In a way, it’s more stock than a lot of what I’ve written, particularly for fantasy. At the same time, there’s more of a horror dimension than a lot of my fantasy work.

It’s also distinctive because it’s one of the few stories to involve Fort Baxter, a fictional Maine town along the Canadian border, meant to be my home town of Fort Kent with serial numbers filed sort of off and a fresh coat of paint over it.

I think I probably wrote this while I was finishing up college. I was really into the idea of language critical theory/linguistic critical theory/the sign-significator-significated trichotomy for a while then. I’m a little surprised this isn’t more pretentious than it is as a result.

Apropos of nothing, the lead is named Karin MacDougal.  In 1997, a Karen McDougal became a somewhat more-famous-than-usual Playboy Playmate and then Playmate of the Year. From the tone of this piece, I believe it was written at least four and possibly more years before 1997, so despite the name, this is not an homage to a hot chick.

Also apropos of nothing, I used to make homemade hot cocoa like is described in here.

*** *** *** ***

I was fourteen the first time I heard Uncle Roger use language.

He’s not my uncle. He isn’t even technically my stepfather’s brother. But they grew up together. They spend a lot of time talking. Well, Uncle Roger talks. Dad listens.

We were in the kitchen. I was making Nestle Quik. He was making tea. I heard a noise — like a tapping. It was a chickadee in the feeder, cracking open sunflower seeds with its little beak. I laughed when I saw it. Chickadees look so silly sometimes.

I must have scared it. It darted out of the feeder, landing on its small roof and looking all around itself. It looked sort of like a cartoon character. I laughed again, but Uncle Roger looked at me crossly. Then he leaned close to the glass and spoke through it to the bird.

I didn’t know the words he used, or what language they were in, but the bird cocked it’s head as though it were listening, looking in the house with one amber eye. And then it dropped back down into the feeder and started eating again.

I watched Uncle Roger as he crouched down a little near the window. He was looking at the chickadee, and whispered something. “Arrebee,” I think. It was tender, sort of,

And then he stood up, and took a deep breath. When he turned around, he didn’t look like my harmless old uncle. His brown eyes were deeper, some how.

“How did you coax him back down?” I asked. “Chickadees are scared easily.”

“Birds aren’t toys, Karin,” he said. “You shouldn’t treat them like they are.” And that was all he said about it.

I was seventeen the next time I heard Uncle Roger use language. He didn’t talk to birds that time.

I had more or less forgotten about the bird. It was weird but not too weird. But I had taken to paying more attention to the way Uncle Roger acted, especially when he thought no one was watching. How he would stare at things for a long time. How he would pick things up and heft them in his hand, like he was measuring them. I remember when my mother gave him a ceramic coffee cup her father had made for her. He spent ten minutes just looking at it, running his fingers along the cracks and patterns. There were times he held it to his ear, and tapped his finger on the rim. It made a hollow ringing sound that he repeated until he could hum the same note, about two octaves down.

And I had noticed the way he talked. The cadences he would get in his voice when he told a story or explained some piece of trivia. The way he built a joke up with words, or wove a musical web when he sang. I noticed these things more closely.

And once or twice, I noticed him noticing me. Seeing my interest, and weighing it like the coffee cup.

But anyhow, I was seventeen. It was October, I think, and pretty chilly. Fort Baxter gets snow in November most years. We’re far enough north so that we get a nasty gulfstream. I was mad, because my boyfriend, Brad, was supposed to give me a ride home. He had forgotten he had an evening shift at Andy’s, so he begged off.

My parents’ house is on Farmer Street, right off of College Street. But I was taking the back way since Brad lived downtown, over Village Square Fashions. It was faster to take the back streets, and I was cold and it was raining, sort of. But the back streets weren’t very well lit.

I wasn’t scared. There was no reason to be. Fort Baxter, Maine has a violent crime rate so close to zero it isn’t funny. Even near BaxState it’s pretty quiet. I was just mad and cold and damp.

The wind came in gusts, blowing my hair in my eyes. I pushed it back for the third or fourth time… and I knew I wasn’t alone.

I just knew. I can’t explain how or why. I knew someone was watching me. That they were following me. Or maybe I was crazy, but I started to walk faster.

I could hear boots on macadam behind me. I began to run.

Something dull shoved me in the small of the back. It didn’t hurt, but I pitched forward, scraping my knees. I screamed, but no one lived very close. The man landed on me, grabbing my shoulders and yanking me up. He thrust me down hard, then slammed me down again. I started to cry.

And everything got very quiet. The wind died. Even the rain stopped. My sobs and incoherent words seemed louder then they were.

The man yanked me onto my back. He was older — forty, maybe — wearing a parka and bonnet. It was too dark to see what color they were — he looked like any of the local loggers. “Shut up,” he snapped at me, looking around like a startled cat. I didn’t stop crying, of course, so he slapped me and shouted it at me.

I shut up, but not because he hit me. Something — some kind of sound or pressure — was building around us.

“Who’s there!” he shouted. His words echoed around us.

The wind stirred again, blowing brown leaves up into a dust devil. The trees seemed to be whispering. I could smell ozone.

“Who the Hell’s there!” my attacker shouted.

There was a sound — like the hum of train tracks before you could hear the train itself coming. Or a string bass being played with a metal bow. I felt goosebumps ripple on my flesh.

There were telephone poles stretching wire along the road. The metal pins and cable guides began to glow green with Saint Elmo’s fire. The smell of Ozone was everywhere, with a mettalic tinge to it.

With a clap of thunder that sounded like an explosion, the storm broke all around us. The wind ripped at us both, causing the man to roll off of me and wrap his hands over his head in terror.

And then I saw my Uncle Roger. He was walking towards us, arms outstretched and he was shouting something I couldn’t understand. It reminded me of Latin or Italian, but I knew it wasn’t either. He looked huge — more a part of the storm than a man caught in it.

He stabbed his finger at my attacker, screaming a word. A lightning bolt split the sky, stabbing Uncle Roger’s finger and reflecting off of it like a living tendril of light. It grounded into my attacker, and the man twisted and shook, his muscles locking.

I screamed again, and forced myself to my feet running. I wasn’t running for home or for Brad’s house. I just ran from what I couldn’t understand. The thunder tore all around me and the rain drove through my windbreaker, but I just kept going until I reached the woods. There were paths but I didn’t take them. Instead I just kept going, branches and boughs snapping at my feet until finally I collapsed, exhausted, and sobbed at the base of an oak tree.

When I finally cried myself out, the rain had stopped. I got up and turned around.

Uncle Roger was standing there, watching me. He didn’t look ten feet tall any more. He looked like the Uncle who used to tell me stories about Odysseus and Heracles. Like my favorite babysitter.

“You have to be cold, Karin,” he said to me.

“Uh huh,” I sniffed.

“Come on. Let’s get you warmed up. Everything’s okay. I promise.” He held his arms out to me, like my stepfather did when I was little and scared of the dark.

Slowly I went to him, and he wrapped his coat around my shoulders and led me through the maze of trees.

“Is he dead?” I asked Uncle Roger.

“Who?”

“The man. The man who attacked me.”

“No,” he said to me. “He isn’t dead. But he won’t be able to hurt you.”

I never found out what happened to the man. Uncle Roger led me to his house, where he cleaned the cuts I got from branches in the woods and checked me for broken bones. He gave me Hot Chocolate he made from scratch and called my folks to tell them I was okay.

I tried to ask him what he had done. How he had bent lightning and shouted up a storm. But he evaded me, for once quiet. As I was leaving, I turned back to him.

“Will you ever tell me what happened tonight?” I asked.

“When you know what questions to ask, I’ll answer them,” he said, and shut his door.

The next time I heard Uncle Roger use language, I was twenty.

I had tried to bring up the subject a number of times, of course. But Uncle Roger either misdirected my question into a different subject or failed to hear me. I cornered my stepfather once and asked him, point blank.

“Why do you want to know?” he asked me. He looked — maybe scared, or nervous. But mostly like I was prying into something private. Something almost embarresing.

“I saw him hit a man with lightning,” I said. “He shouted something and a lightning bolt wrapped around his hand and went where he wanted it to go.”

“Did the man deserve it?”

“He had knocked me over and… and was going to hurt me, I guess.” I had never told my folks about what had happened.

Dad got a slightly angry look on his face. “Did — are you… were you all right?” he asked.

“Yeah. Before the guy could really hurt me, everything got all–”

“Don’t tell me,” Dad said. “I don’t need to know. Just… just remember this. If your Uncle Roger felt he had to attack that man to protect you, he had to. He never does anything he doesn’t have to.”

“But how did he do it?” I asked.

Dad got a far-away look on his face. “He went away for a while,” he said to me. “Somewhere on the West Coast, and then England.” He looked at me again. “After he came back… he could do strange things.”

“But–”

“If you want to know, you’ll have to ask him. I don’t know and I don’t want to. But I trust him.”

By the time I was a Junior at Bowdoin college, I had tried to find the right questions to ask Uncle Roger. I had studied folklore and mythology. Literature and anthropology. I had originally thought to major in communications, but consciously or unconsciously I had switched to English. A B to C student in High School, I was an A student in college. My parents were so proud of me. So was Uncle Roger, who himself taught English at Baxter State right in Fort Baxter. When I was home on breaks and during vacation, he would come over and talk about poetry with me. He spoke passionatly, making the subject come to life. And he showed me some of the poetry he had written and published, and asked to see mine. I don’t know how he knew I had been trying to write poetry, but he did.

When I was twenty I was in my senior year, home for Christmas break. I got in around eleven thirty at night and was met by the whole family. It had been a mild winter in Brunswick, where I went to college, so the thick blanket of snow that covered my home town was almost welcome. Winters should be full of snow and ice coating the trees. I stayed up half the night with my mother and stepfather before road fatigue drove me to bed. The next morning I woke up early, had a cup of coffee (I had taken it up at Bowdoin), and walked down Farmer Street to Uncle Roger’s house.

It was snowing. Big, white flakes that made the boundry between sky and ground suspect. I loved the snow. Growing up, snow meant sliding and snowball fights and skating and skiing. If it snowed hard enough, the school buses couldn’t get through and we had a snow day. Up in Northern Maine, the snow was your friend. So by the time I made it to Uncle Roger’s, I was in a really good mood.

There was a strange car in his driveway. A Lincoln Town Car, black. All Town Cars are black, I think. It had Massachusetts plates, so Uncle Roger had visitors. Relatives, maybe. They might have been over for Christmas.

I knocked and looked at the wreath on Uncle Roger’s door. The Jaycees sell them each year, and Uncle Roger paid for a good one. It was woven out of blue pine, with a cluster of broad pine cones in its center and a red ribbon tied in a bow beneath it. It was festive and homey all at once.

The door opened, and a strange blond man stared out at me.

I was almost shocked to see him. I didn’t recognize him, but somehow I felt… nervous. Frightened, almost. He wore a black suit with a white shirt and gold cufflinks. His hair was combed back and immaculate. His eyes were grey and they stared into mine like icicles.

“Yes?” he asked, his voice colder than the outside air.

“Is… um, is Professor Dalton here?”

“What is your business with Doctor Dalton?” he asked, almost mocking. As though he couldn’t believe I had business with ‘Doctor Dalton.’

“Edward,” my Uncle’s voice rang out sharply. “I don’t believe I made you my secretary, so please don’t screen my visitors.” He stepped into view, opening the door wide. “Karin!” he said warmly, opening his arms to me. I melted into them and hugged him, hard. “I had no idea you were back — you haven’t written to me in too long, young lady!”

“Hi Uncle Roger! I know, I know, but I’ve been awfully busy. Look, I can come back later if you’re busy–” I cast a cold look at ‘Edward.’ “–maybe when you’re alone.”

“Oh don’t mind Edward,” he said. “He’s an old friend of mine who’s unfortunate enough to be a lawyer in a large city. He sometimes forgets what human contact is like.”

“Yes,” Edward said crisply. “In my line of work, I get so little of it. Well, are you going to introduce me to your friend or should I go see what Porter is up to in the kitchen.” Edward’s voice was high — a tenor, maybe — and crisply British.

“Of course. Edward Chambers, this is my niece, Karin. Karin McDougal, this is an associate of mine late of Piccadilly, now of Boston.”

“Niece,” Edward asked with an upraised eyebrow. “I thought that – o-hooo… Frank McDougal’s daughter, of course.”

“Stepdaughter,” I said. It might have been unfair to a man who had served as my father since I was ten, but I couldn’t ever quite call him my real father. There were still days I missed my real father.

“Ah. Stepdaughter but not stepniece? Or have I misconstrued the relationship.” I felt a flash of annoyance and let go of my Uncle. I could tell I’d probably never like Edward Chambers late of Piccadilly.

“Probably,” my Uncle said lightly. “You misconstrue so much else in your day.” It sounded like Uncle Roger was joking, but Edward flinched like he were hit.

So there was tension between the two of them, too.

“Well, I’m off to get a paper,” Edward said. “I’ll let you two get reaquainted. I hope I won’t interrupt when I return. Porter!”

Porter was a large man in a black uniform. A chauffer, it looked like. The two of them left and I breathed a little easier.

“Sorry,” Uncle Roger said, walking towards the kitchen. “Edward’s rough around the edges. He grates on people, somewhat unintentionally. But he’s not a bad sort, really.”

“I can’t say I like him,” I said, sniffing. I had a minor cold — I got one every winter, and it was worse in Brunswick, near the coast. It didn’t get cold enough to throw the germs into remission.

“You don’t know him yet, Chickadee. When you know him, you can dislike him legitimately. Hot Cocoa?”

“Please! Thanks.” I grinned. Uncle Roger smiled and set about making it. He didn’t use Swiss Miss or Carnation. Instead, he got out baker’s chocolate and sugar and dry milk and blended them in the mug. The cocoa was thick and had money on top and was bittersweet instead of cloying. He asked about classes and we fell into a talk about William Blake, who I was studying in my Romantic and Victorian Poetry seminar.

Edward didn’t come back for quite a long time, and Uncle Roger didn’t seem to be giving him another thought, so I stayed for hours. Finally, around four thirty, I was staring into the fire (Uncle Roger had a Jørdül in his sitting room) while Uncle Roger made a phone call. I felt safe.

“Such a pretty little thing,” I heard whispered into my ear, and I jumped.

Edward Chambers smiled. “Sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t resist.”

“Whatever,” I said tensly. “I better be going.”

“Wait a moment,” Chambers said. “Let me look at you.”

“I’ll be late for dinner,” I said, rising.

“Selth,” he said, his left hand blurring into what looked like American Sign Language. I felt a chill run down my spine and into my bones, and suddenly I couldn’t move. It didn’t feel like paralysis. It was like I had no idea how to tell my arms to push me off the couch. Like I had no idea how to make my legs lift me up.

Edward Chambers circled in front of me, those eyes piercing me. “You are lovely,” he said. “So pretty and fresh. But that’s not it, is it.” He seemed to be scrutinizing me. Not leering — or not much. But probing. Memorizing. Trying to learn as much about me as Uncle Roger had learned about the coffee cup, years before. “No… there are any number of girls as pretty or prettier.

“So what are you? A protegé? An apprentice? Your eyes are quick. Your voice is sweet. The potential is there… but is he going to use it?”

“Perhaps he is, and perhaps he isn’t,” my Uncle said, stepping into the room. “Either way, it’s no business of yours, Edward.” His voice was icy cold.

Edward laughed. “Call it professional interest,” he said.

“Release her.”

“Just answer a question or two first. Is she yours? Are you grooming her? For what? I thought you didn’t play our games, Roger.”

The two locked eyes. Uncle Roger made a pass, his hands twisting in that same American Sign Language varient. Chambers snapped his hands up, twisted into their own odd symbols. He whispered as he did it, and Uncle Roger’s forehead beaded with sweat.

“Eldorr Edward Cinjin Chambers aresti!” Uncle Roger shouted, and Edward’s hands and voice froze. “Orbitse.”

Edward’s eyes held Uncle Roger’s for a long moment, then looked to the floor. “Pandeth.” he said, sounding disgruntled.

“Alke ne porth Karin.” Uncle Roger said. It sounded like he was just talking.

Edward looked at me. “Anti se porth Karin?”

“Banne.”

“Tuke.” Edward spelled a word with his fingers, and suddenly I could move.

But I didn’t. I was scared and angry, all at once.

“I think perhaps you should go back to your Hotel,” Uncle Roger said to Edward.

“Perhaps,” he said. He glanced back at me. “She really has no clue, does she?”

“That depends on the mystery we’re discussing.”

Edward chuckled. “I do love your little word games, Roger. Well, say hello to Franklyn for me.”

“Francis. Frank to you.”

“Of course.” I noticed Porter for the first time — he was standing by the door with Edward’s coat. Edward took it and the two walked into the snowy twilight.

Uncle Roger settled heavily onto the couch in front of the fire. He looked weary. “I really am getting too old for this sort of thing,” he said.

“You’re not old,” I said quietly.

“Really? That’s good to know. I feel old, though.” He looked at me. “I owe you an apology. Edward’s actions were unconscienceable.”

“You owe me more than an apology,” I said, leaning forward. “I think you owe me an explaination.”

“When–”

“When I know the questions to ask, you’ll answer them. I heard you. Uncle Roger, three years ago you controlled the weather to protect me. Three minutes ago you made Chambers back down — I don’t know how. And Chambers froze me in place and made weird allegations about me. So don’t give me chaff about knowing what to ask. I don’t have the vocabulary to ask you what I need to know. Just tell me something.”

Uncle Roger looked wistful and bemused all at once. “That’s what it’s all about, really. Your vocabulary. When you have the words to ask, my answers would make sense.”

“What do–”

“But you’re right. I do owe you something. I just hadn’t thought we would reach this impasse quite yet. Something else I can thank dear Mister Chambers for.”

“You expected something like this to happen?” I asked.

“Not at all. I expected that something would happen that would lead us to talk. I just thought I had more time.”

He rose. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Sure.”

“Good.” He walked into the kitchen and I followed. “What do you want to know.”

“What can you do?”

Uncle Roger laughed. “My Vitae are quite extensive. Explaining all of them would take some time. For instance, I am a poet, I am an Associate Professor of English, which means I’m capable of critical work and of teaching. I–”

“You know what I mean!”

“Do I? If you don’t know what you mean, I can’t possibly know what you mean, Chickadee.”

“But — God, talking to you can be so frustrating.”

“Nolo Contende, Karin. I can’t make this easy for you, I’m afraid. If you’re going to get answers you can understand, you’ll have to ask questions that are specific enough for me to answer exactly. Otherwise, I’ll have no way of knowing what you can understand and what you can’t. If you want answers — ask.”

“All right. Magic. You can work magic, right?”

“Yes.” The answer was quiet and unpretentious, but it still shook me. It was confirmation that the world wasn’t what I thought it was. “And so can you and so can everyone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone can work magic. In ways, everyone does work magic. You have a double-dozen magical experiences a day. When you twist the laces of your shoes into a bow, you’re casting a very minor sort of spell. When a man ties a windsor knot in his tie, he’s casting a varient. Tying a bow tie is a more advanced varient. And the Boy Scouts teach ropecraft that is very advanced indeed.”

“But… that’s not magic.”

“What is it, then?”

“Tying knots? It’s a skill. Something anyone can learn.”

“Really? I was a Boy Scout once, but I doubt I could even identify a sheepshank. I never really got past the square knot and the bowline, and I’ve never used a bowline in my life. My father was somewhat disappointed in me.”

Will there be more? I guess that depends on what people think. Let me know what you think of this particular chapter, but also let me know what you think of the series in general. I appreciate it.

On the whole, even if I never pick this back up — and it’s worth noting my father likes The Old Ways, so there’s every chance I will — I’m glad to have written at least this much. This has been a different kind of story for me.

It is worth noting that the ultimate idea would have been less fantasy adventure and more ‘breakdown of civility into the bush a la Heart of Darkness, which is hinted at in this chapter, just slightly.

Have fun.

*** *** *** ***

Sir Roderick’s look was slightly mocking, with an expression between indulgence and superiority. “You look rather like a girl of ten, found splashing in puddles an hour before the Service on a Sunday,” he said, and Lady Jessica’s face flushed hot.

Jack was distressed at Sir Roderick’s words. It was fair to say that the wind had swept Lady Jessica’s hair and clothing about, sporting with her as they rode, and some moisture had penetrated the blankets he had given her for the journey, but to call her sopping would be to call a summer’s sprinkle a cloudburst. “I believe you might overstate, sir, which is to say that while the lady has taken a bit of the damp, she’s not–”

“And you,” Sir Roderick said, turning on Jack. “You I did charge most specifically with keeping the Lady Jessica, my betrothed and the author of our adventure, both warm and dry as she perched up there, and as far as I can see you have done neither.” His tone was reproachful, yes, though that same mocking amusement clung to it. Jack had seen Sir Roderick turn his humor’s edge on others before — always cutting, but with a sly glance to his fellows that said ‘I do not mean what I say, but watch him, pinioned on my words like a butterfly caught.’

Before, however, Jack had been one of the fellows. He had never spent much time as one of the skewered, and the point was sharper than he expected. “Sir,” he said, “there was not much rain to be seen, and what there was–”

And Sir Roderick glanced at Lady Jessica, that very glance that Jack had seen so many times when Sir Roderick had been confronting a fool or lackwit, and Jack felt his flush grow, and his need to explain rise. “And, that is, sir, she did not speak of the wet, and it did not seem overly much. That is–”

“Jack,” Sir Roderick said gently, “did I not tell you that if it should rain, you should stop so the Lady could join me once again?”

Jack’s flush grew, and he looked down.

“Nay,” Lady Jessica said. “You did not.” Her voice sounded aggrieved. “You, in fact, rather completely dismissed me. Your half-hearted protest of rain–”

“Indeed, of rain,” Sir Roderick said, turning back to her and releasing the spike from Jack’s pride for the moment. “I did tell you the weather would not hold. I said to mark me if it did not rain and behold, my lady,” he spread his arms before her. “I stand unmarked, do I not.”

“You do, and you are* most* proud of that,” she snapped. “But if you can let me complete one thought without turning the conversation to the magnificences of Roderick Owles for just a moment’s span, you’ll hear that you most certainly did not direct Jack to stop the carriage and return me within should rain come. I met your protests of rain with the suggestion that if the rain were too much for me — and by the by I hardly think the sprinkles we felt counted as rain so much as a late dew that fell instead of appearing — then I would elect to return. First, the wet would have to be worse than your company, which I see now is more poison than even when you first arose upon this morrow.”

Sir Roderick took the broadside in stride, and glanced back at Jack, and there Jack saw the familiar quirk of Sir Roderick’s mouth — the very one he had directed to the lady not five minutes gone. “Jess — dear Jess… it matters little who said you should return from the rain. The simple fact is that you should have, and you did not. And now I am dry and you are wet, and you see the folly of avoiding my counsel, yes?”

Lady Jessica’s face set rather into a pout. “I see the folly of conversation with you in any way,” she said. “We ride to glorious adventure and no doubt great peril. If a tiny bit of wet discourages you, we should strike the wheels from Beacon this moment, and make it a house. The Northeastern Wall will have dampness aplenty.”

Sir Roderick chuckled. “I would and have stood on deck in a gale, smoking with the man on watch — Jack, mark me if I did not, yes?” And Jack nodded, having been there. “You see? Jack has seen my disregard for the damp up close. But it is not my discomfort I worry about, my dear. Not one jot. If you wish me to hurl myself into a pond to prove myself I shall. But you, my dear Jess, my bright Jess… to see you made uncomfortable in the slightest is to inflict torment upon myself greater than any storm.”

