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8/2/2019 Third Level Issue 5
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The Third LevelThe Third LevelThe Third LevelThe Third Level
IssueIssueIssueIssue 5555
Spring 2010Spring 2010Spring 2010Spring 2010
http://quiver.knox.edu/thethirdlevel/http://quiver.knox.edu/thethirdlevel/http://quiver.knox.edu/thethirdlevel/http://quiver.knox.edu/thethirdlevel/
EEEE----mail: [email protected]: [email protected]: [email protected]: [email protected]
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Table of Contents
As Red as Blood Krista Ahlberg, 2011
The physician shudders with something akin to revulsion as she leaves the babys
nursery and doesnt know why, for surely there is nothing revolting about this, the perfect
child.
Poems: Amaterasu, Kali, and Hieros Gamos Ashley Atkinson, 2012
See, look into the mirror,
your skin is not melting,
and your kimono is
not scraping against your heart
The Thrill of the Hunt Owen Kerschner, 2011
Three humans ride towards the trees from the east, and I can smell their magic from
where I stand. I observe them with yellow eyes from the edge of the trees as they
approach along the ancient Olgart road.
The Ferryman Makenzi Crouch, 2012Astrid opened her eyes and stared up into the blackness of her cabin. Somethings
wrong, she thought. Unfastening the straps holding her in her bunk, she pushed off the
bulkhead and floated to the comm panel.
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As Red as Blood
Krista Ahlberg
Born on a cold winter morning, her mother clutches her to her breast and calls her Snow
White, in the hope that she will be as pure and white as the new-fallen snow. And with a doting
mother and a loving-yet-oblivious father, she is.
The court physician worries about the child because she never cries, but instead looks up
at her with eyes of wonder, eyes so dark a brown that they bring to mind the chocolate that has
lately come from Spain. The physician shudders with something akin to revulsion as she leaves
the babys nursery and doesnt know why, for surely there is nothing revolting about this, the
perfect child.
*
At the age of five, when her mother dies, Snow White still does not cry. She knows she
should, but she cannot summon the tears to her eyes. Her father wraps his arms around her and
soaks the shoulders of her dress with his tears, but she only looks solemnly over his shoulder.
*
The physician, invited to the funeral with the rest of the household staff, sees this solemn
look and glances away quickly.
Soon after the death of the queen, the king falls ill. The doctor comes to treat him, but
there is no physical wrong in him that she can see: indeed, he is still young, not much past thirty
and, the doctor cannot help noticing, still as handsome as he ever was.
But he will not eat. He has sunk into a despair so deep that she can barely manage to
force broth down his throat. She comes every day, and as he drinks his barley broth or she feels
his forehead for a fever, he looks at her as if she is the only thing holding him up, keeping him
alive.
And so it is on the day he clutches at her arm as she turns to go and says doctor, she sits
on the edge of the bed and tells him to call her by her given name, though no one has used it in
nigh on a dozen years.
He says it as if it is a flavor he is savoring, and still he holds her by her wrist as though
she might float away on a passing breeze if he does not. No one has ever looked at her like that,
she thinks, and so the next time she comes she does not tie her hair up in a ribbon but lets it fall
free.
She does not think of what she is doing, trying to attract a king, and that mere weeks after
his wifes death. She is careful not to think about it. And when the day comes that he sits up in
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bed and kisses her, she pushes all thoughts of mourning and fidelity from her mind and leans in
and kisses back, just to feel his warm arms come around her and to be safe again, for the first time
since childhood to have no worries or cares. This is what she has. This is who she is.
*
Snow White is six years old when her father marries his physician and tells her, She is
your mother now.
But this woman has blond hair, not brown, and looks at Snow White with lips that are
pinched, not smiling. No, she can never be mother.
*
For her part, the new queen watches Snow White watching her and thinks, There is
something wrong with that child. But she cannot think for long, because there is a line of well
wishers waiting to give her gifts and congratulations, and she does not know what to do with her
hands or her mouth.
She settles for a half smile and clasping her hands over her stomach before quickly
lowering them, though surely no one can see, no one can tell the existence of the human being
growing inside her.
But still she jumps out of her skin when the last person in line, a wrinkled old woman
who barely reaches the queens shoulder, puts her gnarled hand upon her stomach and says ah,
before handing her a gilt-framed mirror swathed in lace. She wants to recoil, but her husband is
smiling and reaching out to the woman to embrace her, explaining in quiet tones that this is his
godmother.
She forces a smile to her lips and kisses the womans weathered cheek, and her present is
the first the queen looks at that night after they have all been moved into her antechamber.
It truly is a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, she realizes once she removes the lace that
binds it, like none shes ever seen. She hangs it on the wall above her dressing table and thinks
nothing amiss until the day it whispers as she leans in to powder her face: You really are, you
know.
She lets out a strangled screech and jumps back, upsetting her chair. Then she cautiously
leans in again.
I am what? she asks shakily, barely above a breath.
The fairest of them all.
*
She knows she is not the fairest of them all, cannot be, shouldnt be. She must wear
glasses to read fine print, her hair is not the blond of cornsilk bathed in summer sunshine but of
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dusty wheat, and her hands are almost as large as those of the king. But the mirror insists, and she
knows that a mirror like this does not lie.
*
Snow White sees the new worry in her stepmothers face, a worry that swells along with
her belly. Snow White is too young to know about the ways of men and women, and yet she
knows. And the stepmother sees Snow White look at her growing stomach and turns away,
always turns away with a strange look on her face. Her own mother loved her, Snow White
knows, yet this new mother does not. She will only love the creature that comes out of her.
*
But the creature does not come. Eight months after the wedding, the queen goes to bed
and the midwife, the new physician who has replaced her, comes to her and gives her teas steeped
with mugwart and cool lavender-drenched cloths to place on her forehead. And yet despite all
this, the baby is born still.
Perhaps it was not meant to be, her husband whispers as he brushes her damp hair off
her forehead and kisses her. Perhaps it was never meant to be.
His words do not console her. The only thing that does is the mirror, later, alone in her
room, saying You are still the fairest of them all.
*
Snow White grows up obstinate. The knowledge that her stepmother does not love her
taints any obedience Snow White might have had. When she is ten years old, she stops speaking
to the stepmother altogether. Soon, she will not even submit to the embraces of her father, and, as
she grows older, her obstinacy turns to rebellion.
A princess is not supposed to climb out of her bedroom window and down the trellis in
the middle of the night to wander through the woods. But she finds solace in the darkness, solace
she cannot find anywhere else. In the dark, no one can see her. She can be anyone she wishes to
be, anyone but herself.
A princess is not supposed to talk to boys she meets in the woods either. Boys with eyes
that glow like firelight. For the fire, as she knows from observation, consumes all it touches. And
yet, perhaps she would like to be consumed by this boy with eyes that follow her, this boy that
seems to know her. Maybe if she lets him consume her, she will at last begin to feel, as she has
not since the death of her mother, eight long years ago. To feel what the stepmother does not give
her, can never give her. To feel that she is worthy of being loved.
And so when she is fourteen she lifts her skirts to him there on the forest floor. Her heart
beats hard in her throat as his kisses her cheek and then her neck. This is the moment, she thinks,
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the moment I finally become. But what she thinks to become she does not know. His lips against
her neck turn to teeth, and she feels a sharp pain that makes her clap her hand to her throat. She
can feel her pulse beneath her fingers, and when she brings them away, her blood shines milky
silver in the moonlight that streaks through the trees. And he smiles at her, blood dripping off the
teeth she suddenly sees are sharp. She scrambles to her feet, ripping her dress on a protruding root
and runs, never looking back for fear that she will trip and then that hot, looming presence will be
on her again.
She hides under her blankets that night and makes sure her windows and her door are
latched. She never sees the boy again, but that does not change anything, for she knows what he
was.
In the morning, she finds the blood, dried on her neck, and when she wipes it off, finds
beneath two puncture holes that gape at her sinisterly until she thinks to hide them under her silk
scarf from Paris. A rejected present from the stepmother, relegated to the back corner of her
wardrobe, it fills its purpose now.
With her wounds hidden, Snow White can at last begin to think. In all the time that she
hides away from the world, she has read many books, books of lore and of fantastical creatures.
She knows of the mating habits of griffins and the properties of unicorn horns. She knows when
dragons prefer to hunt and why fairies sometimes eat their young.
She knows that those who are vampire-bit will soon become vampires themselves.
She begins to have difficulty falling asleep at night. She lies awake past midnight and
awakes with a start at dawn. The times of falling asleep and waking grow closer together until she
does not sleep at all.
