Susan Curnow
Copyright © Susan Elizabeth Curnow 2009 So long. Too long among humans, eons long, or so it seems. Smells choke him, the ugliness around him dulling his heart, voices arrive without poetry to ease his mind. Shoes turn steps to a clumsy gait, buckles sear the flesh of his face, and this clanking, metal vehicle makes him drip sweat like any common horse.
He fights their ropes until they beat him with a long stick that breathes agony and jolts his heart. Now he’s herded into a corral, separated from others, surrounded by more metal to sap his strength. A patch of dirt without a blade of grass; food is a memory long forgotten, long tasted.
So tired. He is so, so tired.
A metallic clang precedes the smell of yet another human. He spins, ready to do battle. Not men with sticks and harsh voices but a female smelling of sweet scent and more. The tang of horse clings to her clothes and waltzes through her hair. She holds out a hand.
He snaps at it half-heartedly, wanting none to touch him, no more human flesh.
She sings sweet nothings, unafraid as she rubs a sore spot on his neck. He thinks to sleep as she mesmerizes him with sound and touch, until he hears the voices again and the thump of their boots, the smell of their manly scent. He will go nowhere with them. He would rather die.
With one last effort he cries challenge, forcing his body up and up, his hooves to strike out, his teeth to snap.
Laughter and curses greet his courage and then a highpitched scream of anger sounds as a metal rod begins its descent toward his head. A mare defends her herd fiercer than any stallion. The defense startles him so that he looks at the woman, at her face screwed up in rage, and listens to her furious words of denial. The males back away, their body language both irritated and ashamed, their words uncertain.
Kick and bite and stomp are all he can manage, but here is something else. Instinct makes him wish to follow her feet, to trust, anything that might lead him to safety. More angry words lace the air.
“Josie, you’re a fool. Not this one.”
“You do as I say, Pete. You don’t let the meat man have him.”
The gate closes with an annoyed clang, stomping feet fading into oblivion. Sounds retreat as he turns his back on this world, expecting death until that gentle voice comes again, free of anger, promising so much. In the distance an auctioneer’s hammer falls. He flinches at the sound, waiting. A male voice calls.
“A hundred and fifty bucks, Josie!”
“Fine!” she calls back.
Is that all I’m worth? A part of him still finds bitter amusement.
Fresh straw in a wooden barn is better than ambrosia. Water smells fresh and clean, drawn from a well without taint. He takes several mouthfuls before she pulls the bucket away and hangs hay in a net. It isn’t hay he wants but he can’t tell her this. He’s taken drink from her hands and this obligates him. If he takes food as well he wins nothing for his hopes.
He rests in the clean straw. She sits by him, talking, stroking him until his eyes close. She teases burrs from his mane and tail, delicately parting strands. He widens his nostrils, drawing in her scent, the very female scent of her, the musk of fertility, the sweat beneath the perfume. Even as sleep calls, he wants her on his back, to ride between the worlds. For the first time in eons he feels safe.
A man’s voice intrudes into his dreams, words echoing above him. “He’ll be all right with plenty of rest and good food. He’ll need supplements for a while—teeth floated, feet trimmed, wormed—you know all that. Heart and gut sounds are good but I’ll take some blood to test. Get his strength up and then we’ll geld him.”
Not in the Seven Hells.
Has he merely exchanged one nightmare for another? At least in the pens he might have died a courageous death fighting to the end. Here, kindness could be as dangerous. He will not allow his blood to be taken. The little rest he’s gained gives him enough strength to avoid the needle. The male backs away when Josie tells him to.
“Come back another day when you’re passing. Let him settle. There’s no rush,” Josie says from outside his stall. For a moment their eyes meet—is there amusement written in hers?
A vehicle drives away and the door to his stall re-opens and she stands there, arms akimbo. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you understand every word, but I’ll give you the benefit of doubt. I’ll make you a bran mash. You gotta eat, boy.”
The bran mash smells of earth and sweetness. What he wants is a side of venison, fresh river greens, and a glass of wine scented with oak.