“And you believe me uncomfortable? Not so — the air has freshened me. Indeed, Master Jack — who has taken to his studies most well, I should add, and shows himself of some small potential — did mention how the air and breeze did make my color better and my face lovely to be seen. Did you not, Jack?” And Jack was a bit shocked, for indeed he had said no such thing to her, though he did mention at one point that she looked rather well for one who had not ever ridden in the overcrop of a carriage before. He could not imagine how such fine and flattering words could be inflated from so mild a comment, but then he could not imagine the thoughts and logic of the Lady Jessica. And yet, though he knew he had said no such thing, he nodded agreement with her. He would not disagree with her, certainly, and in a way he wished it was the sort of thing he could have said to her, that would have flowed off his tongue as easily as a sonnet or love scene flowed off Master Palintier’s pen.

“Ah, I see I am caught on both sides,” Sir Roderick said with his customary amusement, now expanded to include both Jack and Lady Jessica. Whether he meant for them to share in the joke or to be pierced by it, Jack wasn’t entirely sure. “Very well then. If riding in the wind and wet makes you happy, please accept my permission to ride in any gale you wish. Indeed, having one of us above with Jack will make riding easier for the other two, for the carriage isn’t quite as large as I’d like.”

“I did not say I would always ride with Jack,” Lady Jessica snapped. “Though I do find his society a pleasant one on the ride.”

Sir Roderick arched an eyebrow. “Society,” he asked quietly.

Lady Jessica opened her mouth, then closed it. “I meant his presence and conversation, of course,” she said. And Jack understood — that they had shared a good amount of time together did not mean they associated. And he flushed yet again, and did not say a word.

“Well, that’s settled,” Sir Roderick said. “Come, let’s find this Micah. We’ve given the stableman enough of a laugh already. And then perhaps some lunch before we set out again.”

Lady Jessica nodded, and began to stride through Tosunberry. There was not much to the village, certainly. There was a church on one end, unpainted with a spire that had some drooping, so that rather than reach up to God it rather slouched, as though inviting God to go on ahead, and it would be along. A few other mean buildings — a tanner’s, an inn, a cooper’s and the like — lined the streets, which she ignored. But she, and her companions, were not ignored. No, the townsfolk had fairly pushed out, lining the streets to watch as they passed and speak of them quietly. Such a small place so out of the way got few visitors, and fewer still courtiers and ladies-in-waiting of the Court down south in the city of Baden.

Still, Lady Jessica pressed on, not turning to speak or be acknowledged. Indeed, her stride lengthened and grew more purposeful, as she approached what to Jack looked to be the meanest hut along the edge of the village. Timbers haphazardly hammered into place gave it an unsound look, made more so by the roof — a good roof and frame, it seemed, but built perhaps for some other house. This roof did not lie square on the hut but instead hung over the left side rather more than the right, and it looked to be at an odd angle as well. A sign hung from it, with the cut symbol of the Runemark. More Elvish was burned into the top of the door frame — a rather common invocation against evil things.

“That is a sorcerer’s house?” Jack asked, aghast at the tumbledown cottage. “One should think Elf’s Magic could at least secure the same living as a mason or carpenter, and see a decent house for it.”

“A mason can build his own walls,” Sir Roderick replied as quietly, “and a carpenter can cut even bad wood into good lines. Sorcerers have only words to work with, that sometimes have power and sometimes don’t, so those words are ill-suited to construction.” For that was how it was in the days before the Eclipse of Progress. Elf-Magic had been slowly fading, as the Elvish blood in men thinned with the passing of generations, and longer and longer distance was placed between that modern world and the ancient world of the Elves and the Six Swords.

“That’s so,” Jack said. He stood and waited, for that was what Sir Roderick did. Lady Jessica, alternately, approached. “Hello,” she cried out. “Hello?”

A heap, parked on a chair perched in front of the hovel, which Jack had taken for nothing less than a pile of clothes and rags left to rot in the rain, stirred itself and rose up into an old man with a shock of white hair that rose from his dirty head like a bird’s nest perched on a weathered old log. “Aye,” he called back. “Who be there and why?”

“Micah,” Lady Jessica called back. “We’re here for Micah!”

“Micah?” the old man said,pulling at his ear slightly, and showing a round face.

“Is that Micah,” Jack asked, suddenly afraid, envisioning trying to cart the man in Beacon hither and yon, depending on him for directions.

“Mm? No no — that’s old Hesh,” Sir Roderick said. “Or so I assume. He tutors Micah. Gives him his devoirs.”

“I feel less secure in his sorcery then,” Jack murmured.

Old Hesh had indeed roused himself by then, and shaking his head slightly and pressing into the cottage, he seemed to be having a conversation with himself. “Aye,” he said. “Fetch Micah forth for the lady. Indeed I will. Should I then? Oh, aye. Micah said, did he not. Adventure, he said. And Baden. Micah said Baden and the college, and that’s no lie…” Hesh disappeared then, his words unabated.

“Baden?” Jack asked. “Isn’t that entirely the wrong direction to get to the Northeastern Wall?”

“The last time I looked on a map, aye,” Sir Roderick said quietly.

Lady Jessica returned. “It’s unfair,” she said. “That so learned a man should be reduced to such poverty.”

“What, that sack of cloth and flesh?” Jack asked, stunned. Knowing the Lady’s dislike of even his own attire and state as a Gamekeeper, Jack couldn’t imagine she would be charitable of the flabby old spellsmith.

“Oh, no no,” she said, half-laughing. “Not old Hesh, though Micah tells me he was once a skilled man of the Craft. I mean Micah, of course. He tells me that once the talented were brought from around the entire world — savages from Bhent or Kier, Drakish chevaliers and wizards of Reardon alike — to the Towers of Knowledge, where the Arts were taught and the old ways kept. But the Towers have fallen with age and decay….”

“If they ever existed,” Sir Roderick said.

“They did, I am certain,” Lady Jessica said, her chin high. “Why, their scholarship has been proven conclusively, in journal and letter. John Night, the Queen’s Astrologer and Royal Sorcerer, has shown me in his books and tomes–”

“Enough,” Sir Roderick said. “Lady Jessica Berwick’s sorcerer approaches.”

They turned and looked. Micah of Tosunberry was moderately tall, with black hair that was a bit overlong, and no beard on his chin. His eyes reminded Jack somewhat of ravens’ eyes, and his cloak was a deep red, held with a good pin. A gift, he learned later, of Lady Jessica.

Most distinctive, however, were Micah’s hands. The Elf’s Blood generally manifested itself in its children by a trait or two — beyond their ability to use some fragments of the Elvish Magic, of course. A point to the ears, or silvery eyebrows, or perhaps a cat’s eye. In Micah’s case, his Elvish heritage reflected themselves completely in his hands, which he had folded in front of himself almost as though he wore them like badges of honor. They were much thinner of palm than most mens’ hands, and their fingers were slightly wrinkled, and much longer than would be expected. One half thought that if Micah placed his hands on the trim waist of Lady Jessica on either side, his fingertips might touch. The nails on his hands were lightly golden in color, and the nails on his index fingers looked almost hooked.

“Micah,” Lady Jessica said, smiling. “Well met. Well met indeed!”

“Well?” Micah asked, in a voice used to being mysterious. “What is well and ill within this world, that could not be said to be its opposite elsewhere?”

“Oh, of course,” Lady Jessica said, digesting this phrase for its wisdom and nodding with a slightly knit brow, affecting a serious demeanor though she could not keep back her enthusiastic smile. “Still, I say it’s well, and indeed, you should as well. We are prepared, Micah, and within our carriage Beacon we ride to destiny.”

“Beacon?” Sir Roderick asked, then broke into a knowing smile. “Ah, of course, the great Carriage Christening.”

“My things are gathered,” Micah said. “Send your man to stow them, and we shall discuss our journey at some length in the Grey Pony before we set forth. I must say, you are swifter than I anticipated.” Micah did not make it clear if he thought their speed was a good or bad thing.

“Yes, yes of course,” Lady Jessica said excitedly. “We will of course. Quickly, Jack — gather Master Micah’s things and bring them to the carriage. We will secure lunch within and you may join us, and then you shall hear of the Prophecy and of the great task we undertake. Yes, that is the way of it.”

Jack glanced at Sir Roderick, who nodded slightly. He turned and looked at Micah, who was regarding him silently, his dark raven’s eyes flickering from Jack’s hat to his boots in practiced strokes, like a boatman’s quiet sculling to pull himself along a lake.

“Master,” Jack nodded, and stepped around the sorcerer. He had met more than a few in his time, and for the most part he had a low opinion of them. Sorcerers had the Elf’s Magic, it was sure, but that meant little. Tricks and flares and stories of the days when Sorcery fueled the very turning of the world. But it was rather like wishing for one of the Six Swords, it seemed to Jack. Of course, it would be nice to call down a storm or raise a mountain with a word. But it was long in the past when such things were done, and many believed they were never done at all. Micah seemed typical of that breed. Jack walked away from the group, who themselves were heading for the Inn.

He approached the hut rather quickly, wanting to get there and get Micah’s things swiftly. In part this was his dislike of the ramshackle building and the ramshackle old man who lived there. In part this was his desire to hear this Prophecy once and for all. And in largest part of them all it was the desire to eat a healthy lunch and get some hot ale or mulled wine into himself.

Micah’s baggage seemed to be contained in a single sack,tied with a bit of rope that itself had a flat stone affixed to it, and painted Elvish characters upon it. A ward against snooping, Jack supposed, though it seemed silly to him. Why one couldn’t just cut the rope or bag to get in was beyond him. And more, who would want to rob a sorcerer? Even a beggar would likely have a good bowl and a few half-groats to his name. A sorcerer had no such assurance.

He scooped it up and turned to leave, when the old Hesh’s voice rasped out. “You,” he said, an accusatory sound.

Jack turned, a bit startled. Had the old man gotten so fuddled he thought Jack was stealing the sack? “Aye,” he asked of the man, whose round, pitted face seemed to hang out the doorway, with his body behind.

“You. You’re with that woman, be you not?”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “You’ll not be referring to the Lady Jessica such,” he said.

The old Hesh rasped a laugh. “Answer enough, answer enough,” he said. “So it is you, and you think old Hesh as worthless as the others believe. Aye? Aye, that you do.” He laughed again, a rough thing. “But old Hesh is not mad, is he? Nay, not a bit, I should say. Should old Hesh tell him then? Ask — ask and you’ll know what you must, eh, Hesh?”

Jack took a deep breath. “I’ve no time for this. My lunch awaits. God ye good den, master.”

Hesh fixed a stare suddenly that seemed for a moment to freeze Jack in place, startled at the old man’s sudden intensity. “Tell me,” he half-whispered. “Do ye know the manner of doing great deeds?”

Jack blinked. “What,” he asked.

“Ye heard me. Know ye the manner one goes about to do great deeds?”

Jack tried to look away from that terrible stare, that old fat man’s stare that seemed to pierce more surely than Sir Roderick’s mockery or even an arrow’s shot. “I… it… it is not for me to know such things. The Lady, perhaps, or Sir Roderick, but I do not know these things. Do not ask, for I have no answer,” he stammered out, trying to force his hand to the sword he wore at his side, but even that would not obey him now.

The old Hesh weighed this answer for a long moment, and laughed again. A quiet laugh, this time. “You do not know the way,” he said, “and so you know the way. The woman and her man, and even my pupil — they think they know. Oh yes, old Hesh, they do indeed think they know the way of great deeds. But in their surety they lose their path. So while Micah will be called guide and one other — the Hawk, or the Black — will be called upon to lead… it is the Hewer’s movements that will guide them to what they think they seek. Oh yes, the Hewer, called Jack.”

Jack shivered at the old man’s words, not knowing what they meant but suspecting the man was truly mad. And so, feeling a flush of fear, he did not quite run as he left. And as he ran, the old Hesh’s voice followed him, crying out and cackling. “The Hewer should remember old Hesh when he comes into his own! Yes indeed, the Hewer should remember old Hesh, and accord him courtesy, for the Hewer did name him first, did he not? Aye, he did indeed! He did indeed!”

Old Jack used to pause here, drinking a mug of beer and thinking as he did so. “That was what always strikes my memory,” he would say. “We had all the signs before us. I have to admit that. I don’t shy away from it.” And then he would look at me, and point at me with his mug. “Remember that,” he would say. “We were warned. Before we had ever even left Leincastershire, we were warned. So whatever came after was ours at fault, in the end. Remember that.”

And I do remember it, and as I am telling old Jack’s story, and not my own, I now tell it to you as well.

For the record, as of yesterday we’d broken 200,000 words on this site, not counting comments. Which is a good amount of content for 70 days of blog existence, any way you look at it.

It kind of scares me that we’ve been doing this for seventy days already.

Anyhow. Here’s Jack and the merry band.

*** *** *** ***

The morning after the first day’s travel was bright and somewhat clear. The sun was not hidden today, but instead sported with long clouds of white and grey. Clouds heavy with the deep blue of rain sailed through as well, spilling water here and there as they go, to remind them all that this was September, and if the rains were pausing now, they would certainly return later to make up for their lack.

And Lady Jessica wandered around where Jack was reloading the carriage, near to the Boar’s Inn in Haldane’s Corners where they’d spent the night. Her arms stretched back as she breathed in the crisp, cool morning air. “It is a truly beautiful day, don’t you think, Jack?”

“Eh? Aye, that it is, Lady,” Jack said, pressing the steamer trunk into the undercompartment. “A good day for the travel, I should think. If the weather holds, that is. Yes, the weather’s the key, it seems to me. If she stays clear, we might make Tosunberry by one or even half noon, and from there be on the road again, perhaps. And that would be better than we expected.”

“Yes,” Lady Jessica said, half-spinning in place, causing her red and yellow dress to billow out and looking like a girl of twelve for a half moment. “Yes, much better, and I should say augurs well. Oh, Jack — I feel so alive! This is more than a journey, this is a great deed we do, and it feels so wondrous. I feel as though… as though we should have a scribe to record our progress. Yes indeed. Do you not feel it so?”

“I… a scribe, Mistress? T’would be hard to keep pen and ink in a carriage, and while I believe you’re no doubt right, I can’t say that I know what this adventure is about, beyond some mention of a Chalice of some importance to your family and your past, which is enough for me, but as for what a scribe might write–”

“Some–” Lady Jessica laughed then — a laugh of condensation, perhaps, but lightened with her legitimate pleasure of the morning. “It is indeed of some importance, Jack. Some great importance. Tis the key to the entire future of the Berwicks. The reclaiming of our legacy. The restoration of the old ways, and the old values. Everything shall follow our quest — you shall see. You shall see. But I shall let Micah tell you that, when we reach him. He knows the fullness of the Prophecy, and I should not wish to leave off something of some importance.”

“Ah, there you two are,” Sir Roderick said as he approached, smiling slightly and still smelling of his morning pipe. “Are we ready then?”

“More than ready, dear Rod,” Lady Jessica said. “You are the one so fond of his bed this morrow. Why, you slept longer than I, and when I descended, there was Jack arranging breakfast. I do see why you spoke so of his quality. I think perhaps one sees quality better just before breakfast — the pang of the stomach reminds you of when gentility is at its most important.”

“Ah, and a good thing too — you see? I do spend my coin wisely. And I too have had an excellent breakfast, and feel twice the man I was when we pulled in last eve — close to midnight it must have been, yes Jack?”

“Half ten, sir,” Jack said quietly. “And ready to head north. Tis well rode yesterday — we’ll take the north path from here — I saw the ruts as we came in, and they look passing well. I should think the trip a hair more bumpy today, how ‘ere.”

“Bumpy bothers me not,” Lady Jessica laughed. “So long as we arrive and swiftly, that will be well.”

“That I expect,” Sir Roderick said. “Are we packed then, Jack?”

“Aye sir. And I’ve my things above, and should like to get riding, in the hopes that the weather holds, which means leaving early enough to give it half a chance to do so.”

Lady Jessica peered up at the coachman’s seat. “Does the carriage have a name?” she asked.

“A name?” Jack said, turning towards her, eyes wide.

“A name,” she repeated. “This is our ship to the Wall. Our bold craft. Should it not be named?”

Sir Roderick laughed. “Oh, Jess,” he said, “you continue to amaze me with every word or gesture. A name for a carriage indeed?”

Lady Jessica frowned. “I do not see why you must forever make light of doing things properly,” she said. “After all, our Jack no doubt has not heard a carriage named before, but he does not laugh at the thought — do you, Jack?”

Jack blinked, and felt suddenly pinioned between the two. “I, well… I do not believe anything that you believe is worthy of laughter, nay,” he said haltingly. “I do not pretend to know what is the right and what is the wrong of such things — they are out of my place, after all.”

“And that is so,” Sir Roderick laughed. “Indeed, that is why you have declared yourself my Jack’s teacher, yes? That he can learn what comes naturally to you and I. Why, within two weeks, you might have him laughing at the thought of a named carriage as naturally and easily as a gentleman.”

Jack flushed, and looked away — half-realizing that Lady Jessica too had a flush on her face. But she did not look away. “Perhaps. And perhaps I shall teach him an openness that you seem to lack, Sir Roderick. After all, he at least admits that he does not know the right and the wrong of this, where you know such things as though truth sprung from your head whole and adult.”

“Ah, and now I see you are distraught, my dear Jess.” Sir Roderick smiled, and placed his hands on her shoulder mollifyingly. “Please, if it makes the sunshine return to your eyes, give the carriage name and pedigree to go with it, and ask the pedigree of all carts we come across, at hopes to have our carriage stand at stud. I’ll not chuckle or titter.”

“I mislike your tone of voice,” she said. “I do believe I shall ride above, with Jack, and the company of the fresh, open air, and not your stale ideas.”

“Lady?” Jack said, stunned.

“Ride above?” Sir Roderick said, eyebrows arched. “Our good footman’s hopes aside, the weather will not hold and you’ll be drenched by noon — you mark me if you’re not. No, Jess — come and ride with me and we’ll loot Palintier for good names for a four wheeled ship.”

“No and no,” she said. “I think it will do you good to be deprived of my company for a while. You will learn to treasure me again, and not laugh at me like an indulgent parent.” She smiled. “Besides, this shall give me an opportunity to begin Jack’s education. And if the rain comes then I shall join you.”

Sir Roderick turned and looked at Jack, with an expression of incredulity. And then he shrugged slightly — the well worn shrug of man confronted with impossible, incomprehensible woman. “If you feel I have slighted you, I crave your pardon of course. And if you wish to ride in the wind and wet with our footman, then by all means do so. I shall not hinder you in the least. Indeed, I shall use the solitude to meditate upon our mission.”

“Nap, you mean,” she accused, and Sir Roderick did not dispute. Instead, he quirked his eyebrow, sketched a proper bow, and clapped Jack on his shoulder. “I look to you to see her safe and dry,” he said.

“Sir — do you think it wise? I mean, even in good weather the wind and–”

“I think her mind is made up, whatever I think, Jack. Anon to you both. And listen well, Jack. Listen well.” And Sir Roderick ascended into the carriage and drew the door shut, clapping its latch tight.

Jack stared a long moment at the door, and then turned to regard Lady Jessica. He was somewhat conflicted. On the one side of it, the chance to be in Lady Jessica’s company — her exclusive company — thrilled him. On the other side of it, however, was the simple, irrefutable fact that Jack had no idea how to entertain the Lady during a drive.

Lady Jessica herself was staring a long moment at the door. “Well,” she finally half-snapped. “Let us climb up. We have wasted entirely too much time on this as it is.”

“Aye. Aye indeed. Have you climbed up onto one of these afore?”

“The front? No, I can’t say that I have. There’s no trick to it, is there?”

“That there is. The rungs are recessed on the side, and not easy to navigate in a dress such as that I should think. Mm — I shall climb up and give you my hand, and then if you slip, you’ll keep up and not fall.”

“You’re strong enough for that?”

“After my fashion, aye.”

“All right then.” She waited while Jack pulled himself up, watching how he did it, and then offered him her hand. His hand was slightly rough, but not scratchy, and he had a firm grip that almost surprised her. She found the rungs with her feet, and made her way up. She was surprised to find the rungs were slippery from the last night’s wet. And she remembered how sure footed Jack was climbing.

Now, to be sure Lady Jessica still believed Jack was somehow a savage child-man. But it began, perhaps about now, to occur to her that he was indeed of high quality. Dependable and faithful. And it occurred to her that this was a very valuable thing indeed when one pursued a vision, a dream. For while the knights and elves of old might have been higher born, they did have with them their support. The faithful ones who stood with them, or died for them. And she might have begun to realize as she made her way to the roost that if Sir Roderick and herself were the gallant heroes of this tale, Jack was their faithful one.

“The seat is wet,” she said, without reproach.

“Aye — I’ll put a blanket down… there. That should make it softer too. And this wool blanket will help keep the wind and any drizzle off you. I think perhaps you might keep a parasol handy as well.”

“Indeed, indeed. And then we can begin to discuss your education.”

Jack nodded, and waved for the stableboy to let the horses go. He maneuvered the carriage around, and headed for the south of the town.

Lady Jessica half-jolted as they wheeled about, grabbing the overhang to keep her place. She laughed as they moved out, the wind filling her hair. “This is wonderful,” she said. “Like riding but without a balky horse.”

“Aye, indeed,” Jack called back, grinning. “There’s something pleasant about driving a carriage. It’s peaceful, to be sure.”

“Indeed,” she said, looking around at the buildings as they headed for the road.

Jack road down the Willow Road for half a mile — it was a smooth road of cobblestones beaten into place, well used and well worn. The road to Tosunberry, by contrast, was a road through fields by convention. Two long wide ruts without grass, dirt and rocks only, with a tuft of grass in between them. He angled the carriage onto the road with a few bumps, and then they were rumbling off, the horses moving smoothly on the uneven terrain. It wasn’t too unlike the roads around Owl’s Head that they were used to. Perhaps a little rougher.

“Oh, that’s a jolt,” Lady Jessica laughed. “Will it be like this all the way?”

“So I suspect. This road’s not the thoroughfare the Willow Road is, after all.”

“Well enough. There’s no reason it shouldn’t be. No reason at all. After all, we aren’t simply riding in the country, are we?”

“Apparently not, Lady.” There was a long pause as they rode. “The horses are Blossom and Gertie,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you said you wanted to name the carriage, and if so it seemed right to me that you should know the names of the horses, since they’re the ones connected to the carriage, what have names and all.”

“Oh? Oh! Yes… yes that is well thought, Jack. Well thought indeed.” She paused a long time. “You don’t feel naming the carriage is silly, then?”

“Silly?” Jack drove for a moment, brow furrowed in thought. “I think it might possibly be silly, yes. But I think sometimes everyone must be a little silly, or else you lose the ability. And if you lose the ability to be silly when needed — well, the world’s a harder place to live it. So it seems to me.”

Lady Jessica nodded. “Well spoken,” she said. “There is hope for you yet. Yes. Mayhap it is silly and so am I, but it feels right so I say we name the carriage.”

“As my Lady wishes.”

“And perhaps it can help me educate you. After all, it is more my place to name things than yours, and so if you can see how I do it, why, you should have good insight in the method itself, yes?”

“Oh, aye,” Jack said, slightly dizzy at the lady’s logic but unlikely to hold that against her. “I can see that, if I think on it.”

“Good. Now — we’re on a noble quest, so it has to be a noble name.”

“You mean named for the Queen?”

“Oh, no no,” she laughed. “Nothing like that. I mean we can’t name it after the barn cat or the like. It wouldn’t do. It should probably be an Elvish name, as the old swords and ships and staves of power all had Elvish names.”

“Well aye… and were named by the Elves for the most part, now that I think on it.”

“That as may be. I have some middle Elvish.”

“Middle?”

“Oh yes. There are three Elvish tongues — don’t you know that?”

“Not as much as all that. I guess it shows my lack of knowledge.”

“Perhaps. Well, there is High Elvish, the words and language of power that make the world and shape destiny. There is Low Elvish, which the Elves taught to other people that were too dull to learn how to well communicate with them. The Bhents still use Low Elvish today, as do the Kiers. And there is Middle Elvish, which the Elves wrote in and spoke to one another for knowledge and communication. It’s held today like Latin for the church.”

