by Jane Yolen
Maybe she was texting Juliette. I texted her.
God, I sounded cold. No intro. Just the fact’s ma’am. I added
Nothing. I used my arms to force myself up, and started looking again, glancing at my wrist from time to time.
Light started to spill over the horizon in earnest. Birds sang.
I hadn’t seen my daughter for six hours. When did she leave?
Where was she?
What could I have said differently?
Was she safe?
I found a thin, stooped man wearing the ubiquitous orange vest. “Have you seen a child?”
“How old?”
“Twelve.”
“Do you have a picture?”
“Of course.” I sent him one. He futzed with his wristlet, then looked up and said. “Go back to your car.”
“I’m not leaving her.”
He spoke slowly, as if I were hard of hearing. “You need to be in your car for it to get out of the lot.”
“Other cars can go around it.”
“Go to your car. We’ll find you.”
“Okay.” But I didn’t. I started jogging between rows of cars, watching people wake up. People in orange started yelling at everyone to get in their cars, and I waved at them. Sure. Sure. I was going.
Where was she?
Engines began to turn on.
Cars pulled out, a slow, depressing line. Our still and silent car probably slowed them down some, but I couldn’t tell.
A drone flew over. News drone? Battle drone?
As the cars near me started, lights flipping on and soft engine noise declaring life, I jogged between them, heading for the front of the lot, suddenly afraid she’d been imprisoned in someone’s car. I wanted to watch all the cars leave and be sure Lucienne wasn’t trapped in any of them.
Another drone came. They dipped and dove, and shot at nothing and no one shot at them. But people everywhere watched them, sitting up straight and leaning out windows and taking pictures with wrists and other small cameras. The drones were eerily silent, as were the cars, everything so electric and quiet the sound of birds singing came through the morning clearly.
A hand landed on my shoulder when I wasn’t expecting it and I jumped. A tall man in an orange vest striped with safety yellow. His sunglasses—pushed on top of his head—matched. I hadn’t seen such a full beard in years, brown but starting to grow in gray. “Go to your car.”
“I have to find my daughter.”
“They found her.”
“Who?”
“A friend. Up the road. In a tow truck. He’s bringing her back.”
“Up the road? Where?”
“She was on her way to Seattle. You’d have never caught her. She was almost at the crest.” His look was disapproving, as if I’d lost her on purpose.
Shame and anger and relief all warred inside me but I just said, “Thank you.”
“Wait in your car.”
I didn’t feel like being compliant, but I compromised by heading toward the car and then hovering within a few thousand feet of it.
Juliette didn’t text me back. I tried not to think about that, but it was like not thinking about pink elephants. I kept imagining her falling.
Lucienne hadn’t turned on her location beacons, so I couldn’t tell how long it would take for her to get back to me. I fought for calm. I had to be calm. I could keep her safe if I could stay calm.
The lot was almost empty, even the drones gone. A bald eagle rode a thermal above the lot. I periodically read headlines. Fighting everywhere in Seattle. People were fleeing from Tacoma and a truck had taken down a bridge, snarling traffic. The Russians were starting down two more border points, one in Montana and one in North Dakota. They hadn’t yet captured anything in Eastern Canada, and our troops were helping the Canadians as well as fighting for us. People were rushing to join, and I thought of Juliette again, and wondered where she was. Almost everyone else I knew had left Seattle before we did.
When the bearded man brought Lucienne back, her face was so white I wondered what he had said to her, and my anger fled into some other protective state. “Are you okay?” I asked as soon as he had gone.
She swallowed. “Lisa’s dead.”
“Do you know that?”
She stared at the ground and mumbled. “Someone else is using her wristlet. Someone who speaks another language.”
“Is that all you know?”
“Yes.”
“Is that why you left?”
She toed the ground. “I wanted to help her.”
There was still a chasm between us. I could feel it, and I made myself stand still and not reach for her no matter how much I wanted to. “I’m sorry.”
“I haven’t heard from Juliette. I don’t know if she’s okay, either.”
“I texted her when you were missing.”
“I don’t want to leave home,” she said. “I can’t help anyone from here. I can’t do anything useful.” Her voice started to rise. “I can’t be a hero.”
Was that what this was about? “Of course you can. Give it a little time.”
“I want to be a hero now.” She was almost shouting, my little serious child who almost always followed directions.
My voice rose in return, matching hers, rising above it. “Like what? A comic book hero?”
She simply stared at me, as if the question had shocked her still.
I stepped toward her. “Is Lisa a hero?”
Silence.
Anger licked through my bones, burning away any self-control I had left. “Does dying make you a hero? We could arrange that.” I sounded snappy, even to myself. Mean. Horrible. Noisy. I can only imagine what I sounded like to her. “We are family. We need to keep each other alive. There will be more chance to die in your life. You’ll have them. Plenty of them. But you have to learn more before you can be a hero.” I took a deep heaving breath.
Lucienne eyes widened. I never yelled.
Except now. I kept my voice high, piling my fear for her into it. “Lisa is no hero. She’s just dead. Or not. You don’t know. But if she dies, it didn’t do any good. Death doesn’t do anyone any good.”
