By the time Kat took the shovel out to the woods, we both knew what was coming, just like we had known in the beginning. I couldn’t help her dig that day; my ankle was injured and swollen. We were both afraid it might be a fracture. So I hobbled out on handmade crutches and tried not to think about the reasons I hadn’t already done what she was about to do.
“You’ll be heading back to the ocean soon,” she said, leaning against a tree, surveying her work. There were five deep ditches in the grove, two for the goats, one for Fergus, and one more, human-sized.
“And where will you go?” I asked her, and laid my hand on her knee and my forehead on her thigh.
“Into the ground, and into the grove, and into your soul,” she said, and put her hand on my head.
“Oh Kat, I am so tired.”
“I know,” she said. She had always known.
On the way up to Kat’s grave this morning I was thinking about that trip to the reservation. I guess I don’t blame those people for being wary of me; I don’t even blame them for blaming me, if that’s what they were doing at all. There’s plenty of blame to go around, and I do think they saw it coming before I did. But wasn’t I worthy too? Didn’t I stain my hands in the soil and listen to the voices of the earthworms that turned it? Didn’t I leave a measure of my harvest on the ground every year for the squirrels and raccoons and deer brave enough to remain here with us? Didn’t I answer the rain when it asked me to explain its frenzied passage across the sky, and didn’t I weep with it over the orphans I couldn’t save? Didn’t I go down to the ocean at red tide and lay hands on the crooked little corpses of my Mother’s children and answer for the crime that brought them there?
I found seaweed in the orchard again last week. The tide was high, higher than it has ever been, and I know there won’t be any chestnuts next year. So I’ve put the letter from Logan’s family on the kitchen table along with a list of things that ought to be done throughout the year and when he ought to do them, just in case. I don’t think there’s anything else I can do here; I’ve given what I had to give, and I’ve received what my Mother could offer me in trade. It was a good bargain. When the tide comes back again, I intend to ebb with it, as Fergus ebbed, as Kat ebbed, as we all must. From the sea we come, and to the sea do we return, to come from the sea again. If we are careful.
Tha seo math.
(Editor's Note: previously published in PanGaia #43. Reprinted here with permission of the author.)
Dumb Supper
by Jennifer Lyn Parsons
All Hallow's Eve: 3232
Bright sunlight kissed the tops of cloud-scraping buildings, the life-affirming rays of gold weakening as they made the journey down through layers of concrete and steel. As if descending through the depths of a vast ocean, the light lost its power, objects lost their visual clarity, and the pressure on those that lived furthest down grew ever more difficult and dangerous to bear.
It was in one of the lowest depths of the city that a young woman lugging a basket searched narrow lanes, squinting her eyes in search of her elusive quarry. When she had descended to the middle levels a few hours ago, it was just past noon. Here in the depths, the shadows of safer walkways almost out of sight above her, even the bright afternoon sun barely reflected and refracted its way down, leaving the structures and inhabitants around her in perpetual twilight.
Quickening her pace as the buildings around her began to look familiar, the woman held on to the slim hope that the person she searched for would still be alive, never mind still living in the same place. Rounding a corner, a small, tight smile appeared on her face when she spotted an old woman putting out plates of food for the alley cats circling her feet.
“Greetings, Grannie Hella,” she called out to the elderly figure. “I’ve come to speak with you and … I need to speak to someone else as well, someone we both know.”
Acting as if the younger woman had not spoken, the elder went about her task, placing bowls and breaking up squabbles when one of the cats became impatient and tried to steal another's meal. The young woman waited, remembering her mother's detailed instructions on how to approach Grannie. Placing the basket on the sidewalk, she squatted down to pet the striped feline rubbing against her ankle.
“Name, girl?”
The question was a short croak, catching the woman off guard. She blinked, then answered.
“Tamora Umbeki, madam,” she replied, her tone tinted with the polished, proper accent of the upper levels.
“Hrmph. Vela’s child. I know wha' you'll be wantin' then. Ya chose the proper evenin', too. Good thinkin', girl.”
