#Inklingschallenge

[inklings-challenge]

"L. said to me one day: 'Tollers, there is too little of what we really like in stories. I am afraid we shall have to try to write some ourselves.' We agreed that he should try 'space travel' and I should try 'time travel'. His result is well-known. My effort, after a few promising chapters, ran dry: it was too long a way round to what I really wanted to make, a new version of the Atlantis legend. The final scene survives as The Downfall of Numenor. [...] We neither of us expected much success as amateurs, and actually Lewis had some difficulty in getting Out of the Silent Planet published. And after all that has happened since, the most lasting pleasure and reward for both of us has been that we provided one another with stories to hear or read that we really liked--in large parts. Naturally neither of us liked all that we found in the other's fiction."

-The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, Letter 294, February 8, 1967

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Stolen Moments: A Fairy Tale

A spur-of-the-moment story for @inklings-challenge

The princess steps into the center of a whirling masquerade. She is resplendent in green as the Queen of May. A man slips through the crowd and stands before her, dressed all in brown as the Autumn King. He bows with a flourish, silently asking for a dance.

She stands like stone. “You should not be here,” she says.

“Can I not dance with my wife?”

He reaches for her hand. She pulls it away. “I have no husband.”

“In this place, no. Yet I remember otherwise,” he says. “And so do you.”

She turns on her heel and strides away. He follows, quick as ever. The dancers part around them like water. She scowls. He was always too clever for her, always too quick. Even a world of her making bends to accommodate him.

“Do you know what I’ve done to find you?” he asks. “The countries I’ve crossed? The mountains I’ve climbed? I’ve fought gryphons and giants. Searched for treasures lost since the invention of time. Flown to the moon and tunneled to the center of the earth.”

“I’m sure you enjoyed yourself immensely.”

“I bargained with the four winds, gave up my shadow, traded three days of my life just to have this moment with you.”

“I am sorry you wasted your time,” she says. “Do what you will, you cannot take me from here.”

“No,” he agrees. “You are trapped here by your own will, and only by your will can you escape.”

She chose this day well when she arranged her escape. The grandest ball the Mountain King ever held, the day of her sixteenth birthday. Long before she ever met that too-curious trickster who stole away her heart with cheap promises. Here there is music, beauty, bounty, every pleasure she can imagine. She will gladly live in this day forever if it means freedom from her ties to him.

“You think you can persuade me,” she sneers.

He laughs. “No one in the twelve worlds can do that.”

“You think you can steal me.”

Even behind his mask, she can see his gaze darken. She has offended him. “I will not steal a wife.”

“What do you call our wedding day?”

“You chose me.”

“Do you call it choosing, when you hid your true face behind so many lies?”

“You had your own secrets.”

“Do you blame me for hiding them?”

“No,” he says.

She stops. Of all the things she imagined him saying, this was not one of them.

“No,” he says again. “You were right to keep your secrets. I was wrong to seek them out.”

She turns to look at him. He removes his mask, revealing his deceptively young face. His eyes, once blue, have turned greenish-gray. His face has three jagged scars.

“You hid from me,” he said. “As I hid from you. I should have been patient--proved that you could trust me. Instead, I forced my way into your secrets and destroyed everything. I'm sorry.”

She is speechless. She expected excuses. Dazzling explanations.She had never expected contrition.

He reaches beneath his jacket and removes a small glass pendant. It shines the same bright blue his eyes had once been.

“This is yours,” he said.

Her heart. Taken from her in a childhood curse so long ago. Only her husband could put it in its proper place, if it remained unbroken during five years of marriage. Prince of thieves that he once had been, he had found it and broken it on the eve of their second anniversary.

“You repaired it,” she said.

“I replaced it. With mine.”

She has seen him in a million lies. This is not one of them.

“You may stay here if you wish,” he says. “I came only to atone. I do not expect you to forgive me.”

He places the pendant in her hand, bows, then turns away.

When he leaves, she knows she need never see him again.

“Wait,” she says. She removes her mask. “Don’t leave without your wife."

He stops. The other dancers disappear.She puts her hand in his and kisses him as she did on their wedding day.

He is alight with joy as she pulls away. "Does this mean--?"

“I forgive you,” she says.

He laughs aloud.

The heart he gave to her, she freely gives to him. The blue returns to his eyes as their hearts are restored, new and whole.

As the curse crumbles around them, they leave the ballroom behind.

[greater-than-the-sword]

Inspired by a post about aliens within a Christian worldview, I wrote this short story for the @inklings-challenge Christmas challenge. Well, 10 pages, that's as short as it gets from me. Genre: Sci-fi Takes place at Christmastime? Well, it's set in space, where Earth dates are unclear, but sure, why not.

The Blind Astronaut and the Sun

(title under revision...)

              They hung silently in the orbit of the pulsar. Below them, the star made a noise like a hundred million atomic bombs exploding all at once, but none of them could hear it.

              Soft beeps and hushed radio static were the only noise on board the ship. It was as much night-time as it ever was in space.

              Judd and Roberts floated by the window. It wasn’t a very large window, only a couple of feet in diameter, and slightly bowed out. Roberts stared pensively.

              “So tell me,” he asked. “How does a blind man get interested in space?”

              Judd chuckled softly.

              “I mean, you’ve never even seen the stars. Let alone this star. And yet here you are.”

              “Well…”

“A sight that plenty of people would kill to see, right in front of you. And you can’t even see it.” Roberts paused. “I don’t mean to be rude, I’m sorry…”

              There was a tinted screen on the window that made it possible to see the pulsar. It was a roiling sea of fire, too vast to comprehend. Dots of swimming red wave-tips speckled an ocean of gold light. The patterns shifted continuously, never quite the same.

              “I’ve been awake twenty hours,” said Judd, in his deep, swelling voice, the one that Roberts always found so calming, like that of a documentary narrator. “Nothing seems rude to me at the moment. I suppose you might as well ask. I can hear them.”

              “You mean you heard about them?”

              “That’s what I told everyone at university. But no. Just between you and me. They make a sound.”

              “Ah, you’re talking about the wavelengths…?” Roberts sounded uncertain.

              “That’s why I became a radio technician. Yes, there’s the radio waves. The shortwave frequencies and the microwaves and every wave you can think of. But that’s not what they really sound like.” Judd smiled faintly.

              Roberts did not inquire further, he was almost creeped out. Judd did unnerve him at times, with his strange romanticism. He changed the subject back a little. “But don’t you wish you could see it?”

“Oh, every day. Unimaginably. So bad it hurts. I want to get closer.”

“You are closer now than most people will ever be to a star, Judd.”

“Closer. I need to be swallowed. Consumed. I want to take that light into my body and let it burn my eyes out, until I can feel the sound that they make in every cell of my body and I want to be closer than a human can be and see more than seeing.” He paused, and Roberts frowned. “Besides,” he said, “I can’t see it now, but I can feel its heat.”

Roberts put his hand on the window. The shielding was functional, of course. It was cold. “Well. Perhaps it’s time to go to bed.”

Hendricks came around the corner, interrupting them. “Hi Hendricks,” said Roberts. “You’re finally awake.”

“Anything from the pulsar?”

“Other than the usual… no.”

Hendricks was what they called a “true believer”. Roberts was not.

“I keep telling you,” said Roberts, “We’re not going to get anything to prove your theory. At best, some more novel particles or wavelengths or something –”

“Is that how you describe our communications with Alpha 1? A novel wavelength?”

“Well, no, but it doesn’t really resemble anything we recognize as—"

“If alien life evolved elsewhere in the universe, it would have been under such a vastly different set of conditions than earth that humans may not even be able to comprehend it as life.” Hendricks did a slow cartwheel in the air, his arms lively.

“Evolved? This is a star. How could it evolve? What were its parents? What kind of natural selection- predators – death- genetics-” Roberts protested.

“That’s just it, isn’t it? It’s so alien we can’t imagine. Perhaps it’s an ascended form of some other life-form that evolved elsewhere… passed on to a kind of immortality…” Hendricks spread out his hands.

Roberts, and now Judd too, looked skeptical.

“Can you imagine what kind of intelligence such a race must have had to evolve like that? I wonder if it knows we’re here. It must. And what sort of powers might it have? I wish we could communicate with it.”

“I have sent the transmissions you asked for,” said Judd.

“Oh yes, I know. But either it can’t interpret them – or more likely in my opinion – we’re simply beneath the notice of such a vastly higher being. An entity of pure light—it really makes you think. Judd, if there was alien life, would it affect your belief in God?”

“Hmm… I’m not sure,” said Judd. “I don’t think so.”

“It would go to show that humans aren’t the center of the universe, wouldn’t it? Shatter all of our little delusions about our significance.”

“Maybe.”

“And those aliens, what do you think they believe in, hm?” Hendricks raised an eyebrow like this was the most groundbreaking question ever asked. “If they’re more advanced than us, perhaps they’ve reached enlightenment and don’t have a need for such belief systems anymore.

“I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” said Judd, but his tone indicated that he wasn’t really looking at it.

