The Book of the Emissaries: An Animism Short Fiction Anthology

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “It’s hard to tell when they’re so young.” Richard shrugs on his coat and begins buttoning up. “One of mine is a dreamer, my youngest loves computers, and my oldest, my daughter.” He waves towards the windows of the diner. “She’d be happy to see that damn plant covering everything. Pardon my French.”

  “He’s heard worse,” she says with a smile. Richard chuckles and nods, turns on a well-worn boot heel and saunters out of the diner, clapping Sal on the shoulder as Sal lets the diner’s door swing shut behind them. The rising sun outside casts shadows of kudzu vines across the scuffed wooden floor.

  The Mother spears a bit of omelette camouflaging spinach and pokes the air in front of her son’s face. “Alright, son.” She lets the fork bob to and fro, trying to distract him from his crazy course. “How about something healthy for a change?”

  One Small Step

  by Gama Martinez

  There was silence in the world as the Mother felt them returning. She was relieved. There was no reason for her to be so worried when humans left. Only a handful ever had, and they'd always returned alive. From time to time they had died shortly after their return, but they'd always come back. Still, while they were gone she worried for them. They had no place out there.

  The three humans were in a metal bowl. It was the only part of their vessel that remained. The intensity of the heat surrounding the craft was enough to block the humans' communications. The Mother didn't really understand how. The magic of modern men, technology, as they called it, was more the providence of her brothers than it was hers. Yet though the men outside the vessel had no way to know what happened inside, she was aware. She could see into their craft, and what she saw sickened her: they brought something else with them. Something alien.

  Stars had fallen from the sky for as long as even she could remember, but those fell as part of the natural order. One had nearly ended all life an age ago, but life had recovered. She had recovered. This was different. This was no natural event. These humans violated her by willingly bringing that which was not a part of this world, a cold and dead thing that had never known the touch of life.

  The humans were within her reach now. She could crush them. She could focus heat and burn them to ash. Even the thing they brought would be destroyed. She was almost tempted to do so, but she refrained. There were many watching these, in the air and sea. The hope of the world rode with them, and she wasn't quite ready to extinguish that hope because she'd been spited.

  The vessel streaked through the air. A fabric shot out and spread, catching the wind and slowing the vessel's descent. After a few minutes, it impacted the ocean. The silence of the world grew deeper. Fish died from the sheer force of the impact, and others were cooked as the water around the craft boiled into steam. The Mother knew before the men that something was wrong. The vessel hadn't been intended to land the way it did. It was upside down and would crack. The ocean would rush in and fill the small chamber. Their rescuers were close, but not close enough. The men would die.

  The Mother realized all this while the craft was still falling, just kissing the sea. The men would know soon. They still couldn't speak with their fellows, not that doing so would do them any good. They dared to bring something from outside, and this would be their reward. Their death would serve them right. Perhaps then, man would turn his eyes away from the heavens. Let them explore their own world. They had seen only the barest fraction of what their own home had to offer. The sea held wonders they had never imagined, and deep beneath the Earth were marvels man had never dreamed of. The death of these three men would show the race what came from exploring the heavens.

  And yet, the silence of the world prickled her thoughts. She knew the source of it, though she tried to ignore it. Like her, every human who could was watching these men. They listened for news. They waited in eager anticipation. Briefly she considered saving the men, but she rejected the idea. This was Wetiko's time. Trickster had a hand in this too. They should save the humans if they wanted them saved. That was the end of it. They would die, and it was their own fault.

  The ship sunk beneath the waves, and the men realized the danger they were in. Bags of air jutted from the vessel, and it tried to turn. It looked like it was working. The men thought they were safe, but they didn't know the ocean like she did. It wasn't yielding, and it wasn't soft. The water resisted them too strongly. Their craft wouldn't bear the stress of it. They had mere seconds.

  The silence of the world was deafening. The Mother couldn't ignore it. What did her brothers know that she did not? Men had striven for years for this, the culmination of their efforts since she last ruled. Her time approached again. Men were so much more than they had been. How much more would they be if she allowed them this? What could she do with such a people? It would be a simple matter for her to save them. A small shift in current would allow the craft to flip safely.

  The waters around the vessel churned. The craft, a small part of the ship that bore the name of a god, turned in the ocean and righted itself. The men of the ship Apollo were safe. The Mother marvelled at the irony of the name. He whose domain had been the sun was the namesake of the ship that first brought a piece of the moon to the earth.

  It wasn't so bad once she allowed herself to get used to the idea. The moon was so close. It was only well and proper that the Mother should know more of her. The Mother wondered how far into the stars man would explore. What else would they bring to this world?

  "Everything's okay," the man called Armstrong said once communications were restored. "Our checklist is complete. Awaiting swimmers."

  At these words, the whole world cheered. As the rescuers retrieved the men, the Mother allowed herself to smile. Perhaps men would turn keep their eyes towards the heavens. Perhaps, one day, she would join them out there among the stars.

  The Gaffle

  by M H Toner

  The day had started simply enough, as they always did. Travis the Magician had woken in a swirl of sweated bedclothes, with a thick head and a thin wallet. Downstairs in the hotel was cold coffee and greasy eggs. Then across the street for a drink that would flex his fingers for the night to come.

