Fiction – Page 15 – The Word Worker

The Crater

FB_IMG_1589859101791 “There it is!” Quinn whooped, making Michaela jump and clap her hands over her ears. “I told you! We’ve got it made now!”

“Good grief, how many times did Mom tell you to use your inside voice?” Michaela grumbled. She pressed her palm against the window glass in several places. “One of these days you’re gonna break the sound barrier.”

Quinn ignored her and swung the jeep door wide open, feet sinking into the shifting sand as he barreled out of the vehicle. Michaela followed more slowly, leaving the headlights on to supplement the unusually bright moon. Deep tracks trailed into the crater ahead of the jeep, signs of the daytime activity that had drawn them into this nocturnal investigation.

“Not much there,” Michaela sniffed. “Just some junk half buried.”

“Don’t be such a wet blanket, Sis,” Quinn snapped. “Something made this crater long enough ago for the sand to have filled in most of it and blown into drifts. We’re gonna find out what, and we’re gonna do it right now!”

He plunged down into the crater, sliding rather than walking in the loose sand. Michaela followed gingerly, grimacing at the sand that promptly poured into her hiking boot. They headed for the nearest “junk” protruding from the surface, a jagged edge of metal scored and dented beyond recognition. She sighed. Why she had let Quinn talk her into this hare brained scheme…

Well, there was no point in that. Here they were. Maybe they could at least get some scrap metal out of it. Although, she doubted anything worth money would fit in the carrier he had insisted on strapping to the roof of the jeep.

Quinn happily yanked pieces of wreckage out of the sand, examining them haphazardly before tossing them aside. Suddenly, he stood unusually still (especially for him), staring into the small pit his rummaging had created. He was still for long enough that Michaela became curious in spite of herself and slid closer to investigate.

“Quinn?” He didn’t look at her, and she noticed a glazed expression in his eyes. His back was to the moon, and his face should have been in shadow, but it was lit by a faint glow that originated in the sandy pit. “Quinn, talk to me!” She grabbed his arm and shook him violently, and least as roughly as she could manage while trying to get around the pile of junk he had thrown to the side.

When she finally made it to his side, she glanced toward the pit looking for the source of the faint glow. She had assumed it was moonlight reflecting from some smooth surface, but the object glowed on its own with a faintly blue light. As she watched the color shifted to orange and intensified, and she couldn’t look away. She didn’t want to look away.

Something whispered, words she couldn’t make out. Something brushed her hair, then caught in her shirt, but she still couldn’t look away. The whispers swelled, and shadows on the surface of the orange light coalesced into a familiar face. Quinn’s face was ghostly, set in an expression of horror. “Help me!” His lips shouted soundlessly, but she could no longer respond. The whispers became gleeful as Michaela saw her own body standing motionless above her.

The Fisher

FB_IMG_1589749643815 She 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 Worldkeeper

FB_IMG_1589547926891 She was so small, a child really. The oversized case she lugged in her thin hand looked as if it could have pulled her to the ground like an anchor. Her hair draggled down her back, unbrushed dirty blonde, the remains of braids tangled at the base of her skull. Unlike other children, she stared at me rather than my balloons. “I am Lila,” she said, owl eyes boring into me, searching my depths for who knew what.

“What is in your case, Lila?” It was a strange question to ask a stray child, but she was strange. There was no air of the waif about her, despite the ancient undersized sundress that barely hid her frail body. And yet she didn’t seem to belong to any of the families playing on the sand below.

She blinked at me, head cocked to one side. “Oh, that’s my treasure,” she said, not a trace of a smile on her ghost of a face. “I carry them with me to keep them safe.”

My forehead creased between my eyes. “Them?” I asked. “What exactly do you have in there? Will you show me?” She seemed so innocent, but so disproportionately old. Prickles rose under my hairline when I looked at her, but I could not call my unease fear.

Lila laughed and shook her head, more strands of hair stringing from the leftover braids. “You wouldn’t be able to see anything!” she exclaimed, as if that should have been obvious. “Only I can see, because I am the keeper.”

