Bound By the Knife

The thin, fine blade bit into the back of Saul’s shoulder, making him narrow his eyes and furrow his eyebrows in pain.

“Are you okay?” came a sweet voice.

Saul didn’t even need to look up to see the speaker. He knew every detail of his new wife’s face intimately, and he was even fairly sure he knew what her expression would be, just by the tone of her voice when she asked the question.

His eyes opened fully, and he looked up. Sure enough, Ardith’s face held a look of intense concern. Saul smiled at her. “It’s just annoying, really. It’s a sensitive area. I’m fine, really.”

The blade dug into his shoulder again, but Saul didn’t wince this time. He wanted to make sure Ardith knew the pain wasn’t bad. And it really wasn’t all that terrible. Still, the concerned and rather frightened look didn’t leave Ardith’s face. Saul mouthed the words, “I love you,” and smiled at her. He wanted to reach out and hold her hand, but the inker wouldn’t let anyone get too close– for safety and cleanliness reasons, he said.

Saul was allowed a moment of almost-painless reprieve as the pigment was rubbed into the wound. He had been subjected to the inker’s knife for over an hour now, and there was still probably another hour of pain to come. Then it would be Ardith’s turn. Neither of them had gotten tattoos before, but once they got married, they had decided to mark the occasion by getting matching ones.

Ardith bounced slightly as she watched the inker take the knife to her husband again. This had been her idea, and she had actually been a little surprised when Saul had agreed. She was nervous; she didn’t know what it would be like to be inked, so she had asked Saul to go first. She wasn’t sure if she could take the pain of it like he could– as a guardsman, he was subject to injuries all the time. It was rare for him to come home at night without a new bruise or a shallow gash. But Ardith earned her part of their money performing songs and dancing at the inns and taverns– tastefully– and except for aching feet and the occasional sore throat, she didn’t experience much pain from day to day like Saul did.

Finally, the inker told Saul to get up off the table. The tattoo was finished. Saul picked up his discarded shirt and turned so Ardith could see his new mark. “How does it look?”

Ardith hugged him gently, careful not to press too hard, especially in the rather raw-looking right shoulder area. “It looks just like we wanted. Did it hurt terribly?”

Saul shook his head and walked back to the inker to have the tattoo bandaged. “It wasn’t bad, just... lengthy. And annoying. You know, you don’t have to get on if you’re worried.”

Ardith shook her head firmly. “I want to. It’s for us, remember?” There was no way she was going to back out now.

The inker finished bandaging Saul’s shoulder and prepared to work on Ardith.

Saul didn’t move from his spot while the inker worked on his wife. At the first touch of the knife, a little bit of a surprised look came over Ardith’s face, but she didn’t squirm, make a cry, or do anything that normally resulted from pain. There were moments in the two hours she was being inked when she clamped her eyes shut, but every time she opened them, Saul was ready with an encouraging smile and a loving gaze. Before either of them knew it, the inker was finished with her tattoo, which she had chosen to have placed on her left hip.

Ardith was bandaged, and the inker smiled as Saul and Ardith took their leave. They went straight to the tiny two-room house they had in the city. Saul half-flopped onto a chair before the movement made his shoulder throb, and he very nearly jumped back out of the chair as a result.

“Careful, honey,” Ardith said, her sweet voice filling the room without effort as she carefully lowered herself into another chair. Her voice filled the room easily, but without being loud or overpowering. A moment in the chair set her tattooed hip burning, and she stood up again. Saul stood, too, although probably not for the same reason. He gingerly took his wife in his arms and kissed her.

“You did wonderfully under the inker’s blade. I told you it wasn’t so bad.”

“I believed you, Saul.”

The door opened, revealing a scruffy-looking man in a guardsman’s uniform. “Saul, I need to talk to you. It’s urgent.”

Saul gestured the man to come inside and sit. Saul and Ardith remained standing.

The man sat only for a moment before standing up and walking behind the chair, but he was there only for a moment before he walked to the wall and leaned one arm on it. “We’re at war. The Dolerins launched a night attack on one of the port cities, I don’t remember which one, and the King is calling together as many new recruits for the army as he can get. The Captain says we’re all to enlist. We’re supposed to gather at the town gate to head for the capital in the morning.”

Ardith rushed to Saul and threw her arms around him. Saul hardly winced as her hand rested right on top of his bandaged shoulder.

“He can’t go to the King’s army! We’ve only been married a month!”

The guardsman shrugged nervously and headed for the door. “Sorry, ma’am, but those are our orders. Tomorrow morning, first light, Saul.” He ducked out the door. Saul stared after him.

Ardith wouldn’t let go. “You can’t go, Saul! You’ll be killed! You can’t go into the army!”

Saul closed his eyes solemnly. “I have to, Ardith. Orders.”

She looked up at him, her eyes welling with tears. “No, you don’t have to ! We can just stay here! Someone has to stay to protect the city! I’m sure some guards will stay. You can be one of them! You have to stay here!” She buried her face into his chest, her tears falling onto his still-bare skin.

Saul hugged her tightly, holding her to him. “I have to follow orders, even if I don’t want to. That’s what I do.”

She shook her head, still not lifting it from his chest. Her voice came back muffled. “No, no no no no! If they try to make you, I won’t let them! We could... we could run away! Tonight! And go away from here!”

Saul worked a hand under her chin and lifted her face so she looked at him. “What are you talking about? We can’t leave here.”

“Yes, we can! We can just leave, and they can’t make you fight in the army! We’ll be safe, and we’ll be together. I can’t lose you, Saul, I just can’t!” She gently freed her face from his grip and rested her head against him again.

“I don’t want to lose you, either.” He closed his eyes and held his wife in silence for a few moments. “So where will we go? We’ve got to get some things together if we’re going as soon as we can.”

Ardith looked up, her face still wet with tears. “You’ll come? We’ll go away together?”

Saul nodded. ““I’m not going anywhere without you. Let’s get what we can carry, and we’ll leave tonight.”

Ardith kissed his chest. “Do you mean it? You’ll disobey orders?”

