‘I don’t know… He was talking to you. Yelling.’
‘He was feeding me, Jon. Feeding me because I am forgetting myself, just like my father, my god, is forgetting me. He was giving me memories for –’ she broke off in a violent fit of coughing. ‘He was giving me a future, giving me words I could say to you, keeping the memories of what we’d shared alive inside my head, living my life over and over again every single night. He was remembering me. And now –’ the coughing took her again, a little worse than before. ‘Now the magic is gone. You saw it. That’s what you’ll remember, not my face, not the way I feel beneath your hands or your skin, you’ll remember him holding me like that, feeding me what I need to be whole. That’s what you’ll remember. And it’s killed me. He wrote the last book for you, Jon, for you to remember his last angel, but you broke your promise. You had to know, you couldn’t simply love. You had to follow me. You had to learn the secret of Angel Home. And it’s killed me. I can feel it. In here.’
‘But in the picture,’ Jon said desperately, clutching at straws even though he could feel the strength seeping out of her already. ‘The angel with the broken wings… the boy is –’
‘Saying goodbye,’ Kirsten finished for him. ‘There was always a chance, that’s why father started that painting, but he couldn’t finish it. He kept telling me he couldn’t believe you’d kill me. He was so sure you understood the magic. But he was wrong. You’re no different from the rest. You grew up and you forgot how it feels to believe in magic. You had to understand, I was a problem you had to solve…’
She was dying in his hands and there was nothing he could do to stop it. The Boy Who Remembers the Angels had forgotten the simple magic of the story and started looking for the strings.
Kirsten’s eyes closed, her breathing painfully shallow. She weighed nothing in his arms. Her scent, that sweet vanilla essence, was fading along with her.
‘The Life Stone?’ he said suddenly, trying to remember the story. Jon looked around franticly for something that looked even remotely like his drawing. A fire hydrant; broken paving stones; a dried up fountain with faceless cherubs frozen in place; but nothing like the precious stone he had spent weeks trying to render in pen and ink.
‘You,’ Kirsten whispered. ‘You were always the Life Stone. Through you we could stay alive…’ her voice trailed away weakly.
‘I’ll never forget you.’
‘But it’s not enough. You forgot the magic.’
He didn’t have an answer to that.
‘You forgot the magic,’ she said again, barely forming the words.
She died in his arms a few minutes later.
Jon held her tight, the tears running down his cheeks. His angel. He laid her body in the dry fountain bed, with her brothers and sisters to look over her. It didn’t feel right, still being here without her. He took one last lingering look at Angel Home, the miracle Hoke had placed in his care, then turned his back on it.
‘HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW!’ he yelled accusingly, willing to blame anyone but himself for what he had lost.
On the long walk through strange streets that led back to Kirsten’s converted apartment in the granary Jon knelt at every corner, collecting the stones she had used to mark the way. He held them tightly in his clenched fist and made himself a promise, said it aloud to make it more real:
‘Every time I hold one of these stones I’ll remember you, my angel.’ He breathed.
But he knew it was a lie.
Already he was beginning to forget her face and the more he tried to focus on what made it special, the more it faded. It was too late. Just as he’d always known it would be.
Kumiho
V.C. Linde
From: And the Fox Crows
In Korean legend there are stories of a malevolent
nine-tailed fox who can shape-shift
One thousand years, one thousand lives, one thousand hearts,
Transforms – choose a shape – shift into new conditions.
Why stop? Why change again? Why abstain?
Half tale, half tail, half life.
Look for the signs left
behind her. Sharp teeth
over sharp tongue
Nine-tailed
Fox.
The Ballad of Gilain
Sarah Cawkwell
From: Tales of the Nun and Dragon
The tavern door opened, letting in some of the damp, moist air from outside. A few leaves, abandoned on the floor by previous travellers, skipped gleefully in the updraft, dancing joyfully around the feet of the newcomers. Both were soaked; the rain had started some time three days ago and apart from a brief respite where the sky gods had simply been distracted for a moment, hadn’t let up.
