For Children’s Story and other short fictions and poetry click here: https://bertrock.com/assorted-writings/

The Unfortunate Fate of Baltero Acantilado Piedra III

by Bert Rock (2022)

1

      There was no natural light in the realm of the dead. Torches and cairns dotted the landscape, their flames giving no warmth and little light. Here and there small fires burned from coals made of unknown material. There were few if any trees to be found. Baltero Acantilado Piedra III quietly bemoaned the fact that there were no streetlights, no lamp posts, or neon signs selling anything. Everywhere it was just dirt and the occasional cheerless flame.  

The last thing he recalled before he found himself wandering in the strange land, was a hospital bed. He remembered the feel of someone holding his hand and saying words he could scarcely hear. He wasn’t sure who it was, the medications, the looming presence of Death leaning over him, Baltero could not tell if it was his wife, sister, or son, only that there was still someone with flesh and blood sitting with his body in that hospice room.

“This must be Hell,” he said aloud. “It was real after all.”  

Baltero felt a quick twinge from his head to his toes. Much of his flesh suddenly fell away from his bones, sloughing off like an old garment dried up and withered away. With it went his feelings and memories. Everything from the most recent to things long forgotten like his first scrape, his first lost tooth, his first kiss, and the first time he held his son as a baby. The memories themselves were something physical now, dried up to the size of hardened little peas that rattled around in his skull before falling, tick tacking, their way down his bones to the ground. There, they were lost among millions of other long-ago memories.

By the time the sloughing was done, Baltero was left with only a few scraps of flesh on his body, some of his 74-year-old skin and what was left of his muscle. His right hand had the most–some nerve endings and muscle to hold them in place with a meager amount of skin. He noticed then, a sensation emanating from his hand. It made him think of Morse Code. One press, pause, four presses, pause, then three. This occurred again and again. It was his way of saying, “I love you,” to his son. Baltero always found those three numbers, ‘143’ easier than using the words. Sometimes he felt nothing, and then other times he felt the pressure, the message, strongly. After a while it bordered on annoying.

After walking for some time, Baltero thought perhaps he was not in Hell. After all, he was alone, and that seemed to be a dead giveaway. He’d never imagined much of life after death. To him death was simple – one minute you’re here, the next you’re not.  

He kept himself moving in a forward direction, despite not knowing where he was going.

“Not unlike life,” he mused.

He’d had his head down thinking of all that memory on the ground. Once, he bent down to scoop some up, but they just rolled out of his hands. Somberly, he moved on and noticed finally, a source of some dim light up ahead. Where the rest of this world seemed like a dark smudge all around him, he saw a space of light in the shape of a man.  

“I am sorry Baltero,” the man said. “The bridge is closed to you at the moment.”

“Who are you?” Baltero asked. “Eh, if you don’t mind my asking that is.”

“I am Pedro.”

Pedro was a very big man, tall and thick. He wore a pearl-colored suit. He was the kind of man who guarded doors to important places, as he was now with the one before Baltero. Pedro stroked his dark beard.

Baltero felt the pulsing in his hand again and looked down at it.

“You had someone there with you, yes?”

     “Yes,” Baltero said. “My son. I think he’s still holding my hand. Maybe he doesn’t know I’m–” Baltero paused. It was hard to imagine. 

     “Many are not so lucky,” Pedro said and took a toke off a long, winding pipe that looked curiously shaped like a rooster. “They get stuck there when they go alone. They end up wandering the cold, poorly lit halls by themselves.”

“I wasn’t alone,” Baltero said. He remembered the last words he’d heard his son say.

“I’m here Dad. You’re not alone.”

      “One poor soul floated up into the vents,” Pedro said as though Baltero never spoke. “He rattled around in there for a week before he even knew he was dead. This is why I say it’s better to die outside.”

      Pedro toked on his pipe and put a massive hand on Baltero’s thin, bony shoulders.

“Don’t worry my friend. Dying is the same as being born. In both cases, you leave one place for another, and they’re both painful.”

As he stood with the mountainous Pedro, Baltero suddenly remembered the journey from his mother’s womb to the world. It happened seventy-three years before. That day he went through an impossible door in the dark, to be lifted into the light. For almost three quarters of a century, he’d walked everywhere he was going to walk, smelled everything he would ever smell, heard every sound he would ever hear. He’d seen war, the birth of his children, the death of his marriage, the birth of another, and more golf courses than he’d ever dreamed. Now he was leaving the world for something thoroughly unknown.

“Yes,” Pedro said. “You understand now. Death is not the opposite of birth. It is the reverse of it. Like becoming a deep-sea diver, or an astronaut. Every child born is an explorer, and every person that dies is too. The pressure and pain of birth binds your soul to the body. When you were born, you were given this suit to explore life. Now,” Pedro puffed his pipe, “the suit must come off.”  

The big man poked Baltero’s chest once with a thick finger and at Pedro’s touch. All but Baltero’s bones fell to the floor like an old robe.

“So, what happens now?” Baltero asked. He felt nothing, not even surprise at the fact that he was still standing, reduced to a skeleton with a faint glow running around and through his bones. All flesh and sinew were gone now, save the little about his right hand which still felt the touch of his son.

“Hmm.” Pedro took a long toke from his pipe and regarded Baltero with sympathy. When he blew out his smoke, it formed a small person-shaped figure made of white, who stood on Pedro’s shoulder and seemed to whisper something into the big man’s ear.

“Yes,” Pedro nodded to the little smoke angel. “I understand.”

He toked again, this time the smoke was black, and floated to Pedro’s other shoulder where it tugged on his ear. Again, Pedro nodded. 

“What is it?” Baltero said. He wondered if he’d done something wrong.

“Baltero Acantilado Piedra III,” Pedro said standing straight. “You may not enter here. You must see Mr. Nox.”

“I don’t understand,” Baltero said. “What have I done?”

“I am sorry Baltero. This is out of my hands.”

2

Baltero wandered the Realm of the Dead for what seemed like days searching for Mr. Nox. The whole time, he could still feel his son, Baltero the IV squeezing his hand with the 1…4…3.

At first it was a nuisance, but then became a comfort, and now it was back to being a nuisance. He wondered if perhaps it was this that kept him from the passing the gate. How he could still feel it, being a skeleton now, he did not know, but it was there. Each morning, Baltero would wake up in darkness, push open the lid of his wooden crib, and sit up to see the diffused, amber glow of the afterlife. Time had no place here, there was no changing of day and night, only the dark stain of this realm over everything.

It took a while getting used to not needing to stretch. Baltero set out in search of Mr. Nox. He wandered the dreary world. There were no buildings, no landmarks he could recognize, no cars, or signs anywhere. Everywhere he looked, he found things that had once been alive. Trees were dead and twisted in unfamiliar, and haunting shapes. Rivers were black like asphalt, and when he touched the water, it was more like sludge, thick and lifeless.

He wondered if he’d been going in circles when he came across a ribbon of an ethereal green glow. Underneath it was the black sludge of a once flowing river. The glow made it almost look alive again with foamy ripples. Baltero noticed something else in the ‘water,’ he noticed tiny dots of light that swam with the slow-moving current of light.

Fish! He thought. Ghosts of fish.

Baltero was so mesmerized that he did not notice when someone walked up to stand next to him.

“The river’s ghost,” a deep voice said. “Water is very much alive, and when it dies, it mourns its time in life as well as anyone.”

     Baltero turned to see a tall man dressed in a gray suit smoking a cigarette. He had a bushy mustache in which his cigarette’s smoke seemed to linger. The tall man eyed him up and down with eyes like a stormy gray sky.

     “I didn’t know a river could have a ghost,” Baltero said.

     “Every living thing has a ghost,” the stranger took a drag from his cigarette. “This one’s been dead over a thousand years. Some things just hang on longer than others.” The man raised an eyebrow. His skin was gray. “You don’t believe in any of this shit, do you?”

     “No,” Baltero would have felt a lump in his throat if he’d had one. “I don’t. I haven’t, not for a very long time.”

     The big man took a long drag from his cigarette and eyed Baltero coolly.

“Follow me,” was all the man said as he turned, and started walking along the ghostly river’s bank.

     “Uh, wait!” Baltero called out. “Please! Do you know where I can find Mr. Nox? I was told by the man in the pearl suit, uh…Pedro. He said to see Mr. Nox.”

     The man turned his head halfway and simply said, “This way.”

Having nothing else left except his curiosity, Baltero took one last look at the forlorn river wraith and followed the man. Again, he felt the 1…4…3 in his hand.

Baltero noticed that his guide never stopped smoking. The smoke was, in fact, the only way he could keep track of where the man was going.  

“Excuse me,” Baltero called after him. The man, who for what seemed a very long while, had walked without stopping, or saying a word. “Sir?”

     “Keep up.”

The featureless landscape, broken up only by the occasional sighting of a pile of bones here or there, or the last vestiges of long dead trees, finally came to an end at a door cut into a hill. Baltero wondered then if there were ghosts of trees anywhere to be found. He realized then that the man had stopped at a door.    

     The smoking man turned to Baltero. He gave a mildly disapproving look and opened the door. Inside, there was a table with two chairs.

     “Sit.”

     The room was gray. Baltero sat down, as did the man.

“What is this place?”

“It’s just a room.”

“You are Mr. Nox?”

“I am.”

     There seemed to be no direct source of light inside the room, the gray, it became clear, was not painting of the walls but the color of a fog of cigarette smoke. The smoke itself lit the room. It gave everything a pale hue but made it impossible to see anything beyond. Baltero wondered what Mr. Nox had been in his previous life. He looked like a mob lawyer from the movies, slicked back dark hair, five o’clock shadow that gave his face a steely look and the mustache. His voice was deep but had a strange southern sound to it.

     “So, what happens now?”

Mr. Nox did not answer. He shuffled some papers in a folder that came from nowhere. He took a long drag from his cigarette and read the papers in his hand. The cloud of gray thickened. Baltero might have jumped, had he still had nerves, when a dark, thin figure that looked like a series of pencil marks came through the gray smoke and handed Mr. Nox a piece of paper.

Lighting a new cigarette, Mr. Nox looked up at Baltero.

“Can you feel anything right now?”

“Yes, a pulse, or twitch of some sort. It’s my son, though I don’t know how.”

     Mr. Nox looked at the dark figure again. It nodded his bulbous head. He had no face, no features Baltero could make out. Without a word the figure disappeared into the ether of all the smoke in the room. Baltero noticed something in a corner. There was a coat rack, with a black coat or cloak hanging off it, grayed by dust. Beside it, a long shaft leaned against the wall with a curved piece of silver obscured by the coat/cloak. Had he anything left of his throat, Baltero may have gulped.  

“This happens now and then,” Mr. Nox said neatly placing the papers in his folder. “We call it a ‘piggy-back.’ You are dead, but your son is still holding your hand, and because you had no beliefs before you died, you have jumped onto his. You may have to work through some things.”

     “What are you saying?” Baltero asked. “What do you mean? I’m in my son’s beliefs? How is that possible?”

Mr. Nox took another toke on his cigarette. The orange fire at the end of it was the only color Baltero had seen in how long he did not know. It was mesmerizing.

“Like I said,” Mr. Nox exhaled. “This happens from time to time, when a family member with strong beliefs touches the dead before they finish the crossover.”

“But what about my beliefs?”

“You don’t have any, remember?” Mr. Nox’ expression was cheerless.

Baltero’s voice might have cracked if he still had a larynx. “I just wanted to rest. I lived my life. I did what I did. What’s done is done. I want to rest now.”

Mr. Nox put out his cigarette and lit a new one. He gave a conciliatory shrug.  

“Well, what are my son’s beliefs then?”

     “You don’t know?” Mr. Nox asked as smoke seeped through the dark hairs of his mustache.

     “No. I have no idea.” Baltero regretted his words as he said them. He looked down. “I guess I never really asked.”

     “That’s going to make this more interesting, isn’t it?”

     The dark featureless figure from before came out of nowhere and leaned down and whispered something to Mr. Nox. In an ashtray that was not there before, Mr. Nox twisted his cigarette until it was out, his face suddenly grim.

“Wait!” Baltero said. “What ‘things’ do I have to work through?”

Baltero looked at his skeletal hand, the one his son had been holding when he drifted away. The 1, 4, 3 stopped and the flesh and nerve that was left on his hand fell away.

“Oh no,” Baltero’s hopes dropped as his heart had days before when it fell from his ribcage to hit the ground.  

Mr. Nox grabbed a pen from his suit pocket and reopened the folder with the papers. “Name again,” he said.

“Don’t you already know that?”

Mr. Nox looked at him with such a coldness in his gaze that Baltero felt it in his bones.

“Sorry, Baltero.”

“Full name please,” Mr. Nox did not look up from his paperwork this time.

Baltero paused as if to clear his throat. “Baltero Acantilado Piedra III.”

