Saxifrage & Starshine

by Megan Kempston

  Except, all I wanted at that moment was Mr. Mac. Around me, on top of me, in me. He was large and strong and flushed with exertion, and I could hear the battlesong running through his pulsing veins, calling to my own song, spinning with it in a wild duet. For the first time, I realized that sex could be a kind of battle, one that didn’t end in pain—or if it did, it would be delicious pain—and one that didn’t have to be repeated endlessly, over and over—or if it did, it would be delightful repetition.

  My belly fluttered. My lips parted. My hand tightened on Mr. Mac’s shoulder, pulling him down and towards me.

  He looked down at me, meeting my eyes.

  Yes, I thought. Yes.

  But his expression was cool. Teacherly. He rolled off me.

  No…

  He turned away, facing out towards the forest.

  I swallowed. Stupid! So stupid…

  I heard him rummage in his bag and then he pressed something hard and cold into my hand.

  I looked down at the silver flask, and then frowned up at him.

  “Starshine,” he said.

  My eyes widened.

  “But leave some for me,” he added hastily.

  I unscrewed the lid and lifted the flask to my lips, my first taste of the sweet, fiery liquid.

  Starshine. The most closely guarded secret of the maker elves, the liquor that burned away pain, cooled fevers, coaxed rent flesh and bone back to wholeness. The drink that was the poet’s muse, the artist’s inspiration, heart-opener, mind-expander, soul-stretcher. The adult beverage never given to the underage except in the most dire of circumstances, no matter their scheming or pleading or begging.

  It tasted like a wild waltz on soft pine needles under a black sky spangled with stars. It tasted like hunting horns in the distance and a light in the window when you come home late at night. It tasted like the secrets of the saxifrage, tiny, slow, and rock-breaking. It was spicy and sweet and complex, something with a million flavors you wanted to slowly tease out like the finest of fine wines, like a complicated relationship, like the intricacies of the pattern in the tapestry of life.

  True life’s curve defined by a square knot…

  It rolled down my throat like honey, faster than I meant it to, and Mr. Mac had to crouch and take the flask away from me after a minute or two.

  I looked at him, my eyes wide, and tried not to float away. I could feel, I could see without looking, my skin knitting together, the veins rejoining, the tissues and bones realigning, reminded with just a few sips of the way they were supposed to be, and eager to obey, to snap back into wholeness.

  Mr. Mac watched me for a long moment, then nodded and took a long drink from the flask. I watched his own cuts and wounds start to close, start to heal. He eased onto the ground beside me, stretching out his long body, his head pillowed under one big hand.

  We lay there together and looked up at the stars, peeking out here and there from the gently swaying foliage above us. Slowly, we caught our breath. The silence of the forest was broken only occasionally by Mr. Mac’s continued, thoughtful sips from the flask.

  Memories floated gently through my head.

  The first arrow I shot, at age six, the red feathers speeding off into the distance over the green grass of the archery field and the cry of triumph in my throat.

  The first night I met Mr. Mac, at age thirteen, when he came to my house, sat in my living room, and talked to my parents for a long time about boring things like apprenticeship and formation and life experiences and career paths. I had squirmed in the comfy yellow armchair until I couldn’t stand it anymore, and then I had blurted, “But what about the battle?” Mr. Mac had looked over at me, looked me over, and nodded, saying, “She’ll do.”

  The first patrol we’d taken together, after endless months of archery practice and magic lessons. The joy of the crackle of autumn leaves under our feet and the tense, silvery song of battle in my veins, even before we spotted a lone goblin.

  The first time I heard him sing, his words shivering off into the night with a delicacy you’d never expect from a man so big, making magic a beautiful, living thing instead of the dull chants I’d memorized.

  The first time we stopped at his house after a night of patrolling, with Mrs. Mac bustling to get us tea and sandwiches and cookies. Mr. Mac interrupting her, stopping her in her tracks, and then bending to kiss her, his eyes alight with a joy I rarely saw, even in battle.

