Tag: Encounters

The Farm

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It had been there for 200 hundred years, looking exactly the same. Just another farm, with a neat farmhouse and barn. Everyone joked about cows in the house and family in the barn, because of the chimneys, but no one had ever thought much more about it.

Which I guess was strange in itself, now that I think of it. Especially since no one was ever invited there. I didn’t know anyone, even village elders, who had ever seen the inside of that house. Once a month someone would show up in town for supplies, but they were so stand-offish few had even been close enough to talk to them.

Then Molly Fern moved into the county with a sun allergy. While the rest of us slept, Molly roamed the countryside, and did she come around with some wild tales. Rumblings underground, strange lights in the house and barn, and pulses of what looked like smoke from the chimney folly. She caused quite the excitement for a while, but when she reported seeing people with missing skin exposing clockwork joints, most people decided she had a loose gear or two herself and tuned her out.

Not me. Which is why the two of us were hiding near the farm when the sky opened like a cellar door. No one will ever believe us, so I don’t know why I’m writing this down, but Molly thought it was important and I’d do anything for her. I can’t even explain what I saw through that door, but I’ll tell you this. I understand why the mice scatter when we open the cellar.

The Girl

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She was there every day the sun shone, sitting against the big oak in the park with her guitar. No one ever saw her come or go, but when she played anyone nearby stopped what they were doing. They gravitated to her, faces suddenly pensive, often tearful as if their deepest longings surfaced.

She always played the same three songs, soft and sweet, and sang more to herself than to anyone else. I often wondered if she even noticed her audience. Newcomers to the park would fumble in pockets or bags for loose cash and try to donate, but found no place to leave money. It was only a girl and her guitar.

I don’t know why none of us ever tried to talk to her. We would hover, entranced until the music ended, then wander on still half under the music’s spell. I never even learned her name, although her face remained with me long after the song was done and I had moved on.

One year the big oak was struck by lightning. The city council voted to remove the tree, stump and all, due to the safety hazards of a huge dead tree in a public area. When they pulled up the roots, they found a skeleton of a girl with a few rusty wires coiled near the fingers. The girl never played again.

First Contact

Bluing was it’s favorite time of waking. The sand, brilliant white for so many matings, took on the hue of Aurora for only three. Others avoided the surface during bluing, fearing the overling would walk the sands with her obliterating heat. R’ik knew better; so many matings it had spent alone in the beauty.

It tasted the soft silica, savoring the cool sweet flavor. Brighting soured the sand, drawing moisture from deep in the mountains to clump and harden the silica into cakes. The tribe would graze freely across the dunes, absorbing what life force the cakes held. Only R’ik avoided filling its wells, waiting for Aurora’s wings to soften and dry the surface for a treat it considered a blessing all for itself.

It stopped at the top of a tall mountain, surveying the deeply blown dunes below. The soft hues of the bluing stroked its sensors with pleasure more satisfying than any mating. Suddenly a white flash disturbed the surface, whipping around the crater of a dune as if driven by a great storm. Fear stabbed R’ik; perhaps the others were right and Aurora had come to punish it after all.

The tiny brighting stabilized, and others joined it, creeping from a shadow that had not been there when the tribe went below. Awkward creatures carried the tiny brightings with some evil magic; they moved on appendages too small to hold them and sank into the sand with every motion, and their bodies bulged in all the wrong places so that they appeared top-heavy.

R’ik shivered, dread filling it. What horror could take the power of Aurora and learn to wield it for itself? The power and evil of this strange being must be beyond comprehension to subdue Aurora’s wisdom. It must warn the tribe immediately.

The Story

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Priscilla prided herself on telling a good story. When Elouise pouted because Ms. Charlotte, the governess, made her rewrite her dictation for poor handwriting, she whispered funny stories about monkeys or kittens who misbehaved. When history lessons were just too boring, she embellished the lives of generals and queens with fanciful romances or tragic mishaps. But the story she told to punish Ms. Charlotte for keeping her in the schoolroom instead of taking her to the town festival changed everything.

It was just the old woman who lived in a shoe, with a Priscilla style twist to scare the timid governess. She was just as surprised as anyone when the impossible shoe appeared in the middle of the schoolroom, along with a mossy, misty forest. Ms. Charlotte was nowhere to be seen, but Elouise huddled close to Priscilla, her eyes wide. Priscilla stamped her foot, hiding her own confusion under mock impatience.

Before she could say anything, Ms. Charlotte stepped from behind the shoe house, but something about her was not quite right. Her walk was just a little stiff, her parasol just a little too upright. And Ms. Charlotte’s hair would never be that messy. As the woman’s mouth opened, the girls heard a whirring sound, then a click as the head cocked to one side. “Who – visits – the – shoe?” The voice was harsh, almost as if someone could make words by tapping on tin. “Girls. We – must – have – girls.”

