The shades were drawn, of course, but it didn’t matter. She burned through the fabric. She burned through my eyelids. She burned so bright in the milky hollow behind my forehead that any dreams coy enough to slink out of my subconscious were frightened back into hiding like kittens beneath a porch. Dreams, or at least the sleeping kind, live in the dark. Dreams do not like the light.

But that wasn’t all.

I could hear her humming. It was a soundless song, deep and guttural. It made the tips of my toes tingle like they often did in winter when I came in from the cold and sat before the fire.

And I could feel her tugging at my blood. Does that make sense? Probably not. But it doesn’t matter because that’s how it felt. Feelings don’t have to make sense, you know. They don’t live in the same world as us. They live in a different reality, analogous to our own but thicker, slower. Like fish. Yes, like fish. That’s how it felt. As though I were a fish and she was an angler.

I don’t know how long I lay there, clamping my eyes shut, hot and cold and cold and hot. Eventually, I gave up and walked across the floor and threw the curtains open.

I had never seen the moon so large. I had never seen the moon so bright. She hung above the rooftops, wan and solemn. Where she touched me, my skin burned. I twisted the window latch and pulled the panes apart, suddenly desperate to remove any barrier between us. A quiet breeze washed into my room, carrying the scent of honey and lavender.

My foot struck the wall, and I realized then that I had been walking forward. I now stood pressed against the window frame, as close as I could get to the moon without tumbling out.

It only took me a moment to decide. In truth, it wasn’t a decision at all. The moon was calling me; I had to go. I simply had to. I threw a housecoat over my pajamas and stuffed my feet into slippers. Mother would be furious if she knew I was wearing slippers outside, but I didn’t know where I had left my boots, and I couldn’t be expected to search for them at a time like this, and who had the patience to tie all those laces anyway?

I twisted the doorknob slowly, careful that the tongue cleared the plate before I pulled. The hinges creaked, and I winced. I counted to one hundred in my head before I dared proceed further, and then I walked on my tiptoes, close to the wall where the boards were less prone to creaking. Every step brought me closer to mother and father’s room. Their door leered like a rotten apple at the end of the hall. I refrained from sticking my tongue out at it, but only just.

At the top of the staircase, I hesitated. Which steps creaked? The top two and the fourth? No. The second, fourth, and fifth? No, no. I shook my head. It wouldn’t do to take a chance. Mother kept her ears as well-oiled as father’s lawnmower. This close to their room, the squeak of a stair would surely rouse her.

An idea dawned on me. I tied my housecoat tighter around my torso, turned so that my back faced the staircase, and lifted one leg high, higher, above and over the banister. I centered my chest over the handrail and walked down the balusters one by one by one. My housecoat slid over the wood with hardly a sound. Only once was there trouble, when my treacherous slipper slid off my sweaty foot. It would have flopped from stair to stair and woken up half the neighbourhood, but I caught it at the last moment and pushed it back into place, flexing my toes so it didn’t happen again. I spared a bitter thought for mother, who had purposefully bought the slippers a size too large to allow me “space to grow,” and then shook the slipper out of my head to concentrate on dismounting as I reached the bottom. From here, there was only the entrance hall and the front door, which I was pleased to find swung open and closed with hardly a peep; with any luck, I would return and relock it before anyone woke.

On the front porch, beneath the light of the moon, I allowed myself a brief, victorious smile before I continued down the walk and through the garden gate, grasping it by the missing picket, third from the left. Flushed from the effort, I hardly felt the chill of the autumn night.

I looked left. I looked right. Nothing moved except a leaf skidding down the cobblestones. And anyway, there was really only one way to go, wasn’t there? The moon painted my path silver, a silver so deep and bright that you would have been forgiven for thinking the road itself was paved in sterling. My chest burned, and I didn’t once stop to wonder why or how, to look around, to worry about the unsavory types that mother and father often discussed on Sunday while standing at the front window with their arms crossed and their mouths turned. No, I only ducked my head and hurried after the moon, the heels of my oversized slippers flapping behind me like wings.

The moon never sputtered and never strayed. Straight through the city it led me, past Mr. Babel’s Store for Rare and Antique Books, past Claudia’s Cake Shop, past the market and the hat store and the dance club and then I didn’t recognize anything at all, but that was alright because I had only gone straight, hadn’t I, dead ahead down the Boulevard of the Republic, and when I wanted to return, when I had seen that which the moon was so keen to show me, when I had looked her in the eye and shaken her hand, well, I would turn around and walk right back down the Boulevard of the Republic, wouldn’t I?

There came a point when the uneven cobblestones gave way to tarmac, that smooth material that father so hated, and then to dirt. I hadn’t really been paying attention, lost in the glow of the moon, but I looked up now and saw hills. Sloping hills that rose and fell around me like waves at sea. The grass was long and flowing, swaying in the breeze, and the blades hissed as they slid past each other, trading secrets, and the cumulative voice of it all was a whisper so heavy that it masked even the sound of my own fumbling footsteps, for how could I be expected to concentrate on my feet when the moon lay so close?

The trail kinked and curled, and I realized that I was climbing and probably had been for quite some time. The muscles in my thighs complained, but I told them to be silent because didn’t they know where we were? We were in the presence of the moon. The moon. The moon! If you’ve ever felt an emotion like I felt in those moments, cresting each hill and gazing into the pale face of the moon… I’ll tell you, if you’ve ever felt an emotion even half as large as I felt in those moments, you’ve already felt more than most people ever feel in their whole lifetimes. Because if they did, if they had, they wouldn’t be so cruel. Even now, as I write this, the mere memory of her soft glow reassembles my priorities, rearranges all that I think is—or thought was—important.

I’m not sure when I first noticed the girl. She stood at the highest point in the meadow, so she would have been visible far in the distance, although I don’t think I truly recognized her until I reached the top of the lean, knobby hill and stopped short.

Her hair was black and straight. Her eyes were long and narrow. She was barefoot. She wore a long dress, pale blue and layered in dandelion prints. Her left arm was raised above her head, and in her fist she clutched a… Well, it looked like a ribbon.

“Is that a ribbon?” I asked.

“A ribbon.” She looked up and considered it. “Yes. Yes, I suppose that’s as good a name as any for it.”

“Where does it go?”

“To the moon.”

“To the moon?”

“To the moon.”

“Why are you holding a ribbon that goes to the moon?”

“So it doesn’t float away.”

“Oh.” I climbed the ribbon with my eyes. Sure enough, it disappeared into the moon. “Can I hold it?”

“There are rules,” the girl said.

“I don’t like rules,” I said.

For the first time, she smiled. “Me neither. But these rules are important.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Fine.”

“There are three.”

“What are they?”

“The moon balloon can change hands only when at its fullest.”

“It’s full, isn’t it?”

“The moon balloon cannot be pulled or released.”

“I won’t.”

“The moon balloon cannot be given, only taken of free will.”

I nodded impatiently and strode forward. “I already said I’d take it.”

The girl shook her head. “You don’t understand. Once you accept the moon balloon, you have no choice but to hold it until another girl takes it from you.”

I hesitated. “How long will that be?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Up here, this close to the moon, time doesn’t move in a predictable way. It ebbs, and it flows.”

I didn’t move.

“If you decide not to take it, the moon will call someone new,” she said. “The last girl didn’t take it.”

“Is it always a girl?”

“For all of eternity, a woman has always carried the moon balloon.”

“How can you know that?”

“The moon… She says things through the ribbon.”

We stood close on the bare patch on top of the lean, knobby hill and didn’t speak. The grass whispered.

“I’ll take it,” I said.

She didn’t say anything, only stared at me with those narrow eyes. I stepped closer and lifted my arm high and stretched onto my tiptoes to grasp the ribbon just above her fist.

“I have it,” I said.

When the other girl released her grip, I felt a great weight take hold of me. The ribbon pulled and pressed. It placed my body under the most terrible stress, and I might have worried that I would tear in two if the ribbon hadn’t simultaneously kindled a light in my chest, filling me with such warm emotion as I had never felt before. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to scream.

The other girl stepped back. She had the oddest expression on her face as she lowered her arm and stared at her palm.

“You miss her,” I said.

“No,” she said. “Missing isn’t the right word. Missing implies sadness. Missing implies that she’s no longer with me.”

“But she isn’t,” I said.

“But she is,” the other girl said, her smile like a constellation. “She is. She always is.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“No. But you will.”

The ribbon held all the weight of sleep and all the lightness of dreams. Do you know what that feels like? To be pulled and pressed at the same time? Maybe you do. That’s what I imagine love might feel like. One day.

“Would you like me to stay a while?” the other girl asked. “To keep you company?”

“I’d like that.”

The girl lowered herself onto the ground, fingers intertwined behind her head.

“Are you excited to go back?” I asked. “To your life?”

She looked at me, her expression blank. “I’m in my life, aren’t I?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess you are.”

She swiveled her gaze back to the moon. The motion of the grass was hypnotic.

“Do you feel her?”

I nodded.

“She’s only doing what she always does. Pushing and pulling. Giving and taking. But you have a direct line. Listen, and you’ll begin to understand. It’s nothing explicit. It’s a broader awareness. A feeling. Which is all we do in life anyway, isn’t it? Feel?”

I didn’t say anything.

“That’s all we are,” the girl said, so softly that the words were lost to the grass. “Feelings.”

Eventually, she left. By then, the edges of time had already grown dull, so I didn’t know how long she sat there, nor how long she walked, fading in and out of valleys, until she crested the final hill and faded from my life forever. I don’t remember everything she said to me—memory, of course, is only a delusion of time—but I do remember her final words.

“One day we’ll be there. One day we’ll reach the moon. I’m sure of it. And you know what? I fear that day. The day we walk on the moon is the day we stop dreaming.”

On the bare patch on top of the lean, knobby hill, there was no day. The sun never rose. The moon never set. Sometimes the breeze lifted, and sometimes the breeze fell. Sometimes I slept, although it didn’t feel like sleeping. It felt like waking. I dreamed of my room at home, of mother eating a crumpet, of father reading the newspaper.

Sometimes, there were other signs of life. A pack of wolves howling in the next valley over. A frog at my feet. A tiny owl on my shoulder. Once, fireflies. Thousands of them, flickering on and off across the meadow. I had the impression that the moon was calling these creatures to me.

The moon. Yes, the moon. The moon was fading, waning, although the phases didn’t arrive with any regularity. As I said, time didn’t flow on the lean, knobby hill. I felt no longing for the phase that had been because I didn’t remember the phase that had been. I felt no expectation for the phase that would be because I didn’t anticipate any phase to be. There was only the now, the present, the immediate, the forthwith. Does that make sense? I’m telling you the story as though it happened all neat and orderly because that’s the way our brains understand it. But really, there was no past, and there was no future. It was like… It was likelike the past and future were separate bodies of water in the valleys on either side of that lean, knobby hill. They rose and fell with the tide, scrabbling at the incline like mice in a bucket. Sometimes they came close, but they never reached me.

When the moon faded to black, I could see nothing at all. It was a darkness more complete than any I’ve experienced before. I might have been scared if there was anything to be scared of.

Without sight, my other senses heightened. Touch, taste, smell, hearing… I felt everything. It was unclear if I myself was feeling or if I was feeling through the moon. Probably the two were one and the same.

I felt the thrill of blood through my arteries when my heart pumped, pumped.

I felt the pain of the grass when the wind yanked at their hair.

I felt the solemnity of the clouds as they huddled close for warmth, their breath white in the cold air.

I felt the grimace of the wind as it scraped past trees and buildings and carried leaves and rubbish, and I felt the relief when it reached at long last its destination, the city at the end of the world, the city that has no name.

And I felt dreams. Or rather, I felt all of the tiny disturbances in the universe that were dreams-to-be, that which would be grabbed and clenched and bitten and burned by the blind fumblings of the mind until they became something solid, something real, something indelible.

The moon waxed, beginning as the thinnest wafer and growing, bloating, brightening. I think that’s about the time I heard footsteps, heavy breathing, pebbles tumbling down the hillside. The grass whispered in agitation. A girl’s head appeared, clambering on all fours up and onto the bare patch on the top of the lean, knobby hill. She had curly hair and small ears and big hands. She wore trousers and clogs.

Her breath caught when she saw me. Her forehead crinkled—and then crinkled further when she noticed the ribbon.

“What are you holding?”

“I called it a ribbon.”

“Where does it go?”

“To the moon.”

“To the moon?”

“To the moon.”

The girl accepted the moon balloon. I wasn’t sad to release the ribbon. I wasn’t happy either. It made no difference. The moon was still with me, you understand.

I offered to sit with her for a while, to keep her company, and she said she’d like that. So I lay on the ground, and I gazed at the moon, and we talked about dreams.

Neither sooner nor later, I left. I followed the silver tail of the moon through the whispering grasses and over the rolling hills. When I thought about it, the trail went on forever; when I didn’t, I made swift progress. Dirt became tarmac, and tarmac became cobblestone. I passed the dance club and the hat store and the market and Claudia’s Cake Shop and Mr. Babel’s Store for Rare and Antique Books. I unlatched the garden gate, grasping it by the missing picket, third from the left.

I knocked on the door.

It opened with hardly a peep. Mother’s face, long and flat, stared at me. Then she crumpled onto one knee and wrapped me into a hug, a tight hug, the tightest hug made from cat fur lodged in the collar of her housecoat and crumbs from a breakfast crumpet and stagnant dreams from a night of bad rest.

“Where have you been?” she said, in a whisper like the long, flowing grasses that surrounded the bare patch on top of the lean, knobby hill.

“The moon,” I said.

Annie nudged the lizard, her companion, to climb higher onto the rock for a better view. The lizard’s tail dragged behind as it inched its way up. It was weary from their afternoon of exploring, chasing, and eating bugs. It shook its head, and her concentration wavered.

She watched the road from the rock outcrop. The sun was getting low in the sky as the rider rounded a steep bend in the road. Shoulder-length hair flowed out from under a sweat-stained sombrero that concealed his eyes. A scruffy, gray-streaked beard shrouded his lower face. As his horse struggled up the grade, he dug rusty spurs deep into his horse’s flanks. He smirked. Annie could feel each twinge of pain and wheezy gasp from the poor beast.

That man is broken.

As he passed her, his eyes flitted from side to side as if searching for something. For the briefest of moments, his eyes locked on her. Could he see her? Her concentration faltered as the lizard companion exerted its will and forced her out.

_Blink_

The darkness of the other side enveloped her, and the lizard’s silver light moved away. She felt how relieved her scaly companion was to be rid of her. Annie’s lesson that day was to recognize each creature’s different lights by sight. Instead, she had chosen to play, stayed out too long, and was dog-tired. The shining thread that bound her to the world of flesh grew taut, demanding her return.

_Blink_

She lay still, eyes shut, her breathing shallow, and waited. Her arms and legs were cold, heavy, and tingling. Annie wanted to sleep, but she had to get up and move.

She was in trouble; she knew it, if not from Mama, then from Grandma Ochuca for skipping her chores and the lesson. Of the two, she would accept Mama’s any day. Annie had been training for years, but Grandma was never satisfied.

Annie was four when the dreams had begun. Dreams, sometimes nightmares, of being one creature and then another. It wasn’t until she was six that she had discovered the truth. They were not dreams. One night, she had a dream about their cat, Espina. She had watched through Espina’s eyes as the cat stalked a mouse in the kitchen. When Espina pounced, Annie had felt her claws and teeth tear into the mouse’s flesh. She had awoken screaming.

The following morning, Espina had sat at the bottom of the stairs, proudly displaying the mouse she had killed the night before. Slowly, the veil between the waking world and the other side had parted. Annie had learned that she could move from creature to creature and bend their wills to her own.

One day, while exploring the other side, she had strayed too far and had got lost. She had panicked and flown in one direction and then another. The silver thread that had always led her home had stretched and faded. Adrift in the cold blackness, she had felt her connection with her body slipping away. That was when she had encountered Ochuca for the first time.

Ochuca had come like four horse-drawn wagons hurling down a winding, steep switchback trail. Her light was brighter than all the creatures’ lights combined. Annie had tried to flee, but her strength had left her.

A giant, shining, slithering rattlesnake had circled her. Its scales were as white as snow. Its glittering gold eyes were the size of dinner plates. When its fanged mouth had opened, a blood-red tongue had flicked from it and cracked like a whip. Her hiss was louder than a rushing river, and her rattle was like thunder.

It had circled her closer until she could almost touch the white scales. Annie had screamed a soundless scream, choked with panic and fear. And then a sense that no harm would come to her had washed over her.

The great rattlesnake’s thoughts had formed in her head. She said to call her Ochuca, which meant “grandmother” in the language of Mama’s people. Ochuca had returned her to her body and waited until she had woken up before leaving. As she had sped away, she had hissed and told Annie she had much to learn.

She had been afraid to tell Mama right away. When she finally did, Mama had made her promise never to tell anyone. Ochuca was the people’s guardian spirit, and few could hear her, much less cross over to the other side. Ochuca had saved her, so Annie was indebted to her. The thought had terrified her so much that she had stopped traveling to the other side for a while.

Soon, Ochuca’s rattles thundered in her head and commanded Annie to come to her. Grandma taught her the other side’s ways, and said that in time, Annie would become ‘Kukini’ —a respected one. Grandma gave Annie the name Waheia, which meant troublesome because that was what she was. Five years had passed, and Grandma Ochuca taught her the old ways, but she was not always the best pupil.

She was so cold.

Squinting against the sun’s setting rays coming through the stable doors, she sat up. Straw stuck to her hair and clothes from lying in the hay. There were times she wished she never had to come back. There were no chores, no parents to badger her, and no little brother to watch. Mama kept saying she was special. But if that was so, why did she still have to wash and mend clothes, collect firewood, and clean the guests’ rooms?

It was not fair.

Annie rubbed her legs and arms to get warm. She walked stiffly into the sunlight, picking bits of straw from her hair. In the courtyard, her brother Sean chased chicks in circles until he was so dizzy he fell over laughing. He was only six and still allowed to play, but soon, he would have help with the chores.

Papa was the roof of the smokehouse, nothing more than a pile of old timbers hammering on a board. He was constantly fixing things to keep the old inn from falling apart. From inside the Inn, she could hear Mama’s singing. Annie knew, regardless of the time of day, that Mama’s smile would be waiting for her. Well, possibly not today because she had skipped her chores.

A chill wind blew off the desert, promising a morning frost. Ochuca would give her heck the next time she summoned her.

“A rider is coming,” Annie rasped hoarsely.

Papa looked up from his work toward the gate. “I don’t see anybody,” he said, shaking his head. “Annie, darling, where have you been?”

“Just playing, Papa,” she said, giving him her sweetest smile as she passed.

Papa shook his head and got back to work.

She leaned against the gatepost and gazed out at the road. Papa knew she was different but refused to acknowledge it. More than once, she had heard Papa argue with Mama about Indian superstitions. Mama said he believed in the white man’s God. And that their ways belonged to the evil spirit the whites called the Devil. Mama was happy that the inn was far from Capistrano. Any closer and Papa would have forced them to go to the church and school of the Black Robes.

The minutes passed, and she heard the faint clop of a horse’s hooves, and the stranger came into view. Papa looked up from his labor at the sound of the approaching rider and glanced at her as the man rode through the gate. The stranger pulled up the reins as he stopped in front of Papa.

“You look done in, friend,” Papa said, staring from the stranger to the horse. Fresh red spur welts crisscrossed old scars on the horse’s flanks.

The stranger took in the courtyard and the open door leading into the inn. The sun settled behind the mountains to the east, and the air began to cool. Annie could feel a cloying heat radiating off him.

The stranger spoke, but without looking at Papa, “Nice place.”

“I am Timothy O’Malley,” Papa said. “You’ll not find a better inn between Capistrano and San Diego if you don’t mind my saying.”

“A room, food for me and the nag,” said the stranger, as he eyed Papa up and down, “and mezcal if you got it… Timothy O’Malley.” He swung from the saddle with a loud grunt.

“We have all three,” Papa said, grabbing the skittish horse’s bridle and stroking its neck. “Anne darling, show our guest inside.”

The stranger untied his gear from the horse and followed her. His Spanish-style spurs jingled out a cheerless tune. He was a big man, as big as Papa, maybe bigger. As they reached the door, Sean ran up and skidded to a stop. He stared up at the man and smiled.

The stranger glowered at Sean until his eyes became slits and snorted, “Boy, you’re a breed, aren’t you?” he whispered.

He dragged the back of his dust-encrusted hand across his mouth. A toothy snarl showed through his fingers. He rested his free hand on the butt of his pistol and tapped the hammer with his thumb. Sean’s eyes followed the stranger’s hand, and his lower lip trembled.

“No English, little breed?” he growled and squatted so they were eye to eye.

Sean winced and blinked, his eyes widening in fear. A single tear wound down his dirty cheek, leaving a swath of light brown skin in its wake. A satisfied chuckle rumbled from the stranger’s throat. Annie stepped between them, shielding Sean from his taunts. She could feel Sean’s fingers grasp her leg like tiny fishhooks. She kept her eyes on the ground, not wanting to meet the man’s gaze.

“Now, what do we have here, an Indian lover? Wait, don’t tell me, is this breed your kin?”

Annie was about to reply when he took her chin in his hand and pushed her head back. She twisted loose, and their eyes met. The hard lines on his face softened, and he chuckled. Ochuca’s rattle echoed in her head. She felt his emotions from that one touch like a black fog, wanting to swallow her. He smiled, patted her head, and pushed past them into the inn.

Annie wanted to grab Sean and run and hide. Instead, she turned, placed her hands on his shoulders, and told him everything was all right. Sean grinned, wiped his cheek, and hugged her around the waist. She pried him off and shooed him away to help Papa.

As she entered the great room, the smell of roasted chicken, rice, and beans wafted in from the kitchen. The stranger stood with his back to her. He surveyed the room until his eyes fixed on the bar and liquor bottles. He tossed his gear on the nearest table, walked behind the bar, and helped himself to a bottle of mezcal. Annie heaved the heavy steel-hinged wooden door shut with a loud creak. Then she stepped into the shadows, her back pressed against the cold adobe wall.

Mama’s singing drifted in from the kitchen. He uncorked the bottle, sniffed, and crossed the hall to sit near the stone fireplace. He yawned, then lifted the bottle to his lips and drank deeply of the amber-colored spirit.

“Muy bueno!” he bellowed and smacked his lips several times. “Girl, tell the cook your guest hasn’t eaten since this morning. Be quick about it.”

He acted like the Spanish tax collector, Señor Del Anza, as if the inn were his personal property, not Papa’s. She wanted to tell him to leave, but she obeyed and headed to the kitchen. Mama met her in the doorway. A tight-lipped look of concern creased her face.

“What is all the yelling about, Annie?” she asked, having caught sight of the stranger.

“Mama, we have a guest, and he’s hungry.”

Mama studied the stranger. The crow’s feet around her eyes deepened as she squinted. She wiped her sun-darkened hands on her apron. Then touched the leather pouch hanging around her neck.

Does she sense it?

“Light the evening lamps, Annie,” she asked as her hand dropped from the pouch.

A chill ran down Annie’s spine as Grandma’s rattles echoed in her head. Mama turned her back and walked away. He spat on the clean tile floor. Annie imagined that she saw tongue-like, dark wisps follow her as she retreated to the kitchen. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, they were gone.

His eyes followed her around the room as she lit the lamps. She smelled of liquor and stale sweat as she lit the lamp on his table. He smiled oddly at her, and his face flushed with color. It reminded her of the smiles Papa and Mama traded on those nights when they went to bed early.

“That Indian, your mother?” he asked, leaning across the table as if to snatch the answer from her.

She lurched back and almost stumbled into Mama, carrying a steaming plate of food. Mama stopped short of the table, set the plate down, and slid it toward him, careful to avoid his eyes. His head rocked from side to side, taunting her to look at him. Then, he tilted his head back and laughed. Annie stepped in behind Mama.

“Do I scare you, woman?” he slurred. His gaze was as vacant as a dark corner in an abandoned house. “Are you Serrano or one of those tamed Gabrielano, maybe?”

“No, señor,” she said, but her eyes said otherwise. “My people are Juanero, from near Mission Capistrano.” Her hand searched behind her for mine.

The stranger slapped his thigh, chuckled, and mumbled something about ignorant Indians. Mama turned and gently pinched Annie’s cheek. A shiver ran through Annie as Mama gestured with her eyes toward the kitchen.

“What did I tell you about getting underfoot? Go now and tell Papa that supper is ready before it gets cold. Hurry,” she shouted, pushing her away.

Her shoes thudded dully on the tiles as she ran through the kitchen and out the back. Espina slipped inside as the door swung shut. A sparrow dangled by its wing in her mouth.

