Triumph Over Tragedy: an anthology for the victims of Hurricane Sandy

by R. T. Kaelin

  I’ll never do any of it again.

  Despite their parting she missed Peter the most. All she could remember were their walks, his lopsided grin and that divot, how it felt when he took her hand, when he held her. He would never understand why she did it. In many ways, he was still a boy. He thought only of her, of them; she thought only of the future now.

  It has to stop.

  She held no illusions of her prowess. She was not arrogant enough to think herself special, destined somehow by fate for success. She was not a warrior. Annie knew nothing of fighting. She was not a great knight clad in armor with a magic broadsword and mirrored shield covered in enchanted runes. Annie was a village girl, just fifteen, and all she had was a lousy kitchen knife. She didn’t even have a plan, or clever idea, she merely knew she had no choice but to try. The alternative was to give up all hope. That was the one thing she did have—hope was the last bastion of the young.

  At last, she cleared the dark of the forest and reached the end of the road. From here on, only the little trail snaked up through the rocks of the mountainside. Above clouds gathered, but she could still see the stars. This brought a smile to her face. She had some luck left.

  “Farewell,” Annie whispered to the twinkling lights. “Watch over my family. Watch over the world. I won’t see you again.”

  She unwrapped the knife and held the dull steel high catching the light of the moon. It helped. It was something. Casting the rag away and taking a step, she paused and glanced back. Perhaps she should keep the cloth. She might need to bind her wounds. She considered this a moment. How utterly absurd. She would emerge unscathed, or die. No chance for a middle ground existed. Annie turned to face the mountain and climbed.

  The elders taught that the ritual began with the founding of the village, but no one knew how old their home was. Gravestones near the commons dated back a thousand years, but the date on many could not be read. How old was this trail? How long has it been feeding at our table?

  The trail grew steep and narrow. Wind gusted now that the trees were gone, swirling the dust of worn rock around her. Here only brittle bushes remained, struggling to hold onto the hillside—stunted by the constant blow of the harsh highland. She shimmied through crevices and shuffled along cliffs holding tight to the knife. She hoped the elders wouldn’t punish her parents. It wasn’t their fault. It wasn’t hers either. The elders were the ones that picked me.

  She had never been this high up the mountain. Only the elders came this far—at least they were the only ones who came back. The trail was well defined, gouged deep by dragged feet. She halted suddenly, her breath caught in her throat as she spied a torn bit of cloth on a thorn bush fluttering in the wind. Her hands shook as she plucked it off the nettles. It was thin linen. Has it been here all year? Or was this Lucy’s from three years ago? She clutched the knife tighter and took a step and then another. They were not dragging her. Annie was not going to her death wrapped in chains. She would meet the beast with eyes open. She would return its murderous glare and bravely show it the knife. For the first time in maybe a thousand years, it would know it faced a proud woman, not some helpless martyr.

  Climbing past the last ridge, she saw the cave. Dark and sinister, covered in hanging vines, an open maw that swallowed girls like her. A stone post stood fifty feet before it. The obelisk lurched at a slight angle. Marred, chipped, blackened, and burned, the stone pillar rose amidst coils of rusted iron chains. The soil beneath it stretched out dark and spoiled—splattered black.

  Standing on the ledge facing the cave’s mouth, Annie felt the wind coursing down the mountain, howling its fury. It staggered her, but she stood firm. Her heart pounding, she gripped the knife so hard her fingers lost feeling. Holding it with both hands as if it were a religious icon to ward off death, she took a single step forward. Beneath her, she felt and heard a snap! No need to look down to know what it was—no tree branches would be found that high.

