Stray Magic

by Jenny Schwartz

  Alice Patterson died. Her husband vanished. That was a recognized occurrence. If you killed yourself without mess, the Faerene’s vanishing of your body meant there was no record of your passing.

  Father Peter, the Episcopalian minister, bowed his head outside their house.

  I met him frequently on my rounds.

  With bodies vanishing overnight, funerals had ceased. Father Peter would pray over the newly dead and comfort the survivors. He walked around town with a barrow containing two water containers and that practical assistance was as welcome as his prayers. And he told jokes; lame, cringe-worthy dad jokes.

  He died on a Wednesday.

  Jarod had overnight guard duty at the Miller Road checkpoint that night, which meant I had the bedroom to myself. I couldn’t sleep.

  I pulled a wool sweater over my cotton pajamas. The long legs would protect me from mosquitoes. I joined Niamh outside. The dogs were with her. They would alert us to any intruders, but we needed a person with a gun immediately ready to respond. We’d had people try to attack from the woods. I guess we were a tempting target, but they learned in dying that we weren’t an easy one.

  The nights were split into two shifts. Mike would take over from Niamh at one thirty.

  She didn’t say anything as I crossed the yard and sat in a lawn chair beside her. There was a good view of the homestead from her chosen position beneath the clothes line.

  I slipped my sandals off and tucked my feet under me.

  Skull stuck his head on my lap for a pat.

  The stars were so bright overhead that my heart ached at their beauty. We hadn’t seen any more Faerene. Our last technological contact with the outside world had been via radio, and that was gone. Now, we relied on gossip from travelers and refugees. According to the stories, the cities remained the focus of Faerene appearances, although the Faerene didn’t seem to be doing anything beyond their overwhelming action in crippling modern life.

  “Do you believe in God?” I looked at the night, at the moths darting about, and the swoop of bats. An owl hooted by the barn.

  “Yes.” Niamh watched the yard, remaining on duty despite the dogs’ relaxed attitudes. Tabby even snored. “This isn’t the Rapture. It’s not the end of the world. God isn’t dead either.”

  Religious attitudes had mostly shifted to the extreme. Some people believed that our suffering was a punishment for Sin with a capital “S”. They prayed and worked and held open air services that went for hours every Sunday. Others were committed atheists. The most bitter people were those who had previously identified as Christian, but now believed God had failed them.

  “I spent a year as a volunteer in Uganda,” Niamh said. “The people I helped there would have been overjoyed and praising God if they had what we have here. I’m not demeaning people’s suffering or overlooking all the deaths, but you know a big part of people’s complaints with God is that he’s not working magic for them anymore.”

  “Pardon?”

  “People forgot to be thankful for what they had, and instead, pestered God for more. Prayer should be more than wishing. I don’t worry about God, Amy. He’s not going anywhere or forgetting about us. But I do worry about people. The ones who recited to God their list of demands for a happy life, they’re mad at him now. They’re looking for someone else to give them an easy ride through life, to grant them their wishes. Those people will be easy prey for the Faerene. They will worship those creatures for their magic.”

  I’d come outside because I was depressed by the death around us. Niamh dislodged that depression by replacing it with a startling idea. I protested her argument. “It would be stupid to worship the Faerene. They caused our problems. People hate them.” I hated the idea of them, even if I’d never encountered one in person. They were the symbol of all that we’d lost, all that we suffered.

  “You’ll see,” Niamh said quietly. “People flock to power.”

  The garden harvest began. Fruit ripened in the orchard. We picked and preserved everything we could. Every spare minute, and those we couldn’t spare, went into ensuring our food security. We had seven adults in the household and a hungry town.

  The military had disbanded weeks ago. Barracks had been decimated by disease outbreaks. Without vehicles, people travelled on horseback or walked. It took the former soldiers, sailors and air force personnel weeks to reach us. They knew of Apfall Hill because of Mike, because of his reputation in the old life of welcoming veterans to his garage. The ex-military who reached us were physically starving, but also starving for a place to belong. We took them in and rehoused them in farms and homes emptied by death. They tended neglected gardens and provided a morale boost by their thankfulness at being amongst us.