  I reached over, my arm sliding heavily over the dew-spangled grass, and touched his shoulder.

  He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t turn towards me either.

  “Thank you,” I said, my voice pitched low.

  He made a soft, noncommittal noise, a very Mr. Mackian sound.

  “Just wait till I tell everyone about how good starshine tastes,” I said. “Instant popularity boost, for sure.”

  He turned towards me then, rolling over and up to stare at me in alarm.

  I grinned at him.

  He let out a breath, shook his head at me, and smiled back.

  I hopped to my feet and extended my hand to him. He took it without hesitation, his hand warm in mine, and let me pull him up. We stood wearily and surveyed the scene below us. Not a slaughter, thank goodness, like you see in the movies. No orc bodies clogging the river, no blood flowing wetly down the path. Just dust. A greyish dust everywhere, like someone had emptied an enormous ashtray on the riverbanks, just for kicks.

  “Well,” I said. “Now what?”

  I was drained. Starshine is magic, in the most literal sense, but it wasn’t a blank check or a reset button. We were healed, whole, no longer bleeding, but we were still exhausted. I wasn’t sure I could chant a simple locator spell, much less sing a complicated and enormous binding.

  “Now we go home,” Mr. Mac said firmly. “Food and sleep. Millie and I can come back in the morning to bind all of this. Even orcs can’t respawn overnight. We’ll also finish binding the site of our melee with the goblins. We can pick up our gear at the park tomorrow.”

  I pursed my lips, thinking about a hot meal and a soft pillow. But then I shook my head. “Let me at least get this one started. You guys can strengthen it in the morning, or we can tomorrow night, but I’d rather not leave orc dust here without any work done on it.” I reached out my hand. “Is there any starshine left?”

  He gave me a wary look, but handed the flask over. I stiffly made my way down the hill towards the river. Mr. Mac followed a few steps behind me. I unscrewed the top of the flask, sniffed it, and poured a tiny amount into the palm of my hand. I dipped my fingers into it and flicked the liquid out over the dust, murmuring the words quietly to myself.

  Things as they should be, things as they are.

  I watched the wind shift to spread the droplets more evenly, watched the river swell to catch them, watched the nearby plants taste them and sprout, new growth thirsty for more, watched them bind the dust with green life.

  Then I looked back at Mr. Mac. He was giving me a strange look, his expression somewhere between horrified and impressed, with a helping of proud in there too. He clapped me on my shoulder. It didn’t even hurt.

  “Now we go home.”

  I nodded.

  We leaned on each other as we stumbled down the path, starlight showing us the way in places, our long experience guiding us in the darker spots. We passed through a metal gate and then walked down the middle of Thurman—hey, it was two in the morning—until we reached the sidewalk. A few more blocks took us to Mr. Mac’s house. A light was on in the window.

  “Want to come in?” Mr. Mac asked.

  “I should head home,” I said. “My parents will probably be worried.”

  He nodded. “Hang on, let me get you the car keys.” He slipped into the house and I heard low voices from inside, one rough and masculine, one sweet and feminine. I leaned against the mailbox and lifted my head to the sky, closing my eyes, the better to hear the starsong.

  A few minutes later, he came back outside an
d tossed me the keys to his Subaru. “Millie’ll take me to school in the morning. You can hand me back the keys after school.”

  I nodded. “Thanks.”

  Then he tossed me something else, heavy and warm and wrapped in brown paper.

  “For the ride home,” he said.

  I grinned at the smell of freshly baked zucchini bread. “Tell Mrs. Mac thanks.”

  I turned to go.

  “Oh, and Katie?” he said, his voice sounding a little odd.

  I gulped and turned back to face him. Don’t bring it up don’t bring it up don’t bring it up…

  He grinned. “Don’t forget you have a chemistry midterm tomorrow.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him, shaking my head slowly. “I’d throw this at you,” I said, hefting the loaf of zucchini bread, “but I’m too hungry.”