“Ah, I do see. Then you know some of the middle? And that is good for naming?”

“Mm… perhaps. It should be high for a name, but I have no high. We could wait for Micah to join us.”

“Aye, we could.” Jack thought a long time as they rode. “It seems to me we should name it now, though, and that way we can tell your Sorcerer what you have decided, and he can find the High Elvish to match it later.”

Lady Jessica laughed, clapping her hands. “Reasonable good,” she said. “Excellent, Jack. I can see we’re going to go far, quickly.”

“So what meets our noble quest?”

“Mm… Endeavor would seem fitting, but perhaps a little grandiose. Sojourn feels right, but does not rhyme with much….”

Jack nodded. “I don’t have good thoughts for it — some kind of path, perhaps. That’s what we’re traveling on.”

“Oh, no no, Jack. We’re not travelling in the path.”

“No… no we aren’t, and that’s true.” Jack flushed. “I should leave the naming to you, I would say.”

“Oh, be not sad, Jack. It was a good try. Hm… it is our vehicle, and in a way guides and informs our path…. Beacon, perhaps?”

“Beacon,” Jack said. “Well, it rhymes with deacon, and that’s a Godly thing.”

“Yes… yes it is. All right then, I christen this good carriage Beacon.”

Jack grinned. “A fine name indeed. Light our path well, Beacon,” he said to the carriage then, and Lady Jessica blinked. Jack saw the blink and blushed. “I… that is…”

“No no. Be not embarrassed. It just… surprised me. You speaking to Beacon, I mean.”

“Well… names are strong. When you name something, it’s like you’re saying its alive, and if it’s alive, you should treat it well.”

Lady Jessica nodded slightly. “That too is wise,” she said. “In the old stories, the ships of the heroes seemed to ride better for their names, and their captains spoke of them as being alive. I… think that is well for you, Jack.”

“I thank you, Lady,” Jack said, flushing with the praise.

Some rain began to fall then. Lady Jessica bundled better in the blankets. “We should continue your education then,” she said. “If you’re of a mind to.”

“Aye, as you will.”

And so it happened, as the rain fell — but not too harshly — that Lady Jessica and Jack talked. She told Jack of poetry, and those poets whose work were in favor, and she told him of manners of the table, and what hose was right for gentle company. She was pleased to learn Jack could read the vernacular, and could quote some of the Bible from memory, and was not unfamiliar with the works of Master Palintier the playwright, though he had not heard any of Babbage’s poems, nor any of the classical works of the ancient Fortisians or the Reirdans who had ruled the known world a millennium before, when the Elves still walked the Earth. But he did know some of the stories of the Elves, and of the Six Swords of Destiny’s Edge, and of their ancient foes the Golden Elves of the Island of White Hope, off the coast of Fairhaven and Bhentlund, in between them and Kierland.

And Jack was dazzled, as the two spoke. This glorious woman, speaking so familiarly to him. And Lady Jessica was heartened, encouraging him and enjoying his rapt attention. And if she liked that he accepted her word and treated her as an authority, not as the child her betrothed seemed to, well, where was the harm in that.

Of course, she was aware of his passion and devotion to her. The Lady Jessica was flighty, but she had eyes and ears. And she saw no reason why she should dislike this devotion. So long as she could impart the principles of courtly love and closeness, why should she not impart those principles to him?

And as for Sir Roderick? For some hours, he returned to sleep, thankful for the quiet. Though he had been fully amused by his passion’s antics, that didn’t mean he wasn’t glad to step away from her a bit. And he was certain she would return to the carriage, and rather soon. So he slept, and relaxed, and enjoyed some of the dried apples, and pondered.

And so, with the Lady Jessica getting somewhat wet beneath the blanket, sometime not long after lunch should have been the party pulled into Tosunberry, where the Elvish Sorcerer Micah lived, in their carriage Beacon, on a slightly rainy day.

And so our company is almost assembled for the first truly long portion of their journey to the Northeastern Wall. And if their characters are not who they would become, and who you expect them to be, at least now you should know who they were at that time, and from there watch as they become. For as Old Jack Hewer says, the oak comes from the acorn, and so to understand the oak, you’d better have a good idea of what the acorn looks like.

On the other hand, I think this chapter begins to move more towards narrative and less towards storytelling devices (though not all of the way, of course), and people might think it’s finding its place now. Or not. We’ll see. Regardless, enjoy!

*** *** *** ***

There are times of the year that are not good for travel in Fairhaven, and which few people would recommend a serious expedition. The early autumn is one of those, and this was about when Lady Jessica Berwick had decided to travel to the Northeastern Wall in pursuit of a Prophecy. To be fair to Lady Jessica, one could call mid-September a late summer as easily as an early autumn, but either way, it was well into the rainy season when they had set forth on their trip.

This might seem unwise, but ask yourself — do you delay travel or business because of the rains? Do you even fear the winter when it comes to your travels and business. It is fair to say you do not — we would never get anything done otherwise, after all. And in the days before the Three Wars of the Sundering, and the Eclipse of Progress, mankind had gone as far to conquer his environment as we have today. The carriage that the Lady and Sir Roderick rode in itself is a fine example — it was warm and dry within, well padded though not truly opulent. Opulence would be wrong for a journey such as this. They could ride and comport themselves in relative comfort even through the gales and storms.

And Jack? Jack was not distressed with rain and wind. He had his clothing, and what protection there was in his perch, as he drove the horses on. His gloves and cloak kept the wet off, as did his hat and hood. While it might not be a pleasant day to travel, it was in its own way endurable.

Part of that endurance, of course, were regular stops, and along the Willow Road there were many — inns and taverns and small villages that had cropped up specifically to draw business from the travelers that passed through. And if Lady Jessica grumbled a bit when they would stop so Jack could get some warmth into himself, she did not do so loudly. She might have found Jack somewhat crude, but she had resigned herself to Sir Roderick’s whim. Besides, Jack’s presence meant she could have her fiancee with her, keeping her company as they rode. Their conversation was gentle. At first, Lady Jessica’s words were full of the Quest, and of the Prophecy, and of excitement and the supposed restoration of her due….

Ah, but you have not yet heard the Prophecy, or know the reasons behind it. That is not much spoken of late. So sad, really. One should understand the whys behind the great stories. One should understand what began everything that came after. Well, you shall hear the prophecy in turn, as they travel. And you may see the flaw that Lady Jessica did not, but Ed the Hawk did, too late, even as Sir Roderick and Jack did not believe in and Micah did not care about the consequences.

But that is neither here nor there. The conversation ranged after a time. It is nearly impossible to be enthusiastic for very long without having to shift topics. They discussed gossip and the Court — though the Berwicks were no longer the Lords of Leincastershire, Sir Arlen was himself quite in fashion as one of Queen Catherine’s courtiers. He had acquitted himself most well in the Drakish War, and as a result he and his family were welcome in Baden. Lady Jessica herself had attended the Queen as a Lady-in-Waiting more than once. Of course, she was considered somewhat flighty in Baden, but well spoken nonetheless. And Sir Roderick himself was a rakish man and a canny courtier. Possessed of Owl’s Head and a considerable savings and salary — which you ought to have inferred by the princely sum he could pay even a friend to be footman and chauffeur, regardless of the length of time the trip would take — Sir Roderick had access to Baden through the city of Alberta which in those days was at the end of the Capital Bay on one side and the Willow Road on the other, and which even today Albertashire in Fairhaven is named. Though Sir Roderick was of good breeding, he was wise in business and fortunate in investment, which made him a rarity — an aristocrat with a merchant’s pocketbook. And, as Bets was wont to say back at Owl’s Head, made him perhaps too good a match for Lady Jessica, whose family no longer had Leincastershire four generations gone, and whose father had the Queen’s favor, but little in the way of money or land of any sort. But Sir Roderick was in love, and having beheld the woman herself, Jack could hardly have blamed him.

But while Lady Jessica’s station and savings were of no consequence to Sir Roderick, they were something the Lady herself was aware of. Oh yes, they were.

But again I am ahead of my story — rambling on the players rather than setting them in motion. Forgive me.

The party stopped three times that Wednesday they set forth: the first after they reached the Willow Road from the roads and paths they had followed from Owl’s Head — three hours and the most bumpy of the day. They stopped at the West Wind Tavern and refreshed themselves. Lady Jessica was somewhat impatient, but Sir Roderick went in with Jack and bought him mulled wine to help warm him. They took enough time to visit with the locals and smoke a pipe or so, while Lady Jessica concentrated mostly on taking a small glass of wine herself — it was too soon since breakfast for her to consider a luncheon just yet. But she did get Sir Roderick to purchase a small packet of dried apples for the journey.

The second stop they made at the Albert’s Tip Inn — a stop of necessity as it was quite past lunch and towards dinner at that point. The storm had been rather vicious that day, as well, and while Jack was quite secure in his wraps, water had begun to creep in. First up his arms as the wind blew, dampening his shirt and the underside of the oiled leathers and then back down in drops as he set his hands down on the bench or reached for his flask or his food. And then along the insides of his legs in his trousers and into his boots. Not a wet that would freeze him to the bone or even chill him during the day, but enough of a wet that he would begin to dream of dryness, like it were a place one could go. Thirteen miles to dryness, he would think to himself. Now ten, now five….

He tied off at the Albert’s Tip, and tossed a threepence piece to the boy set to watch the post, and then opened the door of the carriage for Lady Jessica and Sir Roderick.

Lady Jessica stepped out first, accepting Jack’s hand and looking him up and down as she descended. “You look an utter fright,” she said, frowning slightly. “Is there nothing you can do against that?”

“Nothing in this wind and rain, Ma’am,” Jack replied, not offended by her words. They were true enough, he reasoned, but at the same time no source of shame.

“Perhaps not, but still — get yourself in and try to comport yourself. This will simply not do.”

“Come, Jess,” Sir Roderick said, exciting behind the Lady, “do be charitable. Jack’s seen us here in good time. Why, we’re practically in Leincastershire, and it’s early, yet. We might perhaps see Tosunberry by midday on the morrow, not evening as we’d thought.”

Lady Jessica’s mouth opened, and then she nodded curtly. “That’s so,” she said, “and I do not mean to be cross with you, Jack. I know you’ve the brunt of the journey. Still though, let us get you inside and somewhere closer to clean and dry — you smell all the more like a drowned dog than even before, and that I did not think possible.”

Jack nodded, and walked the pair, parasol in hand, to the door of the inn, then returned to button up the carriage.

“She’s quite the one, eh,” the stable boy said. “Expecting you to be in hose and garters after a ride on the Willow in a storm, eh?”

Jack looked at the boy coldly. “The Lady expects those about her to comport themselves accordingly, I’d say, and who am I or you to deny that, eh? I’ll tell you once to keep your tongue civil, and not a second time.” He pulled the meal bag and the long cover that held the wheellock down and headed for the door.

“I’ve seen Ladies afore,” the boy muttered, setting to the task of attending to the horses. “But they knew the difference between the clouds and the rain, at the least.”

Jack did not answer. In a way, Jack could not hear. Nothing the boy could have said would have penetrated his oiled clothing to his ears. Far more than his clothes, the sight of the Lady, seared in from that first moment in Owl’s Head, remained in mind and on eye, like the spotty scar a candle flame leaves on your eye when you stare at it too long. Perhaps that image would fade, but for that moment his vision was fully obscured with her.

The Lady herself sat within, near the fire. Sir Roderick was arranging for food and hot drink over by the bar, so for that moment, though fine enough to attract a certain attention of the passers-by, Lady Jessica was alone. She watched as Jack walked in, and unwrapped his cloak and set it on a peg. He removed his wet hat, and threw his head from side to side, almost like a large, shag covered dog fresh from a lake, with water spiraling in the firelight to either side, and began almost a curious dance of clothing, as he shook the water off himself and pulled off outer layers, revealing the damp man beneath them.

Lady Jessica stared, transfixed almost in horror, as she watched the process of Jack’s drying. It was as though a savage from the Midsouth Seacoast had taken the place of her driver, and was letting his wild ways infect the room of the tavern around him. And she turned away, shuddering.

“A chill, my love?” Sir Roderick asked, sitting next to her. “That carriage has a draft, I swear it. I’ll have Jack look at it, after he’s had a chance to eat and warm himself.”

“I would he were not so course,” she said, turning to Sir Roderick. “It’s unseemly.”

“Unseemly? He is no more course than half the farmers or artisans in this room. Come, my dear — you must truly leave off of Jack. He has served us well, has he not?”

“Oh yes, and I would lie to say otherwise. I would not dream of dismissing your Jack,” she said. “But it is simple truth that he is base, and we are on a mission that will exalt us, are we not?”

“As you say, my dear, I shall swear to it. But Jack–”

“I am not quite finished. It would be seemly for Jack to be exalted as well, would it not?”

“Jack? What do you mean?”

“Well, come Rod. Surely you would not deny your friend is of good quality — though I have not yet seen it, you are the one who told me of his quality and I did believe you. A most excellent quality, as you said.”

“Of course — and he is, and more. But will you remake him? Cast him in the light of a squire from your stories and books?”

Lady Jessica laughed. “No no, do be reasonable, Rod. Jack would no more make a Knight than I would make a nightingale. But he can be a truly fine man nonetheless. Let me take and mold him, remake him in the light of our Quest. Let me teach him gentility. Do let me recast him, as you say, and make the metal gleam, not lie black from the cooking fire.”

And Sir Roderick laughed. “You make it sound so simple, my dear. Do as you will — I think he will not argue.”

“Perhaps he will not at that. You got us food?”

“It will come. Jack will no doubt bring it to us.”

“No doubt.”

And Jack himself would certainly agree. He had by now made his way to the barkeep, and put a penny down on its old pine wood. “Something a bit hot,” he said. “It’s the Ragman’s rain out there and no doubt.”

“Aye,” the barkeep said. “And keep your bit — the gentleman saw to your need. To where do you ride on a day such as this? Leincaster?”

“Tosunberry.”

“Hah — you might be the first I’ve ever heard gone up there, and no lie that.”

“Aye.” Jack picked up the steaming cider mug even as it was set down, and drank deep. “I hadn’t thought the apples right for hard cider. Not yet.”

“First of the Applejack. Mmm — Tosunberry’s yet a day and a half or more. You’ll be wanting to leave the Willow Road come Haldane’s Corners, I think.”

“That soon? I thought perhaps to come to the outlie of Leincaster, then divert?”

“Eh? No no, not that way — the road off that way’s horrid — just a span where tree’sve been cleared. No, go up the Haldane’s Corners route. Faster, too, and the ruts are deep enough you barely need to drive.”

“As though that were a point. Wish the Willow Road came closer to Tosunberry?”

“Aye? Well, I wish the rain would cause my well to overflow with gold, but it hasn’t happened yet.”

“That’s so. Did Sir Roderick order food?”

“Eh? He did — there, on the end of the bar. Wilma must have left it there while we debated roads.”

“Ah — well enough, well enough. Mmm — stay the night at Haldane’s Corners, then. Get up fresh and we’ll be ready for the trip. Thank you and kindly, sir.”

“Indeed, indeed.”

And so Jack lifted the food and carried it over to Sir Roderick and Lady Jessica. The Lady was half-asleep by the time he had arrived — the peculiar fatigue of travel taking her. Sir Roderick nodded amiably, drawing another puff on his pipe — a fine pipe it was. Its clay bowl was broad, with a plate of silver not unlike Jack’s to protect the ash, and a long curved stem of jet with gold inlay. A good amount of money, that pipe represented. Sir Roderick had owned it as long as Jack could remember.

“Well met, sir. I’m going to get some food in me and perhaps doze as the Lady seems to be.”

“Excellent plan. You’ve had a day of it, for certain. How fare the horses?”

“Well enough. They’re strong, and I expect after a rest they’ll be ready for another bout. I’ve spoken to the innkeep, and he suggests we divert for Tosunberry in Haldane’s Corners. If we go somewhat into the evening, we might make Haldane’s Corners tonight, and make a good run for Tosunberry on the morrow, then.”

“Mm — well, I expect he knows the roads better than we. I certainly have never gone to Tosunberry. I wasn’t aware anyone actually lived there. It was just a mark on the map, required by the Queen’s Census and attested to by Leincastershire’s Sheriff in the name of his budget.”

Jack chuckled and took out his red ash pipe. He opened the packet of tobacco given him by Sir Roderick as partial payment for the journey, and filled. He noticed Lady Jessica’s eyes were open, watching his hands as he prepared the pipe, and then reached down carefully for the fire with his wire, to light the pipe.

“Aye, m’lady?” he asked her, and closed the silver stack, drawing the sweet, mellow smoke. A pleasant aroma began to surround him like a halo as he puffed.

“I was watching you prepare your pipe,” she said, and glanced at Sir Roderick. “You have a delicate hand with delicate tasks, I believe.”

“Do I then? I thank m’lady full well. I was taught to use the right hand for the right task.”

Lady Jessica nodded, ever so slightly. In approval or agreement, Jack couldn’t swear. “That shows great wisdom, Jack. Too many learn only one path, and trod it in any weather. A wise man knows there are many routes available.” She looked at Sir Roderick. “You could learn from your Gameskeeper,” she said. “You have only your gentility — a route that limits you, perhaps. But Jack seems to have more than one route he could take, and that could make all the difference, yes?”

“Oh, of course,” Sir Roderick said, knowing where she was leading with her comments. “Jack is versatile, certainly.”

Lady Jessica began eating her stew, watching Jack smoke and drink. “Jack,” she said, finally, “it occurs to me that a man such as you could learn a great deal — and would be open… well, perhaps to trying new things.”

“Ma’am?” Jack asked. It seemed going on this ludicrous mission — whose purpose Jack still had no clear vision of — was proof enough of his willingness to try new things. He sipped his hot ale and listened.

“Well,” Lady Jessica said, spooning up a bit more stew delicately, “You recall my first impression of you, of course. And that it perhaps did not do you justice. Certainly Rod feels that is so, and I can see you are a man of great dedication and service. And I feel that is most commendable of you.”

“I… thank you, Lady,” Jack said, wondering at the compliments from so fine a woman.

“And this is of great concern to me,” she continued.

“My dedication?” Jack asked, mystified.

Lady Jessica laughed, as though she were talking to a boy of eight, and not a veteran of war. “No no no. The first impression I got of you. After all, I do consider myself more than uncommonly perceptive, and therefore if I could look at you and think you a clod and menial, it stands to reason this is what many people would see you as. We simply cannot have that, Jack. It is not fair to you, after all.”

“I… can see what you say,” Jack said, frowning slightly. “Do I truly seem so course and plain? Not that I should ever wish to doubt the word of one such as you, but it does seem frightening to consider, and I have never encountered such reactions afore.”

“It does indeed,” Lady Jessica said. “And I simply will not have it. After all, it is so dreadfully unfair to you. And I have no doubt but most people have kept their tongues around you — after all, does one stop to every beggar on the side of Edding’s Street in Baden and mention their beggarliness? Does one pause to tell the fool that he is a fool, or simply regard him a fool and stay silent, avoiding him after? No, it is certain that you are neither fool nor beggar, nor anything bad. But if one must pull away the rustic caul to find this of you, why, most shall not — they shall see the caul, the very crust of it, and call it the substance, not the surface.”

“Then… what shall we do?” For Jack was sorely concerned now — he had always regarded himself as being pleasant company, and had never considered his baseness or deformity of character before this. Indeed, he had always sought solitude when so many around him would have crowded closer.

But he believed what he heard, from this bright woman. What was the opinion of Miss Diggit compared to the daughter of Sir Arlen Berwick? And more than this, Lady Jessica could have called him a Drakish woman of the night and Jack would have accepted her word over his own experience.

“Do? Well, if you are truly concerned, and I can see that you are, then I would be happy to help, of course. To teach you a new route, of gentility of character and the impression of worth. And the art of conveying that impression. Impression is so important, is it not, Sir Roderick?”

Sir Roderick roused himself from where he had half-slumbered over his stew. “I would never think to debate you, dear Jess,” he said.

“So then,” Lady Jessica said with a bright smile of triumph that left Jack giddy, “it is settled. I shall be your teacher, Jack. And I shall be a stern Headmistress, I warn you.”

“I… I am warned,” Jack said in wonder. “And I thank you, Lady. Thank you full well and total. I — excuse me a moment, I must spend tuppance.” He made his way up and out back towards the rear of the building.

Lady Jessica looked as pleased as if she had been given a danby pup. “Thank you, Rod,” she said. “This is truly kind of you. I do believe I shall enjoy the molding of our Jack.”

“And if you enjoy it, then I shall enjoy it as well,” Sir Roderick said. “Now come, you must eat — we are to reach Haldane’s Corners tonight.”

“Of course, of course.” And Lady Jessica ate and drank, her mind diverted from her Purpose by the prospect of the exalting of Jack. Their journey, but a few hours old, looked already to be truly excellent. Surely, that augured well for the recovery of the Chalice of Alderesth. Surely it must.

Anyway, remember this series goes to chapter five, and then goes to the back of my brain to ferment. In the meantime, enjoy!

*** *** *** ***

Chapter Two

There are many names and looks you think of when I mention the name of Jessica Berwick, daughter of Sir Arlen Berwick, whose great-great-grandfather had been the Earl of Leincaster and who himself showed distinction in the War of the Succession and two forays against Drake. Certainly, she is remembered vividly. It’s still not uncommon to see a man pay for meal and drink with a sovereign that bears her likeness even today.

But cast your thoughts back with me, to the girl of seventeen that Jack Shrewsbury first saw on that wet morning on Owl’s Head, at the very beginning of the journey. Was there any sign of the woman and more she would become in that girl’s form and voice? Any outward sign?

I rather think not. The journey — the foolish quest she pushed onto the five through the willing agency of Sir Roderick — heralded many things for the world we live in today. But for those who rode from Owl’s Head that day, and the one they found along the way, it was nothing less than a kiln. A crucible, separating out the baseness of their youth.

Certainly, of course, Jack knew none of this the day he rode to the estate of Sir Roderick Owles, Lord of the Manor of Owl’s Head, who he served as groundskeeper and gamekeeper, and followed to war when needed. The night before, Jack had asked payment to go on this silly quest that took him far from his content life. Eight guineas and four packets of South Islands tobacco — rare in Fairhaven and sweet. Mellow on the breath and sweet smelling all about. More than once Jack would believe he did not get paid nearly enough.

But as Jack crossed the threshold, and hung his wet cloak and hood and hung his hat on the oak peg, as he joked lightly with Miss Diggit, who met him with tea and who — to be fair to the dead — was rather smote with Jack, or at least the idea of “Mrs. Shrewsbury,” and as he stepped into Sir Roderick’s study, he truly wouldn’t have argued the price. Indeed, in that instant, he would happily have agreed to the mad fool’s errand without obligation at all — or paid for the privilege. For in that moment, Jack Shrewsbury came face to face for the first time with Lady Jessica Berwick.

She was standing near the fire, obviously warming herself after her own journey from Badenton, where she had been keeping with Lord Dale and his wife, friends of the Berwicks going back before Queen Catherine’s accession. She wore a dress of reds and golden yellows, looking almost like the fires of autumn’s leaves as she moved her delicate, white hands before the fire back and forth. Her hair, tied behind her in elaborate braids and knots, was deep brunette close to black, reminding one of opal and obsidian. And as she turned and looked at the newcomer, her eyes were blue flecked with gold, as though the absent sun had found its way into the sky of her eyes.

“Yes?” she asked — snapped, really.

Jack almost shivered and managed, somewhat, to find his voice. “I… that is to say, milady, your… I was asked to come here by Sir Roderick, what as there’s a trip to come and he wished me along — that is to say your journey, as it were. If you are… that is–”

Lady Jessica sighed. “And you are?”