  Apfall Hill, we learned, was faring much better than the norm.

  Guns vanished. One night they were there. The next morning they were gone. Perhaps their disappearance was the Faerene’s initiative to prevent humans from wholesale killing each other.

  “Thank freak for our competitive instincts,” Jarod said, referencing himself and Craig. The two of them had learned to use my crossbow, then acquired new bows each as part of the salvage effort. Some hunters had used bows for deer hunting pre-apocalypse, and the brothers had scavenged two good ones along with a supply of arrows.

  We also had axes and knives.

  I’d never become proficient with the throwing knives I’d bought in Appletonia, and so, had gifted them to Digger who could take down a rat with a single throw.

  As the fields ripened, we were grateful for the ex-military in town. Even with antique machinery rescued from the local museum and dug out of old barns to help with the harvest, we needed workers.

  In his new forge near the barn, Mike adapted tractor attachments to be pulled by horses. He also designed a grain mill that could be powered by the wind. It made a coarse wheat flour, but was excellent at grinding corn. Grits would be a large part of our winter diet.

  During all the trouble, Jarod, Craig and even Digger managed to fall in and out of romantic entanglements. None proved serious enough that they moved out to join their partners or asked to add a person to our household, but I tiredly envied them their ability to try for something beyond simple survival.

  The fever epidemic subsided, almost as if people were too busy to be sick. I knew that idea was fanciful. What I hoped was that the decrease in infectious diseases signaled people’s adjustment to our new reality; that they were boiling their water and remembering to wash their hands.

  “It’s hope,” Stella said. “Harvest-time means plenty of food. People are mourning those they’ve lost, but the fact that they’ve survived provides them with a boost. As a town, we believe we can get through winter. And next spring, we’ll be more prepared.”

  People weren’t accustomed to using scythes. As the harvest progressed, there were wounds and broken limbs from accidents. I dealt with many of them. Despite my lack of a medical degree, the people in the west of town had come to rely on me rather than Dr. Fayed, and a surprising number of the newcomers picked up the habit. The front parlor was turned into a basic surgery. At a minimum, I had the advantage of running water. Thank goodness the windmill kept pumping well water reliably.

  I appreciated no longer having to run all over the west of town, although I did still make house calls if requested. I had time to join Jarod and Craig deer hunting. Digger and Mike went with them when they tackled wild hogs with bows, knives and spears. Those were the days I worried. Boars were dangerous.

  Of our two pigs, one was slaughtered and its meat preserved. The other sow was saved to produce the next generation. We were looking to the future.

  I collected chestnuts and walnuts by the basket load. Experimentation with Mike’s mill meant we’d be able to enjoy chestnut flour. The sweetness of it would be a welcome addition to our diet. Our sugar supply had gone into preserving fruit. We’d need to obtain more, which meant trading beyond the township. Travelers, those who couldn’t settle anywhere but see
med instead to be on an impossible search for their former lives, mentioned trade springing up along the river.

  Rivers had been the main trade routes prior to the railroads of the nineteenth century.

  The dragon had said we’d return to the Renaissance.

  When the last of the harvest was in, people from the town and surrounding farms gathered for a harvest festival at the schoolyard. Barbequed hog and roasted deer as well as pheasants and turkeys supplied us with an abundance of meat, accompanied by an array of vegetable dishes.

  Looking around at the survivors of the apocalypse, I was struck by how healthy we looked. People moved with confidence. Laughter might have been rare, except for by the hard cider barrel, but voices were happy and adults smiled as children ran around.

  That was when the dragon landed.

