love you,” he said. I wish I could have replied, but I was already asleep. He picked me up and set me down in my bed. He kissed my forehead and whispered, “Good night.”

jThat night, an assassin crept into the castle kitchen. The

man held a glass jar containing a rare spider. The spider’s

Natalie Taggart

81

venom could derange its victim, turning the unfortunate target into a monster. The man poured magical dust on the spider, turning it into a liquid, and then he coated a bowl of grapes with the poisonous liquid before making his silent escape.

jThe next day, I had to work all day to catch up. I went

to the kitchen to get something to eat while I worked. I grabbed a bowl of big, juicy grapes then headed upstairs. I sat down and went to work. I plopped a few grapes in my mouth and was surprised by their sour, bitter taste. I swal-lowed fast, but I soon regretted it.

My body began to burn. My bones felt like melting lead and my eyes blurred. I tried to stand but immediately col-lapsed to the floor. I gasped for air as something tried to escape from my mouth—fangs. One by one, my ribs began to break, turning into eight hideous legs. I screamed an agonizing, painful scream.

I heard footsteps in the hallway before Jacob burst through the door. Horror struck his face. He came close, but I backed away to the window and jumped. I knew that would be the last time I would ever see Jacob again.

I landed on my feet and scuttled over the castle wall. Villagers screamed and ran from my sight. Gray hair grew all over my body. I doubled in size. I tripped over my new legs. Someone threw a rock at me. Others followed. My eyesight changed; I was now able to see in eight different directions. The rocks began to get bigger and heavier. Some

Gloria the Spider

82

broke through my hardening skin. I escaped to the forest. Blood was rushing from my cuts. Insects that walked through puddles of my blood grew to the size of cows. Breathing heavily, I reached the center of the forest and collapsed near a big, old tree. I didn’t need a mirror to know what horror I had become. I was now a giant, gray tarantula.

jA few weeks after Gloria’s transformation, giant bugs

began to terrorize the people of the village. Men would offer to stand guard and kill the beasts, but more insects kept coming. Soon, everyone started blaming the giant spider. Being a monster changed her; she went berserk with hate and envy. The villagers began calling the beast Queen Aracnia, for they did not know who it really was.

The king offered a reward to anyone who could kill Queen Aracnia and present her fangs as proof. Many vol-unteered. None succeeded. Finally, Jacob decided to ask his father if he could go instead of the townspeople. As soon as he entered the throne room, he knew the answer was no. Before his father could answer, he left the castle and journeyed towards the forest.

Jacob didn’t want his father to cut him off from his journey, so he quickly grabbed a sword and small hunting knife to fit in his boot. On his way to the forest, Jacob vis-ited an old friend, Maya, the town’s fortune teller.

Jacob stepped into the small, eerie tent. The tent was filled with pillows and colorful curtains. A round table rested in the middle of the room, and Maya stood at the opposite

Natalie Taggart

83

end of the room. She wore a dark purple dress with a dark red cloak. Her golden brown hair was a frizzy mess. She had long earrings, and rings adorned her fingers. Her eyelids were dark blue and her lips a dark red. Her nails were at least an inch long. Her bracelets jingled as she motioned for him to sit at one end of the table.

“Maya,” he said with some eagerness in his voice, “I’m going on a quest, a quest to defeat Queen Aracnia.”

“You do not wish to kill her?” She asked in her silky accent.

She called the beast “her.” Gloria. . . Jacob thought. He looked into Maya’s light brown eyes, “Maya, I seek your help with my quest. I do not wish to kill her, but I do wish to stop her suffering.”

Maya smiled and closed her eyes. She mumbled a few words in her ancient language and her eyes, now white as pure snow, flew open.

“You must reach the heart of the forest where the beast will lurk. End her suffering in a way she again won’t jerk. Fill her blood in this vial. For the rest of your life, you shall never be in denial.” She picked up a knife and slit her palm, letting her blood fall into a small, crystal bowl. She closed her eyes and waved her hand over the bowl. Black dust fell from her magic palms and into the bowl. She covered the bowl and pulled out a black vial. When she opened her eyes, they had turned back to brown. “If you do this, you will be the only one who will remember her. I am sorry, Jacob. But it is the only way.” She looked up at him with sorrow in her eyes, “She cannot be brought back.” Jacob nodded and got up to leave. Maya tugged on his sleeve. “When you are done,”

Gloria the Spider

84

she said, “go to Blue Crystal Pond. A floating fountain appears in the center of the pond when the moon is in the heart of the sky. Pour the blood in the waters of the fountain and her spirit shall be released.”

Jacob swallowed, “Where can I find this pond?”Maya smiled, “One will find things only when they are

needed.” She dropped her hand from his sleeve and he turned and left.

Sword in hand, he was ready for anything. He was at-tacked by a few of Aracnia’s monsters, but nothing was going to stop him from helping Gloria. He walked for hours, almost giving up hope. He started thinking of all the times Gloria and he had been together. All the years they had spent together. The memories faded when he stepped on something that made a loud crack. He stood still for a moment before looking under his boot. Animal and human bones littered the forest floor. Numerous cocoons, some cracked open and some sealed tight, hung from webs that covered nearly every branch.

I’m almost there, Jacob thought as he walked forward, sword held tight in his grasp. Gingerly, he stepped through the field of white mess, not daring to crack another cocoon. Then, he heard something—a soft hissing sound. He stopped in his tracks, looking to either side until he found her above and to his right.

“Gloria,” he whispered. Her human-like eyes, still as green as ever, followed his every move. The gray hair, which covered her gigantic arachnoid form, curled on the ends. She opened and closed her mouth. Saliva dripped from fangs that slid in and out with her every breath.

Natalie Taggart

85

“Gloria! Gloria, it’s me, Jacob,” He raised his voice, but the Spider Queen simply stared at him. She inched forward, but he raised his sword in warning. “Gloria, please. Listen to me,” He yelled. He blinked tears away and wiped his face with his free hand. When he looked up, she was gone. Hiss-ing rose from every corner of the forest. Birds screeched and fluttered away. A branch snapped, but she remained unseen.

Cold sweat trickled down Jacob’s neck as he slowly stepped closer to the tree at the center of the forest. His back hit the trunk and the hissing stopped. He kept his eyes open, not daring to blink. Something slimy fell on his shoulder, and then he heard a screeching hiss from above. He kicked away from the tree, but Aracnia was already jumping. He turned his back and ran. The large creature fell on top of him and he lost his grip on his sword. His fingers kept brushing the hilt as she swayed, preparing for the deadly bite.

Jacob kicked forward, forcing the creature to shy away. He grabbed his sword, but didn’t have time to pull his arm back to swing at the giant tarantula before she attacked again. He jabbed the hilt into one of her eyes and she backed away with a threatening screech. He leapt up and ran for the large tree. More hissing came from behind, but, this time, he was ready. He sidestepped at the last moment. Aracnia hit the tree and stumbled into some bushes. Before he could catch his breath, she leaped and pinned Jacob down again, tearing a gash in his thigh. He clenched his teeth and stared into the tarantula’s eyes, her face going in and out of focus. Blood rushed out of his leg, and the last thing he saw was her fangs.

