Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

by Anthology

  “You seek to raise yourself above your station,” she continued. “Those who do have no true home. They leave behind their rightful and God-given place and yet never reach their goal. It is a kind of Limbo, a choice to begin eternity in purgatory even before death.”

  “And you have chosen to become a lay preacher. Do you have a wooden crate to stand on? Shall I carry it to a crossroads for you?”

  “Oh, very well, we can change the topic to Annette d’Arlain if you are uncomfortable. I find myself a most engaging subject.”

  “Yes, keep to your area of expertise because you know little of me. I don’t seek to raise myself. I am where I belong. The palace would be poorer without me.”

  “If you remained satisfied with being a lover, a courtier, and a good dinner guest, I might agree with you. Your uncle is a minor noble but I suppose his lineage is solid, should anyone care to trace it, and you’re not the first heir to a barren wilderness to manage a creditable reputation at court. But you want to be the first man of Versailles, even at the destruction of your own self and soul. You are striving to be better than every other man.”

  “That is the first thing you’ve said that makes any sense.”

  Sylvain eased her into his lap. He slid his fingers under the chiffon wrap and began teasing her into an eagerly agreeable frame of mind. She would declare him the best man in France before he was done with her, even if it took all evening.

  -9-

  The monkey clung to Sylvain’s neck and hid its face under his coat collar. Sylvain hummed under his breath, a low cooing sound shepherds used to calm lambs.

  The dealer had doused the monkey in cheap cologne to mask its animal scent. The stink must be a constant irritation to the creature’s acute sense of smell. But it would wear off soon enough in the mist of the cisterns.

  Sylvain rounded the corner into the little fish’s cavern and tripped. He slammed to his knees and twisted to take the weight of the fall on his shoulder. The monkey squealed with fright. He hushed it gently.

  “Work carefully, be a good girl!” The little fish’s voice echoed off the grotto walls.

  He had tripped over the painted wooden cradle. The little fish had stuffed it with all of the dolls Sylvain had given her over the past week. The family of straw-and-cloth dolls were soaked and squashed down to form a nest for the large porcelain doll Sylvain had brought her the day before. It had arrived as a gift from the porcelain manufacturer, along with the toilets Bull and Bear were installing in the north wing.

  The doll’s platinum curls had been partly ripped away. Its painted eyes stared up at him as he struggled to his feet.

  The little fish perched on the roof of her dollhouse, which floated half submerged in the pool. The toy furniture bobbed and drifted in the current.

  “Come here, little miss,” he said. She slipped off the roof and glided across to him. She showed no interest in the monkey, but she probably hadn’t realized it was anything other than just another doll.

  “Do you remember what we are going to do today?” he asked. “I told you yesterday; think back and remember.” She blinked up at him in ignorance. “What do you do every day?”

  “Work hard.”

  “Very good. Work hard at what?”

  “Good girls work hard and keep the water flowing.” She yawned, treating him to a full view of her tongue and tiny teeth as she stretched.

  The monkey yawned in sympathy. Her gaze snapped to the creature with sudden interest.

  “Sharp teeth!” She jumped out of the pool and thrust one long finger in the monkey’s face. It recoiled, clinging to Sylvain with all four limbs.

  “Hush,” he said, stroking the monkey’s back. “You frightened her. Good girls don’t frighten their friends, do they?”

  “Do they?” she repeated automatically. She was fascinated by the monkey, which was certainly a more engaged reaction than she had given any of the toys Sylvain had brought her.

  He fished in his pocket for the leash and clipped it to the monkey’s collar.

  “Today, we are adding the new cloth pipes to the system, and you will keep the water flowing like you always do, smooth and orderly. If you do your work properly, you can play with your new friend.”

  He handed her the leash and gently extracted himself from the monkey’s grip. He placed the creature on the ground and stroked its head with exaggerated kindness. If she could copy his words, she could copy his actions.

  She touched the monkey’s furry flank, eyes wide with delight. Then she brought her hand to her face and whiffed it.

  “Stinky,” she said.

  She dove backward off the rock, yanking the monkey behind her by its neck.