Jack flushed like a child of ten, then, and scrambled to correct his oversight with the lady. “Ah! Jack, Lady, or John would have been my Christian name but those who might want to know me would generally call me Jack. Jack Shrewsbury.”

“And a finer man I’ve rarely known,” Sir Roderick said, pressing in and wearing a deep red travel cloak. “Handy in all ways, true to a fault, and bloodied in war. A good fellow to have along and see to things, don’t you think, my dear?”

“No,” she said, turning with clear distaste. “I do not see, and I am wholly uncertain I am your dear.” Setting her face, she turned back to the fire.

Jack himself flushed again, and half-stammered “ah… if Milady should want me to go, I’ll go now and no mistake. I don’t mean to cause troubles and that’s truth–”

“No no, Jack,” Sir Roderick said, interceding. “No, stay. I won’t hear of it. Now, what’s this, Lady Jessica? Aren’t I allowed my friend on this adventure you’re so keen to take?”

“Your friend?” Lady Jessica flared, whirling on Sir Roderick with a flush and with passion. “That jack-nape who smells of cattle and looks like a tree with hair you name friend and want to bring along on so important a mission, so crucial an undertaking? I knew you were humoring me and nothing more! Go then — go with your cow-man and enjoy yourself! I will seek more pleasant company!”

And Jack flushed again, and looked down at his feet. The girl’s words stung true — he had no business with so excellent a lady, and that was as true as any truth he had heard before.

“Jessica Jessica Jessica,” Sir Roderick said soothingly, and Jack thought the manor lord had mollified the lady before, from his tone and practice. “I do name Jack friend because he is my friend, and an excellent servant. He has followed me twice to Drake and been injured in my service. He is wise to the trail and canny in the woods. And if he smells of game — for game it is, and not cattle as you have said — why that is appropriate, for he is my gamekeeper, and groundskeeper aside. So right there you should see how seriously I take our endeavor.” He slipped behind the simmering woman and laid his hands on her shoulders, rubbing to calm her like a dog whose hackles were up. “For while we are gone to the Northwestern Wall, my fields and grounds and game shall suffer his absence, and the losses I incur could be monumental. Do speak kindly of Jack, my Lady.”

“Your lady. Your companion to keepers of grouse, you mean.”

“My Lady indeed, sweet Jess, and you know that’s so. Besides, I did not complain when you spoke of bringing your friend — Micah of Tosunberry–”

“Micah is needed,” the woman snapped back. “Both because he discovered the prophecies and because elvish magics are necessary to open the Black Lock. He comes because he will be of good use–”

“And so will Jack, my dearest. Great good use, and of a more practical nature than your sorcerer would be. He will drive us and factor for us, protect us and see our nights are warm and dry. Take your wizard — take two dozen Micahs if you wish. But give me my one Jack, and do not speak harshly of it.”

Lady Jessica stared into the fire, and Jack watched as her shoulders drooped slightly, as though Sir Roderick’s hands and the flames in the hearth were melting her. “Well,” she said, “I can see the wisdom of your words, dear Rick. I shall believe you when you say he is of good quality, and give him what benefit of my doubt I can.”

“There. Excellent. Jack, do step forward and let the Lady see you.”

Jack slowly stepped closer into the light, strongly aware of his worn clothing and leathers, and the smell of birds that clung to him in the dampness, and knew he likely looked like a drowned hen himself, if he were lucky.

Lady Jessica looked him over, her lips slightly pursed, and considered the man. “Well,” she said, “I suppose we could use a footman at that, and in that way I can’t help but think you’ll do, sirrah. I apologize if my reaction stung.”

“Stung?” Jack asked. “Oh, no, Lady — not in the least. Simple truth is all you said and all I heard from you, and I could certainly understand how you would feel thus, and apologize most heartily for startling you and for making you cross.”

Lady Jessica nodded slightly, turning back to Sir Roderick. “When shall we leave,” she asked.

“Whenever my lady wishes. I had Corman bring the carriage around front — assuming good Jack’s eaten, as you and I have.”

“Oh, aye. With Mark Kiln and his wife — I’ve asked him to see to the problems with coyotes while we’re away–”

“Yes yes, of course,” Lady Jessica said. “No doubt you and he have cooked up whatever you needed to cook up. I shall gather my things and prepare to leave. I trust you both will need to discuss route?”

“Of course,” Sir Roderick said, settling into a chair and nodding for Jack to take another. “We should be ready whenever you’re done.”

“Very well. Sir Roderick. Goodman.” Jack bowed slightly to Lady Jessica and the girl swirled in her skirts and took the arched doorway out, heading for the staircase.

Sir Roderick settled back in his chair — an older one, and plush, fitting in the bright receiving room. “Well, Jack — that was the Lady Jessica.”

“That… aye, she was at that,” Jack said, taking the chair proffered earlier. “I….”

“I understand, Jack, I understand. I told you there was something tremendous about her, didn’t I?”

“You did at that.” Jack stared into the fire. “I simply didn’t realize….”

Sir Roderick nodded slightly, and reached down to where he had a traveling sack, opening it. “I believe you wanted a packet of the tobacco before we left, yes?”

Jack blinked, shook his head slightly as though to clear it, and turned to Sir Roderick. “I did indeed. It might just barely see me through on such a mad errand as this.”

“It still seems mad to you then?” Sir Roderick asked, handing a leather pouch with a small wrapped brick of the weed in it. “And will you take some of my blond now, and have half a pipe before we start?”

Jack nodded, slipping the pouch of tobacco away and getting out his red wood and blackened clay pipe. It was a good one, with a silver cover to protect the smoldering ash from the wind and elements, letting the smoke out through riveted holes. Handing it to Sir Roderick, he continued to stare into the fire. “We go by way of Leincaster, then?”

“Indeed,” Sir Roderick said absently as he filled their pipes. “We collect this Micah there, and then north through Etonshire until we reach the foothills of the Wall.”

“To seek what?”

“Some keep behind some door — you’ll hear it all as we go, I’m sure. It’s all very romantic, like something Master Palintier would write a play about, or the country folk would sing about in taverns. That sort of thing.”

“But why are we going? Why is it so important to the Lady — if I might ask, and not cause offense, sir?”

Sir Roderick didn’t quite roll his eyes, as he handed the pipe back to Jack and took a wire from the fire to light his own. He drew two fast puffs, and handed the wire to Jack. “Ridiculousness, really,” he said. “This sorcerer found an old snatchet of prophecy or history or the like about the Chalice of Alderesth — you know Alderesth?”

And you might not know of Alderesth the Elf-Lord, wielder of the Sword of Light and consort of Minasata the Dark. Their stories are often skipped in these days, when the Eclipse has so freshly erased the legends of old. Alderesth, who held Ardyrillsa, the Cleaver of Night, and who with Minasata acted as the Stewards of the Elves in those days, but Jack did. Jack who had been raised on tales of the days of the Elves, and of the Six who held the Swords of Destiny’s Edge. And so he said “why yes, yes of course. But I’ve not heard of any Chalice, and I’d think I might have, perhaps, if there were much to it.”

“Well, there are stories about it, but only around Leincastershire. It’s a local legend. Supposedly the Elf’s Host rode through a thousand years before. The local king — or chief or what have you — supposedly saved the life of one of the party’s handmaids, so they gave him a child by that handmaid, and anointed his head with oil from Alderesth’s drinking cup, naming him the Ruler of those environs evermore. The cup was apparently left there, and used in ceremonies of accession and the like. Apparently, Jessica’s forebears were anointed with oil from that cup when they were the Earls of Leincastershire.”

“Oh I see, I see… and so this is something of a family relic for her — ages of glory and all of that? I suppose I can understand wanting to find it and all, but still sir, it seems like rather a lot of trouble for a cup, even a legend’s cup.”

“Well, apparently there’s more to it than that. But… well, I expect you’ll hear about it.” Sir Roderick took another contemplative puff.

“I… rather expect so, yes sir. Well then. Leincaster is about two days ride, along the Willow Road, and from there… it’s not a short trip. Three… four weeks, perhaps, and that would merely get us to those foothills. From there who can tell how long we’ll be?”

“Oh, I am aware of it. Still — while I’m not as dizzy as my dear Lady Jessica about such things… it is exciting in a way, isn’t it? Riding off for lost treasure, in the name of a hopeless cause… the sort of thing a gentleman can write a sonnet or four about. That is worth it in and of itself, don’t you imagine?”

“Well sir, I can’t see making a trip that long for verse, but then I don’t claim to know these things.”

Sir Roderick laughed. “You spend all your time claiming not to know things, Jack — do you know that? Come one — let’s see if the Lady’s ready.”

“As you wish, sir.” Jack stood. “Still — funny, those elves, eh? I mean, letting that King sire a baby with one of them for that, and I suppose leaving the baby with him, I mean, that’s what it sounds like, doesn’t it?”

“It does indeed — but the Elves sired or begot children with mortals all the time. Ask any sorcerer.” Sir Roderick smiled, knowing that only those with Elvish blood could summon and control Elf Magic. “What always startles me is the locals make more of the gift of the chalice, and less of the gift of the child. But then there is little of mystery in children. They’re all around us and sometimes I swear they’re all half-boggart anyhow.”

“As you say sir.” At that, Jack grew silent, for they were walking into the hall, and Lady Jessica, wrapped in a deep blue travel cloak with hood, was descending the stair. She walked with grace and care, her movements careful and controlled. She nodded to Miss Diggit as she reached the landing, and turned to Sir Roderick. “My things are being put onto the carriage, Sir Roderick — I believe I am ready.”

“Right. Let’s us be off then. Get your wraps on, Jack — we should like to reach Leincaster by tomorrow evening if we can.”

“Yes sir, of course, of course.” Jack made his way to the door, where Miss Diggit had his things ready, and helped him to put them on. “I’ll be ready in moments, sir.”

“Good enough,” Sir Roderick said. “Come, let us board, my dear Jess.”

Lady Jessica nodded, smiling and bouncing impatiently. “It’s so exciting, isn’t it? Getting going — starting our adventure?”

“Indeed it is, indeed it is.” Sir Roderick offered his arm to Lady Jessica, and the two walked out together, Corman meeting them with a parasol to keep the wet off them.

“Now you listen, you,” Miss Diggit said to Jack as he put his cloak about himself again, and set his hat on his head. “You keep yourself dry and warm up on that carriage. I’ll not have you catching your death in the name of swift travel, do you hear me?”

“I do and so does half the house, you’re shouting it so loud, Miss Diggit. I’ve kept the wet off before.”

“Well, I suppose that’s true enough. Here. A sack of food that should keep, and two flasks of Kierish red whiskey — if that doesn’t keep you warm I really don’t know what could.”

Jack nodded. “It should — and thank you. Have they been provided for or shall I expect to feed them out of this?”

“Oh — they’ve been provided for — though no doubt you’ll have to heat it, you mark my words.”

“That’s why I’m going, it seems. It will be well, honestly.”

“Well then. Just keep yourself.”

Jack nodded, and made his way out to the carriage. The rain was harder now, almost driving. He tightened his hat and made sure the cloak’s hood was in place, and climbed up into place on the carriage.

I think often of Miss Diggit myself. I think Old Jack did as well. He certainly would talk about her late into the evening, when he’d had a bit too much bitters. A sweet girl — heavy and content with her lot in life. I think perhaps Jack would have been happy if he’d married her and lived with her in the Keeper’s cottage on Owl’s Head, raising children and arguments for the rest of their lives. I think perhaps that might have been worth more to him than eight guineas and four packets of tobacco.

But whether or not he would have been happier with Miss Diggit and Owl’s Head, he took the reins up in his gloved hands. He crouched under the overcrop as best he could to keep the rain off, and with a pull the carriage began to pull forward along the roundabout, turning towards the trail to the Willow Road. Inside the carriage, he could hear the two of them laughing about something, and he held that laughter, from those sweet lips. Laughter like the sound of doves in the morning. He held that close, and considered himself a lucky man.

I guess it depends on how it’s received.

There are five completed chapters of The Old Ways right now. Maybe in five weeks — assuming I post all five — I’ll decide if I want to finish writing chapter six or not. In the meantime, I’m trying to figure out how to explain this one. It’s got some Tolkien in it, and some C.S. Lewis, but it also has some Jane Austin and the Brontë sisters in it too. A tragedy of manners, perhaps.

I dunno. Regardless, here it is. Let me know what you think.

*** *** *** ***

Chapter One

Of course it was raining. That was how ill fated journeys should begin. In the years to come, after the Three Wars of the Sundering had passed and the Eclipse of Progress had settled in for its full course, Old Jack Hewer would stare out at rain from the safety of a glass pane, and remark that it was rain that had opened the journey. Rain that had set the stage. Rain that drove down hard for a morning, soaking the walkways and settling in for a long stay.

He didn’t mention how good the rain had made him feel, all those years before, when his name wasn’t Hewer at all, but Shrewsbury. The Manor had been without water for a long time, and the rain was none too soon to keep the grasses green and the crops growing. Albert, the hedge wizard, had managed to keep things more or less going but elf’s magic was none too predictable. It couldn’t replace a few days of healthy downpour.

And perhaps that’s the way to start the tale, if you want to understand it. It’s not a pretty one, for the most part, but perhaps none of the old stories are pretty. Perhaps if you strip away the rhymes and songs and legends, you find people of limited vision thrust onto the world’s stage without script. Perhaps. But those stories aren’t for us. Not right now. We have another tale to tell. The one we know, about Young Jack Shrewsbury, the Gameskeeper of Owl’s Head.

Jack sipped tea as he watched the rain, and thought about the work he couldn’t very well do in a downpour. If he’d had a plump wife to call his own, as Miss Diggit who did for Sir Roderick would have liked to be, she’d be fussing at him right about now, demanding he take off his wet things and gather more wood for the fire, but he didn’t so there was just him, and he didn’t see much reason to take off wet and put on dry to simply be made wet again.

There was a knock at the door. A firm one. Jack was a hair startled — the Keeper’s House didn’t receive many visitors in good weather, much less rain. He gulped another sip of tea and set the mug on the oak table, then made his way to the door, throwing it open.

“Well, hello Jack,” his visitor said with a slight grin, looking rather bedraggled despite his blue cloak. “Might I share your fire for a few moments?”

“Not at all, Sir Roderick,” Jack said, stepping back and motioning the Manor lord in. “Not at all. You’re out on a damp day, if I might say so. Damp and no denying it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of arguing with you,” Sir Roderick said, and this was indeed the Rod of the later story, and yes it is fair to say that at this time he was Jack’s friend, as well as his lord. I know this might surprise you. That’s the way of things — people always leap later in a story when they hear it. But Old Jack Hewer always spoke well of Sir Roderick Owles, and I think it best we do so when telling their tale.

In those days, of course, the Hewer and the Rod didn’t look like the statues or the paintings. No, Jack was a shorter man — five and nine, perhaps, with blond hair and a thick blond beard, wearing leathers for the hunt. And Sir Roderick was tall and fine of face, with a trimmed beard along his jaw and curls in his reddish black hair, wearing the thin long sword that was popular in that day at his side.

“So what brings you to this corner of Owl’s Head, eh? Out for a ride and the rain caught you, I warrant, and no doubt. You’ll want some tea to warm yourself, and I think I’ve some wine here somewhere.”

“Tea would be fine, and wine I can get back up at the estate I’m sure. No, the rain didn’t drive me here, Jack. I came looking for you.”

“Mm? The trouble with coyotes, no doubt? Well, they’ve taken a few deer and old Younger Will’s been making noise about his sheep, not that coyotes are much for sheep when there’s a dog nearby, and that hound of his–”

“No, Jack, not coyotes either. I find myself… in the position of asking an odd favor. May I sit?”

Jack looked startled. “A favor? I’m not sure what I can do for you but I’m usually up for anything, and you should know that by now, Sir Roderick.”

“I do, I do. It’s been too long since you’ve been along with me, you know it, Jack? Mm — the Drakish War was four years ago. It seems like four weeks, doesn’t it?”

“You didn’t get a knock on the head, Sir. The time’s not been bad, from my mind.” Jack smiled. He and many of the able bodied men of the Manor had gone with Sir Roderick to fight in Drake across the White Bay. It had been moderately profitable, though they hadn’t kept much property. They seemed to only rarely keep much of Drake or Pandor when they went in, and the Pandorans and Drakes didn’t keep much of Fairhaven when they invaded. It all balanced out, somehow. Perhaps that’s the thing to remember about the beginning of the story. Everything was balanced, and even.

“Well, there is that. I learned to duck before you, I think. Still, it’s been too long.”

“And do I take this to mean there’s another war a-coming, and I should be finding a boy or wife to keep the grounds while we’re off?” Jack half-smiled. He knew the drill by now. To be healthy was to be a soldier, when soldiering came.

“Oh, no no. Nothing of the sort. That Drakish Prince has been courting the Queen for eight months, and Drake and Pandor are the ones currently fighting. The Pandoran ambassador and that bloody Bishop have been rather conciliatory of late, as well. So there isn’t a good fight in the offing if that’s what you mean.”

“Ah. Well then — what sort of favor are we looking at then?”

Sir Roderick sat back, and took out his pipe, filling it with tobacco. “Have you some fire?” he asked, and Jack saw to his needs quietly, setting the kettle back on as he did so. “It’s… almost embarrassing, really.”

“Oh really? Must have to do with a woman, then. A woman who’s not Lady Jessica and you need some assistance.” Jack half-smirked.

Sir Roderick flushed slightly as he puffed. “No, actually. Well, yes and no. It is a woman, but it’s also Lady Jessica.”

“Well then, this gets more interesting all the while. I don’t see what favor you can ask of me. I’ve never even met the woman, Sir, and that’s truth.”

“Oh? You’re well informed about her.”

“Just what Miss Diggit and Bets and Corman up at the Estate tell me, Sir, and they tell a lot — probably most of which isn’t my place to repeat.”

Sir Roderick laughed. “As though Bets weren’t willing to tell it to my face, Jack. No, I’ve heard all of it. And it’s mostly true, I suppose — Lady Jessica is vain, and learned without being particularly bright, which isn’t the best combination. But you’ll see — there’s something about her that invigorates and inspires, as well as infuriates.”

“If I’ve the chance to meet her, I suppose, Sir. And here, your water’s hot. Tell me this favor while I brew the tea up.”

“Well… would you be willing to… go on something of a journey with me?”

“A journey? Of what sort?”

Sir Roderick looked down. “Well… sort of a Quest, I guess you’d call it.”

The way Old Jack told me the story, he says he practically dropped the mug of tea at that, managing to slop half of it all over the table. But I don’t see Jack doing that — he was always too careful and precise, it seemed, and the change couldn’t have made that big a difference. But when I protested, he always looked me in the eye, his eye squinted, and said “you just don’t know, son. You just don’t know. Nothing at all stayed the same. Nothing. I could have been four feet tall with gorilla’s hands before and ended up this way. You just don’t know.” So, since this is Jack’s story and not mine, I’ll tell it Jack’s way, which left him sopping up the tea with a cloth and staring at Sir Roderick. “A Quest? Virgin’s Blood and Tears, Sir — should we wear silver armor and ride white horses and look for dragons while we’re at it? Are we back six hundred years before the Elves left and the Six Swords were in the land? Can you hand me that dry cloth — this one’s soaked.”

Sir Roderick handed the dirty kitchen cloth over. “I know, I know,” he said. “It doesn’t seem particularly sound an idea, but Lady Jessica’s always lived more in the Age of Chivalry and great deeds than the age the rest of us reached. It seems she wants a Quest.”

“There is much to be said for denying women, Sir. Especially when they’re being ridiculous.”

“You’ve never loved, Jack. She is such a rare creature.”

“So it sounds. Tell me of this deed of derring do you must do to win her favor. Pardon my laughter as you say it.”

“It’s not just me — she wants to come too.”

Jack started again, and shook his head. “So she wants to go back to the old ways and days but she wants to come along and slay dragons too? She can’t seem to get it right. Anyone else? A handmaid, perhaps?”

“A Wizard, actually. An Elf-Mage in her shire, called Micah.”

“Oh, wondrous good. How’d we end up with a sorcerer, and more importantly, why?”

“He’s the one who gave her the idea, actually. He found an old prophecy regarding Leincastershire that’s got her in a flurry.”

Jack rolled his eyes and sipped tea. “So what is this favor you want of me — to come along? Where?”

“The Northwestern Wall.”

Jack didn’t drop his tea this time. He just stared. “You want to run off to the mountains — the bloody well tall mountains — because of a prophecy a hedge wizard from Leincaster managed to talk this Lady Jessica into, while toting the two of them along with?”

“He’s from Leincastershire, but not the village. He’s actually from Tosunberry.”

“Oh, even better. The Elf’s blood is strong in the middle of nowhere, I’m told.”

“Oh, come now, Jack. It would be good fun to get out and away for a bit, wouldn’t it? Besides, there’s lots to see up there, and do — that would be worth it, don’t you think?”

“That’s a leading question, and I don’t mind admitting it. What would I be then? A footman?”

“Of a sort, and we’d have you drive the carriage–”

“Carriage? On a quest? Oh, the Knights of Old and the Warriors of the Six Swords were well known for riding in carriages and carts. Absolutely. This only gets better. Shall we pack picnic lunch while we’re at it?”

Sir Roderick laughed. “Perhaps we should. Anyhow, you’d drive the carriage… and to be frank, if there are problems with brigands in the woods, I should like a good man with a sword and a good shot with a wheellock along with, you know? And that you are, both.”

“Wheellock? Hm — takes all the sport out of dragonhunting, doesn’t it? I mean, if you’re going to simply put shot between the eyes of the lizard, you might as well stay at home and slaughter pigs. They at least you can eat.”

“Dragons I promise we’ll kill the old fashioned way. Brigands we’ll shoot. Come — say you’ll come along. It will be fun.”

“Perhaps. I’ll assume she has her reasons to want to go — what exactly are my reasons? And please don’t say anything about the spirit of adventure. The spirit of adventure keeps to her own home in the rain, and she and I aren’t on more than causal speaking terms anyhow.”

Sir Roderick sighed a put upon sigh. “I don’t suppose you’d accept that I’m the Manor Lord and do it out of sheer loyalty?”

“My loyalty to you is complete, Sir, and no denying. And it and tuppance will buy a mug of the small at the West Wind Tavern.”

“All right. Eight guineas and four packets of that South Islands Tobacco you like so much.”

“One packet before we go, and one guinea too. I’ll want to smoke it as we tramp up those dreary mountains, and dream of warmth and civilized, modern company.”

“Done and done. The tobacco will wait — we’ll leave on the morrow, I think.”

“That storm won’t have let up then. Three days, or not an hour by me, I should think.”

“Just so — we want to get underway. Rain doesn’t bother us.”

“You, you mean. One of us will be outside driving the carriage. I should have asked for more tobacco.”

“Of course.” He pulled a guinea out of his pouch and tossed it onto the table, where it rolled and landed, the Swords up. “That will keep you until tomorrow?”

“It would have to, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose so.” Sir Roderick smiled. “Come now — this won’t be bad, Jack. You’ll see.”

“Perhaps I will, Sir, perhaps I will.” And Jack saw Sir Roderick out, and watching him go from the dry warmth of his doorway, he thought a long while about what Sir Roderick had proposed.

Here and now, today, you don’t seem to understand how strange all of this sounded to Jack. Knights and quests and legends and dragons belonged to earlier eras, when true Elves walked the land and magic fell from the heavens and men strove to change the world with blade and will. An earlier time, one even then falling into disrepute. Elf’s magic was at best faltering in those modern days, and the magic of man is quiet. A rational man did not believe more than a quarter of what he heard of the days of the Six Swords of Elvish Lore, and even that quarter he assumed had its troubles with accuracy.

I know it sounds strange to you. It did to me as well, when Old Jack told me. He bought me a pint of bitters and tried to explain his rational world in terms I could understand. But then I live in the world after the Eclipse, and all of this was so long ago.

