Seasons Turning

by Donaya Haymond

  Kira sat across from Goodwife Ash and wordlessly unbuttoned her shirt low enough to show the new sun on her chest. Her hands jittered. She feared accusations of regicide or pronouncements of doom. An urge swelled within her to try clawing off the mark with her fingernails. She hushed it. This was no time to act crazed or frantic.

  After a long pause the goodwife said, “I think we need to consult the Board. Close your shirt, Kira.”

  “Yes ma’am. I heard in school that those Next Door use the Board, but as a game. They don’t do no fortune-telling from it.”

  “Don’t do ‘any’ fortune-telling from it, Kira honey. Grammar is important, even out here. They did invent it as a game. It took a Commuter to realize its potential.” That said, the goodwife opened the cardboard box and took out the folded panel, with its mysterious inscriptions of ‘DOUBLE WORD SCORE’ and ‘TRIPLE LETTER SCORE’. She also produced the sack of letters from which they would form words. “Isaac got these for me. You have to combine four of the sacks to have enough letters to get anything reliable.”

  Kira had used the Board once before, to find out what career path she should take. The results had been unsatisfactory. The Board came up with a lot of moonshine about a castle, amputation, hands, and the letters “P”, “C”, and “R” stubbornly repeated no matter how many times she redrew. “I hope this round’s helpful for a change,” she muttered.

  Goodwife Ash nodded kindly and gave her twenty tiles without looking at them. “Form as many words as you can with those. You know the routine.”

  “Yes’m.” The words also had to cross one another at least once, letters fitting on the painted squares.

  GEEK. GLYPHS. HANDS. FALL. A.

  “I know ‘geek’ is a word, but I don’t recall the meaning.”

  “It means a person who bites the heads off chickens and similar disgusting acts at carnivals, dear.”

  “Oh, right.” She drew again and arranged the letters according to inspiration.

  P. CARVES. DOLL. R. LIVE. C. PIE.

  Kira narrowed her eyes. “Those letters again.”

  “I’m intrigued by the ‘pie’, myself.”

  “At least it mentions carving. Hope it means I get my apprenticeship.” She drew again.

  CASTLE. KNIGHT. SEASON. U. R.

  Her heart in her throat, she drew for the last time.

  U. R. SEASON. U. SUMMER. SRSLY.

  In the awkwardness that followed, Goodwife Ash nervously joked, “Never knew those beyond had a sense of humor.”

  Kira felt like she was sinking in quicksand. “Nice…of them…to be direct-like.”

  The older woman put a hand on her shoulder to steady her. “He deserved it. I’m amazed you actually got it done.”

  “I didn’t know this would happen! Why didn’t anyone say?”

  “Didn’t want fools getting themselves killed trying to depose him. We didn’t know a sure way. It’s not that bad, Kira darling. You could do a lot of good, and you’d have money and power and you’d stay young, and—”

  The door slammed open. A curly-haired woman with brass goggles on her head, a sheathed sword on her belt, and an air of great importance, strode through. From behind her came the sound of horrific coughing, as if someone’s esophagus was trying to escape their body.

  The woman came towards them with eyes full of pity. “It’s not that simple, I’m afraid, you poor child,” she said, her accent foreign.

  What drew Kira’s immediate attention was the woman unbuttoning her red-gold dappled shirt as she approached. Underneath she wore a low-cut camisole, cut so low that the skin over her heart was visible. It bore the imprint of a burnt-orange leaf, the sigil of Autumn.

  ****

  Jared found Lynne looking at his atlas, scrutinizing a map of the United States of America, humming to herself. He noticed she’d taken the bandages off her arm. The bullet graze was now only a white scar. Also, she had found his hidden stash of Godiva truffles.

  “Please don’t smear the pages.” He decided not to push his luck and demand that she surrender the chocolates.

  She stared at her hands for a few seconds, the chocolate covering her fingers simply disappearing. “Do you know where Portland is?”

  “What state?”