Sean’s laughter echoed in the courtyard as Papa burst from the stable. Sean rode on his shoulders, yelling, “Giddy-up!” Papa galloped across the courtyard, dipping and rearing like a wild stallion. As he barreled toward her, he let out a whinny that turned to laughter. Sean slid from his back as he stopped before her and ran ahead.

Papa took her face in his rough hands. “Darlin’, your skin is like ice. Get inside before you catch your death from the cold.”

Annie grabbed his hand and said, “Mama says your supper’s ready.” She whimpered and blurted out, “The stranger is drinking.” She wrapped her arms around him and began to tremble.

Still so cold.

Papa pulled her close and said, “Darlin, there’s nothing to fear. Our guest is just tired and needs some company.” His shoulders hunched as he walked away with her.

Don’t trust him, Papa—he’s broken.

As Annie set the table, she could see the stranger stuff food into his mouth between sips of mezcal. Mama seemed relieved when Papa placed his big, calloused hands on her tiny shoulders. They whispered to each other, and Papa glanced at the stranger.

“I’ll speak to him after supper, Sesia,” he said, scooping up Sean, and they went to wash up.

Annie placed a clay water jug and cups on the table. Grandma’s rattle rumbled louder in her head and would not stop. Grandma, please—what do you expect me to do? She stepped closer to the stove but could barely feel its warmth.

“Mama.”

“What is it, Annie?”

“Mama… can you hear Grandma?”

She closed her eyes and mumbled in Juanero. The corners of her mouth turned down. She clutched the medicine bag around her neck tightly, then, after a moment, released it. “I felt something earlier, but now…” For the briefest moment, Mama’s eyes seemed far away. She shivered as if a cold breeze swept through the kitchen. “Annie, are you sure?”

“Yes, Mama!” she said, grabbing hold of her skirt.

Before she could say more, Papa and Sean crowded into the kitchen. They sat, and Papa asked for Christ’s blessing on the food and their guest, a bit louder than usual. As Papa broke a loaf of bread in half, the stranger’s shuffling footsteps drew their attention.

He stood a few steps back from the doorway, his upper body hidden in shadow, supper plate held in one hand. Gravy dripped from the chipped earthenware like rain on the toe of his boot. He stepped into the light. A disarming smile hid who he was.

Annie’s breath caught in her throat.

“Missus, may I have seconds?” he asked, his words slurred from the drink. Mama got up from the table in a flurry of motion and served him. His smile changed briefly to a snarl, like when his spurs dug into his horse.

He shifted his gaze to Annie and stared into her eyes. Her vision blurred as if a cloud of smoke obscured him.

Papa looked up and said, “Forgive me. I have been a thoughtless host. I will join you for a drink and a smoke later.”

The stranger nodded and accepted the plate from Mama. “Thank you kindly, Missus O’Malley,” he said with exaggerated respect. “I look forward to that, Mr. O’Malley.” He winked at Annie as he turned to go.

Annie began to tremble. Her stomach knotted up something terrible. It became hard to breathe. Ochuca’s summoning rattle roared. She covered her ears, squeezed her eyes shut tight, and prayed it would stop. But it did not… So cold.

_Blink_

_Why have you summoned me?_

_Look, Waheia_

Ochuca’s rattles shook high above her scaly head—she hissed. Beyond her wall of scales, Annie saw a bloated shadow enveloping the stranger’s light. Dark red pulsing tendrils stretched toward Mama, Papa, and Sean’s lights.

_What is it?_

_See what I see, Waheia_

She peered into Ochuca’s golden eyes, and she knew. It was a Soul Eater. An evil spirit that stole the light of the living, extinguishing them forever.

_Grandma, save us_

_I cannot pass between our worlds_

_Then let me go_

_Waheia, you will all die… Stay, and I can protect you_

_No, please let me go_ Annie pulled away. Her silver tether became her lifeline back to the world of flesh.

_Blink_

“Annie, wake up,” Papa said. “She’s ice cold.”

“It’s all right, little one. Mama’s here. Annie… Annie, open your eyes.”

She could sense Papa lifting her off the tile floor and carrying her away. The pounding of Papa’s heart drowned out their voices as her head rested on his chest. Then, her bed’s familiar embrace welcomed her as Papa laid her down.

She was so, so cold.

Mama chanted in Juanero, and her voice faded into the fog. Annie shivered so hard that she thought it would never stop.

“Husband, fetch a bucket of hot coals from the kitchen. She is freezing,” she continued to chant.

Mama stopped her chant and pressed her hands to her ears. It was the thunder of Ochuca’s rattles demanding her return. It felt like it would shake the inn to pieces.

It took all her concentration to breathe. Mama stroked her cheek and whispered her name. Her breath was sweet and warm on Annie’s face.

She opened her mouth, and she tried to speak.

Mama whispered, “I hear Ochuca, Waheia. What does she want?”

The shiver worsened as she spoke, “Sss—ssss—sssss,” hissing over her tongue.

Mama jerked away and let go of her hand. The hissing grew louder in the back of Annie’s throat. From downstairs, Sean screamed. Papa and the stranger shouted at each other, and a pistol shot exploded. The last thing Annie saw was Mama’s back as she ran from the room.

_Blink_

 _No_

Ochuca’s coils squeezed her. Annie strained against them, trying to break free. The more she struggled, the tighter they became and the sadder Ochuca was. She could feel Ochuca’s love and desire to save her from oblivion.

She watched as Sean and Papa’s lights flickered. The stranger’s dark shadow hovered over Papa, smothering him. Mama’s light came into sight and merged with Sean’s, and they fled.

_Then let me go_

Once more, she tried to follow her silver thread to her body, but it flickered and went out.

Sadness radiated from Ochuca as she released her.

_Why had she wandered so far today? Why had he not done as she was told?_

_Go Waheia_ And she turned to face the Eater.

Annie searched for a light that could serve her needs. A quivering pinprick of light hid in a corner of the great room. It was Espina, their cat. With regret, she dove into Espina’s flesh like a thief. Espina shrieked in agony as Annie took her. The cat’s soul shattered into pieces like a clay pot.

_Blink_

She could feel the hair on Espina’s back rise. Her spine arched, and her claws extended. Through a forest of table and chair legs, she saw Papa on his knees. The stranger held him by his collar—a knife to his throat. Blood dripped from between Papa’s fingers where a bullet had ripped through his side. A throaty yowl came from Espina’s mouth.

_I am coming, Papa._

“Hey, stay awake, Mr. O’Malley,” the stranger yelled, slapping Papa across the face. “Or you’ll miss all the fun once I find your Juanero whore and half-breed brats.”

“No, please, I have money. Take it,” Papa begged.

“You are stupid, Indian lover,” he growled, waving the knife in his face like an accusing finger. “I don’t want your money.”

Annie took a few cautious steps. She had done this so many times with Espina when stalking prey. Her vision narrowed and sharpened. The taste of the sparrow Espina had eaten earlier was still on her tongue. She had new prey now.

The stranger whispered into Papa’s ear. Tears flowed down Papa’s sunburnt cheeks. He fumbled helplessly for the stranger’s pistol.

The brass pommel of the stranger’s knife came down on Papa’s head, and he slumped forward. The stranger slapped him again and said, “Stay awake.” But Papa lay on the floor unmoving. “Eh, oh well.” His hand rose, poised to plunge the knife into Papa’s chest.

Espina’s instinct took over. Her ears flattened. The hair along her spine bristled higher. A snarl formed in her throat. Her claws flexed in and out of their sheaths, scratching the tile floor. Annie’s rage thrust her onto a table and into the air.

“Yyyeee-Ooowwwlll.”

The stranger’s head snapped to the side as she landed. She smelled his fear. Teeth and claws labored against his soft, yielding flesh. The hot, salty taste of his blood filled her mouth.

The stranger dropped his knife and tried to pull her off.

I got you!

They spun like drunk dancers. Crashed into the bar and tumbled to the floor. He grabbed her head. She sank her fangs deep into his thumb. He grabbed a hind leg and yanked her off, tearing away flesh as he did. Her claw raked across one eye. He shrieked in agony and held her at arm’s length. She clawed at empty air. He grabbed her neck, twisted, and bones snapped, and tendons tore.

_Blink_

The pain of Espina’s death left her dazed in its grip.

She could make out Ochuca’s white scales stained black in places. The Eater lashed out with blood-red tentacles, slashing her. She struck back, burying her fangs into its shadowy body. Ochuca reared up and struck over and over. With each bite, the Eater shrank until Grandma’s jaw opened wide and swallowed it whole.

_Go._

Annie searched for the nearest knot of bright lights. She moved from one unwilling creature to the next, searching for the one that could make a difference. Fragments of sound echoed around her. She smelled dung. The shrill shriek of hens. The tortured bray of their donkey. The squeal of the pigs as they tried to escape the madness of her passing. Then, one light larger than the others was before her, and she crashed into it.

_Blink_

“Come out; you can’t hide from me,” the stranger screamed from the courtyard.

The sound of the stranger’s voice made this body tremble with terror. Four powerful legs held her up. She had taken his horse. The horse’s will melted away, and all its tormented memories at its master’s hand poured into her.

A pistol shot rang out.

Annie could see the stranger drenched in moonlight through the stable’s open doors. A red halo surrounded his ruined face. He swayed drunkenly, moaning. He fired his last shots at an imaginary attacker. He dropped the pistol, unsheathed his knife, and strode toward the stable.

“If you don’t come out, squaw, I’ll finish off that husband of yours,” he growled.

Annie reared up on her hind legs and smashed her head into the thatched roof. Then she rammed the stall’s gate. It creaked and splintered but held.

“I hear you in there,” he shouted. “You thought you’d get away?”

He searched each stall and lunged at shadows. Finally, he reached hers. Annie tried to control the horse’s trembling and her fury.

He gazed into the stall with his remaining eye and gripped the latch pin. Annie shifted from hoof to hoof and backed up, as he would expect. He grasped the latch pin, cocked his head, and listened. From outside, she heard Sean’s muffled crying. A look of glee spread across the stranger’s tortured face as he turned to leave.

Annie sprang forward and drove her muzzle into his chest. He staggered back and pulled the latch pin free. The gate swung open, and she charged. He looked confused. She guessed he could not believe his horse would ever dare to challenge him.

Annie bit his shoulder. The stranger slashed and stabbed with his knife. Annie reared up, and her hooves rose and fell again and again.

Papa shoveled dirt onto the stranger’s shallow grave beyond the outhouse and spat into it.

Favoring his wounded side, he walked to where Mama sat under a big oak, Sean beside her. She cradled a lifeless, shroud-wrapped child and sobbed. Not far from the tree was another grave.

Papa didn’t say a word. Tears filled his eyes as he stroked Mama’s hair and pried the body from her unwilling grasp. A small, pale, delicate hand slipped from under the shroud as he lowered her into the grave.

Mama got to her feet and swayed unsteadily. She drew Sean into her arms. A purple, swollen bruise marked Sean’s face from jaw to brow, and a bandage circled his head.

It was becoming harder for Annie to see. She, like Mama, swayed unsteadily on the horse’s legs. Warm blood trickled down the horse’s chest from the deepest stab wound.

She could no longer stand and rolled onto the horse’s side. Mama gazed from the grave to the coral. Her hand reached out to Annie, and she began a sorrowful chant.

_She knows_

The horse’s breathing became ragged, slowed, and stopped.

Annie could hear Ochuca’s rattle call her home. Annie shook her rattle in reply and joined Grandma in the eternal night.

_Blink_

No owl came for you.

But you watched her go:
best friends, best friends
until that moment
when she warned you: Don’t follow.

But when had you ever not followed?

Bricks, bruising.
Blood, a little.
Eleanor, why?

For months—years—you marked time at another school,
which was deathly dull.

Every summer she returned
ever more a stranger.
Maths was your magic.
So you knew, each autumn, when she
disappeared,
that hers was not the only platform
between 9 and 10.
That there exists, in fact,
between any two
numbers,
a space that may
be more
finely
divi-
ded.

9 and 5/6: Smash!
Wrong.

Inside the infinite,
every outcome is inevitable.

9 and 18/25: Smash!
Wrong.

But it was righter;
you felt that.

You noted that in your notebook.

Somewhere, in there, was a place for you.

A platform that would open
to a train
to a school
that was almost like hers,
to a friend
who was almost like her,
but not
to a bird that would belong to you,
if not quite an owl.

A finch
or a falcon vulture
bluebird blackbird
woodpecker
parrot
sparrow
robin raven—
anything—
with a scroll in its beak.

9 and 4,817/6,311
Smash!
Wrong.
But righter.

You noted that in your notebook.

In this world, you saw her
less and less—
best friends once,
but not now.

You saw her
(and her owl)
sometimes
from the room that was yours
(in the house that you had since inherited from your parents);
she was visiting her parents:
best friends, next door friends,
growing up,
but nothing now.

She was 30… 40… 50.

For you, whose birthday was only 3 months and 3 days after hers,
it was the same.

(This is the simplest kind of maths.)

Now, she was a Minister of Magic.

9 and 40,927/54,581
Smash!
Wrong.
But righter.

You noted that in your notebook.

You were not invited to her funeral
(an accident: a hippogriff)
But the dream transmuted
as you did,
so that while—yes—you would enter any platform that opened…

What would you do at a school?

Let it be—if you were dreaming—
a house for pensioners.
And let them offer you a bird.

In its feathers, you could rest your hand.
Rest.

9 and 226,943/302,573
Smash!

9 and 328,687/438,241
Smash!

No.
At one time, perhaps,
this may have been about something else.

Eleanor, why?

But as your numbers have become sharper
(a series of inessentials
whittled
implacably a-
way)
so has your ambition.

Your try another and another
(smash smash)
and your body stoops
and your hair whitens,
and you acquire a staff, too,
to assist your balance
(have you, at any
earlier period
of your life,
so resembled a true witch?
did Eleanor, even, ever so inhabit the part?)
and the
problem nar-
rows,
increment by 
in-
cre-
ment,
as your newest notebook fills:
infinity opening
to additional infinities,
and within them—
shiver—
lie
an infinite number of platforms
that will open
exclusively
to you.

Finer. Fi-
ner. F
in
e
r
.

When he had run out of things to swear at, he managed to pull himself together enough to climb out of the cramped cockpit and into the empty cargo bay. He felt terrible. A sick fear had churned his guts and made his head ache.

His safety net was gone. And it had failed at the worst possible moment.

When Rig was promoted to XO of the Ultor, one of his first projects had been to surreptitiously purchase a collapsible, concealable, two-seater escape craft with enough power to get him to a neighboring system if he ever found himself in a no-win situation. Knowing the Ultor and the guy who commanded it, this was an almost guaranteed prospect. And knowing her crew as he did, Rig had no doubt that every one of them would have made their own escape plans for this exact eventuality.

Maybe there was someone willing to let him tag along? Some groveling might have to be involved. It would be humiliating, but it was better than dying.

A new wave of anger washed over him. The ship had cost him nearly an entire year’s wages. Scammed? Sabotaged? It made no sense. All systems showed green, and the meager onboard AI was as flummoxed as he was. He released another torrent of curses until he managed to calm himself again.

Not sure what else to do, Rig began folding up the wings so he could slide the small craft back into its hidey-hole again. But as he was securing the covering panel, a new idea came to him. Wait a minute. Since every diagnostic comes up clean, maybe there’s no scientific reason for launch failure. This left only one possible culprit. It was something he should’ve considered in the first place. It made sense. And he could prove it as well.

Of course, confronting the culprit might get him killed even faster—you never knew where Elgia was concerned. But what other choice did he have?

Exiting into the passageway, he halted in the corridor. 

Uh-oh. 

His sixth sense began twinging. It told him he would have to run a gauntlet to get to Elgia’s quarters unscathed. You don’t serve aboard a mercenary ship like the Ultor for long without recognizing panic in the air: a sour yet electric scent that was equal parts adrenaline mixed with cold sweat. If Rig could capture it in a perfume bottle, he’d call it Impending Doom. Cautiously, he began making his way to the lower decks.

A few moments later, he spotted the bobbing blond head of Pora, the Ultor’s navigator, hurrying in the opposite direction. Rig secretly fancied her and believed there was a chance she might’ve felt the same way in return. (He held on to this faint hope despite the fact she had once threatened him with a plasma torch after he had denied her shore leave. Typical Ultor attitude; great to work with, but don’t cross certain lines.)

“Hey, Pora,” he called, feigning nonchalance. It sounded fake to his own ears, but Pora didn’t react. More accurately, she didn’t react to him at all, walking briskly past him with a preoccupied, anxious look in her eyes.

Huh. Interesting.

Other crew members he passed carried the same expression, confused and deeply troubled. He caught whispers of “What do you mean it wouldn’t work? I thought you checked it?” and, “He owes me big time and is worth a rescue sortie out here, but I can’t raise him on the comms at all. I just get dead air…”

Okay, that pretty much clinches it.

He began jogging like he was going somewhere vital in order to do something that could save their asses if he could only get there in time. He’d used this act before. Everyone was rattled now, but that could worsen fast, especially if they spotted someone in authority to blame, like a young, arguably inexperienced XO. So what if everyone knew the Captain was solely to blame? No one would be able to get to Drooghelm, who would be barricaded in his quarters by now, hiding behind blast-proof hulls and reinforced bulkheads. Their fearless captain always pulled this maneuver when he royally screwed up.

Rig managed to reach the sub-fifth deck without incident. He turned and headed down a corridor.

He was getting close. Familiar, telltale scents filled his nostrils; wafts of strange herbs, roots, and unrecognizable concoctions hovered thickly in the air. The light was dimmer here. The lighting covers were coated with grime, and the deck plates as well. Nothing had been cleaned in months, but Rig never scolded the cleaning bots, knowing full well that they were too nervous to venture around these parts. Even the mechies had enough intelligence to stay away. But what did that say about himself? 

It pretty much says I’m an idiot.

Ahead, a flickering yellow light spilled from an open hatchway. The bulkhead around it was covered in crudely painted runes and symbols. A beaded curtain made from rough, fibrous strands covered the opening and two bleached skulls from odd, bird-like creatures hung in the upper corners. He swallowed nervously.

Approaching the doorway cautiously, Rig raised his hand to knock.

“Enterrrrrr…” croaked a wizened voice from the other side.

He shuddered and thought: I hate it when he does that, before entering the room.

Suddenly, a green specter appeared from nowhere, floating in mid-air before Rig, moaning piteously. It was a ghastly phantasm of a male technician with torn overalls which glowed with an unearthly, sickly aura that matched his emerald, sore-riddled skin. The specter’s eyes and mouth were as black as the darkest singularity, no pupils or tongue visible as he groaned at Rig: “Deaaaaaaaaaath!”

Though he had been expecting this, Rig still cried out like a tween-aged schoolgirl and almost jumped out of his skin. “Augh! For pity’s sake, Franz, it’s me.” His hand accidentally passed through the creature, which immediately turned ice-cold. A deathly chill ran up his arm.

The hovering creature abruptly stopped wailing and straightened up. “Oh.” The voice was fairly ordinary now, though disappointed. “Sorry, XO. Didn’t know it was you. Thought it was one of the regulars.”

Rig exhaled slowly, consciously. “Forget it,” he grumbled. “There’s a crisis. I need to talk to Elgia.”

Franz pivoted mid-air and called into a back room: “Sweetie!”

“Coming, Franzie,” came back a creaky voice.

The eyeless face turned back to Rig and smiled pleasantly. “She’ll just be a minute. Please have a seat if you wish. Help yourself to some tea.” And with that, he vanished.

Since the only seat in the room seemed to be made from the pelvic skeleton of some unknown, large creature, Rig chose to stay standing.

He looked about. Elgia’s lair hadn’t changed much since the last time he was here. The same wooden drawers were set in ancient cabinets, each holding a pungent cache of herbs and roots from far-flung corners of the galaxy, the same cauldron bubbled lightly over a stone brazier with a smoldering fire in the middle, and the same dust and gloom coated everything, all of which likely concealed a thousand arcane and mystical items that would bring horrible, painful death or a lifetime of humiliating curses if you touched them the wrong way. On the far wall, a framed piece of cross-stitching depicted a grey tabby kitten playing with a ball of pink yarn. It was definitely the creepiest item in the room.

Finally, Elgia Jossinah Wrigglia, Black Mistress in the Everlasting Sisterhood of the Shadow, hobbled her way in from the back room with a gnarled wooden cane, looking like a pale prune that had spontaneously sprouted limbs. The stuff on her head was either hair or sentient cobwebs, a tangle of wispy vagueness, the strands occasionally moving of their own accord. Two squinting eyes, each pale blue-white, were set in her crevassed face and were not easy to gaze into when you were sober.

Most non-magic spacefaring folks—Rig included—tended to avoid mystical objects or beings as they would the black plagues from the swamps on Golgotha Prime. Why Drooghelm had decided to hire a terrifying creature like Elgia to be part of their little “spacefaring family” baffled Rig.

The ancient woman smiled cheerfully on her way to the cauldron, yellow and grey teeth peeking through dried lips. “Hello, Ducks. How’s tricks?”

“Good evening, Sister Elgia.” Best to start formally.

“Oh, relax, Ducks. You’re one of the ones I like.” She peered at him briefly. “You look very upset, you poor thing.”

“Yeah, I’ve been better. Do you… er… mind if I ask you something?” Elgia’s assurances notwithstanding, Rig’s tone was polite and calm. He wanted to scream his question, but you never annoyed members of the Sisterhood without having your head examined first.

Elgia leaned over the bubbling cauldron, sniffing. “Of course, Ducks. Always willing to help the deputy leader in our little home in space.” She took a few sticks from a nearby pile and placed them into the smoldering fire in the hearth below. (Open flames on any spacefaring vessel were, unsurprisingly, completely forbidden. Unless, of course, you were someone like Elgia, who would take your copy of the Spacefarer’s Trade Union Safety Book and burn it in her hearth in order to make her point clear.)

Clearing his throat, Rig explained how his small escape craft, for no apparent reason, wouldn’t work. He also added that similar malfunctions seemed to be happening all over the ship, including communications. “So…” he paused, attempting to compose his question carefully, “Did you…?” Nothing came to mind, so he stretched his hand out and waggled his fingers suggestively.

Elgia made a disgusted noise. “Ugh! Is that how you ask if I employed my sacred arts? The ancient craft of spell crafting, handed down through millennia and across star systems innumerable?”

“Sorry—”

“Well, yes, I did. His Nibs ordered it, naturally. He wanted to make sure nobody could abandon ship behind his back. Apparently, some job he recently accepted requires a full crew.”

Rig exhaled, then scowled. “Did you happen to ask about it? The job, I mean.”

She shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care. He’s the boss.”

“Oh, you should care. Let me fill you in. He—”

“Hey, no, belay that, XO!” The deep voice came from the back room. A second later, Captain Drooghelm’s imposing bulk stepped into the room. “Rig, her Unholy Sisterness here doesn’t need to be bothered with the details of ship’s business.”

The Captain looked shockingly awful: disheveled, sallow, and drawn, with massive bags under his eyes and ugly splotches and stains all over his shirt. Rig spied some mysterious things stuck in his beard that might have been flecks of vomit. A while back, he had managed to peek at the Ultor’s accounting sheets and was amazed to learn how much money a supposedly hard-as-nails mercenary Captain could allot for a private publicist and hair care products. If Drooghelm had allowed himself to look this bad in front of anyone, then he was very shaken indeed.

Elgia nodded in agreement. “Captain’s right, I don’t need to be bothered. How he runs his ship is none of my concern. I’m just a Mystical Consultant, after all, I don’t do policy.” Elgia hobbled over, pulled open one of the drawers, and began sorting through the contents.

Rig’s patience began to wear thin. “Oh, sod this. Elgia, you need to know the truth. This jackass—”

“Check your tone, Rig! You know how I deal with insubordination.”

“Are you bloody kidding me?” Rig yelled, the last pretenses of decorum falling away. “We’re all dead! You’ve screwed all of us, and then you make her cut off the exits!”

“XO, a crew has to pull together in times of—”

“Save it. You might as well tell her now, Captain. If you think I’m pissed off, imagine what she’s going to feel like once we get there if you haven’t told her.”

Elgia cocked a blue-white eye at Drooghelm. “Oh?” She looked back at Rig. “Okay, boy, you’ve got my attention. What did the drunken bastard do this time?”

“I was not drunk,” protested the Captain weakly.

Rig laughed. “I literally had to cart you onto the ship in a wheelbarrow.” He turned to Elgia. “He had the signed contract lying on his chest when I went to collect him. Our newest client had it notarized, too. Ironclad. PO Crandall was there when I read it, so now the whole bloody ship knows as well.”

Elgia looked at him expectantly.

Rig took a deep breath, then spoke as calmly as he could manage. “There are suicide missions, and there are suicide missions. And then there’s this job.” Rig paused. “Drooghelm has agreed to kill a god.”

A sudden silence filled the room. Elgia just stared at him for what was probably a few seconds but felt like an hour.

