He Awoke at Dusk

He awoke at dusk.

His first breaths were more dirt than air.

He knew only the sound of the wind twisting through leafless branches.

…and of a woman’s voice roaming through his ears.

He couldn’t see her, not yet, but he felt her presence. She was near, perhaps standing above him, a slender black shape against a backdrop of nothing. The shadows in her eyes were grey and gauzy, and the evening’s light nothing more than spears of silver against the growing dark.

He blinked, but the shadows would not depart.

He tried to speak, to whisper, or even to croak a few clumsy sounds.

Nothing. His voice had not returned.

It was the woman who spoke first, but not to him, nor to anyone. He knew even without seeing that he was alone with her.

Out in the cold.

In a forest.

How did I come to this place?

He could not remember.

“Should’ve waited ‘til spring, you know?” The woman was farther away now, and speaking to herself. “Fingers raw from dirt half-frozen. Shovel full of splinters. Look at these hands. They look like farmer’s hands now. What would mother say?”

She said more, but he heard little. The wind picked up, and with a shiver he realized he was naked. Lying on the ground, half-buried in frosted loam, his helplessness confounded him. Why would he fall asleep in such a state? Why was he half-blind, mute, and smothered with the sense he’d only just been born?

He couldn’t even remember his name.

The woman’s shadow returned. He couldn’t see her face, not quite, but he glimpsed something in her left hand. It looked like a stick, straight and black, sharper than any sword in the world. The woman’s hair hung long over her shadowed face, and he knew it was raven. She, in fact, was raven. Everything about her looked and felt dark.

Or is it just my eyes?

Why won’t they work?

“Well?” The girl squatted over him. “Can you hear me?”

Somehow, he managed a subtle nod of his head.

“You’re cold, right?” she said without real concern. “See? I knew I should’ve done this next spring. I’ve woken you up, and you’re likely to die again by the time the sun goes down. It’s okay. If you do, I’ll just bring you back again. This stick is pretty useful. It fell from the moon, did you know?”

He groaned. Finally, a sound. The woman shifted on her knees, and he swore he caught a glimpse of her eyes.

Dark. Like her hair.

And…

Is she beautiful?

The woman rose, walked away, and returned with something else in her hands. She draped the dark thing over his body—a blanket, he realized. It did nothing to drive off the chill in his bones.

“You can’t talk yet.” She hovered over him again. “Don’t worry. It’ll pass, I think. It had better, else you’re no good to me. What good’s a warrior who’s blind?”

A warrior?

Am I?

Or…was I?

“Right now you’re wondering who I am and why I’ve pulled your bones out of the dirt,” she continued. “That’s all well and good. Mother said after all this time you might not even remember your life, who you were, the things you did. That’s fine, too. In time, it’ll come back to you. It’s been about six centuries, so really…you should feel lucky I was able to find what was left of you. Did you know you died here? Do you remember how?”

He shook his head. The world beyond the woman came in and out of focus. The night was nearly upon him, and the sky colored with violet clouds and black tree branches.

“I’d warm you.” She leaned closer. Her dark curls touched his blanket, and her lips made the shape of something not quite a smile. “But my magic, you see, isn’t not really for warming. Or helping. That’s not how magic works, you know? It’s all pretty dark stuff. I wanted to believe otherwise as a little girl, but Mother showed me.”

“Your moth…your mother?” he stammered.

“Oh good, you can talk.” Her not-quite-a-smile broadened. “It’s not much, but it’s a start. And yes, my mother. She’s dead, you see. So very dead.”

She stood up again and walked away. He heard the clatter of things: sticks, something made of cloth, the sound of water sloshing inside a waterskin. He wanted to focus, to remember, but every small noise washed over him as though he were hearing them for the very first time.

When she returned, she began building something around him. She produced a mallet from her satchel and began pounding long stakes into the dirt, all the while cursing the soil’s hardness. Afterward, she unfurled a great dark canvas and stretched it between the stakes.

A tent, he realized. She’s protecting me from the cold.

Darkness claimed the forest. The pale spaces in the sky, swallowed up by shadows, fled from his eyes. She pulled the tent’s canvas tight, and even the black branches vanished.

…just as my eyes were adjusting.   

Finished with her work, she sat between his feet. He saw only the shape of her shoulders. All else was midnight.

“There now,” she said. “You’re all set. Normally, I’d turn us to shadow and fly all the way home. But…you’re too fresh. The flight might kill you, and really, the ritual to bring you back is more than a little tedious. And also…well…I guess it’s time to let you know—I don’t have a home anymore. They burned it down. I guess I could’ve killed them all, but all it takes is one lucky arrow, and there’d be no more me. You’ll come to learn the world needs me, just as it needs you, my friend.”

“Name?” he managed to say. “Your…name?”

“Mine?” she said. “No. You’re not ready for that. Rest now. Rest, and try to remember your own name. You’ll need it before long. You’ll need everyone to know it. Because…how can the world be afraid of you if you don’t even have a name?”

With that, she left him. The tent flap fell shut, and the woman swept away into the night. Again, she said things to herself.

Quiet things.

Unknowable things.

But he did hear another sound.

The night breaking. The wind rising. And whispers between the trees that were something other than human.

* * *

*

This excerpt is from an as-of-yet untitled piece.

It was to be the very first chapter in a co-authored fantasy novel.

But the idea was shelved, and my co-author turned to other projects.

So now I’m curious…

…should I write this book alone?

…or should I leave this one in the dark?