Mr. Nox scratched his name down on the paper and closed the folder with a slap that sounded more like a BOOM. He grabbed his endless pack of cigarettes and pushed his chair out to stand.

“That’s it,” he said. “You’re off the hook now.”

“I am?”

“It’s what you wanted isn’t it?”

“Yes. I suppose it is.”

“Then it is done.”

Mr. Nox stood to his full and terrifying height and the room darkened. Baltero felt as if he might be consumed by the sheer size of the man and the smoke and the world of death around him. If Baltero still had nerves, he would have shuddered. He felt nothing when it happened. Without a word or sound, Baltero’s bones fell to the floor in an unceremonious heap. He was still present. Only now he could do nothing but look from his eye sockets as Mr. Nox walked to the corner of the room. There, he moved the shaft leaning against the wall, which Baltero saw now was a sickle.

Mr. Nox lit another cigarette and grabbed a broom.  

Late One Night

by Bert Rock (2021)

Late one night, the hour and the moon are small as a motley crowd fills a tiny third-floor apartment, huddled around a bed and its sole occupant. A man, his beard equal parts red and gray lies in it asleep, and unstirred by the presence of the onlookers. They are all waiting, like the strangest family at a vigil for a coma stricken loved one.

It is not possible for so many to be inside the small space, and yet they are. Men, women, children, and other creatures fill the apartment. They move within and without, down the stairs and on the walkways. There is a pirate ship in the parking lot. It is surrounded by a thick mist, moored amongst cars tucked in spaces framed by neat, white lines.

Inside the tiny apartment, a beautiful woman with a scarred face and half an ear taps on the sleeping man’s shoulder. She has done this many times. She is pregnant, dressed in a breastplate shaped to her pregnant form and carries a sword. She is the captain of the pirate ship.

“This used to work,” she taps him again, harder, but the sleeping man does not stir.

The apartment has a writing desk littered with papers and books and a laptop computer. There is a map of the first world the sleeper created on the wall over the desk, surrounded by smaller maps and assorted drawings. Overhead, where the ceiling would be, is an opening to the cosmos. It is where stories, ideas and dreams all swirl above the sleeper, like a mobile of a vast galaxy. A barbarian wearing bearskin ducks as he walks to the kitchen, slightly bumping a planet made of words out of sync. An enormous wolf cocks his head curiously and wonders if any of the stars are edible. A lion named, Ian flicks his tail and watches the others with the indifferent curiosity only a cat has. 

A dark-haired girl with a tattoo of a crow’s wing on her arm, leans against the wall and flips through the pages of a book. Occasionally, she looks up to scan the room and the others. Outside, an eight-legged horse eats grass while an old knight tells stories to rocks.

“What do you think is wrong with him?” asks a man wearing leather armor and mage robes. He is the Crow Girl’s father.

“He’s lonely,” a young woman with cropped red hair says. She is a soldier in some medieval army.

“Eh, he looks sad,” says a medieval lord with a vicious scar on his face.    

The Crow Girl’s father sits at the desk while the others mill around. He examines the laptop computer as if it were a holy artifact, afraid to touch it as if doing so would disturb some god.

“When will he write again?” someone asks.

“Do you think he will write again?” another says.

The room is alive with murmurs pondering the possibility. In the kitchen Odin makes eggs with Frigga. Thor flips through channels on the television. The great, feathered serpent, Quetzalcoatl coils up around a pillow and talks of his brother, Tezcatlipoca. Coatlicue, a goddess fifty feet tall, sits on the corner of the apartment building in deep thought. Her hair is the night sky. She wears a skirt made of snakes.  

A giant, tongueless, and mute, rummages through the dumpsters for something to eat. Nearby a boy dressed in sealskins holds a narwhal-horn spear and waits for an enemy–any enemy. Villagers and knights and healers and lords walk here and there.

Inside, a naked, gray skinned man scarred from head to toe, with tattoos of weapons on his body covers himself with an old shirt and sits in a corner. A wooly centaur, the last king of an arctic land attempts to hold council with some of the others. They do not listen. The giant wolf and the lion watch each other from across the room, each one quietly sizing up the other. A young knight, with a look of affluence and malice twirls a dagger in his hand. Standing by him is a golem encased in plate armor. It is eight feet tall with four arms and a head shaped like a fist. They are all waiting.

The room full of strangers and friends murmur and mingle a little, but mostly they stay to themselves. Outside an elephant trumpets and two ravens call.

The Crow Girl’s father looks up at the map on the wall, “This is it!”

Everyone in the room turns to the man at the desk.

“What is it?” the Centaur asks.

“The map. This is where we live isn’t it?” He looks down then, at the laptop, which appears to him like a slab of obsidian. Next to it is the mouse–a small, ruby colored device.

“What is that?” The Centaur points to the slab of obsidian. “Some kind of spell tome?”

“Whatever it is, he commands it,” Crow Girl’s Father points to the sleeper. “Of that I’m sure,” he looks again at the map and then the desk. “This is where it all happens.”

“How does it work?” Quetzalcoatl asks.

“I don’t know,” the Crow Girl’s Father says.

The Old Knight who told stories to the rocks outside walks through the door with a young boy, whose hair is like sunlight.

“He misses you, you know,” the Old Knight says, and everyone turns to him.

“Who?” asks the Pregnant Pirate Captain.

“All of you,” the Old Knight sweeps the room with a gesture.

“Even me?” three voices speak in unison.

The Old Knight flinches. The voices belong to three witch women, chained together at the feet, and sitting in the corner with bowls of mead. When they speak everyone in the room inches a little further away from their corner. The Old Knight replies with eyes wide and his disgust barely hidden.

“Yes. Yes, yes,” he nods and looks around the room at the others. “Like I said, all of you.” He takes a step further from the witches.

The Young Knight, a murderer with an unrepentant chin, looks down and says, “Well, we miss him too.” He digs the toe of his boot into the carpet.

Nods and murmurs of agreement fill the room.

“How do you know he misses us?” the Pregnant Pirate says.

The Old Knight looks quizzical and shrugs. “I don’t know how I know,” he furrows his brow. “I just know.”

“What do we do then?” a brawny young man asks.

“I think we wait,” the Scarred Lord says. “I mean, do we really have a choice?”

“We’ve been waiting,” the Pregnant Pirate says and is met with a chorus of agreement. “Some of us longer than others.” She looks at the Old Knight.

He puts his hands up, “I only mean to help.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to write anymore,” the Crow Girl slaps a book shut.

Everyone looks at her now.

“Maybe he doesn’t care. Anybody thought of that?” she gestures toward the Sleeper.

“The old guy just said he misses us,” the bearskin wearing barbarian says, as he takes a beer out of the refrigerator.

“Maybe he dead,” the Sealskin Boy says. People try to avoid his narwhal horn spear.

“He’s not dead,” Crow Girl says. “Maybe he just doesn’t love us anymore.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” the Bearskin Barbarian says, beer froth falling from his beard.

“Everything.” A man so wrinkled, he looks like a human shar-pei speaks.  

The room looks at the shar-pei man.

“Without it we are nothing, we would not be here,” he looks around the room with disgust, “Wherever here is.”

No one speaks for a time. Then, the Crow Girl’s Father, sitting at the desk, nudges the mouse with his knuckle. Everyone in the room holds their breath. Nothing happens.

“That doesn’t do anything,” the Boy with Sunlight Hair says. “You have to turn it on.”

Everyone turns to the boy.

“I know you!” the Crow Girl says. “You’re the new kid.”

Her words have an edge. Crow Girl’s Father gives her a look. She sticks her chin out defiantly but says nothing. The boy gives her a shy look and speaks to her father.

“It’s a computer,” he says and steps forward, eyeing the centaur, the lion, and the wolf as they watch him walk through a gauntlet of fantastic characters. “Here, let me show you.”

The boy flips open the laptop and turns it on. everyone in the room gasps at this when the screen flickers to life showing a sketched charcoal drawing of a dog. The boy turns the mouse on and clicks. In his peripheral vision, he sees some of the wonderous people flinch.

 “Oh no,” he says.

“What?” Crow Girl’s Father asks.

“I don’t know the password,” he looks at the old knight and then to the others. “Does anyone know the password?”

The room sighs. Many put their hands up, shake their heads and go back to their conversations, and ignore the boy. They go back to watching the writer as he sleeps, all of them somehow fitting into his tiny apartment. The boy watches them as they argue, unable to agree on why the man won’t write, or whether or not he can. It’s like an odd gathering of the world’s strangest children in a classroom with no teacher.

“Oh, I have an idea!” the boy says.

“Speak,” says the Scar Faced Lord. He sniffs a container of food and grimaces as he places it down on the kitchen counter.

The boy looks at the sleeping writer and summons his courage. He turns to Crow Girl’s Father and puts out his hand.

“Hi,” the boy says. “I’m Simon Smart. What’s your name?”

The man smiles and glances around the room as he takes Simon’s hand.

“I’m Marmac,” the man says. “But you can call me Mac.”

“Nice to meet you Mac.”

“Pleased to meet you Simon,” Mac said. “What did you have in mind?”

“Maybe we should all just talk to each other. We all have a story, right? We could share them.”

Simon smiles and the room gets brighter.

Marmac nods. “That’s a great idea.”

The Crow Girl taps Simon on the shoulder.

“Hi,” she says. “I’m Faunie. Sorry I snapped at you.” She smiles and puts her hand on Simon’s shoulder and points to the pregnant pirate woman, “That’s Izra, and over there is Borgo the Bear, this is Inkasu,” she gestures to the boy with the spear. “Oh, and there’s Tom Jonney, and…” her voice trails off as she goes around the room and introduces Simon to the rest of the people there. Barbarians, knights, witches, and gods all start talking to one another, sharing their strange and wonderful stories.

At the center of them all, the writer begins to stir…

The Wandering Oak

A Fantasy Novella

by Bert Rock (2018)

Prologue

The summer sun warmed his old bark as Ionoor woke from his thousand-year sleep to the sound of laughter. Young lovers leaned against his trunk, giggling in the shade his limbs provided. He delighted in the sound of their whispers and kisses. He’d lived the life of every creature in the world over two thousand years. It was time for the last, Man.

The lovers were oblivious to the world, and the god around them. Ionoor heard bees buzz, and birds sing their cheerful songs amid the coos of the two lovers. For the first time, the tree the Northman called, the “Father Tree” produced fruit, a golden pear. First one, then another and another until the tree was alight with the radiant fruit. Ionoor felt the pluck, the heavy fruit taken from his branch. The lovers, young and bold, would eat the pear to the core, and the final leg of his journey would begin.

Overcome with desire, they made love as sunlight filtered through the branches. Hours later, they woke to find the ground littered with blackened pears and the tree was dead.

Part One

1

            High in the Daneburg Mountains the first snow of winter fell on the roof of Kirk’s Hall. Northmen and women gathered as smoke wafted up through the chimney to a cloudy sky. Normally, wedding engagements were for spring or summer, but Kirk Ixel Moonborn, had only one daughter and no sons, and the seers promised a harsh winter. Inside, the hearth fire burned bright, casting an orange light on gaunt, stoic faces and shadows everywhere else.

When the word came that a nobleman from Glennring agreed to meet his daughter, Ixel took it. Glennring was rich and profitable, a city Ixel’s people would sack and plunder in the past, but the days of the mighty Oak Men were gone. The people were starving.     

Great oaken doors with a carving of the Father Tree opened, inviting in the cold. Venison stew and stout ale flowed for the arriving nobleman and his retinue. Izra Moonborn, the kirk’s daughter, looked on as her father’s thanes lined the hall. They wore bearskins and leather as opposed to steel armor, and armed themselves with axes more than longswords. People came from all over the Daneburg Mountains to see the kirk give his daughter away, again.  

Izra’s mother, Bodonna, leaned in and whispered through her teeth. “Don’t ruin this one. If you do we may not last the winter.”

Ixel raised an eyebrow and Bodonna fell quiet. Izra was relieved. She could recite the rest of her mother’s words from memory. “You brought shame on your family.” 

Izra’s mother only ever had the one child. After Izra was born, Bodonna miscarried three times and never came close to holding a child in her belly again. Throughout her life, Izra heard how she’d blighted her mother’s womb and robbed the family of sons.  

It was a struggle to keep her smile as Izra’s stomach turned with the thought of another engagement. She wanted to run and hide and had tried earlier that day, locking her chamber door and refusing to come out. Her father threatened to have the door beaten down, and when the first axe hit it, she gave in. There was nothing for it. She focused on how this would help her people. Izra straightened out her brown and green dress. It was tighter than she’d expected.  