  “Ozone…no, that’s not it…Oreo?”

  “I think you mean ‘Oregon’.” He leaned over her shoulder and pointed to the northwest coast. “Around there somewhere. If you turn a few pages it’ll show the area in more detail. Why?”

  “That is where Amber is from. She doesn’t speak of it much. I hear mostly generalities about this world.”

  “Can all the Seasons travel back and forth?”

  “No, it must be something you are born with. I shall have to move quickly while in this dimension to avoid getting trapped on the wrong side. Besides, I dislike not being known.”

  “Considering people are out to kill you, maybe you should consider changing your mind about that.”

  She examined the brief description of Oregon a few pages over and hummed in thought. “What is that place like? Do you know?”

  Jared put his laptop on the table and sat on the carpet, hugging his knees. “They have good coffee and music. Lots of artsy people. Lots of bicycle riding. Supposedly, many of the residents are pretentious about how forward-thinking they believe themselves and their niche tastes to be. The cities are pleasant and environmentally friendly, from what I’ve heard. It rains a lot. All the time. It’s one of the rainiest places in this country. It’s right in a temperate rainforest.”

  Lynne smiled. “As is my citadel.”

  “You know, you can drop the fancy talk. I’ve noticed that it isn’t your natural manner of speech. It’s okay. I won’t be unimpressed.”

  She stuck out her tongue at him, and relaxed her posture so she was no longer sitting so ramrod-straight. “Fine, Mr. Smarty-Pants. Yeah, it rains a lot in March, though not as much as in April. Each of the three provinces is named after the month they most resemble.”

  “Is May very beautiful?”

  “Yes.”

  “Huh. Must be something to see.”

  She put a hand on his. “You should be rewarded for guiding me. I will make you a guest of honor. When can we set forth? Or, um, head off?”

  “I came to tell you that tomorrow evening is the earliest we can go. I could bribe someone for a flight today, but with my income level it would look suspicious. It would look as if I didn’t come by the money legally. For the same reason, I can exchange only a few of the jewels at a time for currency, and at different places. I’m going to drive around town to a few of those places shortly. You can come along if you want. Maybe we could go out to dinner later.”

  Her face hardened. “If you have romantic ideas, be aware that your house is in my realm, which means I can obliterate it with a thought.”

  Jared edged away. “I’m trying to be nice.”

  “I’m trying to stay out of compromising situations.” She was unconsciously – or maybe intentionally - stroking her right pistol in its holster.

  “Okay.”

  He didn’t dare voice his thoughts. You’re scared. You’re scared at the idea of leaving my house. Then you won’t be in your realm. Also, you won’t be in a place where people know Springtime is a person, a ruler. You’ll be ordinary, and you haven’t been ordinary for a long time, have you? Being stripped of being extraordinary makes you very, very nervous. You have one kind of target sign on your chest if you stay there, but you’re used to that one. I saw proof of how calmly you can deal with assassins. You don’t know how to deal with being ignored and lost. That’s why you’ll turn on me at the slightest hint of a threat, no matter how little I deserve it.

  She regarded him coolly for way too long. Then her face softened back to normal. “I do seem to have eaten most of your pantry stock.”

  Relief washed over him. “All right. You should summon your suitcases or whatever else you do with them. There are regulations on baggage and I need t
o make sure you won’t get us in trouble. You can’t take your guns, for example.”

  “Ah.”

  He picked up his laptop again, to book the cheapest flight possible. He would probably have to coach her on appearing normal. He turned to leave.

  “Jared?”

  “Hm?”

  “I just realized you oughtn’t to visit my castle. If you’re not a Commuter and the imbalance is solved, you could be trapped on my side of the wall.”

  He swung his fist. “Ah, shucks, guess I won’t get to Narnia after all.”

  “Narnia?”

  “It’s a long story. I do mean long.”

