by Sarah Chorn
I can feel her in the room. I can feel her all around.
But oh, there is a pain worse than pain and this is it. There is a dirge carved into the walls of my throat. I open my mouth, and it comes pouring out.
And the end comes. It bears down on me like a runaway train. There is no avoiding it.
It is a soft ending.
I have said it before.
We deserve what we get.
Ianthe, it is time, death says.
I am tired. I am so, unbelievably tired.
Come on, darling. Give me your hand.
I have loved. I have been loved. I have lived a good life.
Death looks a lot like my mother.
I take her hand
And walk away.
She is gone. It takes a minute for the reality of that to sink in. No more laughing. No more stories. No more holding each other at night. No more meadows and flowers. No more tomorrows.
I am not a religious person, but this moment drives me to my knees. The world goes dark, and still.
And then…
It builds like a summer storm. There is nothing, and then, suddenly, it’s there, drowning the world and I am breaking. I am shredding. I am torn open.
I howl loud enough to split the moon. Loud enough to chase the sun from the sky.
I howl until I have no voice left, and still, it is not enough.
Strange, how we humanize the world. The eye of the storm. The mouth of the cave. The mountain’s jagged teeth.
The stars are my tears. My sorrow, the night.
I do not know how long I lay there, screaming over her body. Eventually, I am hollowed out. There is nothing left inside of me. The blanket that covers her is wet. The room is hot, and outside, it is the deep of night. Hours have passed. I crawl onto the bed beside her. I curl around her and just stare at her like I have so many times before. I look at her chest, waiting for her lungs to fill again. One more time. That’s all I want is a moment. One more moment. I would hang everything I am for just one more beat of her heart. But she is cold and stiff and my Ianthe is no more.
There will be better days than this, she said to me not long ago, but I don’t see better days. I just see darkness, empty and cold.
When the sun is rising again, I wrap Ianthe in a blanket. She is too heavy for me to carry, so Arlen lifts her in his arms and between the two of us, we get her outside, and rest her in the back of the cart that Edward has procured for us to use. My father is already there. Arlen stands for a moment, staring at him, and I wonder what they shared. He wipes away some tears and then turns to me. “I don’t know how to drive a cart,” he says. It is the first thing he has said. His voice is deep, slightly husky, and his words are accented. He’s not from here. I can hear that clearly enough. No slow drawl for him. His speech is all upright and polished.
“I do,” I say. Not well, but well enough to get us out there. He nods, and we both climb onto the bench. Then, we are away, putting Grove and all its misery behind us.
We aren’t the only ones leaving. Carts full of families and belongings are filling the streets. “The Boundary is down,” Arlen says. He is watching people leave, his back is bent, shoulders slumped, and I wonder what he must be thinking. “People are free to come and go now. Everything is changing.”
And then there were no more words.
The day is sunny and bright. There isn’t a cloud in the sky. Birds dance from tree to tree, calling to each other with their sweet summer songs. Butterflies fill the air, painting the landscape with flirtatious spots of color. Bees, giddy with pollen, buzz from flower to flower.
There is a gentle breeze. Each gasp through the trees feels like a whisper, the touch of a finger, or the caress of her breath. I wonder what happens to the soul when the body dies. I like to think that Ianthe is walking home with me, that her breath is shaking the trees, and her hands are trailing along the tall grasses on either side of the road, lifting clouds of butterflies and distracting swarms of bees.
I like to think that she is guiding me home.
I like to think that love transcends the flesh.
I dig her grave, right next to her mother under the tree, as she requested. Arlen grabs a shovel and starts digging beside me. I am too lost in my thoughts. The meadow is too quiet. It has never been quiet out here. Annie should be cutting herbs. Harriet should be singing. Jack and Jasper should be shouting at each other.
I lift her out of the cart. She is heavy in my arms, though I do not know which weighs more, Ianthe, or my grief.
Fate, I am tired.
We bury her. Lay her body in the soil.
I watch her slow transformation from a person to a thing.
An object in the ground, lying cold and still, lost in a meadow of flowers.
Empty vase. Bereft of soul.
And there I stand, long after I have covered her up with all that earth. Under that naked sky, I behold the slow transformation of the landscape as night vanquishes day. I watch as countless stars slice their way through the vault of the heavens so they might drip their celestial ichor onto the world below. I stand, a silent sentinel, as creation is painted with a delicate silver-tipped brush.
I beg the moon to keep the night.
And still, the dawn comes anyway.
“Give me your broken heart, and the roaring storm of your shattered soul,” Arlen says. “Give it all to me. I am not afraid of the dark.” There is a pause. “It’s part of a poem. I can’t remember the rest of it.”
I don’t speak. There is nothing left. Now I know what it is to be empty.
He approaches me slowly, and then wraps his arms around me, holding me tight.
We stand for some time, clinging to each other, reveling in the sweet agony of all we have lost. Finally, when the sun is high and there is nothing left in either of us, he says, “Let’s go.”
“Where?” I ask.
“Home.” He takes my hand and leads me toward the forest.
“Home?”
“To the place we were born. To bury our father.” He pauses. “We deserve quiet lives, Cassandra. We have suffered enough.”
And so I follow him, and we walk into tomorrow.
He stayed long enough to help sort through the chaos. Long enough to make sure everyone would be okay. Once the Boundary fell, everything fell apart. Elroy felt a certain obligation toward setting it to rights.
Arlen had disappeared, along with his sister. They’d high-tailed it out of there to lick their wounds, and who could blame them? But now, things were settling into a new normal, and it was time to go. If he stayed out here any longer, he’d become a shine addict. Already, every day was a battle. If he didn’t get away from it, he’d turn into someone he didn’t want to be. And that was all that was out here. Shine, everywhere he turned.