“The whole country’s starving and my daughter’s getting fat,” Bodonna had complained as Izra squeezed into the corset that accentuated her body with the low-cut top made to promote her cleavage. Her hair was the color of summer wheat and when down nearly reached the floor. Her mother had insisted on tying it in a wedding braid, which looped around her collarbone like a necklace. In the mirror, it looked like a noose.

Looking out at the guests, Izra could not tell which one was the nobleman. The man her father had garnered a deal with to bring food for his people in exchange for his daughter’s hand.

My life to fill the pantry, Izra thought dourly.  

“He’s up and coming I hear,” Ixel said. “They say he has the ear of the king in the capital. He could become a powerful lord, give you a good life.”

“Yes, Father,” Izra said.

Izra looked around the hall as the nobleman approached. She caught a glance from Serth Treefoot, one of her father’s thanes. Serth gave her a quick smile and a friendly wink under his bushy red eyebrows. He’d always been kind to her, even after the last failed wedding that nearly started a war. He was never cold like the others. Izra felt suddenly sad as she realized that all the people she knew in the world were in this hall, and she would have to say goodbye to them. Even sadder still, she knew that only so few would miss her.

A few feet from Serth was Melkin the Morg, a man she’d never felt comfortable around. His beard was black and he had a sharp nose with eyes the color of a frozen pond. Even before she’d reached womanhood, it felt as if he could see through her clothes. She looked away.

Izra wanted desperately to visit the Father Tree, Oggbard, in the ancestral forest. It was her favorite place, a sanctuary where she found peace since her last engagement years before. 

“It won’t be that bad. Don’t look so glum,” Ixel leaned in to whisper. He straightened then and looked concerned.

“What is it Father?”

“Lady Tunkerton,” he said tightly. “I’d hoped he wouldn’t bring her. She’s a shrewd woman. Watch what you say.” 

The nobleman’s mother was well-coifed, a stately woman with green and gold braids in her hair. She wore clothes not well suited for the cold, rugged clime. Nevertheless, she walked as though her feet never touched the earth, or that they shouldn’t. Alongside her, in a smock with all the colors of dusk was a short, stout, ruddy looking woman. She had graying hair done up with raven feathers fanned in the back.

“Welcome, Lady Tunkerton,” Bodonna said. She wore brown and white dress much like Izra’s. Her hair was brittle and graying. Her smile was so rare that it was startling.

“I brought my soothsayer,” Lady Tunkerton said before anyone could ask the question.

Bodonna blinked. “Witches are forbidden here.”

“So is starvation I should think,” Lady Tunkerton replied. “She’s not a witch. She doesn’t cast spells or curses. She’s a soothsayer, and I like to know what my family is getting into, having come all this way and having brought so much food for you. It would be polite to give me leave to ensure my investment in any way I see fit. This arrangement is unusual, so you can understand my trepidation.”

Lady Tunkerton came to stand before Izra and looked her up and down. “How lovely,” she said as she took Izra’s hand in hers.

            “Isn’t she?” Bodonna said with a steely look warning Izra.  

            “My lady,” Izra said. Her mother’s elbow in her side quickly reminded her to curtsy.

“You are a beauty, aren’t you?” Lady Tunkerton said. “Isn’t she beautiful, Falris?” the woman turned to her son, who nodded in agreement. “How did they hide such a flower for so long?”

“She’s very pretty Mother. She’s taller than me,” the nobleman said. “Will she will give me big sons?”

Izra stood still as a tree. She was just over six feet tall, as were most of the Northwomen. Her stomach churned at the thought of the doughy, pale man touching her.  

“We shall see,” Lady Tunkerton said. “No sense in delaying. Let’s find out.” She beckoned her soothsayer with a finger.

Bodonna shifted in place and politely protested but Lady Tunkerton would have none of it. The Soothsayer came forth at Lady Tunkerton’s signal and stood before Izra. The stout woman fixed her with an intense gaze, and placed her hand on Izra’s belly. She jumped at the touch and felt suddenly nauseous. The Soothsayer took her hand away. Izra’s heart fluttered. The Soothsayer whispered into Lady Tunkerton’s ear and her countenance turned hard.

“We’ve come all this way,” Lady Tunkerton said with a baleful gaze toward the kirk. “All this way…” her voice trailed off as she turned around.

“What is it, my lady?” Bodonna asked, suddenly acquiescent. She touched the nobleman’s mother on the arm.

Lady Tunkerton wheeled on Bodonna. “Do you take me for such a fool?”

The hearth fire flickered, and the shadows deepened. The weight of the moment hit Izra and she almost doubled over as an unbearable shame filled her. Izra was at a loss for what could be wrong, but she had a terrible feeling. Suddenly, she felt different. As if something had changed and she would never be the same.   

Lady Tunkerton gave her cold stare. Izra brushed at her belly where the Soothsayer’s hand had been, as the feel of her touch was still there.

“She’s pregnant,” Lady Tunkerton said.  

2

Izra tasted blood in her mouth. Her mother had never hit her so hard.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” Bodonna asked and hit Izra again. “Who was it? WHO?”  

“Mama, I–” another slap to the other cheek came as hard as the first.

The wedding was off. Lady Tunkerton and the Soothsayer were there in the now empty hall with Bodonna, judging her.

“I can’t be pregnant mother. I swear I can’t!”

“You are,” the Soothsayer said. “My touch does not lie.”

It was only the women in the hall now. The kirk had ordered everyone out and stormed off with his thanes. Though the fire still burned, the hall was colder inside than out.

“But I haven’t been with anyone in years! Cousin Elsa has had four children in that time. How could I be?”

Bodonna turned to Lady Tunkerton. “Your witch is obviously wrong. My daughter’s had no suitor for four years. Now, she’s still young. She will give your son strong children. You must reconsider.”

“Must I?” Lady Tunkerton said. “I assure you, I pay top price for this woman’s services,” she indicated the Soothsayer with a nod. “She’s proven her worth time and again.”

Bodonna looked desperate. “Well, I never claimed her to be a virgin. You knew this.”

“A virgin? Up here? At this age?” Lady Tunkerton scoffed. “What are you girl, twenty?”

“Twenty-two, my lady.” Izra said and heard a raven caw outside.

“A womb wasting away and already in use. Shame.” Lady Tunkerton drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. “Who then? Where is he?”

“His name was Yarrick,” Izra said and felt a lump in her throat where his name had been. A tear slid down her cheek. “He’s dead.”

“Good. How?”  

“Killed by the prince of Bahndurkirk,” Bodonna said.   

“That boy?” Lady Tunkerton snorted. “Everyone knows of him. What was that? Five years ago?”

“Four,” Izra said.

Lady Tunkerton stood. “Enough lies girl. Tell me who would steal my son’s prize?”

Izra’s lower lip shook. “Just Yarrick.”

Izra wished father were there. She felt like a piece of meat at the market these two women were bartering over. Bodonna gave Izra a hateful look. Lady Tunkerton threw her arms up.

“Did you drop her on her head?” Lady Tunkerton asked Bodonna. She turned to Izra. The woman smelled of incense and sour sweat. “How long since your last moon blood?”

Izra went cold all over. She looked down at her feet as if the right answer were crawling around on the floor.  

“I don’t remember.”

#

The cold air made everything hurt worse. Izra trembled all over, her body bent in the pillory. She could not look up at anyone who walked by, though no one had in a long time. The smell of rotting onions, potatoes, and her own defecation turned her nose. She’d been there for days now, or at least she thought. The nobleman and his mother left, leaving the food they’d brought but only because it would have been too hard to carry back down the mountain. At Izra’s feet, drops of blood had frozen just below a sign that read, “Witch.”

Izra’s mother ordered her flogged and beaten and put in the pillory. Izra looked for mercy from Bodonna, but like Lady Tunkerton, she wore a mask of stone. When it was over, she was left in the cold without so much as a torch to provide light.   

How could I be pregnant?

She chided herself for not knowing, if indeed she was with child. She could hardly be blamed. Her belly offered hardly any real indication and her mother never talked to her about the moon blood, aside from the first time. Memories of Yarrick that day under the tree came but Izra tried to push them away. She remembered the golden pear and making love. Not long after that, she was engaged to the prince and when Yarrick came forth to challenge the match, he was nearly cut in two. Izra fell into a pit of sorrow.  

“It just can’t be,” Izra said aloud, her voice barely above a raspy whisper. 

“Oh, it is.”

Izra started. The move sent a spasm of pain down her legs and up her back. She tried to see who it was but could barely move her neck.

“Who said that?” Izra asked her voice barely over a raspy whisper.

“You should be dead you know,” the voice said still out of her sight.

Izra looked for the boots. It wasn’t her mother. The last words she heard from her mother were, “Burn her.” Her father never said anything. He’d just turned away, frost clinging to his beard.

Izra’s tears had long frozen on her cheeks. She closed her eyes. Was she going mad? When she opened them again, a water skin appeared before her.

“Turn your head,” the woman said. Izra turned her head through the pain. When she did, she saw the Soothsayer.  

“You!”

“Don’t fight. Here, you need water. Drink.”

Izra drank what little she could get into her mouth.  

“You’ve been out here alone for days,” the Soothsayer said. As I said, you should be dead. No man could survive exposed to this cold for so long. How is it you can?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Izra started to cry.

“I expect they’ll come to burn you soon.”

“Please help me. I’m not a witch!”

“I know you’re not,” the woman said. “Funny thing, some say that I am. But I am not.”

“What are you then?”

“Something else, something more.” The Soothsayer leaned in close to Izra and whispered in her ear. “And so are you.”

Izra’s vision blurred as the Soothsayer walked away, leaving the water skin at her feet.

“NO! Don’t leave me here,” Izra felt her head spin as she cried.

#

Despair settled deep in Izra’s bones with the cold. Burning almost sounded like a relief. She wondered how long it would be before she felt the first lick of flame. The Soothsayer was gone. Izra heard the croak and call of a raven close by. She wondered how long before the bird started pecking at her flesh.

“I’m not a witch,” Izra mumbled, as if to assure the bird.  

Every breath felt like a day. Izra tried praying but could barely move her lips. Izra mumbled to herself wondering how long she’d been there when the crunch of footsteps disturbed the silence. She closed her eyes. This would be it. She heard the latch of the pillory unlock and felt a sudden jolt of pain. Then she was weightless, free from her bonds and looking up at the clouds. The night was white. Trees black like fingers reached for something they could not have.

A heavy bearskin wrapped around her as she was lifted into someone’s arms.

Father?

A face came into view. It was dark at first, but Izra thought she recognized the shape of the beard.

“Who are you talking to?” it was Serth Treefoot.

“The S–Soothsayer,” Izra managed to get the words out.  

“She’s been gone for days,” he said. “You’ve got a fever. Don’t talk. We’ve got to be quick and quiet.”

Part Two

1

            Izra’s whole body ached from the beating, the pillory, and two days of near constant riding. They rode west in silence. She sat in front of Serth. His big frame made it easy for her to lean against and fall asleep with the rhythm of the horse’s movement. They rode past the ancestral forest, where her father’s fathers were buried. Known as the Oak Men for their stoic and sturdy nature, Izra’s people were also famous for their funeral practices. They buried their loved ones with an acorn on their chests, so that the dead’s soul would grow with the new tree and live forever.  

At the end of the third day, they found a boulder to shelter them from the wind. The fire crackled between them. Izra ate charred rabbit, as salt from the meat stung her split lip.

            “I’m not a witch,” Izra said.

“Didn’t think you were,” Serth said. He had green eyes like the forest in spring. His beard was braided into two ropes that hung from his chin. He took a drink of ale. “Funny thing though.”

“What? What’s funny?”

“Your mother,” Serth shook his head. “I hear she listened to a witch to condemn you…as a witch.”

“I don’t think it’s funny,” Izra said.

Serth gave her a conciliatory smile. “No. I suppose not.”

“I’m not a witch. I don’t know why this is happening to me.”

They were silent a moment. Izra stared into the fire, trying to grasp all that happened. The fire crackled between them.

“Why are you helping me?” Izra asked.   

            “Wasn’t planning on it,” he said. “Was on my way out of the north when I found you. Couldn’t believe my own eyes. I knew your father had become a coward, but I never thought he’d allow something like that. ” Serth spit a piece of gristle into the fire. “Hard to believe Aezur’s blood runs in his veins.”

            “You knew my grandfather?” Izra asked. She’d not heard his name in so long.

“Aezur was a good kirk, a real kirk.” Serth said. “He saved my father’s life. I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t, which means you wouldn’t be here,” he motioned to their surroundings. “Maybe saving you will earn me a nod from him in the afterlife.”

Izra was not expecting the answer. “I miss him. He was always kind to me.”

            Serth shook his head. “Your father got the food anyway,” he said. “Won’t matter though,” Serth picked a piece of meat from his teeth. “He’s a bad kirk. Bad kirks and bad kings don’t live long. Plenty of thanes grumbling about it already.”