While she lies in her bed unsleeping, she probes her incisors with her tongue, feeling
them grow sharper day by day, until one night a drop of blood wells on her tongue when she
touches it to her tooth. She swallows the blood, feeling it slide, saltily and tasting of metal, down
her throat, and finds that she likes the taste of it. It makes her feel alive as nothing has in a long
time.
The sun that greets her in the mornings hurts her eyes and seems more like a curse,
though the farmers call it a blessing. She keeps her curtains shut all day and deigns not to go
outside. From her reading, she knows what would happen to her if she does, and though she does
not value life, she is not eager to see what death would have in store for one such as she.
Surprisingly, she is not disgusted or afraid of what she has become. She likes the taste of
the word on her tongue almost as much as she likes the taste of her own blood. Vampire. At last
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she can put a name to who she is. Not Princess. Not Snow White. Not daughter without mother.
Vampire. She smiles, alone in the darkness of her room.
Her skin grows parchment pale and her lips plump, hungering for the blood their color
mocks. Food has no appeal for her anymore. She pushes away the sharp cheese and sweet pears
she used to love. She tells the cooks to make her meat rare and tries to ignore the worried looks
her father gives her as she tears into the pink and bloody steak.
But she cannot ignore the looks the stepmother sends her, looks not of worry but of fear,
and a strange determination.
*
There is something wrong with that child, the queen thinks across the dining table, as she
has times too numerous to count over the years. Something very wrong. And as time passes and
the child grows yet stranger, refusing to come out of her room for days at a time, her lips growing
red as though stained by blood, the queen comes to the realization that something must be done
about her and that she is the only one to do it.
Her determination strikes her like a fever. On the evening ten years exactly from the day
she became queen and received the gift of gifts, the mirror, in response to the query she has
practiced for years in the secret of her room, denies her her only lifeline.
Who is the fairest of them all? asks the queen.
And the mirror, instead of replying, You, my queen, as is its wont, says, You are most
fair, my queen, but the other lady of your house is fairer still. Snow White is fairest of them all.
It cannot be. It cannot be. Snow White is barely fifteen, pale and withdrawn, with hair
and lips too stark to offset her pallor nicely. The child is wrong, all wrong. The queen has known
this for years, and now she takes away the only solace of a life of unreal dreams and unfulfilled
expectations, of a husband who was near until the baby died, then went away forever, no tiny
hand to hold in hers and no one to love and be loved by, save this cold piece of glass and gold
which now betrays her. Everyone, everything betrays, falls short. There is but one solution,
realizes the once-doctor now- queen, alone in her room, sprawled on the floor, her skirts all about
her, her hair in disarray and face streaked with tears. If Snow White does not live, she cannot be
fairest. Snow White must die, to bring the world back to where it belongs.
*
Snow White can make do at first on nearly raw meat that still holds some memory of
blood flowing through its veins. But soon that, even with the occasional sampling of her own
blood, does not satisfy.
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She takes to once again sneaking out of her bedroom window and down the trellis when
the world is dark and silent, this time not to escape but to hunt. She finds that she is fast, faster
than the rabbits and badgers that inhabit the wood. As she sucks from the open wounds, blood
that is not her own gushing down her chin and over her hands, at last, at last, her hunger is
satisfied, but only for a time. Soon she begins to crave not the sweetly diluted blood of the
innocent forest creature, but a drink more noxious and all the more intoxicating.
She begins to assess the risk of taking this human or that, this stable boy or that ladies
maid. Who would miss them, who has family, friends, a sweetheart? Finally, she settles on the
huntsman, he who brings in the meat for their table. She knows he lives alone and rarely talks to
anyone. No one will look too closely into his death. But it is these same attributes, unbeknownst
to Snow White, which make him so attractive to someone else.
*
The queen thinks of how to kill the girl. She thinks the forest the best place for it. The girl
went there often enough in earlier days, before she took to shutting herself up in her room. No
one will think it unnatural that she became lost there and died of starvation or exposure.
The queen knows she cannot kill the girl herself, much as she would like to, to satisfy this
perverse desire she has to see the girls heart, to discover at last whether she is truly human. She
begins to look around, to discover who she will enlist to do her bidding. She sees the huntsman
one day, drawing water from the well in the courtyard, a brace of rabbits hung on his belt. The
blood streaked across his tunic belongs to him, and he to it. There is nothing out of the ordinary in
the huntsman going into the forest and coming back smeared with blood.
She calls him to her private chambers, not the audience chamber, for she knows she looks
far more imposing against the black velvet hangings that border her mirror. He looks frightened
when she makes her proposition, and stutters, The-the princess? But at her imperious nod, he
straightens and salutes, though he is shaking visibly.
She hands him a silver box, intricately wrought with designs of leaves and flowers, which
she has picked from the treasury. Bring me back her heart in this box, she orders, and smiles at
the shudder that wracks the huntsmans body.
After he has gone, she wonders when the change happened, when it was that she ceased
feeling joy at anything but anothers pain.
*
Snow White waits for the huntsman in the courtyard at twilight, where she has seen him
come before after a days hunting. He comes out of the castle and goes straight to the well, raising
a bucket of water and rinsing his face with it. Snow White watches him, half concealed in the rose
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walk. He is a large man, and his blood will flow thick. Her stomach twists in bitter delight at the
thought.
She had thought of how to approach him. She thinks he is an honorable man, and it is
better to play the innocent girl than the seductive young woman this time.
She taps him on the shoulder. Good sir, she says in her most girlish voice, I think I
saw a young deer enter the woods not long ago, and it looked injured. Will you accompany me to
find it?
For a moment, she watches the play of emotions on his face. Relief wages battle with
horror, until he sighs, and takes her hand, as if she is but a child, and leads her into the forest.
She cannot remember the last time someone touched her. The stepmother never has, and
her father not in years. The servants do not come near her and she has no friends. She has
forgotten the comfort to be received from the touch of another human. Well, she thinks wryly,
from a human, anyway. She does not suppose that she can be considered human anymore.
They reach the clearing in the forest where everything changed forever, and Snow White
takes her hand from the huntsmans gently. She did not know that she remembered how to be
gentle. And this time, when she looks at him, she sees not the blood coursing through him but the
depth of sadness in his eyes, and she turns away, knowing that she cannot kill him. Not him. Not
this man.
Princess, he calls her, and she says, No, for that is not what she is, not anymore, not
ever. She looks into his eyes and sees something inside him break, and then he tells her of the
stepmother and how he must kill her and bring her heart back to the castle.
She knows she should be angry, should be furious, but she only feels tired, as she has not
felt since the change occurred. She feels as though she could fall asleep.
Maybe we can help each other, she says to the huntsman, placing her hand on his arm,
and tells him to sit still. He may be a huntsman, but she is fast, and when a wild boar comes
snuffling through the clearing a quarter hour later, she pounces, biting down on its neck with that
swoop in her belly that she has come to equate with happiness.
The huntsman watches in amazement and not just a little fear as Snow White takes his
knife from his belt and slits the boar open, but he does not move. She reaches into the gaping,
steaming center and pulls out the heart, clutched in her fist, and hands it to the huntsman.
Give this to my stepmother, and it shall please her, Snow White says, and he never
doubts her, this huntsman, but turns away, then looks at her one last time.
I wont be back, she assures him, and turns also, to finish her meal.
*
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The huntsman delivers the heart to the queen, and when he has left the room she removes
it from its silver prison and holds it in her hands. She has missed the feel of organs beneath her
fingers. She brings it closer, examining it. Something does not look right about this heart. But as
it nears her face, she breathes in deeply, and the scent of fresh-spilled blood reaches her nostrils.
Suddenly, an insatiable need comes over her. She has heard that when one eats the heart of a
thing, one gains some of its power. She would like to gain control over the girl at last. She calls
for salt for curing and prepares the heart herself, then sits in the dining hall where she has sat
through so many fine banquets as queen, and there devours the heart of her stepdaughter. The
blood is red on her napkin and the corners of her mouth and she feels sure that, at long last,
balance has been restored.
*
Snow White knows that the stepmother is not a stupid woman, that sooner or later she
will realize she has been tricked. But even as she knows this, Snow White cannot summon the
will to move from her spot in the clearing. The darkness grows around her until it is black as
pitch, and it is only then that Snow White rises to her feet, aiming them away from the place she
has lived all her life, a place that has never been home, and into the heart of the forest.
