Unimpressed by this information, Last merely shrugged again. “Could be you’re right. I’ve been around Driftwood for a long time, but I don’t claim to be an expert on anybody’s gods. There might be another world waiting for you all. But it’ll be waiting for you on the other side of the Crush.”
They checked the king’s health regularly; it wasn’t good, but he still lived, and that was reason enough for hope.
But the people of Aalyeng—not people at all, more like serpents with forked and dexterous tails—could not heal the king, and so they moved onward to Grai-ni-tar.
The guards knew who they carried, as did the physician accompanying him. All had been bound to secrecy in the same manner as Haint. The criminal himself was, Qoress hoped, still waiting in the world of the cinnamon-skinned people, to guide them home when they returned. But Qoress wondered how much good that secrecy would do. Fully a score of people had now disobeyed the king’s decree, by order of the Councilor Paramount; they had traveled through other worlds and felt the truth of Driftwood for themselves. They were heretics all, now, and what effect would this experience have on them?
Save the king. Nothing else mattered. He would worry about other concerns after the king was well. And if he was executed for his own crimes, then so be it.
Last guided them through the Shreds in an arc that skirted the Crush. Qoress had no desire to see it with his own eyes. They were attacked by some kind of large bird in one world; the guards’ arrows bounced off it, and Last led them at a run over the boundary into the next Shred. Someone killed one of the guards while they were resting, and stole everything off the body, including the clothes, without anyone else hearing. They learned from these lessons and adapted. Qoress, like all councilors, had lived from his birth in the palace. He often wondered if his peers on the council would recognize him when he came back.
At last they came to Grai-ni-tar.
The people there, with skin like ink and eyes like stars, did not want anyone to accompany the king’s palanquin into the ramshackle building that, even to Qoress’ eye, was obviously a makeshift replacement for a temple now lost, decorated with crude approximations of sculptures and murals. Last, seeing Qoress’ distress, argued vehemently with the priests. In the end, the two of them were permitted within, while the guards and physician remained outside.
The priests carried the palanquin down a large, dark archway, through a series of three curtains in black, grey, and white, and into a courtyard open to the sky.
There one of their number drew back the palanquin’s drapes, murmured over the king, turned to Last, and said a short phrase.
The guide snapped something back, receiving the same phrase in reply, and strode forward to the palanquin himself. Qoress, his stomach in knots, saw the moment Last’s shoulders slumped.
“I’m sorry,” the guide said, his voice low and defeated. “He’s dead.”
Qoress woke on a hard, narrow bed, with only one lamp casting a dim light. There was no blessed period of confusion; he knew instantly where he was, and what had happened.
The king was dead.
He rolled over and found himself not alone. Last sat on a low stool nearby, hands working an intricate puzzle of interlocking wooden pieces.
“I’m guessing he was someone important,” the guide said softly, not looking at Qoress. “Your king?”
Qoress’ words came thickly, from a mouth that no longer saw much point in speaking. “The last of his line.” Perhaps this was his punishment for heresy. But why did his world have to be punished alongside him?
“Who was supposed to lead you all to salvation. I remember.” Two pieces slid out of the puzzle. Last laid them aside, the dark gloss of his fingernails gleaming in the lamplight. “Can you choose another?”
Qoress’ laugh was despairing. “You don’t choose a king. The gods do. His family was sacred, but they all died when—when the—” His throat closed off. Horror enough, to have lived through the end of the world; he could not tell that tale to this stranger, while lying in a bed worlds away from home.
Last’s eyes were still on the puzzle. “Everything comes to an end someday. That’s what this place is for. But it doesn’t make the end hurt any less.” The pieces came apart in his hands, without warning, and the puzzle dissolved into disconnected fragments.
Tears blurred Qoress’ vision. What would this mean to his people? Suppose this man was right; suppose that Driftwood was the ultimate truth of the end, and that their prophecies of salvation, paradise, and rebirth were a lie. They were still a lie his people could cling to. Without that to hold them together, they had nothing. Anarchy would tear them apart.