  Chapter 5

  Istvan was a griffin of the Arani clan. His black wings were wide and powerful, his body heavily muscled beneath black fur. His beak was too long to be called handsome, but his eyes were bright with intelligence and, to those who had the sight, magic surrounded him. For centuries, the Arani had bred warriors, and although the time of warriors was long past on the Faerene home world of Elysium, with Istvan, the ancient bloodline showed true. It was conceivable that the black griffin could fight a dragon and survive.

  Not that Istvan intended to fight his friend Piros, the Red Drake. But he was thinking of burying the irritating know-it-all under an avalanche. After months of spirit-straining effort, Istvan and the other Rift magicians had succeeded in restoring Earth’s shield. With the Rift closed, the threat of the Kstvm had been banished.

  The vicious sentient insects would still haunt Istvan’s nightmares, but they wouldn’t be able to invade Earth. The Faerene Migration had beaten the Kstvm to the Rift and held it against their battering assault. Twelve of the forty three Rift magicians tasked with defending their new home died holding the temporary barrier in place across the Rift. Their sacrifice would be remembered. The Faerene migrants on Earth were here without hope of returning. It was part of being a migrant. Elysium’s shield would never tear to allow their return. Migration was always a one-way ticket. The Faerene like Istvan were now Earthers, and they would do whatever they had to to ensure their new world’s shield held strong.

  But for now, Istvan wanted an ice bath. He’d chosen the remote Patagonian wilderness as his retreat in the hope that he’d have a few days of privacy. Shade’s feathers, but he’d settle for a few hours alone.

  Unfortunately, Piros was on a burn. The dragon wouldn’t leave till he’d argued his point.

  Istvan rolled onto his back, working his feathers into the snow. In the battle to hold the Rift, he’d channeled more raw magic than he could safely handle. He’d been nearer flame out than anyone realized. The snow felt wonderful.

  Piros, by contrast, stood with his tail curled up and his wings raised. He hated the cold and was obviously trying to limit contact with the snow.

  “Idiot,” Istvan clacked. “You hate it here. Leave and we’ll discuss this later.”

  “There is no time for ‘later’.” Piros slapped Istvan with his tail.

  The slap caught Istvan across his tummy. He rolled over and sprang up, affronted.

  “Now, you’re paying attention,” Piros approved.

  Istvan ruffled his feathers.

  “Don’t get huffy.”

  Istvan strove for patience. “Piros, I’m a magistrate. My work means I’m almost always travelling. The last thing I need is a familiar.”

  “Wrong. The last thing you need is to encounter a situation where you need more magic, and you can’t channel it. Then you’ll regret not bonding a familiar, but it will be too late. You’ll have failed.”

  Istvan’s tail lashed.

  Anyone who thought dragons were all brute force and no finesse hadn’t met Piros. In addition to his sharp intelligence, the Red Drake possessed a disconcerting ability to read people. He had Istvan’s measure.

  The carrot for Istvan’s behavior was the pursuit of justice. But the stick driving him on was his fear of failure.

  “Familiars are just a myth,” Istvan said.

  Piros spat a derisive bout of flame. “You’re better educated than that. Millennia ago, familiars were crucial to Faerene magical development. Just because we’ve evolved to the limits of Elysium’s magic and are able to channel its magic solo doesn’t mean the same holds true here. Earth’s magic is untapped. Familiars will be an advantage, and one you can’t afford to pass up. Magistrates have to be the most powerful among us. If you want to serve justice, my friend, you have to be able to deliver it.”

  Istvan’s lashing tail stilled. “I hate that you are right.”

  Piros lowered his wings, tucking them tight to his body. “Why do you resist the idea of a familiar? If Harold hadn’t tasked me with the liaison role, I would attend the trials in a heartbeat.”

  “A human familiar is too much of an unknown.”

  “All the more reason that a magician as disciplined as you be part of the trials.”

  Istvan clacked his beak in annoyance. “Enough. You have argued me into accepting my duty. I will attend the trials.”

  Chapter 6

  “I require Amy Carlton,” the big, copper-colored dragon announced.