Prince Jacob woke in a dark room. Head throbbing, he

Gloria the Spider

86

tried to lift his hand, but it caught on something silky. He tried to rip the cocoon open, but only goop filled his hands. He heard a faint hiss—the Spider Queen must be close.

“It’s hopeless,” Jacob whispered. “I’m gone. She’s gone. She’ll never come back. Father, I’m sorry for leaving you.”

He opened his eyes when he felt something in his boot—a hunting knife.

He slipped his hand down his leg and brushed over the gash in his thigh. It was sticky with blood, still oozing in some places. It felt swollen and infected. I have to do this fast, Jacob thought as he raised his dagger and slowly slit open the cocoon. He slipped out and landed on a branch. Looking down to see how high the branch was, he saw Aracnia feed-ing on an animal. He repositioned himself on the branch, held his knife with the point down, and jumped. He landed on her, jabbing his elbow into her eyes. The spider hissed in pain as he dropped to the forest floor. He drove his knife into one of her legs, then another, another, and another. Soon, she collapsed.

She hissed angrily and pleadingly. Eyes oozing a black liquid, she looked into Jacob’s angelic eyes. He raised and lowered his knife for the final time.

jWith the blood-filled vial in hand, Jacob followed the

forest wind. The moon was directly above him when he heard the trickling of water. The source of water was a sapphire blue pond with a white marble fountain in the middle. Stepping into the water, he felt instantly rejuvenated. He

Natalie Taggart

87

sunk into the water. Numbing relief filled his thigh and, soon, it was clean. Completely dry, he rose from the water and approached the fountain. He held up the vial that held Gloria’s blood: human blood contaminated by spider venom. He uncorked the vial and poured the liquid into the fountain. When it hit the water, the blood shimmered and turned into dust. The dust rose into the form of a female body, hands outstretched and green eyes aglow with love.

“Gloria,” he whispered. His voice seemed to sound from far away.

Gloria fell and he caught her in his arms, one hand under her knees, the other supporting her shoulders. Their eyes met.

“Thank you, Jacob,” she said and pressed her gentle lips against his. Slowly, her body turned to dust, blowing away in the wind. Jacob was left with the lingering feeling of the lips of the woman he loved. The sun came up; he dried his eyes and headed back home.

jYears have passed. Jacob, still unmarried, is now King.

Once a year, on the same night that Gloria died, Jacob follows the wind and finds himself at Blue Crystal Lake. When he steps into the lake’s water, his youth returns. Water splashes behind him as he approaches the fountain, but he remains dry. He sits on the edge of the fountain, staring at his reflec-tion. Soon, he finds himself staring into the beautiful eyes of the only woman he loved. He places his palm over the water, barely touching the surface. She does the same. Gloria smiles

Gloria the Spider

88

at him. A tear falls down his face and splashes into the water, the ripples disrupting her smile. Her face fades. When the rippling subsides, Gloria’s eyes remain, sparkling like the stars.

t

It was dark and cold outside. The branches on the trees were beginning to freeze up under the cold winter air, and the windows on the big manor were starting to fog up. Sung Lee looked out the window of her room and into the night. It is sure starting to feel like December, she thought, walking away from the window and heading downstairs. Passing several paintings and portraits, she stopped to look at a particular frame. The painting was a portrait of a man and a woman. The woman was sitting down on a chair and holding a small baby girl in her arms with the man positioned right behind her. He was tall with brown hair and deep dark eyes, dressed in brown slacks and a light tan shirt with sus-penders. The woman was slim with light black hair and brown eyes; she was wearing a simple, gray dress that por-trayed her beauty.

“Found anything new about it?” a voice said.

Princess of the Skies

Ivonne Paredes Romero

t

Princess of the Skies

90

Startled, Sung Lee turned around, coming face-to-face with her tall, dark-haired cousin, Leah.

“Of course not, unless you think that portraits rearrange themselves over night.”

“Well, you must be looking for something because you stare at it every single morning. It’s like you are waiting for something to appear, like a hidden message or something of the sort.”

Sung Lee frowned slightly and, folding her arms, she turned away from her cousin, “Well, excuse me for wanting to honor my parents’ memory and for trying to remember a bit more about them.”

“What do you expect to remember about them by just looking at this picture? Sung Lee, it was painted when you were months old.”

“What do I expect to remember? Well, I don’t know. Maybe my mother’s voice or my father’s laugh. Besides, let me remind you that my parents passed away when I was five, meaning that I can still remember certain things about them.”

“You are just hurting yourself. Staring at them won’t bring them back to life. You have to let go,” Leah said softly.

“Easy for you to say considering the fact that your mom is still alive.”

“My dad isn’t, though, but that doesn’t mean that I’m going to stare at a picture of him all day for the rest of my life.”

Sung Lee sighed in frustration and turned heatedly towards Leah. “Look, you—”

“Hey! What is going on here?” Another voice chimed in from across the hall.

Ivonne Paredes Romero

91

Both girls turned towards the sound and saw Leah’s mom approaching them, a scowl dominating her usually gentle features. She stopped right in front of them and with her hands on her hips she asked again, “What is going on here? Why are you fighting so early in the morning? Can’t there be peace for once between you two?”

“There could be, Aunt Julia, if Leah learned to respect other people’s actions,” Sung Lee replied, shooting her cous-in a dirty look. Leah returned the glare, her dark, wide-set eyes full of anger and annoyance that made her pretty, yet sharp features look menacing.

Aunt Julia sighed. Crossing her arms, she turned towards her daughter, “Leah, you know we have talked about this before. You have to stop giving your cousin a hard time just because she looks at that portrait.”

“Mom, you know—” Leah started, but was interrupted by her mother.

“No, Leah, I don’t know. Now, I want you to leave Sung Lee alone and let her be. For goodness sake, please just let her do whatever she wants and give your old mom some peace, will you?”

Leah stared, a stunned look on her face. Her mom stared her down until she nodded.

“Good, now please come down to breakfast.” With that, Julia turned on her heels and disappeared down the stairs. Both girls remained behind for a couple of minutes before Leah gave Sung Lee a final glare and turned to follow her mother. Sung Lee sighed and made her own way slowly down the stairs, gripping the banister for support. She knew that this little scenario was getting old. It had been taking

Princess of the Skies

92

place every single morning since she was nine, and she knew that her aunt was getting extremely sick of it.

Stepping into the nice spacious dining room, Sung Lee walked over to the chair that sat right across from Leah’s own chair and took a seat. Her cousin did not even bother to acknowledge her. However, their younger cousin smiled up at her as Sung Lee sat down.

“Hey, Sung Lee! Such a beautiful morning, isn’t it?” Wendy Woo asked brightly, her black hair pulled back into a braid and her brown eyes shining up at Sung Lee.