“I do have one possibility to offer you.” Last’s voice stopped the downward spiral of his thoughts.
Sitting up on the edge of the bed, Qoress brushed feebly at his hair, as if his fingers could mend the disarranged braids so easily. There was little hope in his heart, but still he said, “Tell me.”
“Two Shreds widdershins of here, there’s a place called Rosphe. They can do this trick—it’s like a permanent shape-shifting. They can do it to other people. And once it’s done, it’s done, like the language-magic we performed.” Last’s long fingers were manipulating the pieces once more. Qoress watched them dance. “None of your people know yet that your king is dead.”
The puzzle came back together again, as it had been before, and Qoress realized what Last meant.
He surged to his feet, torn between sickness and murderous fury. “How dare you suggest such blasphemy to me? To prey on me when you know I am vulnerable—you calculated every step of this conversation, didn’t you? Even down to that puzzle, an elegant illustration of your point. I am a heretic and a traitor to my king; I confess this beneath the foot of the Agate God. But even I, fallen man that I am, would not presume to such a masquerade.”
Last was undisturbed by his outburst. “It’s up to you,” he said easily, studying the reconstructed puzzle. “Since there was no healing, the priests here have not taken their fee. You could pay it to the people in Rosphe instead. But if this is your decision, then I’ll lead you home, as agreed.”
Finally he looked up at Qoress, meeting his eyes for the first time since the councilor awoke. “I take my services very seriously. I’m not just a guide, not just a translator; I help people survive in Driftwood. As much as I can, against the breakdown that eventually claims it all. So I offer you what help I can. Whether or not you take it is up to you.”
He stood and set the puzzle on his vacated stool. “When you’re ready to come out, the priests will prepare a bath and food for you. I’ll wait in the courtyard. From there, I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”
Then he departed, leaving Qoress alone with the delicate puzzle of wood.
A wave of noise surged up from the open plaza before the holy palace, as if the crowds assembled there spoke with one roaring voice. Gold and copper, studded with jewels, shone from the platform where the councilors stood in their vermilion robes.
A guard stepped forward and lifted a spear. Spiked on the end of it, brow still bearing the mark of his office, was the head of the former Councilor Paramount. No one knew the specifics of his crime, but his accomplices had been spared; all the guilt lay on Qoress, and he had died a heretic’s death.
So it was, by order of the king.
At the border with the tunnel-world, Last hefted his pack onto one shoulder. No one had paid him for this trip out to the Edge; he’d come of his own will, to see what happened.
The man at his side did not wear the heavy, ornate robes of the king. They drew too much attention, and he was not accustomed to them anyway.
“I am damned for this,” the king said.
Last shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. But you have a chance to help your people, and that’s got to count for something. You’re the king now: heresy will be what you say it is.” He grinned, a brief flash of silver teeth. “Maybe you’ll be the last, best heretic.”
The je
st made Qoress flinch, but Last might have been right. He smoothed his expression and gripped Last’s hand. “May all the gods smile on your journey.”
He stood at the edge of his world and watched until the guide vanished into the tunnels, his own words echoing in his mind. Whether their paradise lay beyond the Crush or not, they could not ignore where they were. At least now his people would face Driftwood with their eyes open, guided by one who, if he did not understand it, was willing to learn.
If heresy could lead to salvation, then he would find a way.
The Never Never Wizard of Apalachicola
* * *
by Jason Sanford
Space slides dark and Earth churns blue. And me, two hundred miles up, rocking through water dreams of marsh and bay and gentle-downer waves. And me, Major Solomon Lawrence, sweat fogging my spacesuit visor. Eyes stinging. Tongue salting. The suit’s bottle-crisp air blowing the sting and taste into memories of Apalachicola Bay as a child.
And a raven, a true damn-it-all raven perched before me on the station’s new solar array, preening its purple-burn feathers in the vacuum of space.
