Darkly Human
Page 16
The soldier’s gaze flickered to the timepiece set in his hand. Something dragged at him, fought the compulsion. One word to the others in this hall, the guards stationed by the door, and they would remove him, the gnawing unappeased, his rest unreturned.
One word, one upraised hand. And yet, he did not.
The aelf breathed out.
“I carried his bags, poured his water and tasted his food when he was uncertain, slept on a pallet by the door. I, who could not bear the touch of cold iron, drove his car, that beast of nothing but, and it did not burn me. Only with him was I safe.” Bitterness remembered, although he felt none of it, now. “Only with me could he sleep without fear. His men adored him but there were enemies in the shadows – and not all of them wore the other side’s uniform.
And then they sent us from our homeland, out into the world to a land where the sun burned and the sand wore into our skin and left us raw and bleeding.”
He could feel the memories stirring, the words unleashing them and letting them howl, loud enough that he wondered every soul in the canteen did not turn to stare. The jolting of the jeep, the bitter heat and the maddening thirst, slaked only by warm water tasting of salted sock. The tang of blood in the air every morning, and gunpowder at night.
“The full length of our desert campaign, I served him faithfully; every command he gave, I followed. Every request he made, I fulfilled. As my people disappeared from my mind, he filled it. Nothing mattered, save the god and his metal beast that allowed me to serve, and in serving, live.”
He did not see the walls of this place, now, but canvas tent sides and open lands.
“We were in an evil land, my master said, but not without its beauty. Even the beasts had a disgusting grace, suited for this land and nowhere else. As much as I hated it, it drew me. And at night, when the moon rose, and the winds settled…
“My master and I, we would sit and watch the sand shifting before us, listening to the noises of the desert around us while he made his plans for the day.”
His voice faded, remembering the eerie moonlight, the sand-shadows and awe-ful sounds, and how a part of himself, so tightly bound in his master’s keeping, had slipped away into the sands themselves.
A terrible brotherhood indeed.
“It was cleaner there, in the desert, under the hard sun and cold moon. Only soldiers, fighting each other, yard for yard and bullet for bullet. We were free there, in a way we had never been, back home. The desert gave clarity. It was simple, easy. But it demanded something in return. And it never, ever let go.”
“In those moments, the hard beauty of the land… I thought at last I might have found peace. But it did not last. One too many failures, one too many run-ins with smaller, duller men… They called him back to our homeland, assigned him other duties.”
He remembered the tent, no cooler than the outside air, but private, if you pretended. He sat on the low bench and watched his master as he packed his personal belongings, the things he would not let others touch, into a case for shipping.
“Here, you are safe,” his master had said. “There… I do not know if I could protect you.”
“When he left he told me to wait. That he would know if I faltered, if I failed him.
Orders. Obligations.
Had he taken him with me, perhaps… perhaps it would have been different. But he did not. Without his presence, the sands called to me.
I waited a week, then a month. I endured the silence from the men who remained, then I packed up my kit, the few things I owned, and went to live instead with the local tribes who had more tolerance – or less understanding – of my oddity. I was but another European to them, one devil among many, and I learned to be a fierce fighter among them, a hard warrior. There, I won acclaim. I learned their tongue, slept in their tents. It was not acceptance, but I could pretend, perhaps, that it was enough.
And in my dreams, the greens and browns and blue-blacks of memory and metal faded, replaced with the pale pinks and cold whites of a desert dawn, the searing orange of noon light, the pale distant blue haze of an oasis. My master’s voice was replaced by the sere whisper of the golden brown sands that would never abandon me, never let me go.”
Chol badam shelahem. He saw the phrase flicker within Yaron’s thoughts, in another man’s voice.
“The tents of the desert folk became my shelter, their wars my reason… but they had not claimed me, as my master had. They had not needed to: their own master had taken me, possessed me utterly. If I had a soul now, it was made of a hot, dry wind. If I had a heart, it pumped not blood, but sand. I lived in the moment, caught in the amber of time.
“And so when the summons came, at long last… I was not there to receive it.”
The paper waited for him, when he finally returned to the camp, reluctantly retrieved and reluctantly returned, under armed escort suitable for a deserter; a folded envelope, creased and stained from travel, shoved into diplomatic pouches, crammed in among dispatches.
He carried it with him still. Folded, thrice-folded, wrapped in dark red silk and tucked into a pouch forever against his chest, secure and warm like a clot against his heart.