The house appears on the edges of her vision when the first pale streaks make their way
across the sky and she moves toward it. It is small and empty, and cobwebs lay thick upon the
stairs. Stains from torchlight and tallow make sinister designs on the walls and the rushes upon
the floor are filthy and sparse. She would think the place abandoned if not for the seven dinner
settings on the table, complete with food. She has heard of these men who are not men, who live
alone and mine the diamonds that lie on her stepmothers throat and the emeralds that adorn her
breast.
She thinks that they will be home soon, for it is nearing dark, and that, as with the
huntsman, it is best to act the part of the lost innocent child that she is not, for though she is lost,
innocence was never hers.
So she climbs the stairs, ducking her head at intervals, and finds seven beds ranged along
the wall. She chooses the one farthest from the single window, which she is sure to cover before
lying down to begin the guise of sleep.
It is not long before she hears the rhythmic slam of booted feet on hard packed earth, and
then the door opening and the rumble of gruff voices so different from those she has heard her
whole life.
She feigns sleep as the noises climb the stairs to her, and she must fight a smile when all
noises stop, and she knows they have seen her.
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A child, says one.
A beautiful child, says another, his tone more awed than the last.
How did she get here? asks another, surely voicing the question they all feel.
She pretends to start awake, and then clutches the blanket to her chin as she looks round
at them all. They are as she thought: half-men, dwarf-men. She has nothing to fear from them,
and yet she pretends.
Oh, Im so sorry, she says, and weaves the pitiful tale of her stepmothers jealousy and
attempt to kill her. They crowd around her, this one touching her knee through the blankets, this
one her elbow, as if to offer comfort.
You will stay with us, says the one who spoke first, and his voice is decisive and the
others nod. We too are misunderstood by your kind, says the one with the brown beard. And he
pats her leg before drawing away. The rest follow. We will let you sleep now.
And thus begins Snow Whites time with the dwarf-men. They do not understand that she
does not need to sleep, but she lets them think she must, for she still must hunt if she wishes to
survive. She could kill the dwarves, she knows, but the non-human men have no appeal for her.
She goes back to the unknowing forest creatures, the fawns and the rabbits, and bites her own
wrist when things become too much.
She can hardly keep track of all of the little men, and so she does not try. There is the one
who does most of the talking for them all, who is their leader, and she addresses him when she
must, smiling at the others when their brows draw too close together, and she knows they are
thinking suspicious thoughts about her.
Every morning when they go off to work in the mines, he tells her not to go outside and
not to let anyone in, and she thinks that these not-men who have taken her in must be a bit stupid,
but she nods and smiles and simpers as she must. Of course she will not go outside during
daylight, for she is still not eager to taste the feasts of hell.
*
The queen is always cold, and cannot summon back the warmth she felt as the warm,
still-bleeding heart of her stepdaughter eased down her throat. She has avoided talking to the
mirror in the two weeks since the deed was done, because although she wants, no, needs to hear it
say she is the fairest of them all, she knows that waves of guilt will come crashing down upon her
then, to beat at her brow and worry her temples. And then who will be fairest? Certainly not she.
But one day she cannot withhold any longer, and stands before the mirror in her bedroom
and asks, Mirror, Mirror, on the wall, whos the fairest of them all?
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And the mirror, wanton traitor that it is, replies Although you are most fair, my queen,
the one with skin as snow and lips as blood, who dwells across the forest with the dwarf-men, is
fairer still.
And the queen screams and bangs her fists upon the mirror, willing it to change its
answer, but it cannot break, cannot change. The guilt does not come after all, only a greater anger
and a greater belief that the girl must die. She is unnatural; she must be. How else did she survive
the huntsman and the perils of the forest?
The queen knows that she cannot tell another soul about this. The king has been more
distant still since the disappearance of his only child, and lying beside her at night sighs, and
looks toward the wall. No, everything she does must be done in secret, by herself. She finds the
ancient books of medicine that she never used while she was still a physician, thinking them
foolish and outdated, but now she pores through them carefully, and finds that what she hoped for
was true. Among these books of medicine are several books of spells, and soon enough, the queen
finds the answer she seeks: poison.
And so in the afternoon, she walks to the orchard, carrying a basket, intent on finding the
richest, reddest apple in the place. She climbs a tree in the middle of a row, first removing her
shoes and stockings and bunching her dress up above her knees. She picks twelve apples before
finding the most beautiful one of all. She turns it in her hands. It is strange, she thinks, flashing
first white, now red as she twists it from side to side, and it is mesmerizing.
She brings it close to her face and breaths in the smell of crispness, of sun and leaves and
bark. Funny, she thinks, how the smell of apples never changes. She closes her eyes, feels her lids
fluttering, and is transported back.
She stands on this same ladder, skirts pulled up and tucked in at the waist where the
fabric is already pushed out by the baby that will never be. She stands like this, smelling the
apples and feeling the sun on her arms, and hears the voice of the king calling. This is in the early
days of their marriage, when she is still accustomed to calling him king. She feels his hand on
the back of her calf, barely brushing, gentle, and looks down at him.
He smiles up at her and she smiles back, placing the apple she holds in her basket before
climbing down the ladder carefully and joining her husband. He takes the basket from her arm
and places it gently on the ground. Your feet are bare, he says.
I know, she replies and then he sweeps her up in his embrace, kissing her forehead and
then her mouth.
I love you, he says.
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The remembrance of his voice, his words, his love runs through her like a shock as she
stands on the ladder, so far away now from that memory and the people in it. She gasps and
almost drops the apple, the perfect tool of her revenge, but catches it just in time.
She prepares the poison first. Thistle bark and rue, saffron and wolfsbane, and others she
has never seen or even heard of before. She holds the apple in the kitchen tongs and dips the red
side in, careful not to mar the perfect, translucent white half. How came this apple to be? She asks
herself, but cannot answer, intent on her task.
When the apple has soaked up all the poison it can, she sets to work on the other potion
she has devised. A disguise, for surely the girl will never speak to her as she is now. She takes on
the appearance of a crone, and wraps her now gray and wispy hair in a cloth before going before
the mirror one last time, to tell it, I will be the fairest of them all. She realizes the ridiculousness
of this statement looking as she does, but decides not to care.
*
Snow White lies on her back upon the floor of the dwarves dining room, looking up at
the cobwebby ceiling. Her dress will pick up the muck from the boots the dwarf-men refuse to
take off and the dust that has accumulated in this house over the years. They have asked her to
clean it, but she does not know how, nor does she wish to learn. She wishes only to lie on her
back and sleep, but that is one thing she cannot ever do.
A knock comes at the latched door. For days, Snow White has wished for just such an
occurrence. The dwarves tell her she must not let anybody in, and yet Snow Whites stomach
twists with pleasure and her mouth waters at the thought of true blood at last, thick and true. She
has not eaten in days, depressed by the monotony of robin and raccoon. This passing traveler may
be the solution to her desire.
Who is it? she calls in the sweetest voice she can muster.
Merely an old woman selling apples, comes the reply.
An old woman is not as good as a strapping huntsman in his prime, but she will do.
Come in, Grandmother, says Snow White, and goes to unlatch the door.
There is something wrong with this old woman, Snow White knows, but what, she cannot
tell. And the apples she sells are so red, so luscious, as red as the blood that flows trickling from
veins. She thinks that she could eat these apples, though she has not tasted human food for
months. The old woman holds up a strange apple, far more beautiful than the others. This apple is
Snow White, half as white as snow and half as red as blood.
And yet she hesitates, for though it looks like blood, she knows it will not taste of it.
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The woman senses her hesitation, but misinterprets it. Here, dearie, Ill bite from the
white half, and you from the red. And yes, it is appropriate, this way of doing things, for Snow
White is now steeped in blood, and this old womans blood will add to it soon enough.
And so she takes the bitten apple from the old womans hand and raises it to her mouth
and bites a chunk out of the red half. It is too heavy, too sweet, and she sucks in a mouthful of air,
trying to rid herself of the taste. As she breathes, the apple catches in her throat, sticks there, and
she cannot move it one way or the other. A little air seeps in around the edges of the apple, but
not much, and were she human, she would surely suffocate.
She tries to draw in breath, and feels the apple lodged in her throat. She feels a pressure
in her lungs that creeps upward, past her pale hands clutching her throat, past the impenetrable
fruit, to her head. She feels dizzy and before her eyes the vision of the crone swims. She smiles
hazily and for a moment Snow White thinks she looks familiar. Of course, she is familiar.
Snow White feels weak. The apple trembles in her hand and she remembers suddenly
how many days she has gone without feeding, why the floor has lately seemed the best place to
be. She watches the apple fall, and then she is falling too, the floor crashing into her cheek and
hip.