  Sylvain dove to grab it but just missed his grip. The monkey’s sharp squeal cut short as it was dragged under water.

  Sylvain ran along the edge of the pool, trying to follow the glow of her form as she circled and dove. When she broke surface he called to her, but she ignored him and climbed to the roof of her dollhouse. She hauled the monkey up by its collar and laid its limp, sodden form on the spine of the roof.

  Dead, Sylvain thought. She had drowned it.

  It stirred. She scooped the monkey under its arms and dandled it on her lap like a doll. It coughed and squirmed.

  “Sing a song,” she demanded. She shoved her face nose to nose with the monkey’s and yelled, “Sing a song!”

  The monkey twisted and strained, desperate to claw away. She released her grip and the monkey splashed into the water. She yanked the leash and hauled it up. It dangled like a fish. She let her hand drop and the monkey sank again, thrashing.

  “Sing a song!” she screamed. “Sing!”

  Sylvain pried off his boots and dove into the pool. He struggled to the surface and kicked off a rock, propelling himself though the water.

  “Stop it,” he blurted as he struggled toward her. “Stop it this instant!”

  She crouched on the edge of the dollhouse roof, dangling the monkey over the water by its collar. It raked at her with all four feet, but the animal dealer had blunted its claws, leaving the poor creature with no way to defend itself. She dunked it again. Its paws pinwheeled, slapping the surface.

  Sylvain ripped his watch from his pocket and lobbed it at her. It smacked her square in the temple. She dropped the monkey and turned on him, enormous eyes veined with red, lids swollen.

  He hooked his arm over the peak of the dollhouse roof and hoisted himself halfway out of the water. He fished the monkey out and gathered the quivering creature to his chest.

  “Bad girl,” he sputtered, so angry he could barely find breath. “Very bad girl!”

  She retreated to the edge of the roof and curled her thin arms around her knees. Her nose was puffy and red just like a human’s.

  “Leblanc,” she sobbed. “Leblanc gone.”

  She hadn’t mentioned Leblanc in days. Sylvain had assumed she’d forgotten the old man, but some hounds missed their masters for years. Why had he assumed the little fish would have coarser feelings than an animal?

  She was an animal, though. She would have drowned the monkey and toyed with its corpse. There was no point in coddling her—he would be stern and unyielding.

  “Yes, Leblanc has gone away.” He gave her his chilliest stare.

  Her chin quivered. She whispered, “Because I am a bad girl.”

  Had she been blaming herself all this time? Beneath the mindless laughter and games she had been missing Leblanc—lonely, regretful, brokenhearted. Wondering if she’d done wrong, if she’d driven him away. Waiting to see him again, expecting him every moment.

  Sylvain clambered onto the dollhouse roof and perched between the two chimneys. The monkey climbed onto his shoulder and snaked its fingers into his hair.

  “No, little one. Leblanc didn’t want to go but he had to.”

  “Leblanc come back?”

  She looked so trusting. He could lie to her, tell her Leblanc would come back if she was a good girl, worked hard, and n
ever caused any problems. She would believe him. He could make her do anything he wanted.

  “No, little one. Leblanc is gone and he can never come back.”

  She folded in on herself, hiding her face in her hands.

  “He would have said goodbye to you if he could. I’m sorry he didn’t.”

  Sylvain pulled her close, squeezing her bony, quaking shoulders, tucking her wet head under his chin.

  There was an old song he had often heard in the mountains. On one of his very first hunting trips as a boy, he’d heard an ancient shepherd sing it while climbing up a long scree slope searching for a lost lamb. He had heard a crying girl sing it as she flayed the pelt from the half-eaten, wolf-ravaged corpse of an ewe. He’d heard a boy sing it to his flock during a sudden spring snowstorm, heard a mother sing it to her children on a freezing winter night as he passed by her hut on horseback. The words were rustic, the melody simple.

  Sylvain sang the song now to the little fish, gently at first, just breathing the tune, and then stronger, letting the sound swell between them. He sang of care, and comfort, and loss, and a longing to make everything better. And if tears seemed to rain down his cheeks as he sang, it was nothing but an illusion—just water dribbling from his hair.