“I took the summons, but did not obey, and he was murdered soon after, his greatness cast into shadow. Had I been there for his letter when it arrived, I would have died at his side as I had vowed. But I was not, and did not.”
His failure did not sting, his guilt did not burn. They simply were; tied into his regrets and loves until all that remained was the remembering. His companions of those nights had gone to their end. Only he remained.
“I do not die. I do not age. I sleep to dream of what was, and wake only to serve.”
For there was no betrayal without price, and this was his.
The soldier shook himself, gently, as though waking from a haze. “You were a child when you were taken, and he was nothing more than a man. Good or evil, he is gone. There will never be a pat on the head for being a good little serving beast, never any recognition of your loyalty, or forgiveness for your escape.”
A laugh escaped him, sudden and nearly breathless. “I did not escape. We never escape. Not once we give ourselves over. The sand becomes our blood. But you doubt, still. You question. You still may escape my fate. You may yet be forgiven.”
“I need no forgiveness,” the soldier said. “I have done nothing to be ashamed of.” His voice was stern, firm, the way they had trained him, shoulders going back, held proud, in reflex. And yet…
The compulsion that joined them showed the man’s soul: restless, torn.
“Then why did I come to you, of all the men on this base? What pained love do you fret at, human, that drew me? What part of yourself have you already given away – and what do you yet retain?”
The soldier’s gaze flickered to the letters on the table, still-unfinished. The aelf could feel it, as the man had felt him: the claims on his time, the lures of duty, set against the call of life. The desire to let go, to let go the petty worries of man, to find cause in something greater, timeless and unchanging.
But flesh was not created thus.
The man stood from his chair, his shoulders straight and his face stern, and gathered up his letters and pen, placing them in the black leather case that had rested at his feet.
“I don’t know who you are or what madness drives you, but-”
“The madness that brings clarity. This land, these sands, these winds and sun and moonlight on pale stone: their love devours us. The richest loam and sweetest waters cannot match blood poured into the sand and stone of millennia. The air itself lives on guilt, the deep-hidden springs seethe from your passion; the night winds strip you down to marrow and tongues out the meat until you are left sere and hollow, and all the good you might have done comes to nothing, not even regret.”
All those he rode with were gone, and only the sands remained. And the sands had no care for him.
The soldier looked away, stared across the room at the doorway,
seeing something – or nothing – in that space. The moment was fading; soon it would be nothing more than a strange, distant dream, a moment’s fancy in between one moment and the next.
Hear me, he thought, and as always, the need’s burn caught him by surprise, the urgency greater even than the gnawing. Do this.
A chime sounded from the digital inset in the man’s hand and even though he tapped it once, silencing the reminder, the sound broke the final shards of the compulsion. The tattered remnants dissipating into the air, releasing the listener, and allowing him to depart.
But he paused, once last moment before leaving, and looked down. “There is no glory in hate, or anger. You say there is none in love, either?”
“I say…. Let it all be fleeting. Even love. Let nothing own you.”
The aelf closed his eyes, and listened to the rhythmic tapping of hard soles against linoleum flooring. The compulsion drained from himself as well, and with it the strength that had moved him, making him long for his bed, for his cool walls, his fractured dreams.
He had once loved neither wisely nor well, and for that, the sands owned him. He would exist as long as they did, drift though the days as they did. Where his companions of old now sifted, restless and unforgiving, fine as grit, he held to flesh and bone.
Chol badam shelahem, the voices whispered. The sand is in your blood. What it takes, never escapes.
But perhaps now, perhaps, that one weary soldier would.
Fire Rising in the Moon
There is a temptation to pretend that everything is normal. That tears do not flow without cause. That memories of things that never occurred are not more real than this moment. That I do not wake in the morning and have to check if I dreamed the butterfly or not.
“Round trip or one-way?”
“One-way.”
“Ten-twenty.”
I pocket the change, tuck the ticket inside the wrist of my glove, turn away. The waiting room is sparse, bleak, plastic. The easier to hose down, when the drunks are rousted and the college students catch the last bus back to campus. Rows of seats that fit nobody’s ass, too wide, too shallow. Too dreary a yellow for comfort on the eyes. Yellow plastic and gray concrete, and the piles of dirty snow shoved up outside.
She wants to go outside. Feel the chill. Howl at the moon. Burn the air. I hold the reins. I say no.
To outside appearances, all is systems functional, good to go. A little ragged, a little rough, sure , but who isn’t, these days? You’re employed, you’re alive, everything’s fine. Suck it up. Push it down.