One of the inn’s new patrons was tall and rangy; broad shouldered and narrow-hipped in the way so admired by ladies of the land. He wore a plain, unadorned tabard that had once been white but which had absorbed any number of unlikely stains. Blood. Grass. Mud. Soot. He was young; perhaps in his early twenties, and he had a pleasing countenance framed by a mess of dark curls, plastered to his head by the rain from outside. A neatly trimmed beard graced his jaw line. One of the barmaids was already casting looks of interest his way, but the newcomer seemed not to notice.
At first glance, there was nothing about him that distinguished him from any of the countless would-be heroes who had passed through this tavern over the past few months. A closer inspection however revealed a look of haunted horror in his eyes. He stumbled across the tavern as though already intoxicated on the fine ale, or a flagon of Mistress Bertha’s mead, and sank into a seat by the fire. His finery dripped rainwater into a sodden puddle at his feet and he leaned forward to cradle his head in his hands.
Behind him, always three paces behind him, came a shorter, stockier figure, every bit as wet as the warrior. This man was clearly a servant or squire of some kind as he was bearing what were presumably some of the young hero’s belongings. There was a finely tooled but notably empty scabbard and a cloak caked with mud. He crossed to the warrior, set down his burden and patted the young man unselfconsciously on the shoulder. He then approached the bar.
‘Ale for me,’ he said. ‘Something stronger for him.’ He spoke in a plain, unaccented voice; not a local man. ‘Preferably something that means he’ll sleep without dreams. Or nightmares, if you catch my drift.’ He dug into a leather pouch at his waist and dropped a few coins on the polished wood of the counter.
The barman, a stoic soul by the unlikely name of Boz, nodded and reached for a bottle of finest oak-cask mead. Uncorking it, he poured a generous measure of the golden liquid into a glass that was only slightly grubby and pushed it towards the new arrival. ‘Sit ye down,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring over the ale. Ye be wantin’ food too, by the looks o’ you.’
‘Food would be most welcome, yes. Thank you.’
‘Ain’t much. Roast’s less than three days old. Bit dry, but…’
‘Maybe just a plate of bread and cheese.’ The man shot a glance at the young hero who was moaning softly into his hands. ‘I’m not so sure he’ll be up to meat for a while.’
‘Oh?’ Boz raised his generously bushy eyebrows. The newcomer stared at him briefly. It was an effect Boz induced in many people meeting him for the first time. The barman’s impressive eyebrows were like two well-proportioned, immaculately trained dark caterpillars crawling about his head.
‘Yes,’ said the man, dragging his eyes away and staring at his companion who was now shaking visibly. Occasionally a sob would come from his hands. ‘Just bread and cheese. If you don’t mind, I should probably…’ He gestured at the youth and then crossed over to where the warrior sat.
‘Gilrain, this will help.’ The man proffered the glass of mead, his stance slightly tentative. ‘Warm you up a bit, too.’
Gilrain raised a ravaged face to his ser
vant. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be warm again, Therin,’ he said in a strangled voice. He accepted the drink anyway and tossed the liquid back in one practised throw. ‘It was alive.’
Therin waited.
‘It was al... that was nice. Maybe I’ll have some more.’
Therin waited a little longer.
‘My word, it’s certainly… potent, isn’t it?’
There was a pregnant pause and then Gilrain began coughing, unused to the effects of downing strong drink in one gulp. Therin smiled some more, then took the glass from his companion’s hands before he could drop it on the floor. Gilrain’s eyes popped a little, but when the coughing subsided, some of the despair had gone out of his face. Seemingly granted a reprieve from his misery, the young man took hold of a corner of his tabard, wringing out the rainwater. Boz strolled over with the servant’s tankard of ale and demonstrating the kind of foresight that barmen the world over seem to possess, the bottle of mead as well.
‘Thank you,’ said Therin, accepting his ale. Gilrain looked up at the barman and stared at the impossible eyebrows.