            “Someone’s going to kill my father?” Izra struggled to take in all Serth had said. Despite all that happened, she felt suddenly fearful for Ixel’s life, and even her mother’s.

            “It’s the way of the world girl,” Serth said. “He’s old and fat and he cowered to that bitch from Glennring. That was the last for me.”

            They finished the rabbit in silence.

            “Where are we going?” Izra asked.

            “Mead Town.” He tossed a clean bone in the fire.  

“What’s in Mead Town?”

“Boats,” Serth said. “Take me out of this bloody starving north.”

            “Where will you go?” she asked.

            “Some place warm,” he flicked a piece of gristle into the fire. “Take a boat down the Dwarf Mead. Plenty of places to sell my axe for work.”

            “So you’ll become a hired killer?”

            He looked up from the fire. “All thanes are hired killers. They kill for kirks, same way knights kill for kings. There’s nothing left to fight for up here. Best to get out now and might as well make some money while I’m at it.”

            “So why’d you free me?” Izra wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Won’t I slow you down?”

            Serth shrugged. “You already have.”

Izra nodded. “Well. Thank you.”

“Good thing I found you when I did,” Serth said. “You there, bent over and shaking–that’s no spot for woman to be in. Wouldn’t be right to leave you there. You’re lucky it wasn’t Melkin that found you.” He stared in the fire a moment. “He’d make you beg for the flame.”

            The mention of Melkin made her shiver. Izra fell silent for a while. The crackle of the fire was the only sound between them, as if wood and flame were having their own private conversation. Izra looked up at the sky, the clouds parted slightly, giving a glimpse of the mother moon.

            “How can I ever repay you?” Izra said.

            Serth took a swig of northern ale and gave her the ale skin with a solemn nod. A lifetime of listening to thanes taught Izra that this gesture was a sign of respect. She took a drink, handed it back and returned the nod. There would be no more talk of gratitude. The topic was closed. The ale burned going down. Northern ale was strong and Izra felt a little light-headed already.

            “What do I do when we get to Mead Town? Doesn’t my father know people there?”

            “Mead Town’s full of cutthroats,” Serth said. “Not a place for royalty. Anyone who knows your father there is likely not his friend.”

            “Even so.”

“We’ll have to cut your hair,” Serth said. “You can find someone to dye it. As for what you’ll do there? I don’t know, but I suggest you use a different name.”

            Izra felt her long, golden hair. He was right she knew. She nodded.

            “Here, let’s get it over with,” Serth stood up and pulled a dagger from his belt.

            That night Izra lay bundled in a bearskin cloak and rubbed her shorn head. Her long golden locks were gone. What remained was chopped and uneven. 

I look like a boy now.

Under the bearskin, she felt her stomach with a cold hand. Sleep came and Izra dreamt the same dream she’d been having since before the engagement night. She dreamt of the sea. Riding its back in a ship and being free. She’d only ever been to the sea once in her life, with her father, when he once toured the eastern coastland. Then her dream swerved and became something new. She was in a dark, deep place in the earth. She was different somehow and surrounded by a rainbow of color. In the dream, she could hear only one sound, a low and long, sound of something very, very big breathing.   

#

            When Izra opened her eyes the next morning, she remembered when she was a little girl, a moment with her grandfather, Aezur Moonborn. He’d come from some journey in a land across the sea.

“Do you know what that is, love?” he asked her as he handed her a wooden toy. It looked like an egg, with an ornately carved dragon wrapped around it.

“A dragon?”

“Yes. Smart girl you are,” he tussled her hair and leaned in close. “You know,” he said in a whisper to keep her mother from hearing. “The Maji across the sea say that the great lands of the world were made on the backs of ancient dragons that sleep deep in the earth beneath us!”  

Her hair lay in a golden pile at her feet. Izra ran her hand over her head. Serth had been as gentle as he could, but a lifetime of beautiful hair, was gone. Looking at it she recalled another memory of her grandfather when she was six. He took a lock of her hair in his hand. 

            “You’ve got the golden hair the elves like,” he said. It was always the same story. “If you’re not careful, they’ll steal in your room at night and pluck those pretty hairs from your head.”

“But why?” she asked.

“That’s how they string their elven bows.”

Izra felt the cold on the back of her neck. Her braid looked like a frayed rope on the ground.

            “Should we burn it?” she asked.

            “No,” Serth said and spat. “The smell lingers. If there are hounds, they’ll pick up the scent. Take it with us, we’ll find a place to put it later.”

            They rode for hours, sticking to the forest and staying off the trails. The way was slow. Later that day they came across an abandoned hut. At first, it looked like a hill of snow surrounded by thin trees. No one had come in or out of it in a long time.

            “What happened here?” Izra asked, afraid she knew the answer already. There were no tracks outside to indicate movement. There was no smoke, no horse or pig or dog.

            “Starved most likely.”

            Inside the hut, a family of four was dead, their bones picked clean and scattered like kindling. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling, the sour smell of decay stung Izra’s nose.

Serth moved a leg bone with his foot. He picked up a small wooden bowl between the skeletons, sniffed it, and wrinkled his nose.

“Poison. Smells like Spider Root.” He tossed the bowl. “Can’t blame them. No food in the larder and none coming anytime soon.” He shook his head and started looking around the hut. “No real kirk would let this happen.”

            “It’s my fault,” Izra said. “I failed them. I failed my people.”

            “Your father failed them,” Serth said. “What could you have done? Wedding you off to that southern twat wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference.”

Serth rummaged through the hut, thoroughly disrupting the peace death brought. Izra wanted to leave, she shifted where she stood, not wanting to disturb the dead.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Looking for anything valuable.”

Serth found a dusty pair of coarse trousers, a rotting brown tunic, and a shabby rabbit fur hat. “Here,” he tossed the clothes to her. “You look more like a boy now with the hair. Best travel as one for a while.”

            He sniffed the herbs hanging from the ceiling and left them where they were, then left her in the hut to change. Izra looked around. An entire family dead, she would’ve wept, but Serth barked from outside that they had to hurry. Izra took off her torn brown dress and corset. She wished there was a way to get clean. Her body was covered in bruises, scrapes, and little cuts. All because of her belly, that did not look pregnant.

Izra dressed in the old, smelly clothes. She stole a look at Serth through the thatched door. He was staring inside at her. She felt a sudden chill. It reminded her of the way the prince who killed Yarrick had once looked at her.

            He watched me? Had he seen her naked?    

            “Almost done in there?” He called.

            Izra shook all over and fumbled with a piece of twine she used to tie the trousers around her waist. She looked throughout the hut for something, anything she could use to protect herself.

          “Be out in a moment,” she said, hoping he did not hear her fear.

There was a glint by the cold hearth. Izra uncovered it with her foot, a small knife still caught in the claw like hand of a child’s skeleton. She quickly pried it out and wrapped it in a swatch of rotting cloth, then tucked it under her tunic, in the small of her back.

Izra looked at the family of skeletons on the floor. They could not bury them with the ground hard from the onset of winter. She knelt down and put her hands out, palms up and prayed the only prayer she could think of, one her mother taught her as a little girl.

“Gods of sun, stone, water and sky, keep us safe ‘til in the grave we lie. Gods of sun, sky, water and stone, if worthy, give us a place in your home. For we work, crawl, fight and die. All for your love, and not to be alone.”

The thatched door opened, and Serth blocked the light from without.

“We have to go,” he whispered urgently. “Someone’s coming!”

The thought of being locked back in the stocks, or burned filled Izra with dread. She remembered the way her mother’s face twisted with hatred when she called her a “witch.” She took Serth’s offered hand without hesitation. He had saved her after all. She could not deny that.

They got out of the hut and mounted the horse, her sitting behind him. Looking out, she did not see anyone and it was quiet.

“I don’t see anyone,” she whispered.

“It’s too quiet.”

For a moment, they listened. It was still morning. Sunlight came down through the trees soft like snow, lighting the white ground with an almost ethereal glow. Without a sound all around them save their own breathing, it was haunting and beautiful. Then she heard it, a grunt from far off. It got closer. A grunt, then a bark.

“Dogs!”

Izra’s heart tightened like a fist in her chest when she heard the word. She could just see something dark bouncing toward them in the gloom from the east. Serth kicked the horse and they were off. A moment into flight, Izra heard shouts of men. They were coming.

Pine branches whipped by and clawed at her skin as Izra bounced on the back of Serth’s horse. How long could it keep up this pace? Her heart pounded with the driving hooves. She dared not look behind them, but the shouts were getting closer and so were the barks.

They went down a draw and the horse nearly stumbled but kept its footing. At the bottom, they passed through a gauntlet of brambles and came to a creek, not yet frozen over. Serth wasted no time and ran the horse through the cold water. Izra wondered if that would be it, but quickly her heart fell as she saw two dogs bound through the cold water as if it wasn’t there. The men chasing them were navigating the draw, slower than they had. Serth’s horse was tired and the two dogs were at the animal’s tail.

“They’re on us!” Izra shouted.

“Hold on!” Serth shouted but it was too late.

For a moment, Izra felt weightless and then the horse came down again and she lost her grip on Serth’s cloak, falling to the ground hard and tumbling in pine needles and snow.

One of the dogs didn’t make the jump over a fallen tree and tangled itself in the dead branches, letting out a yelp of pain. The other, made the jump and was quickly on Izra, growling viciously as it pulled at her cloak.

Serth wheeled around, holding a long-handled axe for fighting horseback. Izra fought to get free of her bearskin cloak and the dog. Her hip and leg stung with the pain of the fall. Amidst the dog’s thrashing growls, she heard the clang of steel. The men had caught up to them.

Izra fumbled for the little knife she’d found in the hut, but could not find it. Filled with terror, she finally got free of the heavy bearskin and kicked at the dog, missing it. The dog was a war hound, fitted with a spiked leather harness. It had apparently not realized she was free and still tore at the bearskin. Izra saw Serth bury his axe in a Northman’s neck, dropping the man in a heap. Another man went for Serth with a broadsword.

“Look out!” she cried and as Serth turned to face the attacker, Izra ran.

Fear was a stampede on her spine. Gods please!

She did not get far. She tripped after a few steps and the war hound had her cornered against the trunk of an old downed tree. Weaponless she scooted back and shouted for it to go away, but the dog advanced, slowly. She could hear her death in its throaty growl but then the dog stopped and sniffed the air. Cocking its head, it looked at her as if she were someone it knew. The dog sat down and licked its lips, as if waiting for a command.

“What the?”

The commotion of the battle had ceased and Izra heard another man fall from his horse. How many were there? The dog stared at Izra and whined. She could not take her eyes off it. There was a flash of steel and the dog’s yelp was quick. Serth loomed on his horse, his axe buried in the dog’s neck.

Izra looked up, eyes, and mouth wide open. Everything had happened so fast. Serth got down off his horse.

“You hurt?” he asked.

Izra stared at the dog then looked up at Serth. She managed to shake her head. He moved differently as he grabbed the bearskin and pulled her to her feet.

“We have to go,” he said. “There’s bound to be more.”

            Izra took one of the horses from a dead thane. Serth struggled with the decision to leave the dead where they were or to hide the bodies, opting eventually to leave them. Speed was on their side now with two horses.

            “If they really want you back,” Serth said through gritted teeth. “They’ll send men ahead now that they know where we’re headed.”

            “You’re wounded,” Izra said, pointing to the blood dripping down Serth’s saddle.

            “That last one got me a little,” Serth said, holding his side. “I’ll be fine. Let’s move.”

#

            They rode the rest of the day with no further pursuit. Serth pressed to move on, despite his increasing slouch in the saddle. To their left rose a tall, foreboding mountain range.

“The Dwarfburgs,” Serth said. “We won’t find any friends in Deep Mountain. Best not to get much closer.”

“No one’s seen a dwarf man in a hundred years I thought.”

“Exactly,” Serth said. “No one’s lived to tell that they saw one.”

The dwarves of Deep Mountain were so reclusive that it was widely thought they had all died out years ago. They originally hailed from the Isle of Dwar on the western coast of Mythazos. Big, stout men of considerable strength, they were never shorter than six feet, but the years of mining in the Dwarfburg Mountains, the tallest peaks anywhere, made them shorter and shorter through each passing generation. Izra’s grandfather once told her that the dwarf men of Deep Mountain woke the dragon Mythaz, and chained it, to make it tell them all the secrets of the earth.  

It was getting late in the day when Serth noticed a set of tracks.

            “Bear,” he said grimly. “Keep your eyes open and pay attention to your horse. If she smells it we need to be quick. Mead Town is a day or so away.”

            Izra watched him closely and worried. They moved on from the clearing, and found a natural alcove in a hill. It was an overhang of earth and roots with a fallen rock to block some wind. They shared the rations they found in the dead thanes’ saddlebags.

“If it’s Melkin who finds you,” Serth coughed. “I want you to run. You hear me?”