  ****

  Indonesia is simultaneously the world’s largest archipelago and the one with the largest Muslim population. Many other religions, including tribal ones, remain in force. The larger of the islands are densely populated. It has a lot of good farmland. The volcanic activity that gives rich, nutritious, crop-yielding soil also threatens a fiery death.

  In East Java there is a place called Sidoarjo. There underground reservoirs of mud become pressurized and sometimes burst to the surface. Most of the time this is an occasional thing, and something to which a nearby population can adapt. However, this place also holds the promise of natural gas. It takes just one case of reckless greed to lead to massive disaster. It takes just one company that drills too deep, in the wrong place. The latest cataclysmic mud flow started two months ago.

  Sixteen hours after Kira killed Timmy, a door opened inside the mud volcano. Nobody could survive crossing it, of course. Instead, messages floated out, carved on wooden blocks in Indonesian, Javanese, Arabic, and English.

  To the people of Next Door: stop stealing our mud. Signed, the Parliament of the Joint Republics of Monsoon and Drought.

  No one saw this. They were busy either fleeing the onslaught of mud carrying away their homes or trying to stop the flow. Some tried concrete plugs. Others tried animal sacrifice. By this point the locals welcomed any ideas.

  The next day, another carved sign belched from the hole. What’s the deal with the goats? Why would we want dead goats? Is that your medium of exchange or something?

  Again, no one saw the sign. The next one had much bigger letters.

  Warning! We are building a machine capable of crossing the boundary. If we do not receive a civil reply within six months, prepare for war!

  It drifted several hundred miles away from its origin. A beggar who couldn’t read cut it into pieces and used it for his hovel.

  Five

  The Winter of Our Discontent

  Naomi Greer did not know how long she had been a prisoner in Summer’s castle. Aging was not a reliable guide. A single instance of sexual intercourse with a Season halts aging for a month. Lord Timothy was never away for more than three months at a time.

  It wasn’t all bad. The rooms she lived in were richly furnished and comfortable. The large windows let in the sun’s rays, soothing the sting of never being allowed outside. The food was good and plentiful. Her clothes and shoes were the finest money could buy. She was allowed to socialize with the other women at meals and for two free hours every day. They made friendships that kept them sane.

  There was, though, plenty to endanger her sanity. Each of the eight women had been assigned what was called an ‘attendant’. ‘Jailer’ was more accurate, and on occasion ‘abuser’, and during their darkest moments, ‘owner’.

  Hers called himself Hans, and he was one of the better specimens. He took advantage of her, but in the gentlemanly, Stockholm-syndrome-inducing way. Most of the time she fooled herself into thinking it was mutual. He was conscientious about her health and safety and maintained good standards of hygiene. He sometimes behaved as if he loved her, holding her in the night and stroking her face when it all got to be too much. She thought maybe she loved him, at least a little, for the sake of what happened one particular night.

  She was crying her heart out, and he kissed her forehead and whispered, “Remember that I’m trapped here, too.” Then he told her the story he had never shared before and never mentioned again.

  It is physically impossible to enter or exit a Season’s castle without said Season’s permission. In Summer’s realm a number of crimes carried the death penalty. The night before his execution, Lord Timothy came to him with an offer.

  He said he would let me live, but I would have to be his servant for the rest of my life. He did not tell me I would live this long.

  He said he needed men to keep his women. Being a eunuch was not compulsory, as long as I remembered that his desires held sway above all others. He did not tell me that his women would be unwilling prisoners.

  He said I would be treated with courtesy. He did not say that he would, on occasion, want me in his bed as well, and that the punishment for refusal could break every law of human rights he himself decreed upon the multitude.

  He said whatever woman I was assigned would require a lot of personal care. He – did – not – say – your – hands – would – be – chopped - off.

  With every word of that last sentence he had stared darkly into the thunderstorm, carving deep grooves in his own forearms with his fingernails.

