Ages of Wonder

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Sometimes I feel as they do, that we should never have come, and that Andreas is to blame. Other times I remember our home burning, remember that we had nowhere else to go, and I know Andreas did what he thought was best. Whatever the other women say now, we all agreed to come and saw no alternative.

  I try to defend Andreas to Dorothea, but tonight the words sound hollow even to me. When Dorothea feels herself rooting again she goes back to her place even angrier than before.

  How could we have known? How could we have guessed, a world away?

  It was the shouting that brought me from the house out into the courtyard. There were many people there, shouting at one another. Two men were holding Maria pinned by the arms. She was not struggling. Two others were helping Uncle Jacob to his feet. He had a cut on his forehead that was weeping blood. His axe was on the ground.

  “How could you attack your own father?” One of the men was demanding.

  Maria’s reply sounded dazed. “He was going to hit me with the axe,” she said.

  “He was chopping kindling,” Hans said. Then, to no one in particular, “She ran up to him and struck him, and knocked the axe from his hand. She attacked him.”

  “The wood,” Maria said. “You hurt the wood.” She was looking at the chopping block. Then she shook her head, and seemed to come to herself. She looked up at her father. “What is it I’ve done?”

  Maria was shut up in the woodshed until something could be done with her. She seemed to have no recollection of attacking her father, only that she had heard him chopping wood, and felt a pain, and was sure that he would hurt her.

  I felt worry knot my stomach then, for I knew that I had felt the pain too. Not as if I were being attacked, but as a curious buzzing, a pulling at my roots that told me that someone was chopping wood in the courtyard. I had thought I was coming to understand the land. Now I suspected it was something else.

  Two days later, Dorothea came to get me, screaming that something was wrong. Maria stood, rooted to the ground in the way that we do when we rest. She would not wake when we called to her. When she was eventually able to move, she told us it was as if she had sunk her roots deep into the ground, so deep she would never be able to move again. As if she had become part of the land.

  Maria’s skin began to change. Her arms and legs became more and more bark-like, scaling over by inches every day. She woke less and less often, and I watched her skin with growing fear. We tried every medicine and plant we knew, but nothing helped.

  Then, one by one, the other women started to succumb to it, too. We became violent whenever wood was being cut—axes had to be kept out of sight, the kindling split behind one of our houses. Even then, the sound of chopping would sometimes bring us running. Sometimes the men were scratched and bruised. Hans suffered a broken arm, Jacob a broken leg.

  It was Andreas who found out what was causing the madness. He went to visit Malagash one day, and there was a minister there, one who had spent time among the savages. He was laughing about their superstitions, the ways that they spoke of the land as if it was a living thing.

  “Do you know why they call this place ‘Malagash’?” he asked my brother. “It is a word that means ‘evil that is in the land.’ They think we are crazy to farm here. They think we anger the spirit that is in the soil!” The man laughed at the idea, but Andreas took his leave and rushed home, to tell us what he had learned.

  I wish his knowledge had helped. Yet what can one do when there is evil in the soil? I cannot stop touching it, even when I knew it would make me sick. We talked of moving, but we had nowhere to go. Where would we be safe?

  I was one of the last to become sick, but in a way that was worse, knowing all the while what was coming for me. I prayed every night that it would pass me by, that I might be spared. And every time I took a step, and every night when I rooted and slept, I feared. Every man in my family watched me as I walked. I knew that they were thinking I would be next. I thought of running away, but where would I run? All along the way I would touch the ground.

  Something had to be done. We were growing more and more tree-like, more rooted to the spot, less able to be around wood that was cut. And everywhere there was cut wood: the kindling, our houses, our tables, the wall around our houses.

  There was a meeting of everyone in the family and it was decided. Those that were so sick as to be asleep most of the time were taken into the forest, and left there. Some of the younger women objected, but most of us knew we had to go.

  Those of us who were awake picked a spot deep in the woods, a clearing where we could put down roots and be left alone. It was far from our camp, but not so far that we could not be visited and taken care of. One by one, we were taken there and rooted, standing with our silent sisters.

  At first, they visited often, speaking to us of things that were happening, telling us that they missed us. Eventually, all of the women from my family were brought to the grove. Then, one by one, our uncles and cousins stopped visiting. All but Andreas.

  This is not as lonely as it seems. So deep in the forest, no one passes, not even the savages. There is no cut wood to call to us in pain the moment we touch the soil. We may sleep here, and sink our roots deep. And we are not lonely because we are not alone. When we awake, we are always surrounded by those we love, by those who understand and suffer with us.

  When I feel myself falling asleep again, I comfort myself with those thoughts. We are in less pain here than we would be elsewhere. And though the women with the longest roots pine for the homeland, at home we would surely be dead. That cannot be better.

  Andreas comes back. I can tell he is nervous, but he says nothing about the road. He talks and talks about life in town and our family. The spring has been good for the livestock—we have three new foals. My uncles have planted new fields, they expect many crops this winter, maybe enough that they will not need the government’s rations. The governor at Chebucto has written, praising our industry at working the land. Andreas stays for a long time, talking to us, talking to himself. I can tell there is something he is not saying.