“Does that mean someone gave you something to take care of?” I wondered. This unearthly girl was hardly a likely candidate for that, I thought. “Your mom or dad? Or maybe a grandparent?”

“Oh no,” she answered, her tone matter of fact. “I collected them.”

“From where?” I was beginning to feel suspicious, but I could not drag myself away. Her eyes, still fixed on me, held a fascination that I could neither explain or resist.

“Oh, wherever I find them,” she said thoughtfully. “I found one in a dandelion once.” She continued to stare at me.

“What exactly do you look for?” I stammered, fidgeting. I clenched and unclenched my empty hand behind my back, the other clutching sweat-slippery balloon strings.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I just know when I see them that I have to keep them.” Her gaze finally shifted to the balloons, but unlike other children, she kept her solemn expression.

“Would you like a balloon?” I asked, feeling like it was my day for lame questions. Without hesitation she pointed to an entwined bunch of yellow, blue, and striped spheres. “Yes, I need those three,” she announced.

I carefully extricated them from my hand and gave them to her. Without a word she hefted her case and set off down the road away from the beach. “Wait!” I called after her. “What treasures do you keep? I have to know!”

She turned and smiled for the first time and glanced up at her bunch of balloons, then back at me. “Why, worlds, of course!” And as she walked away, the balloons aloft over her head, for a moment I actually saw them.

The Ghost

FB_IMG_1589074214619 The monk stood beneath the arch, staring down the endless corridor of archways. Once echoing with the sounds of prayers and sandals, once filled with the bounty of the fields waiting to be distributed where needed, the archways stood empty and silent. He was alone.

No one had foreseen the disaster. The unholy thing had slipped in so easily, feasting on the contentment of the people. There had seemed no need for guard; the peace of the community had been unbroken for centuries. The stranger was welcomed with open arms and generous kindness.

The monk barely remembered the first disappearance. An old man, he thought; or perhaps it was an old woman. The forgotten went first. The children were next, and with the first of those losses came the fear. By then it was too late.

One by one they were taken. One by one the community dwindled. When it came for the monks they were powerless. Their own fear and grief was their undoing. They fell to the unholy stranger like the last in a chain of dominoes.

The monk stood under the arch, staring down the endless corridor of archways. Here he would stand forever, the ghost of all those he had taken. With their deaths he had died, trapped forever in this empty hall of his own making.

The Road

FB_IMG_1582732885221 She 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 Frost Bubble

FB_IMG_1577495577958 Nevaeh blew through the wand, her breath white in the crisp air. I shivered, wishing I had taken the time to grab my coat before following Nevaeh out here. Despite skin the color of chalk and deep hollows in her cheeks she seemed unbothered by the cold.

Moving ever so slowly, she touched her bubble to the icy railing. The tiny feathers of ice that crept around it’s circumference seemed to be drawn from the chunk of ice filling my chest. They mirrored the blue lace of veins marking my daughter’s bare skull, the chill reminder of a fragile life.

Nevaeh laughed with innocent delight, for the moment forgetful of weakness. She clapped her hands and I wondered at the normal sound. I could almost have expected the clacking of bone, but not yet.

She stretched one finger to gently touch the feathery surface, only to see it crumble beneath her hand. Her sigh seemed to deflate her like the bubble, her strength gone like that of a frost fairy in spring. She wrapped her arms around herself and shuffled back inside as a single frost feather brushed my cheek.

The Aftermath

FB_IMG_1574886918099 I 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.

Dragon’s Ruin

FB_IMG_1572903609411 She crouched motionless at the parapet, wondering if the army could even see her from the mainland. The scale of this place was almost beyond belief. She could feel the deep warmth of the setting sun on her face, but closed her eyes in determined effort to resist turning towards it. Absolute stillness, she had been warned; the slightest movement could be her undoing.

A sound like leather being shaken out deafened her, and a hurricane force gust nearly dislodged her from her post. Her eyes snapped open, her heart pounding while at the same time blood seemed to drain from her head. The creature rising from beneath the ruin on the opposite spire dwarfed even the palace upon which she knelt. She saw her full reflection in the pupil of its amber eye as the beast passed her. As another and another followed the first and circled above the gate, she knew that it was time.