“You know I’ll do anything for you.”

Two hours later, under cover of darkness, Saul and Ardith crept out of their little house, each carrying a pack with food, blankets, a few extra sets of clothing, and whatever else they could carry. The night guards were few tonight, probably because of the traveling they would have to do in the morning. Even with as few guards as there were tonight, leaving the city unnoticed wouldn’t be easy.

The weight of the pack on Saul’s shoulder caused a pain that was constantly on his mind. The few extra layers of clothes he had put on did little in the way of padding. But he knew Ardith was feeling the same pain on her hip, from walking and her skirts rubbing against it. He had tried to talk her into wearing a pair of his pants to make traveling easier, but she had adamantly refused. They were going to be doing a lot of walking.

Saul led the way towards the gate, along the sides of buildings, trying to keep to shadows. Most, if not all, of the other guards men knew him on sight, probably because he was one of the biggest of them, and the only one who went completely clean-shaven. Patrols were random, so there was no telling when a night guard would appear.

Ardith heard footsteps and quickly grabbed the back of Saul’s cloak sleeve. He very nearly fell, but he didn’t move forward into the light. There was a guard coming. Ardith held her breath as she and Saul pressed themselves against the shadows on the side of the building they were by. She could feel Saul holding his breath beside her.

The breastplated guard came into view– a young man, probably no more than seventeen or eighteen years old, with only a shadow of a beard on his chin. His hand rested on the short sword at his hip comfortably, though. He was young, but he knew what he was doing. His eyes darted around, taking in all the movement around him. He paused a few steps past them, a few paces in front of the building, and his head turned to look around. His hand eased his sword in its sheath, and he kicked the toe of one booted foot on the ground.

Ardith’s chest began to pound for air. This young guard was only perhaps five paces from the shadows she and Saul had concealed themselves in. Any sound they made would surely be heard. But the young guard didn’t move on.

There was a loud banging sound, and Saul and Ardith felt the building shake a little. The sounds of raucous and probably drunken laughter came loudly from nearby, and after a moment, a large group of staggering men wandered into the street. Not a moment had passed before two of the men began to brawl in the middle of the mostly-deserted road. The young guard quite visibly rolled his eyes, shook his head, and headed towards the group.

Saul let his chestful of held air out slowly and quietly, and began to breath again. Beside him, Ardith followed his example. But even a few moments of trying to calm down did nothing to slow either of their pounding hearts. Still, they moved on, behind the tavern and further towards the city gate. There were two guards posted at the gate itself, so sneaking out through the gate was practically impossible. Neither Saul nor Ardith had thought of that.

“We’ll have to scale the wall,” Saul whispered.

Ardith looked up. Made of plastered stone, the wall was high and thick, meant to protect the city from invasion. The stones made natural foot- and hand-holds, perfect for climbing, but the wall was amazingly high. She’d never thought what was meant to keep someone out could prove to be such a barrier for keeping people in.

“We can’t climb this, Saul. Perhaps you could, if you weren’t carrying a pack, and if it weren’t dark, but I know I can’t. We must find another way.”

“There is no other way. The sentries at the gates won’t leave their posts unless there’s an attack, so we can’t go through the gate. We have to climb.”

“I can’t climb the wall!”

“I’ll help you.”

“Do you want to get through the wall?”

The voice was whispered and sounded youthful and came from a wiry, shadowed form that neither of them had heard approach. Ardith jumped at the voice, and Saul very nearly attacked the person before he understood what he had said.

“Yes, we have to leave tonight,” Ardith replied despite Saul’s gestures not to.

“Follow me.” A dark cloak flourished as the shadow turned and headed back the way they had come. Ardith and Saul hesitated for a moment and followed. The cloaked figure stopped behind a building and waited for them. “You can leave through here.” He placed a hand on the wall, and a dim light seemed to extend from his fingers onto the stone. A nearly door-size section of stone melted away, revealing the grassy plains that gave way to forest on the horizon. “Go.”

Saul darted through the passage as though he were being chased by some fierce animal. Ardith paused before going through. “Who are you?”

“That’s not important.”

“Why are you helping us then? Tell me that.”

“Look, just go. I’ll explain later.” He practically shoved Ardith through the opening and into Saul’s arms. The wall seemed to melt back into place. They were outside.

Without a word, Saul grabbed Ardith’s hand and dashed for the treeline. It was only a mile or so from the city wall. It wasn’t long before they were safely concealed in trees. Only then did they allow themselves to rest for a while.

“We made it out of the city, Ardie! We made it!”

She nodded, setting down her pack and sitting on a fallen tree. “I’ll feel better once we’ve put the city far behind us.”

“She’s right. You should keep moving.” The cloaked figure was leaning against a tree at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed over his chest. The hood of the cloak shadowed his face. “This path will take you straight through the forest and on to Banditan. You should be safe there.”

Saul took a few steps, putting himself between Ardith and the stranger. “Thanks for your help, but who are you?”

“Your wife already asked me that.”

“But you didn’t answer me. And you didn’t when I asked why you were helping us, either.”

He sighed and uncrossed his arms. “My name is Elias. And I’m helping you because it serves my purpose. That should be enough for you. Just don’t get yourselves separated or killed, okay?” He pulled back his hood, revealing the smooth face of a boy only nineteen at the oldest. Moderately long, messy brown hair topped a rather round face with only a hint of facial hair. His blue eyes were sunken in a bit, but they were filled with light.

Ardith stood. ““Thank you for your help, Elias.”

Elias’s eyes darted up and down Saul for a moment, and he stepped forward and placed his hand on his shoulder. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s a tattoo, not an injury,” the man replied, shrinking away from the boy’s touch.

“It still pains you. Let me help.” Keeping his hand on Saul’s shoulder, he beckoned Ardith forward. “You have one, too. I can take away the pain.”

Ardith stepped up to him, and Elias placed his other hand on her hip. His hands glowed dimly again, and both Saul and Ardith felt the aches from their inkings drift away. The feeling was so soothing that Ardith closed her eyes. When she opened them again, Elias was gone.