  This town was called Old Deloraine and Travis was damned if he could imagine it new. Flimsy clapboard buildings along a single street that was either grit or muck. People were already drifting away to the south and the rail line, St. Louis and the other big cities.

  But that didn’t matter to Travis. He wasn’t going to be here much longer. The town was played.

  Word was that a few score of fur trappers were still coming in from their lines and it was for those that Travis waited. Easy marks, easy money. But they were overdue and so he was still cooling his heels in the heat. The dust hung still in the air outside and the sun pried through the slats and cracks of the saloon. The air was fur, as he drew it into his lungs. Lifeless.

  When he saw the stranger come through the saloon doors, he thought it was the first of his prey. The man looked the part: a stained military coat as antique as its owner. Wispy white hair framing an equally pale face. Soiled black hands.

  He ghosted through the still air to the bar and ordered, paying with a few dull milled coins. Travis was pleased but surprised when the oldster made his work that much easier, crossing to his table and plunking down his bottle.

  Travis perked up. No one else in the stillness paid any mind.

  “What can I do for you, friend? You just arrive in town?”

  “My name is Bonnabee. I have come in from the north.” The words were dusty and disused, like a man not accustomed much to human congress. A trapper for sure.

  “You been out there a long time, huh?” The oldster’s lips curled back from his teeth at this sally.

  “Yes. Longer than you think. And I don’t intend to go back.”

  Travis hitched a bit at that, but leaned forward anyway. A day was a day.

  “Well, I ain’t sure I can help you there, my friend. But what you’ve got in front of you is a fair
start.”

  “Am I your friend? That is good, because I have come looking for you, magician.”

  Travis gulped at this and cast an eye around the bar. But no one was paying them any mind in the hazy heat. “Me?”

  The old man settled deeper in his seat, raising an aroma of... what was it? Maybe ill-tanned hides. Liquor splashed into the magician’s glass.

  “I want to know your tricks. All of them. My boy.”

  Travis drew himself to his full height and what he considered the apex of his dignity. He brushed back his lanky black hair and straightened the spectacles perched on the end of his gin-blossomed nose.

  “Sir. Such things are not for sale and are not to be treated lightly. They are not called the dark arts without reason.”

  This last bit trailed off and didn’t sound close to dignified, even to Travis’s ears. A snicker from Bonnabee brought Travis to a grinding halt. Then a silence. Then more words, as the room drew dark.

  “My boy. When you speak of the dark arts, do you mean the rituals of Balaal, practiced in the dark corners of jungle temples? Do you mean the Incantations of Hunger, long forgotten by your kind? Do you mean the practices of the priesthood of Sukiq, soaked in blood and sanctified in nameless fire?”

  The cold blue eyes across the table glowed and in them Travis saw things that he could neither name nor like. The images came to him and slipped as quickly away, like bare feet sliding across blood-slicked stones. A chittering chant seemed to hang on the edge of his hearing.

  With an effort, Travis cast down his eyes, concentrating on the chipped glass in front of him and his suddenly unsteady hands. The laugh again and the shadows eased back into their corners.

  “I thought not. And such things hold no interest for me either, if the truth be known. They call to the true power and those so steeped. I am now a simple man, my boy. And what I want are simple tricks for the simple-minded. Something which I know to be your specialty.”

  At this, Travis raised his head, wary but hopeful. A darted glance to see that the eyes were now hooded once more, their blue fires banked.

  “You are a sort of... high priest for the gullible. That is knowledge that I now require. And will pay handsomely for.”

  One of his blackened hands snaked forth and tossed a small sack on the table. An old coin glinted, one of many, half ensnared in its mouth.

  “So what say you?” Liquor was poured again in the silence. “All of your tricks, my boy, no matter how small.”

  And so the day went, as the heat thickened and the shadows stretched. Travis talked. He told everything he knew, every grift and dodge and scam from years of living lean. The gold bricks, the Murphy game, how to salt a mine, drop a glim, sell a fiddle and shuffle off to Kansas City.

  Through it all, Bonnabee sat silent, his eyes glinting, glass untouched in front of him.

  The bottle between them grew steadily lighter and Travis the Magician became increasingly nervous as his stories began to thin. What did this man want of him? And when he reached the bottom of his knowledge, would Bonnabee reach across the table and, somehow, keep digging deeper still?

  Bonnabee’s sudden exclamation was as much a relief as it was a new terror.

  “Stop. That one! Say that one again!”

  The magician squirmed lower into his chair, regret beading his brow. The bottle was half-gone, but the ordeal showed no sign of ending soon.

  “That one. Again!”

  In his sudden excitement, the man was half-across the table, eyes now blazing pits.

  For a brief flash, Travis wondered if this is how it felt when one of them sideshow cobras struck. As nervous as the recumbent old ghoul had made him, Travis quickly decided he was no fan of this suddenly hungry Bonnabee.

  Travis wet his lips and reached for his glass to aid in the exercise. He stumbled to a start.