Grannie released a heavy sigh and stood to look Tamora in the eye. The elder woman was taller than Tamora expected and her back showed no signs of bowing with age. She rattled on in her thick accent. Similar to the lower level brogue, but with off-world qualities, it was unique.
“Work’s never done fer your clan, is it? You’ll be needin' ta know there’ll be others wantin’ ta speak with ya, too. Not just yer Mum. Come on then, an' don’t let any o' these critters in the door, they’ll wreck the whole thing.”
Tamora nodded her understanding, picked up her basket, and followed the woman through a rusty door, carefully closing it behind her so none of the felines snuck in. The tight corridors of the ancient building gave off the stale scent of mildew and decay. Following Grannie closely, Tamora soon found herself in a dingy, but orderly, dining room with a dark, wooden table in the center, dominating the room.
Grannie brushed her hands on her apron to clean them, then moved about the space, clapping three times in each corner before returning to the doorway.
“Well, we’ll be needin’ a right, proper meal for this. What ya got in tha' basket?”
Tamora placed the basket on the table and opened the lid so Grannie could see inside. Various containers were stacked neatly, padded with thermal packs, and the light aroma of gourmet cooking wafted out of the bulging hamper.
“Yes, good. That’ll do nicely. Ever been through one o' these before?” Grannie asked.
Tamora shook her head and the old woman cackled.
“No? Yer Mum taught ya proper, though.” She reached up, pinching Tamora’s cheek with a gentle squeeze. "Le’s get started then. Night'll be fallin' soon. An' remember, no talkin’ til ya get the sign or I tells ya so.”
In silence, the two women set to work, first spreading a black cloth across the table. Grannie pulled out heavy, black place settings from the cupboard, directing Tamora to remove the sturdy black anodized utensils from a box on the sideboard. With the table set, the food was unpacked and heated in Grannie's cramped galley kitchen. After placing the bowls and platters on the table, Grannie and Tamora sat down across from each other, leaving the head of the table empty and shrouded in dark fabric.
At a signal from Grannie, Tamora served dessert onto the three dishes. Though her nervous anticipation turned the cake to sawdust in her mouth, Tamora politely ate her entire serving. She watched Grannie closely for the next signal, but the old woman simply ate her food with a comfortable smile, obviously enjoying the decadent layer cake. The main course came next, meat so tender it melted on the tongue, accompanied by herb-dressed vegetables and soft, roasted potatoes. Again, Tamora watched for any signs from Grannie, but the woman was relaxed, enjoying the rare treat of fine dining.
About to ladle some brothy soup into Grannie’s bowl, Tamora spilled a few drips when the old woman’s arm shot out and grabbed her hand, pointing to the end of the table. Stunned, Tamora looked at the place setting at the table's head and watched a thread of mist rise from the plate, coalescing into a glowing, blue ball of light that moved to hover over the chair. A similar thread of mist from the meat soon joined its brethren and Grannie motioned for Tamora to continue serving the soup.
By the time the bowls were filled, the hazy, yet distinctive, features of Vela Umbeki took ghostly form in her seat. She looked down at her hands, then glanced around the room and smiled. “Tamora, I d
id well in my instructions if we are seated here today.” The warmth of her mother's smile brought tears to Tamora’s eyes. “Yes, my dear, you may speak now, but do not allow your soup to grow cold.” The woman indicated with a gesture that Tamora should continue eating.
Unable to help herself, Tamora let the soup spoon fall from her grasp. “Mother, I’ve missed you so! All these long years, I’ve wanted to talk to you, but knew I had to wait. I .…” The words were a sob, but Tamora took a breath. Their time was limited and there was too much to discuss to waste time on tears. The time for mourning had long passed. “I have news.” She hesitated and her mother gave her a knowing smile.
“A child?” Vela spoke softly to her crying daughter.
“Yes.” Returning the smile, Tamora's face brightened. “I shall name her Roma, after Romidan, your mother.”
