by Ren Garcia
Oddly, one summer when he was nine, Lyra stopped talking about joining the Fleet and sailing the stars. She also stopped looking through the telescopes and began wearing gowns—something she’d always resisted. What had gotten into her, Stenstrom wondered.
He didn’t have long to find out.
* * * * *
SNAP!!
He had that dream again, of sand and something terrible jumping out of it. The dream of his sisters staring at him open-mouthed. The dream of his terrified, screaming mother.
Stenstrom the Younger was roughly pulled from his sleep by several people dressed in black robes.
“What’s this?” he said, trying to wake up. In the dark he could see the Fleet coat and hat that he had been wearing before going to bed thrown over a chair.
Even though he was only nine years old, he was strong—strong enough to wrestle Lyra full out. He struggled.
A cloying mist was sprayed into his face. Immediately his strength drained away from him and he fell limp.
Though their faces were covered, he recognized a few of them as he was carried from his bed—Jen, the maid, Laurie, the cook, and Lyra, his sister.
Lyra?
“. . . sis . . .” he managed to say.
“Don’t struggle, Bel,” Lyra whispered. “Just relax; it’s going to be all right, I promise.”
Saying nothing further, they dragged him through the interior of the manor, and out into the gardens and pebbled walks.
A fire burned ahead.
They entered a courtyard centered with a large fountain. A brass tripod was set-up in front of the fountain basin, and a fire burned in the tripod’s pot. Tending the reddish fire, fueled by various oils and fats, was a robed woman.
He was thrown down to the pebbles. As he watched, the woman picked up a knife and plunged the curved blade into the fire.
When the blade began glowing a rosy red, she pulled it out and approached.
The woman was slight and plump, and her hair was a lilting shade of silver. It was his mother.
It was Lady Jubilee.
He was lifted up off the pebbles and carried before her.
She held the sizzling knife up and let him see it.
“We are not here to harm you, my beloved son,” she said in a monotone, her voice amplified in the moonlight. “Rather, we wish to protect you. To save you from death. You will make a promise right now—a Tyrol Blood Promise. You will promise that you shall never become an officer or a crewman in the Stellar Fleet. As you make this promise, I shall cut you with this knife. If, you are true to your word, and promise truthfully, you shall feel no pain, and you shall suffer no injury. Should you break this promise, now or in the future, this wound shall burst open, and that shall be your end. I wish you suffer no harm, either by this knife, or by the perils of the Stellar Fleet. I wish to save you, my son.”
She showed it to him again—curved and sizzling. “Are you ready?”
Held in place, drugged, he could do nothing but meekly nod.
Several hands undid his nightclothes and bared his chest.
His mother then reached out and applied the knife to her son’s chest. “Will you promise, Stenstrom, my only son, that you will not ever become a member of the Stellar Fleet, as either officer or crewman, as your father has been?”
He looked down as far as he could. He felt no pain, but it looked to all of the world that his mother had every bit of that sizzling knife plunged into his chest, right in the vicinity of his heart.
“Do you promise?” she said again.
In his chest, he could feel the beginnings of heat and pain.
“Yes, Mother, I promise. I promise. Please . . . .”
She moved the knife down the length of his chest, finally drawing it out near his belly button.
He felt dizzy and fell to the pebbles, where his robed sister came to his side and helped pick him up.
Jubilee took the knife and put it back into the fire. A line of robed figures emerged from the dark. They were carrying armfuls of bundled clothing: his Fleet coats, hats, shirts, pants. Everything. They threw them into the fountain’s basin, making a little mountain. They also tossed in his models of the Caroline.
His mother pointed at the pile, and it caught flames, the orange tongues of fire and smoke leaping up into the night, burning cloth and melting the models.
She watched the pile burn for a bit, then turned to him. “Now, I can rest,” she said and kissed him on the cheek. “Lyra, take him back to his bed and stay with him through the night. I shall conclude the ritual here and join you in the morning. Watch over him and call for me should anything happen.”
Stenstrom was dragged back to his bed where Lyra tucked him in and sat by his side. Through his window, his could see the bonfire of all his stuff out in the gardens.
It was a rough night for him. Stenstrom developed a sickness—an unheard of thing for an Elder—and he sweated into a fever dream.
“How . . . how could M-Mother do this to me?” he stammered, sweating on his sheets.
Lyra sat at his side and wiped his brow. “Because she loves you. It’s her way of trying to keep you safe. You’re not the only one who’s had a knife plunged into your heart. She does that to all of us. And, this won’t be the last time you’ll be put to The Promise. As she finds things out, if you go off and do something she doesn’t like, she’ll drag you back out there again and add onto it—she’ll update The Promise. I’ve been out there four times already.”
“My d-dreams. I w-wanted to soar, like f-father.”
“And so did I . . .” Her hand went to her chest.
Lyra kissed him on the forehead, and they watched the fire—both of their dreams turned to smoke. “There’s always ways around things, Bel. It might not be what you were expecting or hoping for, but something’s always just around the corner. You’ll see.”
