| SORCEROUS SIGNALS |
| Written by Marge Simon / Artwork by Marge Simon |
| The Misfits of Chania |
"Here you are, my precious," Vespa said, placing a bowl beneath a huge bird's perch. "Fresh water from
the spring. How lucky I have you to share my frustrations. Those fools in town! They say I pluck souls
from shadows and pop them in my mouth. I suppose that is what they think I survive on!" She chuckled
to herself.
To the rich, Vespa was the vompiras. Some suspected her of witchery, for indeed she had the face and
body of a crone. She took in thieves and misfits, provided hospice for the needy. Sometimes for a night,
sometimes longer. The fact she had a pet vulture didn't help her reputation. Their gods meant nothing
to her, but she kept that to herself. She had a small statuette of Demeter, bearing sheaves of wheat and
poppies in her window. There was little use for wheat in her cures. But the poppies were another matter,
and could be made into a substance that promoted healing.
"The great Hippocrates would shun my shadow, though we share much in common when it comes to
healing the sick. I'm tolerated for my knowledge of medicines, eh, Ra?" The bearded vulture fluffed his
feathers in reply.
ii
"Is this the house of Lady Vespa?" A young man stood before her. His dark face was drawn, and he had
a series of scars on his arms and legs. Around his neck, the marks of a heavy chain.
"Yes, it is." Vespa looked him over. Tall and muscular, he was certainly pleasing to the eye, no matter the
scars. "What brings you here?"
"I'm told you have magic. They say you hear fortunes in the wind. You can read the mountain clouds like
a papyrus scroll of histories past and histories yet to be." He lowered his voice, "They say you know
cures for all manners of strange afflictions. Is this so?"
"It may be true, it may be not. What is it you need of me?"
"I…I have a thing that needs cure. He stepped close and touched her arm. "I think I have killed my
master. I can't remember doing so, but there was blood on my hands when I…," he hesitated, watching
her face. Seeing her nod, he continued, "…when I came back to my body. And my master lay on the
floor. So much blood! And then I realized I could taste it in my mouth." He shuddered.
She raised an eyebrow. “What is your name?”
“Call me Zende, for it is the tribal name my father gave me. My master called me Damae.”
"Come," she said, opening the door wider.
“Ah, so your master gave you a name that means to tame? From the scars you bear, I would guess you
were not so easily broken.”
Zende stiffened. “I am not broken.”
"I know that. I know more from your eyes, your manner. And those chain marks around your neck speak
for your situation. Here, sit down. I've just finished breakfast, but there's bread and cheese on the table.
Help yourself."
The man was obviously hungry. Watching him eat, she filled her pipe and lit it with a taper. “You were
mistreated, Zende. Those scars on your hands and legs tell much. I don’t doubt your back has known
the sting of a whip as well. So, you tried to run away—am I correct?”
“Yes. It is true, lady Vespa." He paused to wipe his lips with his hand. "I escaped, and fled into the
foothills. I ran until my legs gave out. Moonrise, I was awakened by a howl so fierce, the moon itself was
trembling in the skies. And then I heard the pad of feet through underbrush.
Vespa filled a goblet with wine and handed it to him. “Was it man or beast?
“A beast, indeed! It was wolf. But such as none I’ve heard described. It was as large as a man.
“She bit you, did she not?”
“She?”
“A she-wolf of a certain kind would bite you, particularly when she is in heat. A male would tear your
throat.”
“Of a certain kind? What are you telling me? Am I possessed by some devil?”
“Did she bite you?”
"Yes."
“What happened after that?”
“I—I don’t remember. I must have lost consciousness. The next thing I remember is being dragged back
to my master’s house, a chain around my neck. When I was given to my master, he was furious."
Vespa nodded. "I'm sure he was." She stood up and selected a sheet of papyrus from her library. "Do
you recognize this image?"
Zende's eyes widened. "Yes! That's the wolf-creature who attacked me. Where did you get this? Who
drew it?"