In any case, Jack spent most of that night packing for a journey. He didn’t have much to prepare, but one always wants to be sure he avoids wanting something he could have easily had. So he collected rope and tinder and a few sticks of dry wood and pots and pans and the like. The late hours he spent sharpening his knife and his sword.

The sword was serviceable — exceptional only because his upkeep of it had made it so. He was not a professional warrior or mercenary of course. Those who spend their lives moving from Drake’s armies to Pandor’s armies to the Bhentish army if they’d pay enough — those for whom war is simply an occupation. Jack Shrewsbury was a soldier of convenience — he followed Sir Roderick when needed. But he was also a groundskeeper and gamekeeper. One who follows such duties gets rather good at ensuring his tools are well kept. And to Jack, the sword was a tool, and nothing more. He sharpened it and polished it, adding the right oils to ‘ware rust and soaking its sheath well. A serviceable blade — that was all Jack wanted.

The same time he spent on his wheellock rifle, and he made sure the powder and shot were in their right packets and pouches, and checked the wax and oil as well. The powder was worth Jack’s life wet, and his enemy’s life dry. He polished the brass of the weapon, and cleaned the barrel and stock, and wrapped it well in oilcloth.

And he took his token of Saint Christopher, and put it about his neck, and his broad Kierish Cross — the Kiers were Catholic, of course, and Jack belonged to the Church of Fairhaven, but the cross was a prize of war taken, with the ancient circle behind the cross, and Kierish scrolling and what old Albert said were Elvish runes cut into it, and placed it with his good dry travel cloak and wrap. He oiled his hat and the cloak’s hood as well, the better to keep his hair dry.

And early in the morning, Jack took his mare across Owl’s Head to Mark Kiln’s, and spoke to Mark about the coming trip, and told him about the coyotes, and about the sheepherders, and also told him what trees would be wanting work where, and mentioned the gardens in passing. Mrs. Kiln — for she was always called such, and never Betsy, to keep herself distinct from Bets at the Estate — gave the two men breakfast as they spoke. Finally, Jack took the mare back along the path and then up to the Estate, to meet the others.

Have you ever heard Owl’s Head described? I’ve seen it, and even today, it’s very nice indeed. And the Estate is marvelous. Broad lawns on the inside of a gate of brownish marble, with the image of an owl staring out from the top gates. The main house itself is long, and two stories well painted, with windows on both floors. Jack gave the reins of the mare to Corman, who told him Sir Roderick was waiting for him in the study. Jack went up to join him, and there met Lady Jessica Berwick, and Micah of Tosunberry for the first time.

It was, on the whole, a happier life he led before that moment.

I assume.

It’s in my style. It’s in my files. It’s definitely one of mine from the Kinko’s years. And I have absolutely no memory of it.

It’s not impossible it was something I discussed with my friend Mason Kramer, or perhaps my friend Chris Angelini, or also perhaps my friend Gary Olson, as they were all writing for Superguy at the time — as was I, as has been detailed elsewhere — and both dealt quite a lot with dreamers and dreamweavers.

Though this doesn’t seem to be about the same thing at all.

I don’t think that’s where I intended to stop the story. I assume I meant to write more. But I have no idea. I don’t remember this at all.

So. I pass it to you, for your thoughts and impressions. Should I pursue this one? Should I not? Should I have… pie?

Let me know. And please enjoy.

*** *** *** ***

And then Michael woke up, and it was all a dream.

He swallowed a few times, drowning in the feel of it, noise forcing his eyes open in the dim haze of morning. He swam against it, fighting to hold himself in the dream, his arms around Elissa and his friends close at hand. The smells and touches and tastes fresh in his head and so real, feeling the bitter disorientation he always felt when waking up, but so much more this morning. Where was he, and who….

“–assic Rock keeps coming here at D101 FM. That was Don Henley, with the Boys of Summer. We’ll have four more in a row, right after this!”

“Bob, I’m worried about Tim,” the radio was saying near Michael’s head.

“What about him,” a male voice Michael had heard before on radio commercials asked. “Has he been playing with matches again?”

“No – but he’s been buying his garden hose from a store that isn’t Walter’s on Thirty-third….”

Michael slapped at the radio, missing it and shoving a book over onto it, which muffled it a little. He turned and slapped his feet onto the floor, stumbling through the grey light for the bathroom, the tile floor, the cramped shower.

Michael had made it past shampoo and rinse and was firmly into repeat before he could really claim to be awake. The dream had seemed so real. He was fighting to remember, to hold the details close. Elissa’s face and form, wearing an autumn dress of gold and red….

Michael walked back out into the studio apartment, stepping around the treadmill and grabbing his pants off the hook on the chimney. The daily routine far from wars and quests and beautiful wives stretched its arms out and took hold of him, guiding him to underwear and socks and a clean shirt for the day. It knew to make the cup of morning tea he always drank and the piece of toast he always ate. In the background, Meat Loaf was singing about what he wouldn’t do for love. The radio would play for two hours unless it were turned off. At night he could set its sleep timer to play for ninety minutes to lull him to sleep. It knocked him out shook him awake. One-stop shopping.

Her hair had been strawberry blond, and it had played over her back in waves. He remembered sticks in it. They had been in the wilderness, riding hard along the path, with Hector running before them and the old man behind. Who was that old man? He was important, somehow….

The office was usually loud in the morning. Jack and Alice shouting over the ringing of the phone while Anton ran photocopies and Gillian tried to route calls and people where they needed to be to keep the business rolling. It was the way it went here.

“You look real perky this morning,” Anton said, glancing up. “What’s the matter? Bowels keep you up all night?”

“You know, I could really do without bowel references this time of the day,” Michael answered, setting his bookbag on his desk and slapping the power button on his keyboard.

“Mine was terrible,” Anton persisted. “I think that fish we had at lunch yesterday was a little undercooked. I remember mentioning it to Gillian, and she said that hers was dry if anything, but I couldn’t see that. I mean, really–”

“I had the teryaki chicken,” Michael said absently.

“So really – where are you today,” Anton asked, leaning over the desk, mockups in hand.

Michael shook his head, clearing it a little. “Sorry,” he said. “I woke up in the middle of a dream. It’s hard to shake it off.”

“Oh, I’ve had those.”

“With Mel Gibson in swim briefs?”

“Be nice,” Anton said. “Besides, I’m more of a Kevin Costner man. No, this was entirely different. I remember being on stage – oh, this was an old theater. The footlights were candles with bowls in front of them to reflect the light back at me, and there was a smell – it was wet, I think. Maybe it was raining outside. But anyway, I was dancing and singing both, and they were laughing.”

“Oh, very nice dream. Were you naked?”

But Anton wasn’t listening. “I had them in the palm of my hand,” he said, eyes looking distant. Every pratfall and sidestep had them howling, because my moves were expert, they were perfect. I was really alive up there. Everything was perfect and beautiful, and then something hit me.”

“Hit you,” Michael asked, suddenly interested.

“Yes… yes, I don’t know if I missed a step and stumbled or… maybe I had a stroke. Or maybe someone shot me from the orchestra pit. If it was it was probably my wife – now don’t say it. In the dream it made sense. But that woke me up all disoriented….”

But Michael wasn’t saying it. “With me,” he said, “it was… some kind of fantasy epic. I don’t know much more than that. I was married – her name was Elissa, and we were at war with… well, someone. I’m not really sure whom. There was another warrior, like me… and….”

“And clearly you’ve been reading too much Lord of the Rings,” Tom said, walking by and dropping three project folders on Michael’s desk. “I need the mockups on the Babbage Technology business identity by the end of the day, and all of these are new – needed by the end of the week.”

“What – oh, come on,” Michael said. “I can’t design another three projects by the end of the week – I have layout work due for Thursday as it is. Get Christa to do it.”

“Christa’s overbooked too,” Thomas said. “But one of these are just a business card design and plugging in names.”

“Four color,” Michael asked dubiously.

“Single color,” Thomas said. “Thermographic, so we’ll need a four-up for pre-press after approval.”

Michael sighed and nodded. “Guess I’ll talk to you later, Anton,” he said. “Keep dancing.”

Anton looked wistful for a second. “I don’t know a step,” he said. “Have fun.”

Thomas shook his head at Anton as Anton made his way back to his own desk. “You know, he means it,” he said. “I’ve seen him watching Riverdance. It practically breaks his heart.”

“Huh,” Michael said, looking at the project folders with something close to contempt. Three more vital projects for the world. Letterhead, business cards, maybe even brochure work today. There was such a feeling of importance in the dream. The whole world depended on them….

“I’ve had one of those, you know,” Thomas said, still watching Anton.

“What – dances?”

“No no. One of those dreams you wake up in and it seems real.” Thomas smiled, which was a rare thing for Thomas. “I was a bookbinder.”

“What? A fifteenth century sort of thing?”

“I don’t think so,” Thomas said. “There were people walking around my booth in jeans and tee-shirts. It’s hard to remember, but I think I was working at a Renaissance festival or the like. Or else there were just odd things in it. You were there, I think. You bought a tan leather bound book that had a thong and button to close it.” Thomas smiled a bit. “I remember the smell – the smell of paper and cloth and the dryness of the dust. And there was the smell of horses – from the jousting field or the like. And I remember drinking coffee out of a hand-thrown ceramic mug. It was very nice.”

“I… see,” Michael said.

Thomas snorted. “I’m sure you do,” he said. “Anyway, let me know if you have trouble making those deadlines.”

“I will.” Thomas moved on, more folders in his hands. Michael watched him go. He turned back to his computer. It had booted now, and downloaded six mail messages. All spam. He closed his eyes, thinking about Renaissance festivals, and found himself picturing Elissa, riding her horse, her face ernest and the wind in their faces as they ran….

“Two messages,” the electronic voice of the answering machine chirped as Michael walked inside his apartment. He slapped the button almost aimlessly. He was behind now, and probably should have stayed late in the office, but it was hard to focus. He was trying to piece everything together….

“Michael,” the first message said, “it’s your mother. Give me a call – if you’re coming home this weekend we need to put your bed together and make certain we do a laundry of towels. Call me, all right? I mean, really call me.”

Michael sat down at his desk in the corner of the studio apartment. His computer monitor and piles of books faced him. Including a good number of fantasy novels and series. The Belgariad. The Lord of the Rings. Sunrunner’s Fire. Grist for dreams. Dreams of women with strawberry blond hair and malevolent forces spreading out across the land….

“Michael,” Anton’s voice said from the message machine. “Gillian’s freaking out again, and she could really use people around her, I think. Look, could you come and have coffee with us or something? Just get her out of her apartment for a few minutes? It’d mean the world to her. Okay? Thanks.”

Michael registered the message absently. Gillian had been feeling self-destructive for maybe the last eight years of her life – certainly longer than Michael had ever known her. He opened up one of the drawers of his desk – it was a fake granite looking formica. He’d bought it at a Warehouse store – it was designed as cubicle furniture but it suited his needs perfectly. He dug through it, and pulled out his journal. At least, it was supposed to be a journal. He was going to write in it every day and always have a record of his thoughts. He had only written six words in it. ‘Well, I suppose I should start.’

Elissa and Hector and Manlius (the old man had been Manlius, a mighty wizard who held the key to driving back the ancient Thull… or was he from Manlius?) were a dream. Just a dream that he’d awakened in the middle of, when he’d been hit in his chest (Hit? Yes, he’d been turning his face forward from looking at Elissa, and the bowman had nailed him – practically threw him off the horse, and how could he forget that….) A dream, just like the dream Anton had about dancing or the dream Thomas had about bookbinding. They weren’t real, just flotsum churned up by the subconsciousness as a kind of brain optimization. It defragmented the mind, like a hard drive. He *knew *this.

He looked at the tan leather book in his hand, closed with a thong, and a celtic knot stamped on the front. He remembered the Renaissance festival where he had bought the thing. Andrea – that was when he had been going out with Andrea – had mocked him about spending the money for it. Like she ever wore the bodice she bought, and that had been twelve dollars more….

He tried to remember what the bookbinder had looked like. He could remember the old man’s hands as he slowly laid the pages of his book down, sewing them together without glue. It had been fascinating. But what had his face been? He remembered the EMTs had been to the festival later – they’d brought a stretcher through, covering it with burlap so it didn’t break the illusion of the festival, but had it been the bookbinder they’d brought out? He couldn’t remember….

The phone rang. Almost automatically, still cradling the book in his hand, Michael walked back to the phone and scooped it up just as the third ring began. “Hello,” he asked.

“Michael?” It was Anton.

“Hey there,” he said. “Just got in. I was just about to call you.”

“Oh, good – she’s really freaking out, Michael. She went out with Horace last night–”

“I thought she broke up with him after his last set of mindgames.”

“Look, I don’t pretend to understand her, Michael. If it were me, I’d have smacked Hell out of him and moved on with my life. But she feels stupid and afraid and isolated right now. If there’s anything we can do–“

“Right, right. I’m on my way. Coltrane’s?”

“Sure. Thanks, Michael. I appreciate it.”

Michael said something about it being no problem, and then looked at the book in his hand as he hung up. The Thull would sweep over the mountains and destroy Concordia town by town. They had to be driven back. Elissa and he had been the leaders of the army, until the Thull had driven them away with lightning and death magic. The man from Manlius had been leading them to a weapon that could stand against the horde. He remembered this, more clearly with every passing second. A weapon Michael had been destined to wield, that no other mortal man could hold. But then he was shot. Shot and killed….

Michael shook his head to clear it. This was insane. He grabbed his coat and headed out the door. He’d need the coat, he figured. It had been looking like rain.

The jazz wasn’t all that good tonight – a local band with a little too much sax on drugs for Michael’s tastes, but the crowd hadn’t come in yet so they were really just jamming as background noise.

“It looks like it’s getting fierce out there,” Anton said, craning his neck to look at the window. “I thought it was supposed to be partly cloudy all weekend?”

“You’re not listening,” Michael said, frustrated. He thumped his hand down on the book. “Don’t you see what this could mean?”

Gillian half-laughed, gulping down one of those coffee smoothees Michael could never stand. “At what? Your psychic fair experience with your supervisor?”

“Renaissance festival, not psychic fair. Gillian….”

“What exactly are you suggesting,” Anton asked. He was drinking a thick, strong coffee. More intense than Michael himself liked. “In simple words.”

Michael looked down. “Look, I know its crazy… but that dream seemed so real. I remember everything. Smells, colors – I thought you didn’t dream in color, but she had strawberry blond hair and everything.”

“I dream in color,” Gillian piped in. “I always have.” She giggled again, a giggle from the edge. “But then, I’m nuts, so you can’t tell by me.”

“You are not nuts,” Anton said firmly. “No no no. We’re going to drive that self-negativity right out of you, do you hear me?”

She was nuts, Michael thought. Screwed up by society, her boyfriend or herself, he didn’t know. But screwed up nonetheless. Two or three times a month Anton organized these interventions to keep her from going over the deep end, and Michael usually got pulled along as the anchor into mundane normality. He wasn’t playing that part very well tonight.

“It’s… just think about it. Thomas had a dream where he sold me a leather bound journal at a Renaissance festival – a dream like mine, where it all seemed so incredibly real. That really happened. If that happened… maybe….”

“Maybe what,” Anton asked. “Maybe you’re really some kind of crusader fighting to save a country from the barbarians? Michael, that’s insane. You had a dream. With all that stuff you read, that shouldn’t surprise you.”

“It seemed so real,” Michael said intensely. “Like you said your dancing dream was.”

“But I don’t think I was a dancer in a past life or anything,” Anton said. “I had that dream maybe two years ago. I didn’t have time to reincarnate – or do you suppose that when you go to Heaven instead of becoming an angel you become a copy-jock for a desktop publishing firm? That’s obscene. When I die, I expect to make a higher living wage.”

“I don’t…” Michael sighed. “I don’t know what it means. Maybe we live in many different places at once. Lives in many worlds, but our direct consciousness travels from one lifetime to another as we die. So even while Thomas was working at A-Frame he was also a bookbinder who traveled to Renaissance festivals. Only he died, and his consciousness jumped into another body.”

“Oh please,” Anton said. “That’s beyond a leap of logic. You just want to believe in that redhead of yours, so you’re willing to say anything. Besides, by that logic, we all live in Hell now.”

“Hell?” Gillian asked.

“Well, sure,” Anton said. “Take my dancing dream. I loved dancing. I was a star, and I was incredible, dying on stage even. But when I died I woke up here and I was making seven seventy-five an hour to be a glorified clerk. Thomas clearly loved bookbinding. That simple life, the smells, the women in bodices and flyaway skirts. What’s not to like? And now he’s overworked and overstressed. He almost never smiles. And you, Michael. Come on. It’s not enough that you were married and happy – you had to be the Messiah too? Of course you want to go back.”

“It’s not Hell,” Gillian said quickly. “I know.”

“What?” Michael asked. Anton looked stunned.

“I know because I remember mine, and I was glad to be dying.” Gillian sipped her ice drink, then looked at the two of them. “What? We’re talking about waking up from dreams that seemed so real they could have been other lives, right?”

“Riiiiight,” Michael said slowly.

“Well, mine was terrible. I mean, I’ve had other dreams, but this one seemed… well, as real as this frappacino. It was horrible. I was some kind of peasant girl, and I was running for my life. And there was this thing after me. It looked like a spider, but with extra legs and it jiggled, like it was made out of Jell-o or something. It wanted to breed with me, I think. At least, my clothes were torn. I ran and ran and ran, so scared I was ready to die, and then I reached a cliff, and I turned and it was almost on top of me and it was reaching for me, and I could smell it….”

Michael took Gillian’s free hand carefully. She was shaking like a leaf with the memory, almost spilling her smoothie. “And I fell backwards,” she said, “and I remember falling, and I was looking up and staring at that thing as it looked down, howling at me, and I remember crying with relief and happiness because I wasn’t going to be that thing’s, and I hit, and my whole body jerked and I was awake, and it was all a dream! I was awake and alive, and it couldn’t get me. I was crying and laughing at the same time, so hard I woke Horace and he yelled at me but I didn’t care. I showered and got to the office early and I was so happy.”

“Whooooa,” Anton said. “That’s….”

“I remind myself with it sometime,” Gillian said, sipping her smoothie. “When I really can’t take it, I tell myself it could be so much worse. I could be living an eternal Hell with a creature from beyond the pit – not even allowed to die. Just to breed.” She shivered. “You know, after that Horace doesn’t seem so bad….”

“Horace isn’t a dream,” Anton said. “He’s a nightmare.”

Michael squeezed her hand. “I’m glad you got away,” he said quietly.

Gillian smiled slightly. “Thanks, Michael,” she said. “I’m sorry you lost your wife.”

Anton shook his head. “Why do all my friends turn out to be complete nuts? Maybe it’s me.” He jumped as another thunderclap ripped around the café, the lights flickering this time. “That was close!”

“So what’s your theory,” Gillian asked. “That you go to sleep and live another life?”

“Huh? No. No, it’s… I’ve had too many dreams about sitting in class naked or flying or being trapped by Thomas carrying project folders to believe that. But maybe… oh Hell, I don’t know.”

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all night,” Anton said. “If you kept this up I was going to have to suggest getting something stronger than coffee just to sedate you.”

Michael glanced at the time. “I wouldn’t have time for anything stronger,” he said. “And sure wouldn’t have time to sober up for it. I’ve got work I need to do tonight to stay ahead of Whipmaster Thomas.”

Anton snickered. “We should get him a leather collar and some studs,” he said.

Gillian laughed, her eyes twinkling. “Well,” she said to Michael, “you sure took my mind off my idiot boyfriend tonight. Thanks.”

Michael nodded. “Look, I’ve got to go.” He pulled out a few dollars and set them on the table. “Catch you tomorrow, Anton?”

“I suppose – unless you wake up and it’s the Roman empire or something.”

“God, I hope not. I hate olive oil.” He grabbed his coat. “See you later, Gillian.”

“Yup.” She grinned. “Take care of yourself.”

Michael nodded, heading outside. His car was across the street, but in the deluge there wasn’t much traffic. He dashed for it, thumbing his key fob to unlock the doors. He still managed to get soaked before he got inside – there had been a quarter-inch of water flowing throuh. Rain was slapping against the windshield, a torrent of fat drops slapping hard enough that Michael thought the grass would crack. He didn’t think it would hail.

The radio crackled when he put it on. “–thunderst… giving way to partly cl… ndoors tonight, for sure. Now, here’s Sl….”

Michael slapped it off, and started the car. He glanced either way but he didn’t see any traffic. Why would he? What fool would go driving in this? He expected to see an ark float by. He pulled out, flipping on his lights and seeking the ripple of light along the driving rain as he went.

It was slow going. Even at twenty miles an hour, driving up Foster’s Hill, Michael could feel the car shimmy a bit. He peered into the gloom – streetlights must be out around here – and swung around a curve. The backroads were usually faster getting to his neighborhood, but tonight–

He saw lights cresting the hill, and flipped his own lights down to low beam. Gillian had seemed so frightened, remembering her Lovecraftian dream. Even with all the crap she brought on herself and others brought on her, that dream seemed to hound her. Seemed to….

Michael winced. The other car’s high beams were still up, and it was hard to see. He swerved away from it, but it seemed to follow him. It was weaving, hydroplaning in the rain. Michael swore and tried to gun the engine – pull forward of it before anything happened. His own wheels lost purchase and the car wheeled to the left, the glare of the other car – no, it was a truck of some kind – hammering through before the entire world seemed to explode, to shatter….

Darkness. Everything seemed to hurt. Everything. Michael couldn’t move. He couldn’t even feel his body. It was as though he were trapped in it, but it wasn’t his. It was just where his mind was… and now it… he… his mind was fallling… falling….

And Michael hit the ground, and his eyes snapped open.

“My love,” Elissa moaned, leaning over him – but not touching him. “My love, can you hear me? Is it you?”

This is fantasy — urban fantasy, which starts from a relatively shopworn fantasy trope (the Mayan Long Count Calendar expires in 2011-2012ish time, and then the whole world changes and magic comes back yadda yadda yadda) in use most prominently in Shadowrun, but takes a real world approach on it. It’s not magical warriors throwing spells in the darkness that would most show a change from a scientific world to a fantasy world, it’s the Dow Jones Industrial Average. Or in this case, the automobile industry.

*** *** *** ***

“May I have your attention, please? We’ve been informed that our fight has been accepted at Manchester International Airport, and we expect the spirits to be cooperative in landing. That will put our gate arrival at 4:33, which is about ten minutes from now. If you could please return to your seats, our flight attendants will begin preparing the cabin for landing. When directed, please cease all portable electronic or magical activity, return your tray tables and seat backs to their full upright position, and place yourself in a conducive frame of mind for landing. We thank you for riding the spirits with American today.”

Donald muttered, closing his notebook computer. Next to him, Ellen stretched, half-smiling. “Don’t look so sour,” she said. “This was a pretty good flight. I remember once I flying from Chicago to Arcadia. This pack of sylphs decided to play dodgeball using the left wing—”

“Whatever,” he snapped. “Better put your orchestra away. The wind might not like classical music.”

Ellen shook her head slightly, turning the orchestra off and slipping it into her bag. “You know, you’d better get in a better frame of mind.”

“Why? Or we’ll crash?”

“Maybe. But even if we don’t, we’re supposed to meet Markham in two and a half hours. It might be a good idea to drop the whole ‘the spirit world hates me’ attitude before then.”

Donald snorted. “I didn’t ask to be sent to New England.”

“No, you asked to be promoted to Senior Executive in Customer Relations. You happy with our customer relations right now, Donnie?”

“Donald.”

“Whatever.” Ellen rubbed her eyes. “Look. I plan to still have a job next week. Want to postpone your dramatic flameout until then?”

Donald rubbed his eyes. “Can’t we just take the Twenties off before the rules change again?”