When she can move again, can place her arms and climb to her feet, the crone is gone and
a hollow laugh is in her ears.
She walks haltingly to the door and pulls it open, thinking only of finding blood to drink,
to ease the apple down her throat. Twilight has arrived without her knowing and she stumbles
through the dusk, hearing the skittering of small animals and thinks, anything, even a squirrel will
do. But the pressure is rising behind her eyes again, the ground coming up to meet her once more.
The dwarves find her there, lying face down outside their front door, when they return
from the mines. She hears their voices all around her, but she cannot make her voice create any
sound but a thin hiss, cannot even open her eyes. They fashion for her a glass coffin and lay her in
it, arranging her carefully, not afraid to touch her now in death.
And so she lies in her coffin in the middle of the woods, not dying, no, but not truly
living either. But then, she thinks, she was never truly living.
*
The queen thinks to be exuberant when she stands before her mirror and asks Who is the
fairest of them all? and it answers her While Snow White lies still as death, you, my queen, are
fairest. She thinks to feel completed, but she does not. She feels just as empty as before, and
tired, so tired. She takes to her bed, and though the king tries to comfort her, he shows none of the
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tenderness he did in the orchard so long ago, and his words do not heal, but wound deeper. And
so she lies in her bed, fairest of them all, and waits for the judgment she knows will come.
*
Snow White lies still until the day she hears a voice unlike the gruff ones she has become
accustomed to near her coffin. This voice is clear and sweet, and holds the promise of blood as
rich as the apple was lacking. This voice belongs to arms that lift the edges of her coffin, there in
the deepest clearing of the woods, where no light ever shines.
She feels warm breath upon her face, but cannot lift her eyelids to see, and then she feels
strong arms under her shoulders, lifting her, and a sharp jolt as she is set down again higher up.
The jolt moves something inside of her, and suddenly she is able to choke up the apple that has
kept her prisoner for these long days and weeks. She breathes in, finally tasting the air sweet and
tangy with the moss on the trees and the sweat of the man before her.
She opens her eyes to find herself atop a mule, looking into the astonished face of a man
with dark hair. His eyes are blue, bright blue, and she can see a flush in his neck and cheeks that
means blood, means nourishment, means life and death.
He laughs, a short, deep bark, and strides to her, taking her in his arms and kissing her.
And yet this human contact, the first she has had in months, does not carry the comfort that the
huntsmans grasp did, nor even the shallow care that her fathers embraces used to display. He
crushes her to him, letting out a shuddering breath that feathers through her hair. She can feel the
desperation in his touch and his voice as he says, At last, at last. This man is hot and cold,
passionate and perhaps cruel, but she thinks that none of it is truly for her. After all, who is she?
She knows she does not deserve the love he ardently expresses to her, because there is no
love, only hot passion and cold fear, and one will be exchanged for the other before long. And so
she smiles into his neck as he holds her, dry tongue tracing the points of her teeth, positioning
them as he talks of how grand their wedding will be.
She has always thought that she would like to be queen.
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Atkinson 1
Poems: Amaterasu, Kali, and Hieros Gamos
Ashley Atkinson
Amaterasu
Amaterasu,
do not dismay,
warm wise woman of the Sun,
your sake-satiated siblingswill not drunkenly run through
your rice paddies anymore.
Your stone shrines will remain
clean and pure; your palace
will not be defiled with
Susanoos excrement again.Your brother will listen
when you, the eldest sister,
cry, No!
And the men from across the sea
will listen to you when you say
that the people of Hiroshimaand Nagasaki are innocent,
that they only listened to
the emperor, and that he
does not represent you.
Put the image
of a skinless horse
out of your mind.Your handmaidens,
still weaving in their innocence,
will remain safe.
And the modern weavers, when
they wake up in the morning
of August 6th, 1945,
wont have to see the sun
completely overshadowed
by a bomb.
Amaterasu,
Goddess of the silken robes,
do not hole yourselfin a cave.
There are no soldiers
or American admirals yet
forcing you
or your Sun children
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Atkinson 2
to become like them,
power-hungry, land-hungry,
human-hungry.
See, look into the mirror,
your skin is not melting,
and your kimono is
not scraping against your heart,your dry and parched under wear.
Dance, lets dance,and laugh that at least excrement
helps things grow.
Amaterasu,
black-haired beauty,you must be there
when your children
cry out for mizu
in their strangled voices,
caught in barbed wire,
gulping black rain,their bones stunned into ash.
You must be the Sun.
When the people do not believe
that life will grow for seventy-five years,
you must will the bud to peak its headby peaking your own head out of this cave.
You must tell them that eventually
there wont be any more lumps
or soot or blasts or waxingor waning bodies.
You must tell everyone,
so come out of that cave
and into this sunless land.
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Atkinson 3
Forbidden Truthsfor Kali
I.
Goddess, look me in the eye!
I am the Tantric devotee,
the one who challenges youto loll your tongue at me,
to wave your bloody cleaver
in my hot-breathed face.
Take me, rape me,
drink blood and wine until
you know not the difference.
You are the ultimate form of
pancatattva, the five forbidden truths,
and I will conquer this artificial world
through you who is denied.
Your nude black body, your hair entangledwith severed arms, your necklace of smiling skulls,
your fangs dripping blood;
these all inspire me to conquer you.
I think you must be coming.
I hear the scraping of your sword,the thumping of a corpses heart.
How these cremation grounds
taste of earthy souls and erect penises.
Human fluids are steaming, pulsing inside you;these oozing wounds have become your cosmetics.
How your anklets ring in the silent death
that is this night, echoing in my blood-filled
heart. You whisper, death is my desire.
II.
I cannot look you in the eye. I refuse
to see your fangs and your tongue, now rolling
over my body. Hot breath overcomes me,and I do not wish for anything but you.
III.
Listen, as she drunkenly dances
over my corpse-like body.
Listen, as she thrusts herself
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into me, demanding death.
Listen.How her anklets ring!1
1The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna.
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Hieros Gamos
Even before the advent of cuneiform, priestesses took part in Hieros Gamos, the sacred marriage
between the land and sky, between the female and male, between the Goddess and God. Some stillhonor this tradition.
She can see him running now
with his hair of grass disheveled,
the warmth of his breathhunting for her insides.
He moves alongside the elk,listening to its blood rushing,
and pulls out his chiseled dagger,
aiming for the heart, swift.
The rushing blood soon on his hands,he smells its soul leaving its body,
asks the elk for its blessing of the harvest.
The sacred, sacrificial animal of Beltane.
Prancing hooves, furry antlers,
he has become the hunter,after he understands
the hearts of the hunted.
He sprints through the forest,
blending, honoring, becoming.
She is decorated with blueberry paint andsymbols sacred to the Goddess.
A labyrinth, a shedding of consciousness.
Two triangles intertwined,
the essence of Hieros Gamos.
She scents her hair with the musky dusk,
and dances around the Maypole in celebration.
She is to become the full-fledged priestess tonight,
overcoming trials of dagger and chalice.
He approaches, hot and pulsing.
He stalks the sacred bed, readyto join the animals in their sacred rituals.
They feel the Earth caving to their demands.
She shivers as the berry paint smears into her.She feels the wind push out and in,
the horns gently grazing her in pleasure.
She feels the world ripple and tear,making way for the new spring.
She is the Goddess tonight,
and he is the God.
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Kerschner 1
The Thrill of the Hunt
Owen Kerschner
Three humans ride towards the trees from the east, and I can smell their magic from
where I stand. I observe them with yellow eyes from the edge of the trees as they approach along
the ancient Olgart road. The male is a fighter; he carries a sword imbued with flames and he
carries himself erect, eternally ready for attack. The larger female leads with a quiet strength and
bears a longbow and many enchanted tattoos, whose effects are too tightly bound to her for me to
discern beyond their mere presence. The third one, though, is a smaller, frightened female she
stinks of Primal Chaos. She is a Chaos Mage; there can be no mistaking the signs. Chaos Mages
are able to bend the unearthly essence of the worlds beginning to their will, whether to injure
creatures, transform objects, or move from place to place in an instant of insanity.
The humans risk much in coming this way. Humans call this forest the Madwood because
the stench of Chaos is thick in this place, where human Chaos Mages once warred with other
mages and accidentally imbued the land itself with the twisted energies of raw creation. Here the
trees might bend down and spear you on thorns and branches as sharp as my fangs or a random
flare of power twist an ordinary animal into a chaos mutant. Most human maps dont even record
the Olgart road anymore because it runs straight through the Madwood; to enter it is to court
death or worse. Even so, there is no place I would rather be. Unlike the humans, I welcome the
danger, for I am well suited to overcoming it.