  “Uh, yes. Yes. This one is a variation of the, uh, cup and ball game. But it’s simpler because you take the ball away with the first pass. That leaves just three empty cups.” Travis began running the game, shakily. “You see, the operator really needs to call attention to the wrong choice but never actually reveal the right choice. Because you’ve made the ball disappear. So no choice is right. No ball.”

  The eyes leaned closer. A nervous swallow from Travis. Then a cold rasp from across the table.

  “Show me.”

  Another swallow as Travis went through the game again, palming the ball with a flourish. Then again. Then a final time. The eyes never wavered.

  And with a last swallow, the bottle was empty. Travis was finished. His throat suddenly tight.

  “Ta da.” It sounded weak, even to his ears. Especially to his ears.

  Bonnabee rose from his seat, silent in the shadows. He crossed to the window and drew back the slats to peer into the hot, hushed streets. The sun was lowering now, glinting off the rooftops and silvering the lone telegraph wire they had strung into town. On it, a few crows perched, listless.

  The old man drew his blackened nails across the dusty glass of the window, scratching towards the birds. The glass seemed to tingle for a second and a smell like burning air scorched Travis’s nostrils. Crows exploded into riotous caws before flying away in frantic circles.

  He turned back to the table with a chuckle, eyes glowing in the dim light. Then, with a mocking bow, Bonnabee drew his heavy coat around him and slipped through the door.

  Travis leaned back into his seat with a sigh, his heart lurching, suddenly unsteady. Never mind that he’d spent the afternoon drinking Bonnabee’s liquor, he needed another. Hell, he needed another because he’d spent the afternoon drinking Bonnabee’s liquor.

  The magician called the bartender over and reached for the sack left half-open by Bonnabee. It lay heavy in his hand, then jangled satisfactorily as he poured its contents onto the tabletop.

  Aside from the single silvery coin at the lip, the sack was filled with dull lead washers. Plugged nickels. The old bastard learned fast: Bonnabee had given him a pig in a poke.

  But Travis the Magician was almost relieved as he stood up from the table. Time to leave this shit-house town. And if he never met Bonnabee again, he would count himself a lucky, lucky man. There are worse things than bad deals.

  Instant Sunshine, Lingering Darkness

  by M H Toner

  Sure, you've heard plenty of stories like this’un, when your buddy comes back from a hunting or fishing trip. You'll be setting with a couple of beers in yer bellies and he'll tell you about that lake bass that was pretty near 16 inches long, or that bull he saw on top of the next hill that had a rack on him the size of chesterfield. Maybe you told a few in your time and, like a good pipe, they get better and better as the winters slip by. I got a few of my own, but there's one that is a dilly.

  I don’t talk about it much.

  It was back in the fall of '62 when me and Lenny Morrissey set out to get ourselves a buck. Lenny was doing pretty fair driving trucks for the mill in them days so's he was going for the fun of it but I’d been laid off from the broom factory and was wondering how to get the family through the winter. A bit of meat would come in right handy, I reckoned.

  To tell the truth, I wasn’t too busted up about being out of work. I’d had my fill of working in that broom factory and thought I’d call my cousin Vince and see about getting back with that shipping company he worked for. Driving a truck, you had a chance to get out in the open, out to the camps by Gagetown which was where my family was settled before they moved to St. Martins. I knew some of the folks up there and could pass the time between runs.

  Around these parts, in those days at least, the woods were the best part of the autumn; every drive back from the Gods’ Lake was like moving through them pictures you see on the back of a calendar you'd get from one of Irving's service stations. And when you'd be coming back to town, the cab of the truck would be filled with a smell that was a mixture of sap and gasoline. It gave a fellow a bit of time to be alone with himself, too, and if yo
u were good company for yourself, well, the time pret'near flew by.

  The broom factory on the west side of town, on the other hand, was a pretty grim place to be, all dark glass and sawdust hanging in the air like clouds. And you was doing the same work every day, which Lenny and I both hated. Lenny was always on about how he was gonna up and head down to New York and work high steel like the Newfs did back then. But he'd that hag of a wife and the kids and we all figured his talk was just that.

  So's that day in October, we got up early, put our rifles in the back of my truck, put a couple of sandwiches in our pockets and headed out to a spot we knew. In the early morning half light you could see the pale green paint peeling off of Lenny's house, showing grey wood underneath, that old Dodge of his mottled with rust, setting on blocks in his yard. Even with Lenny working steady, he was drinking steadier. With a heavy hand like his, it was hard on them.

  Lenny told me that a couple of weeks before he'd wanted to take the wife and kids down to St. Andrews to look at the boats there and get some cheap fish. He'd started out driving and didn't even get halfway before the engine started to hitch and smoke. Well, that car wasn't going much further, so, swearing up a blue streak, he’d turned it around and started heading back to town, his kids yelling in the back seat and him yelling in the front.

  He told me later that he'd looked over at his wife in the next seat and seen she was cryin' quietly, knowing they didn't have the money to fix the car. I don’t think he’d realized how old and sad she’d become, even when he saw her there with tears running down her wrinkled cheeks. Autumn can come early for a woman in these parts and it’s a cruel season. But none of that mattered to Lenny. Never had.