Fantasy

by Rich Horton

  There were two long golden feathers at the young man’s feet, beneath the ash that had once been a wooden table, and he gathered them up, and brushed the white ash from them and placed them, reverently, inside his jacket. Then he removed his apron, and he went upon his way.

  * * * *

  Hollyberry TwoFeathers McCoy is a grown woman, with children of her own. There are silver hairs on her head, in there with the black, beneath the golden feathers in the bun at the back. You can see that once the feathers must once have looked pretty special, but that would have been a long time ago. She is the President of the Epicurean Club—a rich and rowdy bunch—having inherited the position, many long years ago, from her father.

  I hear that the Epicureans are beginning to grumble once again. They are saying that they have eaten everything.

  *

  (For HMG—a belated birthday present).

  THE SECRET OF BROKEN TICKERS, by Joe Murphy

  Even the horned toads knew what was coming. Sprokly stood on the edge of a small bluff, where the west Texas chaparral of prickly pear, mesquite, and tumbleweed overlooked the sandy Red River bed. In twos and threes, horned toads—the size, shape, and shade of one of Ma’s charred pancakes—emerged from the scrub and darted onto the sand.

  A scissortail swooped from a low-growing mesquite tree, a black and white flash intent on easy prey. The targeted horned toad saw it, however, lifting its thorny head, puffing its body, and “kzzzzt!” spat something, most likely a seed or pebble. It caught the scissortail in midair. The bird squawked and veered away.

  Sprokly wanted to cry but held it back. Instead she brushed at her short blond hair. A snag caught her fingers. A few strands had tangled beneath one of the screws that fastened the wooden top of her skull.

  She forced herself to count the gathered horned toads. One hundred, hundred fifty, two, two ninety—just about every one the Maezel family had made.

  “Hey, girl.”

  Sprokly turned and managed a smile. “Evening, Grampser.”

  Grampser limped up to her, one thumb hitched above the bib of his overalls, the other hand holding a cane. His smile floated on a sea of well-tanned wrinkles as the wind picked up, toying with his gray wisps of hair. “Well.” He pointed toward the western horizon. “It’ll be a while.”

  “Any time now,” Sprokly agreed.

  A vast black and gray thunderhead darkened the western sky. The final blood red rays of setting sun slashed through the blue-black sky as the clouds churned. In the distance, a wall of rain darkened the air, advancing slowly. As one, the horned toads lifted their heads and watched the storm with red bead eyes.

  “Your Ma would hate to see this,” Grampser said.

  “We could get a wheel chair, tote her out here.”

  “I’m afraid she’s too well for that.” Grampser shook his head and scowled.

  Sprokly nodded. Grampser never told the truth. The head of the Maezel family, he seemed to enjoy the confusion. She’d asked Pa about it once, but he’d simply shaken his head and smiled an enigmatic smile that hinted of Family Secrets.

  Right now, Ma worried her. Three days ago, Sprokly had found her face down by the clothes line, laundry scattered like so many dead chickens. Unconscious and breathing in fits, the elderly woman appeared to have suffered a heart attack. She was home, bedridden, tended by Sprokly’s Pa. Both would have loved to be out here.

  The storm hit. A wall of wind and water slapped Sprokly’s face like a wet blanket. It forced her back a step. Blinking, a quick gasp, but then Grampser’s hand closed on her shoulder. Lightning flared, blinding her momentarily. Thunder rolled across the sky.

  “It won’t be happening yet,” Grampser shouted as the wind tore into them.

  “There it is!” Sprokly took Grampser’s arm. High above the river swirled a mass of ugly clouds the color of bruised flesh. Another thunder clash, by the time Sprokly’s eyes adjusted from the lightning, a giant funnel corkscrewed down to slam into the river. The funnel twisted, dancing, brightening to silver as it sucked up water.

  “Turn your eyes away!” Grampser shouted and released Sprokly’s hand. She staggered in a blast of wet wind, caught her balance, and paid close attention as Grampser pulled a spoon-handled device from his pocket. He fitted this tuning spork to his cane. It glittered with seven glass cogwheels, each tooth carefully inscribed with numerous letters, symbols, and numbers.

  The old man grinned, spun the cogs with his fingers, and lifted the device high. A darting shaft of red sunlight struck the cogs. Letters, ­hieroglyphics, arcane pictograms threaded the sky, inscribing long strands of whirling words upon the funnel.