Lucienne said nothing, merely stared.
“It’s true. You can choose to die any day. Any day. But you can also choose to live. We’re going to live.”
“I want to fight.”
“You have to live to fight!”
My wrist buzzed, interrupted my tirade. Juliette.
I felt parts of me relax, breathe out.
This time all I felt was relief. No warring emotions. Just relief. I showed Lucienne the texts. “She’s fighting to keep you and I safe. We should go.”
A tear streaked down her face.
I couldn’t help myself. I reached a hand out and plucked it from her cheek.
She stepped into me for the first time in two years, and her arms curled around me.
“I love you,” I whispered. “I need for you to be safe.”
“I never hated you.”
My whole body shook. “I know.”
If the Censors betray us, run for the border. I will know you’ve gone, and that will set me free, too. At that point they’ll be no better than the Shadows. Run, and wait for me.
Joyce Reynolds-Ward
The Notice
Joyce Reynolds-Ward
For once it wasn’t dark and raining when she left work. Yarrow hesitated in the lobby of the medical office building where she worked, surveying the outdoors as she adjusted her coat. There was the slightest hint of gold light to the west that reflected into the street from an upper row of windows on the skyscraper opposite her building. Her fingers itched to seize the warm golden glow and spin it into a bright web to cheer those around her. It was one thing she had done to make Jenny smile even in the darkest political hours.
&nb
sp; No, she told herself. Yarrow knew better than to try to weave the light, even to bring joy to others and divert their thoughts from the Shadow War’s necessity. Doing so might trigger her building’s wards—more than that, the secret Witches Resistance Council had advised those like Yarrow to hide their presence outside of work. Lie low. Avoid drawing attention from the Censors. Fear of the Shadows has spilled into fear of all magic, even for good. Don’t risk yourself without good cause!
Unfortunately, bringing pleasant thoughts to the non-witches around her didn’t fall in the category of “good cause.” Still, Yarrow leaned against the floor-to-ceiling window and gazed at the golden light before it faded, to hearten herself at the least. She savored the glow’s cheery warmth, delaying the moment when she would have to pass through the building’s wards. She could remember Jenny’s smile. Maybe she could see this quick glow even in Relocation Camp #5. Thinking about Jenny helped Yarrow ignore the handful of people who glowered at her.
Witch. Outsider. Their emotions were so palpable that Yarrow almost expected to see a second being embodying that fear and anger stalking alongside those who glared at her. The Council was right, but oh, she wished for the days before the Censors and the Shadows had engaged in this war, when witches like her were honored rather than hated and feared.
Who knows what witches are safe? Best put them all in a camp, she picked up from one man who glared the hardest at her. Yarrow also caught a glimpse of his memory of a beloved woman melting away as one of the alien Shadow fell over her. She shuddered. Even though she also sensed one of the protective charms of her making to keep his emotions from bleeding out and calling to the Shadows, he still projected hard. A recent loss.
But he still hated her, like so many of those who benefited from her healing and her charms, even though the bracelets on her wrists restrained her and bled magic from her. The curse of the Shadows that hung over the City meant that memories of the good things that witches did faded more quickly than the destructive moments. People only remembered was that the Censors had declared all witches, all magic, to be dangerous, whether positive or destructive, even as they used it.
In cynical moments Yarrow let herself wonder if there really was a difference between the Censors and the Shadows. Before Jenny’s capture, she would have persuaded Yarrow out of those moments. Now, Yarrow wasn’t so sure.
She shook herself. Of course there was a difference. Yarrow heaved a sigh as the last of the golden light faded, regretting that she had allowed politics to distract her from savoring the glow. She tapped the bracelets that controlled her magic to the outside non-work setting, and winced as a dull pressure rose in her sinuses. The world about her darkened. Not as bad as it would be without that fleeting memory of sunglow.
Don’t think about the Censors, she told herself. Think about home. Maybe the bus ride would be peaceful and she would have the energy to tell small stories to Carlos and Marisol, Leslie and Maria’s kids. It had been a slow magic day at work, no healing required of her so she had made her charms all day. That might leave enough magic in her daily allotment to illustrate her stories with the animated creatures the kids loved.
But first she had to get home without incident. Yarrow steeled herself and went through the doorway. Cold fire lanced through her bracelets, vibrating through her wrists as the building’s daemon questioned the data chip in the bracelets. Sensing no wrongdoing from Yarrow for her day’s work, the sharpness of the cold fire faded as she passed through the vestibule and the second door. Still, the dull throb in her forehead grew stronger as she went outside. This query from the building had hurt more than usual, and the cold wind whispering through the skyscraper canyons didn’t help.
Once she reached the bus shelter, Yarrow stood in the yellow-painted rectangle on the pavement outside the shelter labeled WITCHES ONLY. No one came near her. Two schoolboys hissed mockingly at her in low whispers; she ignored them, knowing the tone too well to make the effort to make sense of the hurtful words. She huddled down into her coat as the damp cold wind whipped around her, relieved when the bus finally pulled up.