I pull closer to the raven, my hands shaking at the nonsensical sight. We installed the array two days ago, but a glitch kept its solar panels from fully deploying. Now the raven’s leather-cut talons grip the release bolt that I need to turn. I wave my quarter-million-dollar NASA wrench at the creature but it ignores the threat.
“You okay, Sol?” my partner, Aleena Samasut, asks. Her white-suited form floats a dozen feet away. Praying I haven’t caused my colleagues or mission control to suspect the craziness I’m experiencing, I ask Aleena if she notices anything strange about the release bolt.
“Looks the same as in practice,” Aleena says as the raven silently caws. “Turn it so we can go home.”
Through Aleena’s visor I see her lovely dark-brown face, which reminds me so of my sister. How could I have forgotten my sister? The raven knows, and shakes its head at my silly, silly amazement.
I float closer to the bolt and the raven. A few twists from my wrench and the array’s accordion panels will shoot out like oversized insect wings. After all, there is a method to affairs like this. The array, the station, the shuttle, my space suit—all are true and proper science. The result of real world engineering. The raven can’t pretend to any of that.
Not that the damn bird cares.
And that’s when I remember everything. Remember the raven sitting malevolently on Chapél’s front porch in the swamps off Apalachicola Bay. Remember me wading there, pistol in hand, to kill that damn wizard for taking my sister. How Chapél laughed in his gravel-magicked voice. How the raven flew at me. How I woke floating in the bay, two husky fishermen pulling me onto their boat, asking if I was okay.
And me, not knowing the answer. Until now.
“You need help there, Sol?” Aleena’s radio-static voice asks, concerned at my delay. I mutter ‘no’ and raise the wrench to the bolt. The raven jumps aside and watches me twist the bolt one, two, three times. With a silent rush, the solar panels unfold and extend, instantly pushing their added power into the space station.
“Well done,” Aleena says as the raven bows sarcastically. Sweat tickles my face, beading in the weightlessness. Through my visor I see the light blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico and the browns and greens of Florida. I search the panhandle for Apalachicola Bay, but there are too many clouds.
So this is the how he summons me, I think. Even up here I can’t escape him.
The raven grins—how do birds grin?—sunlight angling its razor beak. Random memories blot my mind. I hear an old professor describing the angle of descent needed for the space shuttle to avoid burning up in the earth’s atmosphere. I see Mom tucking me into bed as forgotten jazz standards play over her transistor radio. I feel the tired twang of my body as I study in the library, my sister whispering how I can be anything I want.
Anything I set my mind to.
As if tasting my memories, the raven caws silent agreement before slamming its beak though my spacesuit and heart.
I no longer care who knows the craziness of my life, and broadcast a scream for all the world to hear . . .
The bay’s sweet water-fish scent after passing storms. The waves rasping against pilings under our tiny house. The taste of our home’s salt-run and sun-shrunk boards. The knowledge we were the only thing for miles except for swamps and bay, alligators and fish.
And Chapél. Never forget Chapél.
Our home was simple, built of hand-hewn planks nailed over cut tree-trunk pilings, with my mom’s beloved transistor radio the only bit of modernity allowed inside. Every evening we’d sit on our front porch—Mom and Dad, me and my sister Diane, who was seven years older than me—and listen to that radio until the batteries ran low. I still remember Mom’s rage one night when a newscaster interrupted our evening jazz with news of Dr. King’s assassination. Mom began cursing the white bastard who’d killed him, but my father clamped his large hands over her mouth and held her tight. Whispered “It’s not worth it, hon, not worth going back to Chapél,” until Mom calmed down.
Diane and I sat silently on the porch, shocked by Mom’s curse and Dad’s words. In a low voice, Diane asked what Dad meant by going back to Chapél. Dad sighed and pointed at the star-like lights of an oyster boat passing in the dark bay, and at the true stars above.