“Yes. Finds us you mean.”

“Right,” he waved off her concern. “Just run. Run and don’t look back.”

Izra nodded and they shared the last of the ale. Serth’s words brought a chill. Izra bundled up in her bearskin, as a light wind blew through the treetops. She found sleep and a dream of sailing again. It seemed more than just a dream. She could feel the warmth of the sun on her skin, and the motion of the waves beneath the ship. She had a sword on her hip and wore a strange breastplate. Then her dream took her somewhere above the earth. She saw a man sitting high in the clouds, surrounded by lightning and faces.

            When she woke the next morning, Izra found that the horses had wandered off in the night, and Serth Treefoot was dead.

            She wept as she dragged the old thane’s body into the forest. She found a small clearing where she piled as many rocks and branches on top of him as she could find. It was a poor, but sincere burial. She wished she had an acorn for him but in its place, she placed what was left of her golden hair with a pinecone on top, and said a prayer.

            “Gods of stone, sky, water, and earth, Welcome the man who saved me, whose name is Serth. Gods of earth, water, sky, and stone, ask O’ Mighty Pine to give his soul a home.”

#

The horses were nowhere in sight. Izra returned to the little alcove she’d found and hunkered down as a storm set in. The snow fell for three days. She ventured out to get wood and look for the horses once a day. On the third, she did not leave the lean-to she’d fashioned out of sticks and Serth’s cloak. She ran out of food on the second day. With the purse of silver oaks she’d taken from Serth she might have enough to buy food and lodging in Mead Town. 

Izra kept Serth’s axe and his dagger, but left the heavy broadsword. For the first time in her life, she was truly alone. One night, when sleep came again, she dreamt of a summer day in the same forest. She was walking on the road to Mead Town and she had friends with her, and she was holding a small boy’s hand. It felt like something more than a dream, like a future memory. She and her group had stopped alongside the road to remark on a pine tree that had grown quite large. It had golden pine needles fine as hair. In the dream, she gazed at its bark, and thought it bore an uncanny resemblance to a man.

Two days later, the storm stopped and the landscape, covered in white, was blinding in the sun’s light. The clouds had finally broken and there were patches of blue above. Izra wrapped herself in the bearskin, took the dagger, the axe, the flint, and tinderbox for making fire, and left the alcove, starving.

#

            The road to Mead Town was a narrow path with wheel ruts made by travelers with wagons. Izra kept the Dwarfburgs on her left and knew as long as she did that, she would be heading west. She tightened the twine around her waist as much as she could and walked on, willing herself to think of anything but food.  

            “Gods, where is this place?” Izra said aloud to no one.

To her right, something caught her eye and Izra moved off the road into the wood. Once she’d gotten into the tree cover, she looked for anything edible anywhere. Chutes of grass peeked above the snow. She ripped them up and started chewing, tasting the dirt and the snow as she did. A cold wind blew through the trees and with it the sound of men and horses on the road behind her. Izra panicked. She ran into the forest, as fast as she could, tromping through deep snow and underbrush. She heard the men pass by. They were thanes. Fear drove her deeper into the woods.

Izra was lost. She fell down into a draw where a mass of exposed roots converged. Fallen leaves and mud clung to the earth around an opening to a hole under a hill. Her head swam with the sound of horses’ hooves and the sound of men crashing through the forest.

Quickly and dizzy with fear, Izra crawled inside, over small white twigs and leaves. The fear of fire and death clung to her spine like a spider. She came to a larger opening inside, where it was completely dark. She felt roots growing down from the ceiling, and the ground was smooth and hard with a pile of leaves mashed into the earth. Izra was light-headed from the exertion, her stomach was empty, and she could hardly hold back tears. Exhausted, she curled up in her bearskin wanting nothing more than to be warm and safe.  

Izra dreamt that she could hear every heartbeat in the world. She heard them like the pounding hooves of countless horses, but then they got fewer and fewer, until it was down to just three. One was large and slow, its beat a great thump…thump! Another was smaller, her own, and the third was the smallest still but it was in this one, she felt something bigger than the whole world.  

Izra opened her eyes. The cave seemed smaller somehow, though it was too dark to know for sure. She was so hungry that she could think of nothing but food. It was dark out and she remembered it being light outside when she’d crawled inside.

How long have I been here? She wondered.

She fell into a strange sleep. In and out of slumber, Izra dreamt that she’d found a hut in the forest, much like the one with the dead family. She entered but it was empty. Somewhere in the forest, the thanes still searched for her. She found a cellar and crawled inside to hide.  

“Oh dear,” said a woman’s voice. “Come here child. Let’s get some food in your belly now. You look awful.”

The woman was enormous, the biggest woman Izra had ever seen.

“Thank you,” Izra said. “I’m so sorry to intrude ma’am. I was afraid they’d get me.”

“No one is going to harm you here child,” the woman said.

The big woman had thick, golden brown hair and the kindest brown eyes.  

“Here,” the woman said. “Come outside where you can build a fire. I’ve some fresh meat for you dear.”

Izra looked around then and realized the woman’s home had no place for fire.

“Oh,” she said. “You don’t have a hearth.”

“No, dear,” the portly woman said. “I prefer to eat outside where I can smell the forest.” She brought Izra outside her home. The sun was shining as it approached midday. “You can build a fire here, if you like,” the woman pointed to a spot away from her front door. “And there’s a nice stream down there,” she pointed to a brook not fifty feet from her home.

“Thank you so much,” Izra said and set out to making the fire.

“You’re most welcome,” the woman said. “Now, stay right there and I’ll get the meat.”

“If I might ask, do you know the way to Mead Town?”

The woman’s expression darkened. “Follow the water and you’ll find the man den.”

“Thank you,” Izra said. She set to starting the fire.

“Wait here. I’ll get the meat. Just found it this morning. Poor thing was lost out in the cold.”

Izra had a strange feeling but got the fire going and looked forward to eating. The woman disappeared behind her hut and over a small hill. As Izra warmed her hands over the fire, she heard a great rending and tearing sound. When the portly woman appeared again, she seemed different somehow. Expecting deer, Izra was surprised to see the woman had dropped a bloody horse’s hind leg in front of her.

“Here you go, love,” the large woman said.

Izra watched her hostess’ lips move. They were suddenly black and her nose was different too, it was also black and her thick, golden brown hair was all over her face and body.

“Gods!” Izra jolted awake.

Eyes wide, she froze as she found herself face to face with a big brown bear! The mountain of brown fur sniffed her and then nudged the bloody horse’s leg toward her.

“What?” Izra retreated. “I thought I was dreaming!” 

The bear cocked its head like a dog. After a moment, it sniffed Izra and lumbered past her, to crawl inside its hole, disappearing in the dark. Izra sat there for some time. She thought of how the thane’s war dog had reacted to her and now this bear.

Maybe I am a witch.

Hunger took over and she eventually made her way to the creek, where she carved a few slabs of still good meat, and returned to the fire.

Izra ate her fill. She washed herself off as best she could and then, when she was tired, curled up just outside the den. Her belly full and the sun shining, Izra felt better than she had in days and realized she would need something to carry the food. She followed the bear’s tracks until she found the dead horse. It was the dead thane’s horse she’d ridden. She cut the saddlebags free. Inside she found a purse with some copper cups and silver oaks and a stale loaf of soldier bread wrapped in cloth. Carving a few more pieces of meat off, she wrapped them in the cloth and stuffed them in the bags. Once done, she sat back down where she found the den and rested her head against the damp earth.

“You don’t have to sleep out there you know,” came the voice of the portly woman from the dark den.

Surprised and relieved at the same time, Izra replied. “I can’t thank you enough for the food. It was quite good.”

“Oh good, that makes me glad.”

“What’s your name?” Izra asked.

“I don’t have one,” the lady’s voice said. “But what would you like to call me?”

Izra thought of it a moment. “How about, Lady Bear?”

“I like the way that sounds,” Lady Bear said.

Izra smiled. “Can I ask you another question?” 

“Yes. What is it?”

“If you’re a bear…”

“I am.”

“Then why didn’t you eat me?”

The den was silent and a wind outside blew through the trees. Izra hoped she hadn’t offended her strange hostess.

“At first, it was because you smell like me. But then, it was because you smell like Him.” 

“Who?”

“The only who there ever was…Big Claw. The first bear”

“I don’t understand,” Izra said.

“Big Claw was as big as a mountain. He roamed the wild lands when the mountains were still young. From every hair he shed, a new bear was born, and then, it was Bear, and not Man who ruled the earth.”

Izra slept fast that night, warm and snug just outside the den, and dreamt of a bear taller than the trees, sniffing for berries in a world without man. For a moment, she felt as big as the bear, giant and powerful, as though nothing anyone could do would harm her.

When she woke, Izra knew, without knowing why, that it was time to go. She stood outside the den, the bear still asleep inside.

“Goodbye, Lady Bear,” she said. “Thank you.”

Part Three

1

            Walking by the creek bed, Izra made her way toward Mead Town. The walk took her the better part of two days. She ate horse meat, drank creek water, and slept when she could. Her life had seemed much like a dream of late. Occasionally, she looked back and thought of the bear. What a strange few days it had been.

Izra stood on a hill overlooking the town. From where she stood, Mead Town looked like a muddy assortment of squares, rectangles, and circles from which stacks of smoke twisted up into a gray sky. The river, the Dwarf Mead, ran from the western side of the town and cut through the southern countryside. Her mouth watered at the thought of warm food. Mead Town was the dirtiest, most beautiful town Izra had ever seen. How her body ached in ways, she never thought possible. She had not slept in a bed or had a bath in weeks and could not hold back the tears as they came with each step closer.

The town itself smelled heavily of the river, and shit. There were more pigs horses than there were people in Mead Town, and most of them were drunks. The Dwarf Mead was the lifeblood for Mead Town, producing the water for its mead brewery, fish, and a way fare for merchants.

Izra paid for a room at the Frothy Fork, an inn run by a stout, bearded man with no front teeth named Nug. He’d thought she was a young man when she first arrived in town, and offered the room at a discount if she agreed to tend to the stables, and help in the tavern when needed. Despite never having done such work before, she agreed. She had enough silver oaks to pay for a room and board for a week, without the extra work. She had just enough left over, she hoped, to book passage on a riverboat, but when she went looking for one, none would leave dock. A war was brewing in the north, and no boat captain wanted to leave until it was either profitable or necessary.

#

That first night, alone in her room and after having the first bath in almost a month, Izra thought on all that had happened. She’d stashed away Serth’s axe and his silver and kept the dagger on her person at all times, tied to her calf and hidden. She resolved then that she would not be Izra Moonborn for a time. She had to be someone else.

She used a silver oak to buy black willow mane, a chunk of bark that when boiled would change her hair to a dark brown. Izra was surprised to find her breasts felt tender when she wrapped them with linen to hide them, so she did it carefully and bought a man’s tunic that was too big to help hide her form. When she introduced herself she would be, Aezrick, Aez for short. The name was a combination of Yarrick, her only love, and her grandfather Aezur. She watched the men of Mead Town closely, learning how they walked and talked. Her disguise seemed to work as she rarely received a second glance.

2

Most days, Aez the stable boy shoveled horseshit. He made sure the horses were well fed and groomed. When he was done in the stables, Aez went to the blacksmith and helped with banging out new horseshoes. His next task was to chop wood for the cooks and the hearth in the center of the tavern. Aez was getting stronger. When he brought the wood in he caught a barmaid with rosy cheeks and dark, curly hair looking at him. She liked to flirt with him whenever he made his way through the kitchen, but he never said a word.

When he ate, he ate fish and potatoes and whatever else he could get his hands on. When he wasn’t working, and could be alone in his room at night, Aez thought about when he could be Izra again. When he slept, he had Izra’s dreams. Izra dreamt often of sailing from sunset to sunrise, surrounded by men who loved her. Some nights, she dreamt of all manner of animals, big and small. She’d see the world through their eyes. Sometimes, in the small hours of the night, Aez would be Izra again and she would pull up her tunic and look at her belly. She’d touch it, and wonder was it true? Could she possibly be holding a life in there?

One night she could not shake the memory of that day with Yarrick beneath the branches of the Father Tree. They’d found that golden pear. It was beautiful, a treasure at the end of a branch just over their heads. Yarrick was the first to say the tree had not borne fruit in centuries. They’d shared it hungrily, allowing the juices to drip down their chins as they were overcome with love for one another. It was the best day of her life. 

In the morning, Izra would think of Lady Bear. Then she would get herself out of bed, dress herself accordingly, and walk out the door as Aez again.

Mead Town saw an influx of men arrive at the docks and the southern gates. They’d come from Glennring and Galdur, even some from Bahndurkirk, all to head north and join the fight for Kirk’s Hall. The Frothy Fork prospered. Aez worked hard but never lost sight of the goal to leave the north. He queried again about chartering a boat, but as before, none of the boat captains would leave yet, not until their hulls were full of booty. 