“The Twenties?” Ellen sounded amused.

“There’s seven billion people on this planet who say it’s Twenty Twenty-four. Just because a few witch doctors say it’s ‘year Twelve—’”

Ellen shrugged. “If you haven’t figured out that means the seven billion are wrong, I’m not going to correct you. I’d enjoy redecorating your office too much.”

“Excuse me, sir,” the flight attendant said, leaning over the pair. “I need you to put your seat back up and calm down? If you’re having trouble, there’s relaxing music on channel four on your headphones and meditation techniques on the back of your Emergency Information Card—”

“I know the drill,” Donald said, curtly.

“Okay! I’ll check on you in a few minutes.” Donald knew if he couldn’t at least fake relaxation, she’d have him sedated.

Donald shifted his seat upright, and folded his hands in front of him. He took a deep breath, focusing on the green dot embroidered on the back of the seat in front of him. He slowly breathed out, and back in, continuing to focus… burying his negative emotions so the spirits wouldn’t be offended as the plane slid through their backyard.

There were a lot of old cars in New Hampshire. That was a change from the glory days of the Nineties and Naughts. Cars used to rust out quickly in New England. They had used salt on their roads and the temperature extremes were hard on engines. People had good reason to trade cars. These days, old cars could last forever if they were well taken care of.

“Hello there,” the Hertz representative said, cheerfully. “Are you two traveling together?”

“Yes,” Ellen said, passing over her Hertz card. “We’ve got a reservation for a Ford Mythic?”

“Oo — one of our luxury cars.” The representative grinned. “You’ll enjoy it. It’s got a platinum orchestra and a built in guide.”

“We’re aware,” Donald said dryly, handing over his platinum Corporate Card. The one from Ford.

“So I see,” the representative said, laughing.

“Mm. Tell me something,” Donald said. “Have you noticed any… problems, with your cars?”

The representative blinked. “Problems?”

“Mysterious breakdowns? Airbags deploying for no reason? Orchestras playing only Disney songs?”

“No. No, nothing like that. Really, everything’s going great. Why — is there some problem with Fords?”

“With Fords, no.” With all cars, yes, Donald didn’t add. But not rental cars. Or old cars. That’s what made it a mystery.

The Hertz representative shrugged. “Well, I’ve never heard of it. Oh — wait, yes I have. My neighbor Todd? He’s in real estate. Anyway, he got this new BMW — oh, it must have been six or seven months ago. I guess it’s been in the shop six or seven times in the last couple of months. Last time they gave him faulty tires. I guess he went out to go to work in the morning, and they were all flat. Every last one of them.”

“Mm. Sounds like bad luck.”

“Well, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer person,” the representative said, eyes gleaming. “He was positively lording that car over us for a couple of months. I love driving my nice, reliable Accord past his place every morning. Had it nine years, and not problem one.”

“Sounds nice,” Donald said, blandly. “Are we ready to go?”

“Oh, absolutely. Just sign right here.”

Everett Markham’s estate was on an old farm. Donald noticed it was in production as they turned onto the private road and drove to the main house. There was a dairy herd and it looked like were operating a maple sugar farm.

“He does pretty well for himself,” Donald said.

“Don’t start.”

“What? It’s true. This is a nice piece of property.”

“Donald, he’s a Peer. He could have a floating castle of glass if he really wanted it.”

“It’s so funny you think I haven’t noticed the Crystal Duchess’s quaint little sky cottage back home.”

“Don’t.” Ellen’s voice had grown an edge. “Don’t you get snotty about the Crystal Duchess.”

“I’m sorry. Strike a nerve?”

“Damn right. I lived in old world Detroit. If you want to go back to those days, please feel free.”

“I want to go back to being free.”

“You know, poor people say they’re a lot more free now.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Now that I think about it, I pretty much do whatever I want outside of work. And if I get sick of working, I’m not worried I’ll lose my house or starve.”

“Jesus Christ. We’re not having this conversation.”

“In fact, the only people who’ve lost freedom lately are people like you. The ones who had wealth and power in the old world. You guys aren’t free to mess around with the environment or peoples’ pension funds any more, are you?”

“That’s enough.” Donald’s voice was harsh. “You are this close to being fired.”

“For having an opinion?”

“For continuing to talk about it when I said to drop it! That’s one the Crystal Duchess would agree with!”

Ellen narrowed her eyes, then looked away. “Consider it dropped, Mister Gaines.”

Donald took a deep breath. He considered trying those relaxation techniques again. “I’m sorry, El,” he said after thirty seconds or so. “You’re probably right. It just strikes a nerve.”

“Maybe it should,” Ellen said, not looking at him.

“Look, I didn’t invent the rules. But I spent my whole career working under them. I got good at it. I had plans and a future and I knew that whatever happened, things would work out more or less like I expected them to. And then….”

“And then the old world died in 2012, and the New World was born, and all the rules went out the window,” Ellen relented, turning to look at him. “Donnie… it was like that for all of us. When the Mayan clock struck midnight and the New World began… it blew us away. But we live here now, and you’ve got to acclimate to that. It’s been twelve years.”

“Twelve years…” he shook his head. “You know, I was at Ford when they changed the cars.”

Ellen didn’t answer. She clearly didn’t know what to say.

“It started in Seattle. The Gaian Witch had started small. Walking down the streets, touching cars. Doing… I don’t know. Whatever they do. One minute they were normal, and the next they didn’t need gas, didn’t need oil, never wore out….”

“Didn’t she get sued?”

“Like she cared. Like any of them cared. Yeah, she got sued. Sued by the car companies and the gas companies. They got the government to issue an injunction. And when she ignored it they issued an injunction to the Peerage to stop her.”

Ellen smiled, not unkindly. “And the Peerage responded by changing all the automobiles, everywhere.”

“Yes, they certainly did. Yes, they certainly did.” He shook his head again. “Twelve years. And I’m just making Senior Executive in an industry that’s being rendered obsolete. And now the cars we are managing to sell are failing for no good reason.”

“There’s a reason, all right. We just don’t know what it is.” Ellen put her hand on Donald’s arm. “That’s why we’re here; to find out why it’s happening so we can fix it.”

“If we can fix it, you mean.”

“Well, yes. If we can fix it.”

A seventeen year old girl met them at the door. She wore a grey tunic with the device of a black cat on it — Markham’s livery — and a black knee length skirt. And comfortable looking sneakers with white socks, Donald noticed. That was good at least. The Crystal Duchess’s servants wore boots that looked like ankle breakers to Donald. If we have to work with Markham, he might as well not be a bastard.

“You’re Mister Gaines and Ms. Tanner?” the girl asked.

“That’s right,” Ellen said. Donald knew to let her do most of the talking in the house, given his biases.

“Hi there.” She grinned. “My name’s Becky. The Shaman told me to expect you. He’s busy right this second, but he wanted me to make you two comfortable until he was ready.”

“Thanks,” she looked around the house. It was a big colonial. It would have looked at home in the seventeenth or eighteenth century, barring the light bulbs. “This is a beautiful place.”

“Thank you.” Becky’s grin widened. “Of course, you don’t have to vacuum it.”

“And thank God for that.” Ellen’s face faltered. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Becky said. “The Shaman’s not dogmatic. He doesn’t care whose name you take in vain.” Becky led them through the entryway, into a large living room armchairs and a couch in front of a beautiful coffee table angled to face a huge fireplace. They looked like antiques in pristine condition. Donald didn’t doubt they were. The Peerage weren’t known for denying themselves creature comforts.

“Tyler,” Becky said sharply, suddenly. “You know better.” She leaned down over one of the chairs, scooping up an armful of fur. Tyler seemed to be a Maine Coon Cat, squirming as she picked him up. “Sorry,” she said. “They think they own the place.”

“Don’t they?” Donald asked. “You’re wearing a cat logo on your clothes. They’re not wearing a human logo on their collars.”

Ellen shot Donald a look, but Becky laughed. “The Shaman’s totem is the cat. He likes having them around, and they like being around, But they claw the furniture and they shed.”

“And you have to vacuum it up?”

“Exactly.”

“How’d you come to work here?” Donald asked, sitting down.

“Oh, I volunteered,” Becky said. “We all did. The towns all offer volunteer workers, and he gives his services to us in return. He says that’s the Shamanic tradition.”

“But you’d have to do what he said, anyway,” Donald said. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Well, he’s pretty hands off when it comes to how we live. People seek him out for things, usually. Unless someone’s hurting his neighbors or pissing off the spirits.”

“Right.” Donald shut up then, before he got in trouble. How would the mundane people of the domain know when the spirits were pissed off, except when Everett Markham told them? “So you volunteered?”

“Oh yeah. You work here for four years, and you get four years free tuition at one of the colleges inside the domain. I’m shooting for Bowdoin.” She grinned. “You know how cool a free ride at Bowdoin would be?”

“Bowdoin’s in Markham’s domain?” Donald asked. “I didn’t think it extended that far east.”

“It goes to Freeport, ’cause he wanted L.L. Bean’s, I think.” Becky grinned again. “Bowdoin’s kind of a border case — but we have an exchange program. The Shaman’s policy is meant to bring a higher caliber of student into Saint Joseph’s and Plymouth State College.”

Donald nodded. He already knew that. “He’s not upset you’re not going to one of those?”

Becky grinned. “He says that it’s my path to choose, and putting up with him for four years means I get cut a lot of slack. In his words.”

“Right.”

“Can I get you guys something to drink? A cup of tea, maybe?”

“That’d be wonderful,” Ellen said.

“Sure. Be right back.”

Donald watched her go, then watched Ellen sit down across from him. “She seemed nice,” he said.

“Donald…” Ellen said, with a warning in her voice.

Donald raised his hands. “I’m being good.”

“Good.”

Unlike most of the house, Everett Markham’s office was downright messy. Piles of books and papers were everywhere, with overstuffed bookshelves and various knickknacks ranging from plastic toys to bird nests. And cats, of course. Everett Markham himself was stocky, but not overweight. He was maybe five-eleven, and had long salt and pepper hair. He wore several long, thin braids with beads, and beaded necklaces positively festooned his neck. That, a green tee shirt and jeans, and a slightly weathered face with a close cut beard set the stage. He looked like a thirty year old hippy.

Except he was a hippy you couldn’t take your eyes off of, and if the dossier were accurate, he was pushing fifty now. When you weren’t in the room with one of the Peerage, you could pretend they were just another human being with some strange additions. Confronted with the reality, you just couldn’t ignore them. Everett Markham was one of the cornerstones of the New World, and looking at him, you knew it.

“I’m sorry you had to wait,” he said, shaking both of their hands. “There was some trouble on the Sebago that needed resolving.

“Sebago Lake? I thought that was on the Maine side,” Ellen said.

Markham’s smile firmed slightly. “Actually, it’s not really Maine or New Hampshire anymore. We call it Rolandshire.”

“After someone?” Donald asked, professional smile firmly in place.

“My father. He wasn’t impressed. Thought it silly.” Markham shrugged. “I don’t indulge too many of my whims. That one seemed harmless.”

“Of course,” Ellen said, smoothly. She shooed a cat off a chair and sat down. “Lord Shaman… we need your help.”

Markham nodded. “Most people who seek me do. I usually stick to my domain, though. They provide for me, and I provide for them.”

“We understand that,” Ellen said. “But we understand you might have better insight into our specific problem.”

“Mm. Yes. The cars. Why don’t you go over it for me?”

“It’s really quite serious,” Donald said. “After the… incidents of 2014….”

“Year two,” Ellen cut in hurriedly.

“Actually, the Peerage Action in question was in year three,” Markham said, with a slight smile. “The calendars don’t quite sync up. But I knew what he meant. Go on, Mister Gaines.”

“Thank you. Anyway, when the bottom dropped out of the domestic market—”

“Donald….”

“Miss Tanner,” Markham said, his tone less amiable, “please don’t keep interrupting. I’m more interested in what Mister Gaines has to say than making sure it’s said politely.”

“I… of course. I’m sorry, Lord Shaman.”

Markham nodded, turning back to Donald. “Go on.”

“Well, we received guidelines from the Peerage on how to manufacture cars after they — you — changed how they work. What was necessary, and what wasn’t. The symbolic elements needed, and how they matched up with traditional, old world parts.”

“Mm. Go on.”

“Well, the market for new cars got dicey. Since older cars weren’t wearing out — and since they didn’t consume much of anything except windshield washer fluid — people weren’t as interested in buying new ones. There was a flurry after we introduced the first several new models — people liked the larger interior room since fuel mileage and emissions were no longer relevant. But lots of others liked buying and keeping used cars.” Especially since they cost so much less, he added mentally. “After three or four years the big automakers got in trouble. Us, the Japanese, the Germans, the Koreans….”

“But you’re still here,” Markham said. “Clearly, Ford managed to survive.”

“Barely. We went aggressively after a very specific market.”

“Which market was that?”

“The upscale customer, interested in projecting a specific image.”

“Ah.” Markham smiled. “You went after the conspicuous consumers.”

Ellen half-smiled. “Exactly. The people who lease instead of buy, to make sure they always have the very newest cars, the very best and brightest.”

“We had an uphill battle, because we were competing with established luxury brands,” Donald said. “But we already owned Jaguar and Aston Martin, and we aggressively designed and developed, and we made sure to cut our overseas production instead of domestic. That meant something to people who still believed in America, and it carried over into the Six Nations.”

“We also have economy of scale,” Ellen said. “We produce a lot of cars, meaning that Fords are on the rental lots, in the limo companies… it’s less expensive for the companies who buy in bulk, and that transfers to a luxury experience that middle management can afford. We cut into Acura and the lower end of BMW that way.”

“So what’s the problem,” Markham asked.

Donald bit his lip. “They’re breaking down.”

Markham arched an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“The luxury cars. They’re breaking down. Failing. At first, we thought we had a defective product line. We spent a lot of money on computer modeling and even got some prognostications done, but it all came back negative. And then we started hearing it wasn’t just us.”

“Ford, you mean?”

“That’s right,” Ellen said. “Ford, GM, Honda, Lexus, BMW… all of them were having problems. And not consistent ones. Sometimes components fail. Sometimes parts break out of nowhere. And sometimes people die.”

“Die?” Markham frowned.

“Unexplained crashes. Sometimes the seat belts, airbags and brakes all fail at once. Statistically, it should be impossible.”

Markham waved his hand dismissively. “Statistics are garbage,” he said. “Irrelevant to the New World.”

“Our scientists and mathematicians—”

“Your scientists and mathematicians are still using ‘sciences’ from the old world. They don’t apply. Give them a few hundred or thousand years, and they’ll work out sciences for this world.” Markham half-smiled. “Just in time for the next long cycle to pass and another world to be born.”

“We’re doing the best we can,” Donald insisted. “But nothing we do helps. We thought that maybe we’d offended one of the Peerage… maybe walked into a curse, but when we petitioned the Crystal Duchess, she checked and said we were clean.”

“So why didn’t she figure out what was wrong?”

“She couldn’t be bothered,” Donald said. “She doesn’t like old world mechanical devices. She likes her own crystal clockworks.”

Markham nodded. “Bethany’s a sweet girl, but she wants a fairy tale kingdom. This isn’t her style.”

“But it is yours?” Donald asked.

Markham shrugged. “I’m not a mechanic, but I speak to the spirits of technology.”

“So… you can help?” Ellen asked.

Markham shrugged. “I can consult the spirits, and see what’s bothering them.”

“In automobiles?” Donald asked. “They’re manmade.”

“So’s a baby, but you’ll agree those are alive, won’t you?” Markham smiled wryly.

“That’s wonderful,” Ellen said. “When can you start?”

Markham arched an eyebrow. “I don’t have any reason to, yet.”

“Oh. Oh, I thought you said—”

“I said I can speak to the right spirits and see what’s bothering them. I didn’t say I would. My responsibilities are in Rolandshire, not the Crystal Duchess’s domain.”

“Your people drive cars, don’t they?”

“And if one of them has a problem, they can ask me to look into it. Ford Motor Company’s not in my domain, and I don’t really care if it goes out of business or not.”

“Thousands of people work for Ford,” Donald said, curtly.

“I’m pretty sure they’ll be provided for,” Markham said. “Fairy tales work better when everyone lives happily ever after.”

“Is that why people work the fields in your domain?”

“I happen to think people are happiest when they work,” Markham said mildly. “But none of my people go hungry or want for something to do. You’re not giving me reasons. Shall we end this petition now and save us all some time?”

“No,” Ellen said, sharply. She then controlled herself. “No, Lord Shaman. We have a proposal for you.”

“Money?” Markham snorted. “I don’t use it.”

No, of course not. You’re given whatever you want, Donald thought. “Not money, no. Something of greater interest to you, we hope.” He opened his briefcase, and took out a file folder. “We’ve got one hundred straight A students from the Detroit/Windsor area. Top students, good SATs, ready to go to college. The Crystal Duchess has granted permission for those students to travel here — half for Plymouth State College, half for Saint Joseph’s College, in a variety of fields. Ford Motor Company is prepared to subsidize all their expenses and provide grants to the colleges in question, then send another hundred students a year for the next eight years.”

Markham took the folder, scrutinizing it with interest. “What are the terms?”

“These hundred will be on their way immediately. The rest will come assuming our problem gets solved.”

Markham arched an eyebrow. “No, they’ll come regardless.”

“Look — we’re contracting for—”

“You’re contracting a Shaman for his advice, his insight, and his understanding. I will provide it. However, if you haven’t been cursed, something’s making the spirits upset. I can find out what it is, but it’s up to you to correct it. In the end, the spirits will do as the spirits will do.” Markham fixed his stare on Donald. “Your company will provide the students to my schools, regardless of whether you follow my advice or not. Is that clear?”

Donald shivered uncontrollably, caught in the stare. The power was palpable now. He felt like the Shaman was cutting him open, and examining his organs. He felt like a butterfly with a needle driven through it, mounting him to a board. “…yes,” he squeaked.

Markham relented, nodding. “Acceptable.”

“Though…” Donald adjusted his tie. “…though if Ford goes bankrupt, we can hardly subsidize college educations.”

Markham shrugged. “If Ford goes bankrupt, its shareholders had best not be stupid enough to bring a Shaman’s curse down upon their houses for ten generations. Are you a shareholder, Donald Gaines?”

Donald looked away. “I’ll have our lawyers revise the contracts.”

“Don’t bother.” Markham set the contract down. “The spirits of the contract have agreed to my terms. They did the moment you handed me the file.”

Donald blinked. “Your contract is with us.”

Markham shrugged again. “All things are alive, Mister Gaines. Who do you think is the authority? Your lawyers, or the contract itself?”

Donald took a deep breath. “Of course,” he said coldly. It’s just like the Gaian Witch. They don’t care about our laws, so why would they care about our lawyers?

“Good. It’s settled. We’ll leave tomorrow morning. I need to actually see one of the cars. Maybe more than one.”

“Of course,” Ellen said. “We have first class tickets out of Manchester to—”

“Not necessary,” Markham said. “We’ll walk.”

“It’s… quite a distance,” Donald said. “We’re on a tight schedule….”

Markham smiled a bit.

Donald clenched the arms of his chair, but forced himself to remain calm. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m old fashioned. I don’t have your perspective.”

“No. No, sadly you don’t. But maybe someday you will,” Markham said. “You’ll stay in the guest wing. Becky and Annabel will see to your needs.”

“We have a hotel in Laconia,” Ellen said.

“You’ll stay in the guest wing,” Markham repeated himself. “I’ll have your things brought and settle your bill. If you’ll excuse me, I have to make arrangements for our trip tomorrow. I need to ask formal permission of Bethany before we show up.”

“Thank you, Lord Shaman,” Ellen said, standing and offering a hand. “You have such a beautiful house, and we’re so excited you’re going to help us.”

“It serves my needs,” Markham said, shaking her hand briefly. “As does your contract. It’s been nice to meet you.”

Donald shook his hand and turned to follow Ellen out.

“Mister Gaines, wait a moment.”

Donald and Ellen paused.

“It’s all right, Miss Tanner. He’ll catch up with you.”

Ellen looked at Markham, before nodding slightly. She gave Donald a significant look — a glare, really — before walking out the door.

“She prefers Ms. to Miss,” Donald said, quietly.

“I prefer Miss and Mister, to Ms., Mistress, Madam or Master,” Markham said mildly. “You’re angry.”

“It’s… nothing to be concerned about, Lord Shaman,” Donald said. “I’m pleased we were able to come to terms.”

“I’m sorry the old world died, Mister Gaines. It wasn’t my idea.”

Donald blinked. “Excuse me?”

Markham looked sidelong at him. “You want so badly to live in the old world. I’m sorry you can’t. If I had a way, I’d send you there.”

“I… know that, Lord Shaman.”

“Perhaps.” He looked off to the side. “Your hostility calls spirits to you. Dark ones. They could plague you if you’re not careful.”

Donald worked his mouth. “I meant no offense, Lord Shaman.”

“You haven’t offended me.” He looked Donald in the eyes. “I don’t owe you my advice, but it is offered nonetheless.”

Donald shivered, and nodded. “Thank you, Lord Shaman.”

“What are you driving, these days?”

“Lord Shaman?’

“What are you driving, these days?” Markham smiled a bit. “It’s not that hard a question, is it?”

“I… I’ve got an Olympic,” Donald said. “Perk of the job. I get a new car to drive every year.”

“And what’s gone wrong with yours?”

Donald took another deep breath. Nice and regular. In and out. “It’s fine, really.”

“But what isn’t fine?”

“It… the orchestra’s mistuned. I get things I don’t want. Latino music first thing in the morning. Organ music when I’m driving home. And the check engine light keeps going on, but of course there’s nothing wrong with the car. Hell, there isn’t even a real engine to check.”

Markham nodded slightly. “We’ll look at your car tomorrow.”

“We have several that have been returned….”

“They won’t tell me what I need to know. More importantly, they won’t tell me what you need to know. Yours will.”

“I… see.”

“I wish that were true.” Markham sounded distant. “Enjoy dinner.”

It was drizzling the next morning. Markham led them out of the house, walking with an aspen wood staff in hand. It looked old, and weathered, untreated or finished in any way and worn from long use. He also wore a dark cloak, and sturdy traveling clothes, and had painted some kind of colored marks on his face.

Ellen, once she had let herself relax, had thoroughly enjoyed herself. She was animated and talkative with the servants, and had chatted almost conversationally with Markham that morning. Now, she was striding behind Markham, wearing her travel shoes instead of the pumps she had worn to the meeting. Donald had only brought dress shoes, but they were comfortable enough for walking.

The path they walked was crushed gravel, leading into the forest. The trees bracketed them as they walked. Underfoot, the crushed rock gave way to soil, and then tightly packed dirt. The trees were closer together, now, and low stone walls, made through piling in the New England way, were on either side. They got higher… more regular, the dirt path now cobblestoned… the stone walls now mortared… now brick instead of stone… now beginning to gleam with a golden shine of their own….

When they emerged from the alleyway, they were standing before Majestic Hall in Detroit. At the top of the gleaming crystal and gold stairs, dozens of the Crystal Duchess’s servitors stood at attention in their uniforms of satin and leather, while her crystal clockwork beings bowed in front of them.

“Everett,” the Crystal Duchess herself said. “Welcome. Welcome to my Shining Cities.” She was wearing an elaborate gown that matched her livery, floating above all the rest in a crystal sphere.

Markham smiled. “Bethany… you look wonderful, and you honor me with this display.”

“You’re such a dear,” she said, the ball drifting closer. She was radiantly beautiful, of course, and like always Donald couldn’t tear his eyes off her. This time, she was much closer, and the effect was exponential.

And yet, despite Markham’s dark clothing and primitive face paint, his sheer presence was equal to the Crystal Duchess. She knew it too, ignoring clothing she would never permit a subject to wear in her vicinity and greeting him like a beloved brother too long away. “So, have my subjects behaved themselves in your domain, Everett? The honor of the Shining Cities are at stake.”

