She skipped out of the old barn and straight into – and under – the path of a coming horse. Horses will always try to avoid trampling someone, but the rider was an idiot and his manhandling caused the poor animal to kick out. Its hoof caught my red-haired lovely in the head. She didn’t die straight away. We carried her broken body back to the chapel and laid her down. I left her father to stand vigil. He waited six hours for her to go. As the life left her eyes he kissed his little girl farewell, and so my kiss was on his lips. See how it works?
Greif took him to a house in the hills between his village and the next. The widow MaCallan lived there, and for a while he hid his grief in a kiss, a kiss is a kiss is a kiss.
And so it went, in that last kiss, my tricky little kiss moved onto the lips of the widow Macallan.
Not that she kept it for long.
She wasn’t that kind of woman. Within an hour there was another knock at the door.
A young lad who come dawn would be escorting King Charles down south to Parliament where the New Model Army waited.
And so my kiss went south.
The who’s who is a little dull, and not frightfully important. Kisses came and kisses went, between men for the King and against, working their way finally to the King’s gaoler. It all gets a bit confusing, trying to keep track, but the important thing is where it ends up, not where it is in the middle.
He had lips like warm steel. That’s the other thing I should have told you, I’m never truly gone from my kisses when I send them out into the world to do their thing. What’s the point of causing mischief if you’re not around to enjoy it?
Remember what I told you right at the start? Love is a sickness. What I really meant is that it mutates like a virus. That first last kiss with the Calvinist’s daughter was full of hope and longing, the one she shared with her father loss and grief, and by the time it reached the widow MaCallan it was lust and hunger to drown out the loss, then it was fear of the unknown, and now as it reached the gaoler it had changed again. Now it was righteous anger at the tyrant who had ruled over us all. I’m rather pleased that my love is so versatile. Mother would be so proud.
As is so often the case, fate sealed itself in the confessional when, plagued by the demons of doubt, the gaoler sought solace in the hands of God. In that holiest of holy rooms he confessed his fears, believing that the coming trial was a sham and that the King’s enemies had always intended to murder him.
On bended knee, the gaoler kissed the Archbishop’s hand. And just like that that kiss of mine became a traitor’s kiss.
The priest ran and didn’t stop running until he stood at the gates of Whitehall.
He was too late.
The scaffold was already being erected outside the Banqueting House. The King had refused to plead, insisting that the trial was illegal as he could do no wrong. He was the King. How could they accuse him of anything?
For Cromwell that refusal was an admission of guilt.
The priest begged to be allowed to see the King, who had been found guilty of all mischiefs that had afflicted the nation, which let’s be honest, was a bit much, considering a lot of the mischiefs were mine.
But I’ve never been one to hog the limelight; if they wanted to give him credit for my hard work, well, so be it. Some of us are just meant to work away in the background doing what we do. We don’t expect the praise and the plaudits. Or something like that.
They led the priest into the Banqueting House.
He was the last man aside from the executioner to see the King alive.
When he kissed the King my love became mercy.
••
Of course it didn’t feel a lot like mercy standing outside in the square with the crowd of onlookers come to watch the King lose his head.
Funny how one little kiss could trigger a chain of events that only ended once they’d arrived at the executioner’s block. Cause and effect. Chains of reaction. But then, how many men have lost their heads over something as simple as a kiss? Don’t tell me you haven’t. I don’t believe you.
As the axe came down a curious quiet settled over the mob. All it took was one clean stroke. There were no cheers. Beside me a young man stared at the headsman’s block. I could see immediately that like the Calvinist’s daughter he was a lynchpin. A man around whom great events twisted and turned like serpents. His name was Samuel Pepys. He was going to be remembered all the way through history as a great man, one who was there for so many huge moments in London’s history – moments he actually wrote about so the rest of the world could remember them. My kind of man, Sammy. How could I resist? I grabbed him by the face and kissed him. Not once. Twice. Once for the Lord Protector, the second for the Great Fire.
Why kill one man when you can burn down an entire city?
The Maiden of War
by Tiffany John
Let no man say that war is not a woman’s game. I should know. I have watched the night give way to the morning sun, but now this city burns before my eyes. An old man stands a half step behind me. His hand grips my shoulder, stopping me from going out the door.
I turn with a bag in my hand. “It's black powder. We can use it as a diversion. I got it from a merchant returning from the east.”
He doesn’t move. “We’re not warriors. We should run. That creature – ”
I pause. “We can do this.”
There's movement. I feel the faint brush of a presence beside me. “He is right, you know. You could just run away. To survive one need only look a monster in the eye.”
This voice: I don’t know it, but it feels like I should. “Where would I find a monster?”
A gentle touch traces my collarbone. “Any mirror would do.”
I reach towards my belt and pause once I feel the sheath of the dagger I use for protection.
The old man tries to grab the blade from me. “Stop this nonsense.”
I shake my head. “This will work."
“No, it won't.”
I pull the blade from its sheath. “If that is what you believe then you’re going to die here...”
