Dawn Of Hope: Charity Anthology

by J. A. Culican

  Tuck paced in the small space, appearing to search for something that could not be found. “If the mixture is imperfect, you will die.”

  Maui ascended from the grotto, leading Tuck into the greeting space. “It is not imperfect. I am certain. But if you are worried, you shall accompany me to the surface, spying from a distance. If I find myself in distress, I will signal for your assistance. If this fails, we shall cross to Oceania, together.”

  “Very well.” Seeming satisfied with that answer, Tuck nodded his agreement, strapping a sharpened spear to his thigh, and storing two vials of poison in his neck pouch.

  Grief rose inside Maui’s chest and throat as he inspected his friend’s dwelling for what he knew would be the last time. “You shall find great success here. I could wish nothing more for you.”

  Tuck could not seem to remove his eyes from the clam as Maui stowed it in his pouch. “What shall I do with the remaining serum? It cannot be made into paihana.”

  In reply, Maui tipped a handful of the tiny clamshells, all empty, onto the platform. “You must store it. If ever another halfling has his choices stolen by the sea, you and that serum can restore his freedom.”

  Tuck pushed the shells around on the platform, a new glow igniting behind his sadness. “I shall be the keeper. But how will he know where to find me?”

  Maui thought of the tablets he’d left in his cavern. “If he is determined to live ashore, he will seek you out. You will test him by administering the fire coral blend. If one taste does not deter him, does not unearth him, you will know him to be a true descendant to the royals of the sea.”

  * * *

  Maui and Tuck spied from the distance of a tall, stone structure that towered from sand to surface, plunging half below, and half above the surface of the sea. Caspian teetered on his newly discovered feet, toppling multiple times before finding his balance, but after a time, he did.

  When he was assured that Caspian had lived long enough to don the clothes, Maui dipped below for a last farewell. Tuck waited, too far down to touch the surface, but high enough to witness the faintest hint of light as it rippled along the foam. He stared at those ripples, mesmerized by the movement, and the ribbons of tapered light.

  Maui descended, the excitement of his new future dimmed only by the knowledge that he would never again spend time with Tuck. “Never, in all my time below, could I have wished to be blessed with you as my friend. I shall miss you like a limb, removed from my body and devoured by crabs.”

  “And I shall miss you.” Tuck squeezed the pouch that hung from his neck. “Never could I have imagined the adventures we have had together. I wish you good fortune. May life ashore be everything you have hoped, and more.”

  In a move uncharacteristic for the culture, Maui embraced Tuck, squeezing as if his arms were tentacles that refused to unstick. He released his friend, shoring up his courage with the memory of the female, Chloe, and how her voice had purred in his ears. “Farewell, Tuck. May fortune and happiness be the only pursuers to catch you.”

  Fearing that bravery might fail him, Maui swam away, unable to look back. But he heard Tuck’s words, even as he picked up speed.

  “Farewell, my brother. May fortune find you, always.”

  THE END

  * * *

  Continue the Water So Deep Series in book by starting with the prequel,

  Sea So Blue.

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  Fall: Scheherazade Retold

  By Demelza Carlton

  Copyright © 2016 Demelza Carlton

  Lost Plot Press

  All rights reserved.

  If there was one thing Zoraida hated, it was dragons. Yes, she knew her godson's name was George and that his only ambition was to slay a dragon like his saintly namesake, but when the youth had chosen the biggest, most irritable dragon ever to crawl out of a cave, she'd found herself honour-bound as his fairy godmother to volunteer to be the maiden bait for the beast. Bait, yes. Sacrifice, no. But when silly George had gotten himself knocked out by a blow from the beast's tail, she'd had to decide between fighting the dragon herself or losing her godson.

  Whoever had blessed the boy with intelligence had done a piss-poor job of it. They should have endowed him with some common sense instead. The enchanted sword she'd given him lay on the ground, useless, as he put her blessing to use: yes, she'd certainly given him all the swiftness a boy could need for running away.

