Existence is Elsewhen

by John Gribbin

  The church was packed. Rumours, clearly, had been spreading far and wide. I saw a number of faces that I recognised, including several men who publicly claimed to have renounced the faith. I made careful note of their attendance for later attention – there was no reason to attend, unless they wished to take the Sacrament – and watched from the rear as the building hummed with conversation. Nothing secret would be discussed, of course; they knew they were being watched. But there was no sign of Cecelia by the time the service began. Father Peter handled it, despite his divided loyalties; I had to admit there was a certain majesty in the whole ceremony. But it comes with the price of obedience to Rome and that, as a pure-blooded Englishman, I can not tolerate.

  It had nearly reached its end when Cecelia made her appearance, walking into the church accompanied by her father. It was hard for me to see her face from where I was sitting in the rear of the building, but there was something in the way she walked that sent chills running down my spine. Was it even the same girl? There was a confidence in her movements that I hadn’t seen when I’d first laid eyes on her. She walked with the attitude of a crowned queen.

  Lady Gwen leaned forward, watching Cecelia carefully. I wondered, briefly, what she was thinking. Women are often more observant than men. If I could see that something was different, that something was wrong, Lady Gwen could see it too. Was it the same girl? I wouldn’t have thought Barton could deceive us, but I might have underestimated him. If he’d drugged another girl and passed her off as his own ...

  No, I decided, when Cecelia reached the foot of the altar and turned to face us. It was the same girl. But she was active now, her face gleaming with holy purpose.

  “Magic,” Gwen whispered.

  The spell snapped. Cecelia was, deliberately or otherwise, projecting an aura of pure Charm at the audience. I couldn’t do that! I needed to speak to influence someone with my powers; the simplest way to cripple a Charmer had always been to simply tie and gag him. Cecelia, on the other hand, was pulling people into her spell. They believed in her sainthood because they wanted to believe in it, on some level. The most effective Charm is always when the target only needs a small amount of convincing to do something.

  Cecelia rose into the air, just like a Mover. Lady Gwen sucked in her breath, harshly. Her senses were far more attuned than my own. If there were other magicians in the audience, she would have sensed their presence; their absence, in many ways, was even worse. Cecelia was using multiple powers ... and that made her a Master Magician.

  “There is a false priest in this room,” Cecelia said, as she span in the air. The sheer power in her voice was incredible. She combined the force of a first-rank Charmer with the subtle skill of a second-rank. I knew she was trying to steer my thoughts and yet it was hard, so very hard, to think clearly. “He serves the King of England instead of God.”

  She turned to look at Father Peter. “Confess your sins and receive absolution.”

  Father Peter looked as if someone had struck him across the face. I had always thought of him as a strong-minded individual, but he knelt at once and started to babble out a tearful confession. It struck me, suddenly, that he must have felt more than a little guilt over his dual role to have collapsed so easily. The Mass is, of course, a reaffirmation of a community as well as a holy rite. And he had given hundreds of such ceremonies in his time.

  “Go forth and sin no more,” Cecelia said, when he had finished.

  The words held the power of true compulsion. Father Peter couldn’t possibly disobey. I stared in horror as he stumbled from the church, tearing off his robes as he passed. He would be useless as a spy for the rest of his life. Cecelia turned, her gaze sweeping over the watching congregation. They were transfixed, unable to move, yet I could feel their fear beating on the air like a living thing. Cecelia was looking right into their very souls.

  “You committed adultery,” she said, looking at a fisherman. Her gaze switched to a middle-aged woman seated in the front rows. “You ate meat during Lent.”

  The fisherman caught fire. His screams and the stench of burning flesh shocked the crowd out of their paralysis, his neighbours stumbling to escape before they caught fire themselves. The church was suddenly alive as everyone tried to run, to flee her accusing gaze. Lady Gwen levitated herself up into the air as the pews emptied; I clambered up the wall and watched as the building emptied. Cecelia seemed unconcerned by her fleeing audience; she kept pointing at people, telling the world their sins and incinerating them.