  The Three Resurrections of Jessica Churchill(Short story)

  by Kelly Robson

  Originally published by Clarkesworld Magazine

  “I rise today on this September 11, the one-year anniversary of the greatest tragedy on American soil in our history, with a heavy heart…” (Hon. Jim Turner)

  September 9, 2001

  Jessica slumped against the inside of the truck door. The girl behind the wheel and the other one squished between them on the bench seat kept stealing glances at her. Jessica ignored them, just like she tried to ignore the itchy pull and tug deep inside her, under her belly button, where the aliens were trying to knit her guts back together.

  “You party pretty hard last night?” the driver asked.

  Jessica rested her burning forehead on the window. The hum of the highway under the wheels buzzed through her skull. The truck cab stank of incense.

  “You shouldn’t hitchhike, it’s not safe,” the other girl said. “I sound like my mom saying it and I hate that but it’s really true. So many dead girls. They haven’t even found all the bodies.”

  “Highway of Tears,” the driver said.

  “Yeah, Highway of Tears,” the other one repeated. “Bloody Sixteen.”

  “Nobody calls it that,” the driver snapped.

  Jessica pulled her hair up off her neck, trying to cool the sticky heat pulsing through her. The two girls looked like tree planters. She’d spent the summer working full time at the gas station and now she could smell a tree planter a mile away. They’d come in for smokes and mix, dirty, hairy, dressed in fleece and hemp just like these two. The driver had blond dreadlocks and the other had tattoos circling her wrists. Not that much older than her, lecturing her about staying safe just like somebody’s mom.

  Well, she’s right, Jessica thought. A gush of blood flooded the crotch of her jeans.

  Water. Jessica, we can do this but you’ve got to get some water. We need to replenish your fluids.

  “You got any water?” Jessica asked. Her voice rasped, throat stripped raw from all the screaming.

  The tattooed girl dug through the backpack at Jessica’s feet and came up with a two-liter mason jar half-full of water. Hippies, Jessica thought as she fumbled with the lid. Like one stupid jar will save the world.

  “Let me help.” The tattooed girl unscrewed the lid and steadied the heavy jar as Jessica lifted it to her lips.

  She gagged. Her throat was tight as a fist but she forced herself to swallow, wash down the dirt and puke coating her mouth.

  Good. Drink more.

  “I can’t,” Jessica said. The tattooed girl stared at her.

  You need to. We can’t do this alone. You have to help us.

  “Are you okay?” the driver asked. “You look wrecked.”

  Jessica wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’m fine. Just hot.”

  “Yeah, you’re really flushed,” said the tattooed girl. “You should take off your coat.”

  Jessica ignored her and gulped at the jar until it was empty.

  Not so fast. Careful!

  “Do you want to swing past the hospital when we get into town?” the driver asked.

  A bolt of pain knifed through Jessica’s guts. The empty jar slipped from her grip and rolled across the floor of the truck. The pain faded.

  “I’m fine,” she repeated. “I just got a bad period.”

  That did it. The lines of worry eased off both girls’ faces.

  “Do you have a pad? I’m gonna bleed all over your seat.” Jessica’s vision dimmed, like someone had put a shade over the morning sun.

  “No problem.” The tattooed girl fished through the backpack. “I bleed heavy too. It depletes my iron.”

  “That’s just an excuse for you to eat meat,” said the driver.

  Jessica leaned her forehead on the window and waited for the light to come back into the world. The two girls were bickering now, caught up in their own private drama.

  Another flood of blood. More this time. She curled her fists into her lap. Her insides twisted and jumped like a fish on a line.

  Your lungs are fine. Breathe deeply, in and out, that’s it. We need all the oxygen you can get.

  The tattooed girl pulled a pink wrapped maxi pad out of her backpack and offered it to Jessica. The driver slowed down and turned the truck into a roadside campground.

  “Hot,” Jessica said. The girls didn’t hear. Now they were bitching at each other about disposable pads and something called a keeper cup.