#

One day, Aez passed by a mirror in the tavern hall and noticed that Izra’s blonde hair was peeking out from under his hat. The dye was wearing off, he would have to get more. He quickly stuffed the hair under and pulled the hat down tight. He walked outside the tavern to muddy streets filled with thick fog. Aez heard voices gathered in a group like noisy birds. Curious, he made his way towards them.

Nug and some of the other Mead Town residents gathered around something in the middle of the muddy road. Several men on horseback addressed them from behind whatever it was the townspeople were looking at. The men on the horses were thanes from Danekirk.

Aez felt a chill. He kept his head down and elbowed his way through the mass of people to find them around a makeshift wagon that was low to the ground. In it was the most hideous thing he’d ever seen. It was a mountain of pink and bloody flesh, perforated with spear and arrow holes. It had a black nose, black lips, and lightless brown eyes. It was a skinned bear.

No!

Stifling a sudden scream that would have sounded like Izra, Aez covered his mouth and looked away. He stole a quick look back at the thanes. The one who was speaking caught his eye and held it there for a moment in a cold gaze. It was Melkin the Morg. The big thane addressed the onlookers.

“We found this bear a day’s ride from town,” Melkin said to the townspeople. “There was a dead thane’s horse near its den, and a campsite only a few feet away.”

The townspeople murmured and questioned.

“Who would make camp only a few feet from a bear’s den?” Melkin asked. “A witch!”

Aez started making his way back through the crowd.

“The witch’s tracks led here, to Mead Town.” Melkin continued. “She came from Danekirk. You all know the story by now. I’d wager she’s here somewhere, hiding among you.”

Melkin decreed that the people of Mead Town would share in the glory and the meat of the dead bear. Aez made quietly toward his room, looking back occasionally to see that he wasn’t followed. With each step, Serth’s words came back, “You see Melkin, you run.”

He made his way back to the inn, thinking of how to leave town as soon as possible. The thanes would soon be bringing their horses to the stables. He needed the purse of money in his room and wanted to gather his things. Aez went inside and saw the flirty barmaid, Telly, getting a table ready for a large party.

She called over to him. “Aez! Come, give me a hand, will you?”

Aez stammered. “I’m just going to my–”

“Just get over here,” Telly said. “They’ll be in any minute. Thanes don’t like to wait.”

Keeping an eye on the door, Aez went over and started pushing the thick tables together.

“What was that outside?” Telly asked.

“Oh,” Aez said. “Some thanes killed a bear.”

“Really? Good!” Telly smiled and hummed a little tune to herself.

“What’s with you?” Aez asked.

“Whoever killed the bear is going to want a warm woman. Killing gets a man’s blood going. I could make some real money tonight!” Telly said with a coy smile and moved her hips.  “And you could to.”

“What?”

Aez felt the heat of a blush on his cheeks and looked down at his shoes.

“Come now,” Telly said. “You don’t think I know?”

“Know what?”

“Look at you. Not a hair on your chin or the balls you don’t have. I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care. But don’t tell me you’re a man.”

“I am a–”

The door to the Frothy Fork opened and light cut through the morning gloom in the tavern. Three thanes stood in the doorway. One was Melkin the Morg. Aez shot Telly a look and the girl winked.

“Come on in,” Telly welcomed the thanes. “Good ale, good food and good me. Come now, which one of you killed the bear?”

The thanes did not answer, but walked heavily to the table. Melkin glanced at Aez who was inching closer to the door to the stables. Melkin approached Telly. He took the barmaid’s chin in his hand. “You might do. How much for both of you?”

Aez froze. Before he could say something Telly jumped in. “You don’t want him,” she motioned with her head to Aez. “He’s just a stinky boy, you want a warm woman.”

Melkin looked at her seriously and then to Aez again. The other thanes were getting impatient. “Brothon’s balls Mel,” one thane said. “Let the girl get some ale already. You, boy,” the thane pointed at Aez. “Ale. Now!”

Aez nodded and quickly disappeared into the back to get the ale. Heart pounding, he knelt down and touched the dagger tied to his lower leg and tried to steady his breathing. Afraid of revealing Izra, he focused on how to flee Mead Town as soon as possible.   

“What are you doing in here?” it was Nug, the tavern owner.

Aez looked up. “The thanes wanted ale.”

“Back in the stables,” Nug said. “Take care of the horses. I’ll get the ale. Hurry now.”

Aez got up and went to the stables. The horses were big like their thanes. Aez thought hard about taking one and leaving right then, but he wouldn’t get far. Some thanes’ horses were famously loyal to their riders and might buck, bite or otherwise refuse a new rider. He would need a boat. He would have to get a rowboat somehow, without anyone knowing.  

As the day wore on the thanes drank heavily and reveled in their victory over the bear. Aez stayed away from them. Once he finished taking care of their saddles, he waited in his room for it to get dark.  

The tavern was filled with the sound of laughing thanes and giggling barmaids. Twilight came and took its time. Aez nervously picked at his fingernails as he looked out at the Dwarf Mead. In the dwindling light of dusk, it looked like a black snake winding through the country.

Footsteps thudded down the hall outside the room and the door to Aez’ room opened. He jumped and saw the heavy frame of Nug in the doorway.

“What are you doing in here?” Nug asked. There was someone behind him.

“I finished with the horses,” Aez said. “I was just–”

“Get out,” Nug said. “I need this room for the thanes. You can sleep in the stables boy.” Nug turned to someone Aez could not see. “My apologies, I forgot I had the stable boy in here, we’ll get it cleaned up for you.”

“No need,” said the voice behind the wall.

Nug moved out of the way and Aez’ blood went cold. Melkin the Morg stepped in the doorframe. He was lean and cunning. Not nearly as large of a man as Serth Treefoot had been, but his presence filled the room. Aez found it hard to breathe.     

“Leave us,” Melkin said to Nug. “I want a word with your stable boy.”

Nug shot Aez a look.

“Boy!” he looked to Melkin pleading. “Please, whatever he’s done, I’ll pay it. Free ale, or food, you name it.”

Melkin put a hand on Nug’s round shoulder. “You’re still here.”

The innkeeper nodded understanding and disappeared to the busy tavern. Melkin walked in and closed the door. Aez looked over at the bed, underneath it was the bearskin he came to town with, along with the money and Serth’s axe.

“So,” Melkin said, looping his thumbs in his sword belt. “What’s your name boy?”

“Aez.”

“Aez?” Melkin looked thoughtful. “Tell me, Aez, where are you from?”

Thinking fast, Aez said the first thing that came to mind. “Fawn Hill.”

Melkin nodded and took a step closer. “What’s under the bed? I saw you look. Got something hidden away have you?”

Aez could not breathe. He didn’t move from the window when Melkin moved closer.

Aez’ heart thumped so loud it was hard to hear anything else. What was there to do? Go for the door or stay in the room? The time had come for a decision.

“Come on,” Melkin motioned with his head to the bed. “Show me.”

Aez ran for the door. Melkin was ready for it. Wrapping his right arm around Aez’ waist, the thane pulled him up close. Melkin put his nose against Aez’ neck and drew in a long sniff.

“I knew it the moment I saw you…Izra.” Melkin took her hat off with the other hand and ran his hand through her short hair. “Too bad about the hair, it was pretty. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve waited for this moment for a long time.”

“No! Let me go!”

“I heard you have a dead man’s babe in your belly,” Melkin groped her stomach hard and in one swift motion, ripped her shabby tunic down the middle, exposing her stomach and revealing the wrap that concealed her breasts. “Smart girl.”

“Serth,” Izra said. “Serth’ll be here any moment.”

“Oh really?” Melkin said. “Let him come. Won’t matter none to me.”  

Outside the door, drunken thanes cheered and sang. Nobody would hear anything. Nobody would know. Izra tried to grab the dagger on her leg, but Melkin squeezed hard and she gasped for air. He put her down and grabbed her throat. Before she could act, she felt cold steel against her belly. She stopped moving.

“Don’t,” she said through her teeth. His grip on her neck was hard but she could still breathe.

His blade was pointed just above her belly button. Melkin pushed up against the wall and slowly drew the dagger up her torso until it was just underneath the linen wrapped around her breasts. In one quick motion, he pulled and the wrap sliced open, revealing her body.

“Ah,” he said. “There you are.”

Izra shifted now that he had taken the blade away. He came in closer and eased his grip on her neck so that she could move her jaw. She spit in his face and squared her chin. Whatever was going to happen next would not because she’d allowed it. 

Melkin wiped his face. “You have spirit. Good. I like that, but it will be much worse for you.”

He hit her with a backhand in the face. Izra reeled, her head ringing as she fell into the bed. Before she could grab the dagger in her boot, Melkin grabbed her ankle and pulled her off the bed, twisting her so that she landed hard face down. He sat on top of her legs, holding her down with his arms.  

Izra heard a deep thumping. It sounded far away, like a drum, like what a mountain’s heartbeat might sound like. Izra fought to get free but Melkin was too heavy.

“All I need do is shout and my men will hold you down until I’m done.”

It was hard to breathe. Izra felt like there was a rock in her stomach. The beat got louder and louder, until she felt it in her bones. It was the beat of a huge heart, one bigger than hers could ever be. It drowned out all other sounds. She could not hear Melkin or the raucous thanes in the tavern anymore. The heartbeat had become the only sound there ever was.  

Izra grasped at the bedpost, then the bearskin cloak, anything she could grab. She felt a surge through her body. It was as if she’d grown. She felt as big as the room.

Melkin cut her pants down the back exposing her.

Izra’s fingers wrapped around Serth’s axe under the bed and a roar filled her throat. When she felt Melkin’s weight shift as he undid his trousers, Izra freed her legs enough to push herself up and swung as hard as she could.

There was a flash of steel and Melkin the Morg fell back. He got to his knees and looked dumbly at the axe handle sticking out of his chest, perpendicular to the floor.  

Izra stood up and grabbed her dagger. She watched Melkin’s lips quiver as blood sputtered out his mouth and his eyes blinked in shock. Melkin looked up at her. His chest heaved as he was about to scream. Izra drove her dagger up under his chin, until a wedge of steel peeked from his brow. The force of it pinned his mouth shut.

She watched the light in Melkin’s eyes dull and fade.

“For Lady Bear.” She said.  

#

That night, under a squinting moon, Izra Moonborn rowed down the Dwarf Mead wrapped in her bearskin cloak. She’d managed to steal a rowboat as the dock guards had gotten drunk with the bear-killing thanes.

Moving quiet as she could through the water, Izra eyed the dark window she’d climbed from. Moonlight made the inn and everything else silver, except for the window, which was a black, square hole cut into her memory. It was where she’d left two men, Melkin and Aez, to die.

Snowflakes fell from the sky but Izra was not cold. The pounding heartbeat had stopped and she felt like herself again, herself but much more. Despite all the confusing things that had happened, she felt clear and focused.

“I am alive.”

The late night sky was alight with stars. To the northeast, Izra saw the Dwarfburgs, and even further, in the distance, the Daneburgs drift away from sight. She knew then she would never go home. A tear fell down her cheek. She wiped it away and allowed no other.    

3

            Two weeks later, in the city of Glennring, Izra saw an old woman walk into a shabby hut adorned with symbols, runes, and candles on the outside. It belonged to the Soothsayer, the woman whose words changed her life.

With the money, she took from Melkin, Izra bought herself a horse, supplies, a short-sword and a set of leather armor. She had Serth’s axe tucked in her belt. She was going to leave the north altogether, though she’d not decided on where she would go, or what exactly she would do. Before she left, she wanted to see the Soothsayer.

It was midday and the hut smelled of incense and herbs. The door was open, a low fire burned from within. Izra glanced about and saw no one seemed to notice her. She stepped into the hut and found the old woman sitting at a table, looking right at her.

“You remember me?” Izra asked.

“The young Oak Woman,” the Soothsayer nodded. “Hello.”

            “I don’t remember your name,” Izra said. “What is it?”

            “Does it matter?”

            Izra paused. She rested her hand on the pommel of her dagger. “No, I suppose not.”

            “Are you here to kill me?”

            Izra did not answer, but sat down in front of her. The table had a pan with tiny bones in it and dice made out of wood. The Soothsayer wore her gray hair down and was draped in a smock the color of twilight. She lit a candle that gave off a smell that was acrid at first, but then became almost sweet. There were trinkets hanging from the ceiling, a dragon, a lion, a raven.

            “You tell people’s fortunes?”

            “Mostly, I tell them what they want to hear.”

            “Then why did you tell me I was pregnant?”

            The Soothsayer folded her hands together and leaned forward. Izra wrinkled her nose at the smell of incense. She wanted to leave the hut soon, but she could not bring herself to just yet.