Hendricks’ theory wasn’t completely groundless. The pulsar was something of an impossibility to begin with, it should have been pulled apart by two neighboring black holes, but the scientists at Alpha 1 had noticed that it exerted something of a stabilizing force, self-correcting pulses of energy that kept the star together when mere entropy should have dissolved it a billion years ago. The seemingly intelligent behavior had led some scientists to believe life-forms might be repairing their star. But when expeditions had ruled out life on any neighboring planets, a new theory formed. Some believed the star itself housed some sort of alien intelligence. And so, the expedition that had gotten all three of them on a research mission to analyze radio waves coming out of a pulsar had been launched from Alpha 1.

***

It was some hours later that Judd awakened. He was being lightly shaken by Hendricks.

“Wake up. Wake up, bro. There’s a new signal.” Hendrick’s voice was a whisper, but it was full of excitement.

Judd’s body, dull from sleep, came to life. He pushed himself from the bunk room and through the portal to the comms. He donned the headset, bidding Hendricks be silent, and listened.

Roberts was still sleeping. He could hear the faint snores from the far bunk. There was also radio static; the massive barrage of junk signals that a star generates by virtue of its existence. These had to be damped and modified until they were faint. And of course, as usual, there was the steady drum of the pulsar, like a heartbeat, pounding again and again like waves against a shore.

But underneath all of that, there was something new. It was soft, almost musical. A complex, weaving sound, up and down, back and forth. But as Judd listened, he realized this too was repetitive, despite its complexity. It kept perfect time with the pulsar’s heart. But it was faster – no mere byproduct or resonance of the electromagnetic fields. There was something asymmetric about this— with internal congruencies—

“We couldn’t hear it before,” started Hendricks tentatively. “We weren’t close enough. I think it must be coming from a deeper place inside the star, maybe towards the core.”

“This is a language,” said Judd.

“What?!” Hendricks hit his head on the ceiling. “How could you know that?”

“Trust me, I know. It’s complex, repetitive—it’s—well, just a feeling, maybe—but it’s a message. I know it is.”

“But it’s repeating. A repeating message. A broadcast?”

“Maybe.”

“A distress signal?”

“…….not sure.”

“But if it’s being intentionally broadcast, why can we only pick it up from within close range?”

“Mmmmm.” Judd puckered his lips. “I don’t know.”

Roberts was finally coming awake. He saw them both huddled over the comms panel. “What is it?” he mumbled, rolling midair.

“Judd thinks it’s a broadcast.”

“Your words,” said Judd.

“A language. A message.”

“From who?” Roberts asked.

“The star.”

Roberts looked askance, ever the skeptic. “Saying what?”

“I don’t know,” said Judd.

“How can you say it’s a language if you don’t know? Tell me what it says, if you’re so sure. Decode it.”

“Hand me my tablet, then.”

Roberts handed Judd the tablet. It was not, in fact, a device, but the wax tablet that Judd used to write on with a small stylus.

Judd sat there for some time, scratching away.

Hendricks and Roberts didn’t have too much time to waste, they eventually had to get busy on the daily maintenance tasks of inspected the EVA suits, for damage, checking the food stores for spoilage, composing briefings and reports, and cleaning particulate matter off of practically everything.

Later in the day they eventually got back together. It was around lunch, or what the ship time said was 2pm. The time was neither Earth Time, Alpha 1 time, nor related in any way to their orbit of the pulsar, but it was necessary for human sanity to maintain a consistent day/night cycle.

“I’m not really a linguist,” said Judd finally, crunching his freeze-dried strawberries. “There’s not much to go on, anyway, since the message is so short. I’m not really sure what you’re expecting me to turn up.”

“Fair enough,” said Roberts.

“We could try to communicate,” said Hendricks. “Send something back, you know.”

“We already tried that.”

“I mean, maybe we’re in range now.”

“Maybe.” Judd looked unconvinced.

Suddenly he got a funny look on his face, and sailed back toward the headset.

“What?”

He didn’t say anything, just slipped the headset on. A moment later he took it down. “Closer… we are closer, that explains it.”

“What?” asked Hendricks again, patiently.

“It seems to have gotten… clearer. There’s more in between. More…” he waved his hands. “Some parts of it are still too faint to make out. Maybe if I had more… we need to get closer.”

“We can’t,” said Roberts.

They both turned toward Roberts.

“We’re as close as we can get now,” said Roberts. “If you bring the ship any closer, our shields will be overwhelmed and we could burn up.”

              That was the end of the discussion, at least for the time being.

              They went back to their work, and even Judd left the transmissions alone for a while, choosing to clean the air filters instead.

              It was later in the day that Roberts saw a bright flash outside the window. Immediately a number of small beeping noises commenced from all quarters of the ship.

              Hendricks kicked off and started moving from panel to panel, checking the light indicators.

              Judd swore. “What’s going on?”

              “Solar flare,” said Roberts. “Came pretty close to the ship. All our antennae have got misaligned. That’s the beeping. Checking for possible damage now.”

              A minute later, Roberts had gotten the readout. “It looks like we lost part of a solar panel. It hit the siding and knocked off a panel cover.”

              “That’s all?” said Hendricks. “Could have been worse.”

              “Could have,” said Roberts, “but if we don’t cover the panel, the wires could corrode within a day and we’ll have damage to the cooling systems. It’s caustic out there.”

              There was silence for a moment.

              “All right,” said Judd. “Fine.”

              They both looked at him, though he didn’t perceive it.

              “Fine what?” said Hendricks, finally.

              “I’ll do it,” said Judd.

              “Are you s—”

              “You know damn well that I’m the only one who can. That’s the reason they sent me. It wasn’t just for my transmissions expertise. I’m the only one who doesn’t risk going blind.”

              ***

              Judd donned at last the helmet of his EVA suit. Roberts and Hendricks had finished the inspection, and now stood ready to operate the airlock. He clutched the tool kit. It was time to go.

              Through the airlock into the decompression chamber. The door shut with a sucking thud. The sound of the vacuum came on. It took about 2 minutes for the chamber to empty of air, as much as it could be emptied, and Judd felt his suit puff up.

              When the outer door opened, he pushed off, one hand on the toolbox and one on the tether, as he lightly brushed the wall. He swung around the corner and caught the grip rung. Bingo, right on target. He began to climb.

              He could feel the sun at his back instantly. It was warm, even with the shielding fields about 5 feet away from the hull, almost too warm for comfort. If he could see—no he couldn’t. It would have been a blaze of white, enough to burn anyone’s eyes out. Roberts or Hendricks could have come out here with eye protection, but they’d have had to do the job blind anyways, and they were hardly as practiced in it as he was.

              Judd moved from antennae to antennae, straightening them where they’d been pushed aside, bent or even flattened against the hull.

              As he adjusted the last one, the radio crackled on in his helmet.

              “Radio’s fixed,” he said. “Testing. Over.”

              “Receiving,” said Hendricks. “You good out there? Over.”

              “All good so far. Over.”

              The sun seemed to flush hotter against his back. He thought of it again. This was as close as he could ever come… wasn’t it? He was frightened of it. Terrified, even. But he wanted more. He couldn’t help it. He wanted to see it, even though he knew that even seeing it would be a futile endeavor because it would be the only thing he’d ever see in his entire life. But it would be worth it. Probably.

              He had made it all the way up to the panel. Sure enough, the cover was torn off. The sharp edge of mangled metal scraped against his gloves. He opened the tool kit and found the roll of aluminum tape.

The sun seemed to pulse in its intensity. It was as though he could hear that same musical pulse through the radio… But not quite. Surely not.

“Found the panel. Covering it now. Over.”

He stretched out the tape and cut it, stretching it piece by piece across the space in the hull.

The sun was calling to him. Hot at his back. With a feeling of brightness that he could not see, but still almost sense. The siren song seemed to pulse through his body, through his ears, he felt that the radio static was echoing it, it was there, surely he was not imagining it.

“Do you hear that? Over.”

“Hear what? Over.”

              It was not, strictly speaking, that Judd was certain in any way the voice was calling to him directly. And yet it was. It was the voice that he had heard all his life. It was the voice of the stars that he’d heard when he was a child on Earth. Now he felt them begin to align for the first time in his mind: the age-old voice; the transmission from the star. They were one, they were the same, but he hadn’t recognized it before.

              He put the last strip of tape over the panel. A strange excitement, a strange and fierce joy seized him. Oh, I can’t be doing this.

              “Judd,” Hendricks was saying. “Judd, do you copy. Over.”

              “I’m… I was just…” He hesitated.

              “Judd.”

              “I can hear it.”

              “Come back to the airlock.”

              This is what I was born for. This is what I was created for.

              “Judd! Judd!!!”

              He let go.

              ***

              Hendricks’ last cry trailed off.

The two of them sat frozen in dismay inside the ship. The empty radio buzzed in their ears. There was no sign of whatever Judd had heard. They had heard no signs of distress from him; but he was suddenly either out of range or—

              Destroyed, Roberts thought. His comms had been destroyed, his vital signs tracker had been destroyed as well.