She slowly rose to her feet and spread her arms wide. The first dragon whipped around, attracted by the movement, it’s fearsome jaws widening in the feral grin of the predator. She clenched her jaw, forcing down the panic threatening to overwhelm her, and tilted her chin with determined focus. This time she was aware. This time she was in control.

A heat bubbled through her like magma rising to the mouth of a volcano, ripping a scream from her tortured throat. But it was no scream as it escaped powerful jaws in a stream of liquid fire. She spread black wings that hid the fire of the sunset and rose into the air with a force that crumbled the parapet upon which she had stood.

The dragons echoed her roar, circling warily. The first of them emitted his own fire, almost white in its heat. Her challenge was accepted; she only hoped she was strong enough to win. If she wasn’t… but there was no more time for hoping.

The Mor-Rhiogain

FB_IMG_1571453145156 Babh waited under the black branches of the dead oak. She preened her dark feathers in satisfaction at the fear she sensed from the forest denizens. In the shadows of the night, all that could be seen of her were her eyes, glowing flame red.

The harvest moon rose high above the castle she watched, bathing its white towers in soft light. Her claws curled, scraping unpleasantly against the stone upon which she perched. The light would save no one tonight. Soon, her sisters would return and her vigil would end.

As she gleefully imagined the coming reunion, the mist rose from the river below. Thick, like the hated smoke from the castle kitchens, it billowed up the sides of the mountain. When it reached the causeway, her sisters would call, and she would answer.

Macha and Anann appeared black against the mist, their wings morphing into long arms tipped with bloodred nails, dark hair flying around pale faces in the windless night. Babh spread her own wings and rose into the moonlight, her screech of joy freezing the blood of the humans awaiting their fate.

She heard their cries, tasted their terror, as her feathers lengthened and knit together, her power calling the mist to her as a great dragon covering her victims with its mighty wings. She opened her mouth as her sisters strode purposefully to the gate, their hands outstretched for blood. Her bain sidh wail echoed from the walls and shattered the gates.

The mist shattered with them, and an army of shadows descended upon the one who despised the Mor-Rhiogain. Driven by the bain sidh, the dead would collect, unhindered by sword or spear. Babh would have her revenge, and her sisters would feast upon the blood.

The Mor-Rhiogain had returned.

The Reflection

FB_IMG_1570588551040 Midnight in the wood. Everyone said if you went to the wood at midnight you would see your true self in the mist. It was a stupid legend, fit to entertain highschoolers and frighten children. Yet here he was.

If it weren’t for the strangeness of the last few days, he would never have even considered coming. The October chill was bone biting under the trees, and he hated hiking. But things had happened. Things that could not be ignored. Even chasing a stupid story was better than that.

He stamped his feet and shoved his numb hands deeper into his coat pockets. Mist rose from the rotting loam inder his feet, enveloping him with suffocating speed. He gasped for air, only to realize that he hadn’t been suffocating at all, merely holding his breath. His eyes darted from one side to the other, and he swiveled nervously, his rapid breathing creating temporary pockets in the mist.

A blinding light brought his hand to his eyes, a shield against the pain. A shadow rushed across the light, and he squinted through his fingers, his heart pounding, trying to discern the threat. His eyes widened as an impossibly large hand, the mirror image of his own, parted the mist. Another joined it, lifting into the light without being illuminated by it. Shaking, he followed the second hand as it rose above a faceless head.

The shadow giant stood facing him, seemingly frozen, and he let out a sharp chuckle at his own gullibility. Just a play of light and shadows, someone playing a long standing joke on the town, no doubt. At the sound of his voice, two eyes snapped open in the shadow head, freezing his breath in his lungs. Their glowing pinpoints burned whitehot into his brain. He didn’t even hear his own scream.

They found him the next morning, stiff and frozen, eyes staring in horror with the image of the shadow etched into his eyes.