by Lisa Mangum
I heard the beep of a horn outside and scurried to the front door, which I opened and stepped through, even more confused. Hadn’t it been a zipper just moments before?
Ocking-Klark roared toward me in her truck, slammed on the brakes and slid to a halt a mere half-meter from me. I took an instinctive step back and pointed an angry finger at her.
“You left me here!”
“Shut up,” she said kindly, and got out of the cab. “I brought lunch. You eat. Stop complain.”
I settled down and walked with her to the back of the truck, which was empty save for a picnic basket. I grabbed the handles and lifted it up and out, then, staggering under the weight, stumbled to the picnic bench beside the gazebo. I put the basket on the bench and sat down, drawing the back of my hand across my forehead.
Yes—a picnic bench and a gazebo. I had no idea where they had come from, but I was too hungry to care.
“You eat,” repeated Ocking-Klark. “Stop complain.”
We ate. The basket held fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy without lumps, biscuits, corn on the cob, and, for dessert, a blackberry pie and a gallon of vanilla ice cream.
Ocking-Klark ate an enormous amount, glancing at the house and the gazebo from time to time, admiring the lawn. Sucking on a chicken leg, she popped it out of her mouth and used it as a pointing device, which she aimed at the house. “This yours?”
I bristled. “I thought you were going to explain it, actually. Last night I opened up that tent thing you left for me and, today …” I waved a hand helplessly. “I don’t even know how you did this. Did you do this?”
She shook her head and smiled, showing me teeth like tombstones. “Not I. You did. Changed surroundings to match desires.”
“You have drugs here on Jungle, do you?” I scoffed, a sarcastic grin playing on my face, but with an ice-cold knot of fear in my gut.
I couldn’t explain these changes, the way the tent had vanished, only to be replaced by what looked like a comfortable three-bedroom Tudor-style house, complete with a manicured lawn and the aforementioned gazebo and picnic bench.
Opening my mouth to speak, I snapped it shut again. While I’d been admiring the house, the purple unicorn had returned. It nickered and walked over to the picnic table, laying the datapad gently on the wooden surface.
I looked at the unicorn, then at Ocking-Klark, then at the gazebo and the flower garden, thoroughly confused. I took a deep breath and said the smartest thing I’ve ever said.
“I have no idea what is going on.”
Ocking-Klark stopped munching on a biscuit and shrugged. “You Earthman. You spoiled. Nobody need all this.” She waved at the garden, at the pond and the small dock. “You are idiot.”
She went back to eating the biscuit. The purple unicorn stretched its neck and nudged my shoulder, then looked intently at the picnic basket.
My head hurt. I wondered, briefly, if I was simply hallucinating, if perhaps I was actually still in my sleeping bag, overcome with heat exhaustion and panting in the midday heat, slowly dying.
The unicorn nudged me again and returned its gaze to the picnic basket.
Unless … An insane idea formed in my mind.
I closed my eyes and imagined what a perfect Granny Smith apple would look like, imagined sunlight on the green skin, the brown stem, the clever flowerlike starburst on the underside. I imagined how it would feel cupped in my hand, the cool, smooth skin against my palm. I opened my eyes and reached into the picnic basket, just knowing it would be there, and closed my hand around a cool, green Granny Smith apple.
It lay there in my hand, in the sunlight, looking just as I’d imagined. I slowly extended my hand and the unicorn lipped it off. He crunched it happily and then extended his neck for another.
“No,” I said, standing up quickly. “You’ll get fat.”
I looked down on Ocking-Klark, who was cutting a wedge from the blackberry pie. “Khalif?”
She glared at me, holding a knife. “Dessert. You shut up.”
“Fine.” I went inside the house, down the front hallway and into the study, with a view overlooking the lake. “Computer, establish contact with Earth.” I gave the vid coordinates to McDavity’s office and, after a moment, the wall-screen lit up.
McDavity stared at me from his desk, an irritated scowl on his face. “What the hell do you want, Johnson?”