  We know. You’ll be okay. We can heal you.

  “Don’t wait for me,” Jessica said as they pulled up to the campground outhouse. She flipped the door handle and nearly fell out of the truck. “I can catch another ride.”

  Cold air washed over her as she stumbled toward the outhouse. She unzipped her long coat and let the breeze play though—chill air on boiling skin. Still early September but they always got a cold snap at the start of fall. First snow only a few days ago. Didn’t last. Never did.

  The outhouse stench hit her like a slap. Jessica fumbled with the lock. Her fingers felt stiff and clumsy.

  “Why am I so hot?” she said, leaning on the cold plywood wall. Her voice sounded strange, ripped apart and multiplied into echoes.

  Your immune system is trying to fight us but we’ve got it under control. The fever isn’t dangerous, just uncomfortable.

  She shed her coat and let it fall to the floor. Unzipped her jeans, slipped them down her hips. No panties. She hadn’t been able to find them.

  No, Jessica. Don’t look.

  Pubic hair hacked away along with most of her skin. Two deep slices puckered angry down the inside of her right thigh. And blood. On her legs, on her jeans, inside her coat. Blood everywhere, dark and sticky.

  Keep breathing!

  An iron tang filled the outhouse as a gout of blood dribbled down her legs. Jessica fell back on the toilet seat. Deep within her chest something fluttered, like a bird beating its wings on her ribs, trying to get out. The light drained from the air.

  If you die, we die too. Please give us a chance.

  The flutters turned into fists pounding on her breastbone. She struggled to inhale, tried to drag the outhouse stink deep into her lungs but the air felt thick. Solid. Like a wall against her face.

  Don’t go. Please.

  Breath escaped her like smoke from a fire burned down to coal and ash. She collapsed against the wall of the outhouse. Vision turned to pinpricks; she crumpled like paper and died.

  ***

  “Everything okay in there?”

  The thumping on the door made the whole outhouse shake. Jessica lurched to her feet. Her chest burned like she’d been breathing acid.

  You’re okay.
>
  “I’m fine. Gimme a second.”

  Jessica plucked the pad off the outhouse floor, ripped it open and stuck it on the crotch of her bloody jeans, zipped them up. She zipped her coat to her chin. She felt strong. Invincible. She unlocked the door.

  The two girls were right there, eyes big and concerned and in her business.

  “You didn’t have to wait,” Jessica said.

  “How old are you, fifteen? We waited,” the driver said as they climbed back into the truck.

  “We’re not going to let you hitchhike,” said the tattooed girl. “Especially not you.”

  “Why not me?” Jessica slammed the truck door behind her.

  “Most of the dead and missing girls are First Nations.”

  “You think I’m an Indian? Fuck you. Am I on a reserve?”

  The driver glared at her friend as she turned the truck back onto the highway.

  “Sorry,” the tattooed girl said.

  “Do I look like an Indian?”

  “Well, kinda.”

  “Fuck you.” Jessica leaned on the window, watching the highway signs peel by as they rolled toward Prince George. When they got to the city the invincible feeling was long gone. The driver insisted on taking her right to Gran’s.

  “Thanks,” Jessica said as she slid out of the truck.

  The driver waved. “Remember, no hitchhiking.”

  ***

  September 8, 2001

  Jessica never hitchhiked.

  She wasn’t stupid. But Prince George was spread out. The bus ran maybe once an hour weekdays and barely at all on weekends, and when the weather turned cold you could freeze to death trying to walk everywhere. So yeah, she took rides when she could, if she knew the driver.

  After her Saturday shift she’d started walking down the highway. Mom didn’t know she was coming. Jessica had tried to get through three times from the gas station phone, left voice mails. Mom didn’t always pick up—usually didn’t—and when she did it was some excuse about her phone battery or connection.

  Mom was working as a cook at a retreat center out by Tabor Lake. A two-hour walk, but Mom would get someone to drive her back to Gran’s.

  Only seven o’clock but getting cold and the wind had come up. Semis bombed down the highway, stirring up the trash and making it dance at her feet and fly in her face as she walked along the ditch.