  Taking another breath she took another step. From within the depth of darkness, Annie heard a rumble, a deep resonance that shook the ground and her resolve. Until that moment, she hoped it was all just a tale, a made-up thing, a fiction to frighten the young and timid. She was wrong—it was real! The shock froze her and she stood as helpless as if she had let them chain her to the post. Only her dress moved, flapping in the wind. Seconds slipped by. She closed her eyes, and like a magician, conjured the image of her little sister Amy in her mind. So small, so gentle, so sweet, she saw her dark trusting eyes. Let me go in her place! Take me! They would drag her here. One day they would call her name on the green and then chain her to the pillar.

  Before she knew it, Annie had taken another step, pushing her feet forward across the littered ground. Her foot slid through the chains and bones. She reached the pillar, standing where they wanted her; only she was hours early. Taking another step, Annie moved to where no girl had ever stood. After one more, she reached where no man ever stood either. Reaching the opening before the open face of the cave she no longer defied merely her parents, or the elders, she was defying nature itself.

  She heard another rumble, louder than before and felt a hot gust blow from the depths. It stank of sulfur. She waited at the mouth for it to come out, but nothing stirred. Is it asleep? Does it sleep? Hope sparked anew as she crept closer until at last dipping her head beneath the vines, she entered the darkness. Inside, she heard breathing, the rhythmic sound echoed off the walls. Her eyes adjusted and she could make out faint shapes, lumps and heaps, but they were not it, only skeletons of cows, and deer…it lay deeper.

  She pressed forward.

  Spying a human skull on the ground, she faltered. Ahead more bones lay shoved against the walls, like driftwood along a beach—too many to count. Somewhere water dripped and the very air quivered. Hot gusts continued to buffet her, but she wavered only briefly. She stepped around ancient bodies draped in tattered cloth. In the faint light, everything looked pale, lifeless; the air a thick stench of ash and decay.

  Reaching the bowels of the cave, she entered a vast cavern where, at last, she beheld the beast. The monster filled the cavern with its bulk. A clawed foot lay no more than ten feet away, yet its tail stretched too far into the darkness to see. The behemoth’s chest expanded and fell, sucking in harsh breaths that vibrated stone. Two great leathery wings stood at its sides nearly reaching the ceiling—towering tents stretched out on talon-endowed poles. Massive claws griped the earth. A huge head lay between enormous forefeet; as innocent as a sleeping dog—only it was not sleeping. Two eyes glowed yellow in the dark, each one larger than a wagon wheel. It was not asleep; the eyes watched her.

  “I am here.” She didn’t know why she said it. Her voice shook along with the rest of her.

  “You are early,” it replied.

  That it spoke shocked Annie. Its voice, which she was certain was a whisper, shook the chamber, terrifying her.

  “Come back in the morning.”

  “I—I will not! I am here to—to fight you.”

  The huge eyes blinked; she heard them as if they were window blinds.

  “Are you a knight? Are you a king? I have erased cities. I have swallowed whole armies and fleets of ships. I have slain emperors, heroes who forgot they were men. They came at me with swords. They came at me with catapults. They came at me with fire. They called on their gods and conjured magic to slay me—I ate them all.”

  The smell of smoke entered her nostrils and made her nauseous. She stood holding the knife in front of her, struggling to keep the blade still. She would not flee; she would not flinch; she was not a victim. Annie was a hero—her grandmother said so.

  “For more than ten thousand years I have lived on this mountain. I have let your people exist on the agreement that they should pay me one virgin maid each year as a tax. The tax is to be paid at dawn.”

  “I—am the tax,” she told it. “But I will not be paid. I am here to collect!”

  “You have come to kill me then?”
/>
  “Yes. I ah—I will try.”

  “You hate me so? I only ask for one life a year.”

  “It is my life.”

  “You could run away, leave the village.”

  “Others would die in my place. I’m no coward!”

  She set her jaw, narrowed her eyes, and took a step forward. The beast snarled. Her heart raced. She took another step. The beast groaned so loud it rattled the scattered bones. Finding it impossible to breathe she summoned the courage to take another step. The creature struggled to raise its head and opened its mouth. As it did she saw only five teeth, each worn to dull nubs. The monster exhaled a breath conjuring nothing more than a belch of dark, brimstone-scented smoke. Then it coughed violently and dropped its head in exhaustion.

