by Amir Naaman
Makeio had his own magic; deft, clever hands that could make or fix anything he set his mind to. He earned a place for himself as the handyman of the fair. Sometimes women called him to fix things that were not broken, or that they’d broken themselves, just for the pleasure of having him near. They flirted and he flirted right back, but always he stayed true to me. Until…
One warm September evening, when we were packing up after a busy day, Makeio asked me to scry for him. I dropped my mirror and it shattered into a million pieces. I felt each shard pierce my heart. I’d known this day would come; I just hadn’t known how close it was.
Makeio swept up the pieces, teasing me for my clumsiness, and suggested I use a bowl of water instead.
I excused myself that evening. I was tired, my head hurt, I could barely see straight: the usual excuses any woman makes when a man wants something she can’t give. Makeio didn’t argue, but he gave me a look before he went to sleep that night. I’m not letting this go, that look said. You will scry for me.
I put him off as long as I could. I used every pretext I could think of, and in the end, when no pretexts were left, I simply refused him. It hurt, because it made Makeio withdraw from me. He thought I was withholding something from him, and of course he was right. At first he would joke about it, even though his jokes had gained an edge. Then he started sleeping away from my tent. I knew he was doing it to hurt me. In this he succeeded, and so the future I was so loath to reveal to him began to take shape in front of my dismayed eyes.
After a few weeks of staying away, Makeio came back to my bed. He was passionate and penitent and I was so filled with relief at his return, I refused to acknowledge what it meant: the final phase had begun and I would soon lose him forever.
That night he held me and said, “What are you so afraid of, darling? What have you seen that you cannot share with me?”
“Don’t ask me,” I begged, my voice muffled against his chest. “I cannot bear to say it, to think it.”
It was the first time I’d admitted knowing something bad was going to happen. His arms tightened around me. “It’s another man, isn’t it? You’re going to leave me for another man.”
This was so preposterous that I pushed myself away from him and laughed. “That’s foolish, Makeio. I’ll never leave you for anyone else.”
But I could see from his face that the seed of doubt had been sown. From then on I sensed a change in him; he watched me more closely, becoming jealous even of male customers. I tried to put up with it as best I could, tried to reassure him of my love and loyalty. But it tested my patience and more than once I had to bite my lips to stop from screaming at him.
All Hallows Eve came around. Makeio relaxed sufficiently to dress up as a thug and go drinking with his friends. I didn’t mind, even though it was the busiest night of the year for the fair. I was just relieved at the return of normalcy. After the last costumed witch and ghost had gone, I brought in my lamp and undid my hair. When the tent flap opened, I smiled and turned around.
But it wasn’t Makeio at all, it was the brutish thug with a mask on his face and a wicked piece of glass in his gloved hand. He reached me in a single stride and gripped my hair, twisting my head back.
“Let me go,” I hissed.
He pushed the shard of glass against my neck. “Trick or treat,” he whispered. “Scry for me now or I’ll slice open your veins.”
It was a piece from the mirror that had broken my life in two: the time before and the time after Makeio asked me to scry his future. Of course he was only toying with me. He would not try to hurt me, but he would inadvertently draw blood, and then he would hate himself, and hate me for making him hate himself.
I tried to swallow my anger. “Makeio, you fool. There’s no man I’ll ever love but you. Not that you deserve it.”
“Prove it,” he said. “Scry for me. I know you cannot lie.”
I closed my eyes but found no relief. The vision that had haunted me since the moment I met Makeio flooded my senses. The blood. The knife. The twitching of a body in the last throes of life. “All right,” I said at last, bitterness in my mouth. “Since you will not believe me, I will scry for you.”
Makeio tore off his mask and made as if to toss the shard away, but I stopped his hand. “It’s all I need to see what the future holds in store for us,” I said.
“Tell me,” demanded Makeio, his face afire.
And I told him. When I had finished speaking, he stood and howled like an animal in pain. I closed my ears but still I could hear it, the shriek of love and sanity dying. In one breath, all the good things gone, and only nightmares left to contend with.
Why did I not lie to him?
I couldn’t. It’s not something a true scryer can do. It has to do with the gift and how it works within us, shaping us and what we speak. We can withhold knowledge for a while, but we cannot forever conceal it, or change it. I had lived with Makeio and loved him too long to be able to hide from him.
He stumbled out of the tent and vanished into the darkness. For a long time I did not see him again. I missed him with an ache that grew sharper as November shortened the days and embittered the nights. I slept fitfully with a knife next to my pillow. I was so lonely I even considered hunting for Mama again. But that would have meant trying to lose Makeio, trying to evade the future I knew was coming for me.
The night before the fair was to pack up and head south for winter, Makeio returned. He did not try to conceal himself. He crawled into the tent, calling my name, and kissed me. I kissed him back even though his breath reeked of alcohol, because I knew I’d never kiss him again.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I will never hurt you.” Fear and despair swept over me, because of course I’d seen it all, told him all. As he wrapped his hands around my neck, I panicked and plunged my knife up between his ribs. Blood gushed out, thick and warm, soaking my face and hair. Makeio’s breath hitched. His hands loosened their murderous grip on my neck; he gurgled and fell twitching on top of me. I struggled out from under him and ran into the cold night, screaming silently.