            “I wasn’t talking to you,” she said. “I was talking to Lady Tunkerton.”

            “You lied,” Izra said.

            “No,” the woman said. “That is one lie I did not tell. You are with child.”

“I am not,” Izra bit her lip. She couldn’t bring herself to believe it, despite the acorn of doubt growing in her belly. “I can’t be.”

            The Soothsayer looked at her sympathetically. “Oh child–”

            “I’m not a child,” Izra said. “Not anymore.”

            “You fight the truth like one.” She sighed and leaned forward. The Soothsayer’s eyes were gray like storm clouds that reminded Izra of a dream she’d had. The Soothsayer looked at her and said nothing.  

            Izra shook her head as if it would shake away the truth. “It’s not possible.”

            “No,” she shook her head slowly. “It’s not.”

            There was a long silence between them. In the corner of Izra’s eye, something moved a thin line of smoke from the incense. She turned her attention to it, losing focus of the Soothsayer. The smoke moved rhythmically like a dancer twisting from one move to another and each time it changed shape into something new. It was a sword, a tower, a suit of armor, a crow, a ship sailing the sea.

“You will forget everything you hear in this hut,” the Soothsayer said. “And we will meet again, though not like this.”

Izra heard the Soothsayer’s words like her grandmother’s kisses tucking her to sleep when she was a child. She felt completely at ease, so much so that she slumped back in her chair and listened as music started to play but from where she did not know. The Soothsayer started talking. Izra focused on her. She remembered then, something the woman had said to her back when Izra was on the pillory and had called her a witch.

“I’m not,” the woman had said then. “I’m something more…and so are you.”

Izra focused on the woman’s lips. They were moving but the words were all around her, as if they’d become birds fluttering about the hut. There were so many, Izra closed her eyes to focus on them.

One word chirped in her left ear, “Your journey is just beginning, and it will be longer than a lifetime. Your baby will grow in your womb over a thousand moons.” Another word chirped in her right ear, “You will stay young and strong but your memory will be an old crone.” The third word flew into her chest and spoke a secret straight into her heart.

#

When Izra opened her eyes, again she was standing outside the hut. A new sunrise woke a sleepy, snowy land. She felt as if she had slept too long. The sun’s rosy glow lit the landscape before her. She turned around to find the door of the hut closed, and that it was no longer the hut of a Soothsayer, but a plain old shack. It had various iron tools and wheels, like a smith’s home.

“That’s odd,” she said.

“What’s odd?” the voice came from behind her on the steps.

Izra turned to see a bent over old man with a wispy gray beard, regarding her sharply.

“Mind if I get in my home now there lass?” the old man said.

“This is your home?” Izra asked. The fog in her head was thick.

“For about twenty years it has.”

Izra moved out of his way and the old man shuffled up the step to open the door. Inside she saw a bed and a cauldron over a cook fire. There was no table, no incense, or trinkets dangling. It was just a poor old man’s hut. She was sure it was different when she had gone in, but then she wondered if she really had at all.  

“Sorry,” she said. “I’ll be going.”

Izra regarded the morning with a smile. She drew in a deep, satisfying breath. Dawn’s light touched her cheek and she turned her chin toward the sun. It was a new day. She felt a calm come over her like she’d never felt before.

“Oh? Where to then?” the old man replied, his voice behind her as if a memory.

Izra touched her belly and smiled. For the first time in ages, she felt whole and free, and that she was not alone. The world lay before her anew, waiting to be conquered.

“Someplace warm,” she said more to herself than the old man. “Perhaps the sea.”

The Cork That Saved Humanity

by Bert Rock (2017)

When Colonel Si-Woo Sung received news that the Supreme Leader’s DTA task force finally created a missile that could reach America, he wept. It would be a day of celebration, he knew, so he unlocked his secret wine cabinet. He could see the Supreme Leader now, dancing around in his ridiculous pajamas while some poor coquet watched anxiously. There was never any telling what the man would do.

Si-Woo remembered the father’s reign. Before his death, the previous Supreme Leader was a man of singular vision who hated all things not Korean. He was a bad man, but a predictable one, and at times even reasonable. The same could not be said for the current Supreme Leader, an impetuous man-child whose mind lost its mooring. He was stupid, and terrifying. He owed everything to his father and saw even his many failures as successes.

Si-Woo looked in his wine collection and considered what vintage, what flavor would sing on the palate as they fired their missile, chanting the task force’s name, “Death to America!” A smoky cabernet sauvignon? A peppery merlot with hints of blackberry?

“Perhaps a port,” Si-Woo said to himself. “He’ll want steak afterwards. Once that fat finger hits the button, we’re all doomed. He’ll want something bloody.”

Si-Woo ran his hand through the collection, turning bottles as he went, unsure if his indecisiveness on making a selection was emblematic of his hesitance for the occasion. They were going to start a war. It would be the last war, the one to end them all.

Finally, he came to the cooler with the chardonnays and Rieslings. He’d been given the dubious title of “Master of Celebrations,” shortly after his young daughter died over two years before. The Supreme Leader seemed to think the title would cheer him up and even had a wine cellar built onto his house. Si-Woo opened the door and felt the frosty air on his face and saw the one.

“Ah. Champagne. Of course.”

Later, in the observation room they met. The Supreme Leader ordered streamers and dancing girls in bikinis and pageant sashes to pass flutes of bubbly around to his chief advisors and scientists. Si-Woo looked at the girls; the fear in their eyes was gone, replaced by the frank resolution that some lives, their lives, had no meaning. He thought of his mother standing up to his father. Women, he realized, were the bravest.

As they moved, he noticed powdered makeup fall like dust off their arms where it was generously applied to hide the bruises.

We’re a country of lambs, Si-Woo thought. We’ve been waiting for the knife our whole lives.

He walked around the room with all its gauges and meters and blinking lights. He’d once seen an American movie, The China Syndrome. Originally, he’d thought it would be a movie about Chinese zombies only to find that it was much worse. The room reminded him of that film.

Finally, the Supreme Leader announced that the time had come. Si-Woo had cradled in his arm the bottle of Champagne from his wine cellar wrapped in a tiny version of their flag.

“At last we shall show our might!” the Supreme Leader said pointing a pudgy finger in the air as though it were a mighty sword.  

Colonel Si-Woo placed the champagne bottle on his thigh. He removed the muselet, the tiny wire cage holding the cork in check–six turns as tradition required. He shook the bottle, just enough. He would have to time this for the exact moment.

He’ll want this to go off like some phallic metaphor once he hits that button.  

The room fell silent as the Supreme Leader approached a wooden platform. It had been put together so fast that the heads of nails stuck out of the wood as if they too wanted to peek upon the momentous occasion. There the almighty button waited–the button that would end the world. Si-Woo watched as their Supreme Leader unsheathed his mighty digit in anticipation a good ten feet from the platform. Si-Woo suppressed a snicker as the portly dictator held his finger pointing up, taking one profound step at a time.

The silence was heavy, the leader’s walk, tedious, deliberate and slow, as if the moment could be any more profound. They were going to send a nuclear ballistic missile right into the heart of their great enemy. Si-Woo’s hand was getting sweaty and the bottle’s condensation made it slippery. He wiped a hand on his trousers and shook the bottle once more, hoping the pressure had not died down thanks to the ridiculously slow goose-step walk.

Finally, the Supreme Leader was close to the platform. The bikini clad dancing girls watched, their pale chests bearing the weight of worry for their people and their lives. The generals watched too, their chests heavy with medals earned in no war.  

Si-Woo felt a bead of sweat slide down his temple. He made eye contact with one of the girls in a red bikini. She was lovely, even beautiful in a girl-who-has-to-smile-while-her-family-is-in-forced-labor, sort of way. He allowed a smile to cross his face as they shared that one final moment before the world would end. She smiled back and… POP!

Si-Woo’s thumb had slipped and the cork shot like a bullet, hitting the Supreme Leader in the eye. The despot let out a porcine squeal and flailed about as he stumbled. He was the kind of man for whom pain was a novelty, something given (by proxy) but not received. If he stubbed his toe, the nation held its breath.  

None of the generals or the assistants or the bikini clad girls moved to help him. When his over exaggerated cries died down, the room fell silent. Si-Woo bit his lip and looked to his comrades, waiting for the moment they would point him out, and his life would be over.

The Supreme Leader held his hand over one eye and looked around the room, turning red with anger. Si-Woo thought he heard a snicker, and then another. His eyes wide he shut his lips tight. Then the Supreme Leader saw him.

Si-Woo froze and closed his eyes.

This is it. I’m dead.

“You!” The Supreme Leader shouted.

Si-Woo did not open his eyes. he felt the hateful gaze of the man’s one good eyeball on him, the eye in which his destiny now lay. The leader shouted something else, something profane but Si-Woo couldn’t hear it anymore. He only heard the sound of a piano playing, the ivory keys lightly touched by his daughter, Lee. She’d been playing a lovely rendition of Beethoven’s, Moonlight Sonata. She’d been dead two years now. His wife had told him, as the Supreme Leader would not let him go home to be with his daughter when she fell ill.  

Colonel Si-Woo squared his shoulders and braced for the end. Perhaps now he would be with Lee, hear her play again. He opened his eyes to face his fate when he saw something he’d not expected.

The Supreme Leader came at him and he saw his life play out before his eyes to the tune of his late daughter’s piano talent. The Supreme Leader moved aggressively toward Si-Woo and stepped on the Champagne cork. The cork rolled underneath the man’s weight causing him to lose his balance and fall back flailing until his head smacked the corner of the wooden platform’s base and sprang a crimson leak.

Their leader was down. His head at an odd angle, poured red from his temple on the stark white floor as the cork rolled to rest against the tip of his button finger.

Colonel Si-Woo looked around the room at the faces. No one moved for several painfully quiet moments. Then, one of the women, the one in the red bikini picked up a champagne glass and walked over to stand before Si-Woo. It took him a moment to realize she wanted him to pour her a glass. He did, still eyeing the lifeless body of the man whose temper had made so many lifeless bodies. The woman smiled and walked away.

Then, one by one, the bikini-clad girls and the generals all took a glass, stepped before Si-Woo and he poured them each a taste of Champagne. Then, they all raised their glasses, and with a nod to the Master of Celebration, drank them dry.

The Wolf Who Would Bite the Moon

by Bert Rock (2019)

Urhain loped through Bonewood Forest–a landscape of tortured trees, their limbs reaching for the sky like broken fingers.

Something flapped overhead. Urhain let out a low growl. His heart had become an old, chewed bone buried deep in his chest. Urhain looked up but it was gone. Was it Loz? Was it the gray raven, come to gloat again? He remembered Ionoor’s touch on his shoulder, the familiar squeeze, and ruffle of his fur.

“Whatever happens,” Ionoor said then, “do not interfere.”

Ionoor, Sun, Day, Light. He was gone now. It was one time Urhain wished he had disobeyed. Even the memory of his voice was different now. It no longer sounded like the god, but like his own voice.

Urhain wandered through the night, until the moon was low in the sky and he thought he might bite it. He heard the flap again and it came with a smell, it wasn’t a smell as much as the lack of one, like a shape cut out of the night with nothing to replace it.

“Still looking are you?” the voice did not startle Urhain. The huge wolf heard Loz before he’d neared the forest again.  

“What do you want?”

Loz perched on a branch in the form of a raven with feathers the color of a stormy sky.

“I’m curious. Do you know how long it’s been now?” Loz asked.

Urhain lifted his weary head and gave Loz a baleful look. The other Gods called Loz the, “God in Between,” he was the twilight before night and after day–the gray light before dawn and after night. He could be anything or anyone he chose, sometimes changing from male to female and back again at a whim. Urhain did not hate Loz, but he did not trust the gray God.

Loz was a dark shape against the moon on the branch. Urhain did not want to talk, but then, he’d not talked to anyone else since the day and he was lonely.  

“I’ve lost his scent,” Urhain said.

Silence sat between the god and the angel. Finally, Loz fluttered down from the branch and when he landed was in the human form of a gray-furred fox.

“I didn’t think he had a scent,” Loz said. “None of us do.”

“Not to each other perhaps, but to me, to the Ur’Him, you all do.”

“Really?” Loz cocked his fox head to the side. “Well, what does our lost God smell like anyway?”

Urhain thought on how to answer the question. He’d never spoken to Loz for this long and it was unsettling to see the god in a shape he could easily devour, though he knew not to try.

“He smells like the sunrise, like the world waking up to a new day after a long night. The way grass smells when the dew starts to burn away and every living thing that waits for the sun wakes.”

“And what does She smell like?”

Thaana, Moon, Night. Urhain did hate her.

“She smells like the world without a sun.”

“Dare I know what my scent is?” Loz, the fox that was just a raven asked.