  He gets up to leave. I hear him turn.

  “The road is coming here,” he says. “Not to your grove, but through this part of the forest. I could not stop it. They will be here soon now, a few weeks at most. I am sorry. If you must leave, if you still can, go to the south. I will look for you there. I will find you.”

  It is useless to tell us to leave. We cannot even move most days. I think I wake less and less often now. You lied to me, I think. You lied and you said I would be safe. I am so angry, so angry I want to grab him and shake him. How can you do this? How can you leave us here? I manage to move an arm, a violent rustling, but I cannot do more. I hear him pause, but he does not turn back.

  My cousin Maria wakes shortly after Andreas leaves and comes to stand by me.

  “We have been forgotten.” She says in a voice that is a hiss. “Andreas is the only one who ever comes to visit us. Why do you think? The other men have forgotten. They are ashamed of us and they have exiled us here and forgotten us. Even Andreas has turned his back on us now. I am going, but I am going to the west of here. There is more forest there, more places for us to hide and be safe. Andreas is useless to us now. He could not save us from this disease, and now he cannot even save us from men.

  It is only days later that I know the road is coming. It is far off, but I can feel the prickling, the sense of the world being changed, the pain of the trees being cut. I can hear the timbers falling.

  The men are coming. I hope they do not come any closer.

  Yet they do come closer. And closer.

  Over the next few weeks, more of my family leave. None of them go south. They all head west. I am torn, now. If I wake, I do not know which way I will go. Will I run to the south so Andreas can find me? Will I run to the west, and try to find my sisters? Perhaps if Andreas finds me, then we can go and look for those who have left. If I can tell him where they have gone. If I ever wake
again.

  They come so close the glow of their firelight signals a warning, like the torches the men carried when they came to burn our village. I can feel the trees they have cut. It is as if my roots are raw skin, chafed away. I am dead inside. As they get closer I think, those trees could be my sisters. They could be me. Very soon now, it will be me.

  Andreas comes walking, arguing with one of the men. They are talking about where the road will go tomorrow. The man says it will go here, and I am afraid. Andreas disagrees. He says that this stand of trees is unlucky, that it is different from the others and that it would be bad to cut the trees down. It is clearly a fairy fort, he tells the man. Bad things will happen to people who cut these trees.

  Many of the men in Malagash are superstitious. They would listen to Andreas about the bad luck. This one does not. I hear Andreas grow increasingly desperate. The man says to him that he can leave if he does not wish to cut these trees. He can leave and not get the bad luck. I can hear that Andreas is torn. He and the other man go away again.

  Andreas comes at night, just for a moment.

  “I hoped to find more of you gone,” he says. “Run if you can. They will come here. They will kill you.” He looks to us for a response—anything at all. Not one of us moves. Not one of us speaks. Andreas sighs heavily. “There is one more thing I can do. I will try to stop them. But it is best if you are not here. Please run.”

  If I do not wake tonight, tomorrow I will likely die, and my sisters with me.

  I stay alert all night, trying to move, trying to wake myself up. Around me, I know the others are doing the same. We are afraid. Most of us manage to move a little, but not enough to get anywhere. Our roots go too deep.

  Tomorrow the men will come, and we will die.

  In the morning, there is a hue and cry in the men’s camp. Someone is dead. I can taste his blood in the soil.

  Andreas has killed the man who would have brought the road here. I can hear the voices calling. Now, they will kill Andreas. I hear the men chanting for his blood.

  They will kill my brother. For trying to save us. Because they would not listen. Then they will kill us. Then they will kill me.

  These men. Just like the ones who came before, who drove me from my home. Now I must run again.

  I am moving before I realize it. The trees spring to life all around me. From the corner of my eye I can see some of my kin are also awake, and they move with me.

  I see the men before me. Some are holding guns and knives. Others are holding Andreas. These are the men I attack first, my arms sweeping down in blows. Some of the men see us and raise their muskets. Others grab axes. They fall down. They do not get up again.

  You will not drive us away again. You will not kill my family again.

  When it is over, Andreas is the only one alive in the camp. He sits on the ground, dazed, staring at nothing. The other women stand around, unsure of what has happened, unsure of what to do.

  We are covered in blood. The soil beneath us is wet through with it. We drink it into our roots.

  I approach Andreas, reaching out an arm to touch his shoulder. He recoils and looks up at me. I see his eyes, wide and wild. He is afraid. This time he is not afraid of the men, or the road. He is afraid of me. He says nothing, only stares.

  I say nothing. There is nothing to say. All this time, he thought to make us safe from the men. In the end, it was the men who needed protecting from us.

  I turn to my sisters, and together we walk away into the deeper forest, moving easily now, heading west, leaving Andreas behind.

  We are finally awake.

  Fletcher’s Ghost

  Liz Holliday

  Manila, 1762

  “Te amo, Maria,” Danny said. It was nearly all the Spanish he knew.

  Maria stared at him out of the half-dark. The cold night air, the stink of the docks, the clamor of the nearby tavern all fell away from him as he thought at her: say it back, say it back.

  “Don’t say such things, Danny,” she said at last.

