Sorrowfish

by Anne C Miles

“I can choose. I’m like a chymaera in some way. I don’t understand how, but I am. Zonah...she said...my heart’s inner fire, it isn’t what I think, is it? It’s something I have to keep on seeking. Like Chesed, every day. I create.”

  Sara thought about going to work on one piece, every day, for centuries. She thought about the love and care Chesed had taken with his signet. How for so long he had worked, knowing that he possibly would never be able to quicken. But still he worked. The chymaera sang to the Storm King all his thoughts and hopes and dreams, and as he did, his signet changed.

  Could she do that? For centuries?

  Would she be willing to open herself fully in her studio? Not running from what was inside her, but channeling it through her to her art?

  No matter what was there.

  No matter what ugliness she found.

  No singing would change the clay she sculpted with. She had to dig her hands in and work. She had to bring truth from clay.

  But wasn’t it still the same as what Chesed did? Didn’t she wrestle with herself?

  Could she be honest, for as long as it took to get the work right? Even when it possibly didn’t matter to anyone else? Show her biggest fears? Her faults. Her hopes and dreams? Could she do it?

  Not alone. She couldn’t do it alone.

  But what if I wasn’t alone? What if the work wasn’t a monologue, but a conversation? A conversation could mold her heart, much like Chesed’s song molded his signet. What if the Storm King were there to help me? What if I heard Him?

  Sara bowed her head. The Song roared up, engulfing her. It swelled in her mind and heart, approving. She heard it and understood. She wasn’t alone. She had never been alone.

  “When I work, I won’t be alone,” she said slowly. “The Storm King will help me. I can do this with Him.”

  She wouldn’t ruin everything again. But if she did mess up, it wasn’t a final verdict. She wouldn’t be alone. The truth was, she never had been.

  The signet stood and smiled as a bell chimed. He took the vial from the column where it waited and uncorked it. He poured it over her head.

  “You have done well, Sara Elizabeth Moore. You shall yield your heart’s inner fire to the One able to shape it, every day, and you shall fly.”

  Sara smelled lavender as the oil covered her. She inhaled the scent and rubbed it into her skin, but it was already gone, as if evaporated. Her body no longer ached. She felt full of energy and light. Where she had been raw and wounded, she felt completely restored and healed. At peace. She looked at Chesed’s signet, incredulous. It had resumed its former posture, beseeching. In its outstretched hand was a golden horn.

  She took the horn.

  A bell chimed.

  Slowly, she walked around the figure, stood on tiptoe, and kissed his cheek.

  Dane laughed as he reached the next platform. It held a pond filled with goldfish. A deer grazed. A pair of bluebirds sang. A bright red toad sat on a lily pad in the midst of the pond, croaking.

  When Dane reached the top of the stairs, a bell chimed.

  A princess sat at the edge of the pond, playing with a golden ball. She reached for the toad and kissed it. It transformed into a tall and handsome price. The prince embraced her. They stood, holding hands, staring into one another’s eyes, smiling. Then they broke apart and approached Dane, together. As they did, the woodland pool disappeared, leaving only the stone room.

  These were the lovers, Solimon and Lalo, fifth and sixth of the cyntae.

  They bowed deeply. Lalo presented him with a book.

  He took it and read aloud. Solimon and Lalo love all living things, the fish of the sea, the beasts and birds. They speak for those with no voice.

  The pair bowed again. Lalo came to stand beside him. Solimon stood on his other side. They joined hands so that he was within the circle of their arms. Their faces blurred, transforming. Instead of Solimon and Lalo, he saw his parents. Sanders and Maggie. They looked older than he remembered. Dane fell into his father’s arms.

  “I tried, tried so hard to save you. You shouldn’t have died.”

  Sanders spoke to him, his rich voice comforting Dane. “We know you did, son. The illness was unnatural, an enchantment. You weren’t strong enough. There was nothing you could have done.”

  “We are proud of you. We’re watching over you each day,” Maggie said. “I approve of Bell. Keep her safe.”