              There was a heavy silence, laden with grief and a strange horror.

              “He’s gone… We lost him…” he couldn’t believe what he was saying.

Closer to the surface, Roberts began to foment a more selfish sort of fear. Judd was gone for good—and how would they get home without a 3-man crew? It was technically possible— maybe.

“He let go,” said Hendricks.

“He must have,” said Roberts dully.

“On purpose,” said Hendricks, like a child stating the obvious. “He let go on purpose.”

Roberts wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t argue. The sun beneath them suddenly felt alive, and its presence ominous. It had swallowed Judd, and its open maw was waiting for the rest of them as well.

              ***

              Judd was falling through the sun. Faster and faster he went, until he was streaking like a meteor past dust and particles and ever stronger solar winds.

              He hit the surface with a gaseous splash, and a sensation that he felt, but not in the way that he might have expected. It was cold, or so-hot-it-was-cold, like the shock of falling through ice, but with an afterglow like alcohol and mint that spread through his entire body.

              His EVA suit was destroyed. It had been melted or burned away. But he seemed to be breathing—though he wasn’t entirely confident that what he was breathing was air. Not only was he not in pain, he seemed to be more alive every moment.

              The world was hotter, cooler, and hotter again. He wondered how long he would have to fall before getting to the core. He wondered if he was close now. He had lost track of time, but it seemed as though he had been falling for an age. Somehow he knew that he was close. There was something here. A presence. A being.

              He saw light.

              It wasn’t an image of any sort. It was just like the light had finally become so strong it had pierced to his very soul. He was conscious of being in a very bright space. He knew that he was intruding. As best he could explain it, he had the sense of being in somebody’s house.

              But he was still falling.

              Judd understood something now about the nature of the Star, for the star it was. It was not lonely. Neither was it bored. It was happy, although happiness felt too trite a word. This Being, whatever it was, had lived in continuous and incomprehensible bliss since the beginning of time.

              And the Star noticed him. It felt like a spotlight turned directly on him in an instant, which was something that he could only now describe.

              WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE.

              Judd was dumbstruck, he could not answer.

I HAVE EXISTED FOR 4 BILLION YEARS. NEVER HAVE I BEEN REQUIRED TO DO ANYTHING EXCEPT SING MY SONG. UNTIL NOW.

Judd stared at the light.

WHY HAVE YOU COME.

He spoke, barely able to form the words, but knowing with a sudden certainty what he wanted to say. “Your song. What does it mean?”

ARE YOU NOT ABLE TO UNDERSTAND? AH. I WILL TRANSLATE IT INTO YOUR LANGUAGE.

***

Roberts and Hendricks had picked up where Judd left off, testing the connections on the control panel and recalibrating for the new positions of the antennae. They worked as silently as they could. Neither of them wanted to talk about what had just happened, but they couldn’t bring themselves to talk about anything else.

The mood was depressive. Judd was dead, and they were alone. Alone with the sun.

Coolant systems were online, everything was working. Hendricks wanted to have some sort of ceremony or something, but he wasn’t sure how. There wasn’t even anything to bury.

It was dinner time, a scant 30 minutes allotted for a square meal. They sat, as it were, reluctantly near the minifridge, but neither of them wanted to eat.

There was a flash of light.

When the flash subsided, Judd was standing there in a t-shirt and shorts.

Roberts screamed and kicked the mini-fridge, throwing his mandarin through the air, almost hitting Judd in the face, though he didn’t notice. Hendricks made a similarly undignified noise and awkward flail.

Judd was rubbing his face, and breathing heavily. He was trembling; he looked as though he might have stumbled; but given the lack of gravity he simply rotated haphazardly until his head was down.

“We thought you were dead,” Hendricks managed.

“Don’t freak out,” said Judd. “It sent me back.”

“You… spoke to it?”

“Yes, it said—” Judd opened his eyes.

The two men screamed again, and recoiled in horror.

“Your eyes!” Roberts yelled.

“What?!” Judd demanded. “What about them? I’ve always been—stop freaking out, I know I startled you, but I’m not a ghost, it’s just me—”

Judd’s eyes were like the high beams on a Ford F-50.

“Don’t you want to know what the transmission said?” he asked, confused.

It was Hendricks who pulled himself together first. “What did it say?”

“Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth peace, and goodwill toward men.”

[granny-griffin]

Comic for the poem The New Earth by @justhereforthesherlock which was originally written for the inklings challenge in 2021. View this comic on Neocities here.

[larissa-the-scribe]

Tell Me About This Time Loop, Again?

And so it begins... @inklings-challenge

Day 12

In Zo's mind, it never felt like the day was properly begun until Lyn woke up, looked around at the room they'd been staying in, frowned, and said—

Day 13

"Where are we? And why does it feel so... familiar?"

"Well you see," Zo replied, as he always did, peeking at the underside of the egg he was frying, "we're stuck in a time loop."

Day 14

"A time loop?" Lyn swung her feet over the side of the bed, seeming to realize for the first time that she was in one.

"Don't worry, it's clean." After confirming they were, indeed, in a time loop, one of the first things he had suggested was finding a comfortable place to set up camp. Somehow it had worked, and they had ended up there every time things reset. "And there doesn't seem to be anyone around, so I don't think we're stealing or trespassing." 

Lyn raised an eyebrow. 

Day 15

"Well, we might be, but no one minds. It's a ghost town. Everyone seems to have disappeared." And since it was a time loop, they never ran out of cooking gas. Or food supplies. That, at least, was convenient. 

"Disappeared?" Lyn stood up, adjusting her shirt from how it had gotten scrunched up in the night. Despite her attempts to look bright-eyed and alert, he could see the sleepiness that still hung from her eyes. 

Day 16

"Our best guess so far is that it's connected to the time loop." Zo flipped the eggs. If this all persisted, he could open up a fried-egg restaurant once they got out; he was getting an absurd amount of practice flipping eggs.

"That makes sense." Lyn padded over to the window, still barefoot, and pushed the shutters open. "Do we have any evidence, or is that just, well, a guess?" 

Her gaze swept the view, which he knew without looking was nothing more than the empty lines of blocky, one-story buildings and the too-smooth black-top of the streets. The neighborhood was pressed together as if sheltering from the plains beyond the town, with such a veneer of newness covering it all that each house might have been churned out of a factory yesterday. They hadn't been, though, considering the subtle signs of wear and tear inside the houses. 

"Eh, a bit of both. Something weird is clearly going on with the area, and we know time is affected, too, so it's a logical guess that the two are connected. Whether that means some psycho wiped the town out before setting up their experiment, or just that their timey-wimey dealybob messed up physics in general is still up for debate. Do you want toast?"

"Yes, please."

Day 17

"Good. We have to finish the bread before it goes stale." Zo left the 'in case we get to the next day' implicit.

"I'm surprised we still have butter. I thought it would have gone bad in your pack."

"It smells a bit odd, but so far we haven't been affected by it."

Day 18

"Okay, but how do you know we're in a time loop?" Lyn asked, setting the table. 

They were in a ground-level studio apartment, so the dining room, kitchen, and bed were all in the same space. No couch, which Zo took to mean that the owner was either poor or a cheapskate. Either way, it was disappointing. Still, the carpet wasn't bad. He'd slept on worse.

"Because you've asked me that so many times I've lost track of the number," Zo said, "and you seem thoughtful every time, like you're not as surprised as you thought you'd be." 

She nodded and set a fork down carefully, wearing the expression she always did just then, brows squeezing down over far-away eyes.

"In all fairness, though," Zo clarified, "I mostly lost track because I wasn't really counting, and then it seemed pointless to start. It's been over two weeks, though, I'm fairly certain."

Day 19

She smiled, and the tension in her brows eased a bit. "This all does feels familiar. Like, I don't remember the other days, but all of this feels like I should, somehow, know what happens next. But I don't."

"I do know," Zo replied, "and it's getting a bit tiresome."

"Fair."

Zo nodded, slotting toast into the toaster. "Very. Whoever owned this place pretty much only had eggs in their fridge. I'm not sure how many more days in a row I can eat those without losing my mind."

Lyn looked up sharply.

Day 20

"Relax," he said, waving his spatula, "they respawn every day, so I don't think it's even technically stealing. If it is, we can pay them back later. There's a fully-stocked but unmanned convenience store down the road, one which we have very nobly not taken anything from, every single day."

"Good," Lyn sighed. "After all, if we get out today, we wouldn't want to be rewarded by jail for petty theft." She tacked on a fierce look at the end of the sentence.

Zo shrugged, and let Lyn interpret the gesture as she would. "Eggs are almost done."

Day 21

"Good. I'm weirdly hungry. Also, thank you for breakfast."

"Don't mention it," Zo smiled. "It's nothing I haven't done many times before."

[novelmonger]

First Contact

Written for @inklings-challenge 2024. It feels very first draft-y to me, and didn't quite end up how I initially envisioned it, but here it is.