  Annie stared in disbelief. “You’re old,” she stated as much to herself as to the creature, “Too old to fight, too old to defend yourself—even against—me.”

  It said nothing for a moment, its eyes shut tight. Then slowly they opened once more and it said in a strained voice. “It takes all my strength once a year to crawl out and eat the meal awaiting me—the meal safely chained to the post.”

  “But—I don’t understand. Why have the elders continued to sacrifice? You are no threat to anyone.”

  “It’s all they know. They have done it for centuries. Humans are creatures of habit. They know that if they do as their fathers did, all will be well. “

  “But—but…all those girls—my friends, for—nothing?”

  “That depends on you, doesn’t it?” The beast’s oblong pupil narrowed to a thin line. “Kill me—reveal the truth—and yes, they will have died for nothing. But if you feed me then their memories will be preserved for all time as brave sacrifices for the betterment of your people.”

  “If I don’t kill you, more will die!”

  “True, but only one per year, disease takes more than that, doesn’t it? Childbirth takes more than I do. How many of your neighbors die each year merely by choking on a bone or falling from a tree? And have you considered the harm you will do to your village by killing me?”

  “Harm?”

  Its huge lips stretched into a grim smile.

  “Think of the elders, think of the guilt that will consume them. Think of the parents who willingly sent their innocent children to a horrible death, believing their sacrifice saved everyone. How will they receive the wonderful news that it was all a mistake? The families of the dead will demand justice and compensation. Fights will break out. The harmony of your town will end; people will kill out of despair, regret and hatred. Those men that sent me my food, did so believing they were doing what was needed to save everyone. They are good men, and you would see them beaten, killed.”

  “But to let you live would be worse. It would allow a lie to continue—”

  “I AM NO LIE!” it hissed so loudly it broke into a series of coughs. “I exist! And in my day I could have crushed you and your world just as you swat flies. I deserve respect!”

  “Not at the cost of lives! I can’t sacrifice the future merely to hide the mistakes of the past.”

  “No? It is because of me that you and yours have lived so well. No army has come to your door, no war, no band of killers, because of me. They fear the dragon in the cave. If an army arrived on your doorstep tomorrow, if it was to be war between your people and theirs, would you not offer up your life to spare all that bloodshed, all that misery? One life for many, isn’t that worth it? For the life of one child a year, I have saved you from that choice. I ask only for female virgins, those without companion, or child, to minimize the sacrifice.”

  “It just seems so—”

  “There’s more, so much more, so much built on expectations and belief. For thousands of years—generations upon generations—I have been as constant as the rising of the sun, as certain as death. Destroy me and you will shake the foundation upon which you stand. Reveal me to be a myth, and all else will be questioned. Should we bother planting? Can the seasons be counted on? Is love real? Is life? Once confidence is lost, everything breaks down. Without me, there will be bloodshed, anarchy, and atrocities far beyond the death of a single girl. You will return to a world of hate, fear, and jealousy. Destroy me and you will destroy innocence, faith, and serenity—paradise lost for the want of a child.”

  “But that’s so hopeless; it doesn’t have to be so bleak. Why say it must? You don’t know.”

  “You’re childish mind cannot comprehend. You have only lived a few years. I have lived centuries. I have seen humans and the evils they do. I know the pattern of your works and the methods of your desires. You see,” it told her comfortingly, “you need me. Your people need me. I ask for only one meal a year, and on that, I can subsist for centuries to come. I can no longer fly and I can no longer breathe fire, but I can still ravage your village. Slay me and your village will burn just as surely as from dragon’s breath. Neighbor will turn on neighbor and all those future sacrifices you wish to avoid will never be born to appreciate your heroics. Or is it cowardice?”

  The big wagon wheel eyes glared at her accusingly.