*

J Edward Neill

 

Evaluation M-047

I have something different to share this week–a Throwback Thursday. Not an image, but words. In 2011, I wrote a short piece of fiction (flash fiction) for StoryADay. It won honorable mention in a contest they held that year. I always intended to return to this story, to breathe more life into the world and characters. It’s an odd feeling reading something I wrote five years ago. I have to stop myself from editing the little eyesores. So many things scream at me when I read this piece. Maybe it will be incentive to dive back into the words.


Evaluation M-0147

Evaluation M-047

She wouldn’t break eye contact. A film of anxiety glistened across her forehead. In her hands she turned over a small trinket, again and again—a good luck charm. She’d need it. The baggy hand-me-downs didn’t hide the frail condition of her body, nor her spirit.

I glanced at the paperwork in my hands.

Mary Emerson – 8 yrs – Sole Survivor of Glendale

Eight years old is too young to be a trainee, too young to be sitting the across the table from me tonight. I’m the evaluator. I’m the one who gets to choose who will stand watch in the night. It’s the job no one wants.

Each evaluation begins with a simple statement: This is not a test. But the young are eager to please. When I was a child pleasing our elders involved passing Math, or cleaning our rooms without being asked. Now, childhood ends when you can aim and shoot a target at fifty feet. This ghost of a girl wasn’t ready.

I made motions to cross her name off the list, when her small voice broke the silence.

Chocolate!”

That’s what you miss the most?”

Chocolate. I tried to hide my amusement. When was the last time I’d had chocolate?

No, wait,” she said. “Batteries!”

Better answer. Why?”

Because, batteries generate electricity and we can use them to power machines, like flashlights and Thomas’ defibrillator.”

Eager and intelligent, she could be a malnourished version of me ten years ago. I’d been twelve and eager too. I’d sat with a group of ten other children, in the rain, shivering, waiting to be called inside. The room had been dark, like this one, but instead of a single candle there’d been a single dim light bulb.

Damn. I miss those generators.

Okay, next question. You’re on the wall. You spot Leuks. What is the first thing you do?”

Her fingers squeezed the life out of the trinket in her hand. I’d had one of those too, a lucky rabbit’s foot. The silly souvenir was a gift from my father.

I confirm with my binoculars. If there really are Leuks, I ring the bell four times.”

I pretended to make a few notes. There was no right or wrong answer, only reactions to measure.

Next question. Leuks breach the wall. What do you do?”

Tomorrow could be the day. A raid now would obliterate this settlement. I wish my brother were here. Were we fighting the inevitable?

Ma’m?”

I tore my thoughts away from what I’d lost and focused on her fear filled eyes. Her need to prove herself had hidden the truth. But now I saw the jagged nails and torn cuticles. Who had she lost?

What is it, Maggie?”

Ma’m, are we are going to make it?”

What?” Then I heard them. The bells were ringing. Shouts and screams began to pierce the darkness. Stay calm.

Of course, we are,” I said and forced a smile.

I pulled a tattered white rabbit’s foot from under my collar and placed it around her neck. We all dealt with the stress in our own way. Some survived. Some became shells of their former selves. Some heard the call of the blood.

© Amanda Makepeace

The Stiletto

The Stiletto

* * *

I knew it’d be a mistake the moment it was over.

But I did it anyway.

He was a ghoulish old king. He’d extorted, terrorized, and murdered to fill his coffers. His brothers were thieves. His wives…both of them…were daggers in every man’s back.

His subjects hated him. His enemies feared him. The ground he walked turned black beneath his boots. His bathwater reeked of death.

Every family who’d even a chance at sniffing the throne, he’d exiled, poisoned, or butchered. When his cousin’s coup d’état failed, the ghoul burned the usurpers’ children alive, drowned his cousin’s mother, and hung the collaborators’ bodies from gibbets so high even the crows dared not a single sniff.

It was time for the King to go. Everyone knew it. Everyone wanted it. His black towers had too long stood like knives on the kingdom’s throat.

When the three exiles came to me on autumn’s second eve, I knew what they wanted. One carried a chest of silvers. The other dropped a satchel of ingots on my table. The third stood in my doorway, the moonlight shining on his back. He was a weathered, ancient thing. Twenty years in the sand had done him poorly. I smirked, my dagger folded against my wrist in case he did something stupid.

“Lady Lusia, will you?” he asked.

“Will I what?” I pretended not to know what he meant.

“The Ghoul…the King…the hundred-year old nightmare haunting the eaves of every house in Lyrlech. Will you?”

“No.” I glanced out my window. I couldn’t see the black towers, but I knew they were there.

“Why?” asked the weathered man.

“He’s only a few more years left in him,” I scoffed. “Not worth it. I’m too pretty for the gibbets.”

“You don’t understand, Lusia,” he sighed. “If he dies, his brother becomes king. It’ll only get worse.”

I considered it for a moment, then countered, “Exactly. If I kill the Ghoul, it does nothing. The noose around our necks just gets tighter.”

“But Lusia, his family will be there. His brothers. His sons. His grandchildren. All under one roof for the first time in years.”

“So?” I smiled.

“You can save us,” he pleaded. “You’re the best. Everyone knows it. The Stiletto, they call you. You’re the only one who can deliver us from darkness.”

“You’re right,” I smiled. “I can. But I won’t.”

I got tired of waiting. I flicked my knife and split the three men neck to belly. They died quietly. Their blood drained onto the floor, but the night moved none at all.

I knew it was a mistake the moment it was over.

…but the Ghoul had paid me well.

 

* * *

The Stiletto, along with a volcano of other dark, eerie, and fantastical tales, appears in:

Machina Front Cover

Machina Obscurum features a host of writers doing their best to darken your world with short, deadly stories and quick-as-knives fiction.

It’s available right now.

J Edward Neill