On the Isle of Sound and Wonder

by Alyson Grauer

  “You’ve got an awful lot of fire in you, storm-child,” the queen said icily, and Mira held her breath, wincing inwardly. There was a considerable pause. “All right, fine. There shall be a ship on your horizon much sooner than you think.” She flapped one hand carelessly.

  “A working ship?” she ventured. The queen hesitated a half second, then smiled.

  “Of course. I’m not heartless, after all. It would not do to rescue you all from one shipwreck only to place you into another one.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Mira bowed her head, exhaustion beginning to creep into her limbs.

  The queen laughed a little snidely. “Ah, mortals. So surprising. Sometimes they ask too much, sometimes too little. Well, I will give you one thing more for all your troubles, storm-child.” She glided toward Mira and looked into her eyes. Mira felt the massive, ancient presence of the faerie queen, and tried not to let her uncertainty show. “I will let you keep what’s yours,” said the queen, and smiled again. She turned away, still holding the squirming, desperate Aurael aloft with one hand.

  “What does that mean?” Mira frowned.

  “My queen, please,” choked Aurael. “Queen Titanya, I beg you!”

  “Your Highness,” Mira interrupted. “I don’t understand. There is nothing here that is mine to keep.”

  “That isn’t quite true,” replied Titanya, still smiling. “There are many things that are yours alone: your body, your mind, your soul, and more within you will find, in time. You have already used your power several times today, or have you forgotten already? Your father, too, had power within him, but it was his choice to use it for great ill. So this is my blessing on you, storm-child—that your power remain with you to grow as you see fit, and to bend to your will so long as your intent is pure.”

  Mira felt a ripple of bliss start somewhere in her chest and flutter outward to her fingertips and toes. She blinked rapidly, startled by the sudden flush of euphoria. “Thank you,” she said, curiously. It seemed a good blessing to have received, even though it had been accompanied by such a peculiar sensation.

  “I am sure you will use it wisely. Goodbye, mortal children.” Titanya winked at the men. “And as for you,” she continued, looking now at Aurael. “Now that you have served your sentence here, it is my duty to inform you that your punishment will continue at home. Poq cannot wait to get her hands on you. You’ve really got her goat this time, Aurael.”

  The airy spirit’s eyes went wide. “Poq? But that was two hundred years ago! That’s ancient history!”

  “Not for her, it wasn’t,” Titanya chuckled, and bopped Aurael on the nose.

  “No,” he pleaded, thrashing in her grasp like a worm on a hook. “No, please, please my queen, not Poq, don’t send me to Poq, anything but that, anything but that, please! Aaaauuuuugggghhh!”

  Titanya threw her head back, laughing as brightly as birdsong over Aurael’s scream, and, with another sudden great whirlwind, they were gone. Gulls began to cry in jarring tones somewhere out over the water, and there was a faint rumbling noise. Mira turned to look, and as she did, she saw the men follow suit.

  An airship broke through the clouds, soaring toward the island, flying the king’s colors from the mainmast.

  “My gods!” cried Bastiano, leaping up joyfully. “We’re saved, we’re all saved!” He and Torsione whooped and hollered with giddy laughter, exhausted relief flooding their features.

  “Thank all of the gods for getting us out of this mess,” sighed Alanno, squeezing Ferran’s shoulders and smiling. “We’ll see your mother again, lad. She may not have even left Tunitz yet . . . we may beat her home still.”

  “It’ll be good to go home,” agreed Ferran, his voice cracking. Tears shone in his eyes, Mira noticed, but still the prince smiled.

  Mira turned back to look at her father’s body, and found that it had vanished. Panic gripped her and her knees buckled. She sat down clumsily, as though the floor had shifted to meet her, and saw that where he had lain now stood a great funeral pyre, burning a steady golden flame whose smoke rose high into the sky as a beacon for the ship that approached the island. Her panic dissolved into a deep, bone-jarring sob.

  He’s gone. Her breath came short and painful in her chest, and although tears blurred her vision, they did not fall. No, she told herself, he was gone long ago, and now it’s over. Oh, gods, it isn’t fair . . . Anguish surged within her and she slammed her fists down onto the sand, bright bluish-white light erupting from her and sparkling out across the beach before fading.