Sun shines through a skylight within the barn. He watches motes dance among the beams and catch the light. His bones tell him the moon will be full tonight. With luck and cunning he can escape this stall and find his way to a river. If he dives beneath the surface he’ll find a path home.
He sleeps, nose in straw, until the sun begins its descent. The girl, Josie, comes to check on him from time to time, always speaking softly, always touching him tenderly. She makes his skin shiver and his heart race, but she is human and he does not forget the promise of a knife to his genitals.
Her eyes are green, her hair as black as his coat. She tilts her head and watches him in a way that no other human ever has, looking more deeply than his skin; as though she knows. And when she removes his shoes he wonders even more.
Daylight fades. Birds find their roosts and beyond the barn all he hears is the rustle of trees as they whisper goodnights. He climbs to his hooves, light of foot, and investigates the bolts of his stall. Though they burn his mouth, it’s easy enough to pull them back with his teeth. He is halfway down a gravel path with the tang of a river to guide him when Josie appears. She stands before him, arms akimbo, hands on her slender waist.
“I wondered if you’d try it. Come here, silly boy,” she says. He has some pride left and knows he can escape her. He stands as she approaches him. It will not hurt him to have those tender hands caress him one last time. She reaches him and strokes his nose, then shares her breath with him. She tastes of honey and cinnamon. He barely notices as she slips something over his head. Only then does he back away, aware he’s been a fool yet again.
Light as gossamer, the halter might barely hold him except for one thing. He stares at her, wondering how she knew, what gave him away.
She smiles. “I wondered many things about you. You were too beautiful, even filthy as you were, to have been abandoned by anyone. I thought perhaps you were too dangerous to be handled, but you reacted out of fear, not anger. I have a feeling you are a long way from home.”
The halter is made from his tail and mane, braided together and shaped to fit.
“Isn’t it true that if I ride you in a bridle made from your hair, you won’t kill me?”
The moon is full and it is Samhain, a time of power. A shaft of moonlight falls on the path. He steps sideways into it letting the rays fall upon his back. He calls a challenge to the night and to the powers of the Earth, and then he changes.
“How did you know?” he asks when he stands as a man before her.
“Small things. You didn’t quite behave as a normal horse and you understood me far too well. You shied away from anything metal. Your expressions were, well, too expressive. The way you watch things...
“You should have seen your face when George mentioned gelding you. You understood.”
The halter hangs around his neck, as secure as any chain. He fingers it. “You want a ride, do you? I’ll give you the ride of your life!” He means it in more ways than one and three or four others besides.
She laughs. A sound holding promises of lust and love and hope until she asks, “What is your name?”
He pauses. Giving his name commits him to so many things. It will give her yet more power over him. If she were Fae he would never consider it, but he owes her his life and knows it.
“Aiellessen,” he says softly and prays he is not wrong to trust.
“I’m Josie, but I guess you already know that. Come inside and we’ll talk and I’ll
make you a proper meal.”
She walks forward and lifts the end of his halter. She tugs and he follows, skin shivering at the touch of her hand.
Aiellessen stops at the threshold. “I can take you to so many places.”
She stops with one hand on the door frame. “I know. My grandmother told me so much.”
Still he pauses, a thing remaining to trouble him. “And you’ll promise to keep the knife away?”
Laughter highlights her face again. Her eyes dance as she rakes his body. He knows he is handsome and straightens his shoulders. He nearly stamps his feet until he remembers.
“Looking like that? I’m thinking there is more than one way to geld a man and a knife isn’t one of them. If I know my legends, you owe me at least seven years. So if you behave...”
It isn’t in his nature to behave. As long as he wears the halter he cannot run. Seven years is a long time to plan, and if women have got him into trouble before, no doubt they will again, but the in-between is always worth it. Besides, times passes differently on Earth from what is does in Sithein-dhu. He might even return a hero, especially if he gets this girl with child. He steps across the threshold with a smile on his face ready to do battle for his manhood.