When the first lights were seen in the sky, some said it was the end of the world. Passages from Revelation and other religious texts were thrown around, talking of stars falling from the sky or the Four Horsemen coming to bring judgment.

Others said, with slightly less drama, that it must be some sort of cosmological phenomenon—perhaps dozens of meteors falling to Earth to usher in the next Ice Age.

Still others, with an air of smugness, said these lights proved they'd been right all along. The extraterrestrials were real after all, and now they'd come in their UFOs to subjugate all of Earth at last. They'd been called crazy when they talked of inexplicable lights and experiences of being beamed into flying saucers and probed, but now the little green men were back, and everyone who'd called them liars would see the truth. Oh yes, they would see.

And then of course there were those who pointed fingers at one country after another, blaming them for sending missiles and unauthorized aircraft across the borders of peaceful nations. Some ran for their bunkers, but those who continued to pay attention to the news quickly learned that the same thing was happening all around the world. None of the world's superpowers were capable of such a feat.

Dr. Shannon Campbell wasn't sure what to think. Ever since reading War of the Worlds in high school, the thought of first contact had fascinated her. If aliens really were out there, what would they be like? Would they be hostile like so many books and movies claimed? Or might there be a way to communicate with them?

And suddenly, it wasn't just an idle imagining or the raving of lunatics. The possibility that they were not alone in the universe started to look more and more likely. And then she got a call, and then a visit from some bigwig at NASA and a General Somebody-or-Other decked out in camouflage, and the next thing she knew, she'd packed a bag and was heading to an undisclosed location in the Midwest.

It turned out everyone was a little bit wrong, and a little bit right at the same time. In the middle of a cornfield, an extraterrestrial spaceship had landed. But it was more of a shiny silver sphere than a flying saucer, and it didn't quite seem to be the end of the world just yet. Not to mention that the beings that emerged were neither little green men, nor were they Tripods or bug people or anything else Dr. Campbell had ever imagined aliens to look like.

The aliens...stepped? Floated? Well, they emerged somehow from the side of their spaceship, which shimmered to let them through but immediately looked the same as it had before. Not like a door or a hatch opening. And the aliens themselves were pale creatures that somewhat resembled octopi, or maybe jellyfish. Their bodies hovered in the air, with long, thin tentacles dangling down to the earth.

But even as the NASA scientists and soldiers surrounding the spaceship looked on, the aliens' forms began to shift. They hunkered down closer to the ground, their many tentacles sticking together and morphing into thicker, smaller limbs. Soon, instead of dozens of tentacles, they only had four, and their bodies compressed into something more like a torso and a head.

They were mimicking the humans, Dr. Campbell suddenly realized. In mere minutes, they had assumed roughly humanoid shapes, with arms and legs and...well, it looked more like two clusters of tiny eyestalks rather than eyes, but they were basically in the right place on their faces. They had no ears or noses that she could see, and their hands looked like they were wearing mittens rather than being divided into ten fingers. And where their mouths should have been was a thin membrane that glowed slightly as it vibrated with the low humming sounds the aliens had been emitting the entire time.

One of the aliens began to glide forward, holding its too-long arms out to the sides. The humming intensified, all of the aliens joining in at different pitches and frequencies, like some kind of interstellar choir. Several soldiers raised their weapons, but Dr. Campbell hastily said, “Please, don't shoot! We should at least try to communicate with them first!”

The general glanced nervously between the slowly advancing alien and Dr. Campbell, then gave her a sort of shrug as if to say, “Suit yourself.” He motioned for his soldiers to lower their weapons, and everyone took a step back.

Dr. Campbell swallowed. Now that she stood facing the alien leader, presumably, she felt like she had during her first undergrad presentation: two inches tall, and faintly sick.

But then...was that just her imagination, or were those words, garbled in mouths without tongues? Words in English?

“Gogojohnnygo. Heusedtocarryhis. Guitarinagunnysack?”

“Wait...is that...'Johnny B. Goode'?”

High-pitched trills exploded from every alien, their mouth-membranes vibrating loudly as their long tentacle arms waved excitedly in the air. At least...she thought it was excitement. For all she knew, maybe they were about to attack.

Some of the surrounding soldiers seemed to think this, as they tensed and looked ready either to bolt or to start firing.

Maybe the alien leader realized this, because his trills descended sharply in pitch and volume, like he was shushing them. The others quieted down as well, until the humming started up again. This time it was a complicated rhythm, interweaving several melodies at once, with an interesting breathy quality to their voices that almost made them sound like musical instruments on an ancient phonograph.

And yet...the longer she listened to them, the more she realized it sounded familiar too. “That's, like...Bach or something, isn't it? They're humming Bach.”

But how on earth would they know Bach? Or 'Johnny B. Goode,' for that matter. The only reason Dr. Campbell knew it was because of Back to the Future. She pressed a couple fingers against her aching temples. Multiple PhDs in linguistics and anthropology hadn't prepared her for this.

While she was pondering, the aliens moved on from their Bach concerto and suddenly started barking like a dog. Then made the clop-clop-clopping sounds of a horse trotting along. Then something that almost sounded like the pattering of rain on a roof. Then, as one, they all emitted the exact same laugh.

A sudden suspicion. Dr. Campbell whipped out her phone and frantically looked something up on Wikipedia. Sure enough, it all clicked into place. With a gasp, Dr. Campbell straightened up and looked at the aliens looming over them. “It's Voyager! They're mimicking the recordings sent with Voyager!”

“What does that mean?” the general snapped, irritation masking his nervousness at not having a handle on what was going on.

Slowly, a smile spread across Dr. Campbell's face. “It means we have a basis for communication.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

By the end of six months, Dr. Campbell had managed it at last. She'd managed to hold an entire conversation with the aliens, and was reasonably certain both sides understood what was being said. It was the greatest achievement of her life...and she was just getting started.

Once it became clear that the aliens weren't going to immediately start shooting laser guns or levitating people into their spaceship and start probing them, the army seemed to relax a little. A temporary camp of trailers and tents had been set up in the cornfield with all the equipment Dr. Campbell needed to do her work, as well as a base of operations for the soldiers who created a perimeter around the cornfield to keep curious civilians from wandering through before they could fully ascertain the aliens' intentions.

It seemed the aliens were also in favor of caution. After that first day, when Dr. Campbell had pulled up a recording of the record that had been placed in Voyager and played it for the aliens, attempting to convey that they were trying to communicate, all the other spaceships that hovered in the air around the world had returned to orbit around Earth. They linked together in a chain, like Earth were wearing a pearl necklace, and just stayed there.

Presumably, communications were carried out between those ships and the one in the cornfield, that attempts were being made to speak with the humans. Maybe now that they were finally able to speak to each other and they could ascertain their intentions, the other ships would land again.

So far, they hadn't discussed anything of particular importance. Just things like names (the leader that Dr. Campbell talked to most often was called something like Brrringgnggniiiiib, but she called him Johnny), whether the aliens could breathe the air (it seemed they could, though they preferred the pressurized atmosphere of their spaceship), and what various objects in view were called. Both parties were curious about the other, but cautious of giving too much away. Just in case.

The aliens' language was highly tonal, like Mandarin but with a whole symphony of timbres and tones, some of which were far too high or low for human vocal cords. The real breakthrough had been when the team of technicians from around the world had cobbled together a soundboard with programmable pitches. Over the months, by working with the world's most skilled computer engineers, they'd been able to create an alien translator, where a human could type in what they wanted to say on a standard computer keyboard, and it would translate to a series of music-like tones that would play on a speaker for the alien. Then when the alien spoke in its language into a microphone, the machine would translate it into English on a little screen.

It was a slow, arduous process, but it worked. It only translated to English for now, but it would be a simple matter to add more human languages to the database, a project the technicians were already hard at work to complete. And though the translator was currently the size of a pipe organ and required a mass of extension cords and portable generators and solar panels just to run for a few minutes a day, Dr. Campbell had no doubt that eventually this machine would be reduced to a pocket-sized translator everyone carried with them. That is, if the aliens were going to stay.

And that was what today was all about.

Dr. Campbell stepped out of her trailer, breathing in the crisp air of the October morning and wrapping cold fingers around her mug of coffee. As always, the shiny dome of the alien ship rose against the sky, the constant backdrop of what her life had become. It looked somewhat foggy towards the bottom—frost, perhaps?

She took another sip of coffee, swirling the bitter liquid around her mouth as she wondered what Johnny would think of the taste. They hadn't yet discussed what the aliens ate—if they ate. They didn't exactly have mouths, after all. Though Birdcall, what she called the shortest of the alien crew, had once picked up a blade of grass and seemed to absorb it through the palm of the hand, before Hellohello had whistled shrilly, apparently admonishing Birdcall, who had immediately 'spit out' the grass, leaving it a little crumpled in the dirt. Like a mother scolding her child for putting something into her mouth that she'd picked up off the ground.

Draining the last of her coffee, Dr. Campbell stretched and set off across the cornfield to the tent where the translator resided. “Time to make history, I guess.”