After a while I came to my senses. I crept back to the tent to wash my face and change my clothes, trying not to look at the body of the man I’d loved. I took what money I had saved and left the tent. I didn’t need the bowl or mirrors; potatoes would do just as well.
I traveled to another town, and then another. I spent the winter on the street until the cold drove me indoors to work in a brothel. I made good money. Whoring was no different from scrying. You gave a bit of yourself to your customer, you made him happy, he paid you. Sometimes I didn’t even have to do anything except wear red fishnet stockings and bark like a dog, or have my foot rubbed with perfumed oil. I gave all my customers Makeio’s face, and it worked for a while. The other women thought I was a bit soft in the head, but I fit right in.
Then I began to scry the customers. A bald, middle-aged man would begin to mount me and I’d stop him: No. What you really want is to screw your own daughter, and I’m not feeding that fantasy. Or a young man would come to me all shy-like for his first time, and I’d want to punch his face because I could see how brutally he’d treat his wife in the years to come.
Madam kicked me out, of course. Thankfully it was spring by then and I got work at a farm. All day I dug and hoed and planted and weeded, and by nightfall, I was too tired to do anything but sleep.
Makeio came to me in my dreams, like I’d known he would. He’d sit all curious-like and say: But what if it didn’t have to be this way? What if you had told me something different?
And I’d say, Makeio, it doesn’t work like that. Maybe there exists another version of you and me somewhere in the universe, and maybe that is a happy version with both of us together and alive. But it sure as hell isn’t this one.
As the days lengthened, so did my dreams. I looked forward to going to sleep every night. Now this was something I had not predicted. Makeio would visit me and we’d talk and in the morning I could
never remember what we talked about, except that it was important and meaningful and I still loved him. There was a hole in the heart of my waking self, but my dream-self was happy and whole. I began to hate waking up.
One night I asked Makeio what I could do about it. Go back to that night, Makeio said. Stay your hand and see what happens.
But we can’t go back, I shouted. Time is linear.
Not to the dead, he said softly, and held out his hand. I stared at it, wanting to believe in something I could not predict, could not see. I put my hand in his and he gripped it, warm and sure. And then he drew me, inward and inside the tidal currents in which he swirled. Perhaps I screamed; I do not know.
I woke to darkness. It took me a few moment to orient myself. I was back in my old tent in North York. The tent flapped open and I started, my heart racing. Makeio crawled in, weeping and shivering and saying he loved me and would never hurt me. He kissed me and I kissed him back, even though he reeked of alcohol, because that’s what you do when you love someone. You open yourself up to them, open yourself up to hurt.
When Makeio’s fingers closed over my neck, I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed. I stayed my hand, for what did I have to lose except this meagre life, so whittled down with all I’d given of myself over the years?
He let go at once, and I took great, gulping breaths of air.
Makeio took my face in his hands. “You were wrong,” he said fiercely. “This is not how it ends for us. This is what I wanted to prove to you.”
I cried with joy, with sadness. In that moment, I lost my gift and gained both our lives.
I never scryed again. We left the fair the next morning. Makeio got a job with a Master Carpenter and I waited tables at a tavern. The following year I gave birth to a baby girl—one with the gift, if I know anything about it.
I wish I could say it doesn’t matter that all I can see now is a thick fog where once I could see visions as clear as autumn sunlight. I wish it didn’t hurt to be ordinary.
But it does.
I look at my daughter now as she toddles across the sawdust-covered floor of her father’s workshop to be swung into his arms. I cannot see her life, except I know it will be a hard one like mine. What will I tell her when she’s old enough to know she’s different?
I will tell her that scrying is both a gift and a curse, just like madness. I will tell her she must find her own path to the future, but she is not bound to follow it.
I will tell her that life is a glass that can shatter into a million pieces. But with love and belief, you can glue those pieces back together. Cracked but whole, something other than what you have been—perhaps something more.
I will tell her I love her, no matter who she chooses to become.
Born and raised in India, Rati Mehrotra currently makes her home in Toronto, Canada. When not working on her magnum opus – a series of fantasy novels based in a fictional version of Asia – she writes short fiction, and blogs at ratiwrites.com. Her stories have been published at Apex Magazine, AE – The Canadian Science Fiction Review, Urban Fantasy Magazine, and many more. Follow her on Twitter @Rati_Mehrotra
Dragons for Dummies
Sarina Dorie
Tip Number One:
Contrary to popular belief, all the good dragons are hatched in Mexico, not China.
—Excerpt from Dragons for Dummies
Jackson George sat on a sweltering bus outside some city he couldn’t pronounce. His stomach flip-flopped as the bus took another bend in the winding, mountain road. He leaned away from the window and tried not to look down at the plummeting drop from the narrow road. Of course, that meant he was inches closer to the smelly pig farmer next to him.
This never would have happened if the state had issued him a license for dragon ownership. But no. Instead he was denied three times because he didn’t fit the right profile for a conscientious dragon owner. Whatever that meant. Jackson, naturally, had tried to bribe the woman at the state office. That had only resulted in a fine. He wasn’t about to pay the fifty dollar fee and take the test again.
