Tag: Beginnings

The Fountain

FB_IMG_1590514269688The river was placid and cold, wide against the narrow horizon.  The deepening autumn chill had turned the trees a bright orange that lit up the river brighter than a forest fire. He set his boots against the rough rocks that formed the bank, the crunch of stone against stone amplified by the surface of the water.

He felt as if he had followed this river for a lifetime, at the same time as if he had been born two weeks ago when he left Alakinuk. The silence of the place held a peace that not even the howling of wolves could disturb. The only intrusion of men visible in the entire landscape was his two canoes.

He glanced instinctively toward the section of bank where he had landed, reassured by the sight of both resting half on the rocks. The river could change quickly, he had learned the hard way that first night. A sudden rainstorm had quickened the current and almost swept his poorly secured belongings back where he had come from. He had spent the night feeding a roaring fire trying to warm his soaked body after nearly drowning tying the canoes higher.

He scanned the sky, noting the heavy cloud cover but affirming that he had time to pitch camp before the freezing rain came again. He whistled and the dogs left the canoe with a bound, trotting at his heels as he trudged to the edge of the woods to cut thin timbers for a shelter. They wore their leather harnesses so that he could use them for any necessary hauling and could easily tether them for the night. He had already seen the value of keeping them at arm’s length, especially at mealtimes.

He laughed to himself, reveling in the thought of himself as the sole human in this wealth of wilderness. Soon he would be farther than any map charted; if not for the native tribes that he had heard passed through Alakinuk twice a year, he could almost imagine himself the first eyes to see this country, to uncover its secrets and claim its rewards. Another glance at the sky reminded him that it could also claim him if he was not prepared for its harsh reality.

As he hastily took his hatchet to some spindly pines that stood out green against the orange, he remembered the stories of explorers that had filled his imagination as a boy. The stories of open lands and rich discoveries that fired his soul to seek something other than the tired trappings of civilization. His favorite had always been the far-fetched claim of Ponce de Leon’s quest for the fountain of youth.

Old Juan may not have literally been searching for the waters of eternal life, he thought as he finished constructing his temporary shelter, but he had truly understood what the real treasure was. He straightened and propped himself on the lean-to poles. The dogs sat beside him, tongues lolling out, waiting for their nightly meal of dried fish. This land was the true fountain of youth, the challenge and the wealth that put life into a man’s soul. And he had found it.

The Memorial

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There they hung, the uniforms, lining the hallway where they had hung all my life. It would be the last time he walked past them for many months, probably years. He took it slowly, pausing before each one to remember.

First the cuffed olive green of his great-great-grandfather’s, the pockets fraying away and the seams worn with age. Although it had been well laundered, he could almost see the bloodstains that must have covered it as it had carried the wounded back behind the lines amid the spatter of gunfire. He rubbed his fingers together, slick with the imagined mud that soaked the fabric in the shallow trenches as rain and explosives pelted the ground. He smiled at the thought of the wrinkles crushed into it by his great-great-grandmother when she welcomed her husband home safely.

He wondered what she had felt when she saw his great-uncle march away wearing the next uniform on the wall. The green had once been the same, but time had faded it less than its predecessor. This one had been mended, the holes where shrapnel had ripped through it still visible despite the stitching. He imagined his great-grandmother’s hands shaking as she arranged the pieces, the only thing returned to her from the trenches of France. Her son’s body had long since returned to dust in the very fields where he died, his cross tended by grateful strangers.

Next hung his grandfather’s tiger stripes. His grandfather had never been able to talk about what had happened in the jungles on the other side of the world. He had watched his grandsons grow and play with distant, haunted eyes. Loud noises had always agitated Granddad, and Grandmother had quietly sent the boys home whenever Granddad lost his temper and started yelling about cowards. His heart had been broken, she had explained, first by the horrors of the jungle war and then by the resentment and ingratitude when he returned safe but changed.

The last uniform was the most important to him, and he placed his hand on the glass case as if by doing so he could touch its owner. Dad had put on the sand colored uniform with its rusty splashes of color as a way to honor the father whose sacrifices had been forgotten. He had worn it proudly for five years, seeing his tiny son only a handful of times before hitting a land mine in a faraway desert. His picture and this last uniform were the reason for this last walk today.

By this time tomorrow, a fifth uniform would begin its own journey to the wall. He placed his forehead against the glass in the closest thing he remembered to a hug from Dad. “I’ll make you proud, Dad,” he whispered before continuing his last walk out of the front door, the promise hanging in the air as the final memorial.