Seeing her twelve-year-old cousin sitting next to Leah, who was fourteen, always made Sung Lee wonder why she didn’t resemble either of them, or her aunt, for that matter. Both Leah and Wendy Woo had that black hair with a tint of brown in it and those same brown eyes. Leah’s features were sharpened like her father’s face, but, mixed with her mother’s eyes and mouth, she was strikingly beautiful. Her tall and slim frame added to her bucket of beauty along with her own personalized characteristics, such as her witty remarks and cold, yet calm, expression. Wendy Woo, on the other hand, had extremely soft features and a certain brightness in her eyes that made her seem exceedingly vulnerable at times, but, just like Leah, she had that tall frame, and, even though she was in shape, Wendy Woo still had a bit of extra body fat surrounding the sides of her waist. It was something she had been working hard to get rid of. However, her ex-ceedingly gentle manner immediately made up for that tiny flaw in her physical appearance.

Still, even though there was a serious difference in the way they both acted, no one could ever question the fact

Ivonne Paredes Romero

93

that they were related due to the similarities in their appear-ances. They both looked like Aunt Julia, which did not surprise anybody considering that Leah’s mother, along with Sung Lee’s and Wendy Woo’s fathers were triplets. They both had more traits from the Wane side of the family than any other.

The only time that anyone dared to question the fact that they were family was when they took one good look at Sung Lee. That one glance set off a round of questions that made her feel like a captured enemy who was being inter-rogated. Unlike her cousins, Sung Lee had silky jet black hair that cascaded all the way down to her waist. She was slightly shorter than her cousins and, though she had a slender figure, Sung Lee’s body had more shape to it, more curves. However, it wasn’t the presence of those slight curves that made people doubt—it was her eyes.

Her sky blue, almond-shaped, eagle sharp eyes that were accompanied by long black eyelashes that curved upward. They were eyes that no one in her family possessed. Not her parents, not her grandparents, certainly none of her ancestors, and she knew that. She had done her research the first time anyone had ever questioned her heritage, and, even though she had heard Aunt Julia say that someone in their family did indeed have blue eyes, Sung Lee knew that it wasn’t true. She had mentioned it to her aunt only to have her reply that the history books didn’t date back to the beginning of times.

“You know, if I had known you would disagree with me about the weather, then I don’t think I even would have asked you anything,” Wendy Woo said, pulling Sung Lee back into the present.

Princess of the Skies

94

“Huh? Oh, yeah, it’s pretty. It’s very pretty,” Sung Lee said, flashing her cousin a bright smile.

“Well, pretty is what you won’t look like if you don’t eat,” Leah said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sung Lee asked.“That you will be the opposite of pretty when you get

your butt kicked today at training for not having enough energy. Now eat.”

“Leah, don’t start,” her mom said, shooting her daughter a look.

Drinking her juice and taking a bite out of her eggs and meat, Sung Lee jumped to her feet. “Okay, I’m out. I’ll see you guys at the mansion. Bye, Aunt Julia! Thanks for break-fast. It was delicious!”

Her aunt looked bewildered, “Sung Lee, you haven’t even taken two bites!”

Already down the hall and with her hand on the door knob she yelled back, “I’m not that hungry. Oh, by the way don’t worry about me taking the carriage. I’m walking.”

“Young lady, you are not going anywhere! It’s freezing out there!”

“It’s alright, Aunt Julia. It’s not that cold. I can take it.” Without waiting for a response, Sung Lee ran out the door and into the cool winter air.

She smiled and waved at Ned, their carriage driver, who, by now, was used to her walking to the mansion instead of riding there. Besides getting some good exercise out of walking, she loved it because it gave her time to think and enjoy nature.

The mansion was only a couple of miles away from Sung

Ivonne Paredes Romero

95

Lee’s house, and she usually took about half an hour to get there. Walking at a steady pace, Sung Lee took in her sur-roundings: the sky, the bushes, the trees with their naked branches, the strange boy leaning against the oak tree by the side of the road, the—Sung Lee stopped. Spinning behind a nearby tree, she tilted her head and narrowed her eyes as she examined the stranger from afar.

Sung Lee couldn’t make out his features because they were shielded by semi-long golden locks. The boy’s tall frame was covered by a long, coal black cloak. Shifting her weight, Sung Lee stepped on a twig. The noise sounded thunderous in the silent winter morning. The boy’s head immediately snapped up, but, before he could get a glimpse of her, Sung Lee quickly hid from view.

Holding her breath, she slowly moved around the tree’s trunk to peek at the spot where she had left the stranger standing.

He was gone. Sung Lee froze, her body tensing up as she slowly reached

inside her cloak, pulled out her small, travel-sized knife and scanned the area. Taking a small step forward, Sung Lee suddenly was pulled back, one strong arm around her waist, the other knocking the blade out of her hand in one swift movement and immediately moving up to cover her mouth. Her eyes went wide as the stranger pinned her upper body to the trunk and moved his index finger up to his mouth in a shushing gesture.

Yeah, right, Sung Lee thought as she bent her knee and gave him a powerful kick in the stomach that made him bend forward in pain, loosening his grip on her. Taking

Princess of the Skies

96

advantage of the moment, Sung Lee pushed him and gave him a strong side-kick to the face.

Falling flat on his back, the boy did a backwards som-ersault, pushed himself off the ground, and pounced on Sung Lee before she could reach for her fallen blade. Shrieking, she tried to shake him off, but this time he had such a firm grip on her arms and legs that all she could do was wiggle helplessly.

“Stop it,” he hissed as he glared at her. “Just, stop it!”Sung Lee stopped fighting and panting. She glared back

at the handsome teenager who seemed to be around her age, maybe a year or two older.

“Who are you?” She asked icily.“My name is Sam. Sam Jacob.”“What do you want, Sam Jacob?” Sung Lee snapped. Ignoring her question, the boy said, “Listen, I’m going

let go of you now, but don’t you dare try anything. I swear I won’t think twice about hurting you, alright?”

In response, Sung Lee started wiggling ferociously, but that only made Sam strengthen his grip.

“Alright?” He said through gritted teeth as he slowly unpinned her body and moved back a couple of inches.

Sung Lee sat up, her beautiful features arranged into a scowl on her face, “I said, ‘What do you want?’”

“I came to deliver a message,” Sam said panting slightly. “A message from the King of the Western Hemisphere.”

“A message from the King of the Western Hemisphere?” Sung Lee repeated as confusion and curiosity immediately replaced her fury. What could a king possible want with her?

Sam nodded, “Yes, the Western King. He asked me to

Ivonne Paredes Romero

97

recite to you these words: ‘The time is nearing in which the Princess of the Skies must assume her role as Queen of the Heavens and bring peace and harmony to the Four Hemispheres of the Earth, but, before that peace is obtained, a great war must be fought. In that war, the Princess will lose and win, suffer and rejoice, live and die. You must find her and guide her in order for her to fulfill her destiny and save our kingdoms from destruction.’”

Sung Lee stared dumbstruck at Sam and slowly shook her head. She had grown up hearing about the Princess of the Skies. She was supposed to be the person who would relieve the Four Hemispheres of their suffering.