  “Stop,” Lady Gwen said. “You’re killing them.”

  Cecelia stabbed a finger at Lady Gwen. Flames exploded around her, but she was untouched; I saw, in the light, a translucent bubble surrounding her. I breathed a sigh of relief as Cecelia stared in horror, her face shocked to the bone. Had she really believed she was a saint? Or had she merely been unable to comprehend the true nature of her powers? There was, and remains, no way to know.

  Lady Gwen landed on the ground in front of Cecelia. “You have to stop this,” she said, very quietly. I clambered down from my perch as she spoke. “Whatever you think you’re doing, you’re not.”

  I hurried towards her ... and froze as Cecelia turned her gaze on me. Her power struck me like a physical blow, ripping through my mental block and burrowing into my mind. I was completely exposed before her. Lady Gwen stepped between us, blocking her stare; I fell backwards as the connection snapped. And Cecelia ... threw back her head and screamed in anger and fear. Seconds later, her power ripped through the building, tearing up the pews and throwing them at us. Lady Gwen raised a shield as the walls started to crumble: she shouted at me to run as her shield started to stagger under the weight of successive blows. I ran, feeling Cecelia’s power beating against my mind, and almost stumbled over her father as soon as I was outside the church. Moments later, the building collapsed into rubble. Lady Gwen and Cecelia appeared in the centre of the debris, completely untouched.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Barton was wailing. “Oh ...”

  I grabbed him. “Make her stop,” I shouted. I didn’t bother with subtle Charm; I shoved the order at him as hard as I could. “Make her stop!”

  Her father gibbered – I wondered if his mind had snapped – and then he stumbled to his feet and walked towards Cecelia. She was floating in the air, wrapped in power; it was hard, so hard, to tear my eyes away from her. And yet, as her father approached, she turned to stare at him ... and then stopped. She simply fell out of the air. The power beating on the air vanished at the same moment ...

  ... And all that was left was Cecelia, lying on the ground.

  Lady Gwen bent down next to her and touched the girl’s forehead with her fingers, trying to sense the girl’s mind. She must have seen something, in that final moment, because she rose and rounded on Barton. He tried to stumble backwards before realising that I was right behind him.

  “You caused this,” Lady Gwen accused. “What did you do to her?”

  Barton tried to avoid the question, but Lady Gwen hammered his mind with magic until his defences collapsed. He’d tried to bring his daughter up to be a good little girl, he said, yet she’d developed magic, which he’d believed to be a curse. Somehow, he’d come to believe that she was a saint instead, that she wasn’t a magician on her own, but merely a conduit for God’s power. I couldn’t help wondering if she’d accidentally charmed him into believing she was a saint, perhaps when she’d started showing signs of magic. It is far from uncommon, even in Britain, for children with magic to be disowned or beaten by their parents. Barton would have believed in his daughter’s sainthood because he wanted to believe in it.

  And then others had come to believe in her too.

  Lady Gwen killed him, there and then. It is perhaps the least of the horrors of that damned day that I felt nothing when I saw his body fall to the ground.

  There remain only a few issues that need to be cleared up.

  Lady Gwen believes that Cecelia, as an untrained magician, accidentally da
maged her own mind. She locked away her powers outside of church, burying them so deeply that neither of us could sense their presence. Perhaps through madness, she boosted some of her powers to truly staggering levels. Her Charm and Talking skills were both superior, at least in raw power, to anything I have seen among adult magicians. As quite a few Talkers, at least, have ended up in Bedlams because they couldn’t control their abilities, Cecelia may have had similar problems. The more powerful the ability, the harder it is to control.

  Cecelia herself seems to have reverted to the silent mouse persona we observed when we first laid eyes upon her. There is no visible sign of magic; Lady Gwen reports that she was able to pull impressions and images from her mind just after her collapse. However, as it is quite likely she has a fractured personality, I strongly advise that she be kept under close observation for the remainder of her life, well away from vulnerable people.