Stenstrom fell into a jumpy sleep, his sister sitting with him all night.
SNAP!! came his dream again—this time a drug-induced nightmare.
SNAP!!
7 The Woman in Gray
He had a small bundle of items laid out on his bed; a change of clothes, some of his favorite mementos, and a few bites of food. He took the items and placed them in a small backpack.
Stenstrom was taking a page out of his older sister’s book; he was running away from home.
His head full of strange, rebellious thoughts, he was determined to see something of the world, to set out on his own. This manor and its grounds were all he knew—was the whole world; yet, with the memory of the knife entering his chest, “home” began to feel confined and smothering.
Home is where you can dream, and then have those dreams quickly taken away in a bit of oil and the soft glow of a fire.
He was nearly finished packing.
“What are you doing?” came a voice.
He jumped out of his skin with fright. He whirled around. Standing in the open doorway was his sister Virginia. She was leaning in, holding a bowl of snacks with both hands. Her messy head of Half Pewterlock hair made interesting marbled streak patterns on her head.
“You scared the life out of me!” he gasped.
“Sorry—what are you doing?”
He returned to his work as she came to his side, still holding her bowl of food.
“I’m leaving.”
“Why?”
He felt a momentary sting—the knife in his chest. “Because I don’t want to be here anymore.”
He finished packing and walked out of his room, Virginia following. “Where are you going?”
“The city.”
“And then what?”
They spilled out in into the night, the dewy grass crinkling under their feet. “Why are you plaguing me with questions? I’m going to the city, and then I’m going to vanish into it, just like the Mad Lord of Walther.”
“The who? Aren’t you at least going to say goodbye to Mother?”
“Creation no—are you mad? How far would I
get if she knew what I’m planning?”
They reached the pebbled walk near the familiar Merian ruins, and Stenstrom turned south, his pack slung over his shoulder.
“What about Lyra? Don’t you want to say goodbye to her? She’s going to be upset.”
He hesitated. “Yes, but … you tell her for me, sis. Tell her I love her, and not to worry.”
Virginia looked sad. “I love you, Bel.”
He gave her a hug, and she almost dropped her bowl. “Love you too, sis.” He started walking south.
“Bel, you said you’re going to the city, right?”
“Yes,” he said on the hoof.
“Well, you’re going the wrong way. The city is that way,” she said pointing to the north.
Annoyed, he stopped, turned, and started walking north, moving past her as he did. “I know that,” he said.
He moved down the walk, passing all the old haunts of his childhood, the places where he, Lyra and Virginia played and crested a low hill. Beyond, the coastline stretched out in the dark blues and pearly grays of night, heading northwest in a rocky curve. About a mile away, straddling the coast and the swampy interior was a huddled, semi-lit collection of stony buildings—the southern proper of Tyrol. As he walked, the city unfolded in front of him in little stages—scattered buildings, a few outlying streets, all mostly dark under the moonlight. Looking back, he could see the manor sitting in the dale, lit up in cheery yellow window light. He could see his room from where he was standing—his bed was there, his toys, his sisters. All he knew was back there in a rectangle of yellow light.
He had a sudden urge to go back. Overhead, a blinking vessel of some sort rumbled by, winged, lit-up, whistling. It banked inland and disappeared, gone as quickly as it came. He was reminded of the Fleet, of the stars, and of the knife in his chest.
He turned back toward the dark mosaic of Tyrol ahead and continued.
He eventually reached the outskirts of the city where the pebbled walk gave way to a wider cobbled street. The whole cityscape around him was relentlessly dark and deserted, the houses and other assorted buildings mostly lightless and without noise. The street he walked was deserted. He wondered, in his child’s mind, why it was so dark—why he appeared to be the only living soul around. Shouldn’t it be more lively? Shouldn’t there be people? He looked up—the night sky appeared odd, littered with stars in unfamiliar constellations.
He thought he heard something, a slight breaking of twig or stirring of rock. He turned to see what had made the noise.
Crouching near a small house on the other side of the street was a shape, like that of a small person pushed up against the wall of the house. The shape sat there, looking at him intently.
“Hello?” he said, surprised at the sound of his own voice, at the loudness of it.
Testing his own courage, he walked across the street toward the figure. “What are you doing there?” he asked.
The figure didn’t move, nor did it speak.
As he neared, a storm of some sort, a sudden gust of wind mixed with grit and swirling debris, welled up from the house. Stenstrom coughed and covered his eyes. He gasped for air and quickly stumbled away from the house as fast as he could. After several steps, the cloud of wind and grit abated, and he could breathe. He looked back once and could clearly see a boiling ball of churned-up debris moving down the street away from him.
Astonished, he continued northward, shaken from his encounter with … whatever it was. He approached a small park that was dark and partially wooded. He wanted to find someplace to sit down—to consider his poorly thought out escape attempt. He hadn’t expected the world to be so dark and lonely—so full of strange winds and unusual stars. He didn’t know what to make of the world. He wandered into the park to gather his wits.
He found a large statue of a fox, carved in a cat-like sitting position, its head pointed upward to gaze at the sky.