So now he was stuck on this stupid bus with peasant farmers because this was the bus line that online forums recommended for dragon smuggling. His cell phone didn’t even get a signal and he couldn’t work email. At least he’d brought his book on raising a dragon.
Tip Number Two:
Dragons make wonderful pets, and their intelligence exceeds the average cat, dog or dolphin. On the other hand, dragons also have special needs that can be taxing on a pet owner. Before selecting a dragon, make sure you have enough space for a large glass tank, an ample supply of raw meat and a permit. Most states require a license and a background check for dragon ownership. Dragons are not the right pet choice for everyone. Just like small, yippy dogs are not the right pet choice for everyone. Nor are small, annoying children.
—Dragons for Dummies
Ever since he’d been ten, Jackson had wanted the kind of dragon that would scare the shit out of people. Now, a little over fifteen years later, his dreams were about to come a reality. He would be the baddest-ass broker in his firm with a dragon that grew as large as a Great Dane. Fortunately, there was no shortage of those kinds of dragons in Xalapa. Two blocks from the bus station, men and women stood at the corners with cardboard boxes filled with lizards sleeping in the sun. Jackson scratched his stubble, weighing his options as he perused the boxes. The green dragons had long slender bodies and wary gazes that reminded him of Siamese cats. Green was the standard in the U.S. and boring as hell.
The black dragons with gold speckles were interesting to look at, but they would grow spikes and horns and be prone to tear up the furniture. The pink ones were for girls. They didn’t even have wings. He didn’t particularly care for the blue ones because their necks and tails were shorter than the green ones and it gave them a stocky, squashed appearance that reminded him of his mother.
Jackson needed a dragon that was elegant, lithe and easy to train.
A red one about the size of a small cat perched on the shoulder of an old woman. The glitter of the red scales caught his eye. He didn’t see any other red ones on the street. A man with a French accent was already haggling with the lady. He’d talked her down to five hundred dollars.
“You like this man?” the woman asked the dragon in her thick accent.
It nestled more securely against her neck. Jackson chuckled. She acted like the dragon could talk or something.
“I’ll pay eight hundred for the red one,” Jackson said. The dragon lifted his head at the sound of Jackson’s voice.
“Hey, that’s my dragon,” the Frenchie said. He glared at Jackson through coke bottle glasses that made his eyes large and watery. As far as Jackson was concerned, the dude was perfect for a pink dragon.
The red dragon brushed his elegant snout against the old woman’s ear. His tongue flickered out of his mouth, and it almost looked like the dragon might be speaking to her.
Jackson held out eight hundred dollars to the woman. Her eyes gleamed.
The ride back to Mexico City was largely uneventful. After his bus transfer onto El Gringo Charter bus from Tijuana to Los Angeles Jackson began to worry. The online forum he’d found said this line was the one to take because they bribed customs to get across without inspections.
Jackson realized how untrue this was when the border patrol officials searched the cargo bay under the bus and boarded to inspect contents of bags. A woman with a plump pink dragon cried as they took away her new pet away and removed her from the bus. Sweat trickled down Jackson’s forehead and made his shirt stick to his back as the officer leaned down to examine the pet carrier on Jackson’s lap. The man opened the latch and stared for over a minute at the dragon before closing it up again and continuing on.
Jackson didn’t know how it was possible. He decided it was best to be thankful for his luck and not to ask too many questions.
Tip Number Three:
To call them dragons is actually a misnomer. They
are a prehistoric species of raptor in the pterodactyloid family. The idea that they collect hordes of gold is no different than a magpie collecting shiny foil wrappers or bits of tin can. Just because it’s true that they like shiny objects doesn’t mean they steal virgins, are incarnates of the devil or have magical powers.
—Renowned paleontologist, Dr. Ralph Cuthbert, author of Dragons for Dummies
Jackson had always wanted a magical, endangered species. People said they couldn’t talk, grant wishes or breathe fire, but he’d heard stories. He’d dreamed. The problem with owning a potentially illegal pet was that Jackson had to be careful whom he told. If someone started asking too many questions and he didn’t have the proper paperwork, he would be fined—again—and the dragon would be confiscated. That’s why he didn’t tell his condo association, his mother or the neighbors.
He did invite Joanne over because he knew she liked exotic animals. Her skirt was ankle-length, her blond hair in a French twist, and she didn’t show any cleavage like the other secretaries at Goldman Lynch and Co.. She wore the kind of no-nonsense expression on her face that told him he wasn’t going to get anywhere with her, and yet it had never stopped him from trying. She was the one secretary who didn’t want him and it made her want her even more.
“Oh, he is soooo cute! Aren’t you little, fella?” Joanne waved at the dragon. She leaned over to stare into the giant glass aquarium on the floor.
“Careful,” Jackson warned. He rubbed at the bandages covering the dragon bites on his hand.
The dragon appeared to be more interested in watching Jackson than interacting with his coworker.
“What’s his name?” she asked.
“Bruno,” Jackson said.