Plastic, and concrete, and dirty snow. These things are real. I digest them, their gross nature a reminder. There is the temptation to stand naked and stare into the sky, until it reaches down and enfolds you, sharp and flat. Until we blur and run, staining the stars with our gross nature, and the memories-which-aren’t are no more.
The doctors have the answer, of course. A small pill here, a small pill there. A tiny dose for the rest of your life. So easy. So wise. So smart. All we need to do to get rid of this shadow in my brain, this second life unlived which chases me like the shadow of a speeding car on a summer’s road.
There’s always the fear, though. The one the doctor’s don’t know. Or maybe they do know, all too well.
What if this is the dream? What if this is the lie?
Butterfly dreams
And wakes into man.
Who is lost?
“Boarding now, the 7:27.”
A short line, a slow shuffle. Luggage into the belly of the beast, bags shoved into racks overhead. The driver closes the door behind me with a subtle snick, and I settle into the seat, aware that I will not have to move for an hour. Cheek against the frosted glass, pretending that the chill is spreading throughout my body, cooling the cells down, slowing them down. I hallucinate when I have a high enough fever. I’m not there yet, but I can feel it, creeping around the edges.
She waits for me, lurking in the corner of my eye. We take the bus together; she is silent, although I know there is so much she needs to say.
I don’t want to hear it. I’m too tired, too full of my own thoughts I cannot say. There is room for only one of us in this relationship.
“I swear, this babe in the bar last week, she had to have been like forty. All over me. Takes me home, her kid’s in the next room, man, she don’t care.”
Kid himself, two rows ahead. Talking too loud, too self-consciously unaware. I only hope she didn’t buy him a drink, too. He might be old enough to fuck, but barely. His parents let him run off to the city, come home smelling of sex. So long as he’s not learning it out in the streets, it’s probably okay. An older woman should be smart enough to insist on a condom, you’d think.
She wants to lean forward, touch his neck. See if he’s as hot as he thinks he is. Nobody, I tell her, could be that hot. She thinks that’s funny.
Go to sleep, I tell her. Nothing to see here. Move along. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to listen.
“No man, serious. They want young guys.”
They want cock without repercussions. To a guy like that, being treated like meat is a turn-on.
Humanity is strange. I turn my face to the window again, stare out at the black, black sky, full moon bright. The cold of the window may not be enough.
Fire is rising in the moon tonight. I hope we make it home alive.
Copyright & Credits
Darkly Human
Laura Anne Gilman
www.bookviewcafe.com
Apparent Horizon Copyright © 2004, 2016 Laura Anne Gilman
Turnings Copyright © 2003, 2016 Laura Anne Gilman
Dispossession Copyright © 2004, 2016 Laura Anne Gilman Blow Job Red Copyright © 2008, 2016 Laura Anne Gilman
Catseye Copyright © 2002, 2016 Laura Anne Gilman
Clean Up Your Room! Copyright © 1996, 2016 Laura Anne Gilman
Apple Copyright © 2016 Laura Anne Gilman
Don't You Want to be Beautiful? Copyright © 1998, 2016 Laura Anne Gilman
Don't Toot Your Horn Copyright © 2013, 2016 Laura Anne Gilman
Talent Copyright © 2004, 2016 Laura Anne Gilman
Last Blood Copyright © 2016 Laura Anne Gilman
Mad Cats and Englishmen Copyright © 2012, 2016 Laura Anne Gilman
Exposure Copyright © 1995, 2016 Laura Anne Gilman
Harvey and Fifth Copyright © 2003, 2016 Laura Anne Gilman
Rodeo Copyright © 2016 Laura Anne Gilman
Sand in Blood Copyright © 2016 Laura Anne Gilman
Fire Rising in the Moon Copyright © 2006, 2016 Laura Anne Gilman
www.lauraannegilman.net
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information/permissions, contact rights@lauraannegilman.net
Interior Design (eBook): April Steenburgh
Cover Design: Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff
Cover Art: Elizabeth Leggett
About The Author
Since her first novel in 2004, Laura Anne Gilman has established a reputation for herself with darker-edged fantasy, both urban and epic. She is the Nebula-nominated author of Silver on the Road, Book 1 of The Devil's West (October 2015), The Vineart War trilogy, and the Cosa Nostradamus series, plus more than forty short stories, including two "Year's Best" picks. She also wrote the "Gin & Tonic" mystery series under the name L.A. Kornetsky.
Currently based in Seattle, she's on Twitter as @LAGilman, and at http://www.lauraannegilman.net
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