  “Good lass,” he said, and nodded. “See you tomorrow.”

  He went inside.

  I looked up at the bright starshine kissing the treetops. Then I headed home too.

  After all, I had some studying to do.

  Agile Ninja Rockstar

  It’s all Raj’s fault. Really.

  After all, he was the one who wrote the job posting. Check the document history if you don’t believe me.

  Some of the more cynical members of our team (I’m looking at you, Sheila) think I’m just jealous that Raj got promoted six months ago, and that he’s technically my boss at the moment.

  Let me tell you, Raj and I have known each other for a long time. If there’s anything I’m not, it’s jealous of Raj. At our last job, I was his boss for a while. And I’m pretty sure that in my ten-year career trajectory, I’ll end up making at least 50% more than he does.

  Besides, this bro-love/ruthless competition thing is what Raj and I do. Yeah, it’s a little weird, but whatever. It works for us.

  Back to the job posting.

  Management let us know that we had the budget for an engineer on our team. Raj did his stupid little victory dance (which looks like a llama trying to take a dump while being attacked by acid-spitting tree monkeys, I kid you not). He thinks it’s always a good thing when we get a new team member. I think he thinks there’s some sort of secret management leaderboard that ranks team leads according to how much money they can spend on salaries.

  I know better. Getting budget to hire an engineer is a clear sign of trouble ahead.

  I mean, I’m not super clear on the details or anything, but I can tell you this—the guys, two pod-cubes over? They hired an engineer three weeks ago. They haven’t had time for a ping pong match since. It doesn’t take a technical genius to see that getting an engineer means that management plans to demand more from us. Engineers are expensive. Management wouldn’t pay for one unless they thought they could wring at least that much money out of our blood, sweat, and tears.

  I prefer to be unwrung. In fact, keeping my head down, following the SOP laminated to my desk, earning my paycheck, and having at least two hours a day to repost great memes on our private team chat channel is exactly what I’m looking for in a job right now. It’s all about balance, you see. Too many twenty-somethings are burnt out from their crazy career paths by the time they hit thirty. Then they take up yoga and stop drinking in an attempt to get their lives “clean,” and it’s all downhill from there.

  I’m betting Raj is doing yoga by the end of the year. Especially after this debacle. Besides, he’s Indian. I’m fairly sure they dig that shit.

  But anyway. Raj decided that we essentially needed to write the most compelling job posting ever.

  “Because there’s no way we’ll get someone to move out to the middle of Nebraska otherwise?” I asked.

  Raj tapped his temple. “I knew you were a smart one, Eric.”

  “How do you make a job description compelling without actually increasing the compensation package?” Sheila said from her corner desk. “You know management won’t let us do that. And there’s no way that we’re close to on par with Silicon Valley salaries.”

  Raj tapped his temple again. “That’s where my vast knowledge of human psychology comes in.” Sheila started to laugh at this, but then Raj added, “Watch and learn, young padawan, watch and learn.” Sheila growled instead.

  It wasn’t Raj’s patronizing attitude. We’re all used to that. Sheila’s just the kind of girl who wears t-shirts that say things like “Han Shot First” and refers to those newer Star Wars movies with that stupid floppy alien creature as “the prequels that shall not be named.” The word “padawan” sets her off every time. (Also: “midichlorians,” “Naboo,” and, weirdly, “Natalie Portman.”)

  Still, I scooted my chair an inch or two farther away from her, as inconspicuously as I could manage. Growling women aren’t really my type.

  “It’s simple,” Raj continued, having, as usual, missed all the subtext. “We have to do two things. First,” he said, extending one finger, management-style, “we make the project sound really interesting. Second, we make the qualifications for the position sound really, really hard. People like applying for reach positions. It makes them feel good.”

  “Third,” I said, raising only my middle finger, “we don’t ever get any applicants ever, because it’s just not possible to make what we do sound interesting.”

  Raj frowned at me.