  Sanders pulled back and laid one hand on Dane’s shoulder. “May the blessings of the Storm King ever be with you. May the Song lead you home. Speak your refrain when the time comes, my son. Do not be afraid. You never need fear again.”

  They faded, leaving the room empty.

  A bell chimed.

  On the fifth platform, a piece of neon pink paper lay, folded, on a small side table in the center of the room. Sara tucked the horn under her arm, opened it, and read.

  Do you wish to help? To stay?

  The page was decorated with clipart butterflies. It looked like Miranda Vine’s flyer. Sara’s lips crooked in a wry grin. Nice touch.

  In her heart, she saw her parents, her sister, her home as a child. She saw Peter, strong and kind. She saw Dane and Bell, Trystan, Tabor. She saw little Jax and the boy Gint.

  She was a stonerider. She could help. Dane could use her help, too. The shadow dragon was proof.

  She wanted to stay. She blinked at the pink flyer in wonder. I really have changed.

  She looked up, blinking back tears.

  “Yes, I need to stay. I need to help. It would be easier to be home. Sort of. I could go back home and deal with all that waits for me. But I’m ready to join Dane’s fight. I can deal with my own stuff when it’s over. I’m needed. I’m not running.”

  A bell chimed.

  Dane reached the last platform, his breath coming hard. The stairs wound higher this time. He could see the sky above and realized full night had fallen. Stars were shining. He saw the moon. One more set of stairs remained, leading to the surface.

  In the center of the room was a bird, a peacock. Next to it stood a table shaped like an open hand. A shepherd’s crook leaned against it, propped up by the table’s fingers. In the center of the hand was a book.

  He crossed to the table and read aloud.

  Tieson gives the gift of transformation. Speak to begin.

  Dane took the shepherd’s crook and leaned on it. He remembered his father’s instructions. He felt a familiar hesitancy rising in him. He pushed it back down.

  Dane sang the words he’d been taught by his father in their entirety. He sang the entire refrain of the Lorica.

  The Dark One ascends,

  Eight shall turn him round.

  One from the heartfire

  One beneath the ground,

  One stone rider,

  One who cannot hear.

  One claims the Storm King, One Names the Fear.

  As the Last begins to sing

  One may be reborn

  Speak the words of wisdom

  Sound the golden Horn.

  As Dane Canted, the peacock’s colors drained from it. It blazed, glowing white, then ruby red. Finally it flamed, golden. A shower of sparks shot up into the night. His eyes widened, watching. The refrain was about them. About him, Bell, Sara, the others. What did the next verses mean?

  Heedless heartless helpless

  Blast, blast away

  Lone fire lighted

  Truth cannot stay

  When the heartfire kindles

  All that is writ

  The king will spend the knight’s blood

  Bone fells Spirit

  The bird burned, brighter, incandescent. Flames washed over Dane. The flames felt cold. They passed over him with no effect.

  A horn sounded. He turned and saw Sara, sounding a golden horn.

  He kept Canting.

  As the Last ends refrain

  To die fade away

  Duty binds the heartfire

  Dullard shine, play

  Fi
re sears the Melody

  Sorrow, Sorrowfish

  The Storm King returns

  Wyrm to vanquish

  A bell chimed.

  Silence fell like a cloak.

  The flames receded, and in place of the peacock stood a florid man. He was large, with dark hair, dressed in white robes. Sara stood next to him, a golden horn in her hand. She set the horn at the man’s feet. Her form was shimmering, translucent. She was fading.

  The man turned to her, shouting, “Finish the work, do not give up, do not falter. Fulfill your purpose. Create. You are now faisant.”

  Then she was gone.

  The man’s brown beard, neatly trimmed, ringed his face. In one hand he held an obsidian staff, carved into a twisted rope. He struck the ground with it once and boomed with laughter. Then he approached and circled Dane in a massive embrace, twirling him like a child.

  “Stars above, you did it.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  DANE COUGHED AND pushed himself away from the huge man with as much dignity as he could muster. The majister was openly weeping and laughing at the same time. He set Dane down and looked at him as a parent looks at a child from whom they have long been parted.

