| SORCEROUS SIGNALS |
| Written by Glenn Lewis Gillette / Artwork by Chaz Kemp |
| Make a donation to this writer |
| A Particular Silence |
-1-
The ground shook with fear. Elliot glanced around to be sure.
No: the park lay still, shrouded by night, without concern for Krystina.
Must be just me…with good cause.
"Mr. Cowdrey, please," the patrol cop urged. "The sooner I get my
report, the sooner you get to the hospital."
Elliot aimed his gaze at the cop's face, trying to anchor it on her blue
eyes, but…
The trees muttered with wonder.
Enchanted by his spell? The one that should not have worked…but
had?
Thank whatever powers that heard me!
No: a breeze stirred the winter-bare branches, ghostly in the
backwash of city light. That was all.
"Mr. Cowdrey, I've got to get back on patrol."
Elliot wanted to help, but he had to check on Krystina. He could no
longer hear the ambulance hauling her away. Its whiny peal of 'Back
off! Back off!' had faded. Running hot, as they say, despite the EMT's
assuring smile and words: "She's stable. We'll take good care of her."
Tuning out his physical senses, Elliot tapped into the universe. Even
before he'd met Krystina, he'd been able to feel her out there; being guided toward him. A single, pure,
wonderful note. Ever more loudly so that he'd known, not who, but when they would merge and that
they would thereafter go on together, constantly in touch somehow.
Yes, there she was, A-flat two octaves below middle-C—alive still. Joy rose to welcome the note again,
calming the quake inside him, but not completely.
"Here, take my card." The cop nudged, jolting him back. "Call me when…"
Behind her words, Elliot caught something else. "Tsk-tsk," repeating like a metronome set for a dirge.
Disapproval from someone in the small crowd who'd gathered to gawk. Elliot leaned to peer at them past
the officer's peaked hat. Just backs of coats and hats, milky clouds of breath, as they yielded to orders
from the cop's partner.
"I can talk now." Elliot bunched his shoulders within his own sheepskin jacket and described what had
happened.
"My wife Krystina and I walk in the park after supper, a 'constitutional' we call it. We picked this
neighborhood just for that, despite the high rent on a grad-student's budget. Krystina works long
hours at the university, so we eat late, then we walk, sharing our day."
"We try to pay attention, try to recognize and greet our neighbors, but this evening, I was wound up—
I'd cracked a particularly hard plot problem in the novel I'm working on—and very involved in telling
Krystina, so I didn't notice till he was right on us." Images replayed, low-resolution, gray tones, his
words so like a voiceover in an old film noir. "He broke from behind a tree." Elliot pointed. "That one." A
sprawling oak, wide as a stack of barrels. They loved that tree, venerable, yet commonplace. Would they
still love it when Krystina came home? Would she come home? He needed to go to her, yet even now he
just couldn't tell a short story. That's why he wrote novels.
"He ran right between us, grabbing her purse. She carried it on a strap, over her shoulder, on the inside,
as she's supposed to. I forget why she brought it. Oh, yeah, we needed milk. From the market." He
waved toward that end of the park. "Hunched over, arms across his middle, but apart, you know, like in
football." Why hadn't the mugger come from behind? "He hit us hard, split us, took the purse, but it
didn't come loose." Why not wait till we passed, then snatch it? "Because of the strap." Instead, he gave
us a chance to react.
"But I didn't."
Tsk-tsk.
Elliot glanced again for whoever said that. He saw nobody but the other cop scanning the scene with a
flashlight.
"'Didn't' what, Mr. Cowdrey?"
Elliot shook himself. "Krystina hung on, or she couldn't get free of the strap, so he…" No image this time,
just a clutch of emotions twisting his gut. Elliot sucked in cold, dry air to dilute them. "He hit her. Not
just his fist, something hard. It gleamed as he swung. I watched it come around…" An image now, slow-
motion to match his words. "A long arc, but so fast. It hit her head, near her ear—it bent her skull. I
watched it break her skull. I just stood there and watched it." Crap! He wasn't supposed to say that
part, but it—it just wouldn't keep—how could he not tell about that sickening blow? Would he play the
next part better?
"There was nothing you could do, Mr. Cowdrey."
"Huh?" Elliot stared into those world-weary eyes, alert under the tilted black visor. "Nothing?"
She shook her head. "Only if you're trained and know it's coming, or highly trained so it's reflex. So few
people are. It nearly always happens this way. Don't beat yourself up."
But sniping at him through her little speech: tsk-tsk, giving voice to his guilt. No champion, you. No
triumph earned.
Pushing past that, Elliot reached for the lie they'd invented, then rehearsed while waiting for the
ambulance.
First, a little more truth. "Krystina went down. He—the mugger—grabbed her purse and ran off across
the park." He waved again, an awkward, obvious gesture. "I grabbed my cell-phone to call 911 and
remembered her exploding purse."
"'Exploding purse?'"
Elliot tried his boyish grin, felt it work as it had since he'd discovered it at ten. "That's what I call it. It's
like those dye packets banks put with stolen money. It's hooked to a pager. So while talking to the
emergency dispatcher…" such stagey dialog, but he stuck with the impromptu script "…I took Krystina's
cell-phone out of her coat pocket and hit her speed-dial, and it worked. Packets sewn on the outside of
the purse burst, making a bright—but cool…" lifted straight from Krystina's advertising campaign, which
she hadn't gotten around to launching yet "…flash while spurting out a phosphorescent dye. I warned
the dispatcher who warned you guys, remember?"
The cop nodded.
"So the other patrol-car caught the mugger while you came here to help us." Elliot wanted to go on, but
they'd agreed on a pat ending. "Thanks for getting here so quickly."
The cop returned a warm smile—Does she rehearse that?—and said, "I'm glad we could. One thing,
though: you said you saw her skull crushed in?"
Elliot panicked, then snatched a bit of truth as the nucleus of another lie. "I'm a writer. I guess my
imagination just got away from me, what with fear driving it. You heard the EMT: she'll be fine. The
mugger must've missed after all."
"Must have," the cop said skeptically, or maybe he just imagined that. "Anything else you want to say?"
"No, that's it. Thanks again."
"Well, we better get back on the job. Will you be okay by yourself?"
"Yes. We live right over there. I can drive to the hospital." Elliot gave a limp wave and pushed himself in
that direction.
At the curb, waiting for traffic, he tuned in Krystina again. There she was! Her A-flat note still strong. He
closed his eyes with relief.
The universe's resilient fabric ran in all directions at once, and somehow, just after puberty, he'd figured
out how to lay an inner ear against it, like listening to a train track. Even back then, Krystina had
dominated the spectrum, though it had taken him another seven years to actually touch her. He wanted
to never let go, though he understood that one day, the universe would force him to. At least, today
wasn't that day.
Elliot allowed himself a look back into the park. The crowd was long-gone. The cops climbed back into
their patrol-car. Nothing left to show Krystina had lain there, dying right before his eyes, the thrum of
her lifeforce fading from his mind. Blood seeped from her dented skull. Her face slack and pale even in
dim light, gone even more grainy as his eyes pooled with tears. He wanted to gather her up, but didn't,
just in case the EMTs could do something, in case physical reality offered help and he shouldn't make it
worse.
He did pray, though.
First, a fervent plea straight to a misbegotten universe that gave, then took away: "I want her back!"
Then, a scurrying, stumbling rendition of the Lord's Prayer he'd learned as a child, just in case there was
some connection between God and the universe.
Nothing happened.
Hard to tell, though, because the night between them thickened with sepia motes like freckles in the air.
Some kind of dust? Or nothing more than his tears?
Still, her blood oozed. Still, her eyelids clung to her eyeballs like shrouds. Absolutely nothing changed!
Elliot tried magic, the only kind he knew, the kind he'd made up for the world of his young-adult fantasy
novel. Specifically, the healing spell intoned by his protagonist Claryn at the climax:
"The joy of a bee in the spring meadow.
"The ease of a babe on the breast asleep.
"The peace of a sunset sprawled o'er the sea.
"The zest of a yearling racing his pals.
"I call for that now.
"I call for that here.
"I call!"
And it worked! Her skull filled out once more.
It should not have, but it did. Krystina stirred.
Her eyelids lifted as though from a nap, her face rosy and unbloodied. She stirred, but he urged her to
lie still. Surprisingly, she did, though her eyes questioned. He told her what he'd done. She smiled
sweetly, patient as always with his imaginings. "Call the purse," she instructed. "I want time to figure out
what really happened. Too much fuss if we mention anything like magic. Here's what we'll say instead."
Other than that, it was just like he'd told the cop.
-2-
Dawn drove off the dark, but not Elliot's fears. Only magic could account for Krystina's recovery, but he
couldn't be sure what kind. Real or disguise? True healing or merely a glamour? If the former, then he'd
done it himself, as impossible as it might seem. If the latter, then somebody else was making the magic
and he had to discover what they were up to—before they lifted the spell and death came calling on
Krystina again. He hadn't stopped its first assault. He would do better next time. A lot better, he
promised.
But, first, he had to make sure she stayed safe while he found out more. The hospital would serve well,
but how could he convince her to stay? He'd left her unhurt, pain-free, and in good hands, kept
overnight for observation only. They'd be letting her go soon.
Elliot charged into the hospital, hoping inertia would drown anxiety. He expected haughty doctors, crusty
nurses, and Krystina, a force in her own right. He just wasn't all that good at twisting arms. Emergency
Room doors fell open, and he angled across the waiting room toward reception.
"Easy!" Krystina hissed. "Easy, over here!" Elliot Cowdrey, E.C., Easy.
Tucked away behind a potted ficus, she huddled beneath a clump of thin blankets. She wore a patient's
gown. Smudges highlighted her blue-gray eyes. She hadn't slept well, if at all. So much for the "good
hands." Concerned, he dashed to her side.
"Why aren't you in a bed?" he demanded.
A slight nod called him closer lest somebody else overhear. "Easy, listen to me!"
He settled next to her and clasped her cool hand. It squeezed back, reassuring him.
"I felt my skull give," Krystina whispered. Picking up from last night. "I heard it crack." She shook her
head gingerly as though testing its structural integrity. "Yet they can find none of it. Of course, tests are
limited during the night, and others with obvious injuries took priority. So far, blood work, x-rays, ultra-
sound, portable CAT-scan, and nine sets of fingers. No answers
anywhere."
Elliot let go his blame of the doctors. He recognized her mood, how she got fixated on understanding a
phenomenon. He called it the 'spell of engineering,' but not to her face. She didn't like anything
resembling magic, so he didn't even hint at it. For example, he'd never told how he could feel her lifeforce
on the æther.
"I'm going to understand what happened!" Krystina braced her shoulders for the challenge. "You just go
on home. They wanted to discharge me, but we made a deal. As long as I don't take up a bed, I can
request tests. I'm going to give fluids and lie on slabs until every molecule of my being explains its
involvement."
"Costs money," Elliot pointed out, the practical one for a change.
Krystina waved at the bright chairs and green walls. "That's why I'm still down here. One deductible no
matter how many tests. Perk of the Berkheim Fellowship in Mechanical Engineering. Makes up a little for
the slave wages, interminable hours, and zero recognition."
Showing off, but it meant she was feeling better…or wanted him to think that. Which suited him just fine.
Elliot played along. "I should've known." He let a yawn break out, not completely fake. "I didn't sleep well
either." That much was true. "I'll go nap on the couch…" that wasn't "…and come back after lunch." And
that part would depend on what he found out about his own phenomenon.
"Okay."
He kissed her full lips. They trembled just a bit, though she slipped him some tongue to cover it up. He
pulled away, then went back to kiss her nose for extra measure, as much for himself as for her.
Then, Elliot headed home to call the only magic-friendly people he knew: his critique group.
Only one of them, Rosaline Hasselvander, picked up her home phone at this time on a weekday. Well,
two, actually, since her sister Adina lived with her. Elliot didn't care much for their politics or even their
taste in books or movies, but they livened up the group when nine wannabe writers met twice a month.
Their critiques, which complemented each other, always helped him.
He'd headed out late. A nap-attack had defeated both his best intentions and the alarm clock. He hadn't
dared call Krystina, lest she pick up on his scheme somehow, but he had listened to her: a joyfully
unwavering A-flat.
Now, he drove northeast along the Lesser Paiute River and under clear skies. Layers of neighborhoods
circled the city. He snaked through their noon traffic. Finally, he slipped into runs of prairie punctured by
windbreaks of ancient cottonwoods. Or rather the farms that required those windbreaks. In fact, he
turned at a weathered sign that read "Winchester Farm Mobile Home Park."
Laid together like parquetry, the, ah, 'mobile homes' and fenced swatches of bluegrass lawn and
premeditated trees, old and new, deciduous and evergreen, gave the community a neat, settled look that
ruffled Elliot's notion of trailer parks. No wheels or weeds in sight. Nothing up on blocks. A few well-kept
gardens turned over for winter except for riffs of tall, bird-pecked sunflowers bowing before the season.
Rosie and Adina's place fit right in.
