The Ancients and the Angels: Celestials

by M.C. O'Neill

“Sometimes I lie awake at night and ask, ‘why me?’ Then a voice answers, ‘Nothing personal, your name just happened to come up.’”

  -Charles M. Schulz

  No Presents for Wintersfest

  “Lame!” cried Quen’die, as she moved her golem to secure a strut into the gigantic metal skeleton erected before her without effort. Her work detail was much more demanding than her father had made it out to be, but he was always one for heaping sugar over everything. Were she still on Earth going to school with Lauryl’la and On’dinn, or even the vile Venn’lith, she would be right in the middle of Wintersfest break and fighting over presents with Kaedish. For the first time in her memory, this particular morning was not a flurry of the lad’s bratty howls of frustration and stereoscopic explosions from the new video games that Mother was sure to have bought them by the coachload. Neither present were the smells of puddings and crabs and lobsters nor the amazing cakes that Nanna was always certain to bring over.

  Lubricant, old managrease and sawdust assaulted the maiden’s nose this sad season and the clanking sounds of construction always carried into her ears. The worst part about being forced to work on the holiday was the sweltering temperature. On Mars, it was always hot and swampy, yet the air was thinner. She wondered often how such thick weather could make her breath short now and again.

  There was never any breezy or rainy relief in Cydonia’s latitudes during the autumn months and the sky overhead was a constant grey, grey and more grey. The sun, when it appeared, was different as well, and it sometimes made her feel sick. Nowhere and at no time on Earth was there anything like it. It was almost as if a movie studio had trapped everyone under a strange dome with a projected daylight and the production crew just couldn’t get it right. At night, the sky was a milky dark purple, like the medicine that she had to slurp down when she was an elfling with roiling ear infections. The only thing, and Quen’die meant the only thing, decent about Mars was the lower gravity. She could easily jump from a standstill to over six feet in midair, but even that got old after a while.

  Her new golem just didn’t handle as well as Jugger, but she attributed that to her ever-salty attitude. Perhaps her empathy link just wasn’t as whole-hearted with it. This one was a bit smaller and hewn from mammoth ivory and, at times, she found it a bit grotesque, like a twelve-foot-tall skeleton.

  “Look, Dee,” Tam’laa, who was now not only her friend, but her boss, huffed over to her from her own golem. “I know what you’re going to say, but this is only for one Wintersfest and, well, you are under punishment.”

  “So!” Quen’die belted back as her golem inserted another strut. “I mean, can’t I just have Wintersfest off? I bet even the slaves in the salt mines of Mongg have this day off!”

  Tam’laa grimaced at that supposition. “Eh, I wouldn’t go that far. Tel’lemuria can be pretty rough. They probably just get to have an apple for dessert or something, and then it’s back to the grind.”

  “Whatever,” the maiden spat forth, thinking only of herself at that moment. “The worst part about it all is that this is the end of the Eighties and I have to usher in the Nineties playing puppeteer to a bloody skeleton! You know, I bet Venn’lith’s New Year’s will be broadcast the world over!”

  The gold elf shrugged with a sheepish wince. “Well, yeah, eh, actually it will be…”

  “Lame!” Quen’die screamed to the endless expanse of overcast sky. Her teeth hurt from the grit of the grind. “I saved Princess Cai’lee and the king! I should at least be able to get the expedition commander to let me have today off! And New Year’s.”

  For her valiant efforts commanding Puppet Fire One and breaking the royal siege, Quen’die Reyliss was awarded the Royal Heroic Gold Standard once again. Never in Atlantean history had any soldier received it multiple times, but dire times breed heroes, even ungrateful ones.

  “Look!” Tam’laa shook her head and cocked her eyes, hoping that her friend wouldn’t see the annoyed gesture. “I’ll get my father to sneak you into my quarters and we can have our very own Eighties retrofest on New Year’s! My stereo has tons of tunes on it! Well, except for the Princes, but they’re all still good.”

  The grey maiden smiled a bit at that. Even a tiny soiree in Tam’laa’s cramped space was a welcome change from building Venn’lith’s stupid pyramid. “Really? Eh, I’m sorry to vent, Tam, but that sounds really great. Just please let’s not watch Venn’lith’s New Year.”

  Her friend cracked one of her infectious smiles. “It’s a deal. No Venn’lith.”

  “Heh, I wonder if she’s showing yet,” Quen’die let loose a catty chuckle while puffing out her belly. It looked as if she had swallowed a watermelon. “That maiden will be fit to burst in a couple of months or so. Which brings me to another point…”

  “Oh no…,” Tam’laa rolled her eyes again, and that time she didn’t care if the grey elf saw it. She knew very well what was coming.

  “How come she gets to have a novion from another dimension and mine has to go back Home?” By reflex, Quen’die looked skyward. It was a habit of hers that Tam’laa had noticed ever since the maiden had arrived planteside. Like her work detail, Quen’die was not dealing with the angelic’s departure very well.

  “Like, he was there one minute, Tam, and then,” she sucked back a slight sniff. “Poof! Gone. He said he’d return and it wouldn’t be the end, but it’s been months! It’s like, I get all… hot and stuff whenever I think about him! I don’t like it. But I do. And sometimes, when I’m alone, I…”

  “Whoa! Too much info!” the gold elf adjusted her voice to her “sensible” mode. “Well, look. The difference between Mav and Cadreth is that Cadreth is an infernal and he and Lith have…new responsibilities, let’s say. I mean, do you really want a novion who hates all of elfdom? Think about it, maiden!”

  “I dunno,” Quen’die huffed as if she wasn’t listening to her friend’s advice. “I think Rylla was right about those foreign lads. She warned me that they would just be there one minute and then forget about you when the next big thing comes along.”

  “Mav is a little bit more than just a foreigner,” Tam’laa reminded the maiden as she ordered her golem to heave a sandstone block over the struts. “He’s, well, from another dimension and all. He didn’t leave you for some other maiden or anything like that. You just need to be patient. He was a good guy and I think he’ll keep his promise.”

  Quen’die was half-convinced at that, but only for the time being. Tam’laa’s assessment of the situation brought with it some hope, and as for Mavriel, hope was just about all she had. It wasn’t like he could write her a message or call her up from where he was. Earth and elfdom, and even Mars were safe, and that was a gigantic baby step that she could consider taking throughout her own personal, dire times.

  Warmed in that slight hope, Quen’die Reyliss looked up again and saw nothing but the sweaty blanket of Martian air. Before her eyes, one of the tiny native bugs fluttered around her bony golem. It was much like an earthly butterfly, but it owned an extra pair of lepid wings which were of a bright purple; a hue unlike she had ever before seen. The insect looped around with a gentle roll and landed in the extramaton’s skeletal hand. Without effort or thought, the maiden squeezed her fist just as her puppet crushed the little beast.

  FIN.

  Forged within the city limits of Des Plaines, Illinois, U.S.A. December 16, 2010-August 3, 2011.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  M.C. O’Neill was born in Chicago, Illinois on a cold November morning and graduated from Indiana University with a B.A. in graphic design, later to be awarded an MFA in painting from the University of Cincinnati. Currently, O’Neill resides in Des Plaines, Illinois.

  Photo credit: Indigo Moran

 
r: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share