My words trail off because the angle of the blade has tipped. A hooded figure with red eyes stares at me as a reflection in the metal. I look behind, but there is nothing. I feel a hand on my shoulder, but there is none; still, the figure remains seen when I look at the blade.
I pause. “How – ”
Downstairs, the door crashes open. The old man retreats to the corner and starts muttering words I can’t understand.
I stand. “So useless.”
His eyes barely meet mine before turning away. I sense his fear. It would be easy to run, but I won’t abandon him. Not now.
I head down the stairs. The sound of violent thrashing masks any noise I make. Footsteps echo in the room ahead. I lean around the corner and see flames raging in the fireplace. Perfect. I reach back and throw the bag into the blaze. Within moments there's a flash followed by copious amounts of smoke. The movement in the room becomes frantic.
Speed is my only weapon. I step out, blade in hand, and tackle the intruder. Its body is not unlike that of a man, but this is no man. His horns are those of the bull. I stab it once in the chest. Splatters of red touch my face and cover my hands. After several strikes his hand catches my wrist. I try to pull away, but he is stronger. My blade drops to the ground and I struggle until he splits his knuckles open against my cheek.
For a brief moment I feel myself being lifted. The final impact after being thrown across the room provides a moment of reprieve. I roll to the side, ignoring the discomfort, and watch as he tears through the wall where I was just moments before. Another roar and the beast charges again.
I stumble to the side as he reaches for me. That is when I hear it: movement. The old man? No, it's too quick. I barely have time to react as the creature continues its assault. There, beneath his feet, is the blade I dropped. His fist barely hits my side when I duck down and grab the dagger. Three seconds pass as I recover my bala
nce, drive all my weight forward and plunge the blade through his throat. He pushes me off and takes several garbled breaths before collapsing.
I pause, panting, before sinking to the ground. It’s over.
I go to close my eyes, but not before a realization kicks in: the old man. My whole body shakes as I hurry up the steps to the room I left him in, but when I enter he is nowhere to be found.
The sound of clapping echoes behind me. “As expected, a grand show.”
I turn. “What is this?”
A streak of darkness disappears around the corner. “I just had to see for myself.”
I follow it back to the room where I killed the creature. “Wait... Who...”
Heavy footsteps approach. I turn in their direction. The old man stands with his arms crossed. “I am the Trickster.”
I step back. “I don’t understand.”
He disappears and the room suddenly looks different. Gone are the smashed walls and broken furniture. I look to the window, but there is no evidence of the fires I saw. My attention turns to the pool of red covering the ground behind the table. There was a monster; I saw him, but where his body should be lies a man with unmistakable wounds.
A sharp pain shoots through my body as I feel the Trickster’s touch. At first it is cold, but warmth comes soon after. “You truly are brilliant.”
I wipe my blade and see my reflection looking into those same eyes; red, like the blood drying on my hands. "You..."
"Yes, me. Sometimes gods like to play games. Forgive me, I can't help myself."
I pause. "Did I just kill a man or a beast?"
A laugh echoes. "Men are beasts. Surely you know this."
I take one last look before sheathing my blade. "If you're satisfied with the results of your game then I will go."
Suddenly the village disappears and I'm left standing in a forest I don't recall entering. "If that is what you want, but I think you will stay. There's a whole world that you have earned the right to see. I know those eyes. You crave adventure."
"Why should I trust you after this?"
A branch breaks and I turn to see the Trickster leaning against a tree. "Because I would never let anything happen to my maiden of war."
The First Farmer of Papua New Guinea
by David Ray
He walked into our midst, the same height, weight, and smell as my friends and family, but he was different. He was dying. We welcomed him in and gave him food, taro we’d gathered, and a giant rat my brother had killed earlier in the day.
His strength returned and that was just as well; we had a feast planned to celebrate the birth of a child in a neighboring tribe. The festivities commenced and at the end of the night, when the embers were low, he told us his story.
Wetiko, for that’s his name, came from an island you’d find if you followed the setting sun for three days, a place of such bounty no one suffered from want. Food was plenty, he said, more than they could eat in a lifetime, and it grew magically beneath their feet like shadows. It wasn’t magic, it was as simple as sleeping, and as we drifted off into the night he promised to teach us of it in the morning.
Far from dreams of comfort, my night was interrupted by visions of violence and pain, of strange boats that swam under the sea and birds that flashed like lightning. I awoke to find everyone else in a similar state of disarray. But as I struggled for answers I was reminded of the exuberance we’d shared the night before and moved on.
Wetiko’s spirit was soaring. He corralled us all and told us to follow him deep into the forest. Before long he came across a tuber and ripped it out of the ground. Unimpressed, we turned to go, when he pulled out the small pips inside and held them up in the air.
“These are seeds; this is how they begin. It’s all you need and you can grow them forever. There is the outer shell and inside is a warm, milky substance that is the wellspring of life.”
Of course, we’d eaten them along with the rest of the flesh, but he told us they were immutable. “Ever wonder why the food grows more often by the latrine?”