His feet were itching.
Now, or never.
“You sure you can’t stay any longer?” Sterling asked. It really bit his butt that Sterling was still out here, directing things, but Arlen disappeared, and Sterling had put himself in command when Arlen left, so who was Elroy to argue? Someone needed to serve as a point of order. “We need good men out here.”
“Nope, it’s time for me to be going,” Elroy said. His pack was at his feet. It held every worldly possession he had, and it wasn’t much. A few changes of clothes, a pot, some food, a candle, a notebook and some charcoal for drawing. It made him feel a bit dark knowing that he could pick up his entire life and move on that easily. He’d walk away, and no one would be the wiser. Ten minutes after he left, the world would forget Elroy McGlover ever existed.
There was a certain freedom in that.
And something a bit mournful as well.
But now? It was time. He either left now, or he’d stay forever, drinking his life away. His pa had been a shine addict and was wealthy enough to pay for his habit. Elroy saw how shine destroyed people. He’d been on the front lines, watching his pa drift away a bit more each day. More than that, this land, af
ter everything that happened, felt haunted.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Sterling said, reaching into his pocket suddenly. “A missive from the transfer office came for you.” He handed Elroy the parchment. The wax was still sealed and his name was scrawled across the parchment in looping cursive.
Elroy grabbed the letter before shouldering his pack. He tipped his hat at Sterling. “Time to be off,” he said.
“Where are you going?” Sterling asked.
Elroy took in a breath and studied the sky. “Don’t rightly know,” he said. “I heard a story about a tree once, that grew out of the heart of the world. Figure I’ll go looking for it.” He didn’t turn around. Didn’t look at Sterling again. He picked a horizon and walked toward it.
It wasn’t until he was well away that he broke the wax on the parchment and unrolled it.
Elroy,
I hope this letter gets to you before you leave. There are some things I wish you to know. First, I have left some money in the Union Bank under your name. It is enough for you to live comfortably, if you choose. Secondly, I am coming back to put Shine Territory to rights. It will be a lot of work and I will need good men to help me. You will always have a job, though something tells me you will never come looking for one.
I hope you find what you are looking for.
Arlen Hobson
Elroy smiled and kept walking.
EDITING
Nathan Hall
COVER ART
Pen Astridge
FORMATTING
Clare Davidson
BETA READERS
Fiona Mackintosh and AM Justice
PEOPLE WHO GENERALLY TOLERATED MY EXCITEMENT
Rob Hayes
Michael R. Fletcher
Anne-Mhairi Simpson
Writer’s Refuge group
PEOPLE WHO TOLERATED ME IN REAL LIFE WHILE I WAS WRITING THIS THING AND TOTALLY DESERVE AN AWARD FOR PUTTING UP WITH MY INTENSE WEIRDNESS
My family (bless their hearts)
No book is ever written alone. Not really. I might wear pajamas and sit alone in a room talking to myself as I work through things, but behind every author is an army of people waiting in the wings to help, offer advice, insight, or just generally deal with you when you’re in the mood to flail around a bit. We get weird when we write books. We need people who understand our brand of weirdness.
I am lucky in the fact that my army is quite amazing. I have a fantastic system of support that I have relied on heavily during the writing of this book, from amazing beta readers who picked out plenty of issues I didn’t notice (Fiona Mackintosh and AM Justice), to friends who were willing to deal with my early morning Facebook messages, “OH MY GOD LOOK AT MY COVER ART!” (Rob Hayes and Michael R. Fletcher), and Anne-Mhairi Simpson, who is always willing to check out my snippets.
Nathan Hall was an incredible editor who wasn’t afraid to make me rewrite entire chapters if they needed it. Nor was he afraid to call me out when I started wandering a bit too far into the weeds, or when my writing got lazy. He was also very enthusiastic, and cheered me on when I felt like I was banging my head against a wall. I’ve never had a better editor, and I hope he doesn’t mind how weird I can be, because I hope to work with him far into the future.
I also want to call out my Facebook group, Writer’s Refuge. I started that group as a place for me to go and sort of geek out about all things writing, so I’d stop annoying everyone else with it. What I got was a tight-knit community of over 100 people who are all kind, supportive, and have given me insights into the art of writing that I wouldn’t have had otherwise. My “Refugios” are amazing, and I’m so glad they have been there to offer support, and to kick my ass when I needed it.
And HUGE thanks to all of my readers, and the reviewers willing to take a chance on me. Writing has always been something I’ve done for myself, but knowing there are people out there who appreciate what I pour so much of myself into makes all of this so much more exciting. I cherish all of you and you will never know how much your support helps me, day in and day out.
Lastly, but certainly not least, is my family. Writing is really weird, because it demands so much of the author. We can all (I’m assuming I’m not just speaking for myself here) turn into headcases when we get involved in our art. My family has been supportive every inch of the way (even if I’m less than fun to be around). They’ve never let me give up, or demean myself or my work. They’ve reached out to help when I’m feeling overwhelmed, and just generally been far better people than I deserve when I’m all… you know… lost in the weeds of my own mind.
It’s not easy to wrestle a story into submission, but my family has been the bedrock my life is built upon. Everything I produce is better because they are in my corner, cheering me on.
Sarah has been a compulsive reader her whole life. At a young age, she found her reading niche in the fantastic genre of Speculative Fiction. She blames her active imagination for the hobbies that threaten to consume her life. She is a book reviewer, freelance writer and editor, semi-pro nature photographer, three-time cancer survivor, and mom. In her ideal world, she’d do nothing but drink lots of tea and read from a never-ending pile of speculative fiction books.
Seraphina’s Lament
(The Bloodlands Book 1)