“What an odd young man,” Ardith commented, looking around. “He must be one of those Mages.” She tenderly touched her hip. As Elias had said, it didn’t hurt anymore.

“Yeah, but we’re in debt to him now. I don’t know if I like that,” Saul replied, working his shoulder.

“He seemed nice enough. But we should keep moving, shouldn’t we? If we want to get far enough away so they can’t find you and force you to join the army.”

Saul nodded and reshouldered his pack. “Let’s move, Ardie.”

They traveled on through somewhat dense trees well through the dark hours and continued even after the sun was above the horizon. It wasn’t long into the day when they heard the sounds of people. Lots of people. Ahead of them, not behind.

“I don’t like this, Ardith. Stay hidden. I’m going to see who’s out there.”

“Please, Saul, be careful.”

Giving his wife a reassuring kiss, Saul picked his way through the dense forest towards the sound. He was out of Ardith’s sight in moments. But he was not out of her hearing. She heard a cry of, “Ambush!” from an unfamiliar, very harsh voice, and she heard Saul pleading innocence. She could not explain how, but she felt the heavy blow that was landed on her husband’s head. He had been knocked unconscious. The sounds of people moving picked up again, and Ardith stood frozen in her hiding place. Would these people leave Saul alone and unconscious in the forest? Or would they take him with them? Carefully, she crept towards the sounds and where Saul had disappeared.

She saw the moving people before too long, and she understood almost immediately how Saul had stumbled upon them. They were Dolerins– part of the Dolerin army, probably, if not all of it– and they had dressed in greens and browns and fastened leaves and branches and the like to themselves. They looked like moving parts of the forest. And in their midst, draped over the back of a leaf-covered mule, was Saul. He was out cold. The blow had seen to that. Ardith’s head ached dimly in the back of her thoughts. Her foremost concern was rescuing him.

The Dolerins continued on through the forest, towards the very city she and Saul had escaped from the night before. That thought didn’t matter to Ardith now, though. Saul was all that mattered. She kept the Dolerin army in her sights, creeping along in their wake and trying not to be heard or spotted. It wasn’t long before a few camouflaged scouts joined the ranks, and the army stopped their march for the day.

Ardith knew this place. They were near the edge of the forest, and the city was less than five miles from her very position. The army was planning an ambush. But Ardith had set in her mind her own ambush.

As the army quietly mad a small temporary camp, she watched as a pair of soldiers removed Saul from the mule and poured a small amount of water on his face. Saul sputtered, and his eyes opened lazily. Ardith couldn’t hear what was said, but the two soldiers bound Saul’s hands and dragged him and his pack to a man Ardith could only assume was in charge. Saul was thrown to his knees before the man, and he coughed tiredly. Ignoring Saul, the man took the pack and emptied its contents onto the ground. At the sight of Saul’s sets of clothes, some of the cooking things, and the food, the man laughed. Sorting through the clothes, one of the soldiers came upon Saul’s cloth-wrapped sword. The commander’s laughter ceased, and Saul was hauled to his feet. The commander began to speak, but she could not hear his words.

Ardith quietly moved through the trees, trying to get closer so she could hear what the commander was saying.

“...part of the army, no doubt. Possibly... probably a deserter. Find out what he knows. Use whatever means are necessary, but I want him left alive until I’m satisfied.”

Saul’s mouth moved, but whatever he said was too quiet for Ardith to hear. However, it resulted in a solid back-handed slap across the cheek that made Ardith’s face sting as though she had been the victim instead of Saul. The soldiers dragged Saul into a newly-erected tent and out of Ardith’s sight.

For a long while, nothing happened. No one left or entered the tent where Saul had been taken, and the only things going on in the camp were the normal camping things: low cookfires were made, horses and pack mules were cared for, and soldiers were fed. Ardith decided to wait until dark to attempt a rescue. She crept a short way away from the camp and settled down to plan as she wait for nightfall.

She was still at a loss for what exactly to do when the sun began to set. Suddenly, she doubled forward, feeling an intense pain on her back, like she had been beaten with a heavy stick. But there was no one there. The delusory blow came again, and again. The blows fell continuously, and Ardith found her self curled into a ball on the ground, tears streaming down her face. What was happening?

“Seems there was a small side effect from my healing,” came an all-too-familiar voice.

Turning her tear-stained face towards the voice, she saw Elias’s brown-haired head, which appeared to be floating, as his dark cloak seemed to melt into the dark that surrounded them.

“What’s happening?”

Elias ran a hand through his unkempt mass of hair. It did nothing to tame it. “Apparently, you’re feeling your husband being beaten for information. Somehow, healing you a the same time bonded you together. At least, you feel what he feels physically. I wonder if he would feel what comes to you.” He reached down to help her back into a sitting position. The blows were still falling, sending waves of pain all through Ardith’s body, but she was becoming almost numb to them. She hoped Saul wasn’t suffering as bad as she. “Elias, is there anything you can do to help him?”

The boy shook his head. I’ve already endangered myself from helping you so far. I hate to say it, but you’re on your own.”

Ardith felt a horrible sensation in her neck that made her shudder uncontrollably. Almost immediately afterward, she heard the Dolerin commander’s voice curse. “I told you I wanted him alive!”

Ardith knew Saul’s neck had been broken. The pain had ended as abruptly as it began. She began to cry. He was gone. Saul, her husband, the love of her life, was dead. Murdered. They had barely been married for a month, and he was gone.

When she came to her senses, she was alone. The absence of human sounds led her to believe the army had moved on. But had they taken Saul’s body with them? A few moments of walking took her to the remains of their camp. Saul’s body was at the edge of the clearing, and by the position, he had been carelessly discarded before they moved. Ardith gingerly touched a shoulder; of course, there was no response. She turned his body over, from his side to his back. She fought the tears, but it was no use. She burst into sobs, cradling the body of her dead husband to her as if afraid what was left of him would disappear if she let go. She was only dimly aware of the rustling of foliage nearby.