  Father Peter was caught some distance from the church, begging for alms. His mind appears to have been completely snapped by the experience, as he alternates between tearful confessions and attempting to do his duty as a priest. He has been moved to a Bedlam in Doncaster, where he will be held until recovery or death.

  The survivors of the church have been shocked by the incident, according to our remaining agents. I believe that the situation deserves careful monitoring, but there are no grounds to believe that they pose any more of a threat than they already did. It would be advisable, however, to use the incident to further discredit the French. If the survivors – and those who hear about the incident at second-hand – come to believe that the French turned Cecelia into a monster, rather than a saint, it can only rebound to our benefit.

  As of writing, there is no evidence to suggest the French were actually involved.

  In conclusion, I must note that Lady Gwen lived up to the legacy left behind by Master Thomas. I was expecting either a fainting flower or an aggressive ‘lady’ of the Trouser Brigade. Instead, I got a calm and capable investigator who saved my life when Cecelia lost control. You can be assured that she will have my full support in future.

  I trust this account meets with your approval.

  Solomon Davidson, Charmer

  Royal Sorcerers Corps

  Hide and Hunt

  by

  Susan Oke

  Susan Oke has been a storyteller all her life. The eldest of three sisters she would entertain with off-the-cuff bedtimes stories on a nightly basis. Actual writing of said stories had to wait until she was a proper grownup. When the last of her three daughters—can you see a pattern here?—went off to university, Susan discovered the true meaning of unfettered time and space. Well, she was still working fulltime, but you know what I mean.

  And then writing happened. Short stories at first: in anthologies (Tree House Press, Kindofahurricane Press, and now Elsewhen Press), magazines (Words with Jam, Silver Pen, Writers Tribe), podcast (Cast of Wonders), and some flash fiction for Sein und Werden. But behind it all was the novel, of course. A novel that she started as part of her MA in Creative Writing, and that she is now busily putting the finishing touches to.

  Susan hails originally from Yorkshire, but has spent the last thirteen years living in London, where she worked in the Higher Education sector. She is now a full-time writer, and is loving every minute of it.

  I press my back against the wide bole of the tree and try not to breathe. But my body won’t behave and gulps ragged lungfuls of air. I squeeze my eyes shut. Any moment now the Hunter will find me, and it will all be over.

  Beyond the rasp of my breath, the forest is silent. I can’t stand it any longer. My eyes snap open and I stare wildly around at the twisted trunks of ancient trees, each one harbouring its own collection of shadows. Stubborn tussocks of grass and patches of frozen mud pattern the uneven ground. Above, stark boughs net the sky, some threatening to bud, others still dusted with snow.

  Father’s voice echoes in my memory. Useless. Weakling. My shoulders hunch and I bite my lip. He’s right. It’s my fault I got separated from Tara. The Hunter got between us and I panicked. Now he can pick us off one at a time. I dig my nails deeper into the crumbling bark. I have to get back to Tara, somehow. The makeshift bond that exists between us is only good over short distances. I’m too far away to sense more than the rough direction I need to travel, like a faint magnetic pull. She’s somewhere in the northwest quadrant, third maybe fourth circle.

  I narrow my eyes and inspect every straggly bush for twitching branches, ears straining for the faintest rustle of leaves. The silence is unnerving. I take a deep breath—the air still has the after-bite of winter—and my chest spasms. I have to cover my mouth with both hands to stifle the cough. The shadows remain stubbornly empty. Perhaps I really am alone out here.

  Only one way to be sure.

  I step away from the tree and into a mottled patch of sunlight. Nothing happens. No telekinetic punch to send me sprawling to the ground, no smothering net of tykae energy to leave me bound and helpless. I jump back behind the bulk of the tree, sweating and cursing. The Hunter must have doubled back. I’ve got to warn Tara!