  The tornado jumped, following the river as such storms did. With the bellow of some ancient god, it slammed down once more, sucking up water and sand. Black polka-dots of horned toads careened through the air around it.

  A moment later the funnel rose, a serpentine coil that wormed back into the clouds. The rain moved on, leaving a cool fresh smell in Sprokly’s nostrils, a tingling along the outside of her arms.

  “Grampser, what did the words mean?”

  “What words, missy?” Grampser focused his attention on the tuning spork, blinking water from his eyes, peering over the tops of his specs as he unscrewed the device from his cane.

  Sprokly sighed, refusing to be exasperated. Prying anything out of Grampser took work. “From the tuning spork. What did you read in the tornado?”

  “Nothing important at all.” Grampser shook his head. “Especially to an old woman with a broken ticker.” He winked at Sprokly, reached over to smooth the water from her hair, and limped off, back along the trail.

  He paused to smile and study the rickety remains of a bladeless windmill before moving on. A couple of horned toads, having declined to ride the storm, glared up at her, then darted after him.

  How on earth could a twister help Ma? Sprokly frowned and started along the river bed, out onto the same sand the tornado had touched. She had her own path back to Waxacholie-Nazarene, and chores to finish.

  * * * *

  “That feels much better,” the relation said as Sprokly pulled her winding key from its back. It turned to face her, the smile painted on its wooden lips somehow growing wider. Eyes the color of sun-glazed quartz regarded her with a blank but pleasant stare. “Thank you kindly, ma’am.”

  “You’re more than welcome.” Sprokly tucked the winding key into the back pocket of her jeans. “Got your chores done yet?”

  “Not quite, ma’am.” The relation shook its head, squeaking slightly. “I was just about to hoe them garden weeds when I ran down.”

  “Best get to it then,” Sprokly allowed. “And mind the horned toads.”

  “You betcha.” The relation ambled off, the gears in its legs rasping. Sprokly started for the barn. The relation who tended the cows usually needed winding this time of evening. Far across the deserted lean-tos and sand-scoured empty buildings that made up Waxa­cholie- Nazarene, a car horn sounded three abrupt beeps.

  “That’s Billy!” Sprokly whirled and dashed toward the only occupied house in the deserted town. “What’s he doing home?”

  A blue 1961 Plymouth sat in front of the house. Not a real one of course, but a more than passable imitation. Grampser and Pa had built it after seeing one advertised on The Red Skelton Show. The car was Billy’s going-away present. There were no hard feelings, the elders maintained, when Billy had finally convinced, cajoled, and nagged them into allowing him to attend Midwestern State University in Wichita Falls.

  Sprokly jerked to a halt and gripped a fencepost to catch her balance. The Plymouth’s trunk was open, Billy leaning into it. A young woman, wearing hip huggers and a white blouse, stood beside him. A real woman!

  Grampser, Ma, Pa, Billy, and her sister Marybeth, these were the only real people she knew. The elders didn’t allow visitors, and Waxacholie-Nazarene being so far from the roads, they didn’t get many. Fewer still had been allowed to leave.

  Billy pulled two su
itcases from the trunk. He turned, starting towards the house, and saw her. A quick grin, a mumbled word to the woman beside him, and he shouted, “Sprokly! Come give your brother a hug!”

  Restraining the impulse to dash up and grab him, Sprokly waved hesitantly and approached. The woman appeared about Billy’s age.

  In the way Real People counted that would be nineteen. To Sprokly and the Maezel family, however, Billy was twenty-six; he knew twenty-six Family Secrets and that’s what really mattered.

  The woman looked pretty, Sprokly decided, a page right out of the latest Sears Roebuck Catalogue. Her blue-green eyes watched Sprokly cautiously, but without surprise. Grampser and Pa would be furious.

  “Hello.” Sprokly held out her hand. “I’m Sprokly.”

  “I know,” the woman said. “Billy’s kid sister, right?” She smiled at Billy. “He’s told me about you.” She looked Sprokly up and down, before their gazes met. “It’s a pleasure and privilege to meet you.”

  “How’s Ma doing?” Billy’s worried frown brought out freckles that had never left him. He brushed back his dark crew cut. “I came as soon as I heard.”

