Mercy

by Rhiannon Paille

  The sound of a hiccup followed by trickling laughter hit the dead air and Maeva straightened; a chill snaking down her spine. She was there to see if the boy would show up again, and also to see if there were any signs he was there in the first place. Footsteps in the opposite direction—maybe he dropped something. She wasn’t sure what she was going to find, but seeing the crispy trees made her feel hollowed out. The laughter continued, sounding like it was coming from off the trail. She squinted trying to see through the decaying and fallen trees, but there was nobody there. She doubled back, a distinct nickering in the air as she hit the part of the forest alive with the colors of autumn.

  “Hello?” she called, feeling a little silly because nobody answered. She pulled her lips to the side in a quirky frown and looked up at the sky. It was almost midmorning. She didn’t think about her chances of getting caught, but it was obviously going to happen no matter how long she was out there. Something light dusted her cheek and she scrubbed her face worried it was a fly or a spider. When she cleared her face, she found a downy reddish brown feather at her feet. She glanced up, turning in a slow circle. Her heart leapt into her chest when she saw the owl perched on a branch, gazing at her sternly. She laughed.

  “You scared me,” she said, pointing the feather at the owl.

  Its deep brown eyes held a challenge in them. It hooted, something Maeva understood as a snort and launched itself into the air, spreading its reddish, bronze, brown wings out and sailing across the sky in a perfect arch. It disappeared over the tree line. Maeva closed her mouth which she realized was open and felt something gnawing at her. For a second she’d forgotten all about the boy with the blue eyes, the black mark on her jeans, and the lecture she was going to receive when she got home. For a few brief moments everything had been perfect.

  She shook her head, the heavy feelings setting in. She twirled the feather between her thumb and index finger as she trudged back towards her canoe.

  O O O

  Pux landed unevenly in the brush, his feathered shoulder scraping along a branch before he transformed into his feorn form, a jagged red line along his furry skin. He sat stunned, blinking in rapid succession at what he’d seen in a dead part of the forest.

  Kaliel.

  He couldn’t mistake her mannerisms. The look of wonder in her eyes, the way she touched the tree, even the way she rubbed the spot on her jeans, it was so like the girl he once knew in Evennses.

  He pulled on his breeches and tunic, settling the fabric around his form. His insides shook with grief as he moved to a crouch and inspected the green leaves of the concealing shrubs. He furrowed his brow as the tears came on hot and strong. He sat back in the brush, covering his eyes with his arms, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. She left him and she was lost. She was so lost she couldn’t even find herself. He never thought he’d see her again and there she was: a human girl, normal, benign.

  Pux trembled. How could she be alive? His mind whirred with incoherent possibilities. Nothing about it made sense. He stood, not caring if someone caught him and waded through the ferns until he stepped on a weathered path. He took it south, smelling fresh water. The land sloped towards shore and Pux lifted the whistle to his lips, blowing softly on the end. In nine hundred years she was the last person he expected to encounter in what he considered his forest. She wasn’t supposed to be alive. She ran after Krishani, she forfeited her life in the storm. He shuddered trying not to let the past cloud his vision. Too much had happened since that day.

  The surface of the lake shimmered as the boat appeared, the carved wooden woman with pearls for eyes standing guard at the bow. Pux rubbed his breeches nervously, glancing behind him to make sure he was alone. Humans no longer knew they existed. It was too dangerous. If they could prove fae, feorns, elvens, and everything else in the Lands of Immortals and the Lands of Beasts were real, it would cause mass riots on Earth. He walked a thin line, but it was because he couldn’t stay in Evennses forever, not with all the heady memories and nightmares of the girl he lost.

  Water cascaded off the boat, clear, but grayish. He stepped down to the last rocks along the shore, squeezed his fist, then rethought it and braced himself on the figure of the woman, stepping into the boat. It slid into the water, mists covering him, the boat rocking back and forth as Pux whispered the incantation in the native Avristar tongue. When the mists cleared it was sunset, complete with the pink Pux added years ago. The water was a tangy deep blue, the smooth rounded head and Mohawk fin of a merfolk retreating as the boat advanced towards the shore. Pux jumped out a few feet shy of the white sand, knowing it was shallow. The bottom of his breeches got soaked as his wolf-like feet splashed through the turquoise water and reached the break in the trees. They creaked, presenting the thin crack between their trunks and Pux slid through, almost tripping on the other side. He regained himself and quickened through the winding thin path, an ominous feeling creeping up his throat as he passed giant wide trunks.