‘Are... they alive?’ There was terror in his voice.
‘Gilrain?’ The servant’s tone was prompting, like a parent reminding a child about something.
Gilrain stared a little longer, then shook his head as though to clear it. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, then added ‘nk you,’ for good measure. Then he stared at the floor. The servant positively beamed.
‘Splendid, isn’t he?’ said Therin. ‘Your good health, barkeep.’
‘What on earth happened to him?’ Boz’s curiosity got the best of him and he gestured with a huge thumb at the young warrior. There were cuts and bruises across his body and one eye was slowly swelling shut from a bruise to the cheekbone. His left hand was tightly clenched into a fist. Therin set down his tankard and wiped his mouth free of the foam that flecked his lip.
‘Dragon,’ he said.
‘Ah,’ replied Boz. ‘We see a lot of those things around these parts. One chase him from its lair, did it? Got a bit spooked by comin’ face to face with one, did he?’ The barkeep nodded sagely. He’d seen his share of would-be dragon hunters. Sometimes they didn’t come into the inn carried in cremation jars.
‘Goodness, no,’ replied Therin. ‘Master Gilrain slew this dragon.’
‘Then what the ‘ell is wrong with him?’
Therin smiled. ‘For a room for him and me and free drink for the night… I’ll tell you.’
Boz paused, then returned the smile. ‘Done,’ he said.
‘Very well,’ said the servant. ‘I’ll tell you what happened.’
‘Come hear ye now of young Gilrain, a man of great renown
He fought with bandits, thieves and thugs... and brought a dragon down
From dawn ‘til dusk he’d ply his trade, a swordsman through and through
So let us now regale you with the things our hero do...’
‘Did.’
There was a pause and then the younger of the two voices sighed heavily. ‘It doesn’t matter how you try to dress it up, Gilrain is a stupid name.’ The petulant voice threaded through the persistent precipitation and eventually the owners of the voices came into view. The young man rode his horse with all the finesse of a man slamming a nail into the wall with a sledgehammer. By his side walked his faithful companion.
‘It served your father very well for his entire life,’ replied Therin mildly.
‘Yes, but...’ The warrior hesitated, evidently attempting to articulate what must be a very complicated thought. ‘He never attempted to compose a song about his deeds of heroism, did he? I mean really. Why didn’t they call me Gilrexy? Or... or...’ Gilrain paused again, having come to the end of his very short imaginative wanderings.
‘Gilbellendowed?’
‘Precisely. At the moment, all I can think of that rhymes with ‘Gilrain’ is ‘pain’ and that doesn’t exactly bode well, does it, Therin? What young woman is going to throw herself at my feet when I sing her a song about pain?’ His lips formed a pout and he ran his fingers through his mane of untidy hair. He was a pleasant looking young man and the scowl did not suit him.
Therin did not comment. Having heard Gilrain’s singing voice, he felt the word was very well suited. Wisely, he kept his counsel. After another long pause, he carefully made a suggestion.
‘Again?’
‘What?’
‘Again. It rhymes rather well, I feel. Something like ‘Hark! The tale of Sir Gilrain, who slaughtered evil once again...’ Therin was rewarded with a light in Gilrain’s dark brown eyes.
‘Again,’ said the warrior. ‘Brain. Pain. Drain. Lane. Plain.’
‘Insane,’ muttered Therin.
‘What?’
‘Don’t say what, say pardon.’ It was automatic. Therin couldn’t help treating the youth like a child. In part it was because Gilrain was very much like a child. Outrageously spoiled from an early age, he had lost his parents to the plague when he had been eight years old. Therin had promised his old friend that he would raise the boy as a mighty warrior, or failing that would at least find him a decent living as a farmer.
It had transpired that Gilrain possessed some surprising skill with a sword; and throughout his childhood Therin had trained him in every aspect of blade craft that he had himself learned during his time as a squire. Gilrain soaked up information like a sponge. At least, he soaked up information about fighting and warfare like a sponge. He soaked everything else up like granite.