Just like every day, Dr. Campbell met Johnny in the middle of the cornfield with a trill she personally thought sounded like a ringing telephone. It was a greeting, one of the alien words she was actually able to say herself. She held her arms out to the sides and wiggled them a little—it was like a hand wave. She'd finally stopped feeling stupid when she did it.

Johnny also held out his arms and wiggled them, though his looked much better because his 'arms' were really just tentacles stuck together in an approximation of human arms. “HeeLLLlllooooOOOoo, DoooktoooooRRRR,” he said in his sing-song voice. Johnny was much better at speaking English than she was at speaking his language.

Dr. Campbell thought of Johnny as 'he,' mostly because she'd started calling him Johnny, but she still wasn't sure if the aliens even had genders. The conversation they'd tried to have about that had left everyone more confused than when they'd started.

“Shall we begin?” she asked, gesturing towards the tent with the translator.

Johnny 'nodded,' which for him meant bobbing in a sort of full-body bow that made him look like one of those floppy dancing inflatable things outside of a car dealership. The aliens didn't nod as a way of indicating assent, but Johnny was always trying to mimic Dr. Campbell's mannerisms. It was kind of cute, in a way. If a tall, spindly alien with eyestalks and no mouth could be called cute.

Once she'd situated herself at the console of the translator, Dr. Campbell looked across at Johnny. He knelt or sat (it was hard to tell which when the limbs he folded beneath him had no joints and just sort of glommed into a squishy mass supporting his torso) on the ground a comfortable distance away. She'd offered him a chair several times before, but even once he finally understood what to do with it, he'd assured her that he was just as comfortable without one.

Taking a deep breath, Dr. Campbell put her fingers on the keyboard and looked across at Johnny, meeting his eyes—well, at least a few of his eyestalks, anyway. He liked to keep a 360-degree visual range at all times. Then she typed in the first, and perhaps most important, question:

Why did you come to Earth?

The almost musical sound of computerized tones echoed through the still morning air. Dr. Campbell was suddenly aware of many eyes on the two of them—the general, the two guards who were always stationed at this tent to keep anyone from tampering with the translator, the technicians and scientists standing by. They couldn't understand the aliens' language just from listening to it, but everyone knew this was an important day in history. The day they would finally get some answers.

Johnny's trills and chirps were very familiar to Dr. Campbell by now, and she could almost catch a few words here and there, but he spoke much too fast when they were at the translator. She had to wait for the words to trail across the screen.

“We hear voicings we know people being in the darkness. We must bring light.”

Light? Do you mean knowledge? Dr. Campbell's heart leapt. Maybe they would share the secret to faster-than-light travel.

Johnny bobbed in a half-bow. “Knowings. We asking you a questioning now Doctor.”

Dr. Campbell looked up at Johnny and nodded. A question for a question. Only fair.

Johnny leaned forward a little. It was almost impossible to make out expressions on his mushy alien face, but he seemed eager. “Are you knowing of your origin?”

“Origin?” Dr. Campbell muttered aloud as she read the words on the screen. She frowned up at Johnny for a moment, trying to understand what he was asking. Do you mean my parents? The people who gave birth to me? She didn't even know how the aliens reproduced, or whether Johnny would understand what she was talking about.

Johnny swayed his whole body from side to side, his version of shaking his head, while humming a single note that sounded kind of like a dial tone. Every single one of Johnny's many eyestalks zeroed in on her, catching her in an unblinking alien stare. Johnny's next words came like a song, so mesmerizing it was all she could do to glance down at the screen to see what he was saying.

“Origin is life beginning. Origin is light sun star root. Origin is making planets moons we Doctor Earth. Origin is making good peace life. We are of Origin and when Earth metal rock falling to our planet we are saying we must see. We must know. Does Earth is knowing Origin? Or is only darkness?”

Dr. Campbell's mind whirled. Suddenly, after months of extreme caution and dancing around revealing too much, now she wasn't sure what to do with this influx of information. She had a dozen new questions, and it took her a moment to decide what to ask first.

Is Origin your planet?

Johnny swayed a no again. “Origin is making our planet. Origin is making Earth. Origin is making us. Origin is making you. Origin is making cooOOOoorrnnnnffffIIIiiieeeeEEEEllLLLd,” he added, switching to English for that word, since the aliens apparently didn't have corn on their planet.

Slowly, a suspicion dawned on her. This 'Origin' was something that had made everything in the universe. It almost sounded like...a creation myth. Are you talking about a god?

Johnny's long limbs flipped into the air, and he let out an excited trill as he bobbed up and down. “We are not knowing you are knowing this word Doctor. Please saying this word in your voicings so we may be learning it.”

Dr. Campbell looked up at Johnny's eyes going haywire, at his 'arms' beginning to fray into many tentacles in his excitement. Slowly and clearly, she said, “God.”

Such a short word, but when Johnny repeated it several times in his musical voice, it sounded so beautiful. Like somehow, the little song made from the membrane of his 'mouth' vibrating was part of the very fabric of the universe. The music of the spheres.

After a few minutes of repeating the word God,interspersed with the trills and chitterings of his own language that Dr. Campbell couldn't fully understand because he wasn't speaking into the mic anymore, Johnny made an effort to calm himself down. “TTTtthhhhHHHaaaAAAAaaannnngnggnkk yoooOOOOOoooooouuuuUUUU, DoooktoooooRRRR,” he said carefully in English, before pulling the mic closer so he could speak more fluently in his own tongue. “We are very exciting Doctor because we are seeing now that God is showing to you in Earth also. God is holding universe in hands and we are family with Earth. We are thinking we must fly to Earth to show God leading the way but you are already following.”

“Whoa, whoa, hold up a second,” Dr. Campbell muttered. “I haven't even been to Sunday School since I was five.” But how to explain that to...an extraterrestrial missionary, apparently? Biting her lip, she eventually went with I'm not even sure I believe in God. There are lots of people on Earth who don't. Some people believe in different gods, or none at all.

Johnny hummed for a little after the translator's tones subsided. Not humming in words, just a faint sound of discomfort. Or thoughtfulness. Dr. Campbell wasn't sure. But he grew still, with none of the excited energy of a moment ago.

Finally, Johnny leaned towards the mic again and said, “We are saddening to be hearing this Doctor. But we are also gladdening because this means we are staying in Earth for longer. We are hoping you are letting us stay. We want to be learning more of Earth. We want to be talking more about God with you and other Doctor people.”

Funny. If it had been a Jehovah's Witness or somebody like that on her doorstep, asking if she had time to talk about their Lord and Savior, she would have shut the door in their faces. But this was a literal alien saying that he wanted to have conversations with her about God and who knew what else. So she found herself smiling and typing in response:

I would like that.

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

This story, for which there are seven parts, is dedicated to everyone affected by Hurricane Helene. It was not written because of that, but a water-based natural disaster is part of the plot. It does not focus on it, but is a story of hope. The text of section one is under the cut. I hope to post all sections before the end of the Inklings Challenge. Despite this being my third year, this is the first I've actually posted anything other than snippets, so I hope I'm doing this right. I haven't yet written more than this, but I do have an outline for the other six parts, so hopefully that will work. @inklings-challenge

One: Admonish the Sinner

First of all it must be understood that every world is connected, as every village is. Some are just further away.

This is not a story of Earth; this is a story of a world nobody bothered to name, in a village nobody called anything other than the village. But that does not make it any less beloved—by people or by God. Sometime, a long time before this story is set, someone from Earth came to this nameless world and gave them the greatest gift of all, truth: but that is another tale entirely.

The night sky of this world is strikingly different from ours. Most prominently, two moons watch the world below, and every forty-seven years or so, flooding hits the island. They call it Big Tide, for it is the pull of the two moons combined that does this. It is regular enough, and has enough warning signs, that everyone should be perfectly ready for it.

As is common in humans (and these are humans like us, though the world is different), not everyone believes the evidence laid out in the world.

This is a story of Big Tide, specifically the one of the year three thousand, two hundred and twenty by their reckoning. This is a story of Paula McArthur.

%%%%%%%

The wattles were flowering, and it was Paula’s favourite time of year. There were several different wattles, but this was the deep gold ones she loved the best, the ones she gathered by the armful and adorned her home with. Now she only held a single sprig and enjoyed it to the full. It was too close to Big Tide to unnecessarily damage the wattle trees; they could be badly damaged by the rushing waters, and might need everything they had to survive. But one twig wasn’t going to hurt it.

The sky was a clear pale blue shot with fine clouds, a mass of them shining near the horizon with the sun gentle on them. Paula raised her face to the sunlight and closed her eyes, smiling. It was spring, and she never felt more alive than in springtime. 