“No worries,” Markham said, mildly. “Their problem intrigued me, and we came to acceptable terms. I thank you for allowing so many of your best and brightest students to travel to Rolandshire.”

“Think nothing of it. There are hundreds of thousands of citizens in my cities. You have chosen a domain that is sparsely populated. The least I could do is help you balance that equation.” She winked coquettishly.

“I’m happy with my woods and fields. You should see them. Perhaps in time for fresh apple cider and maple sugar candies?”

“You tempt me. When you’re done with this problem of Ford’s, won’t you come and tour Majestic Hall and the Shining Cities? Won’t you?”

Markham smiled a bit. “I pledge three days and nights to seeing your glorious domain, if you will grant me the same in my humble one.”

“Done and done. I’ll expect a chance to ride a horse.” She clapped her hands, the bubble popping and the Duchess drifting to the ground. She took the Shaman’s hands and almost bounced like a little girl. “It’s so good to see you, Everett.”

“You too, Bethany. You too.”

Donald forced his eyes away from their combined glory and took out his phone. He punched in a speed dial code.

“Michael Steele.”

“Mister Steele? Donald Gaines. We’re back in town, at the foot of Majestic Hall. Send a car as soon as you can — the Shaman’s with us.”

“What? Why didn’t you call me last night?”

“I couldn’t get a signal.”

“So why didn’t you call me from the hotel?”

“The Shaman insisted we stay overnight, and they don’t have a phone.” Donald rubbed the bridge of the nose. “Just send something ASAP. He’s chatting with the Crystal Duchess right now, but when he’s ready—”

“The Crystal Duchess is there too?” Steele sounded shocked. “Damn it, Donald.”

“Just hurry. I need to get back to him.”

“Go. Go.” Steele hung up.

The car was there ten minutes later. The peers talked for fifteen minutes after that, then separated with more promises to spend time together.

Markham looked the car over as they approached. “A Ford Olympic,” he said.

“Only the best for you, Lord Shaman,” Ellen said.

“Not yours, though?” Markham asked Donald.

“No. No, this is a limousine, Lord Shaman.”

Markham nodded, sliding into the opened door. “Tell me, have the limos had similar problems?”

“No, Lord Shaman,” Ellen said, sliding across from him. Donald slid next to her.

“What about rentals? You mentioned you sold a lot of rental cars….”

“No. Rentals have had no unusual problems.”

“Which is itself unusual, don’t you think?” Markham was looking off to the side, lost in thought or in the spirit world again.

“We can’t explain it,” Donald said.

“Mister Steele is expecting us at the headquarters,” the driver said.

“No,” Markham said, absently. He looked out the window, watching the clockwork servants and liveried servitors dispersing. “Take us to Mister Gaines’s house.”

“But—”

“Do it,” Donald said.

The driver looked at the Shaman, shivered, then forced himself to turn around and begin driving.

“Have you known the Crystal Duchess long,” Ellen asked, quietly.

“Mm? In the spirit world. We’ve never met face to face before now.”

“She seemed… very glad to see you.”

“She was. And I was glad to see her. We’re spread too thin, for comfort.” He watched Majestic Hall recede into the distance. “It’s… nice, to meet in person.”

Donald didn’t have an answer for that.

“Michael Steele.”

“Mister Steele. Donald Gaines.” Donald was pacing in the carport. His new model Y13 Ford Olympic was there, bigger than life. And the Shaman was lying on the cement floor, eyes open but unseeing, next to it.

“Don. Where the Hell are you? We expected you in Dearborn two hours ago. We had to have the caterers put the finger sandwiches back in the coolers.”

“Sorry. Markham wanted to go to my house.”

“Your house?”

“He wanted to look at one of the affected cars that someone still owned, instead of one of the returns. And he knew I owned one.”

There was a pause. “I didn’t know you were having problems with your car. A Mythic, isn’t it?”

“An Olympic.”

“Jesus. Just what we need. We can’t even keep our own executives on the road when they’re driving our best cars.” By best, he meant most expensive.

“Yeah, well. I haven’t exactly been telling people about it.”

“Good. You want to know what drives me insane?”

“What?”

“Our Aston Martin division just does the Vantage and the Lagonda now, and they pretty much only sell to rich old James Bond fans. We sell a few hundred a year, tops. And not one of them’s failed.”

“Really?” Donald looked at the Shaman, who was still lying like a board on his floor. “Why don’t we just mass produce those instead of putting out a few hundred thousand dollars a year in scholarship money?”

“Wouldn’t work,” Steele said. “Remember when we closed the Jaguar division and released the new Ford Jaguar?”

“Sure?”

“The first two or three thousand that went off the line had no problems to speak of. Every other had worse problems than the Mythics. We managed to laugh it off — Jags had a reputation for being in the shop all the time anyway — but when Hondas and Chevys from twenty years ago never go in the shop, people lose interest in a prestige car they can’t drive.”

“Jesus.”

“So what’s Markham doing?”

“He’s… lying on the floor. He looks dead.”

“Is he?”

“Nah. He called it ecstatic projection. He’s in the Spirit World chatting my car up, I guess.”

“Oh, sure. Are you keeping him happy?”

“Who knows?” Donald took a deep breath. In and out, in and out. “Mister Steele… he’s going to be satisfied. Period. If he doesn’t like something, he changes it. It’s why we’re here instead of in Dearborn. It’s why we didn’t stay at the hotel, and why we walked back to Detroit.”

“You walked from New Hampshire to Detroit in a morning?” Steele chuckled. “Twelve years into this, and that never stops amazing me.”

“Yeah. It was the time of my life. I’ll call you back when he comes out of the trance.”

“Do. Don’t screw this up, Donald.”

“Doing my best, Mister Steele.” But the boss had already hung up. Donald put his phone away and folded his arms.

“He’s not happy?” Ellen asked.

“They didn’t get to show off the ice sculptures,” Donald said. “How happy could he be?”

“Mm.” Ellen looked at Markham, who was still lying on the floor. “Hey, I didn’t know your car was having trouble.”

“Yours isn’t?”

“Nope.”

“What’re you driving?”

“These days? I got a sweet Mustang about three years ago. That car’s my baby.”

“No problems?”

“Nope. I had an old Saturn before that. I gave it to my kid brother for his high school graduation. He’s still got it.”

“You could have gotten him a new Ford Volvo,” Donald said mildly. That was their current marketing blitz — make their first car a safe car, pushing the Ford Volvo sedans toward students and the Ford Volvo wagons to young families.

“Why would I do that, when I had an old Saturn in good shape?”

“Yeah yeah. Come on. I’m starved. Want me to call out for pizza?”

“Sure.”

The pizza had just arrived when Markham walked in from the garage. He looked relaxed and cheerful, like he’d just had a good workout. “That smells good,” he said.

“Help yourself,” Donald said. “How’d it go?”

“Pretty well,” Markham said, scooping up a slice of pepperoni. He practically devoured it. “I always get hungry after walking the spirit world. It was six days from my point of view.”

“Really?” Ellen asked, “what’s it like?”

“It varies.”

“What did you find out? Can you help us?” Donald’s stomach was knotted.

“Can I help you? No. But I know how you and your customers can help yourselves.” Markham took another bite, chewing and swallowing .

“What do we need to do?” Ellen asked.

“The spirits are offended, Miss Tanner. They must be made happy or they will continue to make mischief.”

“That mischief is killing people,” Donald snapped.

“Not to mention killing your last profitable division?” Markham asked mildly.

“What do we need to do?” Donald demanded. “How do we stop it?”

Markham didn’t react to Donald’s vehemence. He took another piece of pizza, and nibbled, considering his words. “You need to pay attention to your car, Mister Gaines. You and all your customers.”

Donald blinked. “What?”

“Think of a spirit like a puppy, or a three year old child, who’s being ignored and neglected. Eventually, it starts making trouble so someone will pay attention. It starts small — mistuning the orchestra, misguiding to destinations, putting on the check engine light — then starts breaking down. Developing faults. Finally, it gets upset and becomes violent. Crashing, and refusing to protect the passengers.”

“I… don’t understand,” Ellen said. “My car doesn’t do any of that.”

“Do you own a luxury car? Do you get a new one every year?”

“No, I have a Mustang.”

“And let me guess. You lavish it with care.” Markham smiled slightly. “It feels like a part of your life. And families who don’t care about having the best status symbols on the block rely on their cars. Sometimes they live out of them. They certainly spend a lot of time and energy on them, because they’ve got them for the long haul.

“But your luxury customers — specifically, the customers you’re most actively courting — don’t care about their cars at all. Someone else cleans them. They drive them to be seen in them. They do it to keep up appearances with their neighbors. And a year later, they let them go and start all over. The cars don’t like that, and so they’re acting out.”

Donald stared. “Our cars… are upset… because we don’t treat them like pets?”

“All things are alive, Mister Gaines.”

Donald sank back into his chair, hulled. He rubbed his face. “How do we make them happy? What do we have to do to them?”

“Your company? Nothing. But you have to have your owners care about their cars. It would help if they gave them names. Miss Tanner — does your car have a name?”

“My Mustang?” She smiled, almost blushing. “I call it Baby.”

“There you go. I can detail simple daily and weekly procedures for your customers to follow. Ways to make the spirits feel appreciated.”

“Wait — what about rental cars?” Donald demanded. “Why aren’t those ‘acting out?’”

“They’re taken out for a few days, then returned, washed and detailed, and gone over by mechanics before being prepared for the next customer,” Markham said. “They feel important. The same with limousines. They are the foundation of their businesses, so they’re treated with care.”

“So you… you’re actually saying we have to bond with our cars. We have to…” Donald threw his pizza across the room. “Damn it.”

“Donald,” Ellen snapped, horrified. “What are you—”

Markham was unruffled. “It won’t be hard,” he said. “Really, many businesses and their customers have had to learn to treat the spirits with respect to stay in business. Think of the rituals used on airplanes to mollify the spirits of the air and wind, or the rituals to keep gremlins and glitches out of manufacturing. You must use them yourself in your—”

“Don’t you get it?” Donald shouted. “Don’t you understand? We don’t want them bonding with their cars! We don’t want them naming them and spending time with them! People who care about their cars won’t replace them until they wear out, and cars don’t wear out any more!”

Markham looked down. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Surely, there will still be a market for—”

“For trucks? For rental cars? Sure, for a while. But for consumer cars? Only when attrition and accidents make it too difficult to get a good used car cheaply.” Donald put his head in his hands. “Jesus, cars will become niche products. Handmade. The sort of thing you buy maybe twice in your life, and both of those used.”

Markham shrugged. “The death of the old world has changed many things.”

“You couldn’t leave us this? Who were we hurting? We weren’t polluting the environment any more! We weren’t causing trouble! We didn’t force anyone to buy Mythics or Olympics, for Christ’s sake! You couldn’t leave us this one market?”

“I didn’t cause this, Mister Gaines.”

“Then change the rules! You could change how cars worked before! Do it again! Make them happy just sitting in the damn garage!”

“We changed how automobiles operated in the physical realm. That was simple. But we cannot change the nature of spirits any more than you can, Mister Gaines.”

“This isn’t what we contracted you for!”

“As I told you before. You contracted a Shaman for his advice, his insight, and his understanding. You are receiving the benefit of all of those. What you do with that advice, insight and understanding is of no concern to me.”

“Jesus. No concern, he says.” Donald stood, fists clenched, wheeling to face Ellen. “He doesn’t care! Ford Motors, Honda, BMW, Chevy — they’re all just old world companies to him!”

“There are beautiful sea walls in Falmouth, back in Rolandshire,” Markham said. “But when the tide comes in they slowly erode away. I could strive to save them. I could shout away the spirits of the waters. I could reinforce the spirits of the sea walls. But in the end, I know that when the sea walls come down, the people of Rolandshire will build new ones. Walls meant to withstand the tide.” He fixed Donald with a look. “I do not choose to fight the tide, Mister Gaines. Not for them. Not for you.”

Donald whirled, hand cocked back to slap or punch Markham. But he didn’t follow through. He couldn’t follow through. He stared, and he hated, but he couldn’t strike the Shaman. He wanted to wipe the smug look off his face, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t possible. The universe wouldn’t allow it.

“Mister Gaines,” Markham said, evenly, “you are upset. I have chosen to make allowances for this. I suggest you find a way to comport yourself, before you say or do something I cannot make allowances for.” He turned to Ellen. “Let us step into the next room, and I will give you my recommendations. You can present them to your company officers, and they will make whatever decision they choose.”

“Right… sure.” Ellen looked at Donald. She was worried, but didn’t say anything. She simply led the Shaman into the next room.

Donald watched them go, dropping his arm helplessly. He looked back at the remains of their meal. With a harsh cry, he shoved the boxes and pizza onto the floor, and then sank down onto the kitchen tiles and cried.

Ellen found him in the garage. He’d taken his coat and tie off, and was sitting on an old lawn chair, staring at his Olympic. He’d opened the garage door, and the afternoon light was spilling in.

“Hey. I made coffee. Hope that’s okay.” She handed him a cup.

Donald clutched it, feeling the heat. “Where’s Markham?”

“Gone. He went to see the Crystal Duchess. Spend those three days with her. He gave me detailed instructions.”

“Did you call Steele?”

“Not yet. You?”

Donald shook his head. “He called me once, but I didn’t pick up.”

Ellen nodded, then looked at the car. “It really is a beautiful car, you know.”

“Of course it is. I get it detailed weekly.” He made a face. “That wasn’t good enough for you?” he said to the car. “That wasn’t good? You didn’t like getting all clean and shiny?”

Ellen sat on the door stoop. “It’s weird. Twelve years into the new world, and talking to your car still seems insane.”

“Do you talk to yo— to Baby?” Donald asked.

“Well, yeah. Sometimes.” Ellen took a sip of her own coffee. “I guess I just didn’t realize she was listening.”

“Yeah.” Donald sipped his own. There was sugar in it. He didn’t say anything, though. “Well, you’ll get to redecorate my office now. You’ll look good in it, too.”

Ellen made a face. “I won’t tell Steele you freaked out at Markham. The Shaman didn’t care, so why should I?”

Donald waved his hand. “Not that. But trust me, when my name appears on a report saying we need to trash the only successful marketing campaign we have left, I’ll be packing cardboard boxes within the hour.”

“Then they’ll fire both of us, won’t they?”

“Nope. That would be an overreaction.” He looked down into his coffee cup. “Maybe working in the fields isn’t such a bad idea.”

“You’re not the farmer type.”

“No. I’m an old world executive. I’m as dead as Ford. It’s just neither of us have figured it out yet.” He sipped his coffee. “There’s nothing wrong with making and selling cars.”

“No. No there isn’t.”

“A car used to be a symbol. It said that you’d made it. You were a success. You had a shiny new car in the driveway.” He shook his head.

“We’ll adapt, Donnie. Ford will adapt.”

“Did Hyundai adapt? Did Kia? Do we still make Mercurys? Does Mercedes still make Chryslers?”

“People still drive, Donnie.”

“Yeah.” He gulped down the rest of his coffee. “People still drive. Someone will still be making cars. Just not so many.”

“Well… maybe that’s a good thing, you know? People are changing, just like the world changed. We’re becoming less….”

“Materialistic?”

“Yeah.”

“Whoopie.” He stared at the Olympic. A big car, gleaming and black. A symbol of success, of wealth, of importance.

His new best friend, if he wanted to keep driving it.

“You know,” Ellen said, “Markham suggested that existing owners should replace their cars early — y’know, to end the bad relationship and start with a clean slate. We should have a pretty good quarter.”

“Sure, sure.”

“Especially because… well, there’s no reason for people to lease instead of buy, if they’re not going to replace their cars so quickly. More money for us, up front.”

“Up front, yeah. Though leases are more profitable. Especially when we sell the used car in the aftermarket.”

“Yeah, well.” Ellen sighed. “Maybe we won’t tell anyone.”

“And have it come out we held it back? We’d be sued for negligence.”

“Not to mention the chance we’d be haunted.”

“I remember when that was a joke.” Donald shook his head. “We’d better call Steele.”

“You want me to?”

Donald took a long breath. In and out. Focus. Calm. “Yeah,” he said. “Tell him I’m busy naming my car.”

Ellen nodded. “I’ll make it inside? Give you some privacy?”

“Sure, sure.”

Ellen went inside.

Donald turned back to the Olympic. “How’s Jezebel strike you? Will that seem teasingly ironic or will it piss you off and make you crash us some rainy night? Or maybe Hera. Hera lived on Olympus, and she was a jealous goddess, wasn’t she?”

Movement at the end of the driveway caught his eye. A cat — a somewhat scruffy looking calico — had paused in her neighborhood rounds to look inside the garage. She peered at Donald distrustfully.

Donald stared back for a long moment, then looked away. Satisfied, the cat sauntered away.

I was fascinated, because I had always enjoyed the classic Heinlein short story “Life Line.” Which was based on the invention of a machine that would tell you exactly when you would die. And was the first short story Heinlein ever published.

So I lept into writing a story to submit for the collection. And after forty-five hundred words it was ready.

The problem was, I had written an updating of “Life Line,” operating from an entirely different principle. See, “Life Line” had detailed the reaction of the world — most exactly the insurance industry — into this discovery of the moment of death. And that fascinated me. Besides, I didn’t think there were enough dark fantasy/sf stories about actuaries.

Which meant my high concept wasn’t the high concept. I had a story about a machine that would predict the moment of death, barring lifestyle change or misadventure.

So I wrote another story to submit. And then, right as it was ready for submission (and had been read by several people with advice), I hit the same dry period that the rest of my writing and online contact hit, and so it never went to them. Ah well, I’ll include it here sometime.

In the meantime, please enjoy “Death is a Moving Target.”

*** *** *** ***

“What is that?” Michael asked Bruce.

“Mm?” Bruce took another swig of the thick, viscous drink. It seemed to cling to the edge of the plastic tumbler.

“That. What are you drinking?”

“Oh. Mucitol. High fiber. Cleans you out, I guess.”

“You having trouble clearing ballast?” Michael signaled to the waiter.

“Nothing like that. Doc just says I need better diet. You know how it is.” He took another swig. “So I took to high fiber. Lot of good things about fiber.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, well. I’m going back on Thursday. I didn’t like my Hafner/Baugh date. Gonna see if I pushed it forward any.”

“By drinking library paste?”

“Maybe. If I get a few more months out of this, maybe I’d feel better….”

“Better?”

“Better about not, y’know. Givin’ up the smokes.”

Michael closed his eyes. “You could decide not to smoke for my benefit, you know. You’re probably not doing my Hafner/Baugh any joys, you know.”

“Not worryin’ about yours,” Bruce said. “Too much to think about already.”

“Well, thank you very much.” Michael got up, digging for his wallet.

“No worries,” Bruce said. “I got this.”

“You didn’t drink anything from the bar.”

Bruce shrugged. “Night’s not over yet.”

Michael nodded, walking towards the door.

“Hey,” Bruce called back. “Goin’ to Lindy?”

Michael paused, looking back. “Maybe.”
“You should. Girl’s good for you.”

“When did you become such an expert on what’s good for me?”

Bruce chuckled. “Man, no surprise what’s good for you.”

“Whatever.” Michael kept walking.

“‘Sides. You get back with her, you won’t care if I smoke!”

Michael didn’t answer. He didn’t need Bruce to tell him Lindy was good for him. He had scientific proof of that.

Michael’s cell phone rang. They Might Be Giants — “It Could Be Worse.” That meant the call was from a work number. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. Tommy’s pudgy face gleamed on it. God damn it. He couldn’t ignore Tommy. He flipped the phone open. “Yeah?”

“I need you in,” Tommy said. “Massachusetts passed the Child Screening Act eight minutes ago.”

Two weeks before, Michael would have been thrilled. “Why do you need me in?” he asked. “The bid’s ready. The bid’s been ready for a month.”

“They had amendments. Potentially lucrative amendments. We need to brainstorm — nothing huge. I won’t take too much of your weekend. You’ll be back doing whatever you and Lindy in an hour and a half.”

Lindy and I don’t do much of anything, Michael didn’t say to his boss. “I’m not the most sober right now,” he said instead.

“Good. That’ll lubricate things. Get in here.”

Michael sighed. “I’ll need a cab.”

“We’ll reimburse.”

“Okay.”

The cab took twenty minutes to arrive, more or less. Michael was just glad it wasn’t raining. He slid into the back and muttered “Two hundred east Rutherford B. Hayes” to the driver.

“No prob,” the driver called back with an undefined accent. “Radio okay?”

“Yeah.”

The cabbie grunted, pulling out and weaving into the streets. A bad pop song was playing, and Michael looked out the window. A billboard stuck out — muscular man and buff but feminine woman in bathing suits, next to a disgruntled skeleton in a cloak. All Pro Gym Workout, it advertised. Qualified Hafner/Baugh Physician on staff. Break your date with the Reaper!

“Sarah! Your date’s here!”

The pretty young woman on the television looked confused. “But I don’t have a date tonight–” Her face fell as the camera pulled back to show the Grim Reaper holding a rose.

The scene cut to a muscular man in a tee shirt and shorts, the girl working out on a Nautilus machine behind him. “We all have a date with the Reaper, but you can break that date with Tony Wilder’s All Pro Gym Workout! For an introductory price of just nineteen ninety-five and nineteen ninety-five a month with commitment you get access to our full facilities! And with a certified Hafner/Baugh physician on premises you can check your Hafner/Baugh date right here, once a week, and watch yourself break date after date with the Reaper!”

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Lindy said, snapping the television off. “Would you look at me when I’m talking to you?”

“Fine,” Michael muttered, turning to glare at her. “Happy?”

Lindy rolled her eyes. *”No. *That’s what I’m saying. Jesus, Mike. Do you even care about this relationship?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Are you? I don’t think you’ve been here for months, Mike. And I’m sick of it.”

“So what do you want? Work’s been eating me alive!”

“Is that some kind of dig?”

“Jesus — no. I’m sorry that Hafner/Baugh ruined things for actuaries, okay? I’m sorry that Life and Health Trust decided they didn’t need you any more. But they still need me, all right? When do I stop being punished for something that isn’t my fault?”

“I work at Best Buy, Mike. I went from two hundred thousand a year to ‘would you like a protection plan with that?’”

Mike chuckled. “Same field, if you think about it.”

Lindy glared.

“Oh, Jesus, Lindy.” Mike pushed up out of his chair. “You don’t like it? Recertify. Get into health or pensions. Get into contingency theory.”

“No one’s hiring for those, Mike!”

“Because other morbidity specialists saw the handwriting on the wall and recertified early, Lindy! Hafner/Baugh means–”

“Hafner/Baugh’s a crock!”

Mike snorted, turning away. “No, it’s not,” he said. “And insurance workers who insist it is are the ones who end up at Best Buy.”

“It promises to tell you when you die, Mike. It says ‘this is the date you’re going to die.’ And you know as well as I do it’s not true.”

“Barring misadventure, act of God or lifestyle change, Lindy. You can’t–”

Lindy swore, storming to the other end of the living room.

“You can’t ignore that, Lindy. Yeah — the damn machine can’t tell a person they’re going to be hit by a car. The damn machine can’t predict if you’ll cut back on coffee or start exercising more. It’s a diagnostic tool — nothing more. But it’s a tool that works.”

“How many stupid people die every year because that machine tells them they’re invulnerable? Huh? You remember that snowboarder–”

“Jake Weiss was stupid. His Hafner/Baugh date was in — what, 2067? So he decided he couldn’t be killed. And he did a stupid stunt and he died. That doesn’t make Hafner/Baugh wrong. It means Jake Weiss was an idiot.”

“Yeah, well — actuarial science would have said he was an idiot. It would have said ‘health wise, Jake Weiss is in excellent condition, but lifestyle choices reduce his life expectancy significantly, and risk factors make him a poor candidate for life insurance.’”