Another wolf lopes up beside me and bows his head in deference. Greetings, Tamna, he
says with his mind. The scouts have returned. The twisted-bear-talon-prey is worthy of the Hunt,
though steadfast in its course. It ignores our harrying and runs here. Luna will float high when it
arrives.
I lift my muzzle high, still observing the humans. The Chaos Mage draws it here. The
danger to the humans is great, but their presence may prove a mixed boon to the Hunt. We will
not deny ourselves the opportunity which the humans presence grants us, but for their sake and
ours the prey dies this night. Go now and rally the pack, I inform him. He bows his head and
turns to leave, but hesitates and looks back at me.
If it reaches the humans..? he begins to ask. My eyes flaring wide, I turn and snap my
jaws at him with a snarl, cowing him.
If it reaches the humans, cub, then we catch it andkill it before it reaches the Chaos
Mage and gorges on her raw power. If we fail in that, we will die with the humans. Now GO, I
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growl. He runs back to the rest of the pack with his tail between his legs while I turn back
towards the human trio. He is young and ignorant, but some things should be obvious even to
cubs. It is well for him that Darthra is his mother and not I, else I would do more than merely
rebuke him. He will learn or he will die and be howled to rest like any fallen pack-mate. The
humans still confuse me, though. Why would they risk bringing a Chaos Mage through the
Madwood? I raise my eyes to gaze upon Luna. She hangs low in the sky, and darkness hides half
of her silver form. Though my wolf form is ill-suited to laughing, I feel the urge to do so. To
think that humans look upon Lunas radiance and think only to call her the Moon! How little of
her nature is in that word. I and my pack will use the strength which Luna gave us this night, and
we will praise her with the blood of our Prey. I turn back into the trees and run back to the bulk of
my pack.
When I arrive, the whole pack is present. Twenty werewolves bow their heads to greet
me. My mate Keldor approaches me and we nuzzle briefly. He knows as I do that greater shows
of affection must wait, for now at least. Parting our heads, his eyes meet mine as the pack clusters
around us.
Darthras cub grows anxious, Tamna. He fears, and his fear nearly consumes him.
Keldor says.
What would you have me do? I ask him irritably.He is old enough and strong enough for
the Hunt, but we all fear when we are cubs. The Hunt will cure him of that soon enough.
Keldor bares his teeth at me with a growl.His fears will be his death this night, but you
lead us. He reveres your prowess, your cunning, your hunting-guile. Your assurance can put him
at ease long enough for him fight, andthen he will be cured of his fears.
No! I snarl at him.I will not coddle him; he is not a helpless human newborn. He will
lose his fear in battle against the Prey.
But this prey is larger than any Ive seen, Keldor counters.If he fears it, he will die.
Then we will howl him into Lunas embrace. I turn to the rest of the pack and speak to
them all with my mind. Tonight we hunt a mighty foe, a Chaos Mutant of rare size and power. I
turn to face the cub, ignoring Keldors cold gaze. Once again the cub is cowed by me, and I speak
to him so all can hear. Tonight you shall hunt with us, cub, and under Lunas light you shall name
yourself with the blood of our prey. He bows his head and the rest of the pack and I howl to Luna,
singing of the glory of the Hunt. We finish our howl and I speak to the whole pack. There are
humans here in the wood. They draw the Prey to themselves, for one among them is a Chaos
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Kerschner 3
Mage. This gives us the advantages of surprise and ambush against the prey, and we will use
both.
The assembled werewolves look among themselves, some uncertain, some pleased with
my tactic. Darthra, the cubs mother, is not pleased, and locks eyes with me.
This is folly! If the prey eats the Chaos Mage it will grow and mutate further, and one
pack may not be enough to take it down. What if it leaves the trees and finds a human town? How
many would die before we find enough packs to kill it? she says.
I snort in anger, but I do not bare my teeth or growl, for her question is apt and deserves
an answer. We have the speed to kill the prey before it gets close to the Chaos Mage and the
strength to hold it back from her. But even if we falter, the other two humans have their own
battle magic, and they can delay it long enough for her to escape or for us to end its life. I will
approach them about fighting together. Now let us run to meet them and ready our ambush!
As one we turn and run swiftly back toward the human party. We run as Luna has blessed
us to run, far faster than any Wolf. Our swiftness lets us hunt well. As we run, I lead and the rest
form a wedge behind me, much as birds might fly. The effect is small, but may be enough to let
us get to the humans faster. The trees fly towards me and by me as I dodge to either side of them.
While I run, my mind wanders. The cub shows promise, but his fear disgusts me. No werewolf
should fear their prey. We are the mightiest creatures in the land, blessed of Luna and tasked by
her with hunting the most dangerous of magical beasts! Fear is for young cubs, prey, and humans.
Why fear pain or injury when we can heal most wounds in moments? I growl quietly as I run. The
cub will hunt, the cub will fight, and the cub will survive with no more help than any other
member of the pack. He must. He will not fail, not like my son
My mind ranges back to another time, another hunt. My own son was ready to earn a
name in Lunas eyes and become an adult in the pack. We faced a smaller Chaos Mutant, a
fanged horse with spines sprouting from its hide. I was certain that we would kill it with little
effort, but we were a new pack then, just Keldor, my son, and another mated pair. I insisted that
my son lead the charge, and as he sprang towards it he shifted into his hulking war form with
ease. But I erred. It extended its spines in less time than the flap of a humming birds wing,
impaling my son in a dozen places. In that instant both I and my son were frozen in fear, and in
the next moment it snapped its head around and cleanly severed his head from his neck.
The rest of us were able to kill it easily enough by biting through its spines and slashing
its eyes, but my son was dead because of fear; his fear of death prevented him from fighting back,
and my fear of his death made me hesitate. We howled his soul to rest in Lunas embrace, but I
knew that I had made two mistakes. I had made him attack alone before anyone else instead of
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together as a pack, and I had let fear paralyze me. I vowed to never again let fear overcome me,
and never again to indulge such pride during the hunt. I shake my head as I run and I smell that
we are nearing the humans. After a moment, I come to a stop and the pack stops behind me.
Where does our prey approach from? I ask my nearest scout. He shows me the images of
terrain and landmarks along with a glimpse of the prey itself, and I understand which direction it
is from us. I nod to him and address the whole pack.I will speak with the humans while you take
positions around the preys line of approach. Cub, you will fight with Keldor and me. The rest of
you know your groups. Go. They all move with haste, their forms blurring with the speed of their
passing. I lope over towards the humans at a far slower pace. I see that they have stopped and
dismounted in a small clearing. The male looks up and sees me approaching and draws his sword.
My flesh flows and changes and in a heart beat I stand on two legs in my human form, continuing
my walk without breaking stride. The males eyes widen and he lowers his sword slightly, though
suspicion still clouds his eyes.
Kithara, we have company, the male says in a deliberately calm voice. I see that
theyve drawn a circle around their small camp site. It smells of protective magic, likely a ward
against physical force to act as a barrier against any mutants which might wander their way.
Chaos, though, is always shifting, always changing. A ward will give them a few precious
moments, but no ward can last for long against Chaos.
The leader female stands and faces me, and I stop a few feet away from the warding
circle. Name yourself and your business with us, she says. She lowers her hand to one of her
tattoos, ready to tap its magic with a touch.
I nod in return. I am Tamna, werewolf and pack leader. I would speak with you of a
mutual foe and how we might oppose it together.
We can defend ourselves just fine, werewolf, the male says as he sheathes his sword.
The female Kithara turns to look at the male in anger. Be reasonable, Jenric. The
werewolves know the Madwood and its dangers better than us. She turns once again to face me.
We would also be glad of any help you could offer us. Who or what is this enemy you speak
of? she asks.
I nod. My pack and I have been stalking an unusually large and swift Chaos Mutant. Not
long after we began, the beast started running in this direction at full speed for no reason we
could determine. Today I spotted your group and smelt the Chaos magic of that one, I say as I
point to the smaller female. Her power draws it to her like a moth to the flame, save that this
moth feeds on flame. We intend to ambush it before that can happen.
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Kithara glances towards the Chaos Mage, who huddles on the ground looking and
smelling terrified. Kithara turns back to face me. What do you intend to do then?
I point towards the preys direction of approach. It comes from there, and will arrive
within the hour. We mean to ambush it, kill it, and feast upon its heart before it gets within fifty
feet of your companion. We would appreciate it if you would join us with whatever combat spells
you possess. Kithara nods slowly, considering my words.