The Leaving

FB_IMG_1590364184563She had waited for this day for twelve years. Every time an Underage met his or her Milestone, she had followed them up the tracks as far as she was allowed, dreaming of her own Milestone. This morning, her twelfth Day, Da had woken her before Lights, a ready bag in hand.

She had dressed carefully in her brand new Topside clothes, her hands trembling with excitement. She had to blend in, but the clothes felt so strange she couldn’t quite move correctly. The long skirt hung around her ankles, and she kept tripping. Da told her to take shorter steps and move more slowly until she adjusted, and she tried.

The long pack was heavy and hit her thighs just behind her knees with every step. She was relieved to climb on Da’s Motor and let it hang behind the seat. She had to hike the skirt up as well to straddle the Motor, and she relished the freedom of movement, the last she would experience for several… months? Yes, that was the word. She was going to have to remember to talk like a Topsider. Starting with not saying Topsider, she thought with a grimace. Surface dwellers called themselves Citizens.

The Motor made the trip up the tracks much shorter than she remembered. Da was a good driver, but the crossties still made for quite a few jolts. She kept her jaws clenched tightly to keep from biting her tongue, and when they finally stopped at the Door she ran her tongue over her teeth to make sure they were all still there.

She and Da stood together, his hand on the lever that opened the Door. “Are you ready?” he asked. She nodded. This was how it was. No ceremony. Only one witness to confirm the Leaving. He pulled the Lever, and the steel panels slowly rolled back into the walls.

She had seen charcoals of Topside, even a few oils, but she was not prepared. The city stretched vast before her, its towers reflecting in the river like bridges of glass. Gleaming silver transports mirrored the colors of the sky as the sun tipped the horizon. It was her first sunrise, and for a moment she thought the whole scene burned until she  remembered one particular oil.

Da pointed downriver. “There’s an old highway about a mile that way,” he told her. “Topsiders haven’t used it in decades, but it will get you across.” He squeezed her shoulder tightly, and she knew he was worried. Miners always worried about the Leaving. Sometimes they had reason.

“I’m ready, Da,” she assured him. “I can do it. I’ll be the perfect Citizen. You’ll see.”

He nodded, his eyes reddening. “Bring back everything you can,” he choked. “See you as a Miner.” He stepped away from her, ready to close the Door. She took a deep breath and stepped into the Topside.

The Mirror World

FB_IMG_1590121467061All his life he had watched the world overhead. All his life he had wondered what it felt like to be surrounded by trees and green things. His own world was barren, a world of ice and rock. The two mirrored each other only in position.

There had been tales of adventurers who tried to climb the ice cliffs to cross the mirror. The few who returned had done so cruelly maimed or altered. None had reached the mirror and lived to tell the tale. None of the missing had ever been found.

Those attempts had been driven by curiosity, by restless individuals unsatisfied to observe from below. He identified with the feeling, but his uncle had kept him on a tight sinew. Adventuring didn’t pull fish from the ice or render whale blubber. So he had gazed at the green sky with its teeming life in longing.

Now the whales were growing scarce. Several years of bitter storms had thickened the ice and even the seals struggled to reach food through its layers. In recent cycles half of his village had sickened from starvation and exposure, and many had died. The Ice Elders had convened an emergency council and called for volunteers for an expedition to breach the mirror.

Not even his uncle could stop him this time. This attempt would be successful; he could feel it. He raised his hand as if to touch the trees. Soon enough, he thought, he would know. Soon enough he would have the answers he had always longed for.

His supplies lay at his feet, arranged carefully on a blanket of whale leather and tied with cords of sealskin through slits in the leather. He made a last check of picks, heavy leather ropes, leather repair kit, dried fish, and seal jerky. He lacked nothing, and rolled the blanket tightly before sealing the ends with more cord.

He looked around to find his uncle glaring at him from under the thick fur of his hood. The old man would never understand. He was angry with the Elders for their decision, refusing to believe the truth that the world was dying. Most of all he was angry with the boy. This was an act of defiance, an unforgivable offense. The boy could only hope that when he returned with wealth from a new world his uncle would see things differently.

He hefted his pack, fastening it securely to his shoulders. There would be no luxury of polar bear sleds on this journey. Most of it would be straight up where the bears could not follow. The Elders would be waiting at the village center. The time for goodbyes had passed. The new world called.

The Fisher

FB_IMG_1589749643815She was a tiny boat, one of many lined up on the beach with the tide gently kissing their weathered boards. His first, purchased with the blood and sweat of grueling hours spent under the eye of his uncle. She wasn’t much to look at, peeling paint barely visible at the gunwale and salt soaked boards scoured by the sea. Even the rope tying her to the meager mooring hung heavy with the living debris of the waves. But she was sound, and she was his. He swelled with pride looking at her.