“He’s gone, Ardith. He hasn’t breathed in a number of hours.” Elias’s voice still held that unsettling calm of his that made him seem older, but the sympathy in his tone could still be heard.

Ardith looked up at the young man, her face pale and red a the same time; wet trails left by her tears covered her cheeks. Though she knew he told the truth, that Saul was no longer alive, her eyes displayed her refusal to believe him.

“You will need to move on, Ardith. There is nothing you can do for him.”

“But you can, can’t you? You opened the wall, and you quickened the healing of our tattoos! You can bring him back!”

Elias shook his head slowly, his dark hair falling to make a sort of drape over his eyes.

Ardith clutched desperately at his cloak. “You can bring him back, Elias! You’re a Mage! I know you can! Please, don’t let him be dead! Don’t let him stay dead!”

Elias gently knelt and helped Ardith to her feet, leaving Saul’s body against a tree at the edge of the clearing where he had been murdered. Sobbing the entire time, Ardith let Elias take her to a nearby village untouched by the invading army. He left her in the care of a woman at the village’s lone inn, and he disappeared again.

It was last in the evening on the third day after Saul had been killed when Ardith finally seemed to recover her control and stopped crying constantly. She contented herself (as well as she could) with helping earn her keep around the tiny inn, sweeping, cleaning, cooking, and other such jobs. It was hardly a week after he had died when Ardith began to feel ill in the mornings, and a woman came to see her and told her that she was with child. Ardith’s heart leapt and sank in the same moment; this was Saul’s child, and she prayed every night that it would be a boy, but she wept that Saul would not be there to know the child, and the child would never know its father.

Days more passed, and the news came that the Dolerin army had been defeated and was being removed from the kingdom.

Ardith stayed in the little village, earning her keep in the inn and counting the months and weeks and days before her child would be born, for a long time. After four months of pregnancy, she was showing, and the summer months came nearer. As summer came into full heat, the Dolerin army came to invade again, and the people of the village grew nervous. The inn door was soon locked every night, at earlier and earlier hours.

One night, during a storm nearly six weeks after word spread that the Dolerin army had returned, someone pounded on the door to the inn. The pounding was forceful and seemed urgent, but the fierce wind and rain made hearing the shouting (if any) unintelligible. The innkeeper, a very pudgy red-faced man, hesitated for some minutes before finally opening the door to allow a drenched figure in a cloak to enter.

Ardith was tidying the common room of the inn as she watched the cloaked man– she assumed it was a man, since no woman would be foolish enough to travel in that storm– found a place by the fire and asked in a hushed voice for some food and ale. The hood was pulled back, revealing dripping black hair that fell limply around tanned skin. From her vantage point sweeping, Ardith couldn’t see the man’s face, though why that bothered her, she couldn’t say. The innkeeper approached her. “Ardith, go fetch some of the chicken and some ale for our guest.

“Ardith?” came the man’s hushed voice. He turned round, his brown eyes reflecting the firelight. “Ardith? My Ardith?!”

“Saul?” Ardith’s eyes and ears were surely deceiving her. This man could not be her Saul, but... his eyes didn’t lie. The man had his face, his eyes, his hair– if it was too long, dripping wet, and looked as though it hadn’t ben washed in days. He looked gaunt, like he had bene underfed lately.

“Ardith?” Saul suddenly had her in his arms, and he was sobbing into her shoulder in disbelief.

“How... how?” Ardith could only get the one word out between her sobs. She had her arms around him, holding him to her as well as she could with her pregnant belly between them.

“Ardith... what’s this?” Saul took a step backward and put a hand on her stomach.

“It’s our child, Saul! Our child!”

“Your son.”

The door was open again, revealing another cloaked form against the backdrop of the storm. He pulled back his hood. It was Elias.

“Elias! You...”

“You could say I’m responsible... I know you’re going to ask to repay me, but don’t.”

“But..”

“I said don’t. Just do me one favor.”

“Anything, Elias. We owe you everything.”

Elias shook his head, spraying water droplets everywhere. “Don’t name him Elias. He’ll hate it.”

In a flash, he was gone.

____________________________
"Bound By the Knife" I will admit, I am not too fond of. It was a good idea, but I didn't pull it off very well. It would be more suited to a novella than the short story I tried to cram it into.

The idea was supposed to be that Elias was actually their son, grown into a young man, coming back to make things better before he was born, because he was a Mage and had that kind of power. That kind of thing. Clicheed, I know, but hey, I was like 17 or 18 when I wrote this.

People Watching

The boy wore a black parka, a matching ski cap, bluejeans, and sneakers; he appeared to be five years old; and he was weeping. He was alone, standing on the sidewalk at one corner of a busy intersection. Cars whizzed by as the traffic lights changed colors, people strolled lazily across the crosswalks or strode with the pace of important businesspeople when the sign said WALK, and the boy stood there, weeping. He didn't seem to be looking for anyone; he wasn't searching the faces of the crowd for missing parents, or craning his neck to see through the sea of people, or turning around and around in place trying to find whoever had left him. Even between his tears, he didn't sniff, or wipe his nose on the sleeve of his parka, or even reach up to wipe his eyes.

No one paid him any mind. The fact that a small boy was standing on a street corner weeping wasn't enough to stir any of the hundreds of passersby to pause for a single step or even glance down at him. And the fact that he was dressed so heavily in the middle of July wasn't enough cause for comment, either.

The boy was pale, as if he hadn't seen the sun for weeks. from under his ski cap, tufts of coppery hair stuck out in odd places; tears streamed from green eyes made bright by the contrast of his black parka and cap. Only the color of his eyes and the red rims around them gave his face any real color.

I watched the boy for a long time, watched buses and taxis and patrol cars pass by, watched people enter and exit the cafe and the handbag store that were on the same corner as the little boy. Hours passed. Morning turned into afternoon, and still, no one paid so much a one second of attention to the boy. And still, his weeping did not cease.