I ignored his bluster. “Sir, I found the monoceros purpurea.” I held up the datapad. “I’m transferring the data I collected to you now.”
He shook his head. “Didn’t I tell you to go there in person?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir, you did. I am standing on Kepler-186f as we speak.”
He snorted. “Impossible. We’re having a real-time conversation. Where are you, in somebody’s house nearby? I’ll have you fired for insubordination, Johnson!”
My datapad chimed softly. “Data transfer complete, sir. You may check your in-box.”
He leaned to the side, did something with his desk. “Yeah, I got it. Come into my office, Johnson. I’ll hand you your termination papers personally.”
“No, sir,” I replied, as calmly as I could.
He slammed his open hand down on his desk. “What did you say, Johnson?” His eyes bugged out, and his face turned red.
“Consensus reality, sir,” I said quietly.
He paused, then frowned in confusion. “What?”
“Consensus reality,” I repeated. “There is something about this place that gives you whatever you dream of. I can’t explain it, because I don’t understand it, but this”—I thumped the wall—“wasn’t here this morning. I awoke in a tent, and now I have a house. A purple unicorn stole my datapad and played tag with me all morning. I just ate a picnic lunch of fried chicken with a woman who has probably never even tasted chicken before. If she even exists.” I pondered that for a moment, but discarded it.
“Johnson,” said McDavity, his voice calmer. “Let’s not hurry to conclusions here. Tell me where you are.”
I sighed. “Orbiting Kepler, on 186f, in a house that reminds me of my grandmother’s, next to a lake.” I looked out over the lake at the floating boathouse and the tail end of a twin-diesel cabin cruiser poking from within. Fred, the mechanic, waved at me from the pier. I waved back.
“Basically,” I said, turning back to McDavity. “Whatever I want, whatever I imagine, I get. So, I quit.”
He spluttered. “But … why?”
I shrugged. “I don’t need the job. I have everything I could want right here.”
McDavity opened his mouth to say something more, but I cut the connection. His picture faded away to nothing, and the wall went dark.
“Computer,” I said, a grin creeping across my face. “Connect with Mac’s Diner.” I gave the vid coordinates. The wall sprang to life, and I stared into the interior of the diner. It was late afternoon there, and I could see Natalie working behind the hostess.
“Yes?” asked the hostess.
“Could you put Natalie on, please?”
She looked at me oddly, then said, “Please hold.”
I waited for Natalie to come on the line, wondering if she knew how to make coconut cream pie.
Outside, the purple unicorn whinnied.
***
The Last Dregs of Winter
Scott Eder
Stupid sheep. Kayden shooed another of the escaped livestock into the pen with the tip of a muddy boot. The fierce wind from last night’s storm had knocked the rails out of several sections of the old wooden fence, providing an easy escape route for the spooked animals. It’s a good way to get yourself eaten by a wolf, dummy.
“Git.” He slapped another one on the rump. “Move it.”
The black-faced sheep, its woolly coat full and ripe for shearing, glanced back. “Baa.”
“Don’t give me your sass, you little booger. Scoot.” He kicked it gently, and it scampered into the pen with an indignant bleat. Securing the gate with a rope loop, he scanned his fa
ther’s homestead for fluffy escapees. The swells of the surrounding hills made his search more difficult. Thankfully, the animals’ white coats stood out like tufts of cotton against the winter-brown landscape.
Most of the sheep had stayed in the pen, clinging to the well-trodden and familiar despite the storm’s fury. A few roamed close to the two-room shack Kayden shared with his father and sister. Others strayed near the dilapidated barn with the missing front doors. Several others had braved the elements and trod the brown grass less traveled, ending up way … over …
Kayden groaned.