  If I’d thought to hide, the number of people who turned to stare at me rendered that impossible. Instead, I approached the dragon.

  Its body was as large as a school bus. Add in its massive wings, tail and large head on a long, serpentine neck, and it was a nightmare given form in the middle of our harvest festival.

  My family joined me from where they’d been scattered around the schoolyard. Jarod and Digger moved in either side of me. Niamh stood with Stella. Mike and Craig had our backs.

  Not that the people behind us were the threat.

  “Why?” Digger demanded. His sergeant voice was a match for the dragon’s deep tone.

  “Amy Carlton alone can hear that truth. For now.”

  “Will she be safe with you?” Digger made the demand as if he could back it up. But we had only knives against the dragon.

  Still, the dragon paused as if it took his demand seriously. “Yes.”

  I stepped forward. The dragon’s tolerance could evaporate at any moment, and I wanted my people safe. “I will listen.”

  The dragon’s tail abruptly wrapped around me. It was incredibly nimble for such a large creature. It leapt into the air.

  My family’s shouts and the cries of the startled crowd suddenly cut off.

  The dragon hadn’t simply taken flight. It had translocated, with me as its unwilling captive.

  We landed in a meadow. Around it, the leaves on the tall trees were gold and red with fall colors. The ground was marshy.

  Instinctively, I scanned for a sense of where we were. With transport links gone, getting home could be near impossible if the dragon abandoned me… “We’re in Manhattan.”

  The buildings had gone. I stood in what appeared to be virgin forest. But the glimpse through the trees of the Brooklyn Bridge was unmistakable.

  “What have you done? Where are the people?”

  The dragon released me, and I dropped to my knees.

  “You recognize this place?” it asked me.

  “I used to live here. I grew up in Manhattan. This was home.” I spoke so slowly it sounded as if I had a speech impediment and struggled with every word. The reality was that shock and grief choked me.

  “Humans were herded from here before we returned the buildings and other technology to the earth. We needed a gathering place for the Faerene of the region.”

  “So you stole ours?”

  The dragon sighed. “Restored it. Did you have family here?”

  “No. But I had friends, people I knew. Good people.”

  “Good people have died everywhere.”

  I ran forward and punched the dragon’s muzzle.

  It could have evaded me or torched me. Instead, it acce
pted the blow that hurt me more than it. The copper-colored scales were hard and warm.

  “I am sorry, child. I didn’t know that this was a place you had called home. It was appointed as a portal point for familiars from the region travelling to the trials. Control your grief for a moment. There is information you need to learn. Primarily, why you have been selected.”

  I wrapped my arms around myself. The sun shone and the dragon radiated heat, but a chill had sunk into my bones. Manhattan’s disappearance emphasized the power of the Faerene, and I now had their attention.

  “My name is Dorotta,” the copper dragon said. “I am part of the Messenger Service. At the trials you will be taught who we, the Faerene, are and why we crossed to Earth. It was a one-way journey, child. For us there is no return. Earth’s future is ours. We are your allies.”

  Across the river buildings remained standing, but there was no roar of traffic, no planes overhead, and where were the people? I could smell the river and the marsh, rich earth and cold air.

  “As you learn the nature of magic and the role of familiars you will be given a choice. Amy.”

  I jerked my head around to stare at the dragon. Her pronunciation of my name seemed to hold sorrow along with warning.

  “Always choose to live, child.”

  I backed away from her. “What are you trying to warn me against? You told Digger you wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “I told the man that cared for you that I wouldn’t hurt you.” She stressed the pronoun.

  The loophole was immense. Any of the other Faerene could hurt me. Could kill me.

  “Amy, you have magic. This will be explained to you at the trials. Your ability to channel magic is a recent awakening. Faerene have observed your world for centuries, and despite the fairy tales humans have told each other, you’ve never managed to tap the Earth’s magic. Until now. Our analysts suggest that the presence of Faerene using magic has triggered this ability in a rare few humans, such as yourself.”