  “Who-who are you? I’m Dane.” He shifted from foot to foot, nervous.

  The man’s eyebrows shot up. He laughed again, a great belly laugh that filled the room and echoed down the tower. He bowed, flourishing with one meaty hand.

  “I am Theophrastus Bombast, but you may call me Theo. I am a majister, First Order, trapped five centuries, waiting for you to come and fulfill the refrain. You did it. And if I’m not mistaken, your fae shall soon finish her work. Your Harmony Bond will break our curse completely and set the rest of us right.”

  Sara’s eyes flew open. She sat up in her bed. Her clothes were piled in the corner chair. Sara dressed quickly, donning a black tee shirt emblazoned with the words Art Matters and her favorite pair of jeans.

  The sun was rising. The sky was golden. She breathed deep, inhaling the scent of lavender. She remembered.

  She had reached the last platform, saw Dane with the peacock. Dane was singing. A book was on the table. The Song filled her heart. It was hope distilled into sound. Without fully understanding why, she had put the horn to her lips, and she blew with all her strength. Caprices, more than twenty of them, descended as the horn blew. They took on flesh, men once more. Their robes flashed, empty. The peacock flamed. One of the Caprices stepped forward, running down the steps and into the burning peacock’s flames.

  The fire died. In its place, a man, fully fleshed stood, smiling. The other Caprices still floated, their empty robes fluttering in the breeze.

  “Finish the work, do not give up, do not falter. Fulfill your purpose. Create. You are faisant.”

  Sara had something to do, something important. This work would manifest her Harmony Bond with Dane and somehow, release the caprices from their curse. She had to create, to sculpt a piece. But not just any piece.

  She had to use the Song.

  But first, she had something to make right. She grabbed her phone and tapped out a text to Peter.

  I wasn’t friend-zoning you. I was pushing you away because you are real and you matter. I was scared. I’m not anymore. I’m ready. I hope it’s not too late. But I’ll fight for you. You’re worth it. I’ll call you later. I have to finish my piece. And Pete? I’m really sorry. Really. I love you.

  She stopped for a moment, hearing the sound of her own breath. She sent another text.

  Dad, I’m okay. I love you. I’m sorry I’ve been so angry.

  That done, she grabbed her keys and ran down the stairs. She had to get to the studio. It was freezing. She jumped into her car, grabbing her hoodie from the backseat. It wasn’t warm, but was better than nothing. She revved the engine, willing the car to warm up quickly.

  Jane stepped outside, wrapped in a robe and wearing fuzzy slippers. She ran down the steps to Sara’s car and tapped on the window.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “I have to go, right now. What day is it?” asked Sara.

  Jane looked at Sara as if she had three heads. “It’s Sunday. It’s six in the morning on Sunday, and you’re awake, dressed, and rushing off. With no coffee.” Her tone was accusing.

  “I found Jesus, gotta go to church,” Sara said. She laughed at the look on Jane’s face. “I have an idea and have to go to the studio and make it happen before I lose it. I’m okay.”

  Jane looked at her, still concerned, but she raised her hands, acquiescing. “Okay, I get it. Artist weirdness. Call me when you’re on your way back.”

  Sara nodded. “I will.” She rolled her window up and turned the heater on, full blast. She slowly pulled away from the curb.

  Theo pointed to the staff in Dane’s hand. “You’re nearly a majister now, my boy. A faisant is a maker, foremost. Their work manifests the Song. Sara’s first piece created through the Song will seal your Bond.”

  “How does the Bond make me a Majister?”

  “Oho, through love, my boy. A love willing to sacrifice all for a brother. Or in this case, a sister. You’ve been cleansed, healed, equipped, and called. Love echoes from her to you, from you to her, into your work. You’re bound forever through the Storm King and His love. The Song is not a tool for power, but a path to follow. The Song guides us.

  “Sara’s piece will be part of the Song. Think of it as a manifestation of life, a miracle. Much like a child. There are many kinds of faisant. All have different works with different fruit. Their work brings forth life in others. Have you never been given healing, hope, or aid through a bard’s tale or a ballad? Now come.”