  Karaburan lumbered toward her with a sober expression.

  “We are both orphans now,” he said, his voice timid.

  She nodded. “So we are. I suppose all children grow up to be orphans at some point in their lives,” Mira mused, watching the flames, dazed with exhaustion and grief. “Aurael was right. It is the way of life that children must bury their parents.”

  “That doesn’t make it less sad,” replied Karaburan, and sat down in the sand at her side, just out of arm’s reach. They watched the pyre burn for some time in silence.

  “Mira?” Ferran wandered closer to them, keeping his distance, as though he feared to interrupt the moment. His expression was hopeful as Mira turned to face him. “I know this is a huge . . . well, I understand that there’s a lot . . . Will you come back to Neapolis with us?”

  The question shook her from her reflective reverie. Mira raised her eyebrows, her heart surging in her chest at the idea of leaving the island. Suddenly, the day’s tumultuous events seemed distant, and her mind raced as she considered the offer.

  “Neapolis is your home, too. I mean, it should be. You were born there, you’re still a citizen. And . . . you shouldn’t stay here forever, not alone like this, now that your father’s gone. And besides, it’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To travel?” he added, his cheeks growing a little pink as he said it. His hands balled into fists at his sides, as if they weren’t sure what else they should be doing.

  Mira got to her feet, swallowing her mixed feelings of excitement and confusion. She looked over at Karaburan, who eyed her sideways with an innocent expression.

  “I’m the king of the island,” he said, as if that explained everything. He spread his six-fingered hands wide in an awkward shrug.

  Mira tried not to laugh. “Yes, you are. What do you think?”

  “I’m the king of the whole island,” he repeated, carefully. “I cannot abandon my kingdom. My mother’s spirit rests here, and so must I.”

  Mira furrowed her brow. “Won’t you be lonely?”

  Karaburan shook his head imperiously. “No. You would, but I won’t.”

  “And what should I do instead?” she asked quietly.

  Karaburan turned his whole hulking frame about and eyed Ferran a little shyly. Then he ran a hand over his head and scratched his shoulder, fidgeting. “If you want to see what’s beyond the water, you should go beyond the water and see it. Whatever it is,” he added, as though he could not fathom it himself.

  Mira drew a deep breath and let it out again slowly. “That about settles it. Thank you, Your Highness,” she added.

  Karaburan’s pale blue eyes lit up like candles, and he smiled an uneven, timid smile.

  “All right,” Mira said. She turned to Ferran, who looked as though he were trying not to smile too widely. She raised her brows at him. “What?”

  “I’m glad you’re coming,” he confessed, and looked around sheepishly. “I’m glad we made it out of this, y’know, alive.”

  Mira said nothing, sensing what he was getting at. She looked back at the island thoughtfully, the trees painted with the colors of dawn. “So am I,” she agreed. Sorrow, relief, and resolve battled equally within her, but riding at the forefront of those emotions was the thrill of anticipation.

  “Are you all right?” Ferran asked in a quieter voice. “I mean, a lot has happened.”

  “I know. I’ll be fine.” Mira took a deep breath and smiled, looking over at hi
m. “There is much to do.”

  “Is there?”

  “Oh, yes. First things first: when that ship lands, I need you to show me how everything works. And I mean, everything. After that, I am going to need some piloting lessons.”

  Ferran laughed. “And after that?”

  “After that,” Mira replied, “I’m going to see every inch of this brave new world.”

  I didn’t intend for this to be my first novel. I’ve written (or attempted to write) several before this, but this one happened at just the right time, and it had the right challenges for me. These challenges could not have been met without a lot of help, a lot of encouragement, and a lot of love. If you’re reading this: thank you.

  Specifically, I have to thank the incredible friends I have who have supported my every creative move, especially those which led me to this moment. Thank you beyond words to Nika, Jessi, Meg, Lev, Kim, Bobby, Dora, Chels, Kyle, Matt, Kathy, Chris, Elyse, Meghan, Sarah, Laurence, Atra, Becka, Ilana, Warwick, Deborah, Ken, Mary Jo, Josh, Benjamin, Andy, Dave, Nicole, Kurt, Stephanie, Deborah, Nathan and Mel for their friendship and support, for offering to feed me when I was eye-deep in revisions, for offering to booze me when I was tearing out my hair with frustration, and for offering to read the final product when I was ready to let it all go out into the world. Thanks also to Brian, Beth, Gary and Cathy for keeping the Fan Club alive. Love you guys!