He then told us stories. How he’d grown up one of the Khoikhoi people, tending to his father’s cattle herds until a siren’s call pulled him to the Cape of Good Hope, where he fought a sea serpent with a magic sword and lived. How our mother, as a child of the Serengeti, hiked for weeks until she reached Mount Kilimanjaro, where she demanded the wizards there help her people survive a drought. How the two of them fell in love while in service for centuries to the world’s most powerful—and dangerous—wizard.
The stories poured out of him for hours. Of a world Diane and I could barely comprehend. Of magic lapping like the waves in our bay. Of enchanted swords and demons. Of quests for honor and revenge. Diane and I lit up at his stories, and I wished I could be a wizard in this long-ago world.
But eventually Mom cut him off, and whispered of the horrible things they’d also experienced. Of magic slavery. Of unending, cancerous wars. Of children and people killed in a million ignoble ways. Of how powerless she and our father felt growing up in a world where only the magical succeeded. “Magic is rarely a good thing,” she said. “There are worlds you don’t want existing in your lives.”
“So true,” Dad said. “Magic lives off the loves and pains of others. It’s never the wizards or witches who suffer for their spells.”
Diane and I didn’t know what to say. After sitting in silence for a while, Mom and Dad carried us to our beds, where Diane and I fell into an exhausted asleep as if attacked by one of those fanciful spells of old.
After that, they never again spoke of magic, despite Diane and I continually pestering them about it.
Our parents worked the oyster factories near town, riding a wooden boat with a rusty outboard to and from work. For most of the year, they dropped us off at school on the way to town, and picked us up after closing. When school was out, Diane watched me while our parents worked.
The summer I turned eight and Diane fifteen, a gale blew up as our parents were boating home. For three days we waited for their return. Finally, a sheriff’s patrol craft towing our parent’s swamped boat sputtered up to our rickety dock.
Two deputies stepped out, along with a white woman we recognized from school as the county social worker. The deputies—one white, the other black—stood back as the social worker kneeled before Diane.
“Honey,” the woman drawled condescendingly. “There’s been an accident.”
Diane nodded, her skinny-muscle body tensing like fishing line hooked to a barracuda. The white women hemmed and hawed before finally admitting our parents had drowned when their boat overturned in the storm. A tide of numbness flowed through me. I glanc
ed through the planks of our dock at the low-tide revealing mud, and watched a crab scurry after its meal.
The social worker cocked an eye at our house, obviously not impressed. “Do you have any relatives we can take you to?” she asked.
“Our grandmother’s inside,” Diane said quickly. “We’ll get her.”
I started to say we didn’t have a grandmother, or any other relatives for that matter, but I shut up at a glare from Diane. She grabbed my hand and pulled me to the house, the screen door slamming shut after us. Through the cracks in the wood-plank walls, she watched the social worker talk with the deputies.
“They’ll take us away,” she whispered.
“What do you mean?” I asked, still trying to imagine our parents as dead. I couldn’t feel it. That must mean they were alive. Maybe they were floating in the bay, waiting for us to rescue them.
“They won’t let us stay here. We won’t be a family anymore.”
Diane paced back and forth across our kitchen floor, the floorboards creaking under her weight. Through the cracks in the wall, I saw the social worker and deputies grow agitated. They knew we were stalling. Suddenly Diane hugged me tight and told me to keep up. Holding my hand, she grabbed our mom’s favorite belonging—her transistor radio—and our dad’s machete, and led me out the back door. We ran the long plank to the ground and raced toward the swamps.
The deputies yelled to stop, but they only followed us a little ways before giving up. We hid in the swamps as they stalked back to their boat.
“They’re leaving,” I said, proud of our little victory.
“They’ll bring hounds,” Diane said, caressing the radio in her hands. “And more people.”
I sat among the knees of a swamp cypress, remembering how I always sat between Momma’s knees when she cut my hair. I cried. I wanted to go with the social worker and the deputies. I wanted to find my parents and not spend the rest of my life hiding in a swamp.
InterGalactic Medicine Show Awards Anthology, Vol. I Page 16