The bells in city hall chimed the half-hour, ringing loudly over the business district. At the very moment the sound faded from my ears, the boy stopped his weeping. Like flipping a switch, he was done. Now, his head turned this way and that, not in a searching fashion, but simply looking. He must have met the eyes of a dozen or more people, perhaps two or three dozen, even. Even from the distance I was, I could tell that even though the people were looking straight at him, straight into the bright green eyes of the little boy in the parka, they still did not see him.

A woman in a pinstriped business suit who had her dirty blonde hair pulled back in a sensible ponytail came up to the corner, purposefully walking like only self-important executive-types can. The boy met her eyes, and she met his. Without missing a step, she walked straight through him. In the blink of an eye, the boy was gone.

I stared until the clock chimed again. And again. A full hour I stared at the place where the boy had been, as if by keeping my eyes locked on that very spot, I could make him reappear. I worked over in my mind what the significance of the boy might have been, why his crying had ended when and how it did, the meaning od his behavior, what the woman meant, and the suddenness of the boy's disappearance.

I could think of nothing. At first.

Some time ago, I read a joke called "The death of common sense". As I sat staring, it came to mind again. Had something else died?

As abruptly as the thought of that joke had come to me, I had an answer to the significance of the boy. I know what died. Can you really look at society right now and honestly say that common decency is still alive?

--------------------
"People Watching" was written, as many other of my recent short stories, for a First Line Fiction contest.

Those of you who read it, I'd be curious to hear your perceptions of it. This is one of few stories that I actually (intentionally) wanted to be seriously symbolic. Thoughts?

They Were Chanting Again

They were chanting again.

Every night, to another star.

“Shine down on us.”

“Give us your light.”

“Brighten our lives.”

“Brighten the sky.”

“Come and take us”.

“Give us your light.”

The dim embers of the fire-that-was-never-put-out sat at the top of the hill, surrounded by a circle of twelve stones– one for each Zodiac sign. Whoever fell first would be the one to tend the fire during the light hours as a penance for falling. So they danced, and they were chanting again.

The boy who called himself Kiran danced and chanted to Tegmine, a star of Cancer’s constellation, determined not to be the first to fall again. The girl who called herself Bertina danced past him and smiled. Like the dozens of other people dancing, and like Kiran himself, she was completely naked with the constellation Cancer painted on her chest. Mid-chant, Kiran smiled back, forgetting where he was for just a moment. Bertina swayed in rhythm with their chanting and with the music. Roughly-made drums and pipes played by the Twelve– six men and six women named for the Zodiac– set the pace for the dancing and chanting. It was hypnotic, but he was brought out of his reverie when he nearly stepped on Pisces’s foot. He apologized profusely and rejoined the dance.

Cristophe sat unhappily on the grass, poking at the fire with a long stick. A pile of firewood he had gathered sat next to him. The grass underneath him was stomped flat, and there were patches where the trampled earth showed through. The grass and the trodden dirt was still damp, not from dew, but from the torrents of sweat that had fallen there the night before. Cristophe found himself wondering if the hilltop was ever really dry.

Like the ground beneath him, Cristophe was heavily damp with sweat. His hair was weighted down with it, and the collar of his shirt was dark with it. He hadn’t bothered to put on socks, hoping the sunlight and the tiny bit of heat from the fire would help dry his feet.

He poked at the fire again and tossed another bit of wood onto the fire. If it was allowed to go out– he didn’t know what the penance would be, but he was certain it would be harsh. He yawned; it was barely past midday, but he longed for sleep. He dared not; should someone show up and find him sleeping, especially one of his older friends...

“Oh, hello!”

He hadn’t heard anyone approach, but Cristophe was glad that is someone had to visit him, it was her: Carmen.

“Hi.”

She sat down on the grass next to him. She smelled like flowers. “You’ve been here a lot lately.”

He shrugged. “I kind of like poking at the fire. It’s peaceful and quiet. I can think here.”

Carmen leaned back on her hands and looked at the clouds. “It’s such a pretty day out. Just a little breeze, and not too hot for summer.”

“It does feel good out here.”

Carmen leaned over and rested her head against his shoulder. “You’re dripping wet!”

“It’s sweat.”

“It’s not like it’s that hot out here.”

“I know. You can get off if you want. I probably don’t smell very good, either.”

“No, it’s okay. I kind of like sweaty guys.”

Cristophe grinned as he blushed, poking at the fire with a stick.



They were chanting again.

Every night, to another star.

“Shine down on us.”

“Give us your light.”

“Brighten our lives.”

“Brighten the sky.”

“Come and take us”.

“Give us your light.”

The boy who called himself Kiran danced and chanted to Ras Alhague, a star of Ophiuchus’s constellation, determined not to be the first to fall again. The fire-that-was-never-put-out glowed in the circle of twelve stones, surrounded by the Twelve, who played their roughly-made drums and pipes while Kiran and the others danced naked, each with Ophiuchus painted on his or her chest. Bertina smiled at Kiran as she danced by him, swaying in time with music. He smiled at her and moved so he was beside her, dancing together but not quite touching.

Hours passed, and Kiran and Bertina danced side by side among the dozens of other dancers. The moon was well past its peak, and Kiran felt his body starting to slow. Bertina seemed to be slowing, as well, as did many of the others except the Twelve. Dozens of bare forms glistened with sweat, and the painted figures of Ophiuchus were unrecognizable where they were not already washed away.

In the corner of his eye, Kiran saw the girl who called herself Lucerne collapse where she was: the first to fall. Kiran did not drop; though he was not the first to fall tonight, he did not want to be the second, either.

One, two, three more people fell almost as soon as Lucerne’s body hit the ground. The Twelve played on, not stopping, and Kiran and Bertina kept up the dance, though the chanting was lost in the huffs of the exhausted dancers.

“You are not meant to tend the fire today,” Bertina whispered to Kiran as she danced by him.

He smiled and dropped to the ground at almost the same time as she did.



They were chanting again.

Every night, to another star.