  “Please,” he said. “Come away with me. We can—”

  “What would I, a Catholic, do in England?” she asked.

  “It won’t matter. We won’t let it matter.” He reached out to touch her.

  Someone grabbed him from behind and yanked him back. He flailed to keep his balance but slammed into the side of the tavern.

  “Hands off, Inglez.”

  Danny stared up. The Spaniard was enormous and there were two more behind him. Lantern light glinted on the knife in his hand.

  “Don’t—” Danny started.

  A strange moaning noise came from somewhere above them. The Spaniard looked up. Danny followed the line of his gaze and saw a figure silhouetted on the roof of the warehouse opposite. It was smaller than a man, larger than most apes.

  The Spaniard moved towards Danny.

  The moaning noise came again. The creature leaped down, pushed off the wall of the warehouse with one foot, and landed in a crouch between Danny and the Spaniard.

  Danny stared into its face. The creature was surely human, though with dark eyes huger than any man’s, skin as white as the moon, and fingers that ended in hooked talons.

  “Madre de—” one of the sailors whispered.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Danny saw Maria cross herself.

  “Maria, get behind me,” Danny whispered, hoping she would understand him. She didn’t move.

  The first Spaniard moved forward. The creature whirled round. Light flashed on the Spaniard’s knife. The creature lunged forward. A terrible rattling hiss came from its throat.

  The Spaniard brought his blade up to meet the creature, but he was a fraction slow. The creature slashed at his arm with its wicked talons. Someone screamed. The blade flew out of the Spaniard’s hand and the creature caught it out of the air.

  For a moment the Spanish sailors held their ground. Their leader nursed his injured arm. Blood, black in the dim light, dripped onto the ground.

  The creature feinted towards him with the knife.

  The sailors broke and ran.

  The creature turned.

  “Maria, get behind me,” Danny repeated. He stared at the creature. He wondered what it would do if they tried to get past it. “If you hurt her, I will kill you,” he said.

  He thought of his father, laughing at him when he’d said those words. His fist coming down on Danny’s seven-year-old face. I’m not seven now, he thought.

  The creature took a step forward. Now Danny saw that its arm was smeared with blood. Its own or the Spaniard’s? He could not tell.

  The creature said something unintelligible. Its voice sounded rough, as if it hadn’t spoken in a long time. It tried again. “I have help you. You help me.”

  “You can speak,” Danny said.

  “Englis’. Yes.” The creature glared at him out of orange eyes. “Help me.”

  Danny stared at it, assessing. He did not think there was any real chance he could get past it against its will.

  “Let her go and we’ll see,” he said. The creature nodded slowly. “Go,” Danny said.

  Maria hesitated. Then she slid past the creature and was gone into the darkness.

  “Now,” Danny said. “What do you want?”

  “I have hear others say—you are fletcher? Fletcher is arrow maker, yes?”

  The question was so unexpected that Danny laughed aloud. “Me? I’m no arrow-maker, man. My grandfather, now, he was. And his grandfather before him.”

  “And he have taught you?”

  “No. Yes. Well, that’s to say I watched him, sometimes. He made arrows for competitions. For his lordship, d’you see?”

  If the creature understood, it gave no sign of it.

  “Then you help me?” The creature held out its hand.

  “No,” Danny said. “I can’t help you.”

  “But you must. Must make arrows. If not you, who?”

  “I don’t know,” Danny said, his patience exhausted. �
��Someone will, I expect.”

  In daylight, Maria was even more beautiful. Danny watched as she stowed bundles of clothes onto the cart. He was afraid her family were going to join the Spanish rebels in Bacalor. He wished they would just leave, though the thought of her going threatened to tear his heart in two. Anything would be better than her getting caught up in the fighting.

  “Let me help you,” he said, as she struggled to tighten a rope across a ragged bit of sacking.

  “If you would help me, go,” she said. “My father will be angry if he sees you.”

  “Then I’ll beg him for your hand,” Danny said.

  “And I will say no, as I said no before,” said a voice from behind Danny.

  Danny turned. Senor Ramirez was a bull of a man, and his face was red with fury.

  “Sir, I implore you to reconsider,” Danny said. “Our two countries are at war, it’s true. But must war between nations be echoed in war between those who might otherwise be friends—”

  “Entrar la casa, Maria,” the older man said. “And you, cabron. You leave, now.” He clicked his fingers. One of Maria’s brothers stopped what he was doing and started across the yard. A knotted rope-end swung from his hand.

  Danny felt his face burning, but he turned and left. He had only got a few yards past their gate when he heard a faint hissing sound.

  Darkness moved against deeper darkness in the shadowy mouth of an alley. A heap of rags resolved itself into a figure. Danny found himself staring at the creature he had met the night before.

  It came at him. The brilliant sunshine turned its pallid skin fishbelly gray, but its orange eyes were hazel. Its injured arm dangled uselessly. It was swollen, with streaks of yellow forming around the wound.

  “Help me?” it said.

  Danny pulled a coin from his pocket. He ran his nail over its edge to make sure it was only a copper. As a ship’s carpenter’s mate he was tolerably well paid, but there were limits.