Finally, she yelled: “I quit! Franz?”

The green ghost popped back into view. “Sweets?”

“Pack our crap! We’re outta here!” She began to gather up objects around her.

Drooghelm groaned. “Look, Elgia, it’s not that bad—”

She spun on him. “Not that bad?” she growled, more infuriated than Rig had ever seen her. “A god?” She threw her arms up in exasperation. “You drunken sot! Why not just say you’ll eat a planet in one gulp? At least a fat bastard like yourself has a chance there! We’ve got no chance against a god.”

“Okay, yes, I had had a lot to drink…”

She laughed mirthlessly and continued packing.

“… and when they named their price, well… er… I don’t remember much after that. I think I might’ve agreed right there and then.”

“Think? There was no thinking involved, that’s for certain. Move, you great moron!” she spat as she pushed past him to grab a sickle hanging on the wall behind him. “Franzie, where’s my satchel?”

“Back of the closet, I think,” the ghost replied. “Next to that cursed halberd, the one Rennazi de Winterstorm owned back in 12574 from the Karrakos Era. Or was it the Spon era?”

“Elgia,” Drooghelm interrupted, “this is an unusual situation.” He shot a nervous glance at Rig.

In a flash, Rig knew what his Captain was about to do and took a cautious step back.

Drooghelm continued, “And I would hate to have to contact the Sisterhood—”

Elgia spun on him so fast it made Rig start. The effect it had on Drooghelm was like a freezing ray; he became an instant statue.

“You would hate to do… what, exactly?”

Sweat began to bead on Drooghelm’s forehead. “To…” he faltered.

“Yessssss?” she hissed. Her tone was colder than space.

“C-c-c-contact… the… Sisterhood…” he stammered.

“You sure you want to do that, Captain?”

The mercenary Captain was silent for a moment, his eyes as wide as saucers. Finally, he managed to say very quietly: “Yes?”

By this point, even the ghost was holding his breath.

Elgia stared hard at him and said nothing. Then, abruptly, she swore and seemed to deflate into the pelvic bone chair. Pulling a pack of cigarettes from a table drawer, she retrieved one and lit it. “Well,” she said in a resigned tone, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Life was fun while it lasted.”

Rig and Franz exhaled at the same time, but only one of them created a breeze.

Elgia produced a hip flask from under her robes and took a swig. She looked at Rig. “You said it was notarized?” He nodded. “Wonderful,” she growled.

“This,” she said after another healthy swallow, “is technically known as a state of ‘screwed three ways to Sunday.’ If we run, the bailiffs are after us for breaking the contract. And they do not mess around. If we try to carry out the contract, we’ll surely be flattened by a bloody god…” she yelled this pointedly at Drooghelm, “and if I were to fry our beloved leader here into a charcoal brisket and do a runner, the Sisterhood would be on my tail like a rabid weasel who had just spotted her mortal enemy.” She shuddered at the thought.

Rig rubbed his temples, trying to stop his headache from worsening. “Okay, okay,” he began grasping at threads, “Maybe there is a way to… well, do it. Complete the contract.” He couldn’t bring himself to say it directly.

Elgia scowled. “Do it? You mean off the Holy sonofabitch? Ha!” Nevertheless, she turned to Drooghelm and asked: “Well, tell me about this god at least. Which one is it?”

The Captain mopped his brow with a rag from a tabletop. “Uh, well, he’s new. Named Zaxxos or something. Just attained godhood a few years ago. Some mystical accident, according to the client.”

“Who’s the client?” Elgia interrupted.

“These dark cult guys on a planet about ten light years from here: Universalis Sancta Subiugatio, whatever the hell that means.”

Elgia made a guttural sound of disapproval.“Ugh, those arseholes. I know ’em. Charming lot. They sometimes sacrifice virgins by pushing them into underground lava streams, stuff like that. Boys and girls, mind you; very progressive not to discriminate, eh? So, it’s these asswipes you decide to go into business with, Droog?”

Drooghelm managed to look even more pale and uncomfortable. “Oh. Er, Eglia, in my defense, I had no idea they did stuff like that when I signed…”

“As drunk as you were, I’m surprised you could remember your own name in order to sign it,” said Rig.

Drooghelm glared. “As I was saying… These Subiugatio guys were fiddling with spells to obtain godhood. Your typical dark cult stuff. Then one of their lesser acolytes, some old guy who had been toiling at the problem for his entire life, stumbled on the solution.”

“So, that is the so-called target?” Franz asked, trying to be helpful. “This lesser acolyte you speak of?”

“Eh, no. It’s his fourteen-year-old grand-nephew, actually. This spell was generational, so one of the caster’s heirs was going to have to take up the family tradition. The acolyte guy was trying to get the kid interested in it as a career choice.

“And then something screwed up, and the spell suddenly worked. The guy was so stunned that he didn’t notice his nephew had walked up to the spell circle and got, um, ‘godded’ instead. Reportedly, the guy was pretty pissed and said some, you’d say, ill-advised things to the kid. Things did not go well for Mr. Uncle, and now they’ll never know how the idiot managed to successfully cast the spell in the first place.”

“How long ago was this?” Elgia asked.

“A little more than five years.”

She rolled her eyes. “Wonderful. We’re going to get flattened by a god whose balls just dropped.”

“Great Herald!” Drooghelm cried, a slight manic tone creeping into his voice, “There has to be a way to get it done!”

“That’s another thing,” Rig said, “when the hell did we become contract killers? When I signed up for your crew, you swore assassinations were off the table.”

“Oh, grow up,” Drooghelm scoffed. “A mercenary crew has to find work where they can. Besides, gods aren’t people. You ever watch one of their kind in an interview? They all think they’re better than everyone else. Buncha pricks.”

Rig put his hands to his face. “Sure… what better argument for murder could you get?”

Drooghelm ignored him. “They must be able to die. In the stories, myths, stuff like that… With the staggering amount these guys are paying us to complete this job—”

“How much?” Franz and Elgia asked at the same time. Rig told them and they whistled appreciatively in unison.

“Exactly,” exclaimed Drooghelm. “So, what if—I dunno—we get the biggest, baddest plasma cannon on credit and—”

“Forget it.” Rig shook his head. “According to what I looked up, there’s this inherent principle to godhood that says ‘a god can only be slain by another god’s hand.’”

The Captain looked at Elgia. She nodded, adding, “Clumsy phrasing, but he’s basically right. Most religious scholars and philosophers would back that up. I wouldn’t call it a universal law or anything, but it’s pretty close.”

“Okay, fine. We hire another god to do it.”

Elgia laughed. “Gods—you great oaf—don’t care about money! They’re beyond monetary or material needs. Besides, there’s only a handful around. It’s incredibly rare for gods to be created. I can only think of a couple off the top of my head that are in this region. Once they master their powers, most leave our universe to create their own dimension. It’s like moving to the coast to build your dream home, but on a quantum level.”

“And just for kicks,” Rig added, “I tried reaching out to the few gods she’s talking about, the ones that are still in our dimension.”

“And?” Drooghelm asked hopefully.

“They won’t return my calls.”

Elgia rolled her eyes. “That tears it.”

This declaration seemed to be the final straw for the Captain, who fell against a wall and slumped to the floor.

Rig went over and squatted down to his level. “Look, Captain…” He tried to put a friendly spin to his voice, “I know you’re in a tough spot here. But the only thing to do now is, well, you have to order Elgia to let the crew go. You signed the contract, not us. The noble thing here…” It was ridiculous to try the nobility angle with Drooghelm, but he had to give it a shot. “The noble thing to do would be to let us bail. Besides, you always said you wanted to go out in a blaze of glory. What better way than to take on a god? Single-handedly! Talk about epic! They’ll be talking about it for… well, forever.”

Elgia snorted. “Sure. Hey, did you hear about that putz who got punched into the next galaxy?”

Rig winced. He was about to try a different tack when he noticed a strange expression had formed on the man’s face. It took him a few seconds to realize what his Captain was doing. He was thinking.

This was not good.

“Hey,” Drooghelm began slowly. “That gives me an idea.”

Zaxxos the Magnificent was in a bad mood.

He was pensive. Grumpy. Cranky, even. This whole ‘being a god’ thing was not panning out like it should have.

Long ago—five years to be precise—he thought he had hit the ultimate jackpot, and everything was going to be totally jackballs awesome for all eternity. Even though it was by accident, he had achieved what quadrillions had dreamt of since magic was first practiced in the galaxy. He was a mother-loving God.

Supposedly, he could do whatever he wanted, make whatever he wanted, go wherever he wanted, and nobody could say boo. If anyone gave him any backtalk or static, he’d just smite the little turd. Plus, there’d be as much sex as he could handle. Hotties, he figured, should be mega-stoked to make it with a god. Things would be the best forever and ever; all praise himself.

But it hadn’t turned out that way at all.

The smiting was still okay, at least. The first guy he smited—or smote, whatever—was his great uncle, Warringanor. Sure, who wouldn’t be pissed if your family had been casting this meta-complicated spell for about two hundred years, and then your niece’s grandkid trips over it and ruins it for you? Yeah, okay, anybody would be upset. But then his great uncle said some really hurtful things, and he got angry, and… Well, it wasn’t pretty.

When he realized he could kill someone so easily, it was really unnerving. At first. But then he discovered how creative he could get with it.

Turns out, there were a crap-ton of different ways you could smite someone. Exploding ’em, crushing ’em, or just making ’em fall over dead. That last one was the coolest. Plus, you didn’t get all that horrible mess or smell.

However, doing other godly things was tricky.

If he tried creating something from nothing, for example, he had to be real careful, or it’d go all wrong. Especially if it was a living thing. Yikes, that became a horror show real quick. Good thing he had been practicing all that smiting before he tried creating life.

Objects, so long as they were simple or straightforward, were easy enough. A giant chair, for example, for his recently-resized giant body was okay. But when he tried making a spaceship, the problem was he didn’t know how they worked. He had no clues about the basic FTL drive principles, for example. So, they tended to blow up. Actually, they always blew up.

Magically-infused objects were tricky, too. There was this time he was going to be a War God and tried conjuring this really bad-ass sword as the central part of his ‘look,’ with a big, red gemstone in the center, which would shoot out these awesome, kick-ass red lightning bolts whenever he unsheathed it: Boom! Pow! Zap!

It blew up as well. Most of his stuff tended to blow up. It was one of the main reasons for his bad mood.

Plus, there were those loser clowns who had started worshiping him after he ‘ascended.’ He was glad he changed his name to “Zaxxos the Magnificent” after the transformation. Nobody would worship at the Church of Kevin Fenward, right?

At first, it was cool having people literally singing your praises; how amazing he was, how they were so insignificant next to him, et cetera, set to music, no less. This must be a perk, for sure.

But the whole thing got unbelievably annoying when he discovered that he always—always—heard his worshipper’s prayers. He couldn’t turn it off. What was this crap? Here he was, a guy who could turn a starliner into a goat—yeah, it would be a weird-looking goat that would blow up before too long, but he could still do that little miracle—yet somehow, he couldn’t turn off the speaker in his head that heard all those whinging little complaints.

So much of it was about money! I’m so poor. I can’t pay my rent. I need a new transport. My kid needs medicine. Petty, petty, crap all the time. It got so bad, he started conjuring gold bars just so they’d shut up. Then word got around that prayers to him actually paid off, and it became so much worse so fast. Money prayers began flooding his head. Not surprisingly, it became ‘smiting time’ once again. That finally shut ‘em up real quick.

So: his powers were hanky, his worshippers were jerks, and his creations kept exploding. But the worst part was the sex thing.

Instead of cartloads of Vestal virgins (something he’d heard from history—he wasn’t sure what it referred to, but they sounded seriously hot) lining up to service his every whim, chicks avoided him like he was a chess club president covered in cold sores. He listened in on some of the conversations the novice priestesses had in the convents so he could understand why they weren’t showing up in droves, boobs out, legs open. The words he heard were along the lines of: terrifying, death sentence, and ick.

This was the most depressing part. Incredibly powerful, immortal, feared… and he still couldn’t get laid. 

As Zaxxos sat brooding, leaning against a mountain, he absentmindedly scratched his cheek with a finger the size of an eight-story apartment building. He didn’t have an itch—his body never suffered from aches, pains, or even the minor unpleasantness of dermatitis anymore—it was strictly from habit.

Bored and frustrated, he decided a year ago to make himself two thousand feet tall.

Why? Firstly, it was fun. Secondly, it pissed off the Subiugatio cult that ruled his home planet big time. The priesthood had kept pestering him about an alliance in order to take over the galaxy. The idea sounded like work, so he passed.

Then they tried convincing him to make this big weapon that would give them the conquering power they required. To get them off his back, he did it. But—sigh—it exploded, killing a big swath of their priesthood in the process.

He did the ‘bigging thing’ soon after that so he could avoid their whining. He rose above it all.

The bonus benefit was how he terrified the priesthood by stomping around their grounds. Their planet was mostly a series of archipelagos surrounded by a giant, plant-spanning ocean. The biggest island, where Zaxxos currently lounged, was where the top echelon of the priesthood lived. He liked the idea of looming over them. What could they do about it?

But this, too, was getting pretty boring. And he was getting worried about shrinking himself down to normal size because he wasn’t sure how to do it.

It was all so unfair. Why couldn’t he catch a break?

Then, something caught his eye. Instinctually, his brain said it was just some flying insect pestering him.

But then that would mean the bug was the size of…

“Ahem,” said a voice in the air in front of him. Zaxxos narrowed his gaze. It was a ship, hovering before his eyes. And a crappy ship, at that.

“This is Captain Cicero Drooghelm of the starship Ultor.”

The Captain’s voice quavered a bit as he spoke into the microphone; the braggadocio attitude he had been projecting for the last few weeks melted away once the moment arrived. He sounded pale and sweaty again, and all those reassurances of “trust me, this’ll work,” Rig could hear puddling at the man’s feet. The giant speakers they’d strapped to the hull amplified Drooghelm’s voice—but also that quaver—a thousandfold.

“We respectfully request the attention of the great and mighty Zaxxos the Magnificent,” Drooghelm continued.

Elgia had suggested this approach. You don’t want him thinking about swatting us until we’ve got everything lined up. Appeal to his ego. Distract him from the real threat.

The giant god’s eye narrowed on the ship, a relative housefly, and seemed unimpressed. Yet he hadn’t vaporized them right away.

“Well, this is different, at least,” the god smirked. “I’ll give you that.”

Rig found the god’s voice terrifying. The Ultor trembled a little as if they were being buffeted by a storm. He swallowed hard but kept his hands steady on the flight controls.

Drooghelm’s voice broadcasted again. “Er… well.” He coughed nervously. “We, the honorable and brave mercenary crew of the Ultor, are deeply honored to be in the presence of such a… a magnificent being as Zaxxos the, er, Magnificent.”

Rig glanced down and checked their alignment. So long as the big bastard doesn’t move…

“Get to the point. I’m a busy god,” the giant grumbled.

“Er, right…” fumbled Drooghelm. “Well, honored as we all definitely are to be in your presence, the regrettable task has fallen to us to… entreat you to…” he coughed nervously again, “leave this dimension.” After a pause, he added: “Or else.”

Silence hung for a moment in the space between the ship and the giant god.

It was broken when Zaxxos began to laugh uproariously, the force buffeting the ship like a category two hurricane, forcing Rig to compensate heavily to keep the craft steady. “Settle down, settle down,” he whispered. Drooghelm would have to readjust his aim now.

“Or else?” the god cackled. “You gotta be kidding me.”

Rig could hear Drooghelm swallow hard over the speakers as he straightened the ship. His palms were sweating heavily under the hand controls. Risking a split second to wipe them on his shirt, he could feel his heart pounding.

“What can you do, little ship, to a God?” Zaxxos growled, the final word reverberating through the ship like it was made of tin.

Drooghelm, to his credit, redoubled his efforts and threw more gravitas into his voice. “We are very serious, oh, honorable Zaxxos. We have a weapon at our disposal that could dispatch ye.”

Rig looked over at Pora, who was manning navigation, who looked back at Rig. She mouthed “ye?” at him, her expression incredulous.

“We have no desire to do this.” Drooghelm was definitely warming to the dramatics now. “We respect and admire your magnificence and are loath to risk the wrath of any gods who… er… aren’t down with the whole, you know… killing a god thing. So, what is your response, Zaxxos? Leave? Or face oblivion?”

We’re all dead, thought Rig.

But, incredibly, Zaxxos seemed to be considering something. His enormous, youthful face seemed to go slack for a moment, and his cavernous mouth hung open like a dullard who had been given an algebra equation to solve.

Then his mouth closed, his eyes hardened, and he spoke a single word.

“Bull.”

Bloody hell, take the shot!

This was Drooghelm’s great plan:

A few years ago, Drooghelm had come across a story about a holy relic, a scepter, that was stored in an ancient stone temple on a planet called Vargran Six. The scepter’s rod reportedly contained the hair of an old god who had left our dimension for good. Drooghelm admitted he’d briefly considered stealing it at the time but decided it would be too difficult to fence.

But if the follicle was still attached, that made it god-flesh, right? And if it took ‘a god’s hand to kill a god,’ then, he reasoned, all you needed was to get ahold of part of a god, god-flesh or something similar, fasten it to a giant projectile, and fire it into the bastard’s brain.

Everyone else thought this was the kind of plan a six-year-old would come up with. However, they also had no other ideas.

So, they raced over to Vargran Six, opened negotiations with the jungle natives who had worshipped the holy dude for the last thousand years, gave their best bribe to the head shaman, then hit the lot with a stun-burst when they realized the bribe was gloriously backfiring, and ended up stealing it after all. Afterward, half the crew had to be treated with anti-toxins because of poison darts.

Luckily, there was, indeed, a follicle attached to the hair inside the scepter.

Elgia did her best to bolster the god-essence in order to maximize potency, whatever the sod that meant. Then they attached the holy follicle to the tip of the sharpest, biggest, hardest titanium-ultrasteel bolt they could find.

The Ultor, hovering before Zaxxos’ face, was merely a distraction.

Drooghelm’s voice was being transmitted to its exterior speakers from Rig’s heavily cloaked escape craft flying below them, pointing upward at a steep angle. Drooghelm had decided to fire it up Zaxxos’ nose, reasoning it was the best route to hit gray matter without striking his skull, which would likely be impenetrable. A makeshift cannon barrel had been installed on the underbelly, along with the best cloaking system they could afford, which wasn’t very good and would almost certainly break down after the shot was taken.

Both Rig and the crew felt they had next to zero chance of succeeding. Wills were updated, and goodbye letters were sent.

Rig heard the shot. Even though it came from about a half-mile below them, it was that loud.

Zaxxos’ head snapped back as if he had been punched with a mighty uppercut to the schnoz.

Blood!

Amazed, Rig saw a great red droplet appear before Zaxxos’ face. It hung almost motionless in the air for a split second before falling. Zaxxos’ gigantic body slammed against the mountain behind him with a crash that even Rig could feel through the ship’s hull. His heart leaped, daring to hope he might survive this. Everyone on the bridge held their breath.

Then, a moment later, the god sat up.

Zaxxos pressed one of his giant hands against his bloodied nose and said: “Ow.”

Rig swallowed hard. When he saw the look in Zaxxos’s eyes, he tried to swallow again but found that his mouth had gone completely dry.

“You little bastards are so dead,” snarled the god.

Rig spied the muscles tensing in Zaxxos’ shoulder a split second before the huge arm whipped out in an impossibly wide arc. His reflexes responded immediately, yanking the ship controls and twisting the Ultor into a downward spiral.

On the monitor beside him, he could see that Drooghelm had the same idea—but he wasn’t quite fast enough. The giant hand clipped the wing on the smaller craft, sending Drooghelm spiraling in a chaotic tumble off into the neighboring sea, where his ship crashed with a rather sad little ‘splot.’

Crew members on the bridge were screaming at Rig to get them out of there. As if he needed to be told that. Rig swung the ship landward. Maybe he could hide in the mountain range? His mind raced. An orbital path makes the most sense. But switching to escape velocity thrusters would take ten precious seconds. Besides, could Zaxxos fly? Could he just kill them with a thought? How did this guy smite people, anyway?

As if to answer his thoughts, a mountain peak next to the ship exploded in a conflagration of stone and crimson light. Rig screamed in shock and yanked the ship away from the shower of boulders. “Crandall,” he yelled, “Give me a view of the bastard!”

A second later, the bridge viewscreen had a window inserted showing what was happening behind them. They saw a colossal figure climb over the mountains with shocking ease, two ruby-red dots glowing in the center of his face. Zaxxos’ eyes were literally ablaze with fury. Going off-planet was no longer possible; initiating the engine shift would leave them sitting ducks.

Rig spotted a fogbank to port and veered that way.

That was a mistake.

The fogbank was only a small one, maybe two kilometers wide, with a major city on the other side. Rig suddenly found himself hurtling towards a menagerie of towers, buildings, and a hundred other handy structures for them to crash into. He swore as he almost struck a huge temple spire, then narrowly missed another one that seemingly sprang up in its place. For the next few seconds, every spire, tower, or ziggurat he managed to dodge would be replaced by a new one behind it.

Worse still, this was the capital city, which had been built next to the biggest mountain on the whole planet, a behemoth of ten thousand meters in height and easily the same in circumference. It effectively cut off half their maneuvering space, and Rig was forced to violently adjust course away from it. This, naturally, placed him right in the path of more spires and towers.

It took all of Rig’s concentration to fly the ship. Behind them, Zaxxos was still firing crimson energy bursts from his eyes, burrowing charred furrows in the streets, his giant body smashing through buildings like a pimply kaiju from hell. The client was going to be super pissed.

A warning light flashed. The ambient energy from that last eye-blast had melted part of their wings. At this rate, they weren’t going to last long.

“Elgia,” he cried into the comm, “Bolster ship’s integrity!”

“I’m doing my best, you little—” The rest was cut off.

Movement caught Rig’s attention on the rear viewscreen.

The main Holy Temple of the Subiugatio was behind them, a huge structure with banners and flags flying everywhere. Each had a symbol at the center: a silhouette of the enormous mountain that dominated the skyline to the stern.

“They sometimes sacrifice virgins by pushing them into underground lava streams…”

The idea struck him like a bag of hammers, unpleasant but effective. Especially unpleasant because of what he had to do now.

“Hold on,” he yelled and threw the ship into a tight spin, effectively turning them 180 degrees. They were now facing Zaxxos.

“Rig,” cried Pora. “What the crap!”

He accelerated the ship towards the god like he was attacking. Several gasps of terror surrounded him.

The unexpected move made Zaxxos pause. Was it because he had felt pain for the first time in several years? Maybe the experience re-awakened his sense of vulnerability? It didn’t matter. It gave Rig the few seconds he needed to fire all the Ultor’s forward guns right at the god’s eyes.

The energy weapons didn’t hurt Zaxxos at all, but the brilliant volley blinded him for a few seconds, enabling Rig to fly directly between his legs. “In for a penny…” Rig murmured, making a beeline for the giant mountainside.

The shout of fury behind them was, in a word, epic.

Rig glanced at the rear viewscreen. Zaxxos was running full tilt toward them with eyes that had gone pure white, almost too bright to look at.

Now!

Rig rammed the Ultor into an impossibly tight turn to starboard, skirting above the colossal mountainside by mere meters. G-forces pushed against him to the point where he thought he might pass out and puke at the same time. Behind them, he could see a blast of white energy ripping into the stone just behind them. Granite disintegrated like it was papier-mâché, dust clouds billowed, and tens of millions of stones exploded in their wake. Somehow, Rig managed to hold the ship on course and not crash as it curved around the mountainside.

What followed was a mammoth explosion, not unlike a supersized volcano that had suddenly burst into full eruption, which is exactly what it was.

It was a very, very unnerving sound.

After a second or two, Rig curved the ship skyward and dared to check the rear viewscreen. There was nothing but dust.

Then, from within the cloud, a massive hand burst towards them, reaching out to catch the ship and crush it like it was a bug.

Well, crap, Rig thought.

Then, there was another explosion that made the previous one seem like a sparrow somewhere had a bit of a cough. The ship buckled wildly, threatening to shake itself to pieces, and the rear viewscreen filled with black smoke and a hellishly deep, red light. The giant hand that was only a few feet away from grasping the ship was suddenly yanked back into that cloud as if Zaxxos had been attached to a tremendous bungee cord.

Then came the screaming. It was horrible. But they could barely hear it over the concussive sounds of many more explosions behind them.

Rig eased the Ultor into a gentler curve. Blessedly, she held together.

Silence settled on the bridge as all eyes turned to look at the rear screen. Below, the newest god in the galaxy was writhing in agony, the lower half of his body submerged in a growing pool of molten lava that flowed from a gigantic fissure newly carved in the mountainside.

Not wanting to see any more, Rig aborted the orbital engine shift and pointed the Ultor back to where she came from.