The smile intensified on Vela’s pale lips. “It is a good name and she will do well by it.” After a short pause, the translucent figure continued, her tone somber. “I am sorry I cannot be there to give the proper Lifetelling, my child. All I can Tell you is this: she will forge her own path. Her ways are not to be our clan’s ways. When she is grown, a god will come to her who walks the Fire path. He will give her great joy and great pain, but he is the key to her destiny. You must not bar their meeting.”
Torn between joy and grief, tears now streamed freely down Tamora’s face. “And am I to maintain the traditional silence, even through she leaves the clan?”
“Yes, daughter. She will not understand why you let her go so easily, for she shall be young, but the Lifetelling is only for the mother to know. It is the burden of our clan.” Her voice grew weaker with each word as her figure lost its strength and clarity.
“Mother!” Tamora cried out as Vela’s figure dissolved back into mist.
The final echo of her mother's voice filled the room as the last of the strange blue light faded to nothing. “I can always hear you, child, just speak and I will know.”
Slumping back into her chair, the young woman placed a protective hand over the slight bulge on her abdomen. Silence once more took hold in the room, though it now lacked the heady excitement that charged it before.
Once Tamora’s tears dried, Grannie spoke, softly and without accent, her tone clean and clear. “It is done, then. The course has been set. The Waterstrider shall fade and the Firedrifter shall inherit and all shall give way to Earthwalker.”
Tamora stared at the woman, making a sign of blessing toward her.
Grannie laughed, waving her off. “Oh, don’t waste your time with that, child. I’m not possessed by some Daemon. These old bones know things, is all.” Sitting back comfortably in the wooden chair, Grannie explained. “Tis my fate, young one. I’ve watched it all come and I’ll watch it all fall. Some would say it don’t make life worth livin’, knowing how it ends, but I just can’t wait to see how it all plays out. I’ll be there when she completes her tasks, I’ll watch those children grow, and I’ll be there when they return to the Summerlands.”
Reaching across the table, Grannie took Tamora’s hand, gently patting it to calm the young woman and garnering a weak smile in return. “Now, if you’ve had enough of a break, let's jes finish this lovely meal an' see who else turns up, eh?”
Tamora gave her a hesitant nod as both women dipped into the warm, soothing soup, watching in wonder as the seat at the head of the table glimmered bright blue in the darkness once more.
The Fool
by William Kolar
Part I: The Present
Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift. That’s why it’s called ‘The Present’. --Eleanor Roosevelt
Liam opened his gray-green eyes and watched the clouds float across a cobalt sky. Laying on the lip of the giant planter, he tried to find some form of calm, either outside himself or within. Even the music thumping out of the nearby club failed to help. Normally, Liam enjoyed the music, mostly punk, reggae, and industrial, but today the beat of the music clashed with the thumping of his heart, creating a cacophony instead of soothing him. Even the serene, stately clouds sailing overhead failed to bring calm to the chaos of his thoughts. He was not ready for tonight.
Tonight. The shop they had all been gathering at offered several weekly events like tonight. The shop itself, The Crystal Cauldron, was one of those metaphysical stores that had become very popular during the ‘70s and ‘80s. This one, however, was different. It was still going strong even though the millennium everyone was dreading had come and gone. It was a place to get supplies for many different uses (incense, tarot decks and other divination methods, books for the newbie or even the seasoned practitioners of The Craft), or even just to have questions answered. The staff was very knowledgeable and could soothe the wary just as easily as they could direct the eager.
The Crystal Cauldron offered classes. Some would cost, covering supplies and printouts, some were free, just show up if you wanted to learn. But they all focused on one main theme: magick in the modern ages. That’s magick with a k to differentiate it from the illusions practiced by those of the David Copperfield ilk. The best thing about the classes was that they were strictly non-denominational. They did not care if you were a devout Judeo-Christian, or one of the many paganistic (that is non-Judeo-Christian) beliefs. The only time someone was turned away was if they propounded too loudly that their belief was the only way and everyone else was doomed to burn in whatever punishment awaited them. Such people were kindly asked to leave.