  Sending a broadband telepathic call across half the forest is easy, but setting up a private link is a lot trickier, especially if you don’t want anyone else to know you’re doing it. Eyes closed, I picture a glowing strand of energy following that magnetic pull; I stretch it thin as gossamer and then give it a mirror sheen. That should be enough, I hope, to deflect any scans and keep our conversation secret. All I have to do now is maintain the focus. Not as easy as it sounds. Face screwed up in concentration I reach as far as I can… Tara grabs my questing link, strengthens it and makes it secure.

 

  I can feel how angry she is. She’s bound to be, given the risk I’m taking. If the Hunter catches even a hint of our t-talk, he’ll be able to pinpoint our location.

 

 

  Through our t-link I can feel her crouched by the granite shelf that marks the northwest edge of the fourth circle.

 

  Oh, yeah.

  The lightning tree has a huge gash in it from, you guessed it, a lightning strike. It’s a great place to hide. Or would be, if the Hunter didn’t know about it too. I flinch as the buzz of a tykae scan rakes the far side of the tree.

 

  My legs tremble with the need to run. Frantically, I strengthen my defensive shield; it will deflect the Hunter’s scan, at least while my strength holds out, but it can’t hide me from plain sight. And pretty soon the Hunter will be right on top of me. My chest feels tight and there’s a scream building in my throat. I press my lips together to stop it getting out.

  I’ll have to make a break for it. I crouch, ready to run.

  A telepathic scream reverberates across the forest. It’s Tara. She’s in trouble. I risk a glimpse around the bole of the tree and catch sight of the masked Hunter as he turns and lopes off westwards.

  Tara’s telepathic whisper tickles and is gone.

  I’m already running as the t-link breaks, terrified and grinning at the same time. Tara is drawing the Hunter away from my position. She’s giving me a chance. I head east, dodging through the trees, senses straining for any hint of pursuit. A low hanging branch dumps old snow on my head as I scramble past; thorns hook and claw at clothes and exposed skin.

  At first light, when the six Prey had scattered into the forest arena, I’d revelled in the sense of adventure. Tara had to tell me to stop bounding around. “It’s like being out with a puppy,” she’d said, scowling. Now the light feels treacherous, like it’s pointing me out: Here he is. Come and get him.

  I slow to catch my breath. Most of the snow has melted, though stubborn pockets lurk in shaded dells and amongst the thicker
copses. If I’m going to survive this, I’ve got to be smart. I fight off a sinking feeling in my gut—my older brother, Zand, never tires of telling me how pathetic my tykae skills are. Focus on practicalities: my canteen is almost empty. I drain the last mouthful and come up with a plan.

  It’s hard work balancing speed and stealth, but I make good time cutting south through the forest. Relief makes my legs feel a bit wobbly when I finally spot the Lovers’ tree, named for the way its trunk, split into two at the base, twines around itself. Its roots hump and snake into the stream, forming a perch for me to balance on as I refill my canteen. I drink greedily and then glance up through the branches; from this angle they seem to claw at each other as they struggle to catch the pale spring sun, making the whole look more like a fight to the death than an embrace.

  This is as good a place as any to rest up. From here I can cut southwest towards the rendezvous point. I sit with my back to the trunk, feet braced on the thick roots and listen to the gurgle and chatter of the stream. A faint splash and pop sets my heart racing. It’s just a stupid fish.

  Master Tomak’s dry rasp replays in my memory: A warrior’s mind is clear. A warrior’s mind is focussed. Only then can he effectively command the tykae energy that resides within him. Only then can he win!

  Without thinking, I pull my lucky stone from my pocket and roll it in the palm of my hand. Its surface is perfectly smooth, except for a crease that forms a streak of purple across the bottom two thirds of its length. At every fifth turn I trace the crease with my thumb and then start the count again. My heart slows to a trot and then a steady walk. With a frown of concentration I set the stone turning slowly in the air, using a whisper of tykae to both support its weight and control its spin.

  “Hey look, it’s the noik.” The low-voiced call comes from behind me.