Drooghelm reluctantly opened his eyes.

Everything hurt, even his eyelids. It hurt to focus. It hurt to breathe. He closed his eyes again. His entire being felt like one giant bruise that had been kicked around for an entire season of galactic footie. He groaned.

“Ah, there he is,” came Elgia’s cheerful voice somewhere beside him. “How you feeling, Ducks?”

“Not dead,” he managed to murmur.

“Give the boy a prize, his brain ain’t broken either.” Drooghelm heard her stand up and walk around his bed, which he realized was in Ultor’s sick bay. This confused him a bit. Shouldn’t the ship have been destroyed?

“You get to fill his Nibs in, Rig. You’ve earned that, at least.”

“Much appreciated.” Rig’s voice had come from somewhere down by his feet. He heard the sick bay door open and close.

“The patient,” the ship’s medical AI chimed in, “should get as much rest as possible. Excitement and agitation is not advisable.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Doc, thanks.” There was a tired amusement in Rig’s voice. Rig asked: “Talk now, or later?”

“Now. How…?”

“After your ship took the biggest bitch-slap in the history of history, it crashed in the ocean. By sheer luck, the cabin seals weren’t fully broken. We sent down two mechies who found you floating in an air bubble. Touch and go there, but, obviously—”

“Zaxxos?”

“Dead.”

Drooghelm’s brain boggled. “It… worked?”

“You mean the bolt up the nose?” Rig laughed. “No, no, that failed. But then I got this idea.” He felt Rig sit on the bed. “Elgia mentioned our clients liked to sacrifice people in lava flows. That giant mountain is on all their iconography, so it had to be part of the religion. Cultures have done similar things in the past, dumping virgins into volcanoes and so on. I reasoned that made it a holy mountain.”

“I gambled. Zaxxos’ eye beam thingies were destroying everything around us. If I could make him mad enough, he’d fire everything he had into that holy mountain and hopefully trigger an eruption. Even if I was wrong about the mountain being a sacred instrument or an actual god, I figured that anyone taking a dip in a giant lava pool would not fare well. Turns out I gambled right.” Drooghelm could hear his XO smile.

“Holy… we did it? Hit the jackpot?” Drooghelm exclaimed with as much energy as he could muster.

Rig sighed. “No, we didn’t.”

“Huh?”

“Between the incredible amount of destruction that Zaxxos carved through the capital and the torrents of lava from the volcano, the city was obliterated. Our clients, the entire Subiugatio cult leadership, were wiped out in a few seconds. What’s more, once the planet’s populace realized what had happened, they immediately revolted. None of them have been too happy about those guys and their religious practices for a long, long time. The whole place is a revolutionary battleground, and the cult itself has filed for bankruptcy.”

If it were possible, Drooghelm felt worse. “So?”

“So, no money. Plus, that titanium-ultrasteel bolt wasn’t cheap, nor was the cloaking device, which got fragged along with my escape ship. Our accounts are so far in the red, it’s not funny.”

Rig stood. “On the plus side, the Doc system says you should be up in a couple of weeks. We installed a physio chamber next door, but, ah, all we could get was a second-hand version. The anesthetic system is on the fritz, so, unfortunately, you’re gonna feel everything.”

He could hear Rig walking towards the door and pause at the threshold. “Two weeks off, Captain. I guess you could look at it like it’s a vacation.”

“Wonderful,” Drooghelm groaned.

The hatch closed, and Rig found Pora leaning against the bulkhead beside him. “You,” she said with a wry smile. “You enjoyed that, you naughty boy.”

Rig tried to look innocent. “Who? Me? Nah.”

They walked together toward the bridge. Pora asked, “Are we really that screwed? Financially, I mean.”

Rig shrugged. “Financially speaking, yeah, pretty much. But, hey, we’re still alive, and that’s not nothing. There are other positives, too. Killing a God and still standing at the end is doing wonders for our reputation.”

“Minus the fact that we destroyed the client in the process,” she added.

“Uh, yeah, minus that,” Rig admitted. “Not a slam-dunk, as the ancient saying goes, but not a total loss either. Regardless, it will probably get us some new work before long. Probably insanely dangerous work that no one in their right mind would take on, but—”

“Not at a total loss?” she suggested. He nodded, grinning.

Then Pora gave him a wicked look and slipped her arm around his waist. “And I’ll admit this much: being next to an actual god-killer is one serious turn-on.”

Definitely not a total loss.

Rumors hold that everything worth remembering in human history has been written down by one person, someone who has been around to see it all. No one can imagine who it might be; human history has been written for thousands of years, yet no one can live that long. Except a god, one recording humanity’s actions for a purpose they were too little to understand.

No one knew who first spoke of a god of written history; the best historians could only find short sentences describing this god, but no mention of its name. Many gods were known in that time: the god of the sun, the god of the moon, and many gods that helped people in their times of need, but a nameless god that kept history was still a great mystery. These other gods were more concerned about the number of worshippers they had, how many temples were built in their honor, and their own divine stories of greatness and power, not stories about humans. Their stories were meant to be tales that were passed down through the ages: tales of great courage or wrath or kindness, these stories were reasons to worship and build temples for these gods. A god with no temples and no stories of their own was no god. Though no one knew what this supposed god looked like, everyone from the biggest cities to the smallest villages agreed that whoever was written down in this nameless god’s books was one to be remembered throughout history. Even though no credit was given and no praise was held, the nameless god still wrote down everything that was necessary; a thankless job but one the god knew was necessary for humans to keep moving forward.

While the stories of gods were told more than any other, humans were still desperate to reach the level of remembrance that the gods had by having their own tales of greatness. Whether it was kings conquering lands untouched or emperors creating mountainous civilizations, it is human instinct to want to be remembered and those who are remembered can be remembered for anything. Families have tried for centuries, gods for millenia, and while not everyone is remembered, every story worth passing down was written down by some god, somewhere. If you were not written down, you may as well have not existed.

For those who could not make their name in eternal history, they were content with leaving a legacy their own family could remember and be proud of. Some became local legends rather than national ones; others were famous within their own families. Shino had a family that had no legends and no legacy, but this was not for a lack of trying. His grandfather’s grandfather had tried to save his village from an oncoming flood, but his body had been swept away by the rushing currents. Shino’s grandfather’s father had thought he could launch himself to the moon to conquer land no one else could reach; his footprints are still marked with soot in a town center somewhere Shino has never visited. Shino’s grandfather had thought he could gamble their family’s little worth on bad bets and Shino’s father had thought joining his country’s military would be the safest option to repay the debts Shino’s grandfather had accumulated. These were stories that would be passed down and forgotten one day, just as the names of the people in these stories were gone. Shino knew his family was not written in history, not yet.

After seeing the failures of his forefathers to reach any sort of height or fame or leave a legacy worth sharing, Shino took it upon himself to make his name in history.The rest of Shino’s family wanted little in life; the siblings who survived to adulthood despite poverty were grateful to be alive. While his siblings saw their failures as reasons not to search for notoriety, Shino took his family history as motivation to do better. Shino had already forgotten his grandfather’s name by the time he was old enough to leave, as had the rest of his family. He did not want the same legacy for himself, so with little knowledge but rumors and prayers, Shino searched for the historian god. “If my name is great enough to be written down by gods themselves, we are sure to live fruitfully,” Shino reassured his mother the night before he left on a quest for a better legacy.

Shino had listened to what little he could go on to begin his quest, mostly whispers from other gods written down by devoted worshippers, largely forgotten by humanity. It was said that the god of history stayed on a mountain that never changed while history changed around it. Shino could not find much of what it meant for a mountain to never change. How much was a mountain supposed to change over time? Shino did not know and checking every mountain in the world would have been an arduous task, so Shino took his time to ask masters in knowledge what such a rumor could mean.

“A mountain stuck in time,” one master said smugly. “Find a mountain where nothing happens and climb to its peak.”

Shino pondered the master and asked, “What happens when nothing happens?”

The master said he had no more time to answer questions and needed to return to his studies. Shino knew the master had no answer.

“A mountain in the middle of nowhere would have no history. If the mountain is nowhere important, it would have nothing to occur,” a second master reasoned.

Shino thought about this too, and asked, “Are there places in the world left unexplored?”

Unlike the first master, the second master was excited by Shino’s curiosity. He answered, “There is always land left to conquer, something for rulers left to seize. As much as we record every piece of knowledge, there is always something new to learn from our world.”

The second master’s answer left Shino unsatisfied, had most of the world not already been recorded by adventurers older than Shino? Shino also knew that conquering an unexplored land required an army, resources only few in the land could afford. No one was going to give Shino what he needed so his name could be recorded by some mythical being. The second master’s answer made Shino concerned this task was an impossible one, so he sought after a third opinion, one that he felt he could take on his own with only a satchel on his back and food to trade.

Shino was able to find his answer with the third: “Find a mountain for which nothing changes. A height that does not shrink or grow, a peak that does not melt or clear, a storm that never leaves, the parts of a summit that would change with time. There are a few that fit, but there may be one close enough to make the journey close to home. But would this make the journey worth it?”

The third master’s answer reignited Shino. There was hope in such an answer, it was so obvious to Shino that he was surprised the masters couldn’t see it earlier: find a mountain whose weather never changes. He took months of climbing to scour the mountains of his country, praying that whatever god was watching over Shino was recording his journey. While climbing mountains alone was not worth a legend, Shino reasoned climbing to the peak of every tall, snowy and stormy mountaintop might be. It became an arduous task, Shino frequently having to climb down his mountain once the storm settled after days of raging furiously. He had never bothered to ask how many tall peaks his country may have had, he only had a map to cross out where he had been.

Starting up one of the last remaining mountains on his map, Shino could feel paranoia and anxiety creeping in at every crack in the clouds. Despite looking for a god, Shino never considered himself religious. With the luck his family had in their own fortune, what god could possibly have been listening? Knowing this, Shino still prayed. As he lay in his shelter, preparing for the scouting ahead, Shino prayed aloud, “Please lead me to you, whoever you may be. Am I not worthy? Am I the first to seek your guidance? I cannot go back home as much of a failure as my forefathers and only you have the solution, oh god of history.”

Until, one day, around the age of 20, the same age as his father when he left, Shino found a cabin in a blizzard, halfway up the last mountain he could check before he would have had to ask permission to leave the country to search nearby countries for other mountains. The cabin was shoddy, Shino was surprised to see it still standing against the fiercest winds he had faced. “Shelter,” he told himself as the snow crushed under his worn boots.

While the outside of the cabin had seen better days, the inside was a different story. Inside the cabin was a golden sheen that illuminated the dull colors on Shino’s wet coat. As Shino stepped inside, he looked and saw the walls were coated in lights and scrolls. The room itself was small, only another door and a fireplace displaced the walls. Shino followed the scrolls upwards and saw the cabin had no end, contrasting the shabby cabin roof outside that was at most two heads higher than him. Closing the door behind him, Shino began to strip away the snow-soaked clothing and warm up by the fire, its flames licking a wood that never seemed to burn.

Once finished and down to his barest garments, Shino saw the other door open. The warmth of the cabin had caused Shino to drop his guard, along with his weapon. He scrambled towards his knife, one that had helped him defend himself against thieves during his journey, and held it close to his chest.

This isn’t your home, a small voice reasoned in Shino’s head.

This voice was drowned out by the louder, Protect yourself, you are the most precious thing.

Standing close to the fire but far from the door, Shino saw a child, maybe younger than when Shino was when he left home on his journey for the god. The child had hair a paler blond than any scroll in the cabin, the lights gave them a golden aura.

No, it wasn’t the lights doing anything, the child themselves glowed.

The child closed the door behind them and greeted, “Hello Shino, how may I welcome you to my home?”

Shino lowered his knife, no one had said his name for months. In order to be safe, Shino had always opted for a fake name, especially if there was any chance he would have to owe money. He knew it wasn’t right, he knew his mother told him his father did something similar, but Shino reasoned that nothing should get in the way of finding this god. Now that he was in the presence of one, he thought about how stupid his actions might have been.

“Are you—”

“Please, call me Um. I am but a humble archivist. I write what needs to be written.”

Shino smiled. “That is excellent because you need to write about me!”

Um turned their head before they turned away and began to make tea over the fire. As he took a metal rod and began to poke the fire, Um asked, “Why do I need to write about you? Have you done something noteworthy?”

“I climbed every unchanging mountain to find you! Is that not worthy of being written down in history?” Shino was given a cup and told to wait for tea. As he waited, he wondered why Um looked the way they did. He thought the god of history would look, well, historical. As if to prove Shino wrong, Um reached out an arm to the ceiling and watched as a scroll fluttered down from the pile on the wall. Um didn’t open the scroll but held it tight in their hand as they began to pour tea for Shino.

“You climbed five hundred and twenty eight mountains, but I have a record of someone who climbed over a thousand mountains. Do you think climbing less than half the mountains the person in this scroll did makes you a legend?” Um asked.

“No.” Shino took a shameful sip of his tea. It tasted close to the brew made at home.

“Shino, to make legends, you need to have something worth passing down. Come back in double your lifetime after you have done something will be passed down.”

Shino accepted Um’s challenge and, in a blink and a sip of his tea, found himself at the bottom of his first mountain, the one closest to his hometown.

Once he returned to his village, Shino’s peers began rumors that he failed. None of this deterred him, Shino vowed to himself he would find something worth passing down. His first step was to leave his family home and start his own. While the chastisement from his mother was a harder sting than the disapproval of his village, Shino left his home and started a new life in a new village.

After finding a new village a week’s time away from his own, Shino was able to integrate himself. He took an interest in the village’s administration. He volunteered for all the work no one else wanted and gave helpful advice whenever asked. This attracted one of the village higher-up’s daughters to Shino’s side. After a short time together, Shino was married with a few children.

Once Shino was forty, he saw his new home thrive. Thanks in part to his efforts, his village was one of the few that was able to survive several droughts and a handful of famines. When a plague soared through the land like a blanket of death, Shino was able to help keep the village clean and away from any dirty omens. He was claimed a hero in the village many times over. He saw how his family looked at him, full of hope and pride for their patriarch.

Shino knew he was ready.

“Do you have to go to the mountain?” Shino’s fourth oldest child asked him.

“They said to return at the time when my life has doubled. When I went then, I had nothing, but now, I have everything. When you get to my age, what will you tell your children about me?”

“That their grandfather saved his village many times and was a hero!” his child cheered.

Shino smiled before he headed off, making sure everyone knew he was going to come back a legend. If he had been in his old village, Shino knew he would have been ridiculed many times over before he had left the front gates. Here, with all the good he knew he was doing, the most anyone did was a passing glance. For the first time, Shino found himself feeling respected.

The god’s cabin on the mountain didn’t change, neither in location or shabbiness. Shino felt blessed to not have to wander mountains for ages again just to meet and ask a simple favor. On the shorter journey, the more he found himself talking to himself, the more Shino was assured that he was due to be written in history.

Opening the door, Shino saw that nothing had changed. Even with styles and cultures changing in areas Shino had seen twenty years prior, the cabin had remained the same. Its intense glow bathed Shino as he began to take off his coat, rather than stripping almost entirely. As the fire flickered nearby, Shino declared, “Um, I am here to be made a legend!”

Their inner door opened and they rushed to Shino. After a moment of inspection on both ends, Shino saw no change in Um’s appearance. They looked as young as the first time Shino met them. He couldn’t find any wrinkles on the child’s face while Shino unconsciously felt the slight folds on his face crease further. His mouth twitched.

“It is further proof of your godliness that you remain so young after so many years, Um. Please, as the god of history, you must have seen my contributions.”

Um backed away, tending to the fire. “I have, yes. Do you feel these are sufficient for you to be written as, how you say, a legend?”

“Well, yes, my village may have perished without my help. Is saving a village after what could have been numerous disasters not enough for my name to last generations after me?”

Um shook their head. “Maybe a few… Maybe your great grandchild will know your name, but there are many others and there will be many others that will save their fellow countrymen from danger and their names will last until they die. After that, they are as important as the spit from a full man. I cannot write your name down as you have not done anything any other man would not have done in your place.”

Mouth agape from the god’s bluntness, Shino watched as Um made their way back to their hidden room. Before they grabbed the door, Shino came to his senses and asked, “You gave me advice last time; can you give me more? I will spend just as many years and come back to show you I am worth writing down, even in a single line.”

Um’s hand cradled the knob while they watched Shino in their peripheral vision. “Do something worth remembering, else why should history remember you?”

Before Shino could protest or ask for further explanation, he felt his body flying back through the door and ended up back at home, crashing into a nearby table while he heard his wife cooking nearby. Rushing from another room, Shino’s wife shrieked, “Shino! I thought you would have been at your mysterious mountain at this point. Tell me what you’re doing!”

Regaining his composure, Shino stood from the ruins of their table and announced, “We will be moving to the city, I have a new goal in mind.”

After getting the god’s advice, Shino took less time than before enacting a new plan to be written down in the history scrolls. When picking the village he would move to, Shino originally picked a village a week’s time away. Unknownst to Shino, he had picked a village that was less than a day from his country’s capital. When he explained to his father-in-law why he wanted to move to his country’s capital, Shino assumed that his wife’s father would have forbidden Shino from taking his daughter away from him.

Shino was never happier to be wrong; not only did his father-in-law approve, he wrote Shino a letter of high merit for when he went to apply for a job. Once Shino and his family reached the capital, the letter allowed Shino to start his job in the government in the city. His family lived better than they ever could in the city, a large house near the capitol building with enough rooms to have at least three more families move into, if Shino’s children wanted to stay.

As Shino aged, he gained more respect from his fellow countrymen, helping strategize and lead battles as the number of enemies of the country grew. Shino grew to be a natural leader, his oldest children starting families in the house that only grew with age. While his decisions were thought to be more ruthless against any country that tried to smudge the beauty of their prosperity, Shino was well liked by a majority. Once it was time to elect a new leader, Shino was the almost unanimous winner, with the few dissenters changing their mind once Shino brought further happiness to his country.

His rule was bloody, but only to outsiders that refused to come. Many saw the wealth and joy Shino brought to his country and were nothing but jealous. He cut leaders down like the threshing of wheat, giving any land captured during the times of war to citizens who had nothing. At the peak of Shino’s reign, a quarter of the world was under his command.

Once he was sixty, Shino saw everything he ruled over and everything he had accomplished. He saw his children grow up to fine adults, his wife raise a home that gave Shino the support he needed to guide his people, and the citizens he gave a better life to than he had at the same age. He knew the god would be pleased.

“Father, you have accomplished more than any man I could find, why do you still go on what appears to be a fruitless journey?” One of Shino’s sons grew to be an academic, one that questioned if the person Shino was meeting was even a god.

“If you saw them like how I saw them, you would understand.” As Shino aged, he found himself giving vague answers to his children about his goals. His children would never understand, his wife never did and argued with Shino the days leading up to his journey.

His son continued to complain, “Then take me with you! Let me see this so-called ‘god’ and prove to you that this dangerous journey was never worth it.”

Shino put his foot down. “If you are calling it dangerous, I refuse to allow you to journey alongside. I forbid it. Besides, young one, if I did not go on this journey, we would not have had this wonderful home, or the education you received to be able to snap at your elders. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

The son wanted to snap back, but it would have only proved Shino right. Even though Shino was the highest politician in the land, no one followed Shino in his journey. Bringing such a time of peace and prosperity into the country itself, many felt grateful to have Shino as their leader and those who didn’t were terrified of the consequences of hurting the sixty-year old man. This made the journey to the mountain much easier than in previous years, despite his old age slowing him down.

Instead of letting himself in once he reached the cabin, Shino thought it would be polite to knock. He raised a fist to the door but before he could rap the cabin door, he heard Um say, “You may come in.”

The door opened on its own and Shino shuffled inside. Um was sitting, waiting for Shino’s return. They were unaged while Shino’s joints cracked and popped more than the burning wood. The fireplace looked unchanged, still flickering as brightly as the first time he came through. The only thing that seemed old in this cabin was him. “I followed your advice.”

Um looked Shino up and down, Shino wearing coats made out of animals only found in countries he had taken over. Exotic furs lined his body, Shino asked for only the warmest for his journey. “I can see.”

“Am I a legend in your history?” Shino asked.

“What advice did you follow?” Um asked.

Shino was taken aback, wondering if the god couldn’t remember the past twenty years. No, it had to be a test, to see if Shino was paying attention to the god’s words. Shino answered, “You said to do something worth remembering. I did. You must see the gifts this country has been bestowed under my leadership?”

Um asked, “Is the slaughter of thousands worth remembering?”

“Yes, we remember the lives of those we have had to cut down in order for us to better our people.”

“Do you remember Okin, the fifty-ninth throat you had to slice? Do you remember Chi-Won, the mother that you executed? Or do you remember the idea of them, the concepts of dead citizens to be remembered?” If Shino had not known better, he would have assumed Um was mad. Instead, Shino knew Um was asking in earnest. They were testing Shino, getting towards the end, he felt the title of a legend was within grasp.

“While I do not remember, the fact that you do means you have been looking, watching. I must be ready,” Shino rationized.

“You are not,” Um responded.

Shino stopped, his heart sank. It had been sixty years and he still wasn’t ready. Before Shino could protest, Um clarified, “People come and die all the time. Killers are not new, there are and always will be people who kill in different names, whether it’s religion, their country, or their way of life. Killing for the sake of making a name of yourself is nothing new. Do you want to be a legend?”

Shino nodded vigorously. Shino heard the door open behind him. Um looked to Shino and said, “Come back in twenty more years after you do something that will leave a true mark on history.”

Shino was once again swept away before he could ask for an explanation. Sixty years and the god refused to put his name down for him. All Shino ever received was vague sayings instead of real answers. Frustration from divinity erupted into a loud anger as Shino started to destroy valuable art pieces his wife had spent time curating to make their palace a home. When one of Shino’s sons found him and restrained Shino from destroying their home, the son asked, “You just left not that long ago, why have you returned?”

“I am quitting as this country’s leader, effective immediately. I have a new goal to make my name matter,” Shino explained.

“But your name does matter, father. It matters to your family, isn’t that all that matters?”

“No!” Shino cried.

He knew his time was coming, this next visit would be the last one he would have with Um. After Shino’s resignation, the country began to enter a time of war, wiping the peace Shino worked for within half the time he had spent working for it. Before his meeting, Shino would have cared that his legacy in the country might have been destroyed, but Shino continued to swallow his anger. Some of Shino’s grandchildren were drafted into the wars ahead, but Shino didn’t care when he heard over half of them perished on the battlefield.

Shino’s wife left him after she found her husband becoming an uncaring patriarch. His kids stopped visiting his home, shrinking Shino’s living space from a large mansion to nothing more than a shack, smaller than the cabin he was destined to see. All the while, Shino spent his time in pent-up rage. He had lost almost all of his belongings he gained during his leadership, but kept around a knife he had taken from a foreign temple. The knife’s blade was nearly invisible, only small black specks were seen in the blade’s edges. Shino had always felt there was something special about this blade, so he decided this was the one possession he needed. He focused all his anger into this blade as he trained to use the knife to the highest of his potential.

By the time Shino was almost eighty, no one visited him anymore. Shino didn’t notice anyone coming in or out of his cabin, just whether someone had touched his most important knife. On the day before his final visit, The academic son spent one more visit to convince Shino to give up on his mission.

“Mother is dead,” the son announced.

Shino didn’t move. It took him a long moment to realize what the son had said. All Shino could respond with was an unenthusiastic, “Shame.”

“Do you care? Most of your family is dead, do you care?”

Tears swelled in the son’s eyes as his father responded, “I don’t know.”

The son slammed the shack’s door, the whole foundation shook under his anger. Shino didn’t look at his son during the encounter, he refused to give any of his negative emotions where it didn’t count. Instead, he packed, focusing his anger on the knife. He knew where he could make history.

Shino didn’t pack anything for the journey, not that he had anything worth packing. The cabin was still there, undisturbed by time while still falling apart. Once Shino opened the door, he saw Um was not inside. It looked as warm as the first time around, but the heat felt less inviting. Instead, Shino felt rage, nothing had changed but he continued to age. He felt the god mock him from the other side of the door.

The door he had yet to open, the one that no doubt contained Um’s living quarters. It was ridiculous, why would a god need to sleep, but Shino rushed to the door. Inside, he saw Um, sitting at a table, hunched over something Shino was unable to see. Their back was turned to Shino, but they still greeted him like an old friend. “Shino, have you made your mark on history?”

They sounded happy, almost excited, infuriating Shino further. He took the knife and plunged it into Um’s back, holding them against the table while Shino sliced in further. Shino dragged the knife and watched as black blood spilled from the god’s back, flooding the floor as the god began to shrivel. The body turned to a shade of white devoid of any life as Shino stabbed them for the umpteenth time. Once the god no longer moved, Shino saw what he had done. The body looked aged and decrepit, as if all the years spent young caught up to the poor god.