“And if we still sold life insurance, that would mean something, Lindy. But we don’t. We sell accidental death and dismemberment. We sell property insurance. We sell End of Life Plans–”

Lindy snorted again.

“Yeah, you laugh all you like, Lindy. Give people a sense of when they’re going to die, and they focus on that. You sell them a product that helps them live well. You sell them a plan that both pushes back their Hafner/Baugh date as much as possible, gives them Accidental Death and Dismemberment, and gives them an estate they pay into for their funeral expenses and to leave their families a fu–”

“It was damn hard to become an actuary, Michael. It involves math that makes most people scream. It involves learning probability and economics and risk assessment. And it’s not glamorous, which is why there were never that many of us to begin with.”

“I’m sorry, Lindy. I really am. You should have been set for life.”

Lindy laughed. It was a desperate laugh, close to tears. “Maybe you can sell me an End of Life Plan.”

Michael looked down, then walked over to Lindy. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Look,” he said. “We… we can work something out. You have business and math skills — there must be–”

“I can’t do this any more,” Lindy said.

“That’s what I’m saying,” Michael said. “You need to understand that things have changed. The world has–”

“No,” Lindy said, turning to face Michael. Her eyes were red. “I can’t do this any more. We used to be equals. Now you’re an executive and I work at Best Buy. I can’t do this any more.”

Michael’s heart skipped. “Lindy–”

“Hey! Sixteen-eighty-five!”

Michael sat up in the cab with a jerk. “What?” he asked, blinking.

“We here. Sixteen-eighty-five.”

Michael blinked again, looking around. They were outside of the Hartmann Building, where the corporate offices of Life and Health Trust were located. “Yeah,” he said, fishing for his wallet. “I’m gonna need a receipt.”

Tommy was in his office — an expansive, corner affair. He was dropping ice into old fashioned glasses as Michael walked in. Jenn was already there. “Michael!” he shouted, grinning. “How are you?”

“Drunk,” Michael said, dropping into a chair. “I thought the floor vote wasn’t until tomorrow.”

“Yes, well, politicians surprise you sometimes. But they passed it. Assuming the Governor doesn’t mess around–”

“He won’t,” Jenn said, a smirk on her face. “The Governor doesn’t want to look unsympathetic to the needs of children.”

“This is a banner day for L.H.T.,” Tommy said. “A banner day. Each and every student getting screened once a month. Each and every student taking home a report that lists their current expected date of death, along with all kinds of recommendations on how to push that day farther and farther away. Recommendations for sports, for nutrition, for–”

“You said there were changes? Amendments?”

“You’ll love this,” Jenn said. “At the eleventh hour, they forced through an amendment requiring schools to provide end of life planning as a part of the process.”

Michael blinked, accepting the glass of scotch from Tommy. “You’re telling me that public schools are — by law — going to have to help ten year old kids plan for their funerals?”

“Ain’t that a kick in the head?” Tommy asked, sitting across from Michael and Jenn. “Some days, it’s no bad thing to be a professional ghoul.”

“I resent that,” Jenn said. “We’re providing a service–”

Tommy laughed. “We’re hitching our train to a cultural death obsession. You know it. I know it. Michael knows it. The day these people found out how long they had to live, it was like nothing else mattered. ‘Make the most of life,’ they say, but what they mean is ‘push back the death date as much as you can, and be ready for it.’”

Michael shook his head, looking at the water beading on the outside of his scotch glass. “I wonder what an actuary would make of all this?”

“I am an actuary,” Tommy said. “And I plan to make several million dollars out of all this, thank you. So! How do we adjust the bid? Or are you too drunk to–”

“Do three levels,” Michael answered immediately. “Basic would come with the core bid — let the state pay the money they’re willing to pay, and give a basic End-Of-Life package with it. We can work out how much money goes into the account per year the student has basic, with an option of banking that for five years after High School graduation or turning it into a Collegiate package then. Either way, post college they can either get a sharply reduced payout with penalties and call that a benefit for having gone to school in the first place or–”

“Or convert to a standard End of Life Plan either through a workplace or on their own,” Jenn picked up. “That was my thinking. Two other plans?”

“Sure. For ten bucks a visit additional, a student could have… I dunno, call it ‘Living Well.’ Add in a discount with partnered health clubs. Add in nutritional counseling at partnered centers. Up the amount of money set aside for the eventual plan per year. Hell, you could loss lead it a little — give a kid who converts instead of gets the payout fifteen dollars a month at end of life for every ten he puts into Living Well, which means he’s invested into the product itself and he’ll want to stick with us.”

“And the top?” Tommy asked.

“We’ll need to go through the process, but we want to make this attractive. Make it more about status than security. You know the tapdance. Call it an investment in the future. Throw in financial planning. Throw in discounts at upper end stores with the card. And throw in an automatic conversion to Capital College Gold when they graduate, without the initiation fee. By the time they’re out of college they’ll either take a sharply discounted payoff that’s a lot more than–”

“I see what you’re saying.” Tommy grins. “Throw in a lot of Health and Wellness shit with it. I mean, remember — we want these kids living to ripe old ages. The longer they live–”

“The more money we make,” Jenn finished. “That’s the best part of this whole thing. We can be as greedy as we like and it’s still in everyone’s best interests that people live healthy, long lives.”

“Yeah,” Michael said, drinking a healthy gulp.

“Michael,” Tommy said, looking sidelong at him. “You’re not sharing in our joy, tonight? Do you have an objection?”

“Not remotely,” Michael said. “We’re gonna make a fortune. I’m entirely behind that.”

“Then what’s the matter.” His smile grew slightly knowing. “How’s Lindy?”

“Wouldn’t rightly know. I haven’t seen her for ten days.”

“I knew it,” Tommy said. “I thought ‘now why would Michael be drinking on a Friday night?’ Especially if he could hear his cell phone in the first place, which meant he wasn’t out celebrating. That’s a good girl, Michael. How’d you lose her?”

“That’s a pretty rude question, Tommy. How do you know I did something wrong?”

Tommy just snorted.

Jenn shifted. “Did she want you to quit?”

“Why would Lindy want Michael to quit?” Tommy snapped. “He’s doing good work here. Making good money–”

“She was doing good work here too,” Jenn said. “Until we fired her and everyone like her.”

“What? You want me to keep a pile of highly paid professionals I don’t need on salary? We don’t sell Life Insurance any more, Jenn. I don’t need people to make recommendations and build tables for a product I don’t sell.”

“Enough, guys,” Michael said. The scotch was making his face numb. “She made her choice. She decided that someone would want to hire her when L.H.T. dropped her. She was wrong.”

“You know. Hartford Life couldn’t adapt. That’s why they’re not in business any more.” Tommy’s smile was almost predatory.

“I really, really don’t want to argue about this,” Michael said. “Lindy’s brilliant. Sooner or later she’ll decide she wants to work in this world and she’ll make a change.”

“Where is she now?” Jenn asked.

Michael paused. “She’s working in the technology sector,” he said.

Tommy laughed. “See? There’s always a way to rebound. Okay. Let’s start figuring out campaigns. I’m going to get the ball rolling — get the word to the workforce that tomorrow’s a work day.” He half-stormed to his desk, ready to make the first call.

“So why are you drunk tonight?” Jenn asked quietly.

“Hm?” Michael asked.

“It sounds like she left you ten days ago. Why are you drunk tonight?”

Michael looked at the ice in his otherwise empty glass. “You think you know what kind of impact someone has on your life. But you have no idea, Jenn. You have no idea.”

“Go on?” Jenn leaned forward. “Seriously. I want to know.”

Michael sighed. “I saw my doctor this morning.”

“–looks like your range of motion’s back to normal. PT still going okay?” Doctor Rivers asked.

“Yeah,” Michael said. “Doug says I could get back on the golf course if you say it’s okay.”

“Well, I’m willing to say it’s okay if you’re willing not to go crazy on your swing any more.” He smiled. “A quick Hafner/Baugh screening and we’ll call you healthy.”

“Okay,” Michael said, slipping out of his shoes. “Hey, why do you screen every time I come in. Just to charge my insurance for the test?”

Doctor Rivers laughed. “Nice try, Mister Insurance Guy, but at this point the copay automatically includes a screening. In fact, I’d be liable if I didn’t screen you when I saw you.”
He began setting up the machine, nodding for Michael to sit in the chair. “Too much diagnostic potential. Don’t forget, death is a moving target. If you suddenly had your Hafner/Baugh date move up, that would tell us some kind of environmental or lifestyle factor had changed.”

“Yeah, I know,” Michael said. “But that doesn’t happen to me. My Hafner/Baugh’s been steady for years. June 17, 2061.”

“And we want to keep it there,” Doctor Rivers said. “No talking please. Put this in your mouth and hold these in your hands.” He stepped around to the machine, and began to work it. After a moment, it hummed and made a couple of ‘thunking’ sounds.

Michael stared up at the ceiling. Someone had taped a picture of a waterfall there. He supposed it was to calm the patients down. In Michael’s case it made him want to pee.

“Michael?” Doctor Rivers sounded off, somehow.

“Yeah?”

“I want you to come with me to the other examination room. I want to retest you in there.”

Michael blinked. “Is there a problem?”

“I’m worried about a misconfiguration, is all. C’mon.”

Michael followed his doctor into the next examination room. They went through the routine there — right down to the ‘thunking’ noises. Michael always imagined it was punching tickets when it made those sounds. All aboard the death train….

Doctor Rivers was frowning as he walked back into view. “We’re going to test you a third time, over at the ER,” he said. “In the meantime, have you had any significant changes in lifestyle since the last time you came in here?”

“What? Well, I’m not golfing right now–”

“We can compensate for recoverable injury, and there’s a predicable shift in Hafner/Baugh after laying off regular exercise in recuperation. I expected you to lose a little time from the date–”

Michael sat up, frowning. “Wait. What is my Hafner/Baugh date?”

“Like I said, I want to compare the result with a machine back in the ER–”

“Okay, but what result are you comparing it to?”

Doctor Rivers took a deep breath. “Well, both the practice’s HBS’s come back with April 8th, 2049.”

Michael stared.

“Now, if the ER bears it out, we’ll start doing a test battery–”

“I’m not exercising as much,” he said. “My recovery–”

“Like I said, we could predict that shift. I’d expect something in 2057 or 2058 at the earliest. And you’ve been doing P.T.”

“There must be something…” Michael’s head was swimming. “Could this be a tumor or something?”

“We don’t know, Michael. But if it were cancer or even precancerous, it’s likely your Hafner/Baugh would drop a lot faster. And it’d be pretty new. We can do an environmental study–”

“Nothing’s changed in my environment,” Michael said, rubbing his head. “Could it have been developing? Something I was exposed to back–”

Doctor Rivers put his hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Michael,” he said quietly. “It has to be a new change. Otherwise, your Hafner/Baugh would have reflected it all along.”

“That thing isn’t perfect,” Michael snapped.

“No, it’s not. But it’s very well tested. Now listen to me, Michael. We’re going to do everything we can for you. We’re going to verify the date on at least one other HBS. We’ll do a complete metabolic workup. We’ll run a lot of tests, and we’ll get you into nutritional and exercise counseling. And we’ll try to figure out what changed in your environment. Sometimes it can be the smallest thing–”

Michael stopped walking. His face felt numb. “Oh God,” he said.

“What is it?”

“Lindy.”

“I’ll talk to her — you won’t have to explain this to her alone, Michael–”

“No. No, you don’t understand.” He looked at the Doctor. “We broke up eight days ago. I mean, it sounds stupid, but… but do you think….”

Doctor Rivers took a deep breath. “It’s not stupid at all, Michael. We see Hafner/Baugh variations when relationships change. It happens all the time.”

“But I haven’t done anything differently since she left.”

“Not consciously. But your habits change at times like this. In men, often diet will worsen. You’re depressed. Out of sorts. And you lose the real benefits of her presence. Sometimes a loved one just makes life better — and there’s a real and tangible medical benefit to that.”

Michael slumped down. He’d mostly gotten over the heartache. Even the loneliness had gotten better. He had been adjusting. “Maybe… maybe once I get used to her being gone–”

“It doesn’t work like that, Michael. If you make some positive changes in lifestyle–”

“I’ll meet someone else. That’ll fix it, right?”

Doctor Rivers smiled sadly. “Maybe and maybe not. Maybe you’re the sort of person who needs someone. Anyone. Or maybe you need her. I don’t know. I do know this is a pretty big mortality jump.”

“What… what if we got back together?”

“I don’t know, Michael. I can’t make any promises, either way.”

“But it wouldn’t make it worse, would it?”

“Probably not. But come on. This might be unrelated to Lindy — we’re going to figure it out. All right?”

“All right,” Michael said. But he already knew the answer.

#

The Best Buy was like every one Michael had been in. Bright lights. Shiny gadgets. Some guys in black and white in the corner. Workers in uniform — however casual — working the aisles.

He found her just next to the high definition televisions. She was working on the budget DVD rack. Old movies for ten bucks. He’d never seen her at work before, wearing the cobalt blue jersey, the khaki pants. A yellow name tag. Her black hair was braided back — she looked maybe twenty-three or twenty-four, not the thirty-two he knew she was.

She didn’t see him approach. He scooped up one of the ten dollar DVD’s — Lifeline. Science fiction thing that’d come out within a few months of the Hafner/Baugh process. “Did you ever see this?” he asked. “It got everything wrong.”

Lindy’s back tensed, and she turned. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I want to buy a new television,” Michael said. “Something really big and loud.”

“Michael — I don’t want to have this scene,” Lindy said, turning away. “I’m working.”

“I’ll want a three year protection plan, too.”

“Are you making fun of me?” Lindy demanded, whirling to face him again.

“I love you,” Michael said, quietly. “I need you, Lindy.”

Lindy stared, her eyes widening.

“I can’t… I can’t do this,” he said. “I need you in my life, Lindy. You have no idea how badly. I… it took me a pretty bad shock to figure out just how important–”

“Don’t,” Lindy whispered. “Don’t, Michael.”

“You missed me, didn’t you?”

“Michael….”

“Just answer me that, Lindy. I know you love me. I know there was something there. Tell me you missed me. Or tell me you didn’t and I’ll leave.”

Lindy bit her lip, shivering and turning away. “Of course I missed you,” she whispered.

“Then come home.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I want to, but I can’t.”

“Is it the job?”

“Michael–”

“I’ll quit.”

Lindy stared.

“Seriously. If it’s the job I’ll quit. I’ll fill out an application before I leave the store. The job doesn’t mean anything without you in my life, Lindy.”

“It’s not the job,” she said softly. “You’re bad for me, Michael.”

“We can go to counseling,” Michael said. “I’ll change–”

“That’s not what I mean,” Lindy said. She looked torn.

No. She looked guilty.

Michael felt his heart squeeze. “Is there someone else?”

“Michael–”

“It’s all right if there is,” he said, a little too quickly. “We broke up. You… of course you would–”

“There’s no one else, Michael. You’re bad for me.”

Michael felt his breath leave his body. “What do you mean?” he asked after a moment.

Lindy turned her head. She clearly couldn’t look at him. “I got tested at my gym, the day after we broke up. I’ve been tested twice more since then.”

“Tested?” Michael asked, knowing all too well the answer.

“Michael… I gained two years on my Hafner/Baugh date. Two years. My therapist thinks it’s getting out from under the stress of the relationship–”

“We can change our environment,” Michael said softly. “We’ll go to the gym. We’ll eat better. We can–”

“Oh Jesus, listen to yourself,” Lindy said. “I already go to a gym, Michael. Besides, I’m an actuary, remember? All my training comes down to assessing risk versus reward.”

Michael took a breath. “Meaning?”

“Meaning you’re not a good risk, Michael. It’s unlikely we could make those two years up with lifestyle changes — at least without becoming pretty miserable in the process. So it all comes down to whether you’re worth two years of my life.”

Michael’s face burned.

“I’m sorry, Michael. I really am.”

“Yeah,” he said. “No, of course. You’re right.”

Lindy tried to smile. “Hey. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay, Michael. You’re young, you’re a hotshot executive. Hey — I heard the Child Screening Act got passed. You’re going to have a great year. Any woman would be glad–”

Can they give me eleven years of my life back? Michael thought. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. I’ll… I should go.”*

*Lindy bit her lip, and hugged Michael. “It’ll be okay,” she murmured.

Michael held her tightly. He tried to memorize her scent….

Lindy let go. “Besides,” she said, trying wanly to smile. “Even with those two years you’ll outlive me by a year. Everyone wins, right?”

Michael felt dead already. “Death is a moving target,” he said. “I’m thinking I’m going to start taking better care of myself.”

The PA crackled. “Lindy to cash. Lindy to cash.”

“I’ve got to go,” she said.

Michael nodded. “I’ll see you around,” he said. He watched her leave. Watched her walk away. Eleven years.

More than that. He watched her walk away, and he knew he didn’t want her to.

He breathed out, slowly, and headed for the door. Time to see what he could do to push the Hafner/Baugh out a little farther. Maybe see a nutritionist. Get into a gym — maybe her gym, so they’d see each other at the gym sometimes. Or maybe not. Still. Now that his old life was over, it was time to start taking death a little more seriously.

Ain’t that a kick in the head?

The laws of Gossamer Commons are universal ones, and they’re harsh. Here’s a brief story on that theme.

*** *** *** ***
It was getting on towards dinnertime, and Caleb was pretty hungry. The sun was setting late these days, though, which meant it was still high overhead. Summertime didn’t want to be interrupted by dinner bells, and neither did Caleb. Especially since dinner would also mean washing dishes and taking out the garbage and it’d probably take an hour just to eat what with Grace and Millie talking everyone’s ear off about swim lessons and Dad telling one of his stories about work.

No, on the whole Caleb decided that he could do without it. And that meant being far from the house. If he couldn’t hear his mother call, he couldn’t very well be expected to get home for dinner, could he? It’s not like he owned a watch.

They called the woods out back of the house the swamp, but it wasn’t all that wet. it was overgrown, with some marshy bits, but for the most part it was thick woods and brambles, cattails and tall grasses. There were well worn paths through it, made by generations of eleven year olds just like Caleb. Each and every summer they ran through the swamp over the same ground their parents did, digging their way through brush and hacking at it with pen knives or the hatchets they weren’t supposed to borrow. The swamp belonged to kids. Everyone knew it. And each generation knew it was theirs.

Still, everyone knew there were old places in the swamp. Secrets. Broken remains of treehouses now fallen to the ground, with wrinkled and faded posters of Farrah Fawcett-Majors or Christie Brinkley from another era. Caleb, Tommy and Anne had found a shack in good shape the year before — old, with Playboys from the early seventies in it in good condition. Tommy thought that they were the first people to find the porn stash, but Caleb didn’t think so. There was a Watchamacallit candy bar wrapper in there, and that had to be from the eighties at the oldest.

This year, they’d gone looking, but the shack was nowhere to be found. Anne said they just couldn’t remember how to get there, but Caleb wasn’t sure. Maybe the swamp swallowed it up, until the next group of kids comes to the swamp.

Caleb made his way around the bend over the hill that overlooked the evergreens. There were twenty or thirty fir trees in that grove, which they could run around. The needles underneath their feet crinkled as they walked on them, a red-orange color, with none of the green from the trees, and no grass or shrubs grew down there. Tommy said the light couldn’t get down there, but Caleb thought the needles just choked everything. He skidded through them at a full run. They liked to play Lost down here, but that wasn’t as fun when you were by yourself. Besides, Caleb didn’t really like that show much.

In the background, the birds were calling out a storm, and the mosquitoes were trying to have a field day. They were swarmed as he walked but the liberal coating of Off Caleb’s mom had sprayed on him before letting him go out was keeping them back. If he ran, he could feel them bouncing off his skin, trying to get away from him. It was like a force field surrounding him, keeping the bugs off.

And then the birds stopped singing.

Caleb frowned. He didn’t usually notice birds, but when they went from loud to silent it was like someone had turned off the radio. There was just the wind blowing through the poplars to one side. He was standing on the broader path, red dirt instead of brown, that went up the hill and over to the Roys’ farm in one direction and down to the pond in the other, and suddenly there were no birds.

Caleb looked to either side. There were no mosquitos either, and that was weird. This close to the pond was usually full of them.

Down the path, around the bend, Caleb heard… something. Like a bird singing, but too regular. Like pipes, or Anne’s recorder, but played better. But so soft.

Caleb smiled, and began to creep down the path. Sometimes, teenagers liked to sneak out to the pond to make out. It was fun to watch them and sometimes throw pebbles at them. He bet one of them had a boombox and was putting the moves on some girl. Caleb caught his older cousin Jennie once with this boy from her high school. It was great.

Caleb turned the corner, but ducked off the path to the left. He cut through the undergrowth, going lower beneath the bramble patch, and came around to the side of the old dead tree. The old dead tree was huge, with a limb that reached out over the water. There was a rope for a swing attached to it, and kids would swing on it over the water, though there was a thick green layer of scum on the edges of the pond so no one swam in it. He slowly pushed his head out of the brush, looking to either side for the teenagers….

But there weren’t any. And the music sounded more like some kind of whistling or singing. It was… calming. Soothing. Like nothing he’d heard, though it reminded him of his mother singing him to sleep when he was little. Really little. Caleb couldn’t believe he even remembered it. Hushalittle baby now don’t you cry… Momma’s gonna sing you a lullabye….

Caleb shook his head, looking around. He didn’t see where the music was coming from. There was just the pond with some mist hanging over it like bits of… smoke….

The smoke was moving.

The smoke wasn’t smoke.

It was a girl. A little tiny girl, thin, made of smoke and mist, and she was dancing. Dancing on the water. A wisp. A whisper.

Caleb’s eyes grew wider as he saw a second, and then a third wisp join her. Dancing and darting to the music. He didn’t know what they were, but they were beautiful. Soft, fragile things, like if he breathed on one they’d break. He winced as what felt like hickory smoke touched his eyes, but he wiped them and they were fine. He blinked to see if the dancers were still there. To see if he were seeing things.

No. They were there. He wasn’t seeing things. They were right there.

The wisps darted and danced, the music faster now as they sported over the surface of the water like skitterbugs the kids would trap. They hopped and they skipped and they spun, two girls, two guys, now holding hands, now separating to the banks of the pond. One came within six feet of Caleb as it danced — one of the boys, looking like a little smoke skeleton or an alien with blue eyes bigger than its soft looking skull, but pretty, not creepy. Not creepy at all.

It spun and danced right next to the bank, and Caleb shivered. He held his breath. He didn’t dare make a sound. He wanted to reach out and touch it or coax it closer but he was afraid that if he moved so much as a muscle it would dart away — they were so fast.

“Caaaaaaaaaaleb!”

The call was far away but clearly audible, and the wisps froze, turning to look. Caleb bit his lip. Go away, Mom! he thought with all his might. Go away before you scare them!

But it was too late for that. The four darted together, bunching in the middle of the pond and looking all around. It’s okay, Caleb wanted to shout to them. It’s just my Mom! She won’t hurt you! Don’t stop dancing! Please don’t stop! Don’t ever stop–

There was a sudden loud crack, loud like a gunshot. Loud like a cannon. Caleb whirled to face it. The old dead tree was shaking, one of its limbs falling. There was another crack and it fell towards him maybe three feet. It was coming down! Caleb tried to jump back out of the way but the underbrush had hold and he couldn’t get untangled and the tree was coming down–

It hurt. It hurt badly. It hurt worse than anything, and he couldn’t move or breathe. When he tried it was like there was glass in his chest and the tree was on top of him. He managed to turn his head, ever so slightly….

The four wisps were standing, not three feet away. They were watching him.

They looked sad. They looked sorry.

Caleb wanted to comfort them. To tell them it wasn’t their fault. To tell them that it was the old tree and it had been dead probably longer than Caleb had been alive. But he had no air to speak. And then everything was dark.