“I don’t understand. How am I supposed to find the Princess of the Skies? People have searched for her, yet they have never found her. So far, she’s been proven to be nothing but a myth of our people.”

Sam shook his head. “She is not a myth, and you won’t search for her alone. That’s why the king has sent me here to help you find her.”

Standing up, Sam walked over to her and offered her his hand, “Now, tell me, are you willing to accept the challenge?”

Sung Lee stared at his outstretched hand, and, after a couple of minutes, she took it.

t

HardContact

Brennan Theler

t

“So, is the skipper going to make an announcement as to where we’re heading?” asked Kennor, executive officer of the ESES Eridani’s attack wing. “I mean, I know that some things are need-to-know, but does anyone but the captain and the head of Navigation know where we’re even going?” With heavy tread, he strode to the waste dispenser and offhandedly tossed his empty tray in.

Marthews nodded, “I believe so. At least the XO told me the captain told him.” Standing up and doing likewise, he followed slightly behind Kennor. “And, for once, I agree with you. We’ve been in InnerSpace for six months. That’s twice as long as any transit I’ve ever heard of.”

Kennor growled, “Pyreing straight. It’s not like we can tell anyone else.” Unconsciously, his fists tightened and his stride shortened, adopting the practiced stance of a martial artist, as he continued into the corridor.

Brennan Theler

99

“Whoa,” Marthews said quickly. “Calm it down a little, Ken. You look like you’re going to break someone.”

Kennor didn’t loosen up an inch. “If the captain doesn’t spill the beans, with all due respect, I just might.”

Marthews was unimpressed. “You know you can’t do that—you’d be court-martialed and then lanced in less than a day.”

“I know that,” Kennor growled angrily. “I’m not going to pick a fight with the captain. I’m not a pyreing idiot.”

Marthews noticed, with slight unease, they were head-ing to the aft most lifts. He had a sinking feeling they weren’t heading up to Crew Quarters either.

All that was below was Engineering—and the Flying Dutchman. “You can’t be heading down to the Dutchman,” he said, hopefully. “Right?”

“Oh, I’m heading to the Dutchman,” Kennor said with a grin, rolling up his uniform sleeves (which was, technically, a violation of military law) and mashing the down button as the doors hissed shut. “And I’m going to get stone drunk and then start a bar fight.”

“That’s not a good idea,” Marthews said. He knew that, at his 5’ 8” stature, he didn’t stand a prayer of physically dissuading the 6’ 6” Kennor. Ken was so stubborn that getting him to change his mind was about as likely as someone surviving in InnerSpace. Someone had to go along to make sure a less-than-savory character didn’t slip a vibroknife between Ken’s vertebrae, and Marthews was the only person around.

As the lift doors opened, Kennor stomped quickly to-wards the Dutchman. Bullet pocks and plasma burns littered

Hard Contact

100

the walls and ceiling, and potholes marked the floor at odd intervals.

“Kennor, please. You know what goes on in there.” Marthews hung onto his arm and dug in his heels in a futile effort to stop Kennor’s forward motion.

“Marth, get off,” Kennor threw Marthews off his arm and strode all the faster towards the Flying Dutchman.

A crackle sounded over the intercom. “This is the captain.” The two stopped what they were doing to listen inquisitively. Ship-wide intercoms were rare and usually important. “I know many of you have expressed confusion, or frustration, for being on such a classified mission. Now that we’re nearly to our destination, the classification has to end so that we can perform at full efficiency in the coming mission.”

Kennor smiled broadly.“Several years ago, explorers spinward to the galactic

core picked up faint radio transmissions. After much anal-ysis, it was determined that these were from an intelligent species. Moreover, last year, xenologists and linguissts final-ly managed to put together a basic dictionary and translation program.”

“Are you still going to—” Marthews asked, but he was cut off by Kennor.

“Shh. . . ”“As soon as the alien source was discovered by the gov-

ernment at large, it was quickly classified top secret and a mission to the approximate origin of the sources was put into planning. We are that mission. We are to establish contact, exchange information with the new species, and monitor how quickly they have advanced in the hundred-odd

Brennan Theler

101

years since the radio signals were broadcast.”“We will arrive in two hours. To be prepared for any

contingency, all crew members should immediately head to their combat stations until first contact has been conclud-ed. Bridge out.”

Kennor turned slowly to Marthews. “Marth, can you believe this?” he asked, shaking his head. “We’re going to be in on a first contact. The first contact, ever.”

“Ken, I hope we don’t screw this up. If anyone does anything wrong, this will turn into a war. One worse than the Pyres.”

Ken had not considered that. “Worse than the Pyres? That’s impossible.”

“It’s not, Ken—”“Yes, it is,” he said fiercely, closing in on Marth menac-

ingly.“Really, it could be worse. Yes, the Pyres were bad, but

they were also relatively localized. And the antagonists were small in number—”

“I was on Granthos. Nothing could be worse.” His whitened fists tightened even further.

Marthews stopped dead. “You were on Granthos?”“Yes, I was.” Kennor raised one fist. “Care to diminish

it again?”“I knew you had been up close and personal during the

Pyres, but you never told me—”“Of course I didn’t,” laughed Kennor. “Everyone would

have either looked at me with pity or revered me as a hero. I’m no hero, and I need no pity.”

Marthews backed away. “Of course.” As Ken relaxed,

Hard Contact

102

marginally, and Marthews walked down the hall towards the lifts, he added, “Sir.”

“Sir?” Marth slammed the button on the lift and zoomed

towards his duty station, leaving Kennor on the bottom floor pounding at the doors.

“Get back here so I can pyreing kill you!”A short video message blinked on Kennor’s implants.

“Hey, there,” Marthews said, leaning casually on the elevator’s wall. “Sorry for joking about Granthos, but I couldn’t resist.”

In reply, Kennor hit record, gave Marthews a very rude gesture, then sent the message. “Sir,” he grumbled angrily as he strode to the next tube over. “I swear, any more and I’ll simply put him on point.”

jAs Marthews strode into Flight Tactical, he surveyed

the flight members pouring in. The room was small and rather jury-rigged, a result of an unfortunate accident in-volving a welding trainee and a malfunctioning laser welder. It would be months before the damage was fully repaired, and there would always be black laser scars on the walls.

Nearly tripping over an exposed cable, Marthews stum-bled gracelessly towards the commanding chair of the Flight Leader. His hand, outstretched for balance, brushed the armrest, and a host of displays lit up in front of the chair. A loud tone sounded in the room, and everyone within straight-ened and saluted. “Flight Leader, sir,” they chorused. “All stations manned.”

Brennan Theler

103

“Good, good,” Marthews waved absentmindedly at the saluting flight members. “At ease,” he said as he straightened to a comfortable position in his chair. “Prelim report?”

“All fighters fueled, sir.”“All mechanics report greater than 90% efficiency on all

systems—”“Weapon pods loading now.”“Additional power is being diverted to the laser capac-

itors from the power grid—”“Pilots report they will be in the Ready Room prepared

for flight in 10 minutes.”Marthews took in the flood of overlapping reports with

remarkable ease. “That’s a good prelim,” he said. “How about combat sims?”