Priscilla heard a grinding sound as the woman jerked closer, and the front of the dress slid open. Elouise screamed through her own fingers pressed tightly over her mouth, and Priscilla’s heart pounded as metal arms unfolded and reached for her. Tinny, emotionless laughter filled her ears. “The – story – teller – sets – us – free.”

Book Teaser: The Confrontation

Despite the distance, I approached Dracul far too quickly and my heart pounded at sight of him. His skin was bloodless and translucent, revealing blackened veins beneath. His head, with only a few greasy tendrils of hair clinging to it, was topped with what appeared to be a rough leather turban, the fur worn patchy and nondescript. His body, lean and bony, seemed swallowed in a ragged cloak of the same material, tossed back over one shoulder in the warmth of the sun. His nails were longer than those of the other vampyr I had seen, less broken but filthy, and his eyes gleamed yellow like a wolf’s eyes. He had turned from the battle and watched my approach, lips parting in a feral glee that revealed yellowed but terrifyingly sharp fangs. Around him a circle of dead foliage that reached into the tree line and dimmed the sparkle of the crystals at the cliff’s edge testified of his nature.

“Ah yes, the little human,” he hissed, his voice slithering into my ears like a snake. His nails clicked against each other as he waggled his fingers in obvious satisfaction. “At last you have come to me. They always come, don’t they?”

I glanced around, startled, thinking to see another vampyr, but could see only the three of us. Confused, I faltered and hesitated, just at the edge of the dead circle. “Who always comes?” I asked. “And why should they?”

He cackled, an unnerving sound of dry leaves and branches shaken by the wind. “Who can resist my charms?” he hissed, stepping toward me. “My power! Who could defy me?”

“I know many who have not succumbed to you,” I argued, setting my chin. “And some who have broken free from your influence. Where is your power now?”

His lip curled and his oily brows knit together. “A pitiful satyr so unfortunate and witless to find himself caught? So young as to be swayed by the manipulations of a girl?” he sneered. “A giant king of a dwindling kingdom, unable even to hold his own daughter’s loyalty? What are they to me? Dead and buried in their own weakness.”

“They are not so insignificant,” I insisted, silently willing my heart to stop pounding so loudly. “They are the beginning of the web unraveling. You are stretched too thin.”

He sniffed. “Overconfidence is unbecoming in one so young,” he snarled. “What do you know of power, girl?”

Book Teaser: The Dragon

When I did see it, I would have screamed if I could have breathed. I no longer heard the waves or felt the wind, and the sunset faded into nothing. Dark red scales and black horns filled my vision. The scrape of a leather belly against stone drowned out every other sound. I watched, frozen, as the creature I had seen in the map crawled yard by yard out of the spire.

The head was massive, with arm-length black spikes rising above nostrils and eyes, fangs as long as I was tall showing through snarling jaws. More spikes, longer than my arm and wickedly curved, fanned out from the back of its head to protect a thick, sinewy neck. The neck rose high above the spire then snaked down as a razor sharp set of claws scarred the stone. The intense chalkboard sound set my teeth on edge and stabbed my eardrums; I choked down a scream of pain. Another set of claws joined the first, and two muscular legs heaved the creature’s body into full view. The thing spread leathery wings, extending them so wide to blot out what remained of the sun. It reared up, a black shadow against the darkening sky. The wind from the movement of its wings nearly knocked me from my perch and I knew my time was up. I stabilized myself one last time as the creature threw its head back and roared.

The bellow was like nothing I had ever heard. It was as if all the stones in all the mountains in all the world fell in one great living avalanche, grinding and cracking against each other with a sentient voice. Flame spewed from its gaping jaws, a raging volcano spitting and splashing its molten death into the air. I could see very little in the deepening dusk, but answering roars and sparks lit up other crystal columns with a horrifying frequency. I had not yet been seen, but my strength was gone and there was no time to waste.

Book Teaser: The Queen’s Guard

   The Amrtaka finally drew so close that the rising dunes began to hide them from view. I hissed a warning to Dagda and Balhon, who instantly prepared for battle. I thought about pulling my chain mail hood back over my head from around my neck where I had let it droop, but decided against it. The metal might clink and alert the centaur to our presence before I was ready. I didn’t put much stock in my chances if the Ban Renfra caught me spying on her.

   I tensed automatically as the group came back into view following the stream between the dunes. Gleaming plate armor covered every inch of their torsos as well as their arms, with wide lower breastplates shaped like the spades in a card game extending down from their chestplates and fastened by leather straps between their legs to a broad billet cinched around the barrel of their equine bodies. The billet held livery stitched with what I assumed to be the Ban Renfra’s insignia in gold, green, and purple. Most of the warriors wore helmets crested with the same insignia, but one stood out with a streaming plume of what appeared to be horsehair dyed in the Ban Renfra’s colors. Centaur hair, I corrected myself. I shuddered, my stomach clenching slightly as I wondered for the first time if Dagda had been right to be wary of a ruler who would wear the hair of her own people as a crown.