The door remains ajar and Josie stands in the path of the moon. The light burnishes her skin lending her an unearthly glow. Her clothes lie in a puddle at her feet. His smile broadens and then fades as she steps out of her skin.
ISABELLA ERLENMEYER
Though born in Tegucigalpa, Honduras, (down Mexico, bear left and carry on), I live in Iriona (same country but by the ocean).
I graduated in Marine Biology and hold a number of patents relating to fish husbandry, in particular hatching techniques encompassing egg, larvae, post-larval, and juvenile stages.
I’m 32, divorced, no children or pets. Two live-ins: Gus and Paddy, twins, expert divers and a bit on the hulkish side, but nice boys and unencumbered by high IQ’s. They run my fish farm, and look after me with their sandwich games. To humor them I often play at being ham.
I write mainstream. My work is unpublished and I’m not seeking publication until I learn more about the craft and intricacies of good storytelling.
B
ORN IDLE and THE PAINTER OF WINDS are vignettes, snatches of two tragic lives with dissimilar endings. The inspiration for B ORN IDLE arose from a laboratory technique I use to coat the water-soluble particles in fish medicines. For THE PAINTER OF WINDS I drew from personal experience. My late exhusband was a painter. Bless him.
[email protected]
Born Idle
Isabella Erlenmeyer
Copyright © Oscar Croselt 2009
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Before answering, Officer Jones glanced around and wrinkled his nose. “No, thank you, Ma’am.”
Detective sergeant Elliott darted a sharp look to the officer and stepped toward Barbara Tatum, a small and mousy-looking woman. “I would love one, thank you.”
In the kitchen, Elliott perched on a stool, his back to the wall, watching Mrs. Tatum as she reached for a dented aluminum teapot. From a top cupboard she picked a tin. The cupboard was bare but for a box of cornflakes and a glass jar with a white powder, probably sugar. She placed the jar on the countertop and hunched her shoulders, waiting for the water to boil.
Elliott followed her movements, his feeling of strangeness deepening. Mrs. Tatum’s seeming lack of emotion wasn’t surprising; he’d seen similar reactions before, but there was something odd in her behavior. He lowered his gaze to her carpet slippers, worn, deformed and carefully darned in several places with minute stitches.
While the tea steeped she opened the fridge and produced a carton of milk. Other than a water jug and a dish covered with a pan lid, the fridge was empty.
Elliott nodded thanks for the mug of hot tea and sipped, wondering why she’d added milk but never offered sugar. Outside the door, in the corridor, he eyed a dozen crates of beer before clearing his throat.
“Would you mind if I ask you a few questions?” He produced a small notepad and a pencil.
“Of course.”
“Just let me check again. You discovered your husband’s body at seven?”
“I found his corpse at six forty, when I woke up.”
“How did you—” Elliott penciled the time, searching for a euphemistic formula.
“He was silent.”
“Couldn’t he be asleep?”
“He snored most of the time. When he didn’t, his breath was labored.”
“Did he suffer from a heart condition?”
“Look sergeant. My husband was one hundred pounds overweight and often didn’t move from the sofa for weeks. He was on medication for high blood pressure, constipation and ulcers. In addition he had bed sores, varicose veins and a chronic hydrocele.”
“You said chronic...?”
“Hydrocele testis. He retained fluids in his scrotal sac.”
Elliott wrote it all down.
“You said before he hadn’t moved from the sofa in weeks.” He had already guessed the answer but he had to ask. “How did he—”
“He didn’t. I brought him a bedpan, gave him enemas, cleaned his sores and drained his sack.”
Before he could ask she continued.
“I would puncture his scrotum to draw liquid. I used to be a registered nurse.”
James Smith, the medical examiner, popped his head around the kitchen door, peeling a latex glove. “Er— sergeant. Have a minute?”
Elliott nodded to Mrs. Tatum and followed Dr. Smith to a small bathroom crammed with odd-looking utensils, a basket full of bandages, gauze pads and the paraphernalia of an infirmary.
“Anything I should know?” Elliott gestured toward the living room.