“Sir,” the sims officer said apologetically, “as you know, this force was assembled rather rapidly. As individual squad-rons, our pilots’ effectiveness in battle is very high. As a wing, it could use some improvement. I would say that, as a wing, we rate slightly better-than-average.”

With a wince, Marth nodded. “About what I expected. At least we aren’t planning on any combat.”

“Yes, sir.”

jKennor sprinted into the Ready Room, attaching the

air and data leads into his helmet as he shouldered open the door. “Right, everyone,” he said, striding to the podium. “We don’t have a battle plan because we are not planning for battle. However,” he stressed, “that does not mean anyone

Hard Contact

104

slacks. Remain in a combat footing until expressly directed to stand down. We are not expecting combat,” he said with a frown, “but we just might get it.”

j“Exiting InnerSpace, now,” called one lieutenant.“All ships prepare for launch,” Marth called, as the ship

lurched in its return to normal space.“Launch now.”

j“Launch now.” The launch bays depressurized with a

loud hiss, fading into silence as vacuum replaced the air. “EM online. Launching.”

With a whine, the fighter accelerated, pushing everyone back in their seats as it exited the launch tube at several hundred miles per hour.

“We’re clear. Immediate AP formation,” Kennor yelled into the mic. “Move your boats now.”

As the fighters quickly formed a loose globe around the ship, Kennor steered towards the front of the ship where the lance was being retracted.

A comm came in from the Eridani. “Activating main drive, all hands brace for activation.”

“Flight, main drive activation. Veer out now.” With a sickening lurch, the ships all dove away from the Eridani as the massive electromagnet within Engineering began to spin.

Every fighter was dragged slightly towards the Eridani

Brennan Theler

105

as the electromagnet spun at start-up speed, nearly three times its usual velocity.

“Exit to minimum safety envelope, Flight,” commed Marthews. “We are on approach to Viable Planet 1. Sensors is confirming lighting and radio signals coming from the planet. Looks like we struck lucky the first time.”

“Maintain position,” Kennor commed as the Eridani began to move forwards, first in jerks and leaps, then ever more smoothly until a constant pace was reached. Each of the fighters kept pace, forming a moving sphere heading planetwards. Already, it began to swell in their viewscreens, a vivid green and blue sphere.

j“Send the first contact package,” ordered Marthews.

“Use Flight One; she’s the closest ship by several light-sec-onds.”

“First contact package down the pipeline from the Bridge,” came the reply. “Sending it now.”

“Flight One, send this message planetwards with maximum signal strength,” ordered Marth. “Repeat several times.”

“Acknowledged,” came the reply.As the message worked its way towards the planet at

the speed of light, Marthews sat and worried. What would the planet’s inhabitants do when the message was received? Would they respond? If so, how?

“Well, that was quick,” remarked the Sensors ensign a few minutes later. “Someone’s already got a message capsule launched. It’s heading our way.”

Hard Contact

106

That was the response everyone had expected—and hoped for.

“Is it aimed at us currently or at our projected vector?”“Ah, us currently, sir. But it appears to be correcting.”“Captain,” Marth commed, “I would recommend stop-

ping acceleration to allow recovery of the message capsule.”“Sir, the message capsule is accelerating slightly,” said

Sensors.“That’s fine. It’s just reaching cruising speed.” Marthews

stood with a stretch. “It will be a few hours before we intercept the message capsule. I’m going to take a nap. Wake me when it’s time.”

“Yes, sir.”As Marthews strode to the room behind Flight Com-

mand and slumped into one of the bunks there, he had time for one half-formed thought: why was there a message capsule being sent instead of a radio or television message?

j“Flight Command is ordering us to recover the capsule,

sir,” said the comm officer onboard Flight One.Kennor nodded. “Alright, take us out on an intercept

course.”“Sir,” intervened the pilot, “our chemical drives don’t

have enough fuel to get us to your mark and back, and we want to get this back to Eridani ASAP. I would recommend letting it come to us.”

“Alright,” Kennor conceded. “How much longer will that add to intercept time?”

Brennan Theler

107

“Five minutes, sir.”“Five minutes,” he grimaced. “Fine.”“Here it comes,” the pilot reported five minutes later.

“Right on schedule.”“Come around to my mark— ” began Kennor.“Ken,” his pilot reproved, “don’t be a backseat pilot. You

haven’t piloted full-time for years. I have. Back off.”“Alright,” Kennor said huffily. “But you still need to

come to that mark.”“Point.”As they neared the capsule, the visual came onscreen. A

strange, green color, the capsule was sleek and flowing, but something seemed off.

“Coming within grappler range,” the pilot said. “Firing grapplers.”

Onscreen, small glinting tendrils snaked towards the rocket. But at the last moment, the engines on the capsule nudged it forwards.

“Clean miss,” said the pilot. “Pyre.”“Why did it move?” asked the engineer. “Was it time-

lag?”“No,” the pilot mused. “I don’t think so.”Suddenly, something clicked in Kennor’s brain. “That’s

not a message capsule,” he cried. “It’s a pyreing missile!”Even as he began to comm the Eridani, the viewscreen

showed a horrible sight. The missile exploded outwards into hundreds of smaller ones. Each began accelerating crazily towards the Eridani.

“Pyre,” he screamed. “Eridani, immediate evasive!”

Hard Contact

108

j“One clean miss,” Sensors said before pausing and

straightening. “Wait, radar is getting an increased reading on the capsule—it’s breaking apart.”

Then he paled. “Oh, pyre. We have radiological alerts going off. Nukes incoming!”

Marth sat for a moment in shock. Nukes? Frantically, he commed to the Bridge. “Nukes, sir. Evasive.”

“Nukes? Pyre—” the link cut off abruptly.The ship shuddered as the drive kicked in at emergen-

cy power, but it was too slow. Already the viewscreens showed the missiles as specks, rapidly swelling.

“It’s not going to be enough,” Marthews whispered sadly. “We’re not going to make it.”

Hurriedly, he flipped open his armrest. Within were a handful of buttons, each with a glass case protecting them. Flipping up the largest case, he smashed the button within.

“Evacuate. Evacuate. All hands to escape pods,” clamored alarms all over the ship.

The panicked maneuvering of the Eridani ceased as the ship slowed to mandatory ejection speed. Within moments, small thumps sounded as escape pods began to eject.

Heaving himself upright, Marth fled Flight Command towards the Bridge pods. He led a flight of other officers and bridgemembers, stumbling as the thuds of ejecting pods shook the ship.

As they arrived, the captain’s pod ejected loudly, leaving only three on the deck.

Brennan Theler

109

As Marthews counted the crew members, he grimly realized there were too many. If they all tried to cram within three pods, the life support would fail long before they reached a star system with rescue capabilities.