“How did they get…? If they step on her, I’ll …” The woolly boogers had wandered fifty yards across the property to take shelter within the outer curve of a thick copse of aspen—the only windbreak for miles. It also served as the resting place of his mother, marked by a simple wooden plank carved with her name, Summerlyn. They’d buried her after the ground thawed last winter. Until then, they’d laid her on a plank in the barn draped in the best of their threadbare linens.—
Kayden tried not to think about her. He didn’t want to cry, not anymore, not after he caught the back of his father’s hand the last time—the only time his father had hit him. But it was hard, not thinking about her, especially when his younger sister was around. So alike they were. Golden hair, green eyes, milky skin, all the same, as if in giving birth to Violet, his mother had recreated a tiny version of herself, in body as well as in temperament. Both of the Monroe girls embodied the warmth and joy of spring—bubbly, quick to laughter, and overflowing with life. Until, of course, that all ended.
Kayden shook his head, trying to banish the gloom that settled over his soul. He almost convinced himself that he let the weather get to him, that the dregs of winter, with its gray skies, leaden air, and low clouds clinging to the tops of the trees, brought out his melancholy, but today something felt … different, wrong. The feeling settled in his stomach like a shard of ice.
After a last glance at the runaways, Kayden inspected the closest section of fence with one end of the middle rail ground in the mud. He raised his foot to block a sheep from getting out through the gap.
“I guess I’ll fix the fence before I round up your brothers and sisters.” He hoisted the rail and shoved it back into its socket. Sliding a wooden mallet from the loop on his belt, he fit a wooden peg from his pocket into the post, and smacked it home, securing the beam.
One down, infinity more to go. Kayden frowned, estimating the repairs would take all day without help. The worst part was that shoving the rails back into place simply delayed the inevitable. Most of the posts tilted one way or the other, some held up only by a random accumulation of dirt and debris. Once his father scraped enough money together, they’d replace the whole sodden mess, or so he promised, but until then …
Hoist. Shove. Fit. Smack. And that’s two.
A tinkling laugh drifted out of the barn.
“Kayden!” His father, Simon, a powerful man nearing his middle years with his mouth drawn down in a perpetual scowl, strode out of the barn leading an old nag. Violet sat on its back, digging her heels into the tired old horse’s flank, urging her to jump, to run, to do anything other than walk sedately at the end of its lead.
Beside her rode Petre, from the Kravens’ farmstead several miles away. Atop a great draft horse, the slight boy reminded Kayden of a skinny frog hunched upon the back of a tree trunk. Small for his fourteen summers, he barely filled out the sackcloth shirt and hand-me-down britches. His hands trembled upon the reins.
Simon shoved leather gloves onto his hands and yanked the wood ax from the stump near the barn door. “Young Petre here has brought a tale of wolves. His family lost half their flock and are asking for help. Maybe if we thin out the wolves’ numbers, Missy Kraven and her kin can hold their own.” He shook his head and eyed the heavy clouds creeping across the sky, blocking access to the sun. “Take care of your sister, fix the fence, and collect the sheep. We don’t want them attracting any predators. We have enough to worry about.”
Violet held up her hands as her father lifted her off the nag. She squealed in delight, holding him close before he deposited her on the ground. Simon’s smile vanished when she left his arms. Only Violet had the power to crack the man’s stony demeanor anymore. No more than six, she skipped through the milling sheep, greeting each by name in a lilting, high-pitched song as she passed. Dressed in a warm brown overcoat and threadbare mittens, she slid in the mud, but quickly righted herself. Tousled blonde curls bobbed in counterpoint to her steps, partially obscuring the small horn she’d tied to her forehead with a purple ribbon.
Simon rode close to Kayden, eyes fixed on his little treasure dancing about the livestock. “Careful,” he whispered. “She’s a unicorn today.”
“Great. Another animal to watch over.” Kayden smiled, feigning annoyance. Violet charged into each day as if it were a new challenge to be conquered. Very rarely did she do it as a little girl. Most of the time, she saw the world through the eyes of some animal. Birds. Dogs. Sheep. One day she pretended to be a snake and hissed every word. More often of late she donned the horn and purple ribbon of her favorite.
“Kaykay!” Violet skipped to her brother and rubbed her horn along his arm until he knelt beside her and opened his arms wide for a good morning hug.
Holding the precious bundle tight, Kayden realized how much light and color she brought to his drab existence, especially this time of year. When the colors all melted into dead browns and tans, her splash of gold and tinkling laugh brought a ray of sunshine wherever she went.