  He led Dane up the stairs. The other Caprices waited. The top of the tower was level with the ground, like the mouth of a well. Dane had risen from its depths. The Caprices surrounded Dane and Theo as the Dread fell upon them, full force. Theo cursed roundly, feeling its weight for the first time.

  “God’s blood, that’s a blackness!” he shouted. “They are singing. Let them crowd in close as a shield. When you are bonded ’twill unmake the curse for all. It won’t be long now.”

  Sara froze when she got to her studio. The familiar feeling of overwhelm struck as she entered the space. Paralysis, doubt, and fear washed over her. Sara took a deep breath.

  I’m not alone. I can do this.

  She listened, and an image formed in her mind.

  The fear vanished. She knew what to do.

  Sara worked feverishly. She wasn’t certain how rough the work could be and still be successful. She dragged the waste bin full of all the broken pieces from her previous sculpts to the center of the room and inspected the remnants to make sure they would work.

  She ran to the metalworking lab to get a few pieces of steel, welding the shape she needed as a base. She worked chicken wire around it. She hefted the base onto a cart and rolled it back to her studio. Finally she took up the pieces from the waste basket and began to fasten them to the chicken wire form.

  She stopped only to turn on her cd player and set her Beethoven cd on eternal repeat. Beethoven’s music was filled with the Song. She could feel it. She leaned into the melody and sent all her questions and anxieties toward the Storm King as they welled up. He was with her.

  Hours later, she paused and rooted for a small candle in the drawer of her side table. She lit it and placed it carefully under the sculpture. The hole in the bottom of the form fit over the candle.

  She stood back, evaluating. The candle flickered, lighting the interior.

  It was finished, just as she had envisioned.

  She had sculpted her own signet. It was large, double her size. The sculpted-Sara was sitting cross-legged, with hands raised, face uplifted, and eyes closed. She was singing with all her heart, mouth open in response to the world she faced. Her face and head had been sculpted from fresh clay, but the body and the rest of the figure was formed from broken pieces of her previous work, fitted carefully bac
k together. The arms and torso formed with alternating snakelike textures and the cloudy, tornadic ripples from her Storm King piece. Jagged cracks where the pieces did not fit together lay exposed.

  Through the cracks shone a single flame. It blazed up, making the figure glow.

  The candle lit the falling darkness.

  “It’s called Sorrowfish,” she said aloud.

  As if from a great distance, a bell chimed.

  EPILOGUE

  SARA WAS HAPPY not to be driving. She hated parking garages. Peter pulled the Karmann Ghia expertly into the parking garage behind the museum. The car’s engine purred. He turned to Sara without killing the engine, searching her eyes. “You ready for this? Just imagine I’m naked. You’ll be fine. Or you can call on your imaginary friend."

  “My imaginary friend? Like you have any right to talk, with what you've put me through." Sara crossed her arms, trying not to pout.

  "Hey now, Tasha is my cousin. I was letting her crash at my place and sleep in my room. If you jumped to other conclusions, it's not my fault. You're the one with your mind in the gutter." Peter laughed and leered at Sara.

  "Your cousin needs to wear more clothes," Sara said, her voice a low growl. "This is Kentucky. Kissing cousins are a thing."

  "Well. I might have cried on her shoulder. And she might have decided you needed a good kick in the pants," Peter said. He shrugged. His tone sobered as they pulled into the parking lot. Peter found an empty space and turned off the engine. He faced Sara, his eyes suddenly serious.

  "I know you're nervous. But you have nothing to worry about. Not with Tasha. Not with anything. Stop trying to pick a fight with me.” He put his hand under her chin and planted a soft kiss on her lips. "I love you."

  Tears pricked at Sara's eyes. Her lower lip trembled. She took a deep breath. "Ok."

  She plucked at his tuxedo lapel, brushing off an imagined speck. Her hand crept up to his cheek, and she smiled through sudden tears. “I couldn’t have done this without you. Happy Valentine’s Day.”