   “We will rest here briefly,” I heard a woman’s voice say, and the centaur formed up around the plumed warrior. “Never mind formation; you four drink and replenish your water bags. The rest of you take a dune each and scout. Then report back here and exchange duties.”

   Her guards obeyed, and I had turned to warn my companions when her next words froze me in place. “Keep a close watch for the king and his human pet. The dwarves said that they had foiled Dracul’s efforts to liberate Gard, and that they were last seen travelling east. If fortune smiles upon us, His Treacherous Majesty will be on his way to manipulate the pegasi into helping him. Dracul would reward us richly for delivering the girl to him.”

Crow

Brent chortled into the mask. This was gonna be the best prank ever. Forget trick-or-treating, that was stupid kid stuff. He was gonna scare the pants off some partiers in the park tonight. He just needed to find the perfect spot.

He ducked under a vine that hung over the entrance to an old footpath. It obviously hadn’t been used in some time; the parks department must have decided it wasn’t worth maintaining. It would be perfect. He slipped the crow mask over his head and ducked behind a nearby tree. Just enough cover to keep him hidden until drunk party goers walked right up on him. Grinning in satisfaction, he turned around to lean against the trunk and wait.

Behind him on the trail stood another guy in the same mask. Brent jumped, then groaned. “Oh, come on, man! This is my prank! Find another crowd to get your kicks off of, will you?” The other masked figure stood motionless and silent, staring at Brent with arms behind his thin frame. Brent fidgeted. “Hey, that’s an awesome costume. You really know how to get in character, don’t you?”

The beak clicked lightly, setting the black feathers above it trembling. Brent suddenly realized that his own had been tickling him for several minutes as they blew in the breeze, but the other guy’s feathers hadn’t moved at all until that moment. He cleared his throat, darting glances back down the main path, hoping for some early revellers, some lost trick-or-treaters, anything. The beak clicked again, then opened into a black maw. Brent’s scream was lost in the croaking rasp of the crow.

The Pod

Lise’s eyes darted back and forth in the dim light under the trees. Jole was always following her around, but she didn’t want to share her find with her loudmouth little brother. Sure she was alone, she ducked under the hanging moss hiding the strange pod and its contents.

The bones were merely a curiosity; scraps of material that crumbled at a touch held no meaning, though she did run her antenna over the hands. What possible use could require the use of five fingers? No matter, she had seen stranger creatures.

It was the box that she came for. The lock was simple and old; nothing a quick finger circuit couldn’t shock open. Inside was a roll of some thin stiff substance, cracking with age despite being protected in the box, and covered with what could only be a map. Lise had seen one when she snuck inside the council bore; a whole cycle of silence had been the price of that indiscretion. This one didn’t look right, though; the outlines were far bigger and more wiggly than on the other.

Beside the map was the strangest device, like a small box except covered with gadgets that spun and clicked under her fingers. She dropped it with a alarmed purl when one side flew open and whatever had been inside scattered as dust over the square objects beneath it. Carefully she pulled them out, wondering at the images on their smooth faces. Nothing like them grew anywhere near her home; surely such things were nothing but fever dreams of a creative. Still, her eyes drifted to the five-fingered creature’s remains and the odd looking map. What if they weren’t?

The Legend

There he was, in all his lacy glory. I’d heard of the viscount, of course, from every local in every cafe and bistro between Paris and Calais. Quite the legend, apparently, that no one outside of France had ever heard.

No one remembered his full title, or even his family name, only that he was a viscount. A fact that had only fueled my dismissal of the story as a joke on gullible tourists, until now. Who could scoff with semi-transparent but gloomy dark eyes boring into one’s soul over the longest cascade of a collar ever seen in 18th century portraits?

“Je vous maudis, traitre!” The voice was bitter, but the lips set and motionless beneath the oddly unstyled black hair that streamed down both sides of a gray face. I glanced around, a shiver uncalled for in the warm summer night air setting my teeth chattering. Even my abominable French understood the word traitor.

“Th-the revolution is over,” I quavered in English. “I’m just a tourist.” Not that there was any point in speaking English to a dead French aristocrat, I thought. Even one that had managed to escape the guillotine only to be thrown from his horse into that widely spreading tree I could see through his face.

“Je vois maudis!” he shrieked, suddenly inches from me with his fist blending with my throat. My breath turned to ice in my chest and for a moment the world became as transparent as the viscount. Then it was over. I smiled with grim satisfaction, quickly twitched the lace on my cuffs back into shape, and turned back toward Paris. The traitors must die under their own cursed blade.