Violet grabbed two of Kayden’s fingers in her little hand and pulled him toward the center of the yard, scattering sheep with a “yip yip” and a light swat to their dirty rumps. “Kaykay, we need to save the farm.”
“Oh?” Kayden pretended to look worried, scanning the horizon for signs of danger. “Save it from what?”
She grew wide-eyed, and leaned close. “The stone dragon. He wants to eat us.”
Kayden picked up his sister and rolled her over his shoulder, tickling her belly. “Not the stone dragon. I thought we killed him last week.”
She scrambled out of her brother’s grasp. “No, silly. You can’t kill stone.”
“Violet,” Simon spoke up. “Leave your brother alone. He has chores to do.”
Violet rubbed her horn against her father’s waist and galloped off to torment the sheep.
Simon smiled at his daughter, and then glanced wistfully toward the stand of aspen on the far side of the field outside the fence.
Kayden caught the glance. “I see Mom in Violet more every day … that hair.”
Simon grunted. “Keep your eye on her. I’m sure the wolves are on the prowl, and not just keeping to our neighbors’ land.” He rode off, Petre in tow, waiting until he hit the muddy ground away from the kids to give the horse his head.
Kayden worried about his father and the other steaders in the area. Second- and third-generation farmers and livestock owners all, and not a warrior in the crew. Strong and proud, they could put up one hell of a fight, but when confronted by several hunger-stricken killers, pride wouldn’t keep them alive. Still, his father had done this before, and always came back.
Kayden banished his worry, looked to the fence, and sighed.
It’s not going to fix itself.
He checked on his sister. She wound in and out of the sheep, talking their black woolly ears off about who knew what. Her high-pitched babbling reached him as a gentle, constant chirp. Satisfied, he set to work. After checking his supply of wooden pegs, he socketed a rail and secured it with a solid smack of his mallet. Though cracked down the center, the thick-headed tool had seen many winters and still hit square.
The next section of fence had two rails down. He fixed one, and then the other, humming a tune the Kravens’ daughter, Winnie, had taught him during the harvest dance. She was a pretty one. Red hair. Full lips. Eyes like the spring grass, and her curves … ooh, the curves. He stoo
d up, stretching his back and taking a deep cool breath to slow his pulse. He and Winnie had stepped out on occasion, but nothing formal. He planned to remedy that once the winter needs had been met.
Kayden noted the absence of his sister’s chirping and glanced over his shoulder. He spotted her several feet outside the gate, picking the first lavender wildflowers struggling through the ground thaw.
A pang of fear gripped him. “Don’t stray too far, Vi. A wolf’s favorite dinner is leg of unicorn.”
Violet glanced back, lips pursed in a duckbill as if to say “Who me?” She continued picking her flowers, while Kayden moved to the next section of fence. One of the sheep sneaked out. He tracked it down and shuffled it back into the relative safety of the pen. With all this activity, he doubted any marauding wolves would descend upon them. Just in case, though, he did a quick scan, looking for movement among the hills.
A shiver crawled up his spine.
Where’s Violet? Further out into the field, farther than she should have gone without him, and trundling toward the aspens and their mother’s grave.
“Violet!” Kayden yelled, but she continued moving. He slid the mallet into its loop on his belt and jogged toward her.
At the gravesite, she picked a few additional flowers and knelt before the grave.
In the open, beyond the pen and the area surrounding the farmhouse, Kayden felt exposed. Even though the fence itself provided little protection, it bolstered his confidence and provided a sense of security. Out in the open field, running away from the sanctuary of his home felt wrong, but he attributed that to slacking off, and not working on the fence.
Halfway to the trees, the sickly sweet smell of decay punched Kayden in the nose. He gagged and stumbled, but recovered and picked up the pace.
The trees rustled behind the grave, though the air was still. Something dark moved behind the first line of gray-barked boughs.
Nonono. His world flipped. Kayden sprinted, covering the ground as fast as he could, but he was too far away.