"I did. I know what you are—that is, I know what you've become. You are now a vrykolakas, a creature
who changes from man to wolf when the moon is full. Northern tribes have much lore about your kind,"
she said. "I have known a few like you myself. There is a cure, if you're willing. I warn you it's most
painful, but it will set you free."
"Lady Vespa, I will undergo any pain to free me from this curse. But I'd sooner die than be a slave."
"I can help you on both accounts. But you must know something about me first. You must promise on
your life not to reveal my secret."
"This I promise." Zende bowed his head, then searched her eyes. "But what…?"
"I am a revenant, one of the undead." Seeing the look on his face, she hastily added, "But you've
nothing to fear from me. I cannot cure you of your present condition, for that is set and done. But I can
do this: my bite will bring you to a state of death, yet you shall rise again." She drew close and grasped
his hands. "You shall know such power, far greater than my own."
"You drink the blood of living creatures? Is that the source of your magic?"
"Blood is not the source of my magic, if you call it that. Ra finds me sources for my needs, and takes the
bones. Rodents, birds, sometimes a small deer. Only on occasion have I partaken of human blood. And
those occasions were justifiable, as far as I'm concerned."
Zende sat silent.
"With such powers as we would possess together, we would be afforded choices. I wish to turn them for
the good. Should you chose to stay; we can live and prosper quietly.
"Would I become as you? Dependent on blood…?"
"You would not need blood to satisfy your hunger. You would be in control of yourself and your
motives." Vespa walked to the window and drew aside the curtain. "Well? Would you rather live in fear
for your freedom, fear of what you might do when the moon is full?" She dropped the curtain, turned to
face him. "Or would you rather have a life without pain or fear. A life not bound by time, that offers more
than mortals ever could attain?"
iii
Three weeks later, Zende awoke. True to Vespa's words, he was alive in a way he'd never known before.
His last memory was the sting of Vespa's fangs on his neck, then a flood of excruciating pain.
"Your heart ceased to pump. You became quite red and swollen, as if gorged in blood just as the myths
say," Vespa told him. Then she sat back and laughed. When she caught her breath, she assured him
only part of that was true. "That was poppycock, sweet man. You lay on the cot as if dead until now. So!
You must be very hungry. I've prepared a fine dinner for you. We have much to discuss."
In the following months, Vespa helped Zende became familiar with his new powers. "You must practice
control," she told him. "Imagine that fly on the table is an assailant. How would you ward him off?"
The fly and part of the table vanished with a flick of his hand.
"No, no! Now look what you've done! Learn to curb your energies. If you don't, we can't possibly stay
here. Now, we'll try this again. Remember, do not unleash more than you need to."
And so it went, until a day came when Zende could wipe a tree free of leaves without touching a single
egg in a lark's nest. Vespa insisted he replace the nest in another tree, much to the parents'
consternation.
iv
Ra was never caged, such was their bond. Vespa took him out to the countryside afternoons for
exercise. Released from his hood, he'd soar and circle wide until she called. But in recent days, she
noticed he'd grown increasingly nervous.
"Something ill is brewing in the wind," she told Zende over supper.
"Oh?" Zende finished gnawing off the remains of a leg of mutton. His new fangs glistened in candlelight.
“Hear this, it’s local gossip, but it could very well be true. Demosthenes has been making speeches
urging Athenians to rise up against Philip II of Macedon. There is talk his armies may invade Crete, as
well. Our local city-states have been bickering for decades. You know how the pirates are so welcome to
our Chanian ports. The politics involved, paying them for their dubious protection. Some even invite the
Macedonians to side with them. A matter I find rather…”
“A matter you find particularly foolish”, Zende interrupted. “Of course I know! We’ve tried to reason with
the citizens many times. No, that‘s not going to work.” He rose and began to pace the floor. “And you’ve
had me disguise myself as a pirate, when I walk among the townsfolk. The gloves hide my hairy hands.
