Community of Magic Pens

by Community of Magic Pens (epub)

  Rose thought of the other small beds and the other small bodies and tubes and IV poles carrying bags of liquid medication. How wonderful it was when her friends were happy. She scrunched up her face and held her hands over her heart. “I wish . . . I wish I could make other children well.” Her grandfather leaned forward in his metal chair and the light of hope brightened his tired face. If Rose was not getting well, perhaps she could help others.

  The Blue Fairy gave a sad smile. “I’m sure you will make them feel better.” She reached into her basket and gave Rose a velvet-covered book, holding leaves of drawing paper, and a set of felt pens, each a different colour of the rainbow. She waved her wand and there was a small sprinkling of silver glitter. “Have fun drawing with these magical markers. They will make your wish come true.” She ended her visit by giving Rose a small kiss on her peach-fuzz forehead and two cherry-flavoured candy canes.

  That night, Rose dreamt of laughing children, her little hospital friends overjoyed to go home. The next day and over many days, Rose drew pictures of her visiting friends. For Aidan, a five-year-old boy who loved his stuffed purple hippo, she drew a trip to the zoo with lazy lions and nibbling giraffes. For Tina, a chatty girl too small for her age, a red hot-air balloon floated at the top of the page, her family soaring through the air in a wicker basket. Ryan, his face rounded from steroids, always wished for a dog so Rose drew a puppy in the picture. The sun had a yellow, smiling face and dazzling butterflies flew in the paper sky. The colours of the magical markers blazed across the page.

  Many children came and went from the hospital ward. A joyous clanging of a bronze bell would announce their departure, echoing down the long, white hallways. The parents may have believed it was the chemotherapy or radiation that had helped their children, but Rose knew it was her drawings.

  One Sunday morning, Rose awoke but the metal chair beside her bed stood empty. Hours passed and then the day, but the chair remained empty. Her parents tried to explain her grandfather’s absence; his heart gave out in the night. Rose didn’t understand—how could a heart as large as her grandfather’s stop working?

  By some sad coincidence, that same day, the magical markers ran dry of ink. The pages in her notebook looked as empty as the metal chair. No children left the hospital ward that day; no happy clang of a ringing bell sounded down the hospital halls. Exhausted from grief, Rose fell asleep, her magical markers scattered uncapped by her side.

  That night Rose dreamt of her grandfather. It was the Christmas before she became ill. She sat at a long table at her grandparents’ house, when Nana was still alive. There was laughter at that table—carefree laughter, not the type that served as a brief respite to grief. A wreath decorated with candles was the centrepiece. The roasted turkey, a beautiful burnished gold, gave the room a delicious smell with its stuffing of mushrooms and marjoram. Her grandparents had a matching glow on their faces, and after dinner, her grandfather, with crinkles at the corners of his eyes, held her hand as they skated over the small pond nestled in the eastern corner of the lot, the ice illuminated by the porch lights and the moon and the stars.

  In her sleep, Rose shed many tears. When she roused in the darkness of just before dawn, Rose noticed the faint stain of ink from marker to the paper. Her tears had replenished the ink. Quickly, she drew the last image from her dream: she was holding her grandfather’s warm hand.

  A few hours later, when Rose’s parents awoke, the first thing they noticed was the serene expression on Rose’s face. She lay so quietly, so peacefully, she looked as though she were sleeping.

  Lena Ng (she/her) lives in Toronto, Ontario. She has short stories in three dozen publications including Amazing Stories, from Australia, Canada, the US, and the UK. Under an Autumn Moon is her short story collection. She is currently seeking a publisher for her novel, Darkness Beckons, a Gothic romance.

  Rekindled

  Mikko Rauhala

  Nera knew something was amiss as soon as she noticed the crow cooing on her porch a mere three weeks after the fall equinox. Mother’s next letter, no doubt wishing Nera well in all her endeavors, wasn’t due until the winter solstice.

  The crow cawed and pushed a small container tied to his leg toward Nera.