Of course. Frankly Im relieved that we wont be facing a mutant by ourselves. Never
can tell what they can do, after all. Until they do it, of course, Kithara responds.
That always makes the Hunt exciting though. Of all the kinds of magical beasts in this
land, none are as satisfying to kill as Chaos Mutants. I must go now to see to my pack so we can
be ready for the prey, I say as I move to leave.
W-what can I do? a quavering voice says behind me. I turn around to see the young
Chaos mage standing uncertainly. Its my fault that were even here, and I want to help.
I regard her quietly, appraising her. How skilled are you in wielding Primal Chaos,
Chaos Mage? I ask bluntly.
She winces at my question and looks down. Ive only been able to do it for a week or
two, and I havent used it often. I dont know much about it, but I want to learn how to control
chaos so I dont put my family at risk. The only place I can learn more about chaos is the
Multiversity, and this is the fastest way there from my village. She lifts her head high in
defiance. I may not know much, but Ive used chaos to defend myself before, and I wont let my
big sister get hurt because of me!
Weve been over this, Beth! Kithara interjects, looking the smaller girl square in the
eye. Im the oldest and its my job to keepyou safe. You should stay here in the warding circle
while Jenric and I go to fight this thing with the werewolves.
No! I want to help! the Chaos mage begins, but I cut her off.
Enough. Kithara is right. If you have little control over your power, then you risk all our
lives in using it. Unless the battle is lost and your wards are pierced, the best thing you can do is
stay here where you should be safe. If the worst should happen, though, you should try to channel
your magic into fleeing from the beast. You might be able to wound it, but it is a being of chaos
and may be unaffected or even healed by your attempt. Now I must go, I say as I turn and bound
away, shifting back into my wolf form as I go.
I look to the sky as I run, and I see Luna floating high. She tells me from her place that
the prey will arrive soon, if my scouts estimates are correct. I wonder at the stubbornness of the
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Chaos Mage, Beth. She cares deeply for Kithara; the smell of love on her was quite strong. I hope
that she does not become reckless and attempt to wield chaos in this battle, but I know that the
lure of Chaos calls to Chaos Mages. They are drawn to it, and they cannot help but want to use it.
Few Chaos Mages live long enough to enjoy old age, and all too many fail to learn caution from
their early failures. Every chaos spell they cast is a calculated risk, a gamble that they will be
strong enough to keep the raw forces of creation in check long enough to bend them to their will
and change things to better match their desires. Losing that gamble means pain and possibly death
as chaos tears through their bodies, transforming flesh into sharp rock, or poisonous jelly, or
nearly anything imaginable.
I reach Keldor and the cub, and I survey the rest of the packs positions and the site they
have chosen. Before I can comment, I hear the preys unearthly wail. It is close, very close. I
crouch down by my mate, ready to pounce as soon as the prey appears. I listen for its approach,
and I hear it coming towards us with unbelievable speed. As it approaches, the trees begin to stir
and move; one tree slowly melts into a violently red pool of liquid, while another tree near me
bursts into purple flames and begins to bend in our direction. The power of Chaos in the prey is
causing the trees to stir! We cant afford that distraction; half the pack might get killed trying to
split their attention between the prey and the forest. I call out to the rest of the pack with my
mind.
Fall back to the humans! I scream. They do not hesitate or question me. We all turn and
run with Lunas speed back to the human camp. Within moments of our reaching the clearing we
all come to an abrupt stop, reverse our facing and shift into our combat forms. My flesh ripples
and my bones pop as I grow to stand on two large paws. I stand fully nine feet tall when erect,
but I drop to one knee, readying myself to pounce. I hear Beth squeak in fear as she sees twenty
one werewolves preparing for battle, and I hear Jenric unsheathe his sword and say a word to
light it on fire. I can smell the spells of lighting and ice in Kitharas tattoos, as well as a dozen
other spells waiting to be unleashed by her touch. A tense moment passes before the prey zooms
into our view. It vaguely resembles a bear, but larger and much more gruesome in appearance. It
stands twelve feet tall at the shoulder, with two separate jaws sitting side by side on its face, and
its sickly purple hide is bereft of fur. At least a dozen tentacles sprout from its body, each tipped
with a jagged blade of bone and all whirling.
We pounce on it, stopping it with our sheer numbers. It shrieks in rage and shakes itself
powerfully, knocking me and many others of us off. One flies into a tree and is impaled on
spines of living metal, while I go flying into the humans ward and impact it as though it were a
stone wall. It becomes briefly visible, flashing dark blue and red in a spider web pattern at the
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point where I hit it. I fall to the ground and I can see that the cub and a few others still cling to the
beast, using its own tentacles as anchors while they tear into it with fangs and claws. I can hear
Kithara behind me tapping a tattoo and beginning to chant a spell. She stretches out her hand and
a beam of icy blue magic shoots out of it and into the preys eyes. Its eyes freeze solid as I watch,
and it rears up in pain. I leap back onto it and repeatedly bite at one of its tentacles at the roots. It
takes several bites, but I manage to sever it. Moving to the next tentacle, this time I grab it before
it can fall to the ground and I jab the jagged blade into the Preys own flesh. The cub has done
much the same, and moves to sever a third tentacle. A fiery gash appears in the preys hind leg,
and I can see from the corner of my eye that Jenric has joined the fray, dancing around its rear
and nimbly dodging the swings of its tentacle-blades. The prey howls and flails its remaining
limbs wildly, stabbing Keldor and several others deeply. I see one of my pack-mates decapitated,
while four others fall off of the prey and lie writhing in pain, Keldor among them. Enraged, I dig
into its flesh directly and tear and slash at it to open its wound larger.
An arrow of golden lightning pierces the preys side mere inches away from my head. I
briefly turn to see Kithara pulling back on the string of her bow and another arrow appearing. She
fires again and pierces a tentacle which would otherwise have stabbed another of my pack mates
in the neck, burning a hole through the tentacle and causing the blade to droop uselessly. The
prey leaps fifteen feet into the air and lands on the edge of the humans ward, the force of its
landing once again knocking werewolves off it while also causing the wards to flash under the
strain of the impact. This time I manage to dig in tightly and avoid being thrown off, though I can
see from my position on its back that Beth looks oddly resolute rather than terrified. Jenric runs
forward to stab his flaming sword through the prey and buries the blade almost to the hilt in the
preys flesh. It screams with a sound reminiscent of a pig squealing and a rabbits death-scream
and pushes itself off of the ward. Jenric pulls his blade out of the prey effortlessly just as Keldor
leaps high into the air, pouncing on the prey and biting its right foreleg. It bites him with both
maws and shakes him viciously before tossing him twenty feet away from itself. Keldor just lies
there, barely moving. The prey must have wounded him deeply for him to not ignore the pain and
rush back into the fray.
The cub is thrown off again along with his mother Darthra, but he sprints beneath the
rearing prey and leaps upwards, his jaws clamping around its throat. It tries to swat him off but its
forelimbs are tied up fending off five other werewolves. The cub holds on even as it shakes its
head violently and as it rolls onto its back, crushing several of our number beneath its bulk. They
remain on the ground when it rolls back up again, stunned but alive. Two thirds of the pack is
now dazed or severely wounded, and several are already dead from its fury. I hear Beths
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strangled cry. Turning to look at her, I see her spread her hands to either side, drawing roiling
Chaos out of the land itself. She thrusts both hands towards the prey, sending a coruscating wave
of acid, bone shards and ichor into the preys side. A new tentacle grows from the point of
impact, and stabs Jenric through the thigh, but he severs it with his sword and moves to extract
the blade from the wound. Looking stricken, Beth turns her gaze back to the beast, which once
again lunges for the ward. This time the ward begins to crack; it will surely fail with one more
blow. Kithara continues to shoot her golden arrows while another of my pack-mates has his heart
stabbed out of his chest by a tentacle-blade, and something in Beth seems to snap. Beth screams
in utter fury, and crosses her upraised arms before her. The ground rumbles and dirt flies
everywhere as a massive bronze thorn erupts into being beneath the prey, impaling it. The prey
collapses to the ground crippled as a hole as wide as its head has been torn clean through its gut.
The cub takes advantage of this opportunity to bite the preys neck repeatedly, severing
its head within moments. As he does this I tear off the beasts final tentacle and it thumps to the
ground dead. The few of us who are not dead or grievously wounded continue to tear into it, just
in case it is merely playing at being dead. We tear its corpse into thirds and finally howl our
triumph to Luna. Victory! And the cub proved himself the master of his fear, just as I told Keldor
he would. Wait. Where is Keldor and where is the cubs mother? I look around and see that
Keldor still lies where he fell. His chest rises and falls slowly. I leap over to him and examine his
wounds. Some are very deep, but even now I can see his flesh knitting back together thanks to
Lunas greatest gift. We can heal from nearly any wound, save those inflicted by silver, Lunas
sacred metal. I kneel close to Keldors face and he opens one eye to look at me.