  “Do you seek my death out of fear for your own life? Would you doom your people so that you can live a few more short years? Is that bravery? Your forbears understood sacrifice, but you are spoiled and selfish. Surely there are others in your village who would sacrifice themselves to save you.”

  She stared into its eyes until she could not look at them any longer. Her sight fell on the blade of the knife. It blurred before her tears. Her lips trembled.

  “I am right, aren’t I?” the beast asked.

  “Yes,” she said nodding. “You’re right. There is someone who would sacrifice herself.”

  The dragon smiled again.

  Annie’s fingers tightened. She no longer quivered, she was no longer afraid. Taking a step forward she thrust the knife under the scale at the beast’s throat and plunged it deep. Dark blood poured from the wound, spilling over her hands, down her arms. The beast groaned and shook. She drew it out, and thrust it in again, driving deeper. More blood, hot and slick, sprayed across her face and chest. A river ran across the tops of her feet, her pure white gown forever stained, forever ruined. The beast shook, struggled, then collapsed. She dropped the knife and backed away watching the beast until the smoke stopped issuing from its nostrils—its eyes still glared at her in disbelief, the light gone.

  Annie turned her back on it and when she left the cave, a new dawn was rising.

  *

  Death Between the Stars

  by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Reprinted with the permission of the Marion Zimmer Bradley Literary Works Trust

  They asked me about it, of course, before I boarded the starship. All through the Western sector of the Galaxy few rules are stricter than the one dividing human from nonhuman, and the little Captain of the Vesta—he was Terran, too, and proud in the black leather of the Empire’s merchant-man forces—hemmed and hawed about it, as much as was consistent with a spaceman’s dignity.

  “You see, Miss Vargas,” he explained, not once but as often as I would listen to him, “this is not, strictly speaking, a passenger ship at all. Our charter is only to carry cargo. But, under the terms of our franchise, we are required to transport an occasional passenger, from the more isolated planets where there is no regular passenger service. Our rules simply don’t permit us to discriminate, and the Theradin reserved a place on this ship for our last voyage.”

  He paused, and re-emphasized, “We have only the one passenger cabin, you see. We’re a cargo ship and we are not allowed to make any discrimination between our passengers.”

  He looked angry about it. Unfortunately, I’d run up against that attitude before. Some Terrans won’t travel on the same ship with nonhumans even when they’re isolated in separate ends of the ship.

  I understood his predicament, better than he thought. The Theradin seldom travel in space. No one could have foreseen that Haalvordhen, the Therad
in from Samarra, who had lived on the forsaken planet of Deneb for eighteen of its cycles, would have chosen this particular flight to go back to its own world.

  At the same time, I had no choice. I had to get back to an Empire planet—any planet—where I could take a starship for Terra. With war about to explode in the Procyon sector, I had to get home before communications were knocked out altogether. Otherwise—well, a Galactic war can last up to eight hundred years. By the time regular transport service was reestablished, I wouldn’t be worrying about getting home.

  The Vesta could take me well out of the dangerous sector, and all the way to Samarra—Sirius Seven—which was, figuratively speaking, just across the street from the Solar System and Terra. Still, it was a questionable solution. The rules about segregation are strict, the anti-discriminatory laws are stricter, and the Theradin had made a prior reservation.

  The captain of the Vesta couldn’t have refused him transportation, even if fifty human, Terran women had been left stranded on Deneb IV. And sharing a cabin with the Theradin was ethically, morally and socially out of the question. Haalvordhen was a nonhuman telepath; and no human in his right senses will get any closer than necessary even to a human telepath. As for a nonhuman one—

  And yet, what other way was there?

  The captain said tentatively, “We might be able to squeeze you into the crewmen’s quarters—” he paused uneasily, and glanced up at me.

  I bit my lip, frowning. That was worse yet. “I understand,” I said slowly, “that this Theradin—Haalvordhen—has offered to allow me to share its quarters.”