After parking, Elliot walked cautiously up their graveled drive toward a flat roof projecting off the pale-
yellow, uh, home (not trailer). At first, he saw nothing but a brace of wheeled barbecue grills. Heat
shimmered above the closed dome-lids. Then, he could see beyond this shaded area. The autumn-
weakened sun shone bravely, taking the edge off the cool air and washing more green out of already
faded grass. Out there, a dozen or so lawn chairs had been stocked with old ladies—and a few old men—
of great variety in size, color, and configuration, all bundled in sweaters and jackets.
The carport chilled him. He looked forward to catching the sun's warmth again. However, a cloud must've
picked that moment to run interference because he emerged into a graying of the air. Specks whirled
through it, though he felt no breeze. Sepia motes, like last night. Were his eyes going bad? Some
strokes manifest this way. He wiped at his eyes quickly, but it didn't help.
"Hi, Elliot!" the lawnchair gang chorused.
Adina spoke from her chair, nearest of the group. "We told them you were coming, which of course
pricked their curiosities which of course led to a discussion of you, your work, and the critique group."
Unconcerned by the dust murking everything, she winked. "Nothing you don't already know." She waved
back over her shoulder covered by a hand-woven shawl more horse-blanket than scarf. Its earth tones
set off her rose Western-style dress accented by silvery conchos. "Help yourself," she said.
Elliot resisted scrinching his eyes against the motes—Just ignore them—and acknowledged, "Adina." He
nodded to Rosaline diametrically across the group. With a general wave, he raised his voice, "Hello,
folks!" They returned a hubbub of greetings. Eyewear glinted or glistened or gleamed on every face. He
grinned at the staccato ripple of highlights, then followed Adina's gesture.
A maplewood server stood against the mobile-home's exterior wall. On it, two urns and three slow-
cookers steamed lazily among an entourage of ladles, spoons, stir-sticks, sugar pourers, and milk jugs,
all teeming with ants. The dots before his eyes confused the issue. Yes, he did see ants. Large, husky,
red, glistening-as-they-thronged ants.
"Uh, Adina, I think you've got a problem here."
"What? Where? Oh, Gawd!"
That cry drew the ants' attention. Long antenna craned—and something else: tails, held high, with
stingers.
"Do you see them?" Elliot asked; just to make sure.
Ants don't have stingers. Scorpions then. Not this far north, but scorpions also carried claws. No claws
here.
"Gawd, yes!" Adina said. Behind her, other voices signaled sightings as well. Nobody seemed too
concerned. The equanimity of age?
The stinger-ants started down the server's legs and across the lawn. Two ordered ranks built red,
undulating trails straight toward the chairs and the people in them. The move changed reactions. Voices
were raised, queries and complaints about the ants.
At least, that's what Elliot thought till the scream "Rats!" brought him back around.
A hedge lined the back of the yard. Its naked, gray branches made a chiaroscuro of a creek running on
the other side. Trees marked the creek's sides as well. Rats erupted from the hedge branches. Large,
mottled-gray, foaming-at-the-mouth rats.
People crowded against Elliot, nudging him toward the stinger-ants. But that was inadvertent. The group
bustled on unsteady feet. A man, stepping up on his walker, barked orders. Three others, two women
and a man, moved to supervise parts of the perimeter. They all folded their lawnchairs with a ripple of
clacks and clanks, then leaning on each other, fell back into the middle. They thrust chair ends filled with
straps into the grass, sliding them together, overlapping into a shield. Not enough to stop rabid rats,
but maybe slow them down.
"The hoses!" Rosalind had come up on Elliot's left. She pointed toward the grills. Two garden hoses lay
coiled by their bases, ready in case of fire. One snaked around to the front of their place. The other
trailed past a neighbor's shed to that home's hydrant, jutting through a cinderblock. "They're already
turned on. Grab one and wash the ants back!"
Elliot glanced around for someone to do that. He observed—he wrote—he never did things. Somebody
else always stepped up on those rare times it was called for. But this time, those somebodies tottered.
Only he could hope to outrun the stinger-ants.
"Tsk-tsk," someone said. Not among the old folks who crowded him inside their rickety shield-wall.
Beyond that, somewhere. He whirled around to see who and found himself trotting. "Right," he
muttered, chagrin clamping his jaw. Should've jumped right on this. So much for his vow to do better.
He cranked his legs up to a lope.
"Power-wash nozzle!" somebody shouted behind him. "In my shed!"
Somehow Elliot knew what that meant, and he angled that way first. Luckily, the sun washed brightly
over the shed door as those pesky motes dappled everything. He could make out the door's latch and
the padlock looped through it. That wouldn't've stopped Fohgaryl, his Falstaffian comedy relief. Wanting
to be a rogue and a rake, Fohgaryl just got along as a burglar who specialized in break-ins, ground-level
and below—until he saved Claryn's life and got sucked into her quest.
Fohgaryl would just spit into his palm and mutter over it, "Fire, go slow. Iron, turn rust," then rub the
mottled red gob over the lock. It would fall away.
And it did.
Behind him, screams of terror and one of agony, so he ignored the impossible and snatched open the
shed door. A long rod with an angled head hung from a hook. He lunged in, snatched it, and popped
back out. He dashed along the hose, scooping it up. Turgid and cool, it ran through his fist as he angled
back toward the stinger-ants and rabid rats—and the dozen or so humans fending off the attacks with
aluminum tubes, plaid straps, and flailing sweaters. Two hunched together in the middle, dealing with a
wound. Crimson smeared both pasty faces.
The hose ran out before he reached a good angle on the stinger-ants. It quivered in his hand, its brass
nozzle leaking under pressure, pressure that would gush water all over if he tried to switch nozzles. He
hesitated.
"I'll do that, Easy. You make a channel."
Krystina! She jostled his elbow reaching for the stuff in his hands, then gave him that up-from-under
look, soft eyes and smiling lips with her pert nose between, that lifted his spirits and settled him snuggly
in the arms of the universe. With her at his side, they could handle this!
He said, "Channel?"
"Water, no matter how powerful the stream, won't get rid of them." She's wearing the denim pants and
jacket from last night. "They'll just re-form, go around." She's come straight from the hospital: how? I
drove our only car. "We need a channel to confine them, wash them into the creek." More important:
why? "A ditch." I'm so glad she did—but why didn't I notice her coming? If I had time now, would I
find her A-flat ringing out through the universe?
"What?" Elliot had to say because he'd not been paying attention, there at the end.
"A ditch. Like in your book."
"A moat?" Around Mallam's Keep. "But that was already there." In his novel. "They erased it." Teeter &
Totter & Fulcrum. The oddly witted triplets, who filled out Claryn's quest team, let the team invade the
antagonist's lair in the climax by erasing the monster-filled moat.
"Then un-erase it. Reverse the spell. From there…" she pointed left-handed to a spot just beyond where
Adina and Rosaline stood hip-to-hip swatting stinger-ants "…and from there…" right hand gesturing
toward the other side of the elders' enclave, now teeming with rats "…bring them together…" the hands
showed where "…then down to the creek. Got it?"
Claryn had designed a magical gimmick, a dance step actually, that inverted any spell, so Elliot said, "Got
it." Now to see if he could sing T&T&F's spell a capella while doing that inversion jig.
-3-
People had gotten hurt because of him. Elliot had to fix that. Not sure why he'd attracted this double
invasion, but pretty sure how. Magic, which he'd have to use to fix it. A snippet from the healing spell
he'd used on Krystina: "The peace of a sunset sprawled o'er the sea." It seemed appropriate to the
group. Just as soon as they'd washed away the ants and the rats.
But as Krystina drove the vermin down to the creek, so too did the sepia motes dissolve. The day
brightened, and Elliot could see better. That meant the magic faded as well. There was a connection, but
again, he couldn't be sure what.
He scrambled to help those who'd been injured. Rat bites and gouges filled in. Ant stings collapsed.
Sprains and strains, caused by the jostling, eased. Nosebleeds from the excitement dried up. But not
the questions sharpening their eyes and tongues. The man who'd barked orders, in particular, followed
along, clomping his walker, wanting to know who, why, how, especially how? The words came out dry
and sharp with an undertone of panic.
Explain or erase? Elliot worried, but the dying magic left him no choice. Leaning down, he whispered into
the old man's left ear, "The ever-shy horizon of the longest sea, the blue heart of a glacial crevasse." Ad
lib, but not bad, and it seemed to work. Elliot scurried to tend to the others, saving Rosaline and Adina
to last. Perhaps they could see what was going on here and tell him what to do.
Soon, though, he discovered Krystina huddled with the sisters, heads together in an intense conference.
He hustled over, trying to suck in the few last motes so he could breathe them out with the spell.
Krystina noticed him coming and reared back. With a fulsome wave of both arms, she thundered out his
forgetting couplet, tapped both women on the foreheads, and leaned forward expectantly.
Rosaline smiled. "Cute, honey, but it needs to rhyme."
"Elliot probably should handle the spells," Adina added. "He's pretty good at…"
That praise pleased Elliot as he cupped his hand around her ear and gushed those same words into it.
Adina converted dialog into expression, sure opinion into a quizzical look. Rosaline soon matched her.
With another gasp, Elliot spun toward Krystina with a final spell ready.
She backed off, wagging a finger. "Don't you dare!"
If anybody needed this blithe protection, she did. She fought the irrational too hard to accept proof it
could work, that it had worked right in front of her eyes. Though…wait! She had used magic, well, had
directed him how to use his magic to turn back the vermin. He cocked his head at her.
She danced back again with a silly grin.
He had to accept that because he had one more step to perform, and precious little magic to carry it out
for him. Around them, old people trying to collect their thoughts posed like Felliniesque lawn statues. He
had to synchronize them, get them back into their lives, and forget all about his coming here.
Elliot turned toward Krystina. "Get to the car. Now!"
Thankfully, she went, with him dashing right behind. At the driveway, hoping enough motes still hung
over the area, he yelled toward the back yard, "I call for that now. I call for that here. I call!" He waited till
they moved, till Rosaline swung into action, before he raced away.
Krystina stood at the driver's door. "It didn't work for me," she complained. "Why not?"
Elliot swung to the other side. "Just drive!"
***
Blacktop thrummed beneath them. Elliot just sat, cultivating a blank mind, fallow for explanations to
grow, good explanations, healthy ones. He needed them desperately.
Krystina asked quietly, "What's a 'glamour?'"
Instead, How'd she sneak up on me out at the trailer park? came to mind. I've never lost track of her
before. Is it because I wasn't a coward before? Shame chilled his gut, and he abetted it with: Or, I've
always been a coward, but just didn't know it?
"Easy!"
"What?" he had to say while realizing they'd stopped. She'd pulled off the county road onto a dirt strip.
A copse of barren trees stood aloof over them and the quiet countryside.
"Pay attention, Easy. This is important. Adina said that my healing could be a 'glamour.' Explain that."
Shocked, he said, "You told them about it?"
Krystina pumped her hands, a give-and-take. "Girl-talk, as fast as we could, because I knew what you
were bringing around. What the hell's a 'glamour?'"
She wanted an answer. More, her tone indicated she needed an answer, and he could offer only magic,
which normally didn't fly, yet here, she did seem to be working within that context.
He said, "Camouflage. Disguise."
"Well, that can't be right because we examined every cubic centimeter of my body. All clear. All normal.
All real."
Krystina just couldn't understand magic. "That doesn't eliminate a glamour," Elliot said. I'm playing with
fire here. Would a real coward even try this? A poor joke, that.
"Why not?"
"Because that's not…" Elliot breathed deep to fuel his brain and his concentration. Maybe more of an
engineering slant. "Because it works at a more primitive level in the…universe…" Krystina just stared back
as if he were spouting Klingon, a look he'd seen enough to hate, so he just added, "It doesn't work as
you're thinking it does."
"How does it work?"
"It…" He couldn't speak with much authority. "I'm new at this." He scrambled after his memory of
Adina's—or was it Rosaline's?—lecture on the topic of magic in fantasy. He snagged part of it. "There are
lots of systems. It doesn't matter which you use as long as…" Krystina's face compressed with even
more incredulity, if that were possible "…as long as you're consistent."
Then she smiled, and patience washed her face, turning it clean and lovable again. "So how did it work
these two times for you? In our universe?"
Elliot blinked as he recalled his spells, all three of them, well, four if he counted the inversion jig, no, five,
including the forgetting spell. "Just like I wrote it, except that last one, which I concocted on the spot."
He suddenly caught a glimmer of a hypothesis about that, but it needed work, a lot more work, before
he could talk about it.
Krystina said, "Your magic is different, but consistent?" She winked at him over the last word, playing
with him in this mind game.
"Yes."
"How?"
Elliot licked his lips. Krystina'd never gotten into his world like this before. Oh, she was a great listener,
most attentive during the time scheduled for him, but she wanted to hear about his process and his
progress, not what he actually wrote. He bought time by rolling down his window. Warmish autumn air
flowed in.
Krystina twisted back against her door and watched him with a soft smile and all the patience he could
want.