  “She’s still in bed.” Sprokly stared at the ground, noticing the woman’s shiny black pumps. “She wakes now and again, but she’s awful weak.”

  Billy cocked his head toward the house. “Did they bring in a doctor?”

  Sprokly shook her head.

  “I was afraid of that.” Billy turned to the woman. “See what I mean, Sylvine?”

  The woman opened her mouth but never got a word out.

  “Hey, Boy!” Pa stood on the front porch. Like Grampser he wore overalls, a starched white shirt, and a dusty-colored Stetson. He was short, a dwarf-shaped body with heavily muscled arms, long delicate fingers. He stepped off the porch, his gaze still on Sylvine. It wasn’t a pleasant look.

  “Pa, I…” Billy started. Sprokly stepped back, still watching her daddy.

  “You brought someone out here.” Pa stopped in front of them and folded his arms.

  “Hello, Mr. Maezel.” Sylvine stepped forward, wiped her palm on her pants, and offered her hand. “I’m Sylvine Porter. I’m in Billy’s biology class, working on Pre Med.”

  Pa studied her, frowning faintly before slowly unfolding his arms and grudgingly shaking the woman’s hand. “Miss Porter.” He glared at Billy then. “Why don’t ya’ll come in the house? Sprokly, get their bags like a good girl.”

  Sprokly snatched up the suitcases before Billy could argue. Billy smiled weakly, put a hand on Sylvine’s arm, and very gentleman-like escorted her towards the front door.

  “Getting a little dark in here,” Pa said as they entered. He looked at Sylvine, then slowly and deliberately pulled out his winding key and stuck it in the wall socket. After five quick turns the lights came on.

  The woman didn’t even blink. Sprokly suppressed a grin. How much had Billy told her?

  “Why don’t you both have a sit down?” Pa motioned towards the doily-covered couch, while taking his usual place in one of the easy chairs near the television.

  “Thanks.” Sylvine sat down; Billy hurried to a place beside her.

  “So how’s school going, boy?” Pa asked, a hand reaching into the pocket of his bib overalls. Billy opened his mouth, eyes growing big as Pa produced a tuning spork. His mouth clamped into a flat determined line when Pa, without waiting for an answer, flicked the spork’s cogwheels, sending ghostly gold letterings over the walls, ceiling, and into Sylvine’s eyes.

  Sylvine’s mouth dropped open. Her stare grew as blank as a relation’s idiot gaze.

  “Boy,” Pa growled, “Make your point or I’ll take her memory right now.”

  Billy stared at Sylvine’s empty face, then matched his father’s glare. “I’ll make two.” He glanced hopefully at Sprokly, then focused on Pa. “Come hell or high water, someday, I’m gonna marry Sylvine Porter.” He held up one finger, quickly followed by another. “And two. Her daddy’s one of the most respected heart specialists in Texas.”

  The heavy thumps, Sprokly realized, was her, dropping the suitcases. Pa stared at Billy a moment longer, then took a good hard look at Sylvine Porter. He reached out with a grease-stained finger and stopped the spinning cogs on the tuning spork.

  Sylvine Porter gasped, blinked blue eyes, and shook herself all over like a dog.

  “Miss Porter, I reckon you can share a bed with Sprokly here.” Pa returned the spork to his pocket and began to laugh. Big laughs, loud guffaws that doubled him over and made him slap his thighs. From her position angled to one side, Sprokly doubted that Billy saw what she saw. Her brother only had eyes for Sylvine anyway. But clear as glass as it wormed its way down the deep creases that framed her father’s eyes—a single tear. Joy or sorrow, she couldn’t tell which.

  * * * *

  “Don’t you understand, Mr. Maezel?” Sylvine Porter gently returned Ma’s hand to her chest. “Your wife needs urgent medical ­attention.” She straightened and studied Ma’s half-closed eyes. “Everything will be all right, Mrs. Maezel. You’ll see.”

  Sprokly nodded. Her mother’s lips thinned to a weak smile. The heavy-set woman lay within a sea of quilts and comforters, her long grey hair spilled over the pillows that propped her up. The bedroom light flickered, so Sprokly turned to wind it again.

  “I’ll get the fan.” Billy reached into his own back pocket and pulled out a winding key.