The boy who called himself Kiran chanted softly while he was being painted with the constellation Draco. Tonight they chanted and danced to Dziban. Scorpio painted him with the stars across his chest. Nearby, Bertina was being painted by Virgo. He looked at her and gave her a small smile, hoping Scorpio would not see it. But he did.

“You fancy Bertina, son?”

Kiran stopped chanting and bowed his head. “I do, Father Scorpio.”

Without turning his head, Scorpio looked at Bertina. She was smiling back at Kiran, oblivious to Virgo’s rather pleased look. Virgo looked at Scorpio and nodded. Scorpio nodded back.

“You will be given to each other.”

Kiran almost allowed his jaw to drop. Saving himself at the last moment, he bowed his head instead.

“It would be good to have another child born to us, son. It has been some time since Meira had her child.”

“I understand, Father Scorpio.”

They danced and chanted to Dziban. Kiran was determined not to be the first to fall again. He danced again with Bertina, whose wide smile never wavered for the entire night.

“We are to be given to each other,” she whispered to him.

“I know,” he replied.

“Does that make you happy?”

“Yes.”

“Come and take us.”

“Give us your light.”

Hours passed, and Kiran and Bertina danced side by side among the dozens of other dancers. The moon was well past its peak, and Kiran felt his body starting to slow. Bertina seemed to be slowing, as well, as did many of the others except the Twelve. Kiran felt his legs begin to give out beneath him, and as he was about to fall, Bertina’s hands came and helped hold him up. But it was too late, and Kiran’s body was slick with sweat. He fell– the first to fall.

Dimly, in the back of his exhausted mind, Kiran heard the drums and pipes stop. The rhythmic pounding of feet stopped, and the chanting faded to silence.

“The first has fallen,” Aries said. “Tonight, we stop.”

Cristophe sat unhappily on the grass, poking at the fire with a long stick. A pile of firewood he had gathered sat next to him. He was worn out and drenched with sweat. His arms and legs ached, and his throat was hoarse. He tossed another piece of wood into the fire.

“Hey!”

He hadn’t heard anyone approach. But suddenly Carmen was next to him, leaning back on her hands in the damp grass, looking at the sky.

“You weren’t here yesterday.”

“I know.”

“It’s kind of a good thing. You weren’t so sweaty yesterday, I bet. You probably got to take a shower instead of sitting here all day.”

He let out an airy laugh and nodded. “Yeah.” He poked at the fire with his stick. “Wait, I thought you said you kind of liked sweaty guys.”

Carmen shrugged. “I do, but I like dry guys, too.”

“Well, which do you like better?”

“You, whichever you are at the moment.” Carmen tossed a piece of wood on the fire. “That fire should be okay on its own for a while.”

Cristophe smiled and took off his shirt.

“We do not chant to a star tonight,” Capricorn announced to the dozens of nude people gathered around the fire. The fire-that-was-never-put-out was far more than dim embers; it was a great blaze that gave off an intense heat, making everyone sweat despite their stillness.

“Tonight, the Sun rides the Moon. We celebrate Kiran and Bertina, who have agreed to be given to each other.”

They were chanting again, dancing in circles as Kiran and Bertina made love in the grass. Kiran had been painted in bright yellow-gold, Bertina in the palest pearly blue.

“Let us pray to the Sun, our Father!”

“Let us pray to the Moon, our Mother!”

“Give us another star!”

They were chanting again.

Summer had given way to autumn and then winter. They danced and chanted to Ankaa, a star of Phoenix’s constellation. Kiran danced and chanted, determined not to be the first to fall again. Since he and Bertina had been given to each other, he had not been the first to fall on any night.

Bertina danced next to Kiran, her growing stomach bearing the constellation Hydra, which would be in the sky when the little star was to be born. Phoenix dotted her chest, as it did Kiran’s and all the others’. Bertina smiled at Kiran and rested a hand on her stomach. She was often the first to stop these nights, but since she carried a little star, she was never considered the first to fall. If Kiran stopped early, he would not be granted that luxury.

“Hey!”

The music faltered and stopped. The chanting faded, and the dancing ceased as a stranger approached the circle around fire-that-was-never-put-out.

The Twelve quickly stood from their seated positions around the fire and approached the stranger. “You do not belong with us.”

“Leave.”

“What’s going on here?”

The Twelve closed in around the stranger. They formed a line– the barrier between the stranger and the fire.

“Don’t touch her!”

The voice came from the crowd of chanters. Kiran pushed his way to the forefront.

The heads of the Twelve snapped to look in his direction, severe looks on all twelve faces. “You speak for this outsider, son?” asked Leo.

Kiran pushed his way between Libra and Capricorn and looked over the stranger. “I speak for her.”

The stranger whispered to Kiran. “Cristophe, I’m scared. Who are these people?”

Taurus’s voice boomed. “Why do you speak for one such as this?”

“She carries my child!”

The chanters gasped collectively. The Twelve only managed to look angrier. “You have gone outside the Sky?”

Almost as one, the Twelve and the chanters began forward, hands raised, ready to seize Cristophe and Carmen. He knew the penance for this: burning alive slowly over the fire. The boy who called himself Tab had tried to leave a year ago. He had been found and burned alive; the image was still strong in his memory.

“Wait!” Cristophe threw his arms out to either side, trying to put as much distance between Carmen and the Twelve as he could. His normally timid voice echoed unnaturally, stopping everyone for a moment. There was a pause, and he lowered his arms. He looked past the Twelve, to where Bertina stood. “You have a little star to replace me. I was a pitiful star to begin with.”

He took a small step backwards, towards Carmen. He took another. Another, and he was able to take her hand. They turned and began to walk down the hill. There was a moment when Cristophe thought they would be able to leave uncontested, then he heard taurus’s booming voice.

“After them!”

They were chanting again.

“After them!”

“To the fire!”

It was one of the most frightening things Cristophe had ever heard.

They were chanting again.

The fire-that-was-never-put-out was a blaze. The traitor Kiran’s screams had faded an hour ago, after two nights over the dim flames. The blaze had been built to wear away what was left.