  Her godson was a fool and a coward, Zoraida fumed. Or perhaps the smoke was coming from her skirt, which was definitely smouldering. Damned fire-breathing nuisance.

  She lobbed another fireball at the dragon, which splashed harmlessly against his scaly hide, but kept his attention firmly on her and not the fleeing boy. Just a few more seconds and he'd reach the shelter of the city. Then she could leave.

  The dragon sent a jet of flame in her direction and she was too slow to deflect it. This time, her skirt caught fire. Swearing, Zoraida decided George could fend for himself.

  Thinking to go somewhere that she might smother the flames, Zoraida opened a portal. She glimpsed snow, breathed a sigh of relief, and stepped through.

  Hans eyed his pitiful fire with concern. If he didn't bring more fuel in, the fire would certainly go out and he'd freeze to death. Hardly a cheerful prospect for any night, let alone Yule. He'd planned to be home by now, sitting before a roaring fire with a mug of mulled mead, stuffed full with whatever his cook had created for the feast. He might not be the richest merchant, but he kept a good cook. So what if his hall was bare of tapestries and he didn't eat from golden plates? Good food needed no gold to satisfy his appetite.

  What he'd give for a thick chunk of roast pork now, edged with sizzling crackling, ready to dip in apple sauce made from the last of the autumn apples from his own orchards…

  Instead, he had stale bread and dried fish for supper, a gift from the fur traders he'd finally struck a deal with. Spending his Christmas Eve in a lonely trapper's hut in the icy northern wastes was worth it for that deal alone. He'd be the sole supplier of the highest quality vair, a fur much prized among the nobility at home, and a single shipload of the stuff would give him the gold to repair the keep so that it once again had all its towers, like it had in his grandfather's day.

  But first, he must make it through the night without freezing to death. Good thing he wasn't like some of the men at court, who'd shudder at the very thought of getting their hands dirty. His father had given everything they had, shy of the keep and the land it stood on, to support the holy crusade which had taken his life, and left his son to manage the estate.

  So the new baron had chopped wood, mended fences, worked the fields and collected port duties, all the while learning what he could so that when his father returned, he could try his hand at the fur trade. News of his father's death had hit him hard, but it had also given him the push he needed to come out here to see if he could deal direct with the fur traders and not the merchants in the northern ports.

  All that was for naught if he didn't survive the night. And to do that, he needed more wood. Grabbing an axe and an empty half-barrel that smelled of fish, he headed outside into the snow.

  He soon found the woodpile and fell into a rhythm as the exercise warmed his blood. Nights like this he wished he had a wife to share his bed. One day, he promised himself. When he was no longer a penniless baron with an empty title and little else.

  A flash of light caught his eye. He'd seen the aurora dance across the sky many times, but this was different. It was as though a purple window opened up and a blazing ball of fire shot through, flaming like a comet across the sky before extinguishing itself in a snowdrift on the side of the next hill.

  A shooting star. Laughing quietly to himself, he made the obligatory wish, which he hoped one day would come true.

  Alas, he knew wishes were merely wind. He would be mor
e likely to improve his fortune by retrieving what remained of the fallen star, if anything. Being a practical man, Hans stacked the wood he'd cut in the half barrel, then headed up the hill to investigate. He'd never seen a star fall before.

  The moment Zoraida stepped out of the portal, she realised her mistake. No ground met her feet – the snow she'd glimpsed was a hill in the distance, and she found herself falling through the air to the ground below. Swearing, she angled her descent as best she could for the hill, which held enough snow to smother her flaming skirts three times over.

  The snow was deep enough to cushion her fall, too, she found, for when she hit the ground, the impact only drove the breath from her lungs. No broken bones that she could find, fortunately, for she was not particularly skilled at healing spells. And she'd need all her limbs to climb out of the deep pit she'd created when she landed.