After he finished inspecting his years of anger abused onto one god, he saw what Um had been working on on the table; a piece of parchment with one line: “Shino killed the god of history—” The name was covered in ink and Shino was unable to remove it.

At first, Shino smiled; he had finally made his name in history, the god had written Shino down like he wanted. He grabbed onto the parchment and read it against the nearest light. For a short moment, he was proud. Then the consequences of Shino’s actions filled his mind. Shino had only known one god, but there must have been more. Killing a god had to incur the wrath of many others. He looked back to the parchment and thought about how to spin this in the positive. “People conquer gods all the time, right? I cannot have been the first warrior to do so. Let me just write down their name, so I’m secure in history. It was, um…”

Shino couldn’t remember. The god’s name refused to surface, Shino couldn’t think of any of the times he had addressed the god by name. “Well, I told my children at some point, I must have, I’ll just ask—”

Shino stopped, the names of his children were fading from his memory. Panic set in as Shino ran out of the god’s room into the main cabin. Once in the main room, Shino noticed it was dark, only moonlight illuminated the room as it began to fall apart. The cabin began to shrink, scrolls from the infinite ceiling rained onto Shino before turning into dust once they hit him. Shino attempted to grab a scroll from the wall but it disappeared into nothing once his fingers touched.

The cabin became smaller and the threat of Shino getting hurt inside grew larger. He ran out into the snow and closed the door behind him. His heart began to slow and he looked to the cabin falling in on itself until it disappeared. Shino looked around at his environment, he had no idea how he got to the mountain or why he was sitting next to a pile of wood in a blizzard. He reread the piece of parchment as winds began to pick up. “I am Shino and I killed the god of history. I am Shino and I killed the god of history.”

Those who travel the mountains claim to hear the voice of a god killer, crying as he repeats the last thing he ever read. History went on without him as his country faded into obscurity and his family legacy was lost after two generations.

The poem is a dedication to the construction of a real pavilion, though the poem imagines the pavilion to be comparable to one constructed in a Taoist heaven. Nansŏrhŏn wrote the poem at the age of eight, and it is considered an example of her potential greatness as a poet.

I

Let me now tell of this.

On the moon, a cotton and ramie sunshade, hung high—
materializing vapors
from beyond the mind’s
worldly boundaries
seem an auspicious sign.

II

If constructed on Earth, this silvery structure would shine in sunlight—
its columns the color of sundown’s misty mauve;
and yet, this summery abode
will not be of the dusty illusions
within a bottled cosmos.

This royal edifice will manifest
as if the azure mussel opened its shell,
blew a mystical smoke,
and after the spout clears,
a palatial residence of exotic timber—
here on the moon.

Or, put another way,
this same residence will be built
by a divine being’s conch shell,
which, when blown,
invokes a spirit, a highly-skilled builder.
Using this same magic,
the demi-god owner of the conch shell
will tile the roof in luminant milky jade.

Or Blue Castle, an immortal of Heaven’s fifth level,
will practice his magical art of lifting brocaded curtains,
and from behind them:
a complex of viewing platforms.

Or, similarly, the Prince of the East Sea
will open the cache of his lambent box
and remove a stately villa.

Therefore, from these examples,
this heavenly pavilion
will only be completed
by a power
outside the realm
of humans.

III

The owner’s name—he who built this seasonal retreat—
is registered on a list of immortals—
position and rank,
among the superior Immortals of the Empyrean.

The owner
was an official of Heaven,
faithful and moral—
he governed the City of Opaline Twilight.
His status and reputation rank among the most sublime nobles,
and he was the most famous
among those in the office
of the Five-Colored Pearly-Haze.

As judge,
he punished Wu Kang
for violating Taoist doctrine,
Wu Kang, whom he forced to wield a steel ax
which radiated glacial-cold
from the hilt,
and cursed him
with an everlasting sleeplessness
to stand beneath a cinnamon tree
impervious to chopping.
Occasionally, the owner
enjoyed watching nymphs
dance to the melody
of “A Dress of Rainbows”—
some, silvery-white,
danced devotedly near the balustrades—
the nymphs,
with brilliant pendants of lilac star sapphires
that swayed
on their sleek lavender jackets,
and coronets
that glistered like starlight,
their hairpins spotted
with iridescent starry pearls.

When in Great Clarity Palace,
at dawn, this demigod would mount a dragon,
then leave for Penglai,
and at close of day,
slept at Fangzhang.
Sometimes this being flew upon a crane
between the Three Islands.
When the owner traveled, Fuqiu with his hengxiao
rode on the left,
and Hongya with his bamboo clapper
rode on the right.

For 1,000 years, the owner lived
a paradisiacal life
in ease,
but one day, fell
into the short illusion of humankind
on the dust of Earth,
because this immortal misunderstood Taoist doctrine
and practiced in error.
He was thus exiled
to Earth’s Palace of Endless Pleasure.
Red Knot wove this connection,
and so, regrettably,
the owner of this spring-like place for viewing
entered the shack of mortality.

When friendless in the earthly realm,
in a room with taffeta curtains
and a silken screen,
sleeping companionless,
the owner may have fretted through the dead of night:
How can I ask a royal favor from the Palace of the Sun
so that I might make use of the Moon Palace?

He found a vial of an Elixir of Flight
and poured a little of the black sand
onto a waft of air.
Like a frightened silver-backed toad
that hops to its underground den,
the incandescent moon
declined into a lunar eclipse.
The owner smiled at this opportunity
to escape the sunlit scarlet grime
of his sublunary life,
and he passed through the ruddy murk
of nightfall,
through a passage to Heaven
from Earth,
an endless traverse, seemingly,
to Purple Palace—
to a banquet the owner had once attended—
a banquet with music
from deities:
marble chi flutes
and bamboo panpipes
evocatively played—
this party continued, in merriment,
as if the owner
had never left.

Yet again, I imagine the many divine beings
who attend
that ever-long event:

the Queen in her chariot,
drawn by cobalt-blue phoenixes,
a feathered parasol
preceding her retinue;
the herald of the King,
riding a milky-white tiger;
behind him
the procession members
follow a jeweled fasces;
Liu An, who wrote a book about divinities,
who summoned two dragons to his reading desk;
King Mu, who traveled west
to the Queen Mother
who lives there in the west,
in the land of demigods;
he let his eight-horsed chariot
rest on a mountain slope
while he went to the palace revelry
in the upper worlds.

At daybreak, the Duchess Shang Yuan
is welcomed—
her combed blue-black hair
braided
into three chignons.

During the day,
the King of Heaven’s daughter
is next received—
she who weaves
a nine-patterned gauze
on a bejeweled loom.

Such a multitude of divinities
gathered on a southern summit
at Diamond Lake:

the kings who assemble
under the Big Dipper
at the capital of the celestial cities
and Emperor Xuan
who, to get his feather robes of an immortal,
at Sen Zhang,
strolled with Gongyuan and his stave—
all attend.

The God of Water and the Immortal of Fire
who play Go
betting a planet on the game’s outcome—
they attend.

The freeholder
received the Queen Mother
at the North Sea—
her wagonette,
drawn by speckled kirin,
arrived in the midst of balsamine.
Laozi, met at the gateway of China’s western borders—
his powder-blue ox
on the lea.

The Immortal of Bees gives honey—
flies buzz
around pots of boiling jade—
an immortality brew.
The Immortal of Geese brings fruit—
in and out
of the glossy
blue-and-white
tiled kitchen,
he travels.

The nymphs Shuang Cheng,
with a mother-of-pearl inlaid flute,
and Yan Xiang
with a rosewood lute
produce a refined, noble melody
from mid-Heaven.
To this music of paradise,
Wan Hua
intones a piercing lyric,
and Fei Qiong
performs an elaborate dance.

A dragon’s-head kettle
pours wine from the mouth,
the wine
fermented from the marrow
of a phoenix.
A tray shaped like a crane’s back
holds seasoned dried goji berries.

One hundred invited spirits
will come from afar;
one thousand saints,
welcomed.

Still, this heavenly palace
of the upper worlds
is not large enough for everyone,
so a new one had to be built.

IV

There was no elegant seasonal retreat large enough,
so a new one had to be constructed—
how else would it be possible
for the Emperor of Heaven
to join such festivities?

Therefore, the proprietor
sent orders to ten lands
and across the nine seas
to collect builders.
A master craftsman
was given a nearby house,
and he selected the finest camphor and nanmu—
the mighty iron adzes and axes,
steadfast as mountains,
worked the pillar bases,
and the bronze levels and squares
shined an auric essence,
radiating throughout the heavens.
A granite forge, lightless-black,
melted iron in a crucible,
and the craftsmen
plumbed their measures
as skillfully
as Gongshu Ban.
A spirit of the earth
hammered his chisel
with utmost skill,
following ideas
like the father of carpentry,
Gongshu Ban.

V: A Reverie of Completion

A prismatic double rainbow
above the completed summery abode;
the ends seem to drink
from a coursing star stream;
the smaller iridescent bow
with redder bands
ascends
like the heads
of the six snapping turtles
that carry the Island of Immortals.

This elegant retreat,
singular,
bemisted:
an amber rafter
glows
in a sunbeam.
Beyond its paper-thin
white jade lattice and silk windows,
a meteor falls—
across from and level with the sky-blue corridor:
clouds upon the plain.

Nephrite roof tiles
sparkle
like scales of fish—
finely cut steps,
aligned
like geese in flight.
Cerise flags flutter
from bamboo poles—
other poles
with peacock feathers—
dense haze,
luminant
with moonlight.

Fu Bo, on the surrounding grounds,
raises a tent—
under the empyrean’s three primary stars,
he hangs curtains
ornate
with fairy-slipper orchids;
others tie sun-yellow tassels
to the silkened windows of the retreat,
adding to the shimmering tassels
already tied—
a fine mesh net
protects the carved banisters
of the graceful summerhouse
from birds, insects, seeds,
and leaves of trees.

Immortals assemble inside—
within the structure
a painting of multi-colored phoenixes
emits chi.
A sylph stands by a window—
perfume overflows
from her mirrored cosmetics box
inlaid with the image
of two phoenixes.

A room of viewing windows
with pale blue drapes,
a peacock-blue jade wine table
behind a mica screen—
propitious waves of shimmering heat
ascend in the eventide.
This same room,
painted with lotus petals,
fanned by peacock feathers—
ivory-white reclining couches,
the room filled with delicacies—
a gracing spectrum of colors
over the building
all through the day.

In this edifice, the proprietor
will hold every revelry
with a revitalizing elegance
and humble, sincere
hospitality.

From the inlaid-with-lotus-engraved-jade balustrades,
dupion tapestry,
ornate with cumulous clouds—
from the gilt eaves,
amaranthine drapes hang.

Nine branches, each with a lantern:
the light falls calmly
upon a quilted brocade futon
and handwoven mat.
Virescent lotuses
and icy-white peaches
on plates, the plates,
embossed with images
of eight celestial oceans.

Only regret
the white-as-cranes marble lintel
lacks celebratory words.

The owner of the estate
asked some highly placed divine beings
to write their feelings
in a poem,
but, for example,
Li Bai, who dedicated poems
to the concubine of Emperor Xuan,
since long ago,
remains drunk
on the back
of a whale—
Li He, whose odes were written
on the Emperor of Heaven’s
summery lookout tower,
now writes
with the absurdity
of the Snake God.

This new summerhouse
only bears
a small inscription
telling the story of its construction
engraved in iron,
written in the sophisticated calligraphy
of Shan Xuanqing.

The upper world pavilions
have beautiful engravings
from the illustrious Caishen,
whose style is
esteemed in history.

I feel shame
that I was, am, and will be
in the grime
of the lost human universe
in my lives
of the past, present, and future—
I have been falsely put on the demigod Jin Huang’s list
for punishment,
and so am exiled
to Earth.

It is also true
that Jiang Lang’s poetic talent
has been exhausted,
so the impression
of the five-colored blossom—
of his good writing—
ended.

This is why Jiang Lang pressed me for a poem.

The voices of past poets
echoed in my mind
in answer.

Slowly I held a vermillion brush
and smiled—
the paper, awash with ink
flowed with words
as a brook
is fed
by a spring.

It is not necessary
for the immortal Zi’an
to help these words—
the phrasing is so beautiful,
and passages, strong;
it is not necessary
to wash and sober Li Bai’s face
so he can join
and help.

VI

Inspired, I present the divine verse
as if kept
in a brocade pouch—
this, the created ode
for this exquisite residence
with a splendid view.

Receiving the dedication,
craftsmen place all the verses
within a hollow
of the double beams,
and celebrants
now pay homage to the view
in each of the six directions:

The freeholder of the land
offers rice cakes to the east:
At sunrise,
may you, honored guest,
ride an ageless sage’s sunbird
and enter Pearl Palace.
At first light,
sunbeams on the ground
under a mulberry
on the shorelines
of the Island of Immortals—
10,000 sun rays
redden
the bemisted day,
turn the ocean’s surface
maroon.

Woodworkers offer cakes to the south:
May you rest
like a sacred dragon
with nothing to do—
one that drinks
from a pristine pond.
On a zitan bed,
drowse and wake
in the tulips’ noon shade—
smiling,
call for a lovely servant girl
to aid in removing
your teal jacket.

Palace maids offer cakes to the west:
Covered by frost,
a petal from a celestial-blue ranunculus
wanes—
an iridescent firebird
cries.
Wearing a plain-woven silk jacket
for the season of rebirth,
embroidered with the character for jade,
a servant receives the Queen Mother—
later, astride a crane,
the Queen Mother
hurries
to arrive at her great celestial house,
though the sun’s rays
have set.

The owner of the estate offers cakes to the north:
The North Star sinks
into the vast and wide North Sea—
the wings of an immortal bird
beat the upper firmament—
courses of wind increase.
A gloom of billows
portends rain
in the Nine Heavens.

Palace maids throw cakes upwards:
Daylight colors brighten a little—
feathery clouds hang like gossamer silk.
An eternal sage’s reverie
floats around his hetian jade bed.
In the same way,
may you lie listening
to the Big Dipper,
the melodies
of the turning
suns.

Woodworkers throw cakes downwards:
Graying clouds
in the eight directions
portend
the night’s
darkness—
a maid informs of the icy air
at Crystal Palace.
Frost has formed
on the rooftop tiles, the tiles
intricately carved
with mandarin ducks.

VII

As the pilings rose,
kneeling, I prayed:
May the cinnamon blossoms never age,
and the alluring fields of grass
enjoy a long springtime.
Though the sun and its luminescence
will someday weaken,
I wish you will enjoy touring
in a bronze-trimmed oaken chariot
and find evermore pleasure.

Though lands and seas change seasons,
drive that chariot
faster than a hurricane’s current of air
and thrive
with a full life.

When the day’s closing hazes
press against the latticed kesi-silk windows,
through a nearby gilded rosewood gate
inlaid with cobalt-blue jade,
look down over 90,000 li
and see the Earth,
small, hazy—

smile and look for 3,000 years
as the clean mulberry fields
yield
to the shores
of the sea.

Despite these burdens,
with your hand,
please turn the sphere of suns
in the Palace of Heavenly Paradise,
and may your body linger in the Nine Heavens,
despite the icy wafts of air.

Beypore, India, 1866

On the morning of her fiftieth birthday, Bibi woke to the sound of her husband chewing loudly next to her in bed. Neither of them knew it was Bibi’s birthday, born as she was without a birth certificate, but it was to be a special day anyway because for the first time since their wedding, they would be receiving guests.

Bibi soaked basmati rice and orange lentils in copper bowls, stacked sweet samosas crammed with shredded coconut onto her best platters, and chilled glass jugs in cold water before filling them with green, salty lassi. Special silver plates had been purchased from a widow in the next village. Bibi’s husband had transported them back to their home.

Their pistachio-green bungalow sat at the edge of a mango orchard. Bright-orange garlands of marigold hung near the entrances. Bibi had woven the flowers herself; such was the occasion. Two more garlands waited on the dining table, ready to adorn the necks of the couple who would be arriving by train from Tirur later that afternoon. Bibi’s husband would meet them at the station with a wagon to bring them and their suitcases to the bungalow.

The guests were two of her childhood friends from the village by the sea. Bibi had moved up in the world: now she lived even closer to the ocean, next to a less seaweed-strewn stretch of beach. Bibi rubbed her round cheeks with freshly ground turmeric root and oil, as she had done the day before her wedding. She admired the henna patterns she had drawn on the palm of her right hand. But her fingers tingled with such excitement that the pallu of her green and pink sari escaped her grip over and over again as she tried to arrange the pleats neatly around her waist.

Amina and Arif had married around the time of Bibi’s first wedding. They still lived in the village that Bibi had fled after her first husband’s funeral. Bibi had found love and a new life in a different fishing village. She had met her new husband one early spring evening while bathing in the ocean. She had shrieked when she had first seen him. He had been sniffing around the pile of clothes she had piled neatly next to a coconut tree, sifting through her garments.

“Hey, you! Leave my things alone,” she had wailed from between the waves. But the mysterious creature had run away with her sari blouse, and a naked Bibi had staggered onto the beach, arms clamped across her chest, knees awkwardly knocking as she had tried to conceal her womanhood. The creature had scampered between the coconut trees, dragging her blouse and frolicking, pleading with her to give chase. So she had. It was the very first day that she had emerged from the house after four months of ritual mourning. And this—this felt like destiny. A dark and playful stranger had chosen her, and she could have sworn that she had been too busy praying for the repentance of her deceased husband to even think about asking Allah for a new man.

Bibi had skipped after the creature as he had dragged her sari blouse through the sand. She had chased him between thick tree trunks and jumped over vines that had scratched her smooth, brown skin. Bibi hadn’t cared. She had been lost in the moment, giggling like a schoolgirl. The pair had collapsed on the sand and lain cheek to cheek, huffing and puffing and laughing. The sky had turned black. Bibi had pulled the first brightly colored sari she had worn in months over their bodies.

Bibi told anyone who would listen, “It was love at first sight. When you know, you know.” To the young women who sold marigolds by the temple, she would say, “When you put aside expectations of how you think your perfect spouse will look, smell, and act, that’s when you’ll find true happiness.”

Her second wedding had been a small affair, as was the custom for a widow: only two fisherwomen to bear witness, and an imam to officiate the union. Her first husband’s death, caused by choking on a fish bone, had rattled her. She was relieved that her second husband refused to eat spined creatures of any kind.

By the time the guests pulled up to the house in the wagon, it was filled with the aroma of Bibi’s cooking. Biryani, idli, masala dosa, and three kinds of daal were arranged on the table. Bibi pushed a serving spoon into a platter of pilau rice scattered with strands of saffron and topped with flaked almonds and plump raisins.

“Come in, come in!” Bibi said, standing at the entrance, two garlands bouncing in her hands. “You made such a long journey. I’m so glad you found Babu. I was worried you would walk past him at the train station. He can be too quiet for his own good.”

“But where was he… we weren’t sure?” said Arif.

“Well, you got here, so everything worked out perfectly,” replied a grinning Bibi. She laughed and ushered her guests over the threshold. They ducked to receive the floral necklaces. “Now be careful and don’t bend over,” Bibi said, patting the marigolds against Amina’s bosom. “Sometimes Babu gets carried away and likes to nibble.”

She showed the silent couple to the table, where she lifted cloths and plates to reveal the fragrant feast. She had expected at least a few compliments about her house and her cooking. But when she turned back to look at the pair, their eyes were as white as coconuts and as wide as tea plates. “Yes, yes,” said Bibi, “I made all this food for you!” She watched their eyes grow wider as Babu trotted into the house and sat by the door to catch his breath. “Very special guests have come to meet my very special husband. Now please, won’t you sit?”

Bibi stroked her husband’s hair and picked strands of hay from his beard, flicking them into the air. “I should have made a garland for you,” she said, and gave him a peck on the cheek. She picked up a cloth sack that sat near the entrance, hoisted the burlap over her shoulder, and walked to the table with Babu at her heels.

Babu settled into his usual position at the head of the table. Bibi emptied the cloth sack directly onto the tablecloth in front of him and poured him a glass of green lassi. Arif stared at the food. Amina shook her head. “I’m sorry, but we won’t be able to stay tonight,” she said.

“Arre, what talk is this?” said Bibi. “Chup karo! You only just got here. Babu helped me prepare the guest room for you. How many husbands help their wives with such chores, eh?” She dished out a puddle of orange daal onto Arif’s plate.

He looked at Amina, who was mouthing something slowly. “This is enough!” he said. The pair turned their heads and rudely stared at Babu. Babu looked up from his hay pile and let out a faint baaah.

“What do you think, Amina? I did good, eh?” Bibi said, and giggled. “For an old woman like me, I am so lucky.” Amina coughed. Bibi handed her a cup of lassi to clear her throat.

Babu didn’t speak. He chewed and grunted and eventually spit brownish wads onto the floor. A long silence followed the expulsion of the last chunk of cud, and then a burp, for extra flourish. “Oh ho, Babu!” Bibi sighed. “This is why I gave you the big napkin.” She shook her head and looked at Amina. “I never understood how husbands are always so disgusting. How do we cope, eh?”

Amina and Arif moved food around their plates. “Eat, Arif. Eat,” Bibi insisted. Arif scooped fingerfuls of daal into his mouth and talked with his mouth full, the lentils muffling his voice as he said, “We have to go.” He glared at his wife, and Amina stood and walked toward the shoes she had left by the front door. Babu had nibbled on the leather soles on his way in.

“Oh bhai! But I haven’t given you masala tea and samosas yet!” Bibi cried, clutching her dupatta to her chest. “You must stay. Babu, take them to the divan. What’s that? Yes, I can see it, too. They are very tired.”

Babu excused himself from the table and began to clear up the spit wads from the floor. He cocked his head and looked at the guests through long, curved eyelashes. Bibi nudged him in the direction of the divan and their guests followed. Arif sat on the small chair closest to the door. “Not there, Arif,” Bibi said. “That’s Babu’s chair.”

In the kitchen, ginger-scented puffs of steam condensed on Bibi’s round face as she stewed black tea in a steel pot with cardamom and slivers of unpeeled ginger root. She arranged sweet samosas on a silver plate and carried the treats to the guests, who were sitting in silence.

Babu was still chewing. “I feel so lucky,” Bibi said. She handed the samosas to Amina and Arif and placed cups of hot tea on the table. “I never thought I could have a husband who is so quiet, so loving.”

Bibi poured tea into a silver bowl and held it to Babu’s mouth. He puckered his lips, unfurled a thick tongue, and slurped the tea. Bibi stroked her husband’s head. “Tell him about your business, Arif,” Bibi said, nodding her head. “Babu is very interested in the import-export trade.”

“Really? I mean, I really think we should be going,” Arif said. He placed his teacup on the table and stood. Bibi walked over and gently pushed him back down into the chair. “Babu can take you to the station anytime, but there is no train until tomorrow,” she said quietly.

What did it matter what her husband looked like? So what if he didn’t speak the same tongue? So what if he didn’t eat the same food? Could they not see that she was happy? Did a woman’s contentment mean nothing? Bibi crossed and uncrossed her arms. She stood to refill Arif’s teacup, pouring from the pot until it reached the brim and spilled into the trembling man’s saucer. “I said, tell him about your business.”

Arif explained to Bibi that he bought long-grain rice from a distant village, transported it by donkey to Tirur, and sold it at twice the price. “No, tell him,” Bibi said, pointing her chin in Babu’s direction. Arif turned to Babu, opened his mouth, and closed it.

Babu scratched his face. “That means he is very impressed,” Bibi said. She turned to Amina. “But with all that hard work your husband does, I bet he doesn’t have much time for you, not the way my husband has time to cuddle and play with me.” Amina nodded silently.

Bibi sipped her tea and told them about the beginnings of her love affair. The night of the beach encounter, after Babu had licked her cheek and disappeared into the bush, Bibi had knelt on the sand and prayed to Allah that she be blessed with a spouse as playful and affectionate as the creature she had danced with at sunset. Her first husband had been a debt collector with a capricious demeanor and chronic bowel troubles. Sometimes the gas escaped from his mouth, other times it emerged from the rear end. Either way, Bibi said, she felt that her life had been engulfed in a constant miasma of stink.

The very next day, Bibi’s prayers had been answered. She had spotted Babu at the grain market. Her hair had still been dripping wet from that morning’s ablutions—an indecent, besharam way in which to leave the house, she knew. Mother had warned against it ever since Bibi was a young girl. “Wet hair attracts djinn,” Amma had said. “If a girl walks outside with wet hair, especially beneath trees and especially at Maghreb, the djinn will sniff you out and follow you home.”

At the market, Bibi had let the thin pink dupatta slip from her head to reveal the glistening locks beneath. She had wandered through the bazaar in her rose-pink kameez and had spotted Babu’s head peering at her from between two burlap sacks. His nostrils had quivered as he caught Bibi’s scent. His eyes had tracked her as she moved between mountains of powdered spices. She had known it was him instantly: that solid frame, those long, thick eyelashes. He had been excited to see her again.