The line to get on the bus stretched almost to her rectangle. Yarrow waited as the normals loaded, worrying. The next bus might not reach her stop before curfew, and she’d have to use magic to hide herself and get home safely. But at last the back door of the bus opened. She slid in and found her customary seat on the steps, next to another woman with witch’s restraint bracelets and the witch glyph on her coat. They sat together gingerly, careful not to touch in case their bracelets objected to the contact.
The bus stopped. Yarrow and the other witch stood and pressed against opposite sides of the stairwell as the norms left. One man banged his bag against Yarrow’s shins. She bit her lip to keep from giving him the satisfaction of knowing he had caused her pain. He scowled at her.
“—witches,” she heard him say as she sank into herself again on her stairwell perch. At least she hadn’t heard the epithet clearly. Yarrow leaned her head against the stairwell wall and whispered a tiny obscure charm to make her less noticeable. Her bracelets vibrated a warning, sending sharp tingles up and down her arms. Yarrow closed her eyes and breathed through her mouth. A little more pain and a little less magic was tolerable compared to the possibility of just one more encounter like that.
She’d be home soon. Safe for another night. She hoped.
And it was still another night without Jenny. Another night when she wished that Jenny had taken the bracelets—but the Jenny who would do that was not the woman Yarrow loved.
One of us has to stay safe for the future of our kind, Jenny had said. You have more to contribute with your charms and healing magic. All I know how to do is fight—she had shrugged here—and I can’t do much against the Shadows with my skills. I’m an organizer. But the Censors won’t let me stay free for long—if I know you are safe, then I can stay strong and organize the Resistance against both Censors and Shadows, even in a Relocation Camp.
Yarrow swallowed hard. Sometimes she wondered if Jenny was doing more good in Relocation Camp #5 than she would have done as a tame organizer for the Censors.
~*~
The streetlight at her stop had burned out again. Yarrow tensed as she stepped off of the bus, switching from obscure to a scan charm of equal strength. Sometimes the Censors switched off the light to let anti-witch mobs hunt freely. Prickles of pain radiated from her bracelets as they protested the stronger charm. She scanned behind the low brick wall dividing the patio of a condominium complex from the sidewalk, the most likely space for an ambusher to hide. Nothing. She extended her scan to include the low row of arborvitae lining the foundation of the apartments next to the condos. Nothing. Perhaps the light had legitimately burned out.
Nonetheless, Yarrow remained cautious as she walked two blocks past increasingly shabby apartment buildings until she reached the rundown two-story complex that held her studio. The light being out could also mean that a raid was imminent. But no dangers lurked in the narrow dark courtyard between the two wings of the building.
The main entry door was ajar so that she didn’t need to punch her code to get in, a thin thread of light spilling into the dark outside. Not right. Yarrow pushed it open, alert. Still, there was nothing worrisome in the dingy foyer. Yet.
She climbed the stairs, the silence adding to her worry. Far too quiet. No mouth-watering scent of spicy dinner wafting from Abdul and Kareen’s apartment down the north wing hallway on the main floor. No kid noise from Maria and Leslie’s apartment near the second floor landing. No distant mumbles of TVs from other apartments as she walked to her door. It was as if no one else was at home. Everyone else should be in the building now, comfy and cozy against a world turned alien.
Dread clutched at Yarrow’s stomach. Has something happened to Jenny? Her limited freedom had been the deal Jenny had made with the Censors to go peacefully to the Camp without provoking a battle that would only benefit the Shadows.
A yellow sheet of paper on h
er door heightened her sense of doom. Yarrow detached it with shaking hands. The words splayed across the narrow paper in an incongruously cheerful magenta font.
RELOCATION ORDER
24 HOUR NOTICE.
DO NOT GO TO WORK.
DO NOT LEAVE THE BUILDING
UNTIL NATIONAL SECURITY COMES FOR YOU.
DO NOT WORK MAGIC.
BE PACKED.
NO MORE THAN TWO BAGS.
Yarrow gulped. She crumpled the notice into a tight ball in one hand and unlocked her door, her hands shaking even though she felt a faint twinge of magic in the notice. She slammed the door shut behind her. Then she spotted an envelope on the floor close to the door, her name inscribed on it in fine black calligraphy. Now what? She reluctantly picked it up. The envelope was of good quality, the type used for fancy invitations or thank yous. Her heart started to pound harder. Could it be—? The Resistance Council used cards like this to communicate. It was easier to authenticate physical cards, and the Censors couldn’t monitor them as well as they could electronic communications.
Yarrow lightly tapped the bright red seal on the back flap. A faint chime sounded. Authentic. A missive from the Resistance Council. Hands shaking, Yarrow broke the seal and took out the card.
DESTROY AFTER READING flashed at the top in bright red letters.
Underneath, in the same fine calligraphy that had been on the envelope, the message continued.
Time is of the essence and the Censors are watching the building. Raid hit at 2 pm today. Got everyone but me, Maria, and the kids. Abdul is dead for certain. We need to free the survivors and your services are required by the Council. Censors mean to manipulate Jenny and discredit her work in the Camp by making a big deal about capturing you, claim you’re working with the Shadows. Get your things ready and wait for my knock. Destroy this now. “Burn to nothingness.”
Leslie
RC-authenticated