"For one thing," he said, "iron usually resists magic. I'm not sure why. But I…one of my characters has
power over iron, and so did I this afternoon. I spat in my hand and uttered his spell and my spit turned
red, and when I wiped it over the lock, it turned to rust and fell apart. I kind of liked that bit, but my
group, well, they said it was stupid."
"Not very supportive."
Elliot squirmed. Taking critique was so much harder than handing it out, and discerning what was useful
even more difficult. "They didn't actually use that word. It just felt like it. Rather, they opined that many
fantasy fans wouldn't believe it and fantasy editors wouldn't buy it."
"But you kept it in your book?"
Embarrassed by his temerity, he looked away. Some birds flitted in the weeds over there. "Yes."
"Good for you!"
He turned back to her with surprised eyes and a wide smile. "Really?" Maybe I'm not a coward per se,
just not a champion. The cop said so few people are.
Krystina nodded vigorously. "It's the only way to make your mark in an industry. Ride an unfashionable
horse hard and brilliantly." She narrowed her eyes like a double wink. "As long as there's no goddamned
good reason not to."
Such earthy language always discomforted—and aroused—him, and she knew it. He reached across the
car and slid his fingers through hers.
"Not now," Krystina said. "Later. Have you ever used your spells before?"
"Sure, lots of times when I was writing and re-writing and re-writing."
"Oh." She puzzled for a bit. "Have you ever voiced them before?"
"Out loud?" That sent him into memory a bit more. "Well, yes, one of my proofing steps is reading
everything aloud."
"Oh." Krystina sneered at her own thoughts, rerouting them. "Have you ever meant them before?"
"Of course not. It's fiction. It's not real, as you keep reminding me."
"Oh, that, I've changed my mind, as a working hypothesis, of course."
Elliot gaped. Not only had magic worked for real, but Krystina was—tentatively, mind you—believing in it.
He discovered his jaw flopped open and closed it.
"So you meant it?" she asked, persistent as a terrier smelling rat.
"Yes." Elliot nodded and whispered, "You were dying." Didn't need champion stuff to take action about
that.
She curled her hand around his, still nuzzling hers. "Of course," she said softly through her bedroom
smile. "And today?"
"People—other people were in danger and the ants…the ants were magic—they had stingers—and the
rats magic too, and it had worked last night, so there was a better chance, and the motes were back."
"Motes?"
"You didn't notice something like dust in the air? 'Sepia motes,'" he quoted his own thoughts.
"Blowing dust? There wasn't any wind."
"They swirled, though. You didn't see them?"
"Maybe." Suddenly coy as she usually got at the end of herding him somewhere. "What do you think it
means?"
Elliot sat back with irritation—for a change; he usually went along so hook-line-&-sinker that he didn't
chafe from her manipulation. "You saw them?"
"You first," she said through another bedroom smile. She'd seen his pullback and worked harder to keep
him in the harness. She must really like this hypothesis of hers. It's probably better than mine.
Still, her ploy worked. Normally, after stewing for a few months, he might've turned his working theory
into a story, but now, he dared to share it with his practical engineer of a wife.
"I think," he said, "somebody is pushing magic into our universe. Just a bit and just a little way." He
looked outside so he could grimace with doubt in private, then glanced at Krystina shyly. "Just around
me. A 'Bubble of Possibility,' I think I'll call it. Makes magic possible here, where normally it's not."
"A zone," she said. "A trans-dimensional hernia where it extrudes the laws of another dimension into
ours. Overlays? Or replaces?" Talking to herself mostly now. "Can't be overlay: the interference patterns
would totally disrupt our space-time continuum at a quantum level because the differences have to run
that deep. So it replaces, which means that from a Newtonian perspective, the universes must be nearly
identical. At least, I didn't notice any difference, did you?"
The sudden dialog caught Elliot by surprise. He replayed her words in his mind, then added, "No, I
didn't…except for the motes business. If it's really like that over there, I could hardly get
around for not seeing well."
"Hmm, yes. Maybe that is evidence of interference."
"You saw them, too?"
"Yes, sweetheart. Not so much last night; I was a bit out of it, but over at Adina's, yes. Like operating
through muslin."
Relieved enough to move on, Elliot asked, "Why'd you come out there? How'd you get there? I didn't…"
Embarrassed, he dropped the question. He'd definitely fail the champion exam if he'd wished her out of a
hospital to help him.
"No, silly, Yellow Cab. Aren't you glad I did?" She pushed a splayed hand across the center console,
inviting intercourse, at the finger level anyway. "I figured how to beat the invaders."
"We made a great team."
"Yes, we did."
Elliot allowed his hand to be captured and penetrated. They stroked and caressed for a bit, then ended in
a thumb-war.
"Who did it?"
"Hmm?" Elliot had allowed too much attention to wander south from their finger frolic.
"Who asserted the trans-dimensional zone into ours? Who enabled us to perform magic?"
Elliot pondered her blue-gray eyes and the mind behind them. Had Krystina just stopped there? With the
question about who? Or was she hiding more thinking about the matter?
After a pleasant moment of sharing, not thoughts, but connection, Elliot added, "And why?"
"And what are we going to do about it?" Krystina said with an arched brow and coquettish smile that
meant she'd reached her objective, enough anyway that she was now interested in intermission. She
settled herself in the driver's seat and switched on the engine. "Let's get home," she said huskily.
Elliot glanced at the isolated copse just beyond the car's nose, and the sheltered nook within it. He drew
her attention with raised eyebrows and a nod. Laughing, she shut down the car and flung open her
door. He jumped out to follow.
-4-
In Elliot's dream, the damsel screamed in A-flat. On the night-table, his cell phone rang with a crescendo
of A-flats. The dream arose out of their tactical planning. The phone call didn't, but suddenly scared it
was connected, Elliot plowed through blankets to answer it. Krystina had slipped away for her morning
run. He'd barely noticed her leaving. Now he wondered why he'd let her go.
Not how a champion would've handled it. He punched the phone on.
"Easy!" Krystina hissed. "He's come after me, not you! At least, I think it's him."
Confirmed, the scare chilled his heart. "Has he attacked you? Is he using magic?"
"No, no, I'm okay, but yes, I think there's magic. You know the south pond in the park and how the path
comes out of the woods on its north side?"
"Yes."
"Just as I ran into the clear, I saw these…more than dogs. Like a cross between wolves and wild boars.
Three big ones."
Raobine. From his book. They'd nearly destroyed Claryn's quest—and him—before he figured how she
could defeat such cruel, bloodthirsty beasts. But Krystina didn't sound besieged.
"Why haven't they attacked you?" he asked. Cold, but direct. He rolled off the bed. No hesitating now:
Krystina needed help; even if he couldn't fill the role of champion, he could do something, as he'd done
before. Their plan from last night, though, wouldn't work now.
Krystina answered: "They didn't see me—I ducked back so fast. And the wind's—there's no wind, thank
god. I'm hiding behind a tree."
"I'll call 911." Relieved: that something was calling for help. "We can't handle those…"
"No! No cops!"
"Why not?"
"We decided last night, Easy, to do this ourselves." The last word hissed. Krystina took challenges very
personally, and their invisible trans-dimensional assailant—they'd labeled him "TD Man"—had flung an
intellectual and physical gauntlet into her face—and his as well. However, Krystina preferred to go it alone
whereas Elliot…
Failure snagged its now-familiar claw into Elliot's gut. Champions ride to the rescue; they do not holler
for help from a safe distance. He kept getting it wrong. Wincing, Elliot stepped toward the closet. He
couldn't challenge raobine—and challenge he must now—in just sleepwear. But first, the phone—he
switched from hand-held to that new molded earpiece, no wires, stub microphone hugging his lobe.
Making sure it worked while making progress happen, he pressed her, "How are you going to get away
from those raobine?"
"Raobine?" Voice still low. "You know these things?"
"Yes," Elliot admitted as he clipped the phone onto his pajama bottoms. The chill of its belt clip merged
with his fear and settled into his belly, right beside his guilt.
"They're your—creations?"
"Yes." Just how much did TD Man know about him and his novel? Or was it the other way around? He'd
barely finished the book. Who else had even read it? Someone from his critique group? Behind all this?
None of this made sense, they'd agreed on that last night.
"I—I'm coming to help." Elliot pawed on sweats.
"No! I'm getting out of here. I'll be home in a few minutes, and we can start building a new plan."
Relief drew Elliot upright. Even champions could be reasonable, right? Stand back when no rescue was
needed? Yet… "Then why did you call?"
"To describe these things while they're fresh in front of my eyes. To confirm they're from another
universe. Now I'll do my best to forget them."
Reluctantly, Elliot added, "Roabine won't let you just run away. As soon as you break cover…"
"They're busy. I'm leaving now."
Fear pulsed into dread. "Busy with what?"
Krystina said, "I'm leaving now." Flat, echoing herself. An evasion. Sometimes it worked with him.
Not this time. "Busy with what?" Elliot demanded.
Sighing, she held off, then gave in and told him what she had been hiding. "An elderly couple—the
Santells, I think, but there's not enough light yet to tell for sure. The beasts surround them, snarling,
slobbering, scaring them to death. Like they enjoy the torture."
"They do." Duty swept through Elliot. He grabbed for sneakers, no time for socks.
To Krystina, he said, "You can help these people get away."
"What?" she squeaked, shredding an A-flat in the process.
That distracted him from tying the laces. "You can outwit them when I tell you how."
"No."
Elliot straightened, suddenly ashamed of his wife. Usually, her selfishness came out as ambition. She'd
always worked hard and politicked even harder to get what she wanted, leaving casualties on the
academic field of battle. Then, nothing more than their pride, and maybe their wallets, got hurt. Now,
people could die if she didn't come around.
"You can't just run away," Elliot insisted. This kind of danger called for a champion. This kind of danger
made champions, but not—obviously—out of Krystina. He'd already shown he didn't have what it took
either. Deflated, he whined at her, "Those old folks are no match for raobine!"
"No, that's exactly what I need to do: run away. That's what you do when there's no way you can win."
Actually, she did make sense, but he hated that. Yes, raobine made short work out of normal people.
Yes, they bested all but a champion: that's what told Claryn she fit the bill. Yes, these beasts could very
well kill Krystina, his wife, his beloved, his destiny. Elliot almost said, "Okay, come home."
But what had Fohgaryl told Claryn when she too wanted to run from the raobine? "Peril sets off chimes
in a champion's head. Anybody's peril. Not just loved ones. Everybody's peril. Do you hear anything?"
Claryn did, and she'd turned to defeat the raobine.
Elliot heard chimes as well. He finished his shoes. Well, not chimes as such, but more like a visceral tug,
urging him to his feet. He stood.
Now, arm himself. He looked for the kit they'd put together last night. There! Krystina had not taken it
with her, even as a precaution. Why hadn't they figured TD Man would attack this quickly? How could
they both be so stupid?
Now, engage. He slid an arm through the canvas kit's strap and headed out of the bedroom. Perhaps
he'd rewrite that whole chimes bit. He'd also complain about how much time it took just to get out the
door.
Now, Krystina again. "Have they noticed you yet?"
"I told you 'No,'" she snapped.
"I meant the Santells." Nice, frail old people. Would Krystina refocus on their need?
"I'm backing away now."
"No, wait, let me think!" He threw open their front door and leaped over the porch steps.
"About what?"
The park spread before him, backlit by a winter's late dawn. Already, commuters roared along their
street. He dashed south along the sidewalk, glancing back for a break in the cars.
Solve the problem. Engineers like that. Elliot used his logic voice: "Listen, Krystina! Get the beasts'
attention—shout or scream—then lead them away, around the pond, then jump in the water. They hate
the water. They sink like stones. Too much muscle, not enough fat." How Claryn and the others had
gotten away.
"I don't swim that well either, Easy. You know that."
Elliot finally begrudged her tone, hard, unyielding. She just wouldn't help, would make no difference for
the Santells against the raobine. That situation would either resolve or not by the time he got there.
Either way, he had to deal with the beasts himself, not let them roam free in this neighborhood, or in
this universe for that matter. What spell could he use? Wait, could he even use a spell? He searched the
park for the Bubble of Possibility that had to be operating. What would it look like from outside, from a
distance? A dust cloud? But he saw nothing like that: not enough light from the dawn yet.
"Easy?"
He almost cried, "Run, you coward!" But he recognized condemnation, what he'd have to do to forgive
her for that label, even if she never understood. Instead, he said, "Leave then. I'll pass you on the way."
"What? You're coming here?"
"Yes, I'm responsible for those beasts being there."
"Then I'll stay," she said.
Why the sudden reversal? "Krystina?"
Nothing.
Elliot pressed on his earpiece, listening hard. Distracted, he stumbled, flailed to keep his balance,
stopped, listened again. Some thrashing. Hard to hear over all the other sounds.
Then, somewhat distant, as if she stuck the phone in a sweatshirt pocket: "Get your hands off me! Who
the fuck are you anyway?"
"Choose again," a deep voice thundered at her. "I would see you choose better."