“Two pounds of chapati flour,” she had said to the old man sitting at Babu’s side. She had eyed Babu as the man poured flour into a cloth bag and held the bag out for Bibi to take. “You want him?” he had said, looking from Bibi to Babu and back to Bibi again. “If you want him, you can have him.” The man had jiggled the bag and pointed to the coins in Bibi’s hand.

“Sometimes love really is that simple,” Bibi sighed. “You wouldn’t believe how easily true love can fall into your lap.” Amina listened with parted lips. “The very next week, we were married in that mango orchard,” Bibi said, pointing out beyond the open door, where a golden sun was melting into the mango trees. “We built this house with money my first husband had stashed. Sorry I couldn’t invite you to the wedding, but you understand these things. That is the custom for a widow. Small wedding. No fuss.”

Arif nodded his head. Amina stared at the floor.

It would be dark soon, and Babu liked to take a leisurely stroll before bedtime. “Helps him digest,” Bibi explained, patting her belly. She stacked the teacups on a tray, carried them to the kitchen, and returned with her hands dripping water. Bibi crouched in front of Babu and gently combed her fingers through the wiry hairs sprouting from his chin. When his beard was clean, she lay her warm, damp hands over his hooves and picked at the fibers jammed between his toes. She pecked her husband on the snout and stroked his cheeks until he sighed.

Those stripes brought me here. They kept me here for months. And now they are about to make me famous.

I pluck my phone from the console and check the signal. One bar. I might get lucky. I touch redial and listen, tongue on the roof of my mouth, for any sign of a connection. Ahead, the road twists right, then left, around turns blind even in broad daylight. It’s nearly midnight now, with the moon a sliver that does little to aid navigation. I want to press harder on the gas. Instead, I tap the steering wheel with one broken, dirty nail.

“Come on, come on,” I mutter at the phone. After a minute, I glance at the screen again. No signal.

“Damnit.” I thumb the screen to sleep and drop it in the console, then shift my attention back to the road.

The gleam of eyes in my high beams throws my heart into overdrive. I slam the brakes, and the dark woods spin around me until the stag is racing toward my door instead of my bumper. My hands drag the wheel toward him just as he leaps to fly into the right side of the windshield. The impact rolls his body until his flank presses through the demolished glass, half passenger, half hood ornament.

Tires skid, rubber squealing, then crunching gravel and low brush on the downhill slope as I leave the road.The ground drops into a steep bank and the car tilts, two wheels in the air before it rolls, leaving the stag behind. Airbags before and beside me explode, thickening the air with the smell of burnt rubber. Rocks, shrubs, and trees somersault on the other side of the blood-spattered windshield. I bounce in my seatbelt, arms flopping and head joggling to some macabre beat I cannot hear.

The car slams into something—a tree? a boulder?—at the edge of the precipice, that loud metallic crunch echoing as my head whips to one side. The sudden stillness, broken only by the falling of loosened debris and the distant bawling of the injured stag, reaches numbing fingers to drag me into its depths as the woods around me fade to black.

I wake to bright agony, the reek of gasoline, and whispered voices. Someone found me?

“Help!” I whimper and turn my head in excruciating increments to see who has come to my rescue. The slope above me shines pale, brighter in the waning moon’s light, which gleams on the silvered fur of animals gathered there, staring at my predicament. Humans stand among them with long mussed hair, willowy forms, wide eyes… and wings.

I blink, rub my face, which burns with gritty powder. When I look again, the animals and winged people are gone. Trees above the slope stretch shadows down the scrubby incline as if to push or pull my wrecked car from the ledge.

What’s left of the windshield sags toward me like a hammock, its surface spider-webbed and perforated. Glass pebbles lay scattered over me, the seats, the floors, the dash, even the ground around the car, their surfaces winking with moonlight. They look as cold as I feel. I reach for my phone. Its usual cubby sits empty save for the glass. My lifeline is unreachable, lost inside the vehicle or lying somewhere between me and the road that I left so unexpectedly moments—or was it hours?—ago.

I push the button on my seatbelt. The catch ignores my fingers, snugs me tight against the seat cushion. I press harder, struggle, and the car shifts, groaning against the rock.

The drop before me wobbles. I freeze. A chill beyond the night air pumps gooseflesh up my neck, down my arms, across my chest.

Movement on the dark slope draws my attention, head and neck throbbing in protest. Halfway up the hill, a figure makes its way toward me. Another motorist saw the deer, maybe. I close my eyes and breathe a sigh. Help, at last.

“Oh, thank god.” The sound of my own voice is like a knife in my head. “Did you phone for help?”

My rescuer continues down the slope in silence until she nears my car. Thick white hair falls over her shoulders, casting darkness across her eyes. Her cheeks are shriveled like a plum left out too long. Her nose and chin protrude into the moonlight, her puckered mouth lagging in the valley between them. The woman’s shoulders hunch forward, rounding her back with the weight of years. One gnarled hand holds a long, knobbed staff, a useful tool on this uneven ground. Dark clothes hide the details of her body.

Outside my window she pauses, takes in the scene. Looks my car—and me—over from end to end, inside and out. She sucks her teeth. Shakes her head. Puts her free hand on one hip.

“Got yourself in a pickle, I think,” she croaks.

The throbbing in my head muddles my thoughts. “Yeah. Can you help me out here? My seatbelt’s stuck. I need a knife or scissors.”

She stares a moment longer, her eyes still obscured.

Her inspection triggers an itch deep in my chest, beyond the reach of fingers that might dispel it. But something else stirs beneath the itch, an unnerving sensation, as if she is reading my soul. Head trauma can cause all sorts of hallucinations.

Soft footfalls whisper outside my door, and I look up just as the old woman grasps the handle.

“Careful,” I warn. “My balance is off.”

“More than you know,” she says. She opens the door while muttering something beneath her breath, reaches across me, and releases the belt with a light touch. The strap zips back into its sheath, and she takes my hand. “Out with you.”

I try to be gentle. She looks as aged as the woods around us. But the power in her hand and arm, strong as the rocks beneath our feet, catches me off-guard. She pulls me upright as if I were a toddler.

“Thank you,” I say. “You don’t know how glad I am to see you. I’m Caitlin.”

“I know who you are.”

Her nose points toward me, but I still can’t see her eyes. I frown. Maybe she found my wallet on the ground? I didn’t look for it in the car. I peer down at her hunched form as it moves back toward the wood.

“Come.”

Strange how I hear her command so clearly, even though she did not raise her voice from a near-whisper. I glance back at my totaled SUV, teetering there on the edge of a precipice so deep-set in darkness I cannot see the bottom. I shudder and scurry uphill toward my savior. Aches erupt down my back, as they have in my neck. Twice, I almost fall.

“Do you have a car on the road?” I call. “A phone, maybe?” Probably not at her age. “What’s your name?”

Her silence makes me wonder if she’s heard me, so I shout my questions again. The effort makes my teeth throb.

“You’ve already roused the forest,” she says without looking at me. “No need to wake the dead, too.”

“But I—”

“Shh.” She nears the tree line, her steady pace devouring the rugged terrain like she could do it in her sleep.

A soft peripheral glow draws my eye. Only shadows meet my gaze. Another, ahead, pulls my attention back to our path. Again, there is nothing to see but leafy boles and the last of the moonlight as it slips behind the crags above the treetops.

We follow the path of destruction wrought by my crash. The canopy’s cover mostly shades our passage. I hurry to keep up with the woman’s form, even though a blind person could find their way back in this trail of vegetative carnage. I look around at the gouged terrain, gaps in the kudzu, saplings splintered or ripped from their foundations, and shake my head. How I avoided every mature tree, how I managed to ram against the one boulder at the edge of the crag, how I remain upright and breathing are puzzles I cannot solve. Any landing you can walk away from, as they say.

Ahead, a snuffling grunt accompanies feeble tremors to one side of the trail. The old woman slogs through uprooted shrubbery and broken branches toward the sound. I follow until I see the catalyst of this near disaster.

The stag lies on its side, blood visible along its flank, belly, and face, even in this light. The angle of its head belies the rapid, trembling breaths that still flutter in its chest. It should already be dead. It will be. Soon.

Ah, hell.

My lungs heave for both myself and this innocent bystander. Stupid mistake. I should have been going slower. I should have waited to call Jonah. I should have been watching the road. My knees tremble. My chest shakes. I clap a hand over my mouth. This wasn’t part of the plan.

It hurts to move and I mutter a curse. Climbing and digging will be difficult for a while. Healing, not to mention finding a new SUV and tools, will slow me down. Such a nuisance, this interruption. Innocent or not, if it weren’t for this deer, I’d already be in town, having a beer with Jonah and telling him about my find.

The old woman reaches the stag’s side. I stumble closer.

She squats, lithe as a teenager, touches her hand to its head, mumbles words in a soothing tone I can’t quite place, and the animal quiets. Settles. Its last breath frosts the air around its head, and the woman stays there long after, her lips moving in a litany I cannot hear. At last, she strokes the beast’s head one last time, pulls herself upright, and looks at me.

“Such a shame,” I say. “He was a beautiful stag.”

She stares, expectant. Her hair gleams in the dark.

“What?” I point at the animal. “I didn’t mean to kill it. He was just there, on the road. It was an accident.”

She watches. Says nothing.

“Surely you don’t think this is my fault. If anyone’s to blame here, it’s the stag. He almost killed me.”

The woman shakes her head, a subtle motion in the surrounding darkness. Again, a glow appears off to one side but is gone when I look that way.

“He volunteered,” the woman murmurs.

My attention swings back to her face. “What did you say?”

“I am Baba.” She steps into the trees, gestures for me to follow. “You should see.”

“What about the road?” I can’t seem to help the whine in my voice. Every muscle in my body burns. I touch my face and find crusted blood there. “I need medical attention.”

Baba stops just inside the wood amid a subtle glow, as if dozens of fireflies surround her. One hand on her staff, she watches me. Waits in stillness.

“I appreciate you helping me, Baba, but I need to get out of here.” I wave toward the road. “I think I’ll try to flag down another driver.”

She tilts her head, a slight cant to the white glow of her hair. “Suit yourself.”

I turn toward the road…

… and awaken still belted in my car.

I blink. Frown. Look around as if I have awakened to a dream. This can’t be right, can it?

No. No, I was out. I was, if not safe, at least not wedged against a boulder on this escarpment, teetering at the precipice of my new life. How did I—

I pinch myself. Hard.

Nothing changes, except that the sky seems lighter now. Stars have faded. Without my phone, I don’t even know what time it is.

I look outside at the ground next to my car. No footprints mar the dewy sparkle there. My head falls back against the seat’s restraint. Baba was a dream?

Whispers, soft as a sigh, tickle my ears like a blade of grass drawn along the skin and I start, jerking my head to the side harder than I’d intended. Pain slices into my head and stabs down my neck into my shoulders. I suck a breath through gritted teeth and wait for it to pass. When my vision clears, I see no one, but I feel them.

“Hello?”

The whispers fall silent. Even early birdsong and morning crickets break off. Morning mist lends an otherworldly haze to the setting.

Then, between one blink and the next, I am back in the path wrought by my car’s passage. Baba waits among the trees while I stand calf-deep in a gouge ripped into the ground, neither of us moved so far as a pace.

“Changed your mind, did you?” She sucks her teeth, a glimmer of light twinkling where I imagine her eyes to be.

“What—” I frown and point at my surroundings as I gape and stutter. “How did—”

Baba plucks a weed, chews it a moment before she moves on. Her footfalls make no sound among the clutter of leaves and twigs, as if she levitates. Her passage sets the sparse weeds swaying and soon she is almost out of sight.

“Are you coming?” Her voice is a whisper carried on an invisible breeze.

Like the murmurs I heard in my car. I was back there. I was. And now I am here. How does that even—

“Don’t dawdle,” she calls back. 

I jog to catch up, stumbling over the clutter, my ankles twisting in their own discomfort. Here, beneath the trees, fluctuating patches of shade and pale light dance and shift across bole, ground, and rock. I stop at one particular stone, the size of my fist, with spangles that gleam like burnt amber in a sunbeam.

I’d know it anywhere, now. Metathracite. Or that’s the name I’ve used. I hope it will serve as a foundation in medical cures for something like cancer one day—the tests I ran in camp indicated its enormous potential—but if it finds a worthwhile home in the tech arena, that will serve just as well for my purposes. My name and career ride on the bet that this is a heretofore unknown mineral, that I am in fact its discoverer, and that its unexpected and unique properties will ensconce my find in a position of high demand. I pick it up.

“Nice rock,” Baba says from beside me.

Startled, I leap almost a foot downhill. I stumble into a tree, one hand pulled back to lob the metathracite in defense. I whoosh a loud, long breath. “Baba, don’t do that. I could have hurt you without meaning to.”

“Could you now?” She squints at me, then nods at the rock. “That ain’t worth what you’ll pay.”

“What does that mean?” My head throbs and I squeeze the back of my neck with my free hand.

She steps away, beckons.

I follow, hefting the stone, valuing it in my mind. If it’s as unique as I suspect, metathracite might even revolutionize entire industries. My mind wanders along that pleasant dream as I traipse after Baba, our steps carrying us farther from my vehicle until I’m no longer certain I could find it again. Maybe she’s taking me to her own car? No. That makes no sense. The road lay closer than this, and the path to that destination needed no breadcrumbs up the hillside. Not after my passage.

Maybe Baba lives nearby and heard the crash?

I glance around. This wood seems best fit for animals and trees and birds. What kind of house might Baba have here, so far from the city’s civilized services? My most primitive campsites may not have running water, but they at least have satellite.

Usually.

The tightness in my shoulders and back make continued movement a chore. I should have swallowed a few aspirin before I left my car. Assuming I could find them in the wreckage. “Where are we going?” I call.

She stops a few yards ahead, in the liminal space between light and dark. I make my way to her side.

Baba points to a carpet of blue threaded between and around the gnarled roots of nearby trees as far as I can see. Sun sparkles in dewdrops on tiny velvet caps where the light breaks through the canopy. In the shade, spidery veins of turquoise glow across the mass fungal growth, peering out from within like lights behind curtained windows.

“Spritefoot,” she says. “Catena civitatis. Guter nachbar. Ffrind y coedwr. No matter its name. As essential to this wood as neurons are to your brain. Watch your step.” She leads me on a narrow path between the vivid beds.

I look behind, where our feet have passed, and catch a glimmer of light as it dissipates behind a tree. Just like the others. What is that? I stop, go back, swing around the tree into a cloud of Lilliputian rainbows, wings aflutter all at once, patches of morning sun reflecting their iridescence. The diminutive buzz of one pair multiplied by dozens, hundreds, hums loud as a swarm of hornets. I gasp, then close my mouth, hopeful I’ve not swallowed one of these creatures.

“Ostanovis’, ty uzhe poveselilsya.” Baba speaks from beside me. She waves at the insects, her tone indulgent, even amused. “Begone. We’ve work to do.”

The tiny wings scatter and Baba resumes our trek. “They’ll be back. Curious creatures.”

I hurry to catch up. “What are they?”

“Fae.”

Images of childhood fancy dance through my mind, complete with enchanted forests where time passed differently than in the human world and where winged beings made their home. “Fae? Like faeries? That kind of fae?”

She tosses me a glance past the white hair on her shoulders, the kind of look my grandmother used to keep wee me silent in the midst of company when I rambled too long. I am no longer small, and I open my mouth to say more, but think better and shut it once again. Baba is my exit plan, though I’m starting to think I would have been better off hiking to the road and hitching back to town.

“You tried that,” Baba calls back. “Didn’t work like you expected, did it?”

I stop dead, my shoulders pulled up tight toward my ears like someone poured ice water down my back. She heard my thoughts?

Ahead, she reaches up into the lower branches of a tree, murmuring words I can’t make out. Her hand comes back down slowly, slowly, and she approaches me, still speaking to something on her palm. When she’s close, I see her little friend.

Little: not the right word in this case. The spider Baba holds is larger than her hand.

If I wasn’t frozen already, this would be the catalyst. I stare at the enormous thing, its body and all eight legs covered in fine, glistening hairs that sway in a breeze I don’t feel. Peacock blue cephalothorax and green abdomen stand out in the verdant gloom of the wood, their luminous color capturing light like insects in its web. Red leg joints make every movement look deadly, and its black eyes shine out at me as if I am a juicy offering at its altar.

I back up a step, and Baba stops. “Lady of the wood,” she says. “Nothing to fear. Say hello.”

I nod, babble some inane greeting to the spider, but keep my distance.

Baba pulls the Lady closer to her face. “Sometimes, if I ask nicely, she donates drops of venom to dry infections. Her silk then seals the wound. She and her sisters eat those pests who would carry disease to me or the other mammals in the woods.”

The spider crawls up Baba’s arm. If it gets tangled in the crone’s hair, I’ll have to help her get it out and I can’t do it, I can’t—

Baba coos to the spider and takes it back to its perch, then continues in her original direction. I follow, veering off the side to pass far from the Lady’s nest while keeping Baba in sight. She treads no discernible path. If I lose her, I will never find my way out.

The silence of this place presses against my ears, my chest. I hug myself as I walk. This is all wrong. If not for my eagerness, if not for that deer, I would be in the city. Jonah and I would be having coffee, or maybe breakfast, at that cable car diner he loves so much. Has he missed me yet? Probably not. Wouldn’t be the first time I’d gone off-grid for weeks. When last I saw him, he tried to give me a job in his department, as if I could ever take root in one spot instead of seeking my fortune out here, under the sky and on the land.

Baba stops. Light falling through the canopy still shows me nothing of her eyes beneath the crown of her hair.

She tilts her head. “Look around.”

I blink. Frown. “I don’t—”

Baba gestures with her chin, left and right. “What do you see?”

Past the wooded shade, a patch of green glows in bright sunlight. Tall spikes of blue flowers bow and waggle with the weight of butterflies and bees that flit between blossoms. A hummingbird, all gleaming iridescence, zips in from the side, spearing flowers one after another.

Above us, crown-shy trees mark fractals against the morning sky, their boughs moving in unison. A small red-and-black bird climbs one bole, moving in jerks and stops, probing the bark before its face with a sharp, long bill. A rustling sound to my right pulls my attention. There, a wild sow shuffles through the undergrowth, her snout scouting the ground before her feet. Behind her, grunting, follow five small piglets, their dark fur spotted and blobbed with random white. They take no notice of us and are gone so quickly I could almost forget they were ever there.

Baba waits, still and quiet.

“Trees,” I say. “Birds. Bees. Flowers. Pigs. Bushes.” I shake my head. What does she want from me?

“There’s your problem. You see the bricks, but not the house.” She gestures. “Those flowers grow only in these forests. They are the only source of food for that hummingbird. The spritefoot and the wood lady who frightened you so are connected. Without the fungus, the spider couldn’t survive. Without the spider, the spritefoot would not grow. The sow and her offspring eat a mushroom native to these mountains. If they did not, the fungi would invade the forest floor, crowd out other native species.” She resumes our journey and speaks over her shoulder, her voice accompanied by the occasional thump of her walking stick on root or stone. “Not just trees. Not just flowers. Not just pigs. Together, they make the Forest. If you pull at even one thread of that tapestry, you damage the whole.”

I follow her footsteps, but her words make no sense.

“Your plan will kill it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We have been watching you. I know what you intend.”

Aw hell! Just my luck to be rescued by an aged greenie, living off-grid in the woods. Yes, she pulled me from my car. Yes, she appeared to be leading me to safety. But she was also trying to stop me from pursuing a dream.

To hell with that.

“My plan will create medicines,” I say, unable to keep the snark silent. “My plan may even save millions of lives.”

“And what of the billions in this forest, and in its brethren all along these mountains?” She shakes her head, but her voice is as quiet now as it has been all along. “Your actions will trigger their fall and affect lands far from this spot. Is that not too high a price to pay?”

“It’s a patch of trees. It’ll grow back.”

She snorts, shakes her head. Mutters something I don’t catch.

“What?” I say. “We’ll only dig the minerals we need, then we’ll move on. Your precious forest will be fine.”

Baba stops so suddenly I almost collide with her hunched form. She peers at me. “You care nothing for the millions. You care only for the one.”

She moves forward again. I wish I had stayed in my car. I wish I had made my way to the road. I could be in town by now, clean and fed. It occurs to me how thirsty I am.

“You need tea.” Baba starts uphill, her aged body taking the incline better than my own.

I’m not surprised that she heard my thoughts. Hear this one, I think, with an imaginary rude gesture.

Baba laughs, a raspy cackle like the sound of ragged fingernails on sandpaper.

“Where are we going?” I cough, one hand to my mouth, then stare wide-eyed at the rosette of blood on my palm. What the—internal injuries? There is pain, yes, but…

“Almost there.”

Baba’s voice and a squawk ahead of us drags me back to the moment, to my surroundings, in time to see a raven swoop toward us. I duck, throw my arms over my head, and shield my face.

“Glupaya zhenshchina.” Baba’s voice reaches me as she moves forward. “Ne obrashchay na neye vnimaniya.”

I peek between my arms. The bird—enormous against Baba’s head—sits on the crone’s shoulder and eyes me as if I am some strange new prey. It chatters and croaks in a near growl while Baba walks on ahead.

“Almost there,” I say, “where?”

Baba points her staff up the hill.

There, a rickety house perches between two trees whose spreading bases and sprawling roots look like large chicken feet that grip the forest floor beneath the dwelling. Beside and behind its exterior walls, the trees rise like guardians, their leaves whispering in a breeze far above the ground.

“That’s where you live?” I say.

Instead of answering, she ascends the steep slope with ease on footholds only she can see. I clamber after her, finding traction where I can until we stand just before the structure. Beneath, branches stretch between the trees, their massive boughs woven together so long ago their flesh has melded one into the other. At the side, Baba climbs a stair that winds around the trunk. I follow, taking in every tiny detail. Each riser bears pads of soft green moss, thin in the center where Baba treads, plush at the sides out of the reach of foot traffic. There, in the thickness, delicate stalks support pale pink cup-shaped flowers so tiny I must stoop to see their forms. Moisture beads along the surface of these tiny worlds, and I wonder if creatures live therein.

As I start up the stair, a breeze wafts some heady fragrance past. I glance around. There, upslope from Baba’s home, a swath of blue flowers hang teardrop heads that nod and bob along curved stems, their leaves swaying like long blades of dark grass. I sniff the air.

“Deòir na baintighearna.” Baba’s voice distracts me. “Officially Dominae lacrimae, though no one gave them the honor of a formal name until they were thought extinct. Once, they covered the floor of these woods and those in similar landscapes. Now…” She sighs and looks over her domain. “They grow only here.”

I step up to the next riser and fall to my knees and Baba is there, her hand on my arm. She lifts me as if I were a child, as if I did not tower over her hunched form. I peer into her face. Shadows gather where her eyes should be.

“You are weak. You need tea.” She speaks to the raven who still rides her shoulder, and the bird is off, croaking a response in flight. It ascends into the shafts of morning sun breaking through the canopy, its wings blotting out the light, and I am falling. Baba says something in a tongue I don’t recognize. Then… nothing.

The world twists around me, all its facets bathed in hues of murky green. Noises and murmurs filter through the confusion. I squeeze my eyes tight, fight the nausea that rises in my throat and threatens to eject my last meager meal. My fists close around something soft. Something crisp. The green swirling slows, and the voices grow louder, crystallize. One stands out among the rest.

Jonah.

Jonah!

I push against the lethargy and struggle awake.

“Well, hello there.” Jonah’s voice sounds beside me.

His short hair is mussed, as if he were dragged from his bed at a wee hour. But he’s smiling, dimples in stubbled cheeks, thin lips surrounding bright white teeth. Concern deepens the brown of his eyes. Instead of his usual loosened tie and button-down shirt, he wears a wrinkled polo shirt, its logo old, unrecognizable.

Above and behind him hangs the white ceiling of a hospital, and it all comes rushing back. The stag. The woods. The slope. The boulder.

Baba. The fae. The watching animals. The delirium that followed the accident.

I roll my head on the pillow and rub my face, clean now of the burning powder from the airbags. My mentor leans on the bed rail, which creaks. I know his expression without looking—bushy brows pulled together in the center, dark gaze scrutinizing me through the lenses of his spectacles, critiquing my actions as if I am still the prized student who hasn’t quite achieved academic superiority.

I lick my lips.

“You are hereby on notice,” he says, “not to ever worry me like that again.”

“How bad?” I croak. I sound like Baba’s raven friend. The one I dreamed of.

“Well,” he pauses, “you will mend. Your car, however, is toast.”

“Yeah.” In a blink, the woods are rolling around me again. The metallic crunch of car versus boulder echoes in my head.