  Laboriously, she clawed her way up until she emerged into the open air. As the freezing wind knifed through the shredded remains of her dress, Zoraida wished she'd stayed in her hole. Somehow, she'd lost her shoes in her descent, so her bare feet went numb the moment she stepped out onto the snow. Staggering through the drifts, she made it partway down the hill before she lost her footing and tumbled over and over until her head collided with something hard and everything went dark.

  Hans had seen many things in his life, but when a woman climbed out of the hole the star had fallen into, he found himself rubbing his eyes to make sure he wasn't imagining her.

  No, he decided, for if he were to imagine a woman on a night as cold as this, he would have wished for one who was warm and welcoming, well-wrapped in furs. Not this stumbling, staggering creature in grey rags who tumbled down the hill and lay lifeless at his feet.

  No, not quite lifeless. She still drew breath, though not for long if she was left out here in the cold.

  Hans hoisted her in his arms, tucking a fold of his cloak around her to keep out the wind. She was surprisingly warm. Perhaps she'd ridden the fallen star from heaven.

  Laughter rumbled in his throat at such a silly thought. But angel or no, the woman needed shelter and the hut was all he could offer her. And at Christmas…all he had, he would gladly share.

  So he settled her on the straw pallet beside the dying fire and covered her with a blanket, before wrapping his cloak around himself and heading outside again.

  He brought in the half-barrel of wood, then returned to the woodpile for another load. He might not have much to offer, but he could give her a roaring fire to keep her warm tonight.

  Hans shouldered the door open, stamping the snow from his boots, and found himself fixed in the sights of a pair of violet eyes.

  "First dragons, now a bloody bear. If I'd known fairy godmothering was all about battling huge creatures, I never would have agreed to it. Matchmaking must be easier."

  To Zoraida's considerable relief, the tall, shaggy figure she'd called a bear chuckled as he removed his furry hood.

  "I'm no bear, lady. I only wear the hide of one. I only wish I had two, for you're sorely in need of warmer garments." He nodded at her.

  Zoraida glanced down. Soot had stained the bodice of her white gown grey, and singed the skirt to black-edged ribbons. She must look a sight. "I fancy a dragonhide cloak," she said grimly.

  "No dragons here," he said, stacking wood beside a pit of glowing embers fire. "Too cold for them, I'd wager. Too cold for us, too, if I don't build up the fire. If you're hungry, I have food on the table."

  Zoraida wrapped the blanket around herself and rose to investigate. Some dried fish, a pouch of oats and some salt were all the man had to eat, yet still he offered it to her. The laws of hospitality were alive and well in this rude hut. She hid a smile. On the morrow, she would conjure a feast to break his fast which would make any nobleman's mouth water, but now she was too tired to summon up a single extra fish.

  "If you get the fire going again, and you have a suitable pot, we could share a fine fish pottage tonight," she hazarded, hoping she could manage to make it without burning anything else tonight. Much like healing, cooking wasn't her forte, either.

  "That sounds grand, lady."

  "Zoraida," she corrected, watching him place the kindling over the embers just right, so flames licked hungrily at the wood. "My name is Zoraida."

  He inclined his head. "Mine's Hans. Well met." He clasped her hand between his huge ones, reminding her that though he wasn't a bear, he was large enough to challenge one for the hide he now wore.

  "Well met," she echoed.

  Some time later, the woman – Zoraida, Hans reminded himself – announced that their supper was ready. He fetched bowls and spoons, then watched as she filled the bowls with a lumpy mess that she said was fish pottage. It looked like nothing he'd ever eaten before, but perhaps the women made food differently here.

  "I hope you like it," she said.

  Hans smiled politely and stuck a spoonful of the stuff in his mouth. Alternately hard and chewy, it tasted like she'd burned some of it and put too much salt into the pot. He forced himself to swallow and reached for another spoonful. "It's wonderful," he lied.