Straining to hear, Elliot almost missed the gap in traffic. He darted through it, heralded by impatient
honks. Across finally, he headed toward the pond, straight through the woods that outlined the park,
instead of taking the meandering path. Fallen leaves crunched loudly. The undergrowth whipped at him
with barren branches. Even with the earpiece maxed in volume, he could barely hear what was going on
with Krystina: some kind of argument. So he dodged back to the sidewalk and drove for the path.
Longer, but quieter.
Krystina asked, "What kind of test?" How they'd explained what was going on. The two attacks had been
set up as tests, but they hadn't settled on what or who was being tested.
TD Man—must be TD Man, come out in the open for some reason—said, "Such reveal would compromise
its result. Choose again!"
Elliot sprinted through the woods, hoping each turn would show Krystina and the situation that engulfed
her. Anything to get ready? He hated stories where the champion wasted time in transit. He fumbled the
kit around front and zipped it open. Absently, he felt around inside for the phosphorescent-dye bombs
they'd adapted from prototypes of Krystina's exploding purse.
"How many tests altogether?" she demanded. "Three? Is this the last test? Hey, goddammit!"
"Do you not see their peril?"
"I told you to get your hands off! Shit, man, keep me away from those things!"
"Choose again!"
"What choice are you giving me? Let go! Oh god, they've seen us!"
"Christ's bloody sweat, the test is yours, not mine."
The final curve at last! Elliot burst into a meadow, its narrow run of grass limp and pale with the season.
Dragged a couple yards away, Krystina, in a teal running suit, landed a kick on TD Man's shin. He winced.
She broke free and leaped toward the woods, dashing right past Elliot as he slid to a stop.
"Krys…"
"Easy!" She braked, then dodged behind him. She hugged him quickly, but fervently. "Thank god. He's
trying to kill me."
Elliot patted her hand for reassurance. Despite his chest heaving for breath, he braced his shoulders to
become a bigger shield.
TD Man also fled, from the raobine, toward Elliot who fixed finally on the beasts. Two romped in their
direction, sure of more prey, not straining to run it down, yet unwavering in pursuit. Eight or so car
lengths away. Huge and slavering and—not raobine. Too tall. Eyes too blazing, all three of them. Dappled
fur like churned river mud. An extra set of claws reaching out from each thick neck. Not his creations, so
he no longer understood them or their weaknesses. How could Krystina have possibly thought…
Enough! Elliot killed the tangent. Where's the third beast?
Beyond the two, still harassing the Santells, it had snatched the old man's cane and stood gnashing it to
pieces with great gusto, as though getting supper ready for its pack when they returned from their
errand. Mr. Santell stripped off his coat and started twirling it.
Elliot snapped a look at the pond, a possible escape. Shallow, mud-rimmed, its blue-gray water sat
turgidly under a ghostly skin of ice. Dry from the chill morning air, his throat rasped. He swallowed too
little spit to wet it. He checked on the beasts: nearer by a quarter. Dread stirred again, slid lower into his
gut. Slithery. Fluttery. He skimmed for another path through the wall of trees. None. Dark, skeletal,
undressed by winter, the woods isolated them all. The beasts: now six car lengths away, hot breath
smoking. Dread twined through his bowels, cool and clingy and—heavy, pinning him down. He sucked in
a settling breath, too quick to help much. At least the broached sun now filled the place with weak
sunlight. Undiluted sunlight. Not broken by the motes in a Bubble of Possibility. He squinted around,
hoping to locate that dratted dust! But no, no magic was possible anywhere around here. How could
they defeat these beasts then? How could anybody …unless…
TD Man stopped his rout—as though shamed by Elliot standing his ground—but kept his distance. He did
seem to be a man, not demon or alien or some other fantastical creation.
"Call them off!" Elliot bawled, heaving the words against the fear dragging at his gut, buzzing through
his nerves. Meanwhile, he wiggled his left hand, still stuck in the kit, and tapped through an inventory.
Three bombs, no more.
TD Man startled, then threw a quizzical glance. "Pardon?" He reminded Elliot of the ghost of Hamlet's
father: erect, greater-than-average height, broad chest, full-length cape closed against the cold, boots
highly polished, though they showed wear. Some gray highlighted his auburn hair, worn long and flowing.
Elliot pointed furiously. "Your beasts. Call them off. Let the others go. Your quarrel isn't with them."
Rather cliché, that line. He'd have to work on it in rewrite.
The man eyed the beasts, halfway there, romping on their way to carnage. Yet, he struck a theatrical
pose and his voice boomed. "They attend me as well as you. They intend me for meat as well as you." He
glared past Elliot, hunched to give it heft. "Act! Act now, so I may choose you!"
Krystina let go of Elliot and stepped back, saying nothing.
Elliot still searched for a better way, something other than throwing himself at the beasts. He demanded,
"You brought them here. How did you intend to stop them?"
Focused on Krystina, TD Man said, "That I leave to your Pickets."
"Who?"
"Those who keep the peace, enforce the laws, in this wondrous land." TD Man flung a gesture at the
skyline. "Surely, among your advanced machines, you have one sufficient to this demand."
Nobody else would do anything! Elliot had to. No way around it. Can I? Yes. At least give Krystina a
chance to get away. He nodded once to cinch the deal with the universe, then leaned to make it happen.
His legs faltered, weighted by dread. It pulled him down, toward a cower. His body betrayed him, afraid
of pain, of death.
His left hand still obeyed, though; it fed the dye-bomb out of the kit. His right hand splattered it
between the two beasts, maybe twenty feet off, and Elliot forgot to look away. Krystina had removed the
flash-suppressor, to slow TD Man down as well as mark him. Elliot reeled from the flash, spinning back
out of the beasts' path as he remembered it. He just hoped it affected the beasts more than him.
Their howls promised that. Mixed with yips, they retreated, more north than east.
Elliot blinked feverishly, working at the huge after-image—and found his body responding, even lively,
freed of terror by action. The stuff of champions is action? Pushing that insight away, he now followed
the beasts, slowly of course. He readied another dye-bomb, flung it after them when their complaints
quieted, when their retreat slowed. It worked, drove them further north. He'd have to deal with them
again: an echo of dread twitched his guts. Without magic! They twitched more. But for now, he had
taken back time, for Krystina—and for the Santells.
Who still faced a beast capable of gutting them with one blow. Elliot sprinted in that direction. His vision
cleared by the second. He snatched a dye-bomb out of the kit, which flopped empty. The last bomb.
Then what?
TD Man spoke, so close Elliot stumbled, almost fell. He refocused on the uneven ground and the next
snarling beast. It prowled uneasily, but stuck to its post. How soon would it act? Come to its pack's aid?
But first, make sure their prey couldn't flee?
Meanwhile, TD Man demanded, "Why do you not harry the beasts?" Didn't sound like he was running
away.
Krystina, even louder, said, "I ain't no goddamned hero. Your world doesn't have machines at all?" Not
running either. Not using the advantage Elliot had just given her. Why not? She'd been so inclined
before.
"Krystina," Elliot gasped. All this sprinting took its toll. Would his earpiece pick up his call?
She didn't answer, though.
Neither did TD Man…for a moment, then he said, "Not nearly as wonderful as yours. Nothing that flies.
Our dettras putter most laboriously compared to your thundering ground vehicles. I shall remember
them vividly. After our return, my poor descriptions may inspire Shad Dettra and our other inventors."
"Krystina!" Elliot tried to breathe deeper while still running hard, so he could urge her to help, quit
stalling around.
"So you like inventors?" Krystina asked.
"Most assuredly!"
"Krystina!" Elliot blurted. "Call the cops!" Perhaps the cavalry would spare him a fight to the death.
Instead she said, "What's this all about, then?"
A new dread bloomed higher in Elliot, stinging his heart. Not clear what Krystina intended, but suddenly,
he feared it—and hated how rescue took him away from her, how life-saving trumped love-saving.
In reply, TD Man intoned, "'Far world as close as a heartbeat.'"
"'Next world divers in time and feat.
"'To them, we spew seeds for magick.
"'Cendent spoor of heroes turn'd tragic.
"'From them, we reap rare fruit, nay, steal,
"'Pickets these be who judge, who heal,
"'Punish, rescue, curse or be-spell.
"'Hold 'gainst Wraiths that smite us from Hell.'
"Zounds, what tripe! Unkempt language bent too far for a rhyme."
Krystina said, "Why do you talk that way?"
"How do you mean?"
"'Zounds.' 'Christ's bloody sweat.'"
"Your world spoke that way the last time a Fetcher came to call. I studied the Journals. I learned your
language so I might come to Fetch one of your world who carries part of our world."
"How does that work?"
"I shall not explain that to you, only to the one who carries the spoor."
"Yeah, but you don't really want him, do you?"
Had she forgotten the phone link? That he could hear her? Or did she no longer care? His second fear
outshone his first. Loss of love more than loss of limb. Yet he couldn't, shouldn't turn from this…
The beast suddenly spun around, away from the Santells, toward Elliot. His gut froze, but not his legs.
He charged on.
"Disappointed, weren't you?" Krystina offered, all too cool. "'Tsk, tsk,' that was you, right?"
The beast stared. It raised its flat nose to sniff.
"As a Fetcher, I am sworn…"
The beast ruffled its frilly ears. It shook with indecision.
Krystina drove her words home. "I know how all these 'wonderful machines' work. What's more, I know
how to build them, manufacture them. So you can sell them."
"Surely, he knows this craft as well."
The beast snapped its head back around. Mr. Santell flinched. His wife squealed with fear. Decision made:
first them, then Elliot, then Krystina.
Time to engage. Elliot judged the range: still long, but he'd have to try anyway. To help the Santells,
that is, not himself.
"No," Krystina said. "He's just a storyteller, a dreamer."
Elliot had to hop to get the wind-up going. He lunged with the left leg, threw the dye-bomb high and far,
hoping to get it there.
"We do have need for machines as well as Pickets," TD Man said.
"What about the 'Wraiths that smite?'"
"Other Fetchers, other worlds will yield true Pickets."
Dual dreads tore at him as Elliot followed the bomb with his feet and eyes. It fell off to the right, but not
far. He flicked his gaze away to the woods, off the bomb, off the beast. No flash, though. Failure ripped
through Elliot. He stumbled, fell, took it on a shoulder, forced his feet under his body, rose again.
Somewhere in there, the bomb did explode.
The beast must've been staring right at it because it staggered, eyes scrunched closed. It mewed with
misery through a snout streaked with phosphorescent orange. Pressing this slim advantage, Elliot closed
on the beast. From the other side, Mr. Santell shrieked as he too charged, coat over his hands.
"Nothing like our wonderful machines, right?" Krystina prodded.
"I cannot know till we all gather to write our Journals."
"You can get a jump on them."
"How do you mean?"
"Get to market first. With my inventions. Cowdreys. No, make that 'Granby' once again, my maiden
name. Granbys outrun detras. Granbys clean better than whatevers."
Fire in his heart. Ice in his gut. Pincers of dread closed within him. Yet, Elliot kept on, shrugging off the
empty kit and pulling it open with both hands. Not big enough for the head. Maybe enough to hold the
snout closed. Another distraction then. Not disabling. How to kill these things?
High on the ridged forehead, the beast's third eye snapped open. It wheeled a fierce attention onto
Elliot, and the whole head followed. The mouth gaped. Fangs rimmed the maw, flashing, dripping. Amidst
them, an iridescent throat throbbed.
Elliot leaned toward that fate, away from the other, running harder. He stuffed his left hand deep into
the kit's canvas sack, then stuffed the sack deep into the maw. He reached for gut, but chickened out.
He threw himself to the side, hoping his hand came with, staring to see how it did. The gouges just
appeared. He felt nothing. Crimson stripes bloomed along his sleeve and hand. He hit the ground on the
back of his shoulder. No rolling. Just thud. Breathing stopped working. His mind, too, but not his senses.
So, he heard, "Bye, Easy," felt its finality. He couldn't react, though, even if he'd known what to do.
The beast didn't choke easily. It thrashed. It lunged. But too mad to see, it didn't attack, not directly.
Still, Elliot was only too glad to lean on Mr. Santell and get out of its way. He was even more glad when
his diaphragm finally surged and he could suck in air again.
The beast fell to its knees, then tipped over.
Shots cracked to the north and settled into a steady rat-a-tat-tat. Had Krystina finally made that call, or
someone else? No matter now.
Sounds of men running. Their body armor squeaked. Their booted feet chugged into the soil. Their
breaths huffed. Their sergeant urged them on.
Elliot straightened and listened further, with his inner ear, the one attuned to the universe, to the
beacon Krystina wove through it.
Nothing.
The universe that had assembled them had dispersed them…or had another universe intervened,
snatched her from this one? A battle between universes? Taken her where he could not follow. Not just
another place and time, but another system of places and times and rules and intelligences and destinies,
channeled off, another watershed, another sea of life to gambol in.
Would there be another him? Another she would join fates with? A champion this time? Would that
champion want her more—or better—than Elliot had? Is that why she had been snatched away?
Or was it Krystina who had wanted more? Who had run to rather than been taken?
Different ways to tell the story…later. He would be able to tell stories better…later. Suffering, the artist
grows in his art…eventually.