“Do I need to ask what you were doing up there?” The resignation in Jonah’s voice matches that in his expression.

“No. But—”

“Cait.” He shakes his head. “At least don’t go on these goose chases alone. You could have died.”

“A partner wouldn’t have stopped that buck from jumping in front of my car,” I say. “And then I would have been responsible for someone else being hurt.”

“Let me guess.” Jonah peers at me. “You were on your phone.”

“Trying to call you.” I look into his eyes. “I found it, Jonah.”

He pushes upright, runs fingers through his hair. He shoves his hands into his pockets and mutters something under his breath.

“I didn’t catch that.” No doubt, it wasn’t complimentary.

“We’ve had this conversation before,” Jonah says. “Though admittedly this is the first time we’ve had it in the ER. Don’t make me play it out solo in the morgue, Cait.”

Of course, he’s right. But he’s also wrong. “It’s different this time. I really found it.”

His stare holds mine, peering into me, searching for the truth in my demeanor, my words, my resolve. Well, maybe not that latter. I’ve always been resolved, even when chasing false leads. I like to think of it as my superpower.

“What makes this time different?” he asks, his voice tired.

“I found a mineral layer I’ve not seen before. Anywhere.” I don’t tell him I’d stumbled across it by accident when I fell into a shallow ravine and got stuck there for two days while the swelling in my ankle cleared enough to climb back out. “Took a lot of samples back to my campsite, ran chem baths, extractions, the works. At least as much as I could do in a rough lab.” I grin. “The powdered stone showed amazing properties. I believe it’s catalytic. Everything I added it to changed in unexpected ways.”

Jonah frowns. “Explain ‘unexpected.’”

“I’d rather show you.” I stop. “Wait, did they get my things from my car? All my samples were in my field case.”

“I don’t know. They managed to retrieve a few items, I think, but there wasn’t much left. Getting you out was dicey enough. They can’t get your car out yet. They need special equipment to reach it.”

Damn. My belongings must be flung out along the gouged terrain. In that mess, they may never find my field kit. I’d need another. “Oh well. We can go back for more. It looks plentiful in the gorge walls above the tree line in those mountains, and hints of more farther along the range. Now that I’ve found the markers, we can track it.”

Jonah shakes his head. “Cait, I don’t think I can convince the university to back you again. You’ve had too many false leads.”

I stare at him. This man has supported my endeavors without fail ever since pre-doctoral studies, when I took one of his undergrad classes. Okay, yes, I’ve followed a few trails that petered out, but this—

Metathracite is real. I knew it even before I found proof, and now the rest of the world will see, too. He has to believe me. I won’t accept anything less.

The machine beside me begins to beep with a will. Jonah glances at it, then at me, a frown on his face. I breathe deep, slow. The machine still beeps.

He pats my shoulder. “Calm down, Cait.”

“I’m perfectly calm,” I say. “But you need to listen to me. This isn’t like the other—”

Another machine joins the first, and the door sweeps open to admit two nurses and a doctor. Jonah backs away from the bed.

“Step outside, sir,” says the doc.

Jonah moves toward the door.

“No!” I shout. “Jonah, wait!”

“All right, Ms. Banks.” The doctor injects something into my IV line and smiles at me. “Let’s calm things down, shall we? You need your rest.”

I peer past the doc at Jonah, outside the closing door. “No! Jonah—”

The door clicks shut, blocking him from my view. Hospital sounds blur, fuzzing into the texture of my consciousness like moss on a tree root until I can’t tell reality from fantasy.

The doctor speaks to one of the nurses, her voice drawn out and inhuman. “She gets no visitors until…”

Lights dim, greying into twilight like the forest around Baba’s house. My body grows heavy, pushed down into the mattress as though it were weighted with stones.

I try to speak, to tell the doc that I need to tell Jonah… something… I can’t…

A pungent aroma awakens me. The lumpy bed beneath me and the dark, smoke-stained roof timbers above are not those of a hospital. I try to sit up. When that fails, I try to move my head. Nothing works like it should.

“Hello?” I call.

“Good. I wasn’t sure you were coming back.” Baba’s voice comes from my left, followed by a rasping sound.

“Baba?” Stupid. Who else would it be? Except… I was in the hospital. Jonah was there, and—

Baba appears above me, her figure silhouetted by the light behind her.

“Why am I back here?” I try again to sit up. “And why can’t I move?”

“You never left. I gave you a tincture to stop you hurting yourself.” She tilts her head. “Why this stone?”

I blink. “What?”

“The world is full of rocks and pebbles. Why must you destroy these forests to take ours?”

That again. “This mineral is special. It could help to make groundbreaking medicines. Maybe even cure cancer. But I haven’t found it anywhere outside these mountains.”

“Ah. So, you’ve searched the world over then?”

“Well, no. But I’ve done the research, read papers by geologists in every country. None have reported this mineral.”

She stares at me, or at least I think she does. It’s disconcerting to not see her eyes.

“Your work will kill this wood and others like it, wherever you crumble the mountainside.”

“It’s a few patches of trees, Baba. They’ll grow back.” If I could, I would shrug. “It isn’t like I’m hurting the entire planetary ecosystem or anything.”

She moves out of view. Something clatters, metal on metal. Then she returns and lifts my left foot to slide a thin tray beneath it, one with a trough at its edges. I feel nothing, but the image of my foot on a tray disturbs what remains of my calm.

“What are you doing?”

Baba disappears, then returns with a small bowl, the source of that smell that awoke me. She dips a cloth into the bowl, then swabs a sticky brown substance around my ankle and across the top of my foot.

“What are you doing?” My voice carries a shrill tone. The foreboding that began with a thin tray swells to outright concern.

Again, she moves out of sight. Another clattering sound and she’s back, balancing another tray on a stand beside my foot, close enough to see what it holds.

Knives. Scalpels. Saw. What the actual—

“Baba! What are you doing?”

She turns to me and finally, I see her eyes. I wish I hadn’t. Around the lids, her brown flesh is carved into wrinkles that stretch out to her hairline and down onto her cheeks. In the gap between the lids, deep green irises pierce my soul, their color so dark they appear almost black. No white field surrounds them. If I fall into that gaze, I’ll never crawl out again.

I manage to squeak.

“I’m going to take off your foot,” she explains, her voice calm, soft, as it has been all along.

“What?”

She holds up her instruments as if to examine their edges.

“Why?” I ask, my voice still small. “Is it damaged?”

“No.” She wipes the scalpel with the same cloth from her bowl. “But I can use the marrow from your bones in my tea.” She looks up. “Good for my aches.”

“What?” I shriek. “No, you can’t do that!” I struggle. Or, rather, I try.

Baba faces me. “Where’s the harm? It’s not like I’m hurting the rest of your body, right?” She goes back to cleaning and disinfecting her implements. “You can survive with one foot.”

I babble for a moment, scrambling to find words that will stop this horror from taking place. “Okay! Okay, Baba. You’ve given me a lot to think about. Can you wait and let me consider what you’ve said?”

Baba stops, staring at me like I’m a bug beneath a microscope. “I need that marrow.”

“I know,” I say, too fast. “Just let me think this over. Will you do that?” If I can delay her long enough for this… this tea or whatever to wear off, I can get out of here. I’ll find my way back to the road, somehow. And I’ll do it on two healthy, attached feet.

My insides squirm, as does my brain inside its bony shell, like she’s in there rooting around, searching for the lie I know I’m telling. Oh, she’s going to know. She’ll know, and then she’ll suck my marrow, and—

She looks away. “Don’t think too long.” She drops the tools on their tray and shuffles out of view. Seconds later, a thump and a creak tells me she’s grabbed her walking stick and left the house. Her raven friend croaks to her as she goes.

When I can no longer hear either of them, I try again to move. I strain as hard as I ever have for anything. Nothing happens. I stop, panting. A trickle of sweat rolls off my face. I can’t even wipe it away or scratch the itch it left behind. What the hell did she give me?

Breathe, Cait. Stay calm. Be patient. It won’t last forever.

I pass the time by going over my site tests, checking my process for mistakes, anything that might trip me up when I finally get to Jonah. The realJonah, not some hallucination conjured by mushroom tea or whatever Baba gave me.

It seemed so real, though. His hand on my shoulder, the expressions on his face, the fear that he would leave me there. That he wouldn’t push the University to back yet another Caitlin Banks shenanigan.

A grunt escapes my throat. At least there is some consolation in the fact that it was an illusion, that no one at uni waited to say, “There she goes, chasing rainbows.”

Again, I try to move. Baba’s tea still holds me fast. Geological tables, mineral properties, and hardness scales run through my head. I recite their numbers and figures to myself one after another before attempting to turn my head, shift my arm, lift a finger. When it fails, I start over. And over.

And over…

My finger twitches, scrapes against something soft and crisp with a rasping sigh. I roll my head on the pillow and lick my lips. Thirsty.

A rustling off to my right jolts me. My head whips back to confront the sound. Baba?

But no. White acoustic tiles appear where smokey rafters hung before. A disembodied voice sounds on a P.A. system in the hall.

And Jonah’s face appears above the bed.

Wait, what—

This can’t be real. But if I can move, I can flee. I struggle to sit up.

Jonah presses me back onto the bed. “Calm down, Cait, or they’ll sedate you again. I had to threaten to bring the University in on this matter to get back in here.” He raises an eyebrow. “Don’t make me look bad.”

I peer into his face, waiting for it to switch to Baba’s. When it doesn’t, and he smiles, I frown. “Jonah?”

“Last I checked.” Reflected light gleams in his gaze, bright spots in the shadows like those in Baba’s face. Back there. In the cottage in the woods.

Where I probably still am.

I close my eyes. “Tell me something only Jonah would know.”

Silence greets my demand, and I look up into his frowning face. The awkward pause draws out while I rote-quote mineral properties in my mind. The machines remain quiet.

Jonah blinks. Shakes his head. “You got drunk after your dissertation defense.”

“Who doesn’t?” I peer at him. “Anyone could guess that.”

“You showed up at my house naked at four in the morning.”

Oh. Okay, he’s probably Jonah. Except even if I am imagining it, I know that event. Well, I sort of remember it.

He leans on the bed rail, his face coming closer as he props on his elbows. “This is about more than finding rocks. More than a car accident. Wanna fill me in?”

I open my mouth, and he holds up a finger.

“If,” he continues, “you can do it calmly.”

I take a slow breath. Press my lips together. Stay calm. Right. Okay. I can do that.

“You won’t believe me.”

He cocks his head, shrugs a little. “Try me.”

My body feels solid, the bed beneath me soft, the smells in the cubby where they’ve stashed me the same as any hospital anywhere. Maybe this is real. I welcome the noise in the corridor in place of forest sounds and raven squawks and, after a pause, I tell him everything—the accident, the lights that looked like people, the animals, the raven, Baba, Baba’s house—except the foot part. I leave that out. Too creepy to think about.

When I stop, he is nodding, a minute movement of his head, as if he is trying to convince himself that this conversation is not the result of a blow to my head.

“Okay. Give me some time to absorb that,” he says. “What about your find? Tell me everything you can. Give me coordinates and describe this clue you found about how to spot the mineral. I want to send a team to confirm your finding while you’re incapacitated. Maybe, by the time you’re back on your feet—” He stops, hesitates, stands upright. One hand goes to his hair, his usual nervous shuffle. “I mean, once you’re all healed, you can join the mining team. If you want to.”

I frown. “Of course, I want to.”

“Details.” He smiles, both hands in his pockets now.

I describe the slender, dark amber- and honey-colored layers between the otherwise blue-grey shale, how to look for the milky scars where the stone had been broken or chipped, and the natural flaw that sent light back in multiple shades of brown. How, unlike most stones of similar color and texture, it breaks off in small, pebble-sized chunks when I chip it away from the surrounding bedrock.

Jonah stops me, pulls out his phone to record, then has me repeat everything I just said.

“Good.” He glances from his phone to my face. “And what was the clue you mentioned? The one that will help you find it again?”

I remember spotting it the first time. Down in that ravine, a quick downpour puddling around my seated body, rising almost to my chest before the rain stopped and it drained away. A chance sunbeam gleaming off the surface of the puddle to shine on the wall of the ravine. That’s what I thought it was, at first. A shine from reflected sunlight.

“The shale layers go from grey to that ruddy brown on both sides of a vein, but as it gets close to the metathracite, it pales to almost pink, as if the color has leached out of it into the mineral between its layers. It’s not a big swath, mind. But that’s a pretty big contrast. It should be easy to see even at a distance.”

“Where, exactly, was your campsite?”

“Coordinates are on my phone. If you can find it. Search the area between where I left the road and where the car landed.” I flash back on that night, the rolling of boulders and trees outside my windshield. I blink the images away. “The university should be able to find it using the geotracker. Look, whoever you send…”

I trail off, stopping myself before I say more about the strangeness of the place. My left foot itches, and I move the right one to scratch it.

It meets only blankets and otherwise empty space. My leg twitches, trying to bring my feet together so I can scratch the itch. I look down at the other end of the bed. There is one hump in the blanket.

One. Not two.

I raise my eyes to Jonah’s and find a grimace on his face.

“It was too mangled, Cait. They couldn’t save it,” he says, reaching toward me.

“No,” I say, my voice sharp, shrill. “Baba did this.” The walls behind him waver, the ceiling shifts from white to sooty to white again. Baba’s soft whisper hovers at the edge of my awareness, teasing, torturing.

Jonah sucks air through his teeth.

“Look,” he says, “you’re safe. You’re in the hospital. Whatever you think you saw wasn’t real. It’s the drugs, Cait.”

“Listen to me, Jonah,” I hiss, pushing all my fear into my words. They tremble with its weight. “There were samples in my car. Look for those and look for my site. It’s important. But whatever you do, don’t let anyone go there alone. They should work in packs, keep watch on one another—”

A machine beside me begins to beep.

“—make them keep watch. Those woods are strange. I told you.”

Jonah squeezes my shoulder. “Cait, calm down. You’re safe here.”

“No.” I shake my head so hard it hurts. Another machine’s alarm joins the first. The wall behind my mentor flickers between Baba’s house and the hospital white. For a moment, Baba’s disinfectant permeates the air. I grab his arm with both hands. “Don’t let them sedate me, Jonah. Don’t let them send me back there!”

He looks alarmed now. He pulls at my fingers, clasped tight around his arm. “Cait, stop this.”

“Jonah, please.”

A third machine joins the chorus, and the duty doctor comes close. His lips move, but the raven’s cries drown his words. The doctor pushes a medicine into my IV and—

The noise stops, replaced by a ringing in my ears and a soughing in the trees behind me. I stand near the edge of a cliff, balanced on one bare foot and what remains of my lower left leg. The stiff breeze of an approaching storm lifts my short hair. Across the gorge, a blob of color wraps around a huge boulder at the opposing cliff’s edge.

My SUV.

Such an odd perspective, this distant view of the boulder that stopped my descent. From here, I see the cracks in the boulder’s foundation. Their fingers reach out into the surrounding cliffside, softening the boulder’s hold on the precipice so that it leans out over empty air. A strong wind could take it down now.

I hobble-turn to face my surroundings. To either side, rough ground edges the precipice, scattered with boulders jutting from or settling into the ground beneath them. I stand at the edge of a twilight forest. Trees crowd this slope all the way up to the ravine where I found the metathracite.

This is Baba’s doing.

I close my eyes. Is she here? Watching? I listen.

The wind.

Birds, far distant, as if they want no part of me.

Traffic. Or, more specifically, trucks. Big ones. As in heavy equipment.

Jonah?

My head goes up, looking for my dig site, but all I see are trees. I take a step back toward the clearing behind me—

Except I can’t. My foot, or rather my stump, won’t move. I look down.

My leg is merging with the ground beneath it. My flesh stretches out and down past rock and stone and bone, rooting itself in the earth. I pull, twist my body, push against the ground with my remaining foot until my toes stretch longer, thickening as they go. They dig past the tendrils of my other leg, reaching toward the marrow of the mountain, anchoring me to this spot.

A tingle spreads from my ankle and lower leg up onto my shins and calves, and I shout. My breath comes faster, noisier. Before me, animals peer around boles, creep out into the open. Two bobcats stand near a lynx. A wolverine hunkers at the base of some nearby scrub. An owl flaps in to land on a branch.

The itch spreads up my legs and I look down. Skin and clothing have thickened into scaly brown. As I watch, my legs merge. I breathe hard and fast, lungs keeping time with my racing heart.

What did Baba give me?

What did the doctors give me?

A grizzly joins the animal audience, rises to its full height, and looks down on me as if I am a morsel too small to consider. An elk, majestic in its size and beauty, ambles into the scene, followed by a small pack of coyotes and a fox pair.

The thickening itch is in my torso now. I twist my shoulders, flailing against this change.

The fae arrive, standing in full view among the animals, all of them moving closer as the wind rises, keening up the cliff face to lift my hair, which thickens and stiffens and won’t fall back into place. I raise my hands to touch it, and my arms freeze, extended toward my head. Twigs, then leaves sprout from my fingers, my forearms, my elbows. My skin thickens into the brown scale of my legs. The bark spreads up my chest, my neck. Even as my hair stretches out into branches thick with foliage, the bark covers my face.

I can’t breathe! My lungs—do I still have lungs?—suck at nothing, like someone has stretched plastic over my face.

But I still hear and feel.

Murmurs, whispers, the electrical sensation against my skin regardless of its new form. The presence of the fae. Close. Touching me. Murmuring some magic. Did they do this?

Over all, the growl of heavy equipment digging into the cliff above the wood. Jonah’s crew, come for my metathracite.

But if I was never in the hospital, if that wasn’t real, how did he know? My thoughts tumble over one another like ants trying to escape a flood and realization slams into me. I am now part of these woods. Will it survive the dig?

Baba’s voice carries on the wind.

“Now we will see,” she whispers, “if the bones of one foot will take the whole body with them when they go. Taste the fruit of your labor. You will feel it all.”

White hot fear races through my veins like sticky sap. I inhale, draw air through my skin, my leaves, and scream. The sound that emerges is the thundering wind of a hundred wings as a whole flock of ravens take flight from my branches. Then they are gone, and the canyon echoes with the grinding of metal on stone as the diggers begin their work.

And then one day, I earnestly set out with the resolve to rescue my mother, and hunt and kill the monster.

That was my childhood, an age that would transform the harmless, ruinous mansion at the edge of the huge lake owned by the Ghosh family, where I would spend many an afternoon, fooling about, into a ghostly palace, brimming with cruel secrets at night. My father was the caretaker of that mansion. He earned a monthly wage courtesy of the old Ragendra Narayan Ghosh without having to really clean and maintain the large garden overgrown with weeds, alongside the cold eyes of the dark forest and the primitive, deep, inky waters of the lake. Ragendra Narayan was the only living descendant of that mansion. He had no room for affection in his voice that was housed in his large, formidable six-feet frame. His visage was marked by a thick, curling moustache and an irascible temper. It was rumoured that during his service in Patna, he had shot and killed a servant during one of his spells of violent temper. Although the case went cold with help from the authorities, he couldn’t save his job. He came here after that and his old ancestral mansion swallowed him whole, like he was some weak, ailing animal, in the few cognizant moments before his very last breath. He didn’t venture out of the house much, but his savage temper was infamous in the locality. The boys in the neighbourhood would call the old man ‘Angry Man’. Growing older, it was rather heartrending to realize that he was not even that old.

My father slowly faded away in his job as a caretaker, running small errands, going to the market and the bank as part of his daily job. But even after cooking for Ghosh Babu the entire day, my mother’s smile was like that of a golden moon. I would grab my mother’s long hair and swing, searching for my own pond in her deep eyes. As a matter of fact, my mother’s long, thick hair, that ran past her broad shoulders, down her waist was my playground, and my mother, even after a day’s hard work, didn’t have an ounce of indignation. She used to play with me every evening, looking for surprising finds such as nuts embedded in the frozen soil. She would enthusiastically frolic in the waters of the lake, keeping up with me, collecting neglected, unripe mangoes, scattered here and there in the garden along with fallen bird nests. My father would lie inside the room, in the pale light of the bulb, and looking at us with resentful eyes, he would mutter, “Fallen woman! Wasted womb!”

My father was like a distant island. Even the sweat on his forehead was unfamiliar. Ma had never been able to cut through his mountainous displeasure and indifference, that dwelled atop our little home in a corner of the garden, and fill it with soft tenderness. Baba couldn’t tolerate us. He would return home drunk in the evening at times and push me out of the house and close the door and windows. I used to listen to Ma’s screams, her tears, her silence, used to get a whiff of the black mark below her lips, the blooming remnants of kicks in her waist. But I wasn’t moved to tears because I knew that the time for play with my mother as well as my father’s beatings was limited. A mad darkness lay hidden beyond Baba’s weak outbursts, that would take Ma away some day like a cursed princess in some fairy tale into a dark unknown, just like it did every day. I would feel pity for Baba, even at that age—thin, middle-aged, his head progressively balding, his lack-lustre gaze and dirty teeth. I had heard the people of the village jokingly call him a cuckold, laugh throatily and, in their comic laughter, fall on each other. But I didn’t know what the word meant, and felt pity for Baba even without knowing what it meant. He seemed like a stunned giant who wasn’t competent or selfish enough to protect his own garden.

The Ghosh family, who owned this ruined mansion, were the descendants of a zamindar clan. They used to rule their land in the daytime and at night used to hunt and kill helpless passers-by and loot whatever they had. This addiction had seeped into their blood. All that was left now was the mansion, with its fading glory, whose bricks, stones and beams lay exposed, where poisonous cobras lay on broken stairs counting hours, where disobedient banyan stems reared their heads breaking the walls. Still, a few rooms were whole, with frescoes in the ceiling and broken chandeliers, that reminded one of that glorious lordship, murderous and cruel, and in one of these rooms, stayed Angry Man. He didn’t mix with outsiders. Sometimes, he strolled in the back garden and groaned crossly upon spotting an unwanted visitor. But he had never reprimanded me for anything, merely looked at me steadfastly, enough to turn my blood to water. Angry Man didn’t venture outside even when the house was leased for a shoot. He used to stay cooped in a room on the first floor the entire day. I would observe the boisterousness of the shooting party that would ask my father to get booze for them. When Ma used to knead the flour to prepare luchis, white flour lumps would ooze out from the gaps in her fingers like pus. One of the cinema folks would sit beside Ma and chat, smoking cigarettes, leaning towards her at times, and I could understand Ma’s smile then. And in the barbeque would smoulder the glorious neck, insolent rear and lively breast of the country chicken.

But all of this was till the evening. That was the allotted time. When night descended, she would cook for us, feed me, keep Baba’s food covered, lay me down in bed, and then leave for the mansion. She didn’t return at night. I used to cry a lot initially, grabbing hold of the border of her saree, refusing to let her go. And then, after I was asleep, Ma would steal away, opening my fist gently, and Baba would toss and turn beside me the entire night, like a burnt lump of coal. Many a time, I would wake up from sleep at dawn, when I would understand that Ma had quietly entered the room. She would leave silently like a thief, and come home similarly. I would press my face to Ma’s freshly bathed hair because it smelled of the fresh earth.

I had asked Ma many times why she went to the mansion at night, but never got a reply or an explanation. The answer was revealed unexpectedly one day. That afternoon, I was picking unripe fruits from the Jamrul tree near my home with a long stick. Ma had finished cooking early, so she had joined my game a little before her usual hour. The sunlight slipped off the rain-washed, blue sky into the secluded environment. A snail waddled past on the wet earth near my feet, its snout gently brushing my heel, butterflies flitted around wildflower bushes, and I sometimes looked over to the lake yonder to see if the wings of the birds had coloured some of its black waters. When Ma called me, a dense army of termites fell across my hands in dust — “Raju, look! There is a beehive on the wild Jujube plant. We will break it after a few days.” 

I lifted my head, and suddenly, it seemed as if a drop of blood rose from my throat. I saw a terrifying face looking at me steadfastly from the high terrace of the mansion. ‘Ah!’, I cried out and put my hands on my face. Ma came running and clutched my hand — “What happened dear?”

“There. On the terrace. A monster! It was looking at me.”

Ma looked up. “Where? I don’t see anyone there.”

I saw that the place was deserted, as if freshly washed. Still, I became aware of its presence. Ma’s eyes were like the sky, thick dirt inside her nose, her pitiful, white fingers would have a dent if pressed for too long, she had two deep folds on her neck, hidden within which lay a field full of secrets. When all of these laughed together, the monster seemed like a lie. Ma laughed freely and said, “You are scared. What a silly child!” But what if it came when she was not there?