  He treaded through a land of shadows and roots, his fur covered fingers trailing along the thick walls of the tallest red cedars he’d ever seen. He passed a familiar path leading towards the border of Amersil, where the Great Oak stood. He never wanted to see the tree again. Something shook him out of his bones, a rabbit darting across the path. Between the breaks in the trees, a fawn drank at the familiar creek he and Kaliel used to meet at when picking flowers.

  Everything was different now.

  He didn’t feel safe in this forest the way he used to. The threat of the Valtanyana weighed on all of them. They proved if they couldn’t own it, they could destroy it. He pulled at the hem of his tunic, nervous tension running up his spine. If they knew she was alive … he didn’t know what they’d do to her.

  The Flames were the one thing they didn’t own, not all of them at least. Pux didn’t know what the lands would become if they found the Flames—if they found her. Mass chaos came to mind, along with a lot more merciless killing. Nausea kept him anchored to the ground as he broke into the meadow, shuffling through the knee-high grass, his strength faltering with each step. He made it to the porch at the House of Kin before his body gave out and he slammed on the steps, pivoting, landing on his thigh, and wincing at the shooting pain. He sat there, hands palms up on his knees, fingers trembling. The sky was a labyrinth of stars, and he idly traced the wolf, then the patterns of lines across his hands. He closed them into fists and pushed them to his side.

  The Valtanyana stole everything he loved. Morgana and her Horsemen breeched the shores of Avristar, demonic scaled horses with fire breathing snouts. Melianna returned to Evennses and sounded the horn, calling everyone—even the children, to battle. They fought for years, off and on, the island never quite safe from the beasts Morgana raised. Pux had seen her on the battlefield in Orlondir. He was adorned with armor made for him, a helmet and sword. He jabbed anything she brought, misshapen figures of men, demons with coal black eyes and grayish skin, white wisps known to tangle kinfolk in their grasp, squeezing the life out of them. In the midst of the chaos Morgana stood, pale grayish nightgown to her ankles, blood on her hands, and raven’s hair to her ankles. Pux had waited for the monstrosity to erupt from her but nothing happened. In the old stories, Darkesh was one of the most feared because he was a dragon. Morgana was nothing but a girl that looked like she drowned in the swamp.

  Pux covered his face with his hands. Istar ended the battle with his allegiance, storming into the field, his royal cloak flapping in the wind. He shoved her necromantic creatures out of the way and kneeled at her feet. Pux watched him kiss her bloodied hand. She petted him, and cooed, but the words were incomprehensible to Pux. All he heard was a high pitched ringing in his ears as Morgana’s creatures spontaneously combusted, leaving grayish, black and beige dust in the air. She giggled and Pux thought he might throw up.

  Atara didn’t stay long after that.

  Pux returned to Evennses because he was the only one left. Luenelle, Grimand, even Lorus didn’t ma
ke it back. Desaunius fled. Evennses became empty. The kinfolk needed someone to train them and at first it was laughable. The Great Oak didn’t believe in Pux, but as time passed, he realized nobody else was going to do it. Kaliel sentenced them to a fate worse than death. Instead of defeating the Valtanyana she gave them everything they wanted. And they killed everyone that might have known how to stop them.

  Pux lifted his head, looking at the sky and the half circle of trees against the midnight blue. He stood, his mind alive with the history of the past nine hundred years. He stepped off the porch and quickened his pace through the grass, thinking about the children they took for their wars in the Lands of Beasts. He reached another break in the trees and paused, thinking about the food, clothing and crafts they stole from the people of Orlondir. They destroyed the Brotherhood of Amersil, and Morgana forever desecrated the Sisterhood of Araraema, interweaving herself into their history.