For right now, though, he had been left behind, with his life, yes, but nothing else except questions,
running over and over with no answers to stop them.
The ground shook with fear. Elliot glanced around to be sure.
No: the park lay still, shrouded by night, without concern for Krystina.
Must be just me…with good cause.
"Mr. Cowdrey, please," the patrol cop urged. "The sooner I get my
report, the sooner you get to the hospital."
Elliot aimed his gaze at the cop's face, trying to anchor it on her blue
eyes, but…
The trees muttered with wonder.
Enchanted by his spell? The one that should not have worked…but
had?
Thank whatever powers that heard me!
No: a breeze stirred the winter-bare branches, ghostly in the
backwash of city light. That was all.
"Mr. Cowdrey, I've got to get back on patrol."
Elliot wanted to help, but he had to check on Krystina. He could no
longer hear the ambulance hauling her away. Its whiny peal of 'Back
off! Back off!' had faded. Running hot, as they say, despite the EMT's
assuring smile and words: "She's stable. We'll take good care of her."
Tuning out his physical senses, Elliot tapped into the universe. Even
before he'd met Krystina, he'd been able to feel her out there; being guided toward him. A single, pure,
wonderful note. Ever more loudly so that he'd known, not who, but when they would merge and that
they would thereafter go on together, constantly in touch somehow.
Yes, there she was, A-flat two octaves below middle-C—alive still. Joy rose to welcome the note again,
calming the quake inside him, but not completely.
"Here, take my card." The cop nudged, jolting him back. "Call me when…"
Behind her words, Elliot caught something else. "Tsk-tsk," repeating like a metronome set for a dirge.
Disapproval from someone in the small crowd who'd gathered to gawk. Elliot leaned to peer at them past
the officer's peaked hat. Just backs of coats and hats, milky clouds of breath, as they yielded to orders
from the cop's partner.
"I can talk now." Elliot bunched his shoulders within his own sheepskin jacket and described what had
happened.
"My wife Krystina and I walk in the park after supper, a 'constitutional' we call it. We picked this
neighborhood just for that, despite the high rent on a grad-student's budget. Krystina works long
hours at the university, so we eat late, then we walk, sharing our day."
"We try to pay attention, try to recognize and greet our neighbors, but this evening, I was wound up—
I'd cracked a particularly hard plot problem in the novel I'm working on—and very involved in telling
Krystina, so I didn't notice till he was right on us." Images replayed, low-resolution, gray tones, his
words so like a voiceover in an old film noir. "He broke from behind a tree." Elliot pointed. "That one." A
sprawling oak, wide as a stack of barrels. They loved that tree, venerable, yet commonplace. Would they
still love it when Krystina came home? Would she come home? He needed to go to her, yet even now he
just couldn't tell a short story. That's why he wrote novels.
"He ran right between us, grabbing her purse. She carried it on a strap, over her shoulder, on the inside,
as she's supposed to. I forget why she brought it. Oh, yeah, we needed milk. From the market." He
waved toward that end of the park. "Hunched over, arms across his middle, but apart, you know, like in
football." Why hadn't the mugger come from behind? "He hit us hard, split us, took the purse, but it
didn't come loose." Why not wait till we passed, then snatch it? "Because of the strap." Instead, he gave
us a chance to react.
"But I didn't."
Tsk-tsk.
Elliot glanced again for whoever said that. He saw nobody but the other cop scanning the scene with a
flashlight.
"'Didn't' what, Mr. Cowdrey?"
Elliot shook himself. "Krystina hung on, or she couldn't get free of the strap, so he…" No image this time,
just a clutch of emotions twisting his gut. Elliot sucked in cold, dry air to dilute them. "He hit her. Not
just his fist, something hard. It gleamed as he swung. I watched it come around…" An image now, slow-
motion to match his words. "A long arc, but so fast. It hit her head, near her ear—it bent her skull. I
watched it break her skull. I just stood there and watched it." Crap! He wasn't supposed to say that
part, but it—it just wouldn't keep—how could he not tell about that sickening blow? Would he play the
next part better?
"There was nothing you could do, Mr. Cowdrey."
"Huh?" Elliot stared into those world-weary eyes, alert under the tilted black visor. "Nothing?"
She shook her head. "Only if you're trained and know it's coming, or highly trained so it's reflex. So few
people are. It nearly always happens this way. Don't beat yourself up."
But sniping at him through her little speech: tsk-tsk, giving voice to his guilt. No champion, you. No
triumph earned.
Pushing past that, Elliot reached for the lie they'd invented, then rehearsed while waiting for the
ambulance.
First, a little more truth. "Krystina went down. He—the mugger—grabbed her purse and ran off across
the park." He waved again, an awkward, obvious gesture. "I grabbed my cell-phone to call 911 and
remembered her exploding purse."
"'Exploding purse?'"
Elliot tried his boyish grin, felt it work as it had since he'd discovered it at ten. "That's what I call it. It's
like those dye packets banks put with stolen money. It's hooked to a pager. So while talking to the
emergency dispatcher…" such stagey dialog, but he stuck with the impromptu script "…I took Krystina's
cell-phone out of her coat pocket and hit her speed-dial, and it worked. Packets sewn on the outside of
the purse burst, making a bright—but cool…" lifted straight from Krystina's advertising campaign, which
she hadn't gotten around to launching yet "…flash while spurting out a phosphorescent dye. I warned
the dispatcher who warned you guys, remember?"
The cop nodded.
"So the other patrol-car caught the mugger while you came here to help us." Elliot wanted to go on, but
they'd agreed on a pat ending. "Thanks for getting here so quickly."
The cop returned a warm smile—Does she rehearse that?—and said, "I'm glad we could. One thing,
though: you said you saw her skull crushed in?"
Elliot panicked, then snatched a bit of truth as the nucleus of another lie. "I'm a writer. I guess my
imagination just got away from me, what with fear driving it. You heard the EMT: she'll be fine. The
mugger must've missed after all."
"Must have," the cop said skeptically, or maybe he just imagined that. "Anything else you want to say?"
"No, that's it. Thanks again."
"Well, we better get back on the job. Will you be okay by yourself?"
"Yes. We live right over there. I can drive to the hospital." Elliot gave a limp wave and pushed himself in
that direction.
At the curb, waiting for traffic, he tuned in Krystina again. There she was! Her A-flat note still strong. He
closed his eyes with relief.
The universe's resilient fabric ran in all directions at once, and somehow, just after puberty, he'd figured
out how to lay an inner ear against it, like listening to a train track. Even back then, Krystina had
dominated the spectrum, though it had taken him another seven years to actually touch her. He wanted
to never let go, though he understood that one day, the universe would force him to. At least, today
wasn't that day.
Elliot allowed himself a look back into the park. The crowd was long-gone. The cops climbed back into
their patrol-car. Nothing left to show Krystina had lain there, dying right before his eyes, the thrum of
her lifeforce fading from his mind. Blood seeped from her dented skull. Her face slack and pale even in
dim light, gone even more grainy as his eyes pooled with tears. He wanted to gather her up, but didn't,
just in case the EMTs could do something, in case physical reality offered help and he shouldn't make it
worse.
He did pray, though.
First, a fervent plea straight to a misbegotten universe that gave, then took away: "I want her back!"
Then, a scurrying, stumbling rendition of the Lord's Prayer he'd learned as a child, just in case there was
some connection between God and the universe.
Nothing happened.
Hard to tell, though, because the night between them thickened with sepia motes like freckles in the air.
Some kind of dust? Or nothing more than his tears?
Still, her blood oozed. Still, her eyelids clung to her eyeballs like shrouds. Absolutely nothing changed!
Elliot tried magic, the only kind he knew, the kind he'd made up for the world of his young-adult fantasy
novel. Specifically, the healing spell intoned by his protagonist Claryn at the climax:
"The joy of a bee in the spring meadow.
"The ease of a babe on the breast asleep.
"The peace of a sunset sprawled o'er the sea.
"The zest of a yearling racing his pals.
"I call for that now.
"I call for that here.
"I call!"
And it worked! Her skull filled out once more.
It should not have, but it did. Krystina stirred.
Her eyelids lifted as though from a nap, her face rosy and unbloodied. She stirred, but he urged her to
lie still. Surprisingly, she did, though her eyes questioned. He told her what he'd done. She smiled
sweetly, patient as always with his imaginings. "Call the purse," she instructed. "I want time to figure out
what really happened. Too much fuss if we mention anything like magic. Here's what we'll say instead."
Other than that, it was just like he'd told the cop.
-2-
Dawn drove off the dark, but not Elliot's fears. Only magic could account for Krystina's recovery, but he
couldn't be sure what kind. Real or disguise? True healing or merely a glamour? If the former, then he'd
done it himself, as impossible as it might seem. If the latter, then somebody else was making the magic
and he had to discover what they were up to—before they lifted the spell and death came calling on
Krystina again. He hadn't stopped its first assault. He would do better next time. A lot better, he
promised.
But, first, he had to make sure she stayed safe while he found out more. The hospital would serve well,
but how could he convince her to stay? He'd left her unhurt, pain-free, and in good hands, kept
overnight for observation only. They'd be letting her go soon.
Elliot charged into the hospital, hoping inertia would drown anxiety. He expected haughty doctors, crusty
nurses, and Krystina, a force in her own right. He just wasn't all that good at twisting arms. Emergency
Room doors fell open, and he angled across the waiting room toward reception.
"Easy!" Krystina hissed. "Easy, over here!" Elliot Cowdrey, E.C., Easy.
Tucked away behind a potted ficus, she huddled beneath a clump of thin blankets. She wore a patient's
gown. Smudges highlighted her blue-gray eyes. She hadn't slept well, if at all. So much for the "good
hands." Concerned, he dashed to her side.
"Why aren't you in a bed?" he demanded.
A slight nod called him closer lest somebody else overhear. "Easy, listen to me!"
He settled next to her and clasped her cool hand. It squeezed back, reassuring him.
"I felt my skull give," Krystina whispered. Picking up from last night. "I heard it crack." She shook her
head gingerly as though testing its structural integrity. "Yet they can find none of it. Of course, tests are
limited during the night, and others with obvious injuries took priority. So far, blood work, x-rays, ultra-
sound, portable CAT-scan, and nine sets of fingers. No answers
anywhere."
Elliot let go his blame of the doctors. He recognized her mood, how she got fixated on understanding a
phenomenon. He called it the 'spell of engineering,' but not to her face. She didn't like anything
resembling magic, so he didn't even hint at it. For example, he'd never told how he could feel her lifeforce
on the æther.
"I'm going to understand what happened!" Krystina braced her shoulders for the challenge. "You just go
on home. They wanted to discharge me, but we made a deal. As long as I don't take up a bed, I can
request tests. I'm going to give fluids and lie on slabs until every molecule of my being explains its
involvement."
"Costs money," Elliot pointed out, the practical one for a change.
Krystina waved at the bright chairs and green walls. "That's why I'm still down here. One deductible no
matter how many tests. Perk of the Berkheim Fellowship in Mechanical Engineering. Makes up a little for
the slave wages, interminable hours, and zero recognition."
Showing off, but it meant she was feeling better…or wanted him to think that. Which suited him just fine.
Elliot played along. "I should've known." He let a yawn break out, not completely fake. "I didn't sleep well
either." That much was true. "I'll go nap on the couch…" that wasn't "…and come back after lunch." And
that part would depend on what he found out about his own phenomenon.
"Okay."
He kissed her full lips. They trembled just a bit, though she slipped him some tongue to cover it up. He
pulled away, then went back to kiss her nose for extra measure, as much for himself as for her.
Then, Elliot headed home to call the only magic-friendly people he knew: his critique group.
Only one of them, Rosaline Hasselvander, picked up her home phone at this time on a weekday. Well,
two, actually, since her sister Adina lived with her. Elliot didn't care much for their politics or even their
taste in books or movies, but they livened up the group when nine wannabe writers met twice a month.
Their critiques, which complemented each other, always helped him.
He'd headed out late. A nap-attack had defeated both his best intentions and the alarm clock. He hadn't
dared call Krystina, lest she pick up on his scheme somehow, but he had listened to her: a joyfully
unwavering A-flat.
Now, he drove northeast along the Lesser Paiute River and under clear skies. Layers of neighborhoods
circled the city. He snaked through their noon traffic. Finally, he slipped into runs of prairie punctured by
windbreaks of ancient cottonwoods. Or rather the farms that required those windbreaks. In fact, he
turned at a weathered sign that read "Winchester Farm Mobile Home Park."
Laid together like parquetry, the, ah, 'mobile homes' and fenced swatches of bluegrass lawn and
premeditated trees, old and new, deciduous and evergreen, gave the community a neat, settled look that
ruffled Elliot's notion of trailer parks. No wheels or weeds in sight. Nothing up on blocks. A few well-kept
gardens turned over for winter except for riffs of tall, bird-pecked sunflowers bowing before the season.
Rosie and Adina's place fit right in.