Sure enough, he dug a hole and planted them. Once he covered them up, we stood back and held our breath, but he told us it would be a little while longer and he would return when they were ready. “A gift,” he said, “for giving me safe harbour.”
With that he left and around the time we had forgotten all about him and his seeds, the taro popped up where he had left them. Sure enough, when they were ripe enough to eat, he returned as well.
“Now that you have one, why not more?” he asked. All they need is space, sun and water. So we cleared some land, let in the sun and diverted a stream.
It worked. And with each passing season, our yield increased, and so did our ambition.
That’s when the troubles started.
It seems the streams we diverted were missed by the other tribes below. The land we cleared had been hunting grounds for others, too.
The tribes nearby were wondering what we were up to – their eyes on our harvest, mulling over the sacrifices they made for our bounty.
They were friends, so we shared with them and taught them the secrets we’d learned from the stranger. But as more land disappeared and rivers changed course there was a general discontent about the new order of things.
That’s when Wetiko returned to advise us.
He introduced a strange new word to solve our problems: “Fences.” We could divide the land according to each tribe’s wishes and respect their ways within it. What’s more, our men and women – prone to wandering the hills for days – would know the boundaries of their initiative.
With that, more trees were felled and suddenly we learned another word: “Dominion.”
Instead of yielding to the ebbs and flows of the chaos that surrounded us, we learned to impress upon it our own desires. With that we grew in power. For the first time we were able to plant ourselves and raise our voices above the din.
With our new language our vocabulary grew, no longer whispers and howls, but our own private discourse. In their respective isolation, the other tribes did the same. No longer chancing upon them in the wild, we would only seek them out to negotiate expansions and access to resources. Words began to fail and we no longer trusted them.
That’s when Wetiko arrived with his final gift: “War.”
The other tribes had their own agendas, clearly no longer aligned with ours. Not keen to wait for our work to be taken, we decided to defend our sweat and toil. As our neighbours chattered, we took the course of action that they in turn were scheming.
And by “we” I mean “me.”
Wracked by doubts and fears throughout our ranks, we had difficulty agreeing on anything. With fences within fences we all grew suspicious of each other. We became a wild cacophony of opinions that bickered relentlessly. And did nothing.
We were paralyzed and I had to act.
In the best interest of our tribe – and with more guidance from Wetiko – a combination of threats, logic, and well-aimed club blows restored order, and I wore a headdress to prove it.
Being the head of our organization was more than symbolic. It is my head that is store to all the wisdom and thoughts that continue to guide us. It is why I am writing this. The head is where we carry the spirit and power. Have you ever looked inside one?
There is the outer shell and inside are the brains: a warm, milky substance, much like a seed. It is where all life springs from. And it is good to eat.
The nightmares continue, but in the waking light we tower over the landscape around us. I am the first farmer of Papua New Guinea, and my people never go hungry.
Heart of Ice
by Elizabeth LaPensée
Samuel Gaudet, a son of the general store owner, was troubled by his dreams. Each night, his youngest sister visited him. She had disappeared the previous winter during a bout of famine that devastated the camp. The smallest member of her family, she had been affected the most by hunger. In her delirium, she was thought to have
wandered naked and barefoot in the snow in the dark of night. Her clothing had been left at the doorway of her home.
The Reverend, who favored her considerably, led a search for her that lasted weeks, despite the desperate circumstances. The only trace of her that the search party found was bloody footprints that led to the edge of the lake, thought to have been caused by her skin freezing and tearing in the snow. The trail stopped at the water, which had been frozen over for some time.
In confidence, Mr. Gaudet recounted his experience to the Bishop:
The dream is always the same. Looking down from the night sky, I see the head-land on which our mission stands. Then I am in the loft of our home. The candle has blown out. It is pitch black. My mother and father, brothers and sisters, are sleeping together to stay warm. It is a harsh winter and worse than the last. Worse than when our dear little sister disappeared.
I am woken by the sound of wind beating the worn hide that covers the window. I take one of the wool blankets from my family. I assure myself that they will keep one another warm. I sneak down the ladder from where we sleep.
I put the blanket over my shoulders. I am at the open door. I see my dear sister outside as snow falls on her. She is a naked shadow of her former self. She holds a wooden bowl. I look down because I cannot stand to look at her body. Her feet are ice. She comes to me.
I offer her the blanket, but she seems not to notice. She offers me the bowl. When I look inside, I see a frozen heart. She drops the bowl and it clatters on the ground. She screams and tears at her face with her hands. I reach out to stop her thrashing arms. When I touch her, she melts away.
I pick up the bowl. It is empty and I feel hungry. Suddenly, I am far from home. The dreary woods are all around me. I am barefoot. I see the bright red of my blood on the icy snow. The terrible howl of her scream follows me.
In a clearing in the bush, I see an idol. It is a man’s form carved from poplar painted with red ochre. I count three black horizontal stripes on the breast.
I pick it up and the red ochre spreads on my hands. I am covered in it. It drips like blood from my palms onto the snow. I look to where it falls. My feet are frozen hard as ice.
The Book of the Emissaries: An Animism Short Fiction Anthology Page 17