It is dead? he asks me with his mind.
I nod to him. Yes, it is dead. The cub latched onto its throat and severed its head.
He closes his eye. Good. I am glad that I was wrong about him. He opens both eyes and
looks at me intently.But you must go to the humans now. I will heal, though the deeper wounds
may take a few hours and I will surely need to sleep for the next week. Remember the cub as well,
for he has earned a name this day. I nod, closing my eyes tightly as I consider how lucky we
were. I stand and walk back to the human group, noting that their ward is now down. As I
approach, I pause by several of our wounded to be sure that they will live. Thankfully we
werewolves are resilient. Wounds that would slay a human or even a dragon twice over will slow
us down, but it takes a great deal to kill us. Even so, several of our number will never rise. This
prey was terrifically strong; it killed seven of our number, and came very close to killing nine
more. It would have succeeded in killing those last had they kept fighting and not retreated from
battle when they did. As I approach the three humans, I shift down into my own human form once
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again, since humans are most comfortable when dealing with those who at least appear to be
human.
Hello again, I say. I thank you for your aid. We came very close to losing the bulk of
our pack in that fight, and your magic helped to prevent that loss.
Kithara bows her head. I am pleased that we were able to help. She turns to Beth with
an angry look. But that was still reckless! You lost control of the spell and helped the mutant!
Beth looks at Kithara in defiance. Yes, but my second spell helped to save your life and
the werewolves lives. Jenric would have died if I hadnt!
Oh, dont mind me; Ill be fine with a stronger healing spell, Jenric says as he limps
over, a minor healing spell having already stemmed the bleeding.
Beth looks worriedly towards Jenric. I she starts to say, but her eyes roll up into her
head and she collapses. Kithara catches her and Jenric moves to examine her.
Jenric grunts. Shes over exerted herself with that second spell. Channeling chaos
always takes a toll on the body, and shes not all that hardy of a girl. He continues to look over
Beth, turning her head both ways and checking her pulse. I think shell be fine with some rest.
We need to get moving again, but well need to keep a slower pace until she regains
consciousness and you can heal my leg. Kithara taps a round tattoo on her left breast and lays
her hand on Jenrics leg. The wound glows light blue and begins to knit together again, though it
is obvious that it will take several days to be fully healed.
I look at Beth and then at Jenric. We will stay with you until you are past the Madwood.
We must sing our dead to rest. Many of us also need to recover and it will take some time for us
to eat the prey, but we can still protect each other while we heal. I turn to face the remaining
thirteen members of my pack; fourteen, once the cub chooses his name. But naming can wait;
first we must honor the dead.
Hear us, oh Luna! Seven of our kin have fallen in your service. We beseech you, Luna, to
take them into your Silver embrace. Let them hunt with you across the sky! I direct my thoughts to
my pack, the humans, and to Luna herself. As I finish, the pack and I all howl to Luna. It is a
howl of loss, but also one of joy, for while our kin have fallen they live on in Lunas embrace,
while we live to hunt another night. I walk back toward the preys remains. The cub stands
proudly and without even a hint of fear. I shift into my war form and call out to the rest of the
pack with my mind. Friends! Gather here so we may honor this werewolf, no longer a cub but a
warrior blessed by Luna and proven in battle against a mighty foe. What name do you choose to
be known by, warrior?
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He answers immediately, since he has thought of this day for many months and reached
his decision long before tonight.I am Morthan! he says. Darthra, his mother, nods her approval,
her eyes shining forth with pride at her sons achievement. I turn about to look at each pack mate
in turn who is still able to stand.Let Morthan be known as a member of this pack, and let us
declare it to Luna! We all howl to Luna, heralding Morthans name and entry into adulthood.
We finish our howl and then we feast upon our fallen foe. The taste of its meat changes
as I tear into it, shifting slowly as the last remnants of chaos still flow through its flesh. We gorge
ourselves, and even our wounded manage to hobble over and eat their fill. Mundane wolves can
go for more than two weeks without eating. Werewolves can go for more than a month, and a
meal this size could last us the rest of the season. I notice that Kithara has turned away from our
bloody spectacle to tend to Jenric and Beth. Well, humans are always squeamish around blood. It
takes us several days to finish eating the prey, but we walk with the humans during this time and
bring the many pieces of the carcass with us as we walk.
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The Ferryman
Makenzi Crouch
Astrid opened her eyes and stared up into the blackness of her cabin. Somethings wrong,
she thought. Unfastening the straps holding her in her bunk, she pushed off the bulkhead and
floated to the comm panel. A small light flashed frantically at her; suppressing a yawn, she
stabbed at a button with her thumb. The comm squawked, and she waited for the static to clear
before speaking.
Beletari.
Youre needed in the ER, Commander.
On my way, she said and released the button with another squeal of static. Pulling a
clean jumpsuit from her locker, she wriggled into it and headed out into the corridor.
Though some complained about the lack of gravity aboard the freighter, Astrid liked it.
She found she could get around faster in zero-g than in Earth-standard gravity. Handholds lined
the walls in every corridor, and it was only a matter of moments to propel herself from one part of
the ship to another. It was as close to flying as the human race would ever come.
She soared down the corridor and jerked to a halt outside the engine room. Punching in
her code, she waited impatiently for the doors to hiss open.
Some of the crew liked to refer to the engine room as the ER. Many of them were junkies
of old-style Earth entertainment, and the name had caught on. Astrid somersaulted through the
door and braced herself against a railing overlooking the engines. The twin spirals glowed green,
pulsing comfortingly. The senior crewman below spotted her and spared a moment for a quick
wave before disappearing beneath the engines.
A slight frown on her face, the commander dropped down to the main level and swung
over to the spirals. This close, the hum of the engines became a roar, and she had to shout to be
heard.
She nudged the crewmans foot, and when he slid out from underneath the huge coils,
holding on to keep from drifting upward, she said, Whyd you call me down, Michaels?
Youd better take a look, Commander, he replied. Somethings hinky with the primary
stabilisers.
Astrid awkwardly slithered into the workspace beside Michaels and peered up into the
engine core. Give me your torch, she said, holding out a hand. Michaels handed her the light,
and she shone the beam up into the wiring, squinting. The engines running fine?
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Bit of a shudder when we jumped to hyperspeed, but the secondaries are handling the
extra strain.
So thats what woke me up. Astrid held the torch between her teeth as she reached up
into the circuitry and wiggled some wires. After a moment she slid out from beneath the engines
and pulled herself upright. She wiped the torch on her jumpsuit and handed it back to Michaels,
saying, Theres some loose wiring way up in there. Probably got knocked loose in that last storm
we went through. Might take awhile, but it shouldnt be too hard to fix, now that we know its
there. Get it done before that shudder becomes a problem; we cant afford to lose the engines
before we arrive planetside.
Commander?
Astrid turned to see a junior crewman. What is it, Solari?
Captain wants you on the command deck, sir.
Thanks, she said, pushing off the ER floor and shooting upward towards the railing.
Fix that shudder, she shouted over her shoulder.
*
Have you ever been out this way, Beletari?
Cant say that I have, sir. Astrid released the handgrip she had been using to keep
herself up against the wall and flexed her fingers. The motion set her drifting towards the middle
of the room, and she quickly reclaimed her grip on the handle.
Captain Jenkins looked down at the starmap pinned to his desk. It seems no one has.
Makes rescue ops difficult when no ones familiar with the planet. He ran his fingers through his
short grey hair and sighed. The Skinners have left this area alone until recently, but I doubt
everyone else has. Im sure I dont have to tell you that growing up on the borderlands can be a
bitch. He flipped a switch on the bulkhead. Studying the readout, he said, Were still several
hours away from planetfall. Id like to increase speed to four point five
Id recommend against that, sir, Astrid said quickly. Theres a shudder in the primary
stabilisers and until Michaels has it fixed, Id rather we didnt bump our speed up any faster than
it is now. The secondaries can deal with the problem right now, but I dont like to think what will
happen if we suddenly streak faster. That shudder may turn into something far uglier.
Jenkins tapped a finger against the switch, a pensive look on his face. How soon will the
problem be corrected?
She hesitated. Not sure, sir.