“Too early to say, but my bet is thrombosis or an embolism; clogged arteries. He was in dismal shape. I’ll know more after postmortem.”
“You reckon natural causes then?”
“That’s my bet and I wonder how he lasted so long.”
“Seemingly, his wife was a nurse.”
“And damn thorough at that; he’s been cured and bandaged often and expertly.”
“You could have fooled me.”
Over a blackened can, Elliott peered at a pot half-filled with water. Inside were several large glass and chrome syringes and hypodermic needles the size of soda straws. Everything looked crummy and pitted. He reached for the pot and moved it aside, peering inside the can at burned paper ashes.
“That’s an alcohol boiler; you pour alcohol in, set it afire and boil the water to sterilize the syringes. My grandfather used to sterilize instruments in one like that. Poor bitch. She must have run out of alcohol and burned papers instead. This stuff is ancient, but clean. I had never seen cheap bandages and gauze pads washed. These things,” he pointed to the basket, “must have been through the washer a dozen times.”
Elliott checked his notes.
“She said something about Hydrocele.”
“Right. His balls were the size of a small cantaloupe.”
“Painful?”
“Could be. He should have had surgery ages ago.”
“They didn’t seem to be rolling in it.”
“I would have never believed it. You never heard the name?”
Elliott frowned. “You mean the Tatum?”
“Right. A long time ago I met his father, one of the old pirates. See that tract of land out there?”
They neared a small window overlooking a trim yard and beyond a huge swathe of barren land stretching into the distance.
“It belonged to the deceased, and now I suppose to his widow. You know Pffalzer Merris? Well, go figure. One of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the country and they’re planning moving to another state. He wouldn’t sell them a single acre to expand their labs.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“He must have felt he didn’t need it. They would have paid top dollar.”
“Then why the squalor?”
“Search me.”
“That’s all I could do on eighteen dollars a week.”
They both turned toward the voice. Framed under the door, Mrs. Tatum looked smaller, and mousier than ever.
“His bank paid every bill, even car service and gas would be settled by them after I signed a receipt. No credit cards or checking account. He used to give me twenty dollars a week for housekeeping.”
She paused as if ashamed to continue. “A year ago he lowered it to eighteen.”
Elliott pocketed his notepad and darted a look past Mrs. Tatum to the boxes of beer.
She lowered her head. “He drank a crate a day, but I didn’t buy it. A truck delivered it once a month.”
“Mrs. Tatum, who was your husband’s physician?”
“Dr. Dooley of Maple Crescent. He came once a month to fill his prescriptions.”
After fishing his notepad once more from his jacket pocket, Elliott jotted the doctor’s name as he considered someone should be sued for incompetence, malpractice or worse. He couldn’t bring himself to ask why Chester Tatum had reduced his wife’s housekeeping by two dollars.
She drank iron-tasting tap water from a tick-bottomed glass and glanced at the mirror to push at her tangled hair. I am the ghost of Barbara, an ephemeral passerby, in whose mind dreams have power. From under a drawer liner, Barbara rescued a thin sliver of white soap, LUX, her last, saved for the occasion.
Chester had hated the smell of soap. She let the water run comfortably hot and rubbed the soap between her hands until she managed a thick lather. Then she rubbed her face all over, massaging her temples, cheekbones, nose and mouth before rinsing it and starting again until the soap melted into nothingness.
A year ago, Chester had reduced her housekeeping allowance from twenty dollars to eighteen. She stared through blurry eyes to a bare narrow shelf. Bare of her babies, the delightful creatures Old Elmo Calhoun had crafted for her.
In the mornings, she would lock herself in the bathroom; forget her existence and toy with Nena, the little squirrel and Tim the mouse. Barbara would dash and sprinkle herself with the bright waters of childhood greeting Bobby, the cantankerous-looking owl, a gentle soul, really, and line up Jeremy, Nicholas and Emma; the three white geese. Then, she would fortify her soul with Ernie, the robin, dream of deliverance caressing Douglas the dolphin and share the loneliness of her soul with frisky Jemima, the colt.
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