She had been working all morning to prepare for Big Tide, largely transport. Her hands were tired of the precise positions needed to be held in order to hover exactly enough to transfer items in mid-air between hoverboards rather than landing to do it, which would waste time. Tide waited on no man, but Paula was skilled enough to know when she could be sloppy about hoverboarding, and enjoyed hoverboarding in a more slapdash manner than most people she knew. She had graduated earlier than most of her classmates from a controller to haptics. Tomorrow, though, she might use the controller again to make sure she was fresh enough to hover efficiently overnight during Big Tide itself. 

Presently she took out her lunch, and ate it while walking. In the distance a kookaburra laughed; Paula came to an abrupt halt as a green-blue iridescent flash clued her into the presence of a river dragon nearby. It turned and looked at her, bright blue eyes wise and calm. After a moment of silence and mutual respect, the dragon moved properly into her view and arched its sinuous back, raising its crest. Paula lifted her chin and brushed back the dark fringe to look more intimidating. The only sign the dragon gave of seeing any change was to raise its scales in a largely vain attempt to inflate its size. Abruptly it put down its scales and ran in a blaze of colour, uttering a high keening cry that faded as it retreated.

Paula turned to see who had disturbed her, smiling as she recognised the intruder. “What brings you here, Martha?”

Her friend grinned in response, lighting up her tanned sombre face. “You, actually. I came in search of you.”

Paula half gestured to herself, merrily. “Why trouble yourself?”

Martha grew serious at once. “I care about you. Aren't I allowed to?”

“Certainly, as I do.” 

Martha smiled a little incredulously. “Anyway, surely it's time to go back now?”

Paula raised a single eyebrow, then tilted her head back and assessed the position of the sun. “I guess. Why did you come to find me, Mar?”

“Oh, you know, I hardly see you now.” Her manner was evasive, which baffled Paula. “You're always out walking.”

“It's spring.” Paula waved the sprig of wattle at her. “The best time of the year. What's your favourite season?”

“Winter,” said Martha definitively. “Cold and empty and bleak.”

“Why do you like it that way?” she asked in surprise. Last time they'd talked about the seasons, she thought Martha had waxed poetic about the dying fire of autumn. 

“It's silent,” was Martha's quiet response. “Nobody bothers you.”

Paula paused to assess the time, decided they had to go back and led the way; Martha trailed her. “I thought you liked people.”

There was a short silence. “People don't tend to like me.”

“That's nonsense,” she responded immediately. Martha smiled, sad and sarcastic. 

“I don't tend to like me.”

Her calmness bothered Paula, and she sped up slightly. “Well, I do. You're fun, conversational and well read.”

“Which is why you disappear alone for hours.” She caught up and shot Paula a sidelong look, as if to say, I know your secrets. Except there were no secrets to know. 

“I like spring. It feels so alive and fresh, like all the past year's mistakes are washed away and there's new growth instead.”

“Very poetic.” Instead of amusement, Martha's tone was sour. She dodged past Paula and trotted quickstep the whole way back.

%%%%%%%

“I don't know what I did wrong,” finished Paula, twisting her hands nervously. “She got mad and I don't know why.”

Her mother glanced hurriedly across to check the next load wasn't ready, then turned to Paula again. “When people aren't happy it can be a temptation to take it out on others, especially those who are.”

“She said she was worried, and then she just changed and didn't want to talk to me.”

“Rebecca!” The shout made her mother focus on her own work; Paula moved her hoverboard closer to her father so he could load it up. This one was three bags of flour, heavy on the back and requiring stabilisation, which Paula remained still for while her father adjusted the controls. When it was done, he gave her a thumbs up and she gestured with her gloves, rising away from the site and on the journey to higher ground. It wasn't as easy to handle the unbalanced board; she would have done a lot more, and easier, with a transport hoverboard rather than the jury-rigged family board, but it was more economical and the decree had been that fuel, not time, was of the essence, since they'd planned well in advance. Indeed, today being the day before Big Tide, they had expected to have no more transport to do apart from the people, but someone had been digging too enthusiastically in their garden and cracked an underground storage container, so all of that had to be moved. 

She was most of the way there, wind in her face, when a fast personal hoverboard raced up beside her, village elder crouched to stave off the wind. He matched her speed, then unwound and said, “I'll take over from here. Take my board and go back—we need you to persuade people to go.”

“What?” She was already moving, assessing how to swap boards without any risk of either of them tumbling into the trees below while stepping across. “Why?”

He grimaced. “Turns out there are people who haven't prepared and don't want elders coming to help. Your dad suggested you could try and help instead.”

She started to shuck the gloves, then changed her mind and pressed buttons, keying them to the elder's hoverboard instead. As ownership switched, both boards lurched violently, and Paula barely held her position. The elder was wearing magnetic boots and so didn't run the risk of falling. Once she had stabilised it, she said, “So where do I start?”

“Ask your dad when you get back.” His expression was calm and focused as he adjusted the settings to accommodate for his weight. “For now, just get going. Time is of the essence. Big Tide waits for no man.”

[kanerallels]

This has probably already been made, but it's been my mood throughout the day. Can't wait for @inklings-challenge to begin tomorrow!!

[atlantic-riona]

Though I Walk Through the Valley

Written for @inklings-challenge 2024. A Catholic college student and a vampire take a trip to the Underworld. Shenanigans ensue. There are four parts.

I. A Visitor of the Vampiric Variety

I opened the door to find Malachy standing on the steps, one hand raised to knock. He looked about as surprised to see me as I was him, and after a few moments spent staring blankly at each other—vague remnants of thoughts regarding grocery lists and the possibility of afternoon naps still floating about my mind, Lord only knows what was circling his—he pulled himself together to give me a strained imitation of his usual annoying smirk. “Fancy a trip to Hell?”

I slammed the door in his face.

Honestly, upon later reflection, I should have left it like that. I still had no intention of getting mixed up in his world, even if Isa—well. My best friend and I were cautiously on speaking terms now, but the argument we’d had loomed forbiddingly in the background of every interaction, even though by silent, mutual agreement we didn’t acknowledge it.

But curiosity got the better of me, and I opened the door again, just a crack. “What.”

In the twilight shadows of evening, his slightly ominous expression would have sent shivers down any onlooker’s spine. Here in the warm afternoon sun, it merely looked out of place. “There’s a problem.”

“Yes, it’s called an irritating vampire refusing to get off my doorstep,” I retorted. “Was there something new, or…?”

“The Circle,” he said simply, and my blood ran cold.

“Goodbye,” I said, and shut the door firmly. I could hear him calling me through the door about needing my help, but I ignored this. And when I heard the windows rattling, I picked up my spray bottle, helpfully labeled “HOLY WATER,” and pointed it meaningfully (label side facing the window) in his general direction. He got the hint. At least I assumed he did, because the windows stopped rattling soon after.

Still, just in case, I went around the house, double-checking that all the windows and doors had crosses nailed above them, or rosaries wrapped around their handles. Call me paranoid, but I’d seen a lot of movies, and I was taking no chances.

I didn’t see Malachy for three days. And good riddance, said I. So when he showed up at my doorstep, looking inordinately pleased with himself, I certainly was not pleased myself.

I leaned against the door, which was open just a crack, and said clearly, “Go away.”

“Lili, you’ll want to hear this,” he said, grinning. Somehow he’d recovered his equanimity in the past three days, and I didn’t think it was for any reason I’d like.

The grin annoyed me. I pointed at the miniscule amount of space between the door and its frame, and said, “You see this? It’s about how much interest I have in whatever you’re about to say. And it’s only open so you can hear me tell you to go away, which means realistically my interest is much lower.” I had briefly considered shouting at him through the closed door, but regretfully had set that plan aside. I didn’t want him trying to crawl through the windows again.

“It’s about Isa,” he said. 

Through the opening, I gave him the old stinkeye.

He laughed. “Charming as ever, I see.”

“Did Isa send you?” I asked coldly, and not without a little pointedness.

His composure slipped a fraction. “No,” he admitted after a long minute. “I’m here without her knowing.”

I knew I’d regret this, but I still unhooked the chain and pulled it all the way open. “What is it, then?”

I had forgotten the secondary reason for keeping the door mostly closed, but it quickly sprang to mind when Theresa’s excited shriek from the living room deafened me. “Is that Malachy?”

“No,” I yelled back. “Go do your homework!”

But it was a fruitless endeavor to tell your little sister to do something as dull as solving for x when there was a live, breathing—well, dead and unbreathing—vampire at the front door, and it was doubly fruitless when said little sister had been obsessed with all things supernatural (especially the fanged variety) for years. Theresa came sprinting out of the living room, vaulting an armchair in her enthusiasm and skidding to a stop in her pink-and-white polka-dotted socks. “Malachy!” she cried happily. “Come in, come in, I have so many questions!” She’d already nabbed a clipboard from somewhere and was now squinting through her glasses to locate a pen.

As the point I wanted to make was already moot—namely, that inviting vampires into your house traditionally never ended well—I settled for giving Malachy a stare of loathing as I removed the cross hanging over the door, before stepping out of his way. He, in turn, gave me a brilliant smile, one that prominently displayed his sharp white teeth, before stepping inside.