A couple of stray gulls lingered nearby, probably in hopes of finding a meal in the carnage left by the fishermen. They wouldn’t hover long, he thought with a smile. His wrists and elbows still ached from the scrubbing he had given her. Don’t give the hunters of the sea a reason to hunt you, his uncle always said. Or the hunted a reason to run.

He glanced toward the whitewashed guildhouses standing above the reach of the tide. One day, he was sure, he would stand alongside his uncle under those wide doors, bargaining for the best prices for his catch. Only the best of the best were allowed membership; only the highest quality fish passed through guild hands to the Noblesse’s tables.

He had to prove himself. A boy of sixteen, the guildfishers scoffed. Even the other lonefishers raised skeptical eyebrows at the idea of a boy in their midst. Especially a boy with only one hand. Only his uncle thought he stood any chance, had agreed to trade work for this aging slip, had given his missing limb no quarter in order to be sure he learned. The ocean was unforgiving; it would not hold back, therefore he could not.

With the dawn would come his maiden voyage. There would be no easy trips to the reefs for him. Let the lonefishers make short work of those; they would only torment him anyway. He had his secret coves, his hidden markers where the guildfleets feared to go. Long years of boyhood spent alone had ensured that advantage, and he would never tell.

He grinned to himself. The Outliers would taste the wealth of a Noblesse for once. The Towners would never buy from him, not now. Let the rumors spread. Let them wonder. They would seek him out from jealousy alone, and he would laugh and charge them double to make them feel important. It would be the first step.

The Road

FB_IMG_1582732885221She had lived in the shadow of the mountain all her life. No matter the season, it’s snowy crags had punctuated her world, piercing the sunrise and reflecting the fire of sunset. Now, standing here on the old Roman road, it stood as the final bastion of my old life.

The road itself seemed as timeless as the mountain. From the first time I saw it as a child running wild on the moor, it had fascinated me with its ancient mystery. When I asked my father about it, he would only say that it was the old Roman road. My mother gasped over her loom and dropped her shuttle, something her expert hands never did. In twenty years I had never asked again, but its stones had called to me in my dreams, and often I had searched for its path among the heather and gorse.

Now my parents were dead, my mother to a fever my fifteenth winter, my father to old age only a month gone. Nothing held me to the village; marriage would soon no longer be a possibility even were I drawn to any of the young men. Already glances slid over me as if I were no more than scenery.

I walked the moor for the last time, and for the first time placed my feet upon the ancient Roman stones. My breath caught in my chest. Soon the mountain would be behind me, only the road stretching before me stone after stone. I hefted my bundle and with a deep breath set one foot before me, then another.

The Aftermath

FB_IMG_1574886918099I stared at the last piece of pie, barely seeing it. It had been on the plate in front of me long enough to be room temperature, and the dollop of whipping cream atop it was looking not quite so whipped anymore. Of course returning to Earth after a magical war would coincide with the Thanksgiving holiday.

All the happy families around us in the restaurant left me sick to my stomach. They had no idea what had just happened; they couldn’t feel the magic exploding from the collapsing barrier. I glanced over at Dagda, sitting across the table picking at his own pie with a pained expression. Brigid sat next to him, head down, eyes gazing into nothing. Casual passersby would probably just assume we were a dysfunctional family trying to make it through the holiday. If only that were true.

They would know soon enough. The worlds were uniting once again, just as had been prophesied. None of us had quite realized what that would mean. Fae peoples were being scattered around the globe in fits and spurts, in some cases plunged into a world of which they knew nothing, in others their own homes displacing Earth structures. Within an hour or two word of the increasing chaos would reach even the most oblivious of celebrators.

Suddenly furious, I snatched up my fork and plunged it viciously into the center of the slice of pie, smattering cream onto the tablecloth. My companions both started, their expressions deepening into worry. “It isn’t fair!” I snarled. “Is this what we fought Dracul for? To replace one chaos with another?” I shoved my chair back with enough force to rattle the glasses on the table and draw mildly curious glances from nearby diners, and stood up. “I hate magic! I hate it!”

I stalked away, my vision blurring. I took a deep breath. The last thing we needed now was for me to  lose control. There was no telling what power would ignite before magic found its place here. Balhon and Kizi were waiting in the city park, unnoticed in the trees. That was where I needed to be. Their strength and hope would calm me. Maybe.