But I too, am worried. I think some are beginning to wonder about us. I’ve been staying here far longer
than you usually allow anyone you’ve taken in. I sense a clouding of their minds with suspicion—even
fear.”
Vespa began clearing the table. “It’s time we left. I’ve warned those who trust us, but the rest—well,
when the spark of doubt is fueled by ignorance, the fire is soon to come.”
Zende shoved back his chair and stood. “Why should we leave? I can protect us!”
“It would accomplish nothing. Our country is on the brink of yet another senseless war.”
“Senseless to us, “ muttered Zende. “Not so senseless to them. “ He chewed his lip. “Where would we
go, anyway?”
“Ra will show the way. We go to the high mountains, where he was hatched. There will be food enough,
and together we can manage until a time comes when it’s safe to return.
“I can’t live that way! I’m young, yet. I don’t want to become a recluse, like you. Though I wish it with all
my heart, I could never return to Nairobi. My people wouldn't welcome me as I am, with these hairy
palms and sharp teeth. I may appear a monster, but I’m more a man, and…”
“And? And what?” Vespa leveled a look at him.
“Well, that is, I owe you my life. I love you as a sister, but I—I have needs, Vespa!”
“Oh, Zende!” Vespa wiped her hands on her apron and threw her arms around him. “You have no idea,
do you?”
He stepped back from her. “What do you mean?”
“Look at me.”
As Zende watched, her aging face grew young before his eyes.
Vespa smiled at his bewildered gaze. “I, too, have certain powers. It will never matter how old we are, for
we are immortal. I kept my former guise for reasons you must now understand. A pretty woman would
draw too much attention, no?
“No—I mean yes, but…” Zende swallowed. “You are so beautiful!”
“So are you,” she whispered, as he drew her in his arms.
The next morning, she awoke in Zende's embrace. "This can get old fast," he teased tickling her ear with
his tongue. "Any other options?"
"Oh, don't worry about keeping things lively," Vespa laughed, twisting her hair into a braid. "You have
much to learn about particular delights." She drew on her robe and winked at Ra. "Sweet love, I was
among the first to compose the Kama sutra."
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Marge Ballif Simon free lances as a writer poet illustrator for genre and
mainstream publications such as Strange Horizons, Flashquake, Sniplits,
Vestal Review, Flash Me Magazine, The Pedestal Magazine, Dreams &
Nightmares. She edits a column for the HWA Newsletter, "Blood &
Spades: Poets of the Dark Side." She is the editor of Star*Line, Digest of
the SF Poetry Association. In addition to her poetry, she has published
two prose collections: Christina's World, Sam's Dot Publications, 2008
and Like Birds in the Rain, Sam's Dot, 2007.
She won the Bram Stoker for Best Poetry Collection with Charlie Jacob,
Vectors: A Week in the Death of a Planet, Dark Regions Press, 2008.
A new collection, Unearthly Delights (self illustrated in color) is
forthcoming from Sam's Dot Publications, 2011.
Visit her website at: www.margesimon.com
mainstream publications such as Strange Horizons, Flashquake, Sniplits,
Vestal Review, Flash Me Magazine, The Pedestal Magazine, Dreams &
Nightmares. She edits a column for the HWA Newsletter, "Blood &
Spades: Poets of the Dark Side." She is the editor of Star*Line, Digest of
the SF Poetry Association. In addition to her poetry, she has published
two prose collections: Christina's World, Sam's Dot Publications, 2008
and Like Birds in the Rain, Sam's Dot, 2007.
She won the Bram Stoker for Best Poetry Collection with Charlie Jacob,
Vectors: A Week in the Death of a Planet, Dark Regions Press, 2008.
A new collection, Unearthly Delights (self illustrated in color) is
forthcoming from Sam's Dot Publications, 2011.
Visit her website at: www.margesimon.com