  “Never you mind, boy.” Key already in his hand, Pa brushed past Sprokly, then Billy, and wound the fan that oscillated steadily on Ma’s nightstand.

  “Mr. Maezel, sir.” Sylvine stepped up to face Sprokly’s father, spreading her hands, a gesture that might have been a prelude to a prayer. “You’ve got to reconsider. I could ask my father if he’s willing to come out—”

  “That’s right kind of you, Miss.” Pa shook his head. “But we can manage.”

  “You can’t take care of her yourselves.” Anger edged Sylvine’s voice.

  “Inherent or inscribed.” Pa glared at Billy and Sylvine. “We’ve made our choice. At least some of us have.”

  “Enough,” Ma whispered. Her wrinkles deepened as she frowned at Billy and Pa. Her hand waved in a limp shooing motion. “Take your arguin’ somewheres else.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Pa and Billy said at once, the look of guilty sheep on their faces.

  “Come on, Sylvine.” Sprokly took the woman’s arm. “Let me show you our room.” She managed to guide Sylvine’s softly resisting steps out of Ma’s bedroom. Behind her, Pa and Billy’s low voices, like distant thunder, rumbled into the living room. Shadows alone occupied the rest of the house. Where had Grampser gotten off to? A stranger should have brought him running.

  “This here’s my room.” Sprokly quickly wound the lights. The glow brightened, revealing a plump double bed with a rose chenille cover, a dresser whose mirror gleamed. Gauze curtains framed an open window that let in the cool night breeze. Sylvine’s suitcase sat in the corner by a table.

  “It’s very nice,” Sylvine said dryly. Sprokly watched as the woman looked around the room. She faced Sprokly and folded her arms. “Sprokly, your mother is very sick.”

  Sprokly turned away. She moved over to the bed, slumped down on its edge, and pulled off her boots. “I know.”

  “That’s why Billy brought me out here. Why he chose to tell me so much about your…interesting family.”

  “We’re just a family.” Sprokly shrugged and pushed her boots beneath the dresser. The bedsprings creaked as Sylvine eased down beside her.

  “I’d hardly put it that way.” Sylvine’s gaze seemed to drill into Sprokly. She looked down and even studied Sprokly’s toes as they wiggled free of her socks. “Can I ask you something? Without hurting your feelings, I mean?”

  Grampser had told her this day would never come. So of course it had. Sprokly frowned, wondering why it chose to arrive with Ma sick and all. “I guess.”

  “Sprokly,” Sylvine took her hand. Sprokly marveled at the soft
ness of the woman’s skin. “What, uh, what exactly are you?”

  “I’m a girl.” She stared at the floor and waited.

  “Well,” a note of gentle amazement crept into Sylvine’s voice. “You’re far more lifelike than any manikin I’ve ever seen. You sure don’t act like the robots in the picture shows Billy keeps dragging me to. But you’re not…”

  “Real?” Sprokly looked up at her and smiled.

  “That’s one way of putting it.” Sylvine clasped her hands and smiled back. “Can you tell me more?”

  Sprokly hesitated. An explanation would mean showing this outsider a Family Secret. Neither Grampser nor Pa would like that. But Pa had told Sylvine to bunk with her, instead of giving the woman her sister’s old room. Surely he’d known such a question was bound to come up. Was he testing her? Testing in the same way he’d tested Marybeth and then Billy before they left home?

  Sprokly had even practiced an answer. She didn’t have Billy’s hunger for knowledge that led him to the university. But someday, she would go out into the real world. Wasn’t this the first step?

  “Looky here.” Sprokly rose and dug into the contents of her dresser drawer. She pulled out a pair of spectacles, a series of jeweler’s magnifiers soldered to the frame—a birthday gift from Billy awhile back. Three of the jeweler’s lenses appeared cloudy, similar to the cogs on a tuning spork.

  Carefully, she placed the spectacles in Sylvine’s hands. “Put these on.”

  “Are they prescription?” Sylvine asked, “Because if they are—”

  “Don’t matter.” Sprokly waited until the woman obeyed, then reached over and flipped down the cloudier lens. “Look at me now.”

  Sylvine gasped, her hands fluttering around the spectacles, not quite daring to touch. “Words,” she whispered. “Not just the wood of your skin and metal veins, but words, all over you.”

  “Can you read any?”