  “Just a moment, Wisp. I’ll get you your treat,” she said to the crow. Intelligent as the familiar was, he was still a crow. Headstrong, willful, proud—just as Mother liked it. He would run errands for her, to be sure, but he expected to be properly compensated for his time and effort.

  Wisp bobbed his head up and down in acknowledgment. Nera entered her single-room hut, suitable for an independent medicine woman in her late twenties. A simple stone fireplace in the corner to keep her warm, a bed to let her rest her bones, and a stool and a table to write on. A shelf to the left of the fireplace held jars of herbs and tinctures of various kinds, and the shelf to the right was reserved for more mundane foodstuffs. She reached into a jar on the latter shelf, pulled out a handful of nuts, and returned outside.

  She crouched next to Wisp, placed the nuts on the porch, and said: “Here you go. Could I have Mother’s letter now, please?”

  The crow tilted his head, a gesture that Nera had learned to take for a smile, and proceeded to tinker with the string on his leg. As soon as he’d gotten the container free, he picked it up and placed it on Nera’s hand. Then he turned to regard the pile of nuts.

  “Could you wait a while so I can see if an immediate reply is called for?”

  Wisp picked up a nut in his beak, bobbed his head up and down, and proceeded to bite into the treat.

  “Thanks,” Nera said with a smile. “I’ll try to make it quick.” Then she went inside and opened the window next to the table. The sun was still high, and the southwestern view was good for evening reading.

  Nera popped the container’s cap, dug out a small scroll, and spread it onto the table. Despite her age, Mother’s hand was as steady as ever. Nera had to squint to make out the tiny letters:

  Dear Nera,

  I hope this letter finds you well. It occurs to me that we’ve barely spoken anything of import for the better part of the decade. I’d like for us to get to know each other again, and give Wisp some proper exercise. What say you?

  Regards,

  Raziela

  Nera chuckled. This was a change from the formal pleasantries they usually exchanged four times a year. Not an unwelcome one, though. They’d just sort of drifted apart since Mayview had lost its previous medicine woman and Nera had answered the call. But maybe it was time to reconnect.

  Dipping her pen in the inkwell, Nera wrote her agreement on the blank side of the scroll, then rolled the message back into the cylinder. Wisp jumped up on the table, having eaten his fill, and Nera tied the message to his leg. “Thanks, Wisp. Give Mother my best,” she said.

  Wisp cawed and took off through the open window, disappearing into the sun.

  Two days later the crow returned, and twice a week hence. The pace was such that it was all Nera could do to think of something to write back before Wisp would be knocking on her door again.

  Mother shared her memories of the early years, how she’d juggled raising a baby and serving her community, not always to her own satisfaction. She wrote about how she’d kept Nera busy with learning about healing herbs and tinctures as soon as she was out of the crib. She recounted how distraught she’d been when the whooping cough had spread throughout the village, Nera falling ill among the rest, but how her medicinal arts had managed to triumph over it in the end.

  And she wrote of the bittersweet sensation of Nera coming into her own and leaving for Mayview, of her regret over letting their contact largely lapse while busying herself in her own responsibilities. Nera sent a reply reminding her that they’d both had their hand in that.

  As the year marched on and the winter solstice approached, Mother suggested that Nera join her for a quiet celebration. Nera happily agreed and prepared for the journey.

  Nera’s old home was as it had ev
er been. The stone house was twice the size of Nera’s own, and had twice the rooms—gratitude of a village well served. A diverse herb garden dominated the front yard, its lushness only slightly reined in by the mild winter air. The rest of the surroundings were as nature wished.

  A caw from above welcomed her as she approached the front door by way of the narrow garden path. Nera looked up and saw Wisp circling in the sky. She gave him a little wave, and the crow dove down and in through a cracked window at the front.

  “Ah, she’s here?” asked a familiar voice from her childhood. There was an affirmative caw. “Come on in!” Mother hollered. “It’s not as if I’ve put a bolt on the door!”