  Thank you to The Book Cellar in Lincoln Square, Red Eyes Cafe in North Center, DemiCon in Des Moines, and the indomitable, magnificent TeslaCon in Madison—TeslaCon brought me into the world of Steampunk in person, when I had only ever experienced it in books before, and made my imagination explode with possibilities. Cheers to you all: Will and Karen, Alexis, Kait, Kat, Shane, Joseph, Eli, Elizabeth, Evan, Tab, Ansel, Adam, the Prussians, Neal, Rachel, Aelf, Heath, Katherine, and Eric of course. Love and thanks!

  To the Plan 9 Asstronauts (sic) and fan family for weird shimmies and your unfathomable love for my mortal grossness.

  To the Piccolo Theatre family for taking a chance on me as an actor and for making me one of your own, and for bringing me into a whole new family for a whole new chapter of my life.

  To the great weird excellent massive unstoppable force that is the Bristol Renaissance Faire: Kristen said leap, so we must leap. The net will appear! (Thank you Kristen!) Naomi, Lara, Greg, Kate, Chris, Steven, Juli, Drew, Gwen, Jiggins, beloved commedia, all of the directors, all of the cast, all of the photographers . . . everyone who has been a part of the Bristol bubble of creative joy. Thanks.

  To Danielle, for letting your peanut gallery help my peanut gallery find their voices, and for being such a wonderful cheerleader.

  To T. Stacy Hicks for (sometimes unknowingly) providing historical context and finesse.

  To Dr. Robert O. Bucholz, for being an unparalleled pillar of inspiration for me and countless other students you’ve had throughout the years. Your storytelling is infectious, and your friendship and encouragement has been utterly amazing.

  To Jon Balcerak, to whom I would have dedicated “Lavenza” if I’d have been given a space to do so. This is all your fault for teaching me to speak up and write better and enjoy this kind of thing.

  To Grandma Sally, who gave me my first journals and taught me to love writing every day, and to savor each story worth telling.

  To Grandpa John, Who took me seriously as a writer when I was seven, and who will never get the chance to read this, but whom I hope would be proud.

  Thank you to my impossibly wonderful editor Jessica, whose ability to decipher my theatre-brain and my GIF-laden emails with ease is amazing. I am so grateful that your humor is like my humor, or this would have been a hell of a lot more difficult. Thanks also to Rie, Kristina, McKenna, Heidi, Penny, and the Xchyler Publishing family—I feel like the Velveteen Rabbit as a writer sometimes, and you guys made me a Real Writer.

  To Tee Morris and Philippa Ballantine, for giving me an open door and their open hands to help me take the first steps, for being my Steampunk fairy godparents, and for the laughter and love even across the miles. Kia kaha and thank you.

  To Tom Charney and Ann-Elizabeth Shapera, two of the most giving and inspiring and encouraging human beings I have ever known, for tunes, for noms, for hugs, for unyielding support and care even when we were mostly strangers still. I am unfathomably grateful for your presence in my life and I will always reach higher because you believed in me.

  To Emily, for being the best cosmic hetero-lifemate the universe could possibly offer me. You are my constant, my touchstone.

  To Claire, for being an anchor as well as a buoy, for taking very, very good care of me and for helping me be better in so many ways.

  To Alexis, for allowing me to drink wine and shout things while she helped me fill out the project management workbook and try to organize this novel like a grown-up. Spreadsheets make me dizzy, and without you, I wouldn’t have been able to fill them out. Also, thank you for everything. Just everything. La la la la la la la.

  Thank you to Mom, Dad, and Ben, without whom I would not be telling nearly so many stories or be nearly so dedicated to my dreams. If you hadn’t told me I could do it, I wouldn’t have tried. It’s that simple. I love you all.