And it did. Ever since that time, it would stare at me in the desolate afternoons from the roof, quietly, unwaveringly. It wouldn’t say anything, just look at me with that horrible, yellow face, baring sharp, knife-like teeth. Ma wouldn’t have believed me, and Baba would have scolded me, so I couldn’t tell anyone anything. I didn’t have any friends, because the children in the locality would tease me, calling me ‘cuckold’s son’, pulling my pants down. And in that innocent, loveless childhood, if a monster would follow me around with its eyes, where could I have got a reassuring banyan-like support, within whose trembling breath I could lie muddy and unafraid? Even when I looked in fear at the terrace at night, I wasn’t able to see anything in the dense darkness. Ma would be inside the mansion by then. But I knew that it was there, somewhere nearby. And I realized subsequently, that the mansion was the monster’s palace, that Ma, with her long hair, had to enter, helpless, every day. That was the monster’s condition. Perhaps it would imprison Ma like some captured princess in a secret chamber or inside the Ghosh’s lake, whose entire body was blue with the touch of Death’s silver stick.

Angry Man would walk around at that time, swaying in the blue mist of the darkness, sometimes screaming, annoyed at Baba about why there were snake skins in the garden. Baba would digest his expletives silently, with a bowed head. Angry Man would look at me fixedly and I wouldn’t understand the meaning behind his stare. But it would pale in comparison to the fear of the monster; the poor fellow wasn’t even aware that by some cruel magician’s hand, his mansion would transform into a monster’s house at night. I played in the same manner every afternoon and evening. When I chased butterflies, pollen would fall on my hands. I would scoop dry berry seeds with my hands from rabbit burrows, watch small fries and anchovies, whose bodies would scatter rainbows once touched, move hypnotically in the corners of the lake. And amidst my games, I would lift my head to see the monster staring at me constantly. There was no way I could reach the terrace because the stairs had long since broken down. The roof was damaged in parts as well. Sometimes, in the quiet stillness of the night, when the incessant coughing of Angry Man would reach us, I would feel assured that the roof of that endless mansion was intact. Then, were the movements of the monster restricted to only that part of the house? But I could spot him at different points of the roof, even the ones that were damaged. It slept the entire day and, in the evening, pulled down the hapless princess to hell. What kind of a monster was this? Didn’t it fall on me therefore to slay this monster? To save my mother?

A few days passed as I thought about these things. A tanned fox in the garden informed me that a flight of stairs descended from the ghat that was strewn with broken stones. On reaching the last step, one could see the palace of hell, decorated with diamonds and precious stones. A group of poisonous snakes guarded that hellish palace. Their breath would stun and freeze the wayward fish. And that palace apparently met the mansion at some point. A rabbit, who was my friend, showed me a long thread that trailed along the dew-sodden grass and went into the lake. The old woman of Time, who dwelled below the water, used that thread to spin quilts. As I observed, I realized even more that the monster’s life lay in the wings of a bee, or in the body of a black cobra, or in the deathly seed of some unknown fruit. That is why I decided to follow Ma and discover where lay the seed of its life.

And then one day, I earnestly set out with the resolve to rescue my mother, and hunt and kill the monster.

That night, Baba had again come back home drunk. He attacked Ma coarsely, pushed her around, groaned crudely. But all of that didn’t affect me. When Ma was stealing away at night, I followed her quietly with a small knife in my pocket that I used to skin fruits. Baba pretended that he didn’t notice anything because he didn’t actually care about anything.

The mansion’s huge door would usually close behind my mother, but this time I entered noiselessly along with her. Ma didn’t understand in the darkness that I was right behind her in the shadows. The last speck of light on my shoulder faded away when the heavy hinges latched with one another in their rightful places.

Although I had entered the place often in daylight, this was my first time here at night because Angry Man had strictly instructed Baba and I not to enter after sunset. It was a little difficult for me to adjust to the darkness, so I walked supporting my hands on the wall. Ma walked at a little distance, unhurried, swaying past the narrow passage. Ma’s body dispersed in the dark waters like salt; I had to walk slowly and cautiously.

Then Ma suddenly turned right, and I couldn’t control myself and went and collided with the hard wall. Hearing my inarticulate cry, Ma looked back surprised. Feeling her way in the darkness, Ma stood before me, her eyes enlarged in shock, she sighed deeply. “You? Why are you here?”

“I — I mean — I’m here to kill the monster,” I stammered.

I saw Ma’s eyes fill with dread. Clutching my hands, she hurriedly whispered, “Leave Raju, go. Things will get bad. Why are you here?”

I was stubborn, and I, who was always easily frightened, firmly held on to the knife in my pocket, “I won’t leave, take me to the monster.”

“Why?”

“I will kill it. I won’t let you go anywhere at night anymore.” I lowered my head.

Ma was quiet. Then she let out a suppressed laughter, “Will you kill the monster?”

“Yes.”

Ma sighed after being silent for some time. She looked up cautiously. So, did the monster stay there? “Come with me. Let’s roam around the house a little.”

I roamed around with Ma through many a secret and forbidden passage and hidden chamber inside the mansion. When I almost lost my way, I stretched my hand and touched Ma’s dense, dark hair. The fragrance emanating from Ma’s skin enveloped me, and I strolled around and saw scary masks, spears, withering swords, tiger skin, buffalo heads. All the secrets of this large house lay bare before me, little by little, when Ma familiarized me with the unknown tunnel inside the dilapidated mound of sand, treacherous passageways, the yawning emptiness of the old rooms. I saw the butterfly, that had been suffused with pollen that morning, lying dead on the cold, pitiless floor. I felt bad, but I couldn’t see Ma when I turned back.

“Ma?” I called out twice. I was scared.

Suddenly, Ma startled me and came from my right. Laughing, she said, “Were you scared?”

“What if I got lost?” I was angry.

“Oh, my brave man!” Ma laughed throatily and then pointed up at the wooden beams, “Look Raju, people were hung here. Now, cobras nest in the ventilators.”

I looked up, afraid. I couldn’t see anything, but if I listened carefully, perhaps, I could hear a hissing sound. When I turned back, Ma was missing again. Laughing, she again stepped forward from the darkness after I called her.

It gradually became a game for the two of us. Ma would hide intermittently, I would try to find her and then give up angrily, she would then step out suddenly from behind the broken pillar, or the raised platform in the distance. My eyes became used to the darkness while I was roaming around in this delusion. I had grown tired. I finally sat, supporting myself against the wall.

There was no sound anywhere. All the four corners were still. A little later, I called out, “Ma!”

No one replied. I called out again, “I want to go home, I’m sleepy.”

A rough wind permeated my bones and circled around a little. My head felt heavy, my throat was dry. The wind had made me uncomfortable. The surroundings turned quieter. The insides of my chest thrummed unevenly. I moved ahead slowly through the passage. I didn’t believe that anyone had ever come to this part of the house. It was not even as ornamented as that palace of hell. My feet brushed against something. Bending down, I noticed after some time that it was a dead rabbit, the friend who had told me about the old woman of Time. My chest felt empty, I called Ma twice. But I could hear neither Ma nor Angry Man’s cough, and neither did the monster step forward. Throwing away the knife in my pocket, I ran across this passage and that tunnel, the dance room, the verandah where people were hung, the secret chambers. I searched everywhere but I didn’t find Ma’s familiar smell anywhere. My eyes became clouded, and there was a lump of pain in my throat. Looking at the buffalo’s head in the darkness, my chest grew heavy and numb because I didn’t know the way back. I didn’t even know if I would ever be able to find Ma again. I also didn’t know if her lost redolence like dewdrops would douse the cruelty of the mysteries that pricked my body, or if I would be left to roam indefinitely in this primitive house for the length of my life.

But I still believe that Ma, my sleeping princess, was trapped in that darkness for life, and the monster, pouring all his hoarded love, had turned blue this elusive, fascinating being.

– National Ukrainian song

When the Vasylkovs’ willow dried out, the family decided to leave.

The Vasylkovs lived near the forest, where the houses were new and extravagant. Few people liked them because Oleg, the father, worked in the town, and their mother never bought anything from the local shop. The kids were like everybody else though: bruised knees and elbows, grimy faces, funny laughs behind jagged teeth.

Zhenya knew they were lucky. Their old but sturdy house, built by her great-grandfather, was at the crossroads far from the Vasylkovs. Her father was neither a policeman nor a rich man, but the news came to him first, like gifts. People brought their words, pains, and fears to him. Perhaps because he had plenty of others’ dreams, her father had never had his own. He had a tanned, sharp, and noble face — as a kid, Zhenya often imagined all knights in fairy tales with his chin. And not a single person dared call him a rascal.

Zhenya’s father had always been the head of the village, though power had never tempted him. Maybe that was the reason everyone liked him so much. The habit repeated itself: the news about the Vasylkovs’ willow was brought to them first.

“Talk to him,” said Maria, nervously studying the window. “Olezhka’s ready to leave. He’s not completely insane, is he?”

“He isn’t local,” answered Zhenya’s father. “Hard to guess what’s in his head.”

Zhenya saw the doubt on his face. That was why no one wanted the newcomers in the village: they lacked the guts to sprout here, and their trees were weak too. Far worse: the Vasylkovs had almost cut down theirs when they moved in! They would’ve been refused their house deal had her father not intervened. It was strange, in a way. The willow near their house was watching them from above every night, and they didn’t even know. It was watching, without averting its gaze, and it knew where everyone slept.

“I’m coming with you,” Zhenya caught her father’s sleeve as soon as Maria left. “I’ve got to learn, after all.”

He gave her a small sort of smile. Their family had only one child, and it would be only Zhenya who would listen to the future people’s grief. She already knew them — saw them in her dreams. She was visiting everyone head by head, like houses. Zhenya was her mother’s daughter, after all; it had taken years for them to get used to her.

“Just don’t make them too uncomfortable,” her father said softly. “We need them to stay.”

Spring was cool, as if it shied away from the village, kissing it lightly and stepping back. Her light touch was barely audible in the air. The motionless branches looked dead when Zhenya and her father went outside the yard. It felt like bad weather. Moribund.

While they were walking to the Vasylkovs’ house, Zhenya saw frightened faces in the windows: children and adults who did not want to go outside and join the talk. They didn’t want to look at the willows in their yard, like a person with cancer who would not want to know their diagnosis. But they watched anyway. Tall, strong silhouettes, like elongated figures, were waiting for them.

It seemed to Zhenya that those peeking at them from every yard were not only people. The willows, leaning forward, almost climbing out of the ground, reached out to them, bent their long, delicate hair-like branches, and almost touched the road. Scratched their heads with catkins. Zhenya jumped over the puddle, slipping on the dirt —

The wood creaked right next to her. Above her ear.

She turned sharply and raised her head. The dark crest of the tree kept looking at her, peering into the depths of her pupils. A chill slowly crept up her spine. The thin fingers of fear.

“Zhenya,” her father called, “Don’t look.”

She ran after him. Ancient, wise, hungry creatures these were. There was something predatory about them, as if this motionlessness, this being stuck in the ground was an artifice. As if they were playing a game: look away — and they will catch up.

Everyone in the village had hoped that her father would persuade the Vasylkovs to stay. Zhenya looked uncertainly at the high fence, the new car, the dry twigs near the roof of the house and muttered:

“How did they last so long? Did you look after their tree yourself?”

Her father stayed silent. He probably had something to say because he was gentle, weak towards his wife and daughter, never saying a rude word to them. But he did not say anything this time because Oleg opened the gate and went out to the car. His face was sweaty despite the weather, and his hands held the boxes too tightly. His fingers were whitened from the power of his grip. Her father looked behind him, but Zhenya already knew everything herself; she moved aside, hid her hands behind her back, and stood up like a guard. She was always a bit of a wild child, slow in her movements, but something about her, despite all her attempts to appear nonchalant, scared people. While her father got people’s respect, Zhenya… Zhenya was needed so that they did not run away. Sometimes, they joked about it at home when no one heard. Mother always laughed the most.

“Ivan,” said Oleg gloomily, and then to her: “Hello, kiddo.”

They always spoke to her like that, as if the name did not belong to her. Zhenya did not even blink. Her father took Oleg by the shoulder when he put the box down and faced him. He was strong — stronger than most — but his fingers were relaxed. Calm. Oleg was standing like a statue; his shoulders shook like twigs in the wind.

“You don’t have to do this,” said her father, “you know, Olezhka. Just plant a new one.”

Olezha had the face of a wounded dog. Zhenya knew that he would die soon. It was similar to an apprehension some people possessed when they guessed the weather in the evening.

“Your Katya should have told us,” Oleg spat on the ground. “And now what?”

Something passed between them. Zhenya stared at the grass. She hated people attacking her mother, but she knew there was no use arguing. Her father cleared his throat, and his courage almost broke.

“She is sick,” said her father, “she can’t guess anymore. The Kovalchuks’ tree is already dry. Old Liuda’s, too. Don’t take that on your conscience. Plant a new one. Stay.”

Instead of eyes, Oleg had bottomless wells.

“It has already infected those houses, Ivan. I have two children.”

Zhenya kept looking at his shoes, at the old sneakers, green from grass and paint, and thought: who will catch up with him? No one plants willow trees in cities. There is no need. But Oleg would bring his disease into the world, and they would find him, and he would not rest. She had dreamed about it, but dreams, like tree seeds, had a tendency to scatter everywhere. Not all of them sprouted.

“At least close the windows,” said her father, “and they won’t get in on the first day even without you inside.”

Because willows were about home. About people on the other side. What climbed from the dead trunks did not spread to other families until it opened the house like a shell. And it was the duty of everyone who lived in the village to be a bank that could not fall. An obstacle.

“Well,” said Oleg, “I’m not a complete asshole.”

He didn’t look at them anymore.

On the first day, they loaded the car. On the second, they left. On the third, twenty people gathered, all of them with seedlings. Zhenya was among them, holding two pieces. But she had to do everything herself. People always dropped stuff when she was around.

She slowly dug a hole, stroked the tiny leaves like they were puppies, and urged them to grow. She listened to the noise of people while the sky above them slowly darkened.

In the morning, before the fog had lifted, they found the Kovalchuks on a willow. Father, mother, son, swaying. It was a high tree, protected for generations. The legs barely rocked without the wind.

“Don’t look,” her father told her, “Zhen’ka.”

But she did anyway. She noticed that the Kovalchuks’ son, Kolya, had rather tiny feet.

Her father covered her face with his wide palm, and the dry hand softly hid everything from her.

“Turn away. Stop! No. Find their cat. The black one, remember? Take it home.”

They knew the cat would be alive because it was not human. Zhenya remembered it: small and weird-looking, a little cross-eyed. Cross-eyed cats sometimes wander into the wrong places. So they say. Zhenya knew that such creatures had better intuition, and she rushed to the Vasylkovs as soon as a black tail appeared behind the fence. Her father also saw that and did not stop her.

Strange, Zhenya thought, crawling through the hole in the fence, and the house was still standing. If they broke into it, there would be cracked windows and broken doors, not a home but merely a box. And this one looked as if nothing had happened.

Zhenya went around the house, not looking at the tree trunk. She had heard that they were climbing out from there after the tree had died. Where there was an old hollow, something slowly moved and shuffled, and the noise grew.

Something blew into her ear, like her mother in childhood, and Zhenya turned her head a little and felt the cold slowly flowing under her feet from the dry roots. It was as if something slowly creeped out from there, pulled out of the ground like rot. She never looked. The cat didn’t look, and she wouldn’t. Animals are smart. The wet grass tickled, said sorry, sorry, and rustled sadly. All the windows looked at her with black eyes, barely catching the sun’s rays. Dead, the house stood still, deceptively friendly. Like a trap.

Zhenya stepped aside and made an arc around the house. She went out into the backyard, which was littered with old things. She looked at the windows behind. They were closed tightly.

Except a window into the basement.

Zhenya felt a damp fear slide down her neck.

There was no need to break the glass or the door if at least one way was open. They climbed into the house and studied it, felt the walls, penetrated the floor, the ground, and furniture, and the place was lost. And then they attacked the neighbors.

“Prick,” hissed Zhenya.

Oleg had propped up the window with books, leaving it wide open. He did not protect his own house, and in taking his barrier down, he had let the putrid current from the dead willow’s heart flow through the Kovalchuk’s house. His house was a lost cause, and it didn’t stand its ground, the barrier disappearing instead of resisting the attack. Oleg gave the Kovalchuks up to the creatures like a badly wrapped present.

If the families’ willows didn’t die out and continued to grow, they weren’t found on the branches. Everyone knew it, and everyone was ready. But such families were few.

From morning till the evening, the children collected catkins around the lakes and near their houses, passing them from hand to hand, from palm to palm. And put them on the windows and around their homes. Little by little, the smiles disappeared from their faces, something empty nesting in their eyes. House after house fell like dominoes. The cemetery, which had known no deaths for years, was expanding, and the smell of damp earth hung in the air. That’s why they didn’t hope anymore.

Within a month, the Hudymchyks’ willow tree also withered. They were neighbors. Zhenya was playing with Liza, their youngest daughter, in her yard, but the girl kept turning her head, looking back at the dead tree. Zhenya didn’t look. She believed that it could feel and get inside.

“Can’t your dad do something?” asked Liza. “Anything at all?”

Zhenya counted her own fear through the beats of her heart against her ribs. She had already thought everything through. Everything she could. She considered offering Liza to stay at her place for the night, but the shadow on Lisa’s face stopped her. Anguish had already left a mark on her; you couldn’t hide that in the house.

So Zhenya knew that Olezha and his family were dead. She heard the Vasylkovs’ willow breathing heavily with strained dry branches and felt its sad murmurs when she watched the family’s house and its closed door. Good riddance. Not Liza, though. Not all the others.

Words got stuck in her throat, but she did not cry. Zhenya restrained herself, knowing that if she revealed her alarm, it would only rot Liza’s mood. And the willows needed to be believed in.

“Listen, Lizka, my folk’s the same as yours,” said Zhenya, “and you planted the new ones. They started to grow, didn’t they?”

Liza looked at the thin trees, caressed by the weak spring’s warmth. A crinkle passed between her eyebrows. She thought intensely.

“They did.”

At night, after closing the windows and hiding the cattle, Zhenya and her father listened to the night. Zhenya looked into the living room, coming into the pale light of the TV. Her mother was silently crying, covering her face with her hands. She fell ill and could no longer hear the willows. Zhenya thought that she also heard them sometimes. Their rustling of leaves, their hungry sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh, like a creature lulling a child to sleep before suffocating it. But her mother was like a radio station, and instead of music, she heard the tongue of trees. Zhenya sat beside her and patted her shoulder awkwardly, like any daughter trying to comfort her mother. She heard her father enter the room and listened to his soft steps approaching. He surrounded them with such peace and warmth that even Zhenya’s tears stung her eyes.

“This has happened many times before you, and it will happen after you,” said her father into her mother’s hair. It was thick, curled at the tips, and it tickled Zhenya’s cheeks. It looked a bit like the catkins. Zhenya could feel how calmly her father’s heart was beating and wondered: was he telling the truth, or had he learned to lie calmly?

They went to sleep. Tears always made her fall asleep better.

The thump was quiet and stealthy, and the hair on Zhenya’s arms rose up. The house was asleep, but they had woken up outside.

If she didn’t listen, she could imagine rain pounding on the walls and roof, sickeningly beating its rhythm. She could open the window, place her palm under the drops, and catch one.

Or they would catch her.

It sounded like hundreds of paws running on the Hudymchyks’ house.

A few passed right along her bedroom wall, jumped on the window, and Zhenya pressed herself against the bed, petting the dog. It twitched a little, and Zhenya felt the animal’s pulse racing against her fingers, fearing that it would now snap, revealing them, and the creatures would turn their heads to the two imposters, catch the glance of them through the curtains, absorb their fear.

All sound vanished from the street.

Zhenya kissed the dog on the nose and smoothed its ears, mentally asking: be quiet, oh pretty please, don’t whine. Her heart pounded in her throat, and she didn’t know whether they were noisy because she couldn’t hear anything underneath the static in her head.

Slowly, very slowly, the dog fell asleep. Fear left Zhenya’s body in waves, leaking from the sweat, and she started to dream, wrapping her arm around the dog. It seemed to her that this way, she could control it till the morning.

Just before dawn, she heard the glass outside cracking. At first, it was a tiny, barely audible sound, like the distant buzzing of a mosquito, then an explosion, as if someone had yanked it with all their might. Zhenya sat up sharply, forgetting all about caution, and her consciousness was going away with the sound of the glass breaking. The dog was nowhere to be seen, and Zhenya slowly stood up, burning her feet against the cold floor. Now, it was no longer quiet. It was complete chaos.

She pulled the curtain aside.

The moon was full, and everything around was gray and flat. Hundreds of bodies, black as nothing, fell through the window of the Hudymchyks’ home. The creatures were as flexible as water. There were many of them, and they crawled and covered the house with themselves.

Liza shouted, then stopped. Zhenya got up to go to another window, pressed her face against the glass—

The window was barely open, like the mouth of a half-sleeping beast. There was a shadow right next to it. Zhenya froze next to the glass, her eyes leveled with the eyeless, mouthless face. Its face was nothingness. It clung to the house like a piece of cloth, and its head spun from side to side.

It did not breathe or make noise, but the space around it seemed incredibly loud. It was looking for an entrance. It was listening.

Zhenya took hold of the edge of the window and pulled inaudibly, not breathing.

She knew that it came from the Hudymchyks and didn’t get lost — the creature was looking for more. There were many of them against her wall: bodies in a negative photograph. They pressed against the glass on the other side so the sky vanished.

Zhenya pulled again. Her fingers barely found the thin handle. She was shaking. She tried again, but her fingers did not obey.

Zhenya swallowed. She made a movement so rash and quick that she almost slammed the window. The glass began to crack from the pressure of bodies. She stopped a second before making a sound.

She bit her cheek from the inside, slowly rocking her whole body, coaxing herself to calm down, and with that movement, slowly, centimeter by centimeter, she closed the window.

Her wet palm froze in front of a creature’s face. It poked its face into the glass. Let me in, asked the creature silently. Zhenya sucked in air through her teeth and froze. She could no longer feel her fingers.

Someone shouted — and the creature jerked away. They all ran, and their stomping rang through the house for the last time.

Liza’s mother screeched. The sky became visible again.

By the end of the month, the bodies hung like bells in front of almost every house. The willows were no longer protecting them, only letting more and more creatures out. Children were not allowed outside, and their thin parents were trudging and collecting the remains of catkins, boarding up windows and doors. The streets became empty.

Zhenya went downstairs and saw two silhouettes, her father and mother, against the background of a foggy window. Everything was gray and melted in the air. And they? They were as if carved from wood. But Zhenya stepped forward, the board creaked under her feet, and they slowly turned their heads towards her. They did not retreat, did not run away. Her parents had always loved each other simply and honestly, and it was the best truth about her life, the first she had learned after their love for her. The same was happening right before her eyes. She was made of their faces, their bodies, woven from their emotions, and everything they felt, she also knew.

“No,” said Zhenya, “no, no.”

The light did not pour but slowly flowed through the curtains, threadlike, not the enemy of darkness, but its lazy, attentive brother. Her mother patted Zhenya on the cheek as she took a step towards her, and they hugged. Zhenya’s thoughts, except for this one, were slowly decaying, but then, something was unfolding inside her, clinging to her throat, like Zhenya to her mother’s shirt.

She started to shake and cry. There was the same dead light under her eyelids. The village was slowly dying; she knew they would be the last. It should be so.

She and her father took axes and kindling. Only Zhenya cried. While Zhenya was clinging to her mother, she leaned over and kissed her daughter’s forehead. She smelled like spring, sun, and leaves.

“Sometimes it doesn’t work out, no matter how hard you try,” said her mom, “But it’s alright, little one.”

They cut down and burned all the willows in the village, both healthy and diseased. They went around all the houses, walked through every road to the forest. Few people helped them because they knew it was none of their business. Such things stay in the family.

Leaves with flowers covered the ground like a carpet. The catkins stuck to the skin, the droplets and dry branches hid behind their ears and fell into their pockets, and her father and Zhenya did not look at each other. They did not listen to the slow crackling of the fire. Like families destroyed from the root, dozens of lights emerged all over the village.

Scratches and calluses bloomed under Zhenya’s fingers, and her eyes were blinded by tears and smoke.

In the evening, when not a single willow tree remained, they walked home to the joyous, drunken shouts of the survivors. Zhenya saw small children, pregnant women, and tired men waving to them. Only the faces of the old people were sad. They did not congratulate Zhenya and her father; they mourned.

The infection passed, but the payback was theirs.

Zhenya and her father entered the house; the warm light of the corridor caught the black eyes of the open door from the shadows. No one came out to them. How difficult it was for her to take at least one step! To break this silence!

They went into the room where her mother was. It was dark there, although the moon was visible through the open window. Zhenya looked at the bed, feeling the taste of ash on her tongue. Her father allowed himself the first sob and took a step forward. His tired hands touched the bed.

They collected everything left: burnt bark instead of skin, leaves instead of braids. They took it all in their palms, kissed it, and burned it in the backyard.