  Now he was asleep beside her, hands wrapped around her waist. However long she had been here, these hands had been the only ones to touch her gently, to care for her needs. They bandaged the wounds from their Lord’s much rougher treatment. For a moment she wished her hands were back, not for the obvious reasons, but so she could touch the faded remnants of cigar burns on his chest and back. Maybe then she would whisper to his slumbering form that she maybe almost could sort of love him. If they had met some other way, if this weren’t a softer madness to avoid the worse kind.

  She heard one of the other girls singing through the wall. Her song mentioned lands she had never heard of and the accent was strange, so it was probably Siobhan, a Commuter from Next Door who had been seduced on one of her trips. Despite the unfamiliar lyrics, Naomi understood why Siobhan was sang it.

  He turned him right and round about

  And a tear blinded his eye:

  I would never have trodden on solid ground,

  If I had thought you would lie.

  If I was to leave my husband dear

  And my great friends also,

  O what have you to take me to,

  If with you I should go?”

  I have seven ships upon the sea –

  The eighth brought me to land –

  With four-and-twenty mariners,

  And music on every hand.

  She set her foot upon the ship,

  No mariners could she behold;

  But the sails were of the taffeta

  And the masts of the beaten gold.

  O what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills

  That the sun shines sweetly on?

  “O yon are the hills of heaven,” he said,

  “Where you will never trod.”

  “O what a mountain is yon,” she said,

  “All so dreary with frost and snow?”

  “O yon is the mountain of hell,” he cried,

  “Where you and I will go.”

  He struck the tap-mast with his hand

  The fore-mast with his knee,

  And he brake that gallant ship in twain,

  And sank her in the sea.

  Naomi tried to fall asleep after that, but the regret made it difficult. She heard Hans sigh, still dreaming. “I told him I was sorry and that I wanted to take it back and he laughed and he said he didn’t care…”

  ****

  Goodwife Ash reacted first by curtseying. “Lady Gwen! You do us great honor. This is the first time I have seen you in person.”

  Gwen smiled briefly and waved. The coughing outside grew worse. “I’m sorry I don’t have time for the formalities. I knew Timmy was hunting for victims in the Temperate Zone these past months, so I had a representative hire your uncle to report passively on his movements.”

  “Wait—my
uncle?” Kira asked.

  “His name’s Isaac, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  Goodwife Ash cleared her throat. “I was asked not to reveal that to Kira until she was older.”

  “Oops,” Gwen said quietly, staring at the floor.

  “He’s the brother of your father, who ran off with his wife,” the goodwife explained.

  “Ah.” This was odd, but not upsetting. It explained the close yet simultaneously arm’s-length distance the butcher had always maintained with both Kira and her mother. Since there was so much else going on Kira decided to let it be for now.

  “Please don’t tell him I slipped up. He’s been such a good informant. After making sure I would not prosecute you for it, Kira, he told me you killed Timmy. I don’t blame you, but there are consequences, and I’m here to help you navigate the consequences with as little damage as possible.” She re-buttoned her shirt as she spoke.

  Kira thought of a way to change the subject. “Um, who is the afflicted party outside?”

  The light dawning, Goodwife Ash said, “Kira can cure tuberculosis now.”

  Gwen nodded and took the teen’s hand. “Please step outside with me. I didn’t want him spreading it inside this wonderful witch’s house. The previous Summer refused to help. Timmy knew my disapproval of pretty much everything he did.”

  Kira followed her. “What–what do I do?”

  “Just touch him and tell him he is healed. His name is Radcliff.”

  Unnatural paleness and exhaustion had drained the color from Radcliff’s face. He crouched on the ground with a handkerchief at his mouth. It was full of blood and phlegm.

  Kira touched his shoulder tentatively. “I don’t fully reckon how exactly this is done, but I would very much like it if you were better. You are better now, Radcliff.”

  He instantly sprang to his feet, dropping the handkerchief, and shook her hand vigorously. “Thank you beyond words, young lady. I’m a new man. Is this your home? It’s a lovely little domicile.”

  “It’s the goodwife’s,” Kira mumbled in reply, feeling flustered.