  Nera chuckled. “Didn’t expect you had!” The hinges creaked with age as she opened the door to the main room. It hadn’t changed a bit since Nera last laid eyes on it, except for the large piles of paper in every corner of the room. The walls were otherwise lined with shelves full of one odd thing or another. To the left of the door stood a table with some dishes and cutlery on it. A tattered couch lay near the fireplace.

  The door to her mother’s room was open, not that there was any chance of closing it without clearing some of the clutter first. Nera peeked in, barely catching sight of Wisp’s tail at the window as he took off into the air again. Mother sat at her desk with a pile of empty papers on her left and full ones on her right, her quill furiously working on the half-filled sheet in front of her.

  Mother raised her smiling face toward Nera, but her hand continued scribbling as she spoke: “Welcome, welcome, my child. It’s good to see you after so long.”

  “Too long, Mother. It’s good to see you, and that you’re as vital as ever. It’s not just my correspondence keeping your hand busy, then?” Nera asked, trying to insert some levity into the obvious question.

  Mother’s smile widened. “No, it’s not. But it is one of my more pleasant pastimes.”

  “What’re you working on now?” Nera asked.

  “Come and have a look, why don’t you?”

  Nera came closer and tilted her head to get a better view of her mother’s writing:

  “Nera came closer and tilted her head to get a better view of my writing,” said the latest line of text as soon as her mother had finished with it. Nera raised her eyebrow. “Nera raised her eyebrow,” Mother added.

  Nera sat on the spare stool next to the desk. “Well, at least from what I can tell, you’re writing what I’m doing after the fact,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Her mother chuckled. “Right you are, my girl. You always were quick to notice such things.” Her hand continued to write. A quick glance told Nera that yes, her mother was writing her own words down as well.

  “For what purpose are you narrating everything we do, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Why, what does one usually make notes for? I want to be able to remember my dear daughter’s visit. Ah. ‘Nera pursed her lips, perhaps thinking my memory isn’t what it used to be.’ My recollection is fine, dear. It’s just, you know, sometimes writing things down helps in forming memories. Ones that last.”

  “I see.” What with the piles of text in the house, Nera wondered if her mother’s scribal habits had gotten a bit out of control. Then again, Mother seemed very present even as her hand wrote down the minutiae of their encounter. Perhaps she should reserve judgment. “Well, if you think my visit is worth jotting down, who am I to argue?” She gave her mother a smile.

  “Worth it indeed. Now, if you wouldn’t mind lending a hand, we should probably be getting ready for supper, and I’ve had my hands full in writing my memoirs. I do have some sweets stashed for the solstice, so fear not, it’ll be more than potatoes.”

  Nera laughed, and they proceeded to the main room to prepare supper, Mother taking her quill and some sheets along.

  As they dug into their vegetable casserole at the table, Mother noted that she’d want to know all about Nera’s life in Mayview, everything Nera hadn’t had time to go through yet in their correspondence.

  Mother dipped her quill in ink and made notes as Nera recounted some of her older trials and triumphs from back when she’d just started out on her own. Easing births, setting bones, pulling teeth. More often than not, she’d managed to eke out a victory for life, and from the occasional defeat she’d made a point to learn what went wrong, to better be prepared for the next challenge.

  Given a less-than-subtle prod from her mother, Nera mused that there was, indeed, a man in the village who’d been casting eyes at her. However, she was doing just fine on her own, and she’d kept away from such attentions thus far as she wasn’t certain that was quite her thing. Mother laughed at that, telling the blushing Nera that she didn’t have to have any one thing if she didn’t so choose, or, indeed, any thing at all.

  The two talked well into the night, taking a break only to go outside and see the midnight stars as they were on the darkest night of the year. Eventually the late hour got the better of them, and they fell asleep together in Mother’s bed.

  The next day it was time for Nera to leave, as it was not good for a medicine woman to stay away from her village for too long. The two exchanged hearty goodbyes, and promised to continue keeping Wisp busy.

  Nera left for home, her step heavy only for the voluminous pages of medicinal lore her mother had bestowed on her, fresh out of the quill.