Sitting next to the statue, he saw the slight figure of a slender woman.
“Hello?” he said, remembering his encounter with the thing near the house. Could this person be real?
The woman slowly lifted her head. “Good morning,” she said quietly, her voice inflected with an odd accent. “What is a little boy like you doing out all alone at this hour? Please come here.”
The woman was sitting on a small bench to the left of the fox statue. It was difficult to see in the dim moonlight, but she appeared to be wearing a gray suit of some sort, with a knee-length skirt. Her slender legs were crossed, and she wore a pair of button-up boots. Her face was thin, with a pair of thoughtful eyes and a pointy chin. A large, flat-brimmed hat sat next to her on the bench. She appeared frail, and slightly bent.
She looked at him. “Why are you out here all alone?”
“I’m running away from home,” he said. Having had little contact with strangers, and having been taught to never lie, it didn’t occur to him not to answer the woman truthfully.
It also didn’t occur to him to not be completely trusting.
“So, your mother does not know where you are?”
“I don’t think so. That’s the whole point.”
The woman reached into the lining of her suit. She appeared momentarily saddened. She pulled her hand back out.
She was holding a knife. Stenstrom stared at it in horror.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “You are such a handsome young fellow—I see so much of your father in your face.”
He backed away. “What are you going to do with that knife?” he stammered.
“I’m going to kill you with it,” she said standing up. “I’ve been waiting for you for a long time, to come walking down that road. Please, do not make this harder than it has to be. I truly do not wish to make you suffer any more than is necessary.”
He turned to run. The park was alive with shapes—men all around emerging from behind the trees. They were dirty and mangy. They looked to him like the vids of sailors and pirates he and Lyra liked to watch.
“There is no place for you to go,” the woman said walking toward him. She raised the knife over her head. “Again, I am so sorry …”
He backed up against a tree. The woman approached, the knife gleaming.
Thinking fast, Stenstrom changed his tactics. He ran to her and put his arms around her thin waist. “Please don’t hurt me.”
The woman hesitated. “I … I remember holding you when you were just a little baby, those chubby cheeks, those wonderful bright eyes. I couldn’t do it then. I should have, but I didn’t. And now here we are …”
“You … you needn’t do this. What have I done to deserve this?”
Her free hand came down and lifted his chin. “You haven’t done anything. This is a closed circle that we are trapped in, and there is no way out of it. I’m sorry.”
She reared back, knife gleaming.
Something appeared next to him in a cloud of black veils. Something breezy kissed him on the cheek.
“No!”
Stenstrom rose in a gasp. He was in his bed, his room smothered in a layer of night mixed with starlight.
He was in his pajamas. His toys were neatly arranged in the corner. There was no lonely road, no FoxPark, no Woman in Gray.
He lay back and pulled the sheets up to his chin.
What a terrible nightmare.
8 The Mad Lord of Walther
When Stenstrom was ten years old, he and his entire family went into the Barbary North Esther city of Rustam for a family gathering. His mother’s side of the family had a grand get-together every five years to celebrate the ongoing history of the Tyrol line. His immediate family was fairly large, consisting of his parents, himself, and his twenty-nine sisters, coupled with his aunts, uncles, brothers-in-law, and cousins, creating a veritable army of people. The Tyrols had rented the entire Labyrinth of Rustam for the event, a place of vast gardens and twisting, hedged corridors.
From barely having contact with anyone outside of Belmont Manor to suddenly being
thrust into a literal army of people, the get-together was bewildering for Stenstrom. Most of his sisters he barely knew—they were much older, had married and moved on long before he came around, and he only saw them on holidays and special events, like this one. He was closest to his youngest sisters, Lyra and Virginia. Lyra had a lovely head of dark black Belmont hair like he did, while Virginia had Half Pewterlock hair, a mixed head of black and Tyrol Pewterlock which reminded Stenstrom of a marble cake.
They sat outdoors in the maze of gardens and hedges, enjoying the mild Rustam weather. Music played, and people laughed as the afternoon wore on. There were many tables set up in the sprawling gardens of the labyrinth to accommodate the near thousand assembled Tyrols. An army of staff moved about attending the people. Stenstrom, wearing his finest little boy clothes, sat at a huge feasting table in the center of the labyrinth with nearly fifty of his sisters, brothers-in-law, and cousins. His parents weren’t at that particular table, and he hadn’t seen them in some time—he assumed they were off, mingling with other family members. Stenstrom sat somewhere in the middle of the table, flanked by Lyra and Virginia. Lyra’s plate was only partially filled as she looked about trying to see if she could recall the names of all these people she barely knew. “There’s Celesta over there,” she said. “And I think that’s her husband. What’s his name?”
“I don’t know,” Stenstrom replied.
Virginia was fully tucked into her heavily-loaded plate of food and wasn’t listening. She leaned over her plate, a huge bib was stuffed into her gown.
These Tyrol get-togethers were normally rather dull—just a lot of people eating and talking. However, it wasn’t long before the proceedings were rudely interrupted.