He clearly thought Theresa was cute, but easily brushed aside, since immediately after greeting her with amusement, he turned to me, as if to continue our earlier conversation. How quickly he’d forgotten! I didn’t feel motivated to disabuse him of his misunderstanding, so I merely settled back, arms crossed, to watch the show.

“You remember how we found out that Isa’s condition is because she’s a descendant of—” he began, but broke off with a startled look when Theresa briskly pinched his arm through the leather jacket he was wearing. “What the hell?”

“Language!” I hissed.

Theresa ignored the both of us, scribbling something down on her clipboard. “So you’ve got pain receptors,” she said, clicking her tongue thoughtfully. “Which means your brain is capable of receiving and translating signals, even though it’s technically not alive, according to my research. Or is it alive? Does the blood you consume reanimate your life systems? Is that why you need to constantly replenish it?” She looked up inquiringly through the bright pink frames of her glasses at Malachy, who stared at her.

“Er—yes. I do need blood to…operate, as it were.” For the first time in my memory, he seemed discomfited.

Theresa nodded. “Right, blood’s very important to staying alive and operational, but it’s not really the only thing you need. How about oxygen? Do you need to breathe?”

He blinked at her, and then at me. Like I was going to rescue him from his flailing. I was enjoying myself too much. “To speak, mostly. And habit. I don’t actually require it.”

“Interesting.” Theresa scribbled something furiously on the clipboard, elbowing me when I tried to peer over her shoulder at what she’d written. “Then I wonder how you’re accomplishing cellular respiration. Of course, blood transports oxygen, so I thought that might be why vampires needed it, but if you don’t need to breathe, then how are you getting that oxygen? And how are your organs functioning? Or are they functioning? Are they rotting inside you right now?” She took a step forward, as if to start looking, and Malachy actually backed up a step.

“There will be no autopsies in this house,” I said loudly, “especially if you’ll be finding rotting organs. I just cleaned the carpets.”

“My organs are not rotting!”

“Didn’t ask, don’t care, they probably are, but that’s your problem, not mine.”

“They are not—”

“I have a scalpel, we could check,” Theresa piped up, beaming. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about your regeneration and healing capabilities, anyway.”

We both looked at her.

“How old is she?” Malachy asked me in an undertone.

“She’s turning twelve on Friday,” I said, not bothering to keep my voice down. “And speaking of, Theresa, if you want a party Friday afternoon, you’d better finish your homework ahead of time. You can bother Malachy afterwards.” I’d probably pay her to do it, if he was overstaying his welcome.

She gave me a pleading look. “Just a couple more questions?”

Behind her, Malachy was shaking his head no. I bestowed a beautiful smile on him, and told her, “Of course! You can have three.”

Theresa was physically incapable of sticking to three pre-planned questions. I let her herd him into the living room, talking at the speed that only middle-schoolers could achieve, and went into the kitchen to grab some supplies.

I came back out to find Malachy eyeing Theresa warily as she industriously wrote out calculations on her clipboard. He was sitting on one of the armchairs—the one that happened to be farthest from any doors or windows, I noticed. Coincidentally, these were all covered in crosses.

“Homework,” I said firmly, and she sent me a pleading look, but I shook my head at her, and she sighed. Collecting all of her things, she dragged herself out of the living room. As I set the vase down on the end table. I could hear her sadly thumping her way upstairs and into her room.

Malachy nodded at me, which was probably the closest I’d ever get to a “thank you” from him. Then he sniffed the air, and frowned over at the end table by the couch. “Is that…?”

I arranged the garlic flowers in the vase to display their purple petals a little more prominently. “Just testing out some questions of my own. Say, if I spilled some beans just now”—I had, there were a few on the floor by the couch—“would you feel compelled to clean them up?”

He had been regarding the garlic flowers with narrowed eyes, but turned away from his contemplation long enough to give me a scornful look. “I’m not a jiāngshī, am I?”

That piqued my curiosity. “There are different types of vampires?”

Malachy laughed. “As many as there are legends about them. Hollywood doesn’t have a copyright on the supernatural world, you know.”

“Great,” I muttered. So not everything I knew about vampires would apply to every one. Lovely. Guess I’d better start stocking beans in my purse alongside garlic and rosaries.

“That’s not really important right now,” he said, and I stared at the carpet. Normally Malachy never passed up the chance to mock my understanding of the supernatural world—if he was doing so now, the world must be ending soon. And I didn’t want any part in the trouble he’d probably brought with him, but on the other hand—Isa.

Just because my best friend had started dating a vampire—and been drawn further and further into a world that seemed bent on killing her—didn’t mean I wouldn’t do everything in my power to help her.

And right now, she wasn’t doing too well. Apparently, one of her direct ancestors had been attacked by a very powerful vampire, one who’d been thought to have perished ages ago. But now he’d resurfaced, and Isa was experiencing side effects from it. Odd dreams and lethargy being the least of them.

That was my understanding of the issue. The Circle had other ideas. 

“What’s the problem?”

“You remember the Circle,” he said, and I grimaced. Yeah, I remembered them—the organization of witches that basically wanted to run the supernatural world, and the ones who’d taken issue with some of my critiques of said world. It was kind of hard to forget, since Isa and I had fought over her decision to work with them, among other things. The fight had culminated in some fairly harsh things being said on both sides—but I didn’t like to think about that.

Suffice to say, I disliked the Circle and the feeling was mutual.

“What about them?” I said, as neutrally as I could manage.

“They have a lead on Isa’s condition,” he said, “but it involves a trip to the Underworld.”

After a polite pause, in which I gave him ample time to crack a smile at his joke, I reluctantly concluded that he was being serious. “Underworld? As in Hades and the three Fates? Hercules?” I’d really only ever seen the Disney movie.

“Hades, Annwn, Hel, Yomi, Elysium—whatever name you call it by, yes. There’s a key there that might help in a ritual, apparently. Something about using a key from the land of the dead to break the connection between her blood and the vampire’s. Sometime in the next week, the Circle—and Isa—are going to try to summon this key. I’d really rather avoid the risks of Isa attracting the kinds of beings that populate the Underworld, and so I’m proposing to nip in and retrieve it before this becomes a mess of drastic proportions.”

I crossed my arms and resisted the urge to curl up on the couch. It wasn’t that cold, even for October. “Okay. So what do you need me for?”

He gave me a long look. “You’ve heard of Orpheus?”

I shook my head. 

“The state of education is shameful, these days,” he muttered. “To cut a long story short—Orpheus was a musician whose wife died. He traveled to the Underworld to ask for her life back. He got it, but at a price. On the way up, if he turned to look back at her, she’d be lost to him forever. Three guesses as to how the story ends.”

“With the redemptive power of love and faith leading to a happy ending?” I said defiantly.

“Wrong. He looks back just once, and no more wife. She was sent back to the underworld forever. Then he died.”

“Of grief?”

“No, actually, he got ripped apart by a group of madwomen later in his life. For disrespecting the gods, I believe. But I digress.”

I slouched back, the soft cushion of the couch dipping under my weight. “That’s a terrible story.”

“The point is, that you must have heard of any number of stories where human champions descend underground to a supernatural world. Alice in Wonderland? Labyrinth?” He caught my surprised look at the casual references to modern fiction and arched an eyebrow. “I’ve lived a long while. You fill up the time somehow, and television’s everywhere now.”

I tried to imagine Malachy sitting in front of the TV, watching as the cartoon Alice in her poofy blue dress spoke to Tweedledee and Tweedledum, and couldn’t quite manage it. For one, where’d he get the TV from? It’s not like he had a house—would the cable guys set one up in a crypt?

Did he even live in a crypt? When he wasn’t crashing on Isa’s couch, I mean.

“The point is that getting to the Underworld’s not so bad, dangers and guardians notwithstanding. In some cases, it’s disturbingly easy to do so. It’s getting out that’s the problem. See, you need someone who…well. Can withstand temptation. Strong moral character, and all that.”

“…” said I, staring at him.

He rolled his eyes. “Some people would take that as a compliment.”

“Wow, the undead creature of the night that makes it a habit to drain people of all their blood thinks I have strong moral character because I—tell him that what he does is wrong? Amazing. I’m truly astounded you managed to find one person to fit your criteria with that level of moral understanding.”

Then again, it was a world that apparently thought vampires were sexy precisely because of the undead blood-drinking thing, so maybe he had something there. Case in point: every time I went to the internet to research supernatural creatures, I had to wade through pages of supernatural romance shows, books, art, what-have-you, before I ever got to what might be considered even slightly academic. If not practical—somehow I doubted that the researchers at Harvard had ever had to deal with the problem of a vampire inviting himself over to tea once a week. I declined to share this thought with him, however.

He arched an eyebrow at me. “Well? Will you do it?”

“What kind of temptation are we talking about here?” I was reluctant to commit, even though I knew in the end I’d do it.

“Any and all.”

Helpful.

Actually, I’d share that thought with him. “Helpful,” I said. “Elaborate?”

Malachy gave me a thin-lipped smile. “Death’s more attractive than you might think. And if not that, then fear.”