After parking, Elliot walked cautiously up their graveled drive toward a flat roof projecting off the pale-
yellow, uh, home (not trailer). At first, he saw nothing but a brace of wheeled barbecue grills. Heat
shimmered above the closed dome-lids. Then, he could see beyond this shaded area. The autumn-
weakened sun shone bravely, taking the edge off the cool air and washing more green out of already
faded grass. Out there, a dozen or so lawn chairs had been stocked with old ladies—and a few old men—
of great variety in size, color, and configuration, all bundled in sweaters and jackets.
The carport chilled him. He looked forward to catching the sun's warmth again. However, a cloud must've
picked that moment to run interference because he emerged into a graying of the air. Specks whirled
through it, though he felt no breeze. Sepia motes, like last night. Were his eyes going bad? Some
strokes manifest this way. He wiped at his eyes quickly, but it didn't help.
"Hi, Elliot!" the lawnchair gang chorused.
Adina spoke from her chair, nearest of the group. "We told them you were coming, which of course
pricked their curiosities which of course led to a discussion of you, your work, and the critique group."
Unconcerned by the dust murking everything, she winked. "Nothing you don't already know." She waved
back over her shoulder covered by a hand-woven shawl more horse-blanket than scarf. Its earth tones
set off her rose Western-style dress accented by silvery conchos. "Help yourself," she said.
Elliot resisted scrinching his eyes against the motes—Just ignore them—and acknowledged, "Adina." He
nodded to Rosaline diametrically across the group. With a general wave, he raised his voice, "Hello,
folks!" They returned a hubbub of greetings. Eyewear glinted or glistened or gleamed on every face. He
grinned at the staccato ripple of highlights, then followed Adina's gesture.
A maplewood server stood against the mobile-home's exterior wall. On it, two urns and three slow-
cookers steamed lazily among an entourage of ladles, spoons, stir-sticks, sugar pourers, and milk jugs,
all teeming with ants. The dots before his eyes confused the issue. Yes, he did see ants. Large, husky,
red, glistening-as-they-thronged ants.
"Uh, Adina, I think you've got a problem here."
"What? Where? Oh, Gawd!"
That cry drew the ants' attention. Long antenna craned—and something else: tails, held high, with
stingers.
"Do you see them?" Elliot asked; just to make sure.
Ants don't have stingers. Scorpions then. Not this far north, but scorpions also carried claws. No claws
here.
"Gawd, yes!" Adina said. Behind her, other voices signaled sightings as well. Nobody seemed too
concerned. The equanimity of age?
The stinger-ants started down the server's legs and across the lawn. Two ordered ranks built red,
undulating trails straight toward the chairs and the people in them. The move changed reactions. Voices
were raised, queries and complaints about the ants.
At least, that's what Elliot thought till the scream "Rats!" brought him back around.
A hedge lined the back of the yard. Its naked, gray branches made a chiaroscuro of a creek running on
the other side. Trees marked the creek's sides as well. Rats erupted from the hedge branches. Large,
mottled-gray, foaming-at-the-mouth rats.
People crowded against Elliot, nudging him toward the stinger-ants. But that was inadvertent. The group
bustled on unsteady feet. A man, stepping up on his walker, barked orders. Three others, two women
and a man, moved to supervise parts of the perimeter. They all folded their lawnchairs with a ripple of
clacks and clanks, then leaning on each other, fell back into the middle. They thrust chair ends filled with
straps into the grass, sliding them together, overlapping into a shield. Not enough to stop rabid rats,
but maybe slow them down.
"The hoses!" Rosalind had come up on Elliot's left. She pointed toward the grills. Two garden hoses lay
coiled by their bases, ready in case of fire. One snaked around to the front of their place. The other
trailed past a neighbor's shed to that home's hydrant, jutting through a cinderblock. "They're already
turned on. Grab one and wash the ants back!"
Elliot glanced around for someone to do that. He observed—he wrote—he never did things. Somebody
else always stepped up on those rare times it was called for. But this time, those somebodies tottered.
Only he could hope to outrun the stinger-ants.
"Tsk-tsk," someone said. Not among the old folks who crowded him inside their rickety shield-wall.
Beyond that, somewhere. He whirled around to see who and found himself trotting. "Right," he
muttered, chagrin clamping his jaw. Should've jumped right on this. So much for his vow to do better.
He cranked his legs up to a lope.
"Power-wash nozzle!" somebody shouted behind him. "In my shed!"
Somehow Elliot knew what that meant, and he angled that way first. Luckily, the sun washed brightly
over the shed door as those pesky motes dappled everything. He could make out the door's latch and
the padlock looped through it. That wouldn't've stopped Fohgaryl, his Falstaffian comedy relief. Wanting
to be a rogue and a rake, Fohgaryl just got along as a burglar who specialized in break-ins, ground-level
and below—until he saved Claryn's life and got sucked into her quest.
Fohgaryl would just spit into his palm and mutter over it, "Fire, go slow. Iron, turn rust," then rub the
mottled red gob over the lock. It would fall away.
And it did.
Behind him, screams of terror and one of agony, so he ignored the impossible and snatched open the
shed door. A long rod with an angled head hung from a hook. He lunged in, snatched it, and popped
back out. He dashed along the hose, scooping it up. Turgid and cool, it ran through his fist as he angled
back toward the stinger-ants and rabid rats—and the dozen or so humans fending off the attacks with
aluminum tubes, plaid straps, and flailing sweaters. Two hunched together in the middle, dealing with a
wound. Crimson smeared both pasty faces.
The hose ran out before he reached a good angle on the stinger-ants. It quivered in his hand, its brass
nozzle leaking under pressure, pressure that would gush water all over if he tried to switch nozzles. He
hesitated.
"I'll do that, Easy. You make a channel."
Krystina! She jostled his elbow reaching for the stuff in his hands, then gave him that up-from-under
look, soft eyes and smiling lips with her pert nose between, that lifted his spirits and settled him snuggly
in the arms of the universe. With her at his side, they could handle this!
He said, "Channel?"
"Water, no matter how powerful the stream, won't get rid of them." She's wearing the denim pants and
jacket from last night. "They'll just re-form, go around." She's come straight from the hospital: how? I
drove our only car. "We need a channel to confine them, wash them into the creek." More important:
why? "A ditch." I'm so glad she did—but why didn't I notice her coming? If I had time now, would I
find her A-flat ringing out through the universe?
"What?" Elliot had to say because he'd not been paying attention, there at the end.
"A ditch. Like in your book."
"A moat?" Around Mallam's Keep. "But that was already there." In his novel. "They erased it." Teeter &
Totter & Fulcrum. The oddly witted triplets, who filled out Claryn's quest team, let the team invade the
antagonist's lair in the climax by erasing the monster-filled moat.
"Then un-erase it. Reverse the spell. From there…" she pointed left-handed to a spot just beyond where
Adina and Rosaline stood hip-to-hip swatting stinger-ants "…and from there…" right hand gesturing
toward the other side of the elders' enclave, now teeming with rats "…bring them together…" the hands
showed where "…then down to the creek. Got it?"
Claryn had designed a magical gimmick, a dance step actually, that inverted any spell, so Elliot said, "Got
it." Now to see if he could sing T&T&F's spell a capella while doing that inversion jig.
-3-
People had gotten hurt because of him. Elliot had to fix that. Not sure why he'd attracted this double
invasion, but pretty sure how. Magic, which he'd have to use to fix it. A snippet from the healing spell
he'd used on Krystina: "The peace of a sunset sprawled o'er the sea." It seemed appropriate to the
group. Just as soon as they'd washed away the ants and the rats.
But as Krystina drove the vermin down to the creek, so too did the sepia motes dissolve. The day
brightened, and Elliot could see better. That meant the magic faded as well. There was a connection, but
again, he couldn't be sure what.
He scrambled to help those who'd been injured. Rat bites and gouges filled in. Ant stings collapsed.
Sprains and strains, caused by the jostling, eased. Nosebleeds from the excitement dried up. But not
the questions sharpening their eyes and tongues. The man who'd barked orders, in particular, followed
along, clomping his walker, wanting to know who, why, how, especially how? The words came out dry
and sharp with an undertone of panic.
Explain or erase? Elliot worried, but the dying magic left him no choice. Leaning down, he whispered into
the old man's left ear, "The ever-shy horizon of the longest sea, the blue heart of a glacial crevasse." Ad
lib, but not bad, and it seemed to work. Elliot scurried to tend to the others, saving Rosaline and Adina
to last. Perhaps they could see what was going on here and tell him what to do.
Soon, though, he discovered Krystina huddled with the sisters, heads together in an intense conference.
He hustled over, trying to suck in the few last motes so he could breathe them out with the spell.
Krystina noticed him coming and reared back. With a fulsome wave of both arms, she thundered out his
forgetting couplet, tapped both women on the foreheads, and leaned forward expectantly.
Rosaline smiled. "Cute, honey, but it needs to rhyme."
"Elliot probably should handle the spells," Adina added. "He's pretty good at…"
That praise pleased Elliot as he cupped his hand around her ear and gushed those same words into it.
Adina converted dialog into expression, sure opinion into a quizzical look. Rosaline soon matched her.
With another gasp, Elliot spun toward Krystina with a final spell ready.
She backed off, wagging a finger. "Don't you dare!"
If anybody needed this blithe protection, she did. She fought the irrational too hard to accept proof it
could work, that it had worked right in front of her eyes. Though…wait! She had used magic, well, had
directed him how to use his magic to turn back the vermin. He cocked his head at her.
She danced back again with a silly grin.
He had to accept that because he had one more step to perform, and precious little magic to carry it out
for him. Around them, old people trying to collect their thoughts posed like Felliniesque lawn statues. He
had to synchronize them, get them back into their lives, and forget all about his coming here.
Elliot turned toward Krystina. "Get to the car. Now!"
Thankfully, she went, with him dashing right behind. At the driveway, hoping enough motes still hung
over the area, he yelled toward the back yard, "I call for that now. I call for that here. I call!" He waited till
they moved, till Rosaline swung into action, before he raced away.
Krystina stood at the driver's door. "It didn't work for me," she complained. "Why not?"
Elliot swung to the other side. "Just drive!"
***
Blacktop thrummed beneath them. Elliot just sat, cultivating a blank mind, fallow for explanations to
grow, good explanations, healthy ones. He needed them desperately.
Krystina asked quietly, "What's a 'glamour?'"
Instead, How'd she sneak up on me out at the trailer park? came to mind. I've never lost track of her
before. Is it because I wasn't a coward before? Shame chilled his gut, and he abetted it with: Or, I've
always been a coward, but just didn't know it?
"Easy!"
"What?" he had to say while realizing they'd stopped. She'd pulled off the county road onto a dirt strip.
A copse of barren trees stood aloof over them and the quiet countryside.
"Pay attention, Easy. This is important. Adina said that my healing could be a 'glamour.' Explain that."
Shocked, he said, "You told them about it?"
Krystina pumped her hands, a give-and-take. "Girl-talk, as fast as we could, because I knew what you
were bringing around. What the hell's a 'glamour?'"
She wanted an answer. More, her tone indicated she needed an answer, and he could offer only magic,
which normally didn't fly, yet here, she did seem to be working within that context.
He said, "Camouflage. Disguise."
"Well, that can't be right because we examined every cubic centimeter of my body. All clear. All normal.
All real."
Krystina just couldn't understand magic. "That doesn't eliminate a glamour," Elliot said. I'm playing with
fire here. Would a real coward even try this? A poor joke, that.
"Why not?"
"Because that's not…" Elliot breathed deep to fuel his brain and his concentration. Maybe more of an
engineering slant. "Because it works at a more primitive level in the…universe…" Krystina just stared back
as if he were spouting Klingon, a look he'd seen enough to hate, so he just added, "It doesn't work as
you're thinking it does."
"How does it work?"
"It…" He couldn't speak with much authority. "I'm new at this." He scrambled after his memory of
Adina's—or was it Rosaline's?—lecture on the topic of magic in fantasy. He snagged part of it. "There are
lots of systems. It doesn't matter which you use as long as…" Krystina's face compressed with even
more incredulity, if that were possible "…as long as you're consistent."
Then she smiled, and patience washed her face, turning it clean and lovable again. "So how did it work
these two times for you? In our universe?"
Elliot blinked as he recalled his spells, all three of them, well, four if he counted the inversion jig, no, five,
including the forgetting spell. "Just like I wrote it, except that last one, which I concocted on the spot."
He suddenly caught a glimmer of a hypothesis about that, but it needed work, a lot more work, before
he could talk about it.
Krystina said, "Your magic is different, but consistent?" She winked at him over the last word, playing
with him in this mind game.
"Yes."
"How?"
Elliot licked his lips. Krystina'd never gotten into his world like this before. Oh, she was a great listener,
most attentive during the time scheduled for him, but she wanted to hear about his process and his
progress, not what he actually wrote. He bought time by rolling down his window. Warmish autumn air
flowed in.
Krystina twisted back against her door and watched him with a soft smile and all the patience he could
want.
"For one thing," he said, "iron usually resists magic. I'm not sure why. But I…one of my characters has
power over iron, and so did I this afternoon. I spat in my hand and uttered his spell and my spit turned
red, and when I wiped it over the lock, it turned to rust and fell apart. I kind of liked that bit, but my
group, well, they said it was stupid."