Aquarius looked over the slowly charring remains. Sagittarius approached the fire and stopped beside her.

“We never found the outsider.”

“She is nothing to us. He was the one we needed to make an example of. The penance for treachery has been paid.”

They were chanting again.

The boy who called himself Kiran would never join them again.

Carmen never went back to the hilltop. In April, she bore a little girl. She named her Star.

-----------------------
They Were Chanting Again was written a few years ago. Astronomy and astrology have always interested me, and the concept of a cult based on them resulted in this story. At least, it touches on the subjects.

Feeling White

We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I could actually feel the stuff coursing through my system. It wasn't something I had been unprepared for, but the actual sensation caught me by surprise. Looking back, I can only really describe the feeling as white. I suppose the closest analogy I can come up with is that it felt like liquid light flowing through my veins alongside my blood. They told me the stuff would mix well enough with my bloodstream, but it felt separate, kind of disconcerting. Liquid light flowed through me, but there was no heat to it, just the shining white feeling.

Judging from Theo's and Avery's faces, they were feeling the same effects I was. At least there was no pain.

By the time we found Barstow, drove across town, left the jeep in a hotel parking lot on the far side of town, and started out into the desert on foot, I knew the drugs were only a handful of moments away from taking full hold on me. We turned separate ways once we were out of town, each just picking a direction and going.

I stumbled in whatever direction it was chance had given me, willing the ticking seconds to stop feeling like they were an hour long each. The men had told us the name of the drug, but it was one of those ridiculous forty-seven-letter-long names that were impossible to pronounce unless you had a Ph.D., and I hadn't cared to listen anyway. They had also told us to hold off succumbing for as long as we could to get the full effect, so I focused as hard as I could on the sand in front of my Reeboks.

The soft thud that came from behind me and to my right told me one of the others had gone down. Forcing the muscles of my neck to obey, I turned to look, only then realizing my eyes were clouded. But I knew it was Avery that had given way.

A second sound of impact told me Theo had collapsed, but then I realized I was lying on my side in the sand. I had let it take me. Sweet dry heat flowed over me; gritty, odorless sand made my bed. I had a dim awareness of my surroundings as the drug penetrated every last bit of what was me.

I opened my eyes and I was flying. I knew I was a hawk; that's what the people called me. Hawk. But the word wasn't what my heart said I was. In my heart, such things didn't matter. Food, hunting, flying, mating-- it was the instincts that took over. This wasn't some acid trip or hallucinogen effect; the men had explained...

Explained what? What men?

White. White air. Bright sunlight surrounded me, clean clear air supported me and gave me lift. It took no thought to find thermals to give me lift, to adjust the tilt of my wings and tail to dive or bank. This was pure joy, to live.

The noise sent me into a panic. I didn't know what it was, by my every instinct said to fear the sound. It was a crack, loud and short. It came again, and a third time. That third crack came along with great pain in my little body. I was wounded. All my efforts to control my accelerating descent failed, and I cascaded to the ground.

I opened my eyes and I was surrounded by white. My talons clenched weakly. I hurt, but I would heal. To the depths of me, I knew that.

Faces. There were faces. My eyes darted around, taking in my surroundings. This was not my forest home, or a desert-- where that fact came from, I didn't know at the time, but looking back, I can remember the thought and identify it. This was the kind of place I avoided, where the ones who looked at me and said, "Hawk" made their nests.

Nearby, on a medical table-- again I can only put words to it from looking back-- was me, my body. My human one. The one I came back to once the drug had run its course.

***

The purpose of the drug was never fully revealed to me. Once I'd come to-- come back to my human body again-- I saw the hawk I'd been. He's perfectly fine, a fully-functioning, normal bird. His wing healed without a problem; they hadn't aimed at me to kill, just to wound. I can only guess at the reasons behind it all. "To study animal life more intimately" is the phrase I decided on about a year afterward. I was questioned again and again about my experiences as the hawk-- the ten hours and fourteen minutes I'd spent being him. My reports had been added to their findings, filed, copied, distributed, discussed, refuted, defended, shredded, recopied, refiled, and all those things that happen with research findings. I actually got contacted by a wildlife researcher in the Netherlands to discuss my experiences.

There are a few things I was told outright afterward. One was that there were certain reasons we'd had to go to Barstow and wander into the desert as part of the experience. The "why" was, to my growing frustration, not told to me.

Second, Theo came through the process as easily as I did. He returned in the body of a black bear cub. The cub is fine.

Avery never came back.

I received my pay and eventually stopped hearing anything involving the drug. About four years later, they stopped testing it, for classified reasons.

I think I know the reason: sometimes, when I wake up, I'm still a hawk.

-------------------------------
"Feeling White" was, like many of my most recent short stories, writted for a First Line Fiction contest. It won third place in the month it was entered.

Stalker

“She’s a local. The number’s in our area code.”

“What makes you think she’s a ‘she’?”

“Who else would text you this late on a Tuesday to tell you you’re cute? Unless you came out while we were at the club this weekend and didn’t tell me.”

Cal opened his phone and pulled up the text again. You’re a hottie. “Beats me,” he said, snapping the phone shut again. “How drunk did I get?”

Monty shrugged. ““You think I remember how drunk you got? I was the one who passed out, remember? After throwing up in your lap on the bus home.”

Cal did remember. Nasty. He hadn’t even tried to clean those pants-- just threw them away. “So I probably gave my number to someone. Maybe a few someones… and now one of them is actually texting me.”

“I thought girls usually called.”

“This is the texting age.”

“Maybe she’’s a hottie. You tend to have pretty good taste, even when you’re drunk.” Monty grinned. “Text her back. Ask if she has a sister.””

“I don’’t even know who she is!”

“Why should that stop you?”

He shook his head, stuffing his phone into his pocket. “I’m not going to do anything. If she-- whoever she is-- isn’t just messing with me, she’ll text again. Maybe then I might reply.”

***

Cal’s phone vibrated, rattling against the glass of water on his nightstand. The clinking woke him up.