In fact, the reason everyone had gathered here tonight was for one such class. Tonight, Emma would be hosting a session on past life regression, one of the meditation classes she specialized in. Everyone attending, at least those that believed in them, was here to learn how their past lives affected their current lives, and what they could learn from them, and apply now to make their lives better.
Several people were also curious as to what it would reveal about those around them. Of particular interest was what tonight would reveal about Liam. Although quite friendly and talkative, he tended to keep much of his current past a mystery. They knew he had a child, as he had brought his daughter into the store on some weekends, but not many knew much more. It was as if he wanted them to think that he did not exist before he began appearing at the shop. Liam knew it drove some of the more nosy of the Cauldron-Born near insane that they couldn’t gossip about him, and that was the way he preferred it.
There was one person who knew much of the story, though she deferred to his preferences and kept it to herself.
But this was not what was troubling him at the moment.
“Liam!” Liam sat up and dropped off the planter’s edge in time to receive a hug from that same best friend, Rhiannon. “Is there still time to get some coffee, or is the class about to start?” She stepped away from him, looking at her watch. Liam noticed she had re-dyed her hair, returning the strawberry to her strawberry-blonde hair. Like most of the others present she had a casual air about her. Not one for dresses, she wore jeans and a knit shirt beneath a properly faded jean jacket. She was pretty, blue eyes to match her Nordic features, not heavy, but definitely not skinny like so many girls got into their heads as desirable. What Liam liked most about her was that she didn’t spend most of her time complaining about how much weight she needed to lose. He had known far too many women who did just that. In fact, Liam had shown some interest in her from the beginning, but had been informed, by her in fact, that she had a boyfriend. Just as well, as it had allowed them to become very good friends, something he apparently needed in his life much more than a relationship.
“Go on in, I’m thinking of sitting this one out.” Rhiannon looked back at Liam, curious. “Look,” he began to explain, “I’ve had a real tosser of a weekend, a hard day at work, and a long trip out here tonight. I don’t think I can relax enough for meditating.” Rhiannon did not look convinced. She seemed to have an idea what was really getting under his skin, and she looked determined to not let a ca
se of cold feet hinder his growth, spiritually or romantically.
Before he could react, Rhiannon grabbed him by the ear and pulled him toward the door of the shop. Through a titanic struggle -- after all, he was being pulled by the ear like a naughty child -- he quickly regained his composure, covering his distress and inner turmoil with a mask of humour and self-assurance. This was the Liam he had let them come to know and love … or despise … or not care about, as they would.
The interior of the shop was in itself comforting. The dark wood of the cabinets and shelving was softly lit by track lighting above. The books, herbs, and objects de magick were tastefully arranged. The smells of the herbs and incense were wonderfully mixed in the air. Chairs were scattered here and there, most already claimed by customers preparing for the night’s class. The shop was filled with people, some mingling, some purchasing, all talking. Rhiannon and Liam maneuvered their way to the back of the shop where Verbena, the shop's owner, had set up a table of snacks and coffee. As Rhiannon poured herself a cup, Liam looked up through the window in the back wall to the shop's research library that Verbena had made out of the back office and stock rooms. He was looking for anything to focus on other than the crowd behind him. But he would eventually have to turn and face the group -- might as well stop putting off the inevitable.
As he turned, she was already there, her arms wrapping tight around his waist, her curly blonde highlighted hair barely coming up to his chin, her ice blue eyes that seemed to dance with fire as they looked up into his. Liam took the source of his distress into his arms for a much-welcomed hug. This was Theresa. This was the shop's cashier, the owner's best friend, and the unknowing object of his affections. He gently kissed the top of her head, all fears and worries forgotten now that she was in his arms. Then she was off to give a similar hello to Liam’s other best friend, Aengus. That was all it took for the fears and worries to return with a vengeance, knotting in his stomach. How was he supposed to relax enough when he wanted to be angry, sick, and overjoyed in the same moment?
The Shining Cities: An Anthology of Pagan Science Fiction Page 24