It would have been cruel to call Gilrain ‘stupid’, but he wasn’t gifted with a staggering amount of intelligence. It was why, Therin sighed heavily, they were heading out to the arse-end of nowhere in the pouring rain, seeking a dragon who may or may not even exist. Gilrain would slay the beast, find the local land owner, claim a magnificent reward and maybe marry any eligible daughters. All of them.
That was Gilrain’s plan. Therin suspected the reality of the situation would pan out differently.
Little did he know how accurate that prediction would be.
‘We should stop and rest for a while,’ said Therin. He wasn’t really a squire to the young warrior, but Gilrain tended to treat him that way. It wasn’t malicious at all and Therin was fond of the boy so humoured him. Gilrain had heard somewhere that every hero should have a faithful accomplice and he had put two and two together to make six hundred and forty nine.
‘But I’m not tired,’ protested Gilrain.
‘I know,’ replied Therin with infinite patience. ‘But then, you’ve been riding all afternoon. I haven’t been.’
‘Oh.’ The young man’s face seemed to work through the paradox and then he brightened. ‘I could always walk for a while and you could ride!’
‘The horse would still be tired.’
‘Good point.’ Another of those frowns followed by a beaming smile of terrifying innocence. ‘Very well then,’ said Gilrain. ‘I have an idea. We should stop and rest for a while.’
Therin smiled to himself. It wasn’t that Gilrain was stupid particularly. Indeed, when the situation demanded it, he could demonstrate a surprising level of intelligence. But common sense seemed to elude him. And occasionally, just occasionally, he bordered on the downright insane.
The young man was kind at heart; one of life’s good souls and had taken the fairly poor hand life had dealt him in his stride. Exactly what game he had chosen to play remained a mystery, but he tried.
They found themselves a suitable stopping point; a small glade set back from the main path through the forest. It offered a little protection against the endless rain at least. Gilrain slid down from his horse and tethered the animal a few feet away. Wrinkling his nose, he sniffed the air. It smelled of soggy soil and rotting leaves. It was a fresh smell that was heightened by the dampness in the air.
‘What are the chances of ligh
ting a fire do you think, Therin?’
‘Slim to non-existent, I’d suggest,’ replied the older man, digging through the horse’s saddlebags. They had picked up trail rations before setting out on this trip and whilst it was little more than nuts and dried fruit, it was better than the gnawing ache of a constantly empty stomach. ‘I still have some dry tinder, but I would rather save it for night-time.’
‘Fair enough.’ Gilrain sighed. Armour, he reasoned, was marvellous stuff. It protected you from the worst that could be thrown at you, but when you were wet and cold and miserable, it was just a nuisance.
He wore shining, well-maintained chainmail over a leather cuirass and it was a heavy burden at the best of times. The hard, tooled leather was at least strong enough to turn back the worst of the rain, but he still felt soggy. He sighed again, the kind of sound that started at his toes and built up momentum as it escaped through his mouth.
‘I don’t believe there really is a dragon at the end of this hunt.’ Therin looked at the boy sharply. It was not like him to demonstrate pessimism. Gilrain was almost terminally cheery and optimistic. Still, given the weather conditions of late, even the happiest man in the world would have been ready for a good grump.
‘Cheer up,’ said Therin. ‘Perhaps the rain will let up in a while.’ He handed Gilrain a small bag containing a share of the trail rations. ‘Have something to eat. That always makes you feel better.’
Gilrain stared at the unappetising repast, but ate it anyway. Therin had lied to him, it seemed. His spirits didn’t lift in the slightest. He moved towards a large tree with overhanging branches. He stood glumly staring at the rain as it dripped from the leaves and threw up little craters in the many puddles forming on the ground.
‘How is it even possible to rain this much?’ His complaint was a regular one and Therin, who had never studied meteorology, had yet to formulate a satisfactory response. Because as an answer to Gilrain’s questions had stopped working when the boy had become a teenager. ‘Even if there is a dragon here, it’s probably hiding somewhere.’
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