New Text Message

He flipped it open and opted not too look at it right away. Instead he checked the time. 2:57 stared at him. Cursing, he opened the text, looking first at the number. It was the same one.

On my mind on my mind!

Grumbling, he closed the phone and went back to sleep.

***

Monty stared at the screen on Cal’s phone, looking at the texts Cal had saved in the memory, all from that same local number. “They were all sent late, like after midnight.”

“Except for that first one. That one was at quarter till. Big difference, I know.”

“She’s texted you almost every night for three weeks. And you’ve done what?”

Cal shrugged. “Been jerked out of sleep for every damned one of them.”

Monty thrust the phone at him, pushing it into his chest. “I’m telling you, this girl’s got a thing for you. Text her back!”

“No way, man! This is kinda creeping me out at this point. I mean, look at some of those last ones. Check the one from Monday.”

Sighing, Monty opened the phone and pulled up the text. “Baby you there? I like tomatoes and bagels,” he read aloud, trying hard not to laugh and making a strangled snorting sound instead. “She does sound hot.”

“This isn’t funny, Monty. I’m starting to get weirded out by this. I mean, I haven’t answered a one of her texts, but she keeps texting me almost every night.”

In Monty’s hands, Cal’s phone began to vibrate. “I’ll check it,” he said, flipping it open. Cal peered over his shoulder.

My pockets are greasy.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Some new weird stalker pickup line?”

The phone vibrated again. Sorry baby I forgot something.

Again. There’s a taco in there.

Ow! Stop it!

I’m stealing your pillow.

The phone was receiving texts faster than they could read them.

C’mon let’s go upstairs.

I’ll tell u when i’m finished.

u don’t like me

nononono

“I think she just lost it,” Monty said. “I’m calling her.””

“Monty, don’t!”

Cal heard the phone ring three times before a voice picked up. “Hello?” She didn’’t sound to alert.

“Yeah, hi. Um… I keep getting texts from this number. Really weird ones. Mind explaining?”

There was a pause, and Cal heard a yawn on the other end of the line. “Who is this?”

“Cal.”” Monty made a face at Cal as he said his name.

“I don’’t know a Cal.”

“I think we might have met at The Cave, on Third Avenue, maybe three weeks ago? I can’’t think of anywhere else I might have given out my number.”

“Oh! Oh my god, I’m sorry! I think… have I been texting you?”

Monty rolled his eyes. “That’s kind of what I said.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I… I’ve been known to sleep-text. I’ll delete your number.”

Before Monty could respond, she hung up the line. Monty slammed the phone into Cal’s hands. “Guess you’ll have to find a new secret admirer, bro.”

________________
This was written for the First Line Fiction contest that I also wrote "Pickup at the Joint" for. This was my actual entry. It didn't win.

The idea came from my friend Tara, who told me once about a friend of hers who actually does sleep-text. I couldn't resist. Also, one of the texts in this story is one of the ones her friend sleep-texted to her. Guess which one!

Pickup in the Joint

“She’s a local.”

That one sentence in itself would have been enough to make any man in The Joint think twice about crossing the floor and talking to the woman. Actually, it would make any sensible man think more like a dozen times before taking that first step. There was something about women from the downtown area of Low Bluff that kept men away.

Gary ignored the advice of his friend and kept staring at her. There was something more to her, something… far-from-local. Buried deep underneath that all-too-purposefully plain appearance. A depth behind those unremarkable brown eyes, something alluring in the brain beneath that limp brunette hair, some meaning behind the unpainted fingernail she flicked at him, beckoning. So she’d noticed him looking.

Without hesitation, Gary stood.

“Did you not hear me,” Anthony said. “I said she’s local, Gary. Local!”

“Yeah, yeah, in a minute,” Gary replied, waving a dismissive hand at his friend. It took him less time to cross the floor to her table than it had to shut Anthony up.

She looked up at him, those nondescript brown eyes almost blank. “I’m Failadre.”” She almost purred her name. He was right! There was something besides those boring looks! Her voice! He wanted to drool.

“I’m interested,” he replied before he could think, sitting clumsily in the chair that wasn’t right next to her but wasn’t across from her either.

And he stared.

Failadre smiled at him occasionally, but otherwise ignored him. All the time in the world could have passed, and Gary wouldn’t have noticed a moment of it. He was lost in those ordinary features. Lost and with no hope of return, and he didn’t have a clue.

But Anthony saw. Saw the woman’s hand moving surreptitiously beneath the tabletop, saw her slowly inch her chair closer to his so she would be within arm’s reach of him, saw her bite her lip eagerly thinking about what she was about to do. Something glinted in her hand; her mouth turned from shy-looking lip-biting to a smile of surprising beauty in that unexciting face. The shiny object ever-so-slowly came closer to Gary.

There was a flick. The razor-sharp blade disappeared from sight as soon as it had done its work. A moment later, the woman was gone, out the door with her prize in tow, and Gary was on his back on the floor, bleeding and screaming, but with a faraway, entranced look still in his eyes. That look would fade, as would the bleeding eventually. The screaming… some men went years before they stopped feeling the loss.

But his tail would never come back. Anthony felt sorry for Gary, but it would have been stupid to try and interfere. She would have gotten his, too. The poachers on Low Bluff were good at what they did.

____________________________-
This story was written as an entry in the First Line Fiction contests some time ago. It was the first story that I did for this line, but it wasn't the story that was entered in the contest. It's a bit confusing and abrupt, I know, but I really doubt it's an idea I would pursue further, so this is it in its entirety.

Change of Plans

Well, readers, I know I promised you the epic poem The Trials of Hallac, but I have to cut off what I'm posting on here now that we've reached the end of Part II. Why?

Because it's being formatted for publishing. Can't give away the ending now, can I?

Hopefully, it will be out in paperback form like my first published work, Empeddigo, by the end of June, 2011.

For the time being, I will be returning to my previous type weekly posts, short stories. Hope you enjoy!

Also, don't forget to check out my page on facebook: A. F. Grappin's Writing. Look for updates, chatter, all that.