“Bridge crew, first pod. Flight Command, second pod. Remnants, third pod,” he cried, watching as men and women began to file into the pods. As each one reached capacity, he ran to the eject button and smacked it before anyone else could cram in.

As the second pod launched, he called, “Flight Command, and then enlisted.” As they filed on, a handful of men were left outside the pod.

As it ejected, Marth screamed, “Next pod deck is two floors down. Move!”

Even as they crammed into the lift tube, a nuclear fist slammed the ship and the power flickered. The lift dropped ten feet before screeching to a halt.

“Pyre!” someone screamed, and then a much larger fist drowned out any curses anyone may have yelled.

A third fist, engulfing the fleet in nuclear fire, drowned out anything anyone may have done.

Marth’s last thought was, Well, here’s yet another Pyre to add to the list.

jAs the pilot cursed and wrenched the fighter as far from

the Eridani as possible, Kennor stared in disbelief. Why would f irst contact be a hundred nuclear missiles?

He watched as escape pods began to travel away from

Hard Contact

110

the ship, their red emergency lights and locator beacons already blinking on.

The first missile hit, knocking the Eridani askew as a bloom of fire spewed from the newly formed crater. Even before the flames had dissipated, a second missile darted into the crater and exploded, nearly ripping the ship in half. In one massive wave, the remaining missiles targeted every section of the ship and hit simultaneously, a blinding flash that blacked out the viewscreen for several seconds. When it cleared, nothing was left of the Eridani. It was just gone.

Most of the escape pods had disintegrated. Only a handful, the farthest out, drifted, and they showed severe damage. Most would never stay intact long enough for a rescue.

“Sir, Flight is asking for instructions,” comms said wood-enly. “You are now the ranking officer.”

Kennor, not even stopping to think, said, “None of the escape pods look like they are going to make it long enough for rescue.” As if confirming his thought, one blinked out of existence, followed quickly by several more. “We need to get word back to the Sphere. Flight is to extend lances immediately and rendezvous outsystem before we head back.”

“Yes, sir,” murmured the comms officer as he sent the message.

“Lances extended,” the pilot said flatly. “Engaging ex-otic matter. InnerSpace transit complete.”

As the stars blinked out, replaced by the black abyss of InnerSpace, Kennor stared at the viewscreen, showing the last picture of the system. Three thousand lives had just

Brennan Theler

111

been lost—for no reason. A planet had just annihilated a peaceful contact mission that had sent a total of one message. Annihilated with nuclear weapons, the worst possible way they could have.

“They used nukes,” he growled. “They created another Pyre. They have just reserved their planet to be a cremato-rium.”

The Human Sphere had outlawed nuclear weapons for just this reason: they created Pyres, unstoppable conflagrations. Kennor’s hand had been forced; if it was ashes that the aliens wanted, it was ashes they would get. A slightly manic grin stretched across his face.

“Turn around,” he ordered.“Sir?”“Drop out of InnerSpace.” With a whine, the fighter

shuddered to a halt. “All of you, take the escape pod. I’m going back.”

“Sir, you can’t—”“Go,” he barked. “Now!”The pod ejected, and Kennor entered InnerSpace once

again. As he entered his exit coordinates, the computer refused, “Planetary surface detected.” With a grin, Kennor slammed the override. “Manual control engaged,” the computer said obediently. Coordinates locked in.

“Only a few minutes now,” he said as the drive started up again.

“Only a few minutes now.”

tPandora in a Box

Anneka Winder

t

The point between living and non-living, when movements began inside the creature’s metal shell for the f irst time, thought Elric, is the best part about raising animals to life. Joints popped and whirred, sweet in their youth. A heartbeat.

Heartbeats had indisputable wealth to Elric, but the first breath made his own flutter with sheer excitement. He supposed the reasoning amounted to this: breathing was the acceptance of life, not an involuntary tick of the clock. Elric witnessed many a life begin and end before the first breath was taken.

Today, however, it was sure to come. The walk to his workshop helped him clear his mind,

as did the bursts of hail that accompanied its length, pealing on his skull. As Elric scurried down the pathway, he wished for a subtler means of water weather—rain, snow, sleet. The hail did have a knack for beating the fog out of his mind, though.

Anneka Winder

113

The last quarter mile to the workshop, with its walls visible yet out of reach, was tantalizing. Though the workshop was damp inside, the fire there might at least warm him, and that was half the battle with hypothermia.

Knocking on the door and wondering when the weather had become so vile, Elric made a peculiar sight. Few callers of destiny had to ask to be let into their workspace, and out of those few, the rest tended to own a key. But he blanched at the thought. If he startled his temperamental servant. . .

Knocking shielded him from the initial response. Usually.Footsteps, slight and slippery, stirred beneath the frame.

Elric couldn’t help but flinch when the door opened. Instinct, after all, dies hardest.

A razing voice, coupled by a mirthless chuckle, was his servant’s response. “After all these years. Come, sir.”

Elric grunted, straightening before another jab was thrown. “Force of habit and nothing more. Is the apparatus complete?”

Leaning against the door of his prison was a creature known in his own tongue as “Hissy-Hissth Growl Ahhh” but dubbed by Elric as the affectionate “Topper.” This blue, blistered being hardly deserved the title affectionate.

“The coals still burn from our finishing touches last night,” said Topper, tilting his scaled head to the side. “I noticed deficiencies on the falcon’s talon—human mistakes, sir—and remained awake for a number of hours after you left. The coals must be scarlet by now.”

“Thank you. I’ll need some heat to return feeling to my feet.” Elric strode into the workroom, past a dumbstruck Topper, and returned his coat to its place on the rack. “Show

Pandora in a Box

114

me the bird so that we might get started with this mess, eh?”

Fire alone lit the workroom; the dim warmth cast a crack-ling sort of brightness, slinking up on frostbitten fingers and—gradually—turning their colors from blue to red. Catching hold of a table in the center of the room, he sat down and rested on a hardback bench.

“It just boggles my mind how long you’ve let that roof go without thatching.” Elric glared at a puddle of water pooled in the center of the mahogany. “Take some pride. The place is bound to flood under your watch.”

“You forget my kind are quite partial to water.” Topper poked coals over the fire with a long stick. “If it bothers you, you fix it.”

Elric laughed. “Oh? Men of my age are partial to keep-ing their hips intact.” He added, “It would be a kind gesture. Buried under that frigid blood, there must be courtesy. Some-thing that evolution didn’t quite wear out.”

Topper shrugged. “If there is, it must be shriveled by now. Compare it to your appendix, if you like.”

Elric drummed his fingers over the table. Patience was a virtue, but not his. “Is our great falcon ready?”

Topper set a few more coals to the side, wincing as they let off an array of sparks and ash, and lifted a large iron box out of the flames. The fire licked his forearms, and he gave a grimace. One advantage of hiring a siren is its especially re-silient skin. It’d take more than a campfire to penetrate it.

“The creature appears ready, but I can’t be sure with these burns on my fingers,” panted Topper, staggering to the left, to the right, and to the left again.