"Not very supportive."
Elliot squirmed. Taking critique was so much harder than handing it out, and discerning what was useful
even more difficult. "They didn't actually use that word. It just felt like it. Rather, they opined that many
fantasy fans wouldn't believe it and fantasy editors wouldn't buy it."
"But you kept it in your book?"
Embarrassed by his temerity, he looked away. Some birds flitted in the weeds over there. "Yes."
"Good for you!"
He turned back to her with surprised eyes and a wide smile. "Really?" Maybe I'm not a coward per se,
just not a champion. The cop said so few people are.
Krystina nodded vigorously. "It's the only way to make your mark in an industry. Ride an unfashionable
horse hard and brilliantly." She narrowed her eyes like a double wink. "As long as there's no goddamned
good reason not to."
Such earthy language always discomforted—and aroused—him, and she knew it. He reached across the
car and slid his fingers through hers.
"Not now," Krystina said. "Later. Have you ever used your spells before?"
"Sure, lots of times when I was writing and re-writing and re-writing."
"Oh." She puzzled for a bit. "Have you ever voiced them before?"
"Out loud?" That sent him into memory a bit more. "Well, yes, one of my proofing steps is reading
everything aloud."
"Oh." Krystina sneered at her own thoughts, rerouting them. "Have you ever meant them before?"
"Of course not. It's fiction. It's not real, as you keep reminding me."
"Oh, that, I've changed my mind, as a working hypothesis, of course."
Elliot gaped. Not only had magic worked for real, but Krystina was—tentatively, mind you—believing in it.
He discovered his jaw flopped open and closed it.
"So you meant it?" she asked, persistent as a terrier smelling rat.
"Yes." Elliot nodded and whispered, "You were dying." Didn't need champion stuff to take action about
that.
She curled her hand around his, still nuzzling hers. "Of course," she said softly through her bedroom
smile. "And today?"
"People—other people were in danger and the ants…the ants were magic—they had stingers—and the
rats magic too, and it had worked last night, so there was a better chance, and the motes were back."
"Motes?"
"You didn't notice something like dust in the air? 'Sepia motes,'" he quoted his own thoughts.
"Blowing dust? There wasn't any wind."
"They swirled, though. You didn't see them?"
"Maybe." Suddenly coy as she usually got at the end of herding him somewhere. "What do you think it
means?"
Elliot sat back with irritation—for a change; he usually went along so hook-line-&-sinker that he didn't
chafe from her manipulation. "You saw them?"
"You first," she said through another bedroom smile. She'd seen his pullback and worked harder to keep
him in the harness. She must really like this hypothesis of hers. It's probably better than mine.
Still, her ploy worked. Normally, after stewing for a few months, he might've turned his working theory
into a story, but now, he dared to share it with his practical engineer of a wife.
"I think," he said, "somebody is pushing magic into our universe. Just a bit and just a little way." He
looked outside so he could grimace with doubt in private, then glanced at Krystina shyly. "Just around
me. A 'Bubble of Possibility,' I think I'll call it. Makes magic possible here, where normally it's not."
"A zone," she said. "A trans-dimensional hernia where it extrudes the laws of another dimension into
ours. Overlays? Or replaces?" Talking to herself mostly now. "Can't be overlay: the interference patterns
would totally disrupt our space-time continuum at a quantum level because the differences have to run
that deep. So it replaces, which means that from a Newtonian perspective, the universes must be nearly
identical. At least, I didn't notice any difference, did you?"
The sudden dialog caught Elliot by surprise. He replayed her words in his mind, then added, "No, I
didn't…except for the motes business. If it's really like that over there, I could hardly get
around for not seeing well."
"Hmm, yes. Maybe that is evidence of interference."
"You saw them, too?"
"Yes, sweetheart. Not so much last night; I was a bit out of it, but over at Adina's, yes. Like operating
through muslin."
Relieved enough to move on, Elliot asked, "Why'd you come out there? How'd you get there? I didn't…"
Embarrassed, he dropped the question. He'd definitely fail the champion exam if he'd wished her out of a
hospital to help him.
"No, silly, Yellow Cab. Aren't you glad I did?" She pushed a splayed hand across the center console,
inviting intercourse, at the finger level anyway. "I figured how to beat the invaders."
"We made a great team."
"Yes, we did."
Elliot allowed his hand to be captured and penetrated. They stroked and caressed for a bit, then ended in
a thumb-war.
"Who did it?"
"Hmm?" Elliot had allowed too much attention to wander south from their finger frolic.
"Who asserted the trans-dimensional zone into ours? Who enabled us to perform magic?"
Elliot pondered her blue-gray eyes and the mind behind them. Had Krystina just stopped there? With the
question about who? Or was she hiding more thinking about the matter?
After a pleasant moment of sharing, not thoughts, but connection, Elliot added, "And why?"
"And what are we going to do about it?" Krystina said with an arched brow and coquettish smile that
meant she'd reached her objective, enough anyway that she was now interested in intermission. She
settled herself in the driver's seat and switched on the engine. "Let's get home," she said huskily.
Elliot glanced at the isolated copse just beyond the car's nose, and the sheltered nook within it. He drew
her attention with raised eyebrows and a nod. Laughing, she shut down the car and flung open her
door. He jumped out to follow.
-4-
In Elliot's dream, the damsel screamed in A-flat. On the night-table, his cell phone rang with a crescendo
of A-flats. The dream arose out of their tactical planning. The phone call didn't, but suddenly scared it
was connected, Elliot plowed through blankets to answer it. Krystina had slipped away for her morning
run. He'd barely noticed her leaving. Now he wondered why he'd let her go.
Not how a champion would've handled it. He punched the phone on.
"Easy!" Krystina hissed. "He's come after me, not you! At least, I think it's him."
Confirmed, the scare chilled his heart. "Has he attacked you? Is he using magic?"
"No, no, I'm okay, but yes, I think there's magic. You know the south pond in the park and how the path
comes out of the woods on its north side?"
"Yes."
"Just as I ran into the clear, I saw these…more than dogs. Like a cross between wolves and wild boars.
Three big ones."
Raobine. From his book. They'd nearly destroyed Claryn's quest—and him—before he figured how she
could defeat such cruel, bloodthirsty beasts. But Krystina didn't sound besieged.
"Why haven't they attacked you?" he asked. Cold, but direct. He rolled off the bed. No hesitating now:
Krystina needed help; even if he couldn't fill the role of champion, he could do something, as he'd done
before. Their plan from last night, though, wouldn't work now.
Krystina answered: "They didn't see me—I ducked back so fast. And the wind's—there's no wind, thank
god. I'm hiding behind a tree."
"I'll call 911." Relieved: that something was calling for help. "We can't handle those…"
"No! No cops!"
"Why not?"
"We decided last night, Easy, to do this ourselves." The last word hissed. Krystina took challenges very
personally, and their invisible trans-dimensional assailant—they'd labeled him "TD Man"—had flung an
intellectual and physical gauntlet into her face—and his as well. However, Krystina preferred to go it alone
whereas Elliot…
Failure snagged its now-familiar claw into Elliot's gut. Champions ride to the rescue; they do not holler
for help from a safe distance. He kept getting it wrong. Wincing, Elliot stepped toward the closet. He
couldn't challenge raobine—and challenge he must now—in just sleepwear. But first, the phone—he
switched from hand-held to that new molded earpiece, no wires, stub microphone hugging his lobe.
Making sure it worked while making progress happen, he pressed her, "How are you going to get away
from those raobine?"
"Raobine?" Voice still low. "You know these things?"
"Yes," Elliot admitted as he clipped the phone onto his pajama bottoms. The chill of its belt clip merged
with his fear and settled into his belly, right beside his guilt.
"They're your—creations?"
"Yes." Just how much did TD Man know about him and his novel? Or was it the other way around? He'd
barely finished the book. Who else had even read it? Someone from his critique group? Behind all this?
None of this made sense, they'd agreed on that last night.
"I—I'm coming to help." Elliot pawed on sweats.
"No! I'm getting out of here. I'll be home in a few minutes, and we can start building a new plan."
Relief drew Elliot upright. Even champions could be reasonable, right? Stand back when no rescue was
needed? Yet… "Then why did you call?"
"To describe these things while they're fresh in front of my eyes. To confirm they're from another
universe. Now I'll do my best to forget them."
Reluctantly, Elliot added, "Roabine won't let you just run away. As soon as you break cover…"
"They're busy. I'm leaving now."
Fear pulsed into dread. "Busy with what?"
Krystina said, "I'm leaving now." Flat, echoing herself. An evasion. Sometimes it worked with him.
Not this time. "Busy with what?" Elliot demanded.
Sighing, she held off, then gave in and told him what she had been hiding. "An elderly couple—the
Santells, I think, but there's not enough light yet to tell for sure. The beasts surround them, snarling,
slobbering, scaring them to death. Like they enjoy the torture."
"They do." Duty swept through Elliot. He grabbed for sneakers, no time for socks.
To Krystina, he said, "You can help these people get away."
"What?" she squeaked, shredding an A-flat in the process.
That distracted him from tying the laces. "You can outwit them when I tell you how."
"No."
Elliot straightened, suddenly ashamed of his wife. Usually, her selfishness came out as ambition. She'd
always worked hard and politicked even harder to get what she wanted, leaving casualties on the
academic field of battle. Then, nothing more than their pride, and maybe their wallets, got hurt. Now,
people could die if she didn't come around.
"You can't just run away," Elliot insisted. This kind of danger called for a champion. This kind of danger
made champions, but not—obviously—out of Krystina. He'd already shown he didn't have what it took
either. Deflated, he whined at her, "Those old folks are no match for raobine!"
"No, that's exactly what I need to do: run away. That's what you do when there's no way you can win."
Actually, she did make sense, but he hated that. Yes, raobine made short work out of normal people.
Yes, they bested all but a champion: that's what told Claryn she fit the bill. Yes, these beasts could very
well kill Krystina, his wife, his beloved, his destiny. Elliot almost said, "Okay, come home."
But what had Fohgaryl told Claryn when she too wanted to run from the raobine? "Peril sets off chimes
in a champion's head. Anybody's peril. Not just loved ones. Everybody's peril. Do you hear anything?"
Claryn did, and she'd turned to defeat the raobine.
Elliot heard chimes as well. He finished his shoes. Well, not chimes as such, but more like a visceral tug,
urging him to his feet. He stood.
Now, arm himself. He looked for the kit they'd put together last night. There! Krystina had not taken it
with her, even as a precaution. Why hadn't they figured TD Man would attack this quickly? How could
they both be so stupid?
Now, engage. He slid an arm through the canvas kit's strap and headed out of the bedroom. Perhaps
he'd rewrite that whole chimes bit. He'd also complain about how much time it took just to get out the
door.
Now, Krystina again. "Have they noticed you yet?"
"I told you 'No,'" she snapped.
"I meant the Santells." Nice, frail old people. Would Krystina refocus on their need?
"I'm backing away now."
"No, wait, let me think!" He threw open their front door and leaped over the porch steps.
"About what?"
The park spread before him, backlit by a winter's late dawn. Already, commuters roared along their
street. He dashed south along the sidewalk, glancing back for a break in the cars.
Solve the problem. Engineers like that. Elliot used his logic voice: "Listen, Krystina! Get the beasts'
attention—shout or scream—then lead them away, around the pond, then jump in the water. They hate
the water. They sink like stones. Too much muscle, not enough fat." How Claryn and the others had
gotten away.
"I don't swim that well either, Easy. You know that."
Elliot finally begrudged her tone, hard, unyielding. She just wouldn't help, would make no difference for
the Santells against the raobine. That situation would either resolve or not by the time he got there.
Either way, he had to deal with the beasts himself, not let them roam free in this neighborhood, or in
this universe for that matter. What spell could he use? Wait, could he even use a spell? He searched the
park for the Bubble of Possibility that had to be operating. What would it look like from outside, from a
distance? A dust cloud? But he saw nothing like that: not enough light from the dawn yet.
"Easy?"
He almost cried, "Run, you coward!" But he recognized condemnation, what he'd have to do to forgive
her for that label, even if she never understood. Instead, he said, "Leave then. I'll pass you on the way."
"What? You're coming here?"
"Yes, I'm responsible for those beasts being there."
"Then I'll stay," she said.
Why the sudden reversal? "Krystina?"
Nothing.
Elliot pressed on his earpiece, listening hard. Distracted, he stumbled, flailed to keep his balance,
stopped, listened again. Some thrashing. Hard to hear over all the other sounds.
Then, somewhat distant, as if she stuck the phone in a sweatshirt pocket: "Get your hands off me! Who
the fuck are you anyway?"
"Choose again," a deep voice thundered at her. "I would see you choose better."
Straining to hear, Elliot almost missed the gap in traffic. He darted through it, heralded by impatient
honks. Across finally, he headed toward the pond, straight through the woods that outlined the park,
instead of taking the meandering path. Fallen leaves crunched loudly. The undergrowth whipped at him
with barren branches. Even with the earpiece maxed in volume, he could barely hear what was going on
with Krystina: some kind of argument. So he dodged back to the sidewalk and drove for the path.