  “Eric’s right,” Sheila said without looking up from her monitor. “Somno moves numbers back and forth on spreadsheets for other companies. Our team at Somno moves numbers back and forth on spreadsheets specifically for small companies that audit other small companies. It’s not possible to make that sound interesting.”

  Raj opened his mouth to argue with her.

  “Besides,” she continued, rolling right over him, “people don’t feel good when they see job postings they’re not qualified for. They feel bad about themselves when they see those. Which anyone with any social skills whatsoever would know.”

  Raj’s face looked as though a bartender had just handed him a glass of steaming horse urine instead of a cold beer.

  I scooted my chair an inch back towards Sheila to show my solidarity and bro-appreciation. It’s kind of like a high-five, but with no physical contact required. Sheila doesn’t like physical contact.

  “Well,” said Raj, clearly miffed. “It’s lucky for all of you that someone on this team has some brains, and the ability to think outside the box. Also, Mindy in HR said she’d help us smooth out the language. So I’m going to go put my head together with hers for awhile, if you know what I mean.”

  He tried to waggle his eyebrows. It came out better than his victory dance, but not by much.

  “Dude, she’s in HR,” I said.

  “So?” Raj said.

  “So isn’t it dumb to hit on someone from the department that fires you if you hit on someone at work?”

  Sheila closed her eyes and took a deep breath, like she was trying to keep from shouting.

  “Eric, just keep working on the Synthysys account,” Raj said, completely ignoring my warning. “Sheila, keep working on the Bloppr account.”

  We grunted. I turned my monitor slightly away from him so I could start looking for an appropriate meme to express my frustration with Raj’s management style, which can pretty much be summed up as “Tell people to keep doing what they’re already doing.”

  “And Javier,” Raj said, “keep working on… whatever you’re working on.”

  Javi’s the fourth member of our team. He sits in the other corner of our team pod-cube, head down, working diligently from 9 am to 5 pm every single day. Oh, and blasting angry rap loud enough we can hear it through his headphones, also from 9 am to 5 pm. Every. Single. Day.

  I made the mistake of asking him once, when we were out bonding as a team at the bar down the street, why he listens to angry rap and not mariachi music.

  I barely escaped with my life.

  The problem wasn’t the question. Javi’s a pacifist when he’s sober. He lets mosquitos feed on him if they want, becaus
e he can’t bear to kill them, or even chase them away and risk them dying of starvation.

  But when he’s had a tequila or two, watch out. And that particular night was right after our last round of layoffs. We had all had more than a tequila or two by that time.

  Back in the pod-cube, Raj picked up his laptop and left.

  Five minutes later, I sent the meme of those two spaceship captains or whatever doing the double-face palm over our chat channel.

  Nailed it, Sheila typed back.

  It’s hard sometimes to determine degrees of sarcasm over instant message. Especially when it’s Sheila.

  ***

  Raj came back two hours later, looking very pleased with himself.

  “Did you get her number?” I asked.

  “What? No! I respect Mindy and her intelligence and skills far too much to hit on her at work, Eric.”

  “So she turned you down,” Sheila said.

  I gave her my half of an air-five. She left me hanging.

  Raj drew himself up and tried to look offended. “I’ll have you all know that Mindy and I worked very hard coming up with this job description. I’ll also have you all know that she and I both think we’ll find success with this method.”

  “Just read it to us already,” I said.

  Raj did.

  Somnolent Industries, LLC, is one of the hottest new companies in its space. We bring cutting-edge fintech solutions to other industry leaders through our innovative B2B platform.

  We’re looking for an experienced engineer to help us take our company and our team to the next level. We work hard, but we also play hard. Bring your talents, your mad skillz, and your can-do attitude and help us build a better tomorrow.

  Can’t describe yourself as these? Don’t even bother applying.

  Agile ninja

  Python wizard

  Ruby guru

  Java rockstar

  Certifiable genius

  Think you’ve got what it takes? Send your resume to raj@somnocorp.net.

  “Um,” I said.

  “Hmmm,” said Sheila.