  Alyson Grauer is a storyteller in multiple mediums, her two primary canvases being the stage and the page. On stage she is often seen in the Chicago area, primarily at Piccolo Theatre, Plan 9 Burlesque, and the Bristol Renaissance Faire. Her non-fiction work has been published in the Journal for Perinatal Education for Lamaze International. Her short fiction can be found in Tales from the Archives (Volume 2) for the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences and in two anthologies from Xchyler Publishing, Mechanized Masterpieces: A Steampunk Anthology and Legends and Lore: an Anthology of Mythic Proportions. Alyson is a proud graduate of Loyola University of Chicago and hails originally from Milwaukee, WI. This is her first novel.

  Twitter: @dreamstobecome

  facebook.com/AuthorGrauer

  At The X, we pride ourselves in discovery and promotion of talented authors. Our anthology project produces three books a year in our specific areas of focus: fantasy, Steampunk, and paranormal. Held winter, spring/summer, and autumn, our short-story competitions result in published anthologies from which the authors receive royalties.

  Additional themes include: Losers Weepers (spring/summer 2015) and Worldwide Folklore and the Post-modern Man (winter 2016).

  Visit www.xchylerpublishing.com/AnthologySubmissions for more information.

  Look for these releases from Xchyler Publishing in 2015:

  Winter Storm, the third installment of the Grenshall Manor Chronicles by R. A. Smith. February 2015.

  Vanguard Legacy: Fated, the conclusion of the three-book series by Joanne Kershaw. April 2015.

  Blondes, Books and Bourbon, an anthology of short stories set in the White Dragon Black world of Jonathan Alvey, by R. M. Ridley. April 2015.

  Everstar by Candace J. Thomas, Book 3 of the Vivatera series.

  To learn more, visit www.xchylerpublishing.com.

  A Xchyler Publishing Sneak Peek

  From Mechanized Masterpieces: A Steampunk Anthology

  My name is Elizabeth Lavenza, and I am dreaming the same dream that has haunted me since I was a child.

  I am lying on my back in my bed, and my skin is hot with fever. There is a sound like metal clicking, and a gentle voice is humming some unidentifiable, soothing tune. I open my eyes slowly, the room around me blurry and swimming with too-vibrant colors. My body is heavy as lead, my limbs limp against the mattress as someone peels back the sheets from my prone form. Gentle, firm hands cradle my head and prop me up against a pillow, and I can see before me.

  My mother, beautiful and serene, is there beside me, her touch loving and careful. She is the source of the humming, the melody some foreign lullaby that calms me despite my inability to move my body. She pulls a pair of goggles down over her eyes, and there are gloves on her slender hands. She pushes aside
more cloth, and my vision blurs again, the room spinning.

  She has a set of small, strange tools on a tray beside her, and she is using them on me, somehow, in a way that I cannot quite make out from this angle. My heartbeat is loud as a metal drum, and there is a whirring of gears and clacking of cogs.

  I am suddenly afraid, for I do not understand what I see with my own eyes, but then the fever takes me into blackness once more.

  Then I awake, and I am whole and well, with no trace of fever, no sign of any surgery upon my form, and my mind is full of questions.

  I have had this recurring dream since I was a child, but it is not the first thing I remember. If I am to tell this tale, I ought to start from the beginning of my life.

  I was once an orphan, brought to be the ward of a well-off couple when my poor Italian foster family could no longer afford to keep me. This fine couple, whose name was Frankenstein, told me that I was the daughter of a German lady and a Milanese nobleman, an illegitimate child and the cause of my mother’s death.

  For as long as I could remember, my new parents determined that I would one day wed my foster brother, whom I have called ‘cousin’ all my life. He and I were playmates as children, the best of friends, and it did not seem unusual that we should one day be man and wife.

  Despite my rise from destitution to comfort, from abandoned to loved, I had always understood my own existence to be average in every way. I was comfortable and happy, and there was nothing strange or out of the ordinary about me or my adopted family.

  Oh, the lies we tell to protect the ones we love!

  After my adoption by the Frankensteins, my childhood was very much a warm and happy one. My dear cousin Victor was a deeply inquisitive, quiet, intelligent soul. We were constant companions, and I often found my own curiosity piqued by his. He revealed unto me endless wonders of the world and its habits, and we explored the way children do: fearlessly and often, without stopping to rest. We spoke of stars and mountains, rivers and caverns, of flame and electricity, of steam and iron.