  Pux wended down the path, an old story rumbling in his bones. About a hundred and fifty years ago, seven hundred and fifty after the apocalypse Kaliel brought, something happened. Morgana gave up on her Horsemen but the Lands of Men were a disaster. She considered Avristar her island and began bringing humans to the shores of Araraema, all of them young girls. Pux saw some of them at the Fire Festivals. He couldn’t mistake them with their stringy blonde hair, dull eyes, and sallow skin. They didn’t shine the way the feorn, fae, shee, centaur, and elvens did. They couldn’t dance or carry a tune either. Morgana came with them, often calling them her ladies. It seemed the entire Sisterhood had become Morgana’s pet.

  Pux had heard whispers at the Elmare Castle. There was a new King on Terra, a powerful King prophesied to rid the Lands of darkness. The elders of the merfolk gave him a sword, something enchanted from their land.

  He used it to kill Morgana.

  Pux stopped, taking a deep breath as he stepped into the meadow where Desaunius’s cottage lay. It was nothing but a mound of flowers now, and on top of it was a large tomb. Pux climbed the mound and stood beside it, brushing leaves off the glass casket. The King almost died in the battle against Morgana but Melianna brought him to Avristar with the Kiirar of the Shee. Collectively they used their magic to put him in a trance—a forever trance. Pux put his hand on the glass. He was nothing but a human, deep wrinkles set in his skin, whitish gray hair, full beard. His arms were crossed on his chest and he wore the finest red cloak. Pux tried to stave off the cascade of emotions festering within him but it was too hard.

  One hero.

  Kaliel destroyed everything and from the ashes of her destruction came one hero.

  One in nine hundred years.

  ***

  Chapter 8

  The Not so New Guy at School

  Maeva slung the black checkered backpack over her shoulder and slammed out the back door. Her sneakers clacked along the stones as she hummed along to the tune on her iPhone. She paused at the edge of her parent’s yard, tapping her foot in rhythm with the music, waiting for the song to end. She did this a lot, often starting a song while getting dressed or eating breakfast, and wanting to listen to it before strapping her iPhone in its waterproof case. Most of the other kids would walk to school with the music blaring in their ears, but unfortunately, Maeva had to be pragmatic about her electronics. Her dad was nice enough to get her the iPhone in the first place; she had to be nice enough not to drop it in the lake.

  She glanced around the yard, taking in the big evergreen on the left, and the few trees on the right. The grass was salted with dry grainy leaves, some of them purplish, others orange. Nobody else really lived on Goat Island. They had a neighbor, but the yards weren’t defined like they were in Kenora with fences and property lines. It was sort of understood that where the house ended and the forest became too thick to walk through was where the line was.

  The song ended as Scott came ricocheting out of the house, sliding his backpack over his shoulders and jogging to the pier. He was simultaneously trying to unscrew the lid off his PowerAde and Maeva turned; her eyes wide as he brushed past her and threw his backpack into his canoe. Hers was better but then she had to pay for it herself. Scott didn’t say anything as he took a long swig of the PowerAde and untied the canoe. He began cutting a quick path through the water.

  Maeva found her feet and followed him, going through the same motions until she was dipping the paddle into the water in even successions. She switched sides with each stroke and regulated her breathing. She passed a small island on her left, Canniff Island, and stopped rowing. The canoe slid gracefully towards St. Mary Bay where the harbor was. The other annoying thing about Scott was that he was younger than her and didn’t have his license yet. His jock friends came to pick him up every day. Maeva didn’t relish the cat calls in her direction.

  Scott tied up his canoe against their family’s dock just as she pulled up. He straightened when she approached and paused, throwing a smirk in her direction. Her stomach clenched in knots. She recognized that look, it was Scott’s classic I’m-going-to-play-a-trick-on-you look. She glowered.

  “Don’t even think about it,” she said her voice raspy for early morning.