He shook his head. Well have to risk a slight increase, at least.
Sir
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Thank you for your report, Commander. He pushed back to his desk and unpinned the
starmap. Rolling it up, he glanced up and added, I appreciate your diligence, Beletari, but you
look exhausted. You been getting much sleep?
Enough, sir.
Go get some rest. I dont need you until we land, but I will need you then.
But sir
He tucked the starmap back into its compartment. Now, Commander.
Irritated, Astrid returned to her cabin and strapped herself back into bed. The last thing
she felt before drifting off to sleep was the shudder of the engines.
*
She was awakened by a low, persistent beeping. When she opened her eyes, the light on
the comm was blinking at her. Something felt different, but she couldnt quite pinpoint what it
was, so she rolled out of bed and went to the wall.
Beletari, she said, her mouth dry from sleep.
Well be entering orbit in ten, Commander. Captain wants you on the command deck.
Roger.
Astrid released the button and opened a compartment below her bunk. She pulled out a
clear tube and shook it once before opening the top and drinking from it. Liquids were always
difficult in zero-g. She knew she probably shouldnt waste the water when she didnt really need
it; the freighter wasnt due to stop and restock for weeks. Feeling guilty, she closed the tube and
tucked it back into the compartment. Even on a borderlands planet like Zeta Circini, where
she had grown up, water had been plentiful; though she had been in space for years, she still
wasnt used to the idea of water as a precious resource.
As she pulled herself onto the command deck, Jenkins glanced up at her and motioned at
the chair beside him. She secured herself in the chair, pulling the belts tight.
Coming up on Cerberus, announced Crewman Edel at Nav. ETA five minutes. He
paused and looked back at Jenkins. We going into orbit, Captain?
Afraid not, Crewman. Were landing.
Yes, sir.
Ever landed a freighter before?
Only in simulations, sir.
Youll be fine. Mayer, we have any idea whats down there?
At Comm, Crewman Mayer shook her head. The lower atmosphere is a mess, sir. Its
interfering with our scans, but from whats coming through it looks like theyve taken a beating.
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Open a channel to the rest of the ship, Jenkins ordered.
Yes, sir, said Mayer. Whenever youre ready, sir.
Unconsciously, Jenkins straightened in his seat, prevented from floating upward from the
belts over his chest and across his lap. His fingers absently played with one of the buckles as he
spoke. All crew, this is Jenkins. Momentarily, well start our descent through Cerberuss
atmosphere. Secure your stations and yourselves for planetary descent. Jenkins out.
Mayer cut the channel and tugged her straps tighter. Leaning back in his chair, Jenkins
turned his head to look at Astrid.
Belt up, Commander. Its going to be a bumpy ride.
*
I hate bumpy rides, Astrid thought furiously fifteen minutes later, clinging to the arms of
her chair with all her might. As the boxy freighter plummeted through Cerberuss atmosphere, the
gravity on board began to increase. The added weight only made the jolting worse. Despite being
strapped in as tightly as was possible, she still felt as though she were being thrown about far too
much.I joined up to fly through space, not turn into a giant bruise. Her head aching, she forced
bile down when it threatened to rise up in her throat; she had seen crewmen lose it on planetfall
before, and it was never a pretty sight.
This is Jenkins. The captains voice filled the command deck, jumping slightly from
turbulence, and Astrid wondered when hed asked Comm to open the channel. Well be touching
down in a moment. Brace yourselves. Jenkins out.
As the freighter began to slow and grind out its landing gear, Astrid glanced down and
realised she had a bigger problem than turbulence: the edges of her belt were fraying. Oh, shit, I
thought I put in a repair order for that. The ship touched down, sending shock waves rippling
through the decks. At the impact, her belt gave way and she catapulted over Nav, hitting the
forward bulkhead and sliding to the floor as the ship slowly stilled.Damn gravity, she thought
angrily, and then groaned and sat up.
Commander?
Opening her eyes, she saw Edel standing over her. Yes? she managed, one hand to her
throbbing head.
You alright, sir?
She did a mental check before starting to get up. Think so.
Let me help you, sir, Edel said hastily, extending a hand.
The rest of the crew on the command deck were getting to their feet, moving slowly,
unaccustomed to the gravity. Only three-fourths Earth-normal, Astrid thought as she took an
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awkward step forward. All of those hours in the gym had barely prepared her for the discomfort
of walking.
Alright there, Commander? Jenkinss voice broke into her thoughts and she quickly
straightened.
Yes, sorry, sir.
Hows it look outside, Mayer?
Uh Mayer stabbed several buttons, a trickle of blood dribbling down her face from a
cut over her eyebrow. Radiations within tolerable levels, sir. Looks like they got hit about a
week ago. Theres not much left standing.
Whats the nearest city?
Looks like Hades, sir, Edel called. Styx is about the same distance in the opposite
direction, from what I can tell. Its pretty dark out there, sir.
Blimey, someone was having a laugh with their mythology, Astrid said. I hope the
names arent a warning. Anyone left alive out there?
Mayer shook her head. The scanner broke two days ago, Commander. No ones had
time to fix it yet. Theres no way to tell.
Well just have to go out. Beletari, come here. Jenkins pulled a piece of holo-paper
from his jumpsuit and unfolded it, beckoning Astrid to join him. She moved to his side and
watched as the map cycled through the main cities on Cerberus. I want you to take a team and
head to Styx, see if you can find any survivors. Ill take a team to Hades. If you find anyone,
bring them back here. TheLady Christina was supposed to get here yesterday, but we havent
heard from them, so Im assuming they got hit on their way. He refolded the holo-map and
handed it to his second in command. Until we hear otherwise, well operate as though the
Christina isnt coming. Once were done here, well move on to the next city, and keep moving
until weve covered the whole planet. Looking up, he said, Edel, Mayer, stay put. I need you
here in case the Skinners come back.
Edels head shot up. Comecome back, sir? Surely they wouldnt come back? Theres
nothing left.
Who knows why the Skinners do what they do? Jenkins looked tired. But I for one
would rather not be around if they do decide to come back, so pay attention and be ready to jump
planet and streak at a moments notice. Commander.
Astrid followed Jenkins off the command deck and down the hall. She wished Jenkins
hadnt brought up the possibility that a raiding party might return. Zeta Circini had been hit a few
times when she was younger, before anyone really knew anything about the Skinners. The border
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planets were used to getting hit. Pirates and smugglers and refugees from other planets came and
went and most of the time no one thought anything of it. And then the Skinners came. She
remembered walking home from school when she was twelve and seeing the smoke rising from
the settlement, remembered the green- and grey-clad man turning to face her as she scrabbled for
the energy weapon at her hip that hadnt worked for weeks but that her mother had insisted she
carry, hoping to deter any slave traders or pirates or anyone else she might encounter. Everyone
over eight knew how to use an energy weapon. No one protected you on the border planets.
The man had looked down at her from a height almost twice hers and had laughed, or at
least she had assumed it was a laugh, though it was hard to tell. It was high-pitched and bubbly,
but it whistled at the same time, and the sound was muffled in any case by the helmet that
concealed his face, which was painted in terrifying swirls of green and grey and black and made
Astrid think of fear. And when he stopped laughing and took off his helmet, she had wished he
or ithad left it on, because his face frightened her more than his helmet. His face looked like it
was made of dry, yellowed bone, with jagged pieces in places as though bits had been snapped
off, and there were strips of what looked like raw flesh hanging off the bone. He had no nose that
she could see, and his eyes were positioned far to the sides of his head, like a horses. He stood
there with his helmet beneath his arm and stared down at her, and after what had seemed like an
eternity to Astrid, he walked past her and away with a curious stride, and it was not until he had
faded away into the distance that she realised that his knees bent the wrong way.
She had run to the settlement, only to find it utterly destroyed. Her parents, everyone she
knew, were dead, their bones crushed, their skin shredded from their bodies. It wasnt until much
later that she put reports of the Skinners activities together with her own memories and realised
that the flesh on the face of the creature she had met could very well have belonged to her
parents. The Skinners had never come back to Zeta Circini. It was the early years of the war, and
Astrid could only assume that their strength had not been great enough, or the planet was not
important enough to them, for them to destroy the planet. But in all her life, there had never been
anyone she had hated so much as the Skinnersand there had never been anyone she had been so
afraid of.
Astrid shook herself out of her memories and discovered that they had reached the
skimmerhold. Several crewmen were already unbuckling the straps that held the skimmers in
place and were moving them out of the way. The skimmers, despite their names, were squat, ugly
vehicles, much like the freighter that housed them. Their battered hulls had once been w