  She smiled tentatively and began eating her own portion. Hans watched as her eyes widened before she struggled to chew and swallow a mouthful that was every bit as bad as his. "On the morrow, I'll make something better. I will – "

  More of this? Hans would rather go hungry. "No need, no need, dear lady. This would go better with a flagon of aged mead from my cellars, to be sure, but as we are not in my home, perhaps – "

  "This is not your home?" she interrupted.

  Hans laughed. "Of course not. This is a trapper's hut, to be used by any traveller or hunter who needs shelter for a night. My home is many miles from here. There, I wouldn't have to offer you the last of my journey rations. Instead, you would have roast pork, a selection of the finest roast vegetables, mulled wine to warm you from the inside, even if it weren't for the roaring fire. And my cook's Yule puddings are worth waiting all year for."

  "You would…take me there? To your home?" she asked.

  Hans felt sorry for her. The woman had nothing. He might not be rich by most noblemen's standards, but he had far more than she did. "If you wish it, but it is a long journey. We must walk to the next town, where I will procure horses to take us to the port, where we will board a ship to take us to the harbour near my home."

  She shook her head. "The distance does not matter. You are offering me the hospitality of your home for a night, yes?"

  "If you can make the journey there, then yes," he replied.

  Zoraida seized his hand. "Then we go now!" With her free hand, she traced an arch in the air, leaving a trail of light that seemed to ignite when she touched the dirt floor. With more strength than any normal woman should possess, she pulled him through the portal.

  From a falling down shack to falling down towers – yet it was an improvement, Zoraida decided. For one, there was no snow in the keep's courtyard. And while darkness had fallen in the frozen northern wastes, here the sun still lingered above the horizon, though not for long.

  "We're home," Hans breathed, touching the stone wall as if to reassure himself that it was real. His other hand tightened around hers. "Right. Time to make good on that promise. You shall have a true Yule supper."

  He strode across the courtyard, towing her along behind him. "I have returned!" he bellowed. "And I brought a guest."

  Doors opened, letting light and people spill out.

  "The baron is home!"

  "He brought a lady."

  "She looks half-frozen, poor mite."

  "Fetch that leg of pork, the baron's hungry!"

  "Come, my dear, we must find you something to wear."

  Zoraida blinked, finding her hands held by a kind-looking older woman whose hair was neatly tucked under a white veil. She was suddenly conscious of her shredded clothes and unbound hair. She swallowed. "I would…be grateful," Zoraida said.

  The woman led her inside to a
chamber full of chests, with a bed that didn't look like it had been slept in for some time. A trio of younger women crowded in behind her, bearing cloths and jugs of water. Zoraida almost cried in relief. Between the soot and dragonfire, she was badly in need of a wash.

  The older woman pulled various gowns from the chests as the girls helped her remove what remained of her dress. Each time, she glanced back at Zoraida, then shook her head, muttering to herself. After perhaps the fourth gown, Zoraida finally caught a few words: "The colours are too dark!" the woman said.

  "White," Zoraida offered. "I usually wear white. It is the mark of a fairy godmother."

  "Fairy godmother, hmm? I thought only royalty got those. The baron's father and mother never told me he had such a thing. And you don't look old enough to have been born on his name day." The woman's eyes seemed to read Zoraida's very soul.

  "I'm not his godmother," Zoraida said swiftly. "I'm only the godmother to small children and foolish youths who seek to challenge dragons they haven't the wit or courage to fight. Hence…" She grimaced at the remains of her gown. "I think he was some kind of prince, but not all of them are royalty. Some have blood that is destined to become royal."

  The woman nodded shrewdly. "So not the baron, but his daughter, perhaps. The queen has just given birth to a second prince, and word is that she might not have long to live. If one of the baron's daughters were to marry a prince…"

  Zoraida's heart sank, though she wasn't sure why. "Hans has daughters?"

  The woman snorted. "No, nor has he found a suitable woman to bear them. He worries so about restoring the castle, so he has a home to provide for his family. Seems to me he'll do all he can to make the home that he'll forget to find the family."