  Three weeks after her visit, Nera woke up to a loud cawing from the door. Everything was dark, and Nera felt that she hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep. Wisp must’ve flown to her across the night. That was unusual, to say the least.

  She rose to sit and fumbled for the lantern and tinderbox by her bedside. Getting a flame going was a moment’s work. Then she dragged her feet to the door and opened it.

  Wisp was standing on the porch, his head low, with a cylinder that must’ve been ten inches long beside him. There was no string, though the cylinder had a couple of clawholds.

  “Oh, my. You’ve been brave,” Nera said.

  Wisp ruffled his feathers and stepped inside wearily, leaving the cylinder out on the porch.

  “I’ll take care of that for you,” Nera said, picking up the package and closing the door. “You must be starving. Let me get you a little something before I open this.”

  Wisp cawed approvingly as Nera set some nuts and dried berries on a plate in front of him. Then she sat on her desk and opened the cylinder in the light of the lantern.

  Out popped a single scroll along with a black quill pen, similar to what her mother had used when Nera was visiting. She examined the quill in her hand. The feather had perfect vanes with a smooth shine to them. The tip was sharp, suitable for precision work. Such quills were often from crows.

  “This yours?” Nera asked Wisp.

  The familiar cawed and bobbed his head up and down.

  “From a molting, I trust?” she continued. That was, after all, the usual way.

  Wisp nodded again, then turned back to his nuts.

  Nera flashed a brief smile. “A considerate gift, to be sure, but you wouldn’t have had to fly all night to bring it,” she said as she laid the pen down on the table and spread out the scroll.

  Dear Nera,

  I thank you for a truly blessed time these past few months. Our correspondence has been a wonderful way for me to reminisce, to take stock of my life through writing. I must confess I had an ulterior motive for this, but do not doubt my sincerity in everything I’ve written, for it was a necessity in fulfilling my other purpose as well. I’m proud of you, and though I taught you to be a medicine woman, I fear I may have concentrated on that overmuch, leaving you to teach yourself to be a proper human being. It is of some consolation that you’ve done a good job of it.

  I have lived a good, long life, and I could feel it in my bones that this would be my last winter. So I poured out my soul through this here quill, to keep it when my body was done.

  That time has come. Please take care of Wisp for me, and arrange a proper burial for my
earthly remains. All of my wisdom, such as it is, is yours to find in my writings at home.

  Or you may find it in your hand, as I am here for you, if you’ll have me.

  Love,

  The letter ended without a signature.

  After staring at the scroll for a few moments, Nera became aware of movement in her peripheral vision and turned to look. The quill was hovering over the inkwell in a quiet gesture of request, rotating as if suspended from above by a thread. Nera’s mouth fell open.

  Moving as if in a dream, she opened the inkwell. The pen carefully dipped in, swooped up to the letter and signed it: “Raziela.” Mother’s handwriting, no doubt about it.

  Wisp hopped onto the table and nuzzled Nera. She pushed back softly, her eyes still on the hovering quill. Wisp hopped over her arm and nuzzled the quill, which caressed his feathers gently. Wisp tilted his head contentedly.

  A single tear rolled down Nera’s cheek.

  “Welcome home, Mom.”

  Mikko Rauhala (they/them) is a Finnish speculative fiction writer who sometimes feels like the crowded center of a Venn diagram of all things weird. They often write their stories in both English and Finnish, which can get frustrating when there’s no one else to blame for the occasional plot-relevant double entendre. Informed by their master’s degree in intelligent systems, Rauhala is most at home in hard science fiction settings, but they’re not exclusive and like to cross genres. Rauhala has dabbled in editing flash fiction for The Self-Inflicted Relative anthology, and some of their darker sci-fi can be found in the Infinite Metropolis short story and audio drama collection, co-authored with Edmund Schluessel. They can be reached at rauhala.org

  Ink

  E.D.E. Bell

  You lean back against the vinyl seat and position your arm on the ledge. They told you they’d adjust you how they needed, but they probably don’t have your bad back. So you get in a place you’ll be able to hold.