Anneka Winder

115

“Set it clean and firm,” said Elric, nervous.“Don’t mock me,” said Topper. “I know what I’m doing.”Topper lay the box on a square of granite positioned at

the end of the table. Red marks spoke of a time before the granite slab, when Elric was young and careless and altogeth-er an idiot.

The box had a ghoulish air about it—a true representation of Pandora’s life in a box. Topper’s lips pursed as he beheld it; the thoughts of sailors he had absorbed before they took their plunge down, down, down into the depths. . .

“Well,” said Elric, licking his lips. “Shall we set to work?”“Hmm.”Elric stood and hobbled over to the coat rack. Here, he

shrugged on his apron and slapped on a pair of welder’s gloves.

“Lift the lid, Topper,” said Elric as he returned to his spot on the table.

Topper held his knobby and now sore fingers high. “But, sir, I have a blister. . . ”

“The lid.”“Fine. Don’t get your hair singed. I’ll do it.”With a deft flick, Topper sent the lid airborne and

then—clang! The box created sizzling and smoke whips as it hit the wood flooring.

The old man cast the box a wistful stare, which he turned towards Topper. “Would it have killed you to place that upon the granite?”

Topper nodded. “Most likely, sir. My fingers grow less tolerant of heat as the years go on. I may have spontaneous-ly combusted.”

Pandora in a Box

116

Elric kicked the lid and added a line to his face when it emitted sparks. “Do you want the floor to combust? No matter. Let’s inspect the handiwork, shall we?”

This was all the encouragement Elric needed to direct his attention from that which disturbed him. As he did so, what remained was an emotion that Elric associated with parenthood.

Inside the box were the vague sketches of an animal. Fierce in complexion, angular in design and yet feeble and empty. “You know what they say about animals?” breathed Elric. “In the old days, I mean.”

Topper, being an immortal creature, was aware of the progression of animals but humored his master. “I imagine they stunk.”

Elric focused on the falcon. “Once, they were likened to humankind—able to reproduce. Able to breathe the life into one another without assistance but with bodies. Not these copper casks. I cannot fathom. . .”

“Nor I,” said Topper, though he remembered. “How unfortunate, to release us from our jobs. I don’t know how I’d take retirement.”

“I think it would be beautiful,” whispered Elric. “True magic.”

Or, Topper thought, the lack thereof. “I will bestow upon them life until I’m six feet under.

Then, who’s left to bear the burden?” He paused before continuing. “I suppose I won’t be allowed to die until the animals give us up.”

A peculiar notion struck him. His hand raised to touch the falcon’s feathers. Though the metal bird had cooled some,

Anneka Winder

117

it remained scalding hot. Stunned, Topper removed Elric’s finger from the bird.

“What came upon you?” The rage that boiled into his throat was a smooth contrast to his vocal rasp. “Have you gone daft?”

Elric considered his glove, which held residue to the copper on his index finger; rubbing it between his thumb until it disappeared, he said, “I appreciate the concern, but I have sustained no burn.”

Elric studied the feather which he had smudged in his eagerness and scoffed. “Well, Topper, that is only a smudge. I doubt the bird will be as picky as you.”

A solemn brow raised as Topper stiffened against the table. Elric’s nonchalance astonished him. “And do you expect me to spend another sleepless night rectifying what your carelessness has ruined?”

“It is but a smudge,” repeated Elric, this time with force. “Falcons haven’t the eye for detail. I suspect it won’t notice.”

Arrogant insistence and overconfidence were Elric’s weaknesses. When chosen to play creator for the animals of the Earth, it was an inevitable flaw.

Topper wanted to argue, but he settled spitefully. “If you believe it so, but, if that falcon’s wings never fly due to your negligence, do not blame Topper. He warned you well enough.”

“And if he’ll stop chastising me in the third person, we may go on and ask the falcon what he thinks about the deformity,” said Elric, nudging pointedly towards the metal being.

“We should continue with the fusing, before the copper

Pandora in a Box

118

cools,” Topper replied. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Topper prepared for the procedure. Elric watched him fidget. The actual calling seemed to drag bad memories from his servant. Topper pulled at his threadbare tunic and turned to his master expectantly. “Plug your ears, Elric.”

Blushing, he cupped his hands over his ears and grimaced. “Do your work, Topper.”

In earlier days, Elric had made the mistake of exposing his ears to the siren’s song. He regained consciousness in a bush behind the workshop two hours later, scorch marks up and down his arm. According to Topper, Elric had attempt-ed to juggle coals during his trance. Topper had thrown Elric in the snow to cool off until he regained his bearings, as well as to provide a salve for the burns—and because Elric was being tiresome.

Elric didn’t remember any of these events, but he did remember the music. Haunting, but at the same time hope-ful. Each note promised that if the listener might come closer, all the pains and sorrows of this mortal realm might dissipate momentarily.

As Elric watched Topper perform the calling, a number of emotions moved within him. The song made the listener insane with the longing that the siren drew on to enthrall his victim. The contortion of Topper’s face, instead of its usual apathetic, hawkish features, had relaxed and melted into genuine empathy.

Topper faltered slightly in his song when brilliant orbs of light burst into existence, springing to the rhythm of their own chatter. The spirits had answered his song.

Returning to his general despondence, Topper surveyed

Anneka Winder

119

the choices. He settled on a robust spirit, one whose sturdy size compensated its plain color. Lidless eyes focused on this spirit, calculating. Then, they flickered to Elric, and they both gave a nod.

At this sign, Elric plugged his ears and closed his eyes. While the first song drew in the prey, the second—one Elric had never dared raise an ear to—was meant to trap. To fuse. Even hearing one note in full and he risked having his soul ripped from his body. Though his ears were sealed, he heard muffled screeches—of which creature? Impossible to discern. Perhaps he had imagined the ordeal in the quiet and darkness.

A clawed finger grasped and lowered his hand from his ear. Then came the familiar rasp. “Sir, the soul has bonded. You are safe to listen.”

Exhaling, Elric’s eyes opened to reveal the workshop devoid of summoned souls. Adjusting his glasses, Elric said, “Has the metal cooled?”

“The metal cooled on contact with the soul.” If any emotion, Topper displayed mild satisfaction. “A complacent soul, for such dastardly work. Well enough, for a falcon.”

Elric’s fingers strayed towards the box in curiosity. “May I look? Is it safe?”

Topper took a peek inside the box. “Vitals have not come into function yet, but the soul is fused. Signs of life should follow.”

“So, it did fuse.” This pleased Elric. “You should prob-ably leave. We cannot take chances.”

“Yes, understandable.” Though Topper granted the soul’s access to a physical form, there remained scarring in the spirit. In some animals, the mere sight of the siren sent them

Pandora in a Box

120

spiraling to an early grave. With the screams of sailors and spirits fresh in mind, Topper exited into the hailstorm with only a tunic on his back. The door opened and slammed, offering Elric a glimpse of the gale which awaited him before closing it off between the barricade of wood.