The giant wolf looked at Loz. For an instant, Urhain felt the power of his size compared to the small animal before him, but he knew better.

“You smell like nothing,” Urhain turned and walked away.

“Nothing? You mean I have no scent?” Loz said.

“I mean your scent is nothing,” Urhain answered over his shoulder. “Now leave me. You may be a God, but you’re not mine.”

Urhain raised his woolly head and gave a lonesome howl. The cry was long and loud and rattled the fragile trees. When it was over and the echo of it faded from his ears, he looked down again. Loz, the fox that was a raven was gone and Urhain could not help but feel more alone.

Blue Bear

by Bert Rock (2019)

Borgo picked dried jerky from his teeth as he stared at the western sky. He flicked the meat from his beard, which surrounded his face like a thicket of brambles. The Black Teeth Mountains with their jagged peaks looked like they could bite the sun as it fell for the night. There was a sound behind him, his horse, after so much time together he knew the crunch of earth beneath Stew’s steps. The big barbarian turned to see his horse, larger than most men had seen. Stew had to be to bear Borgo’s weight.

“What do you think boy?”

Stew nudged him with his big nose.

“Food,” Borgo shook his head. “Always food with you. Here.”

He pulled a carrot from his bag and gave it to Stew, and rubbed the big horse’s neck as he ate. He liked asking Stew what he thought. Sometimes Borgo thought those big brown eyes contained the wisdom of the world, though the horse would never say. A sour smell curled his nose hairs. He looked about but there was no one else around. It was his bearskin tunic. It was caked with dirt, chunks of mud, and dried blood, it gave off a pungent stench. How long had it been since he had bathed? A few pats with his big hands and dust billowed off surrounding him. Borgo took it off and hung it over a branch on the closest tree.

“Another day gone,” Borgo watched the sky turn from orange, to blue to black.    

They’d been alone, just he and Stew for weeks now, ranging in the eastern Hollow Lands, looking for the Headless Men.

They’d found a small mountain jutting up from the plain and camped by it. The fire waned, and Borgo felt himself ready to drift to sleep. His battle-axe rested next to him, as did the one handed axe he kept close. As the last ribbon of gray marked the horizon, he thought of Obar, his father, who was a giant of a man. Borgo remembered once when his father held him up on his shoulders to watch the last bits of sunset as he told him about their god. He wondered then, if he was as big as Obar. Almost seven feet tall, he had no one from his family or village with which to compare his massive size, or his worth as a man.

“Your God’s name is Brothon,” Obar said. “He is mountain and he is rock, but it is not he who holds up the sky.”

Borgo remembered being surprised by this. There were many Gods, some greater and some not, but he did not expect that his could not hold up the sky.

“Who does?” he’d asked.

“You are a Blue Bear,” his father said. “And do you know why?”

Young Borgo shook his head. He recalled a gleam in his father’s eye, perhaps at the prospect of teaching his son something new.

“From the Silver Sip River to the east, all the way to the western Hollow Lands, that is your sky, and under it is your earth,” his father said and shifted his weight while his son sat on his shoulders. “The Great Bear holds it up.”

“The Great Bear?”

“Ton-Tan-Banak is his name, Brothon’s friend, and his steed. He is so big that he holds the sky on his back, and when he gets tired, he puts the sky down for the night so he can sleep.”

“But why are we called the ‘Blue Bear?”

“The sky was painted by the Gods,” his father said. “Ton-Tan-Banak holds it up, but the paint’s rubbed off on his fur. We give thanks for his burden by honoring him with our name.”

Borgo’s people were gone. His father went off to war and never came back, a duty common to fathers in the Hollow Lands.  

Borgo touched the small leather pouch around his neck, rubbing it and feeling the contents within. Eight small teeth, the first ones lost by his five sons, and then by the three girls who followed. All his love rattled inside. He had another child on the way, and yet here he was with Stew looking for death.

The moon came out with a few stars to peer down on them. Borgo said a prayer for his father, his children, and their mothers. Then he cried for the first time in not that long of a time.

Every Word

by Bert Rock (2019)

Marmac stood at the oldest door in Runestone Tower. It was a plain door, raised from the very bedrock the tower was built on a thousand years before. Back then, the first Maji agreed to raise a structure to protect what was within this room. Behind the thick door, as Marmac knew to be the greatest power there was; the power of the word. It was the power to name and bind all things, the power to know and free them.

Imbued with protective runes and spells to keep the contents within safe, the door had one inscription:  “Here be every word ever spoken, n’ every word never said or broken.”

The sound of a little girl’s laughter echoed through the halls above. Marmac couldn’t help but smile.

“Faunie.”

His daughter was playing host to their guest, Izra Moonborn, the Northwoman from across the sea. It was because of Faunie’s new friend that Marmac had come down to the center of the tower, to check that the door was sound. Izra was found weeks before on the shore of Magestone, wearing an iron breastplate made to fit the form of her fully pregnant belly. There had been no shipwrecks within miles of shore, nor any storms to wreck them. Marmac had heard the story of the fisherman who found her. He’d said a host of hard-shelled crabs surrounded her unconscious body, claws out, as if they were her protectors. One of the kennel master’s hounds nearly had its nose snipped off by one when it went to sniff her.

Since she arrived, Marmac noticed odd things occurring in Magestone. She’d been in a long sleep when she first arrived, a sleep that lasted for weeks. The first strange thing was the dogs. It seemed every one of the city’s dogs had held a vigil for her while she recovered, for weeks in old Pyram’s tower. Hundreds of mutts and hounds howled at all hours of day and night, as if they could wake her.

Marmac put his hand on the door and could feel the hum of power behind it. A sound came from the stairwell, boots shuffling down the dusty stone stairs.  

“Still locked?” the voice belonged to Gion, the master of Flamestone.  

With his size, his wild red beard and his hair he looked more like a barbarian than a Maji.  

“Gion.”

“Drink?” Gion joined him by the door and offered his flask of fiery ale.

“No,” Marmac waved off.

“Worried someone’s gotten in the room?”

“No. Just felt like I should check it.”

“It has protections you know.”

“Haven’t you noticed anything different since she’s arrived?” Doesn’t any of this bother you?” Marmac asked.

“What are you talking about Mac?”

“Things are different since she arrived. You haven’t seen that?” Marmac took Gion’s flask and took a quick swig. “You were there, you heard about the crabs. Then the dogs and even horses seem to react to her in a way I’ve never seen.”

“Is that what you’re worried about?” Gion chuckled. “Horses and dogs and crabs?”

“What about Allgar?”

Marmac had noticed that the Archmaji had visited Izra more times than he would have expected.

“What about him?” Gion scratched his beard.

“Doesn’t he seem, I don’t know…younger?”

Gion laughed. “Probably. She’s new and she’s pretty. You get to be seventy-something and tell me how you feel.”  

“Alright, alright.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Gion put a hand on Marmac’s shoulder. “Faunie seems to like her. They’re laughing it up.” He motioned up the stairs.

“I know. It’s just–something is different now, I can’t quite put it into words.”

“The word Maji can’t put something into words? That’s ironic.”

“I’m serious.”

“What’s different?”

Marmac thought on how to describe it. It was true, he could hardly think of the words to say what he meant. It was easier when he had only his thoughts, but now he had to fit them to a word, and that did not always work the way he wanted.

“Sunlight,” he snapped his fingers. “It’s the sunlight itself.” Seeing the look on Gion’s face, he continued. “Ever since Izra got here, there’s something about the way the sun touches the bricks, the cobblestones and everything around the city…it’s different than it was before.”

Gion’s brow creased as his lips curled slightly. “Uh, different how?”

“I’m not sure,” Marmac thought about it for a moment. “It seems brighter.”

The Musings of Lord Librarian Sage Vanis Snarmat

by Bert Rock (2019)

Part One

Two men in mouse-colored robes, one with skin riddled by time and the other in his twenties sat in a fisherman’s hut. They could hear the roar of the Heart’s Wine River outside. The hems of their garments were torn and caked with mud, their faces grizzled by time away from the comforts of the great library of Magestone. When they came upon the fisherman and his son, they were starving, and not a little surprised to be alive. How they’d managed to escape the city would be a tale of its own, when they were ready to tell it. With his advanced age, the Lord Librarian was likely presumed dead when Magestone descended into darkness.

The Fisherman, who never gave his name, sat in a hammock and smoked his pipe while his son tended to the fire. The mouse colored men sat together by the fire. Sage Vanis Snarmat, the Lord Librarian struggled to eat his soup as his companion, Ormen, scratched words into a book of blank pages.

“I met Izra three times in my life,” Sage Vanis Snarmat said. “When I was just a hungry boy, she gave me food to feed my family, but her beauty gave my heart a hunger. Then again when I was a young man, she gave me work, and the last time I was you see me now, withered and old.”

He paused a moment and looked into his soup. Huddled in a blanket of wolf’s fur, and sitting by the fire and he could not stop shaking.  

“What else did she give you?” asked Ormen, his quill ready to write down the words.  

“Eh? What was that?” Sage Vanis Snarmat said.

“You said she gave you something when you were a boy and a young man,” the Fisherman’s daughter chimed in. “Did she give you anything the last time?”

“Why are you writing this down?” asked the Fisherman. “He’s an old man, and his wits are half gone. He’ll be dead soon. What does it matter?”

“He’s not just some ‘old man.’ He’s the Lord Librarian of Magestone,” Ormen said. “He’s the keeper of wisdom in the Tower of Knowing. And he’s had a life worth writing down.”

Sage Vanis Snarmat continued as if there were no interruption as he wiped his chin with a trembling thumb.

“I fell in love with her the first time I saw her, when I was just a scrawny boy scraping for food on the shores of Mythazos.”  

“How old were you Lord Librarian?” Ormen asked.

“Eh, maybe that,” Sage Vanis Snarmat pointed a shaky finger at the Fisherman’s son. The boy looked to be ten.    

“She gave me a sack of bread and onions,” he continued. “I fed my mother and sister with it. Izra was strong, tall, like a hero. The kind you read about in stories. She’d come from the north and traveled alone. I asked to come with her, but she said no, I was needed by my family.”

Ormen was the Lord Librarian’s Page. He’d been trying to chronicle the Lord Librarian’s story for almost a year. Events of recent months had made it all but impossible, and yet, he found the practice helped to calm his ever-fraying nerves.

“The second time,” Ormen prodded.

“I was a man, a sailor. I was about your age then and eager to see the world,” Sage Vanis Snarmat said. “I’d been in Saltstone then, biggest port city in Mythazos when I saw her again. Her belly had grown a little, but she was beholden to no man. Couldn’t see her taking a husband. She was the Captain and men followed her. She had a strong northern jaw and a beauty like no other. She feared no man, and the lot you find in the taverns of port cities are some of the hardest men you’ll find to be sure. When I saw her she didn’t recognize me, but then why would she? It had been fifteen years since I’d been a little boy. And here she was in front of me, looking almost as young as she was the day she first stole my heart.”

Sage Vanis Snarmat’s voice trailed off a moment but came back with a snort.

“I swabbed the decks and emptied the bilge and did whatever work they gave me. It was just enough to be on the same ship as her. She was as bright as the sun. I stole every look at her I could, like a thief taking a bag of gold one coin at a time. Her hair was like yellow fire. If she walked by you could feel the warmth from her skin. She was strong too. Stronger than anyone on board, well, except for Big Bardin, but he was the size of an ox. Still, she beat them all in arm wrestling. Izra the ‘Iron Mother’ they called her. I asked once why they called her that and they told me never to talk about it again. She was pregnant they said, and she’d been with child for as long as they’d known her, over twenty years. I didn’t believe it, but the men there were convinced it was true, and who was I to question them?”

Sage Vanis Snarmat looked into his bowl of soup for several moments, then gently put it to the side.

“I noticed,” he said. “That wherever we sailed there always plenty of fish for us to eat. Once, I saw the nets fill before they hit the water. Fish just jumped into the rowboats or the nets and we never had to work to get em. Whales swam unafraid and breached often in full view of us, as did the dolphins. They followed us everywhere.”

He coughed a hacking, wheezing cough that shook the Lord Librarian’s slight, old frame. After a moment recovering, he continued, though his voice was weak.

“One day, I noticed that the crew was not like any other crew I’d sailed with. I’d been with a few, but I hadn’t seen one that never got sick before then. Sailors, mind you, often die of disease. It’s a fact of sea life. I’d heard of ships listed dead in the water with all her crew having shat their lives out on the deck, and then when someone healthy goes aboard, they bring the sick with them. Not this crew, not with her, with her everyone was healthy, always.”

Click on the following link to read my story, The Gods of Night and Day up on Wattpad. It’s the story of a god’s search to understand humanity and ultimately himself.

https://www.wattpad.com/715069787-the-gods-of-night-and-day-the-gods-of-night-day