Longer, but quieter.
Krystina asked, "What kind of test?" How they'd explained what was going on. The two attacks had been
set up as tests, but they hadn't settled on what or who was being tested.
TD Man—must be TD Man, come out in the open for some reason—said, "Such reveal would compromise
its result. Choose again!"
Elliot sprinted through the woods, hoping each turn would show Krystina and the situation that engulfed
her. Anything to get ready? He hated stories where the champion wasted time in transit. He fumbled the
kit around front and zipped it open. Absently, he felt around inside for the phosphorescent-dye bombs
they'd adapted from prototypes of Krystina's exploding purse.
"How many tests altogether?" she demanded. "Three? Is this the last test? Hey, goddammit!"
"Do you not see their peril?"
"I told you to get your hands off! Shit, man, keep me away from those things!"
"Choose again!"
"What choice are you giving me? Let go! Oh god, they've seen us!"
"Christ's bloody sweat, the test is yours, not mine."
The final curve at last! Elliot burst into a meadow, its narrow run of grass limp and pale with the season.
Dragged a couple yards away, Krystina, in a teal running suit, landed a kick on TD Man's shin. He winced.
She broke free and leaped toward the woods, dashing right past Elliot as he slid to a stop.
"Krys…"
"Easy!" She braked, then dodged behind him. She hugged him quickly, but fervently. "Thank god. He's
trying to kill me."
Elliot patted her hand for reassurance. Despite his chest heaving for breath, he braced his shoulders to
become a bigger shield.
TD Man also fled, from the raobine, toward Elliot who fixed finally on the beasts. Two romped in their
direction, sure of more prey, not straining to run it down, yet unwavering in pursuit. Eight or so car
lengths away. Huge and slavering and—not raobine. Too tall. Eyes too blazing, all three of them. Dappled
fur like churned river mud. An extra set of claws reaching out from each thick neck. Not his creations, so
he no longer understood them or their weaknesses. How could Krystina have possibly thought…
Enough! Elliot killed the tangent. Where's the third beast?
Beyond the two, still harassing the Santells, it had snatched the old man's cane and stood gnashing it to
pieces with great gusto, as though getting supper ready for its pack when they returned from their
errand. Mr. Santell stripped off his coat and started twirling it.
Elliot snapped a look at the pond, a possible escape. Shallow, mud-rimmed, its blue-gray water sat
turgidly under a ghostly skin of ice. Dry from the chill morning air, his throat rasped. He swallowed too
little spit to wet it. He checked on the beasts: nearer by a quarter. Dread stirred again, slid lower into his
gut. Slithery. Fluttery. He skimmed for another path through the wall of trees. None. Dark, skeletal,
undressed by winter, the woods isolated them all. The beasts: now six car lengths away, hot breath
smoking. Dread twined through his bowels, cool and clingy and—heavy, pinning him down. He sucked in
a settling breath, too quick to help much. At least the broached sun now filled the place with weak
sunlight. Undiluted sunlight. Not broken by the motes in a Bubble of Possibility. He squinted around,
hoping to locate that dratted dust! But no, no magic was possible anywhere around here. How could
they defeat these beasts then? How could anybody …unless…
TD Man stopped his rout—as though shamed by Elliot standing his ground—but kept his distance. He did
seem to be a man, not demon or alien or some other fantastical creation.
"Call them off!" Elliot bawled, heaving the words against the fear dragging at his gut, buzzing through
his nerves. Meanwhile, he wiggled his left hand, still stuck in the kit, and tapped through an inventory.
Three bombs, no more.
TD Man startled, then threw a quizzical glance. "Pardon?" He reminded Elliot of the ghost of Hamlet's
father: erect, greater-than-average height, broad chest, full-length cape closed against the cold, boots
highly polished, though they showed wear. Some gray highlighted his auburn hair, worn long and flowing.
Elliot pointed furiously. "Your beasts. Call them off. Let the others go. Your quarrel isn't with them."
Rather cliché, that line. He'd have to work on it in rewrite.
The man eyed the beasts, halfway there, romping on their way to carnage. Yet, he struck a theatrical
pose and his voice boomed. "They attend me as well as you. They intend me for meat as well as you." He
glared past Elliot, hunched to give it heft. "Act! Act now, so I may choose you!"
Krystina let go of Elliot and stepped back, saying nothing.
Elliot still searched for a better way, something other than throwing himself at the beasts. He demanded,
"You brought them here. How did you intend to stop them?"
Focused on Krystina, TD Man said, "That I leave to your Pickets."
"Who?"
"Those who keep the peace, enforce the laws, in this wondrous land." TD Man flung a gesture at the
skyline. "Surely, among your advanced machines, you have one sufficient to this demand."
Nobody else would do anything! Elliot had to. No way around it. Can I? Yes. At least give Krystina a
chance to get away. He nodded once to cinch the deal with the universe, then leaned to make it happen.
His legs faltered, weighted by dread. It pulled him down, toward a cower. His body betrayed him, afraid
of pain, of death.
His left hand still obeyed, though; it fed the dye-bomb out of the kit. His right hand splattered it
between the two beasts, maybe twenty feet off, and Elliot forgot to look away. Krystina had removed the
flash-suppressor, to slow TD Man down as well as mark him. Elliot reeled from the flash, spinning back
out of the beasts' path as he remembered it. He just hoped it affected the beasts more than him.
Their howls promised that. Mixed with yips, they retreated, more north than east.
Elliot blinked feverishly, working at the huge after-image—and found his body responding, even lively,
freed of terror by action. The stuff of champions is action? Pushing that insight away, he now followed
the beasts, slowly of course. He readied another dye-bomb, flung it after them when their complaints
quieted, when their retreat slowed. It worked, drove them further north. He'd have to deal with them
again: an echo of dread twitched his guts. Without magic! They twitched more. But for now, he had
taken back time, for Krystina—and for the Santells.
Who still faced a beast capable of gutting them with one blow. Elliot sprinted in that direction. His vision
cleared by the second. He snatched a dye-bomb out of the kit, which flopped empty. The last bomb.
Then what?
TD Man spoke, so close Elliot stumbled, almost fell. He refocused on the uneven ground and the next
snarling beast. It prowled uneasily, but stuck to its post. How soon would it act? Come to its pack's aid?
But first, make sure their prey couldn't flee?
Meanwhile, TD Man demanded, "Why do you not harry the beasts?" Didn't sound like he was running
away.
Krystina, even louder, said, "I ain't no goddamned hero. Your world doesn't have machines at all?" Not
running either. Not using the advantage Elliot had just given her. Why not? She'd been so inclined
before.
"Krystina," Elliot gasped. All this sprinting took its toll. Would his earpiece pick up his call?
She didn't answer, though.
Neither did TD Man…for a moment, then he said, "Not nearly as wonderful as yours. Nothing that flies.
Our dettras putter most laboriously compared to your thundering ground vehicles. I shall remember
them vividly. After our return, my poor descriptions may inspire Shad Dettra and our other inventors."
"Krystina!" Elliot tried to breathe deeper while still running hard, so he could urge her to help, quit
stalling around.
"So you like inventors?" Krystina asked.
"Most assuredly!"
"Krystina!" Elliot blurted. "Call the cops!" Perhaps the cavalry would spare him a fight to the death.
Instead she said, "What's this all about, then?"
A new dread bloomed higher in Elliot, stinging his heart. Not clear what Krystina intended, but suddenly,
he feared it—and hated how rescue took him away from her, how life-saving trumped love-saving.
In reply, TD Man intoned, "'Far world as close as a heartbeat.'"
"'Next world divers in time and feat.
"'To them, we spew seeds for magick.
"'Cendent spoor of heroes turn'd tragic.
"'From them, we reap rare fruit, nay, steal,
"'Pickets these be who judge, who heal,
"'Punish, rescue, curse or be-spell.
"'Hold 'gainst Wraiths that smite us from Hell.'
"Zounds, what tripe! Unkempt language bent too far for a rhyme."
Krystina said, "Why do you talk that way?"
"How do you mean?"
"'Zounds.' 'Christ's bloody sweat.'"
"Your world spoke that way the last time a Fetcher came to call. I studied the Journals. I learned your
language so I might come to Fetch one of your world who carries part of our world."
"How does that work?"
"I shall not explain that to you, only to the one who carries the spoor."
"Yeah, but you don't really want him, do you?"
Had she forgotten the phone link? That he could hear her? Or did she no longer care? His second fear
outshone his first. Loss of love more than loss of limb. Yet he couldn't, shouldn't turn from this…
The beast suddenly spun around, away from the Santells, toward Elliot. His gut froze, but not his legs.
He charged on.
"Disappointed, weren't you?" Krystina offered, all too cool. "'Tsk, tsk,' that was you, right?"
The beast stared. It raised its flat nose to sniff.
"As a Fetcher, I am sworn…"
The beast ruffled its frilly ears. It shook with indecision.
Krystina drove her words home. "I know how all these 'wonderful machines' work. What's more, I know
how to build them, manufacture them. So you can sell them."
"Surely, he knows this craft as well."
The beast snapped its head back around. Mr. Santell flinched. His wife squealed with fear. Decision made:
first them, then Elliot, then Krystina.
Time to engage. Elliot judged the range: still long, but he'd have to try anyway. To help the Santells,
that is, not himself.
"No," Krystina said. "He's just a storyteller, a dreamer."
Elliot had to hop to get the wind-up going. He lunged with the left leg, threw the dye-bomb high and far,
hoping to get it there.
"We do have need for machines as well as Pickets," TD Man said.
"What about the 'Wraiths that smite?'"
"Other Fetchers, other worlds will yield true Pickets."
Dual dreads tore at him as Elliot followed the bomb with his feet and eyes. It fell off to the right, but not
far. He flicked his gaze away to the woods, off the bomb, off the beast. No flash, though. Failure ripped
through Elliot. He stumbled, fell, took it on a shoulder, forced his feet under his body, rose again.
Somewhere in there, the bomb did explode.
The beast must've been staring right at it because it staggered, eyes scrunched closed. It mewed with
misery through a snout streaked with phosphorescent orange. Pressing this slim advantage, Elliot closed
on the beast. From the other side, Mr. Santell shrieked as he too charged, coat over his hands.
"Nothing like our wonderful machines, right?" Krystina prodded.
"I cannot know till we all gather to write our Journals."
"You can get a jump on them."
"How do you mean?"
"Get to market first. With my inventions. Cowdreys. No, make that 'Granby' once again, my maiden
name. Granbys outrun detras. Granbys clean better than whatevers."
Fire in his heart. Ice in his gut. Pincers of dread closed within him. Yet, Elliot kept on, shrugging off the
empty kit and pulling it open with both hands. Not big enough for the head. Maybe enough to hold the
snout closed. Another distraction then. Not disabling. How to kill these things?
High on the ridged forehead, the beast's third eye snapped open. It wheeled a fierce attention onto
Elliot, and the whole head followed. The mouth gaped. Fangs rimmed the maw, flashing, dripping. Amidst
them, an iridescent throat throbbed.
Elliot leaned toward that fate, away from the other, running harder. He stuffed his left hand deep into
the kit's canvas sack, then stuffed the sack deep into the maw. He reached for gut, but chickened out.
He threw himself to the side, hoping his hand came with, staring to see how it did. The gouges just
appeared. He felt nothing. Crimson stripes bloomed along his sleeve and hand. He hit the ground on the
back of his shoulder. No rolling. Just thud. Breathing stopped working. His mind, too, but not his senses.
So, he heard, "Bye, Easy," felt its finality. He couldn't react, though, even if he'd known what to do.
The beast didn't choke easily. It thrashed. It lunged. But too mad to see, it didn't attack, not directly.
Still, Elliot was only too glad to lean on Mr. Santell and get out of its way. He was even more glad when
his diaphragm finally surged and he could suck in air again.
The beast fell to its knees, then tipped over.
Shots cracked to the north and settled into a steady rat-a-tat-tat. Had Krystina finally made that call, or
someone else? No matter now.
Sounds of men running. Their body armor squeaked. Their booted feet chugged into the soil. Their
breaths huffed. Their sergeant urged them on.
Elliot straightened and listened further, with his inner ear, the one attuned to the universe, to the
beacon Krystina wove through it.
Nothing.
The universe that had assembled them had dispersed them…or had another universe intervened,
snatched her from this one? A battle between universes? Taken her where he could not follow. Not just
another place and time, but another system of places and times and rules and intelligences and destinies,
channeled off, another watershed, another sea of life to gambol in.
Would there be another him? Another she would join fates with? A champion this time? Would that
champion want her more—or better—than Elliot had? Is that why she had been snatched away?
Or was it Krystina who had wanted more? Who had run to rather than been taken?
Different ways to tell the story…later. He would be able to tell stories better…later. Suffering, the artist
grows in his art…eventually.
For right now, though, he had been left behind, with his life, yes, but nothing else except questions,
running over and over with no answers to stop them.
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