“You might have grabbed one of my cloaks for protec-tion.” Elric called into the winter storm. Whether Topper’s hearing permitted him, he did not return. Elric did not wish for Topper’s mucus to cover his best sheepskins. Sighing, he freed himself to his work. “Oh, that is beautiful.”

Lifting himself to see over the box’s walls, he viewed his creation polar from its previous state. Something more add-ed to the falcon once it received the life—energy, perhaps? Delighted, he pressed and found a pulse—churning of the pump that he had fitted, nothing more—but it befitted him to pretend it was a heart. Anxiety ascended with every moment the heart beat without a breath. Before long, the heartbeat would slow and stop. A soul left in stasis through the bonds of metal, with no retribution.

The body trembled, but nothing more. “No.” With the cusp of his finger and thumb, he enact-

ed a form of CPR against the falcon’s chest. Skin dug into the metal plates, but for all his enthusiasm, there were no results. Its heart slurred and stuttered. Defeat never rang true until it stopped altogether.

The results did not fail in their entirety. The falcon breathed. During the final pattering of its heart, when Elric considered quitting, for the mere prospect of resting his wrists, and the animal destined itself for a shallow grave in the world it rejected—then the falcon’s chest moved.

Anneka Winder

121

Unremarkable, as this could have been anything: a spasm in the throes of death. But then, astonishment—a sigh! Or that was what his ears heard. Soft as true downy feathers, what Elric had only known in legends described the falcon’s first breath.

Semblances of confidence reasserted itself, now that he knew for certain that the bird wished to live. This knowledge gave him all the more reason for guilt, however, when he proved unable to siphon another breath of air from its lungs. In vain he toiled, grasping to the falcon’s plumage in the same way he reached for a reason of why it refused to accept his life.

Machinery malfunction? Unlikely. He had been in the business for years, and dozens of falcons had broken into flight outside his door. Rather, the fault either lied in the spirit or in himself. And the uncertainty shook him.

Not until a minute passed without a second breath did he check the vitals of the falcon once more. As he did so, his expression died. The heart had stopped at an indeterminable point. Perhaps just then, or perhaps as soon as the sigh had left the bird’s mouth. The punch had been thrown, the race lost. His falcon was beyond rescue.

As he examined the body, he found that the stiff inac-tion of the falcon’s countenance had returned, the same as it had been before the call. Except now melancholy bonded to its inanimate body—whispers of the promises it once held. Its metal exterior refused to slumber until eternity assimilated it to dust. Elric deemed himself responsible for this failure, this above the prior animals whose hearts had come racing to a sudden stop—it had taken breath, after all.

Pandora in a Box

122

It had requested rescue from whatever bonds held it back, did it not? Elric had failed it.

Numb, he stood and stepped away from the workbench, head bowed to shield from the light. The faintest of sparks shone too brightly for his taste. He dropped to a squat, fingers fumbling for the iron lid. When he touched it, the exterior had cooled some, allowing him to slide it over his falcon’s cradle and coffin. His eyes did not raise until the lid was secured firmly on the box.

How he managed to lift the box in its entirety remained a mystery. He grasped it and paused, staring at nothing in particular and wanting nothing but to sink against the floor and never rise.

As if enacting a funeral march, he trudged away from the table. Not all of his works ended with such sadness. Long ago, he had trained himself to leave the business logical, but, in his old age, sometimes a failure or two struck chords dusted with time.

Not as hard as this, though. Never.To his mild surprise, Topper had already propped the

door open and now perched against it, watching Elric’s procession with diminishing interest. When he neared speak-ing distance, the siren remained apathetic as he scrutinized the box and the implication of what it yet held.

With heaviness about his words and face, Elric began to explain. “Topper, the falcon has regrettably rendered—”

Topper held up one finger, silencing his master. “My hearing is, as you know, keen. I heard its heart stop likely before you, sir, and entered shortly after. Did you not feel the chill?”

Anneka Winder

123

Elric felt the makings of ice, but rather than freezing him from the outside, it had swelled from inwards and struck him before he had realized its onset. Neither anger nor agony met Topper’s ambivalence. Rather, a question brewed in the storm of his mind.

“Topper,” he said, tasting ash as the word passed from his lips, “I touched it before the metal had cooled. You rep-rimanded me, urged me to hold back the procedure until rectification, but I was impatient. I—I didn’t listen to you.” He bit his lip, unable to meet the siren’s ageless eyes with his own deteriorating pair. “Do not bar an old man’s feelings, Topper. Has my mistake any weight on. . . ?”

Elric trailed off, hoping Topper might spare him of finishing the sentence. The open door wailed a bitter frost against his nose as he waited for the answer.

Perplexed and intrigued, Topper shook his head. “I wouldn’t fret upon it, sir.”

“No?” said Elric; the same failing numbness that granted him awareness of the cold made his fingers now ache with the burden of the box. “I inhibited the gift of flight—”

“Flight, not death,” interrupted Topper. “Sir, such a minor abrasion doesn’t cause death. When I warned you, my disdain held more towards aesthetics rather than survival.” Pause. “My guess is a case of cold feet.”

“And yet, I’d have sworn. . . ” Elric shook the thought off. “You have better judgment than I in these matters.”

“Or a malfunction in the heart,” said Topper. “We may perform an autopsy.”

A menagerie of emotions—rage being the boldest—and arguments gave reign in Elric’s mind. It defied human

Pandora in a Box

124

understanding and, the more he considered the matter, the more his blood boiled—Malfunction? Pah! Somehow, plac-ing the blame in his care gave him morbid satisfaction, and besides, either option led to his own fault.

His face reddened but he kept his thoughts to himself. He took a deep breath and said, “Topper, I have a favor.”

Hesitation arched Topper’s back, but duty gave way. “I oblige to your service.”

“I am.” Elric swallowed. “An autopsy won’t be necessary. Regardless of the cause, our falcon is dead.” Urgent now, he continued, “Take the falcon. Bury it far from this cabin, someplace wooded. Free.”

With this, Elric shoved the box into Topper’s hands. Neither seemed pleased at the exchange.

Topper’s eyebrows furrowed in indignation. “Sir, I—”“Dirt may be hard, but nature gave you claws for some

purpose. I suggest you put them to good use. Shield it from the hail to prevent rust.”

Reluctantly, Topper asked, “Does rust matter?”Elric turned his back to the scene. Not until the door

creaked in protest to its handler did he speak. “I plan to leave for the village soon, and the cold helps me gather my thoughts.”

Slowly, the door returned to its former position. “And pneumonia, sir.”

As Elric counted the retreating footsteps, he found that there came a point when they were too soft to do so. Before he could gain control of his own feet to warm them by the fire, they led him outside and in to the maelstrom. The air nipped every uncovered portion of his skin, but not in spite,

Anneka Winder

125

for he and the wind were not polar in their dealings.Chest heaving, Elric spoke to his invisible counterpart:

“Is it worth the suffering to you? Or do you question your purpose as well, when your gale sends frostbite, avalanches, death?” His eyes were dry, his expression cold, as he continued: “Or am I growing weak? Is that it?”

The reply came in whispers from a language higher than his own.