  Scott smiled; the whole thing lighting up his face. “Morning to you, too.” He walked down the labyrinth of docks to the shoreline and Maeva shook her head, relieved to see Scott at fifteen was a bit better than Scott at thirteen. She squinted as the sun broke the trees and caught her in the face with a natural brightness. She held up a hand as she scrambled to tie up her boat and get out. Scott was a silhouette; standing with a group of guys sipping PowerAde as they meandered towards the parking lot. Maeva almost tripped over her shoelace as she grabbed her backpack. Her eyes widened as she did a quick save, pulling it away from the ledge of the dock. Her heart jolted and she closed her eyes taking a deep breath before standing and slinging it over her shoulder. She didn’t like the docks at St. Mary Harbor because there were a lot of them and they floated farther away from the shore than she cared to be. The one at her house was small so the chances of losing her footing and falling in were nil.

  Here, with the main piers and all the small docks jutting off of them was like a tight rope and she had to work hard at keeping her balance just to get to the shore. Her stomach was sludge as she reached it, and passed the group of guys on the way to her Sundance.

  She loved the car. She didn’t expect her dad to do anything for her but when they moved to the island the question of mobility became an issue. After a long discussion, Scott got a canoe and she got a car. It was nothing special, made in ninety-two, and barely worth a thousand dollars. It had rust spots all over the place, making the silver paint look grayish. She had a problem with the ignition too, which turned into a backwards security feature. She unhooked the keys from the stuffed bird key chain attached to her zipper and unlocked the front door. She pulled up the lock to the back door and put her backpack on the seat. She sighed. Scott and his friends were done with the morning banter and were getting into their nicer cars on the far side of the parking lot.

  Maeva opened the backpack, feeling for the small metal cylinder. It wasn’t there. She frowned, checked the bag a second time, and laughed at herself, rolling her eyes. She slammed both doors shut, twirling her keys on her key ring as she crossed the lot and went in through the service door to Earl’s Garage. It smelled like oil, tires and gasoline, an old boom box blaring classic rock. Earl was bent over a Caravan. Maeva knocked on the long blue counter, separating customers from employees and Earl glanced her way.

  “Mornin’ darling,” he drawled, his Native American accent shining through. His family was once part of the reserves in the area, but most of them had migrated to Kenora and surrounding area, working regular jobs. Earl opened the garage on a bunch of government grants. He was tall, his leathery skin wrinkled. He used to have long black hair but his favorite story was the one about how it all burned up in some house fire he barely escaped. Now it was short, growing out amidst the scars on his skull. Maeva shifted foot-to-
foot, not comfortable with the darling part of the greeting.

  “Morning, Earl,” she returned as cordially as possible, looking at her shoes.

  Earl came over to the desk and Maeva heard papers shuffling around. “I know what ya came for.”

  Maeva felt a blush creep up her cheeks, embarrassed. “Yeah well, I can’t really get to school …” she trailed off, not meeting his thick brown eyes. She jumped as something hit the counter with a jolt.

  “You should let me fix it,” Earl said, shooting her a glare. He smoothly grabbed his shirt pocket and slid out a cigarette. That was the other smell Maeva couldn’t stand. She gave him a half smile.

  “How much did you say it would cost?”

  Earl removed the cigarette from his lips while searching his pockets for a lighter. “A hundred and fifty, like I said before. You got the part so it’s just labor.”

  Maeva laughed. “I think I’ll be fine. It still runs.” She turned to the door and as she pushed it open she heard Earl’s voice behind her.

  “You know my number for when you break down, darling.”

  She let the door fall shut as she crossed the lot. She dropped into the front seat, sliding the metal cylinder into the ignition case. She pushed the key into it and the Sundance rumbled to life. She smiled at the slightly musty smell, a song from the only cassette tape she owned drowning out the roar of the car. The time said two minutes to eight so she pulled it into drive and eased onto the gas pedal.

  Streets in this part of Kenora were confusing. If they weren’t paved they had this black shale gravel that didn’t look or feel like regular gravel covering the road. She passed the golf course before turning towards the main highway, emerging somewhere near the Wal-Mart. School was on the north side of town, and she lived on the south side. She passed the tourist district, and Red Boot, the restaurant she worked at. The song changed as she passed City Hall, a quaint rustic red brick building with sandy stone steps.