“Of…?”

“The unknown? Being left behind? Of it all being a trick? Remember, Orpheus turned around.”

I narrowed my eyes. “And the chances of getting out?”

He gave me his most charming smile. “I have every confidence in your talents, Lili.”

I arched an eyebrow of my own.

“Being the most stubborn, uptight, Miss-Morally-Righteous woman I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet in death,” he said, still smiling. “Also, you know, very strong belief. And you know how important that is, when it comes to my world.”

I did. Crosses, as far as I understood, hurt vampires—at least the kind I was familiar with—because (depending on what belief one subscribed to) they symbolized the resurrection of the dead, which vampires couldn’t partake in due to their unnatural state, or the power of God, or Christ’s sacrifice on the Cross. Explanations varied. 

While crosses and other holy objects (Christian, so far as I had experienced—jury was still out on other religions, though with Malachy’s reveal of different kinds of vampires, now I wondered) all had the ability to make vampires flinch back, it was the item holder’s faith that gave it real power. And it wasn’t just faith in the item, but what it represented.

Months ago, Malachy had seen me keep back a vampire with nothing more than the Sign of the Cross and two popsicle sticks held in a cross shape. So I suppose to him, that was a sign—no pun intended—of my strong faith.

I wasn’t so sure about that. Somehow, I didn’t think that being able to hold back creatures of the night was more faith-filled than, say, volunteering my time at a soup kitchen, or helping old ladies cross the street, or any number of good works that I could be doing instead of coming home at the end of a day filled with classes and multiple shifts, collapsing on my bed, and promptly passing out, repeat ad nauseam.

But there wasn’t really any point to having a theological debate with this particular vampire about anything, much less Matthew 7:21-23.

“All right,” I said, “I’ll do it.”

That really should have been the end of it. I told him I didn’t have a day off until Saturday, two days from then (and conveniently for me, the day after Theresa’s birthday party, because there was no way I was planning, hosting, and then cleaning up a party for middle-schoolers after literally going to Hades). We set a time, he told me what to bring, and that was that.

Only it wasn’t.

Because Friday afternoon was when the school called to tell me Theresa went missing.

The first thing I did was—well. Panic, to be frank. This wasn’t the first time Theresa had gotten in trouble, and since the last time it had happened, it had involved a vampire of the non-Malachy variety—that is to say, not reasonable in any way and really rather bloodthirsty—I felt I was a little justified in doing so. Then, of course, I searched the house, called the school back, did all the normal things to check if her disappearance was due to something, well, normal.

Then, and only then, I called Isa.

The phone rang, and rang, and then—click!

My hopes were dashed when the voice I heard was the pre-recorded kind. I left a message, and then for good measure, texted her—though Isa had a flip phone, so I didn’t have real hopes of her texting back. And then I immediately called again. And again.

The other line connected, and I breathed a sigh of relief. “Isa. I know it’s not a great time, but—”

“She walks through the long dread valley of night,

hand-in-hand with the hunter and his queen.

She sleeps under snow, she sleeps under ice—

and she fades away from the springtime green.”

The voice on the other end was soft—almost mechanical in its recitation. Yet there was something mesmerizing in the quiet rhythm of the words, hardly discernable through the crackling of the poor connection. As soon as the last word was spoken, the voice started over from the beginning. I don’t know how long I stood there, listening to the strange voice.

In fact, I was still listening, transfixed, when I sensed something behind me.

I whipped around, one of the kitchen knives in hand, to find Malachy regarding me with a raised eyebrow. Without lowering the knife, I lifted the phone away from my ear. I could still hear the voice tinnily in the background. “What was the last thing I said to you when you were over here on Monday?”

“It was Thursday, and I believe it was the equivalent of, ‘go back to whatever hell you spawned from,’ only the politer equivalent due to attentive young ears,” he said, but his heart wasn’t in the banter. “Have you heard from Isa?”

Damn. So it was really him. With trembling fingers, I put the knife back in the block. “No. I’ve been calling. Listen to this.”

Without the usual malicious pleasure I would have taken in doing so, I shoved the phone up next to his ear. 

He listened to it a few times, ended the call, and scrubbed at his face, which was looking a little paler than usual. For a corpse, at any rate. “She’s missing.”

“So’s Theresa,” I said, feeling cold. I put the phone away, reluctant to even look at it. It was strange to have something so obviously supernatural happen over such a modern device as the phone. “What do you think is going on?”

“I found out that the Circle was ahead of schedule and carried out their ritual at midnight. Apparently, they lost track of Isa at noon today.” He said this in a way that indicated to me that someone in the Circle had been left very unhappy when he discovered this. “When did your sister go missing?”

“I don’t know the exact time, but the school called me around one.”

“Not promising.”

“Do you think—”

“—it’s related? Probably. At least, you’d better hope, because I only know a potential method to track Isa, not your little tagalong.”

“Oh, God,” I said. “Where do you think—?”

“Better grab your jacket,” he said. “Looks like we’re making an early start on our road trip to Hell.”

[inklings-sprint]

Inklings Challenge Ask Game

Some pre-Inklings Challenge questions that I’ve thought about before and would be interested in seeing how others would answer these.

🖋️Which team are you hoping for?

💻Which team do you least want to end up on?

🖨️Which genre/s excites you the most?

📃Which genre/s do you feel least confident about?

📜Which genre/s do you feel most confident about?

📓Which of this year’s theme/s are you most drawn to?

🖍️Which of this year's theme/s do you find most challenging/least likely to try and incorporate?

📝 If you’ve previously participated, which team (or teams) have you ended up on?

🖊️ If you’ve previously participated, has your preferred team changed? Or would you rather always end up on the same team?

📖 If you’ve previously participated, have you ever been disappointed by which team you’ve ended up on?

📚 If you’ve previously participated, have you ever been excited by which team you’ve ended up on?

📕 Have you participated in any of the other Inklings Challenges? (Like the Christmas and/or Four Loves)

📗 If you’ve previously participated, do you have story ideas that have gone unused or waiting for the chance to use them again.

📘 If you’ve written multiple stories (finished or not) for the challenges, which is your favourite?

📙 If you’ve written multiple stories (finished or not) for the challenges, which is your least favourite?

💾 Have you read any of the challenge stories that have really stuck with you? (Any stories you still think about/go back and read)

⏳ Are there any stories that you wish the author would finish writing?

💛 Have you made any friends through reading someone’s story? (In/related through the challenge)

💐💐💐💐💐

🌻🌻🌻🌻

🌼🌼🌼🌼

🌸🌸🌸🌸

I also feel like there could be more questions that fit along these lines. So if you think of them, feel free to add them in your reblogs.

🌹🌹🌹🌹

🌷🌷🌷🌷

🌺🌺🌺🌺

🪻🪻🪻🪻

@inklings-challenge

[inklings-challenge]

Inklings Challenge 2024: Official Announcement

The Event

The Inklings Challenge invites Christian writers to create science fiction and fantasy stories from a Christian worldview. All writers who sign up for the the challenge before October 1st, 2024 will be randomly assigned to one of three teams that are each challenged to write a story that fits at least one of two assigned genres. Writers will also choose at least one of seven Christian themes to inspire their story.

After teams are assigned on October 1, 2024, writers will have until October 21, 2024 to write a science fiction or fantasy story that fits their assigned genre and uses at least one of the Christian themes in the provided list. There is no maximum or minimum word limit, but because of the short time frame, the challenge is focused on short stories.

The Teams

Inspired by a similar challenge between J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis to write, respectively, a time travel story and a space travel story, the Inklings Challenge uses these authors (and G.K. Chesterton) as the inspiration for the genres assigned to each team. Each team is given both a fantasy and a science fiction option, so writers can choose the genre that is most comfortable for them. (However, writers shouldn’t be afraid to use the science fiction option as inspiration for a fantasy story, and vice versa. They can also choose to use both genres in one story, or write multiple stories). Writers may define for themselves which types of stories fit under each genre.

Team Lewis

Portal Fantasy: Stories where someone from the real world explores a new world

Space Travel: Stories about traveling through space or exploring other planets

Team Tolkien

Secondary World Fantasy: Stories that takes place in an imaginary realm that’s completely separate from our world

Time Travel: Stories exploring travel through time

Team Chesterton

Intrusive Fantasy: Stories where the fantastical elements intrude into the real world

Earth Travel: Science fiction or fantasy stories that feature any kind of land, sea, air, or underground travel on a past, present, future or alternate Earth

These teams will be assigned at random on October 1st, 2023. Writers are then encouraged to write a story before the deadline on October 21st.

The Themes

To add a Christian flavor to the event, writers are asked to use at least one of seven Christian themes from the list below somewhere within their stories. This year's themes feature the seven traditional spiritual acts of mercy which Christians are called to perform. Writers may use these themes to inspire any element of their story that they choose.

The seven themes writers may choose from are:

Admonish the sinner

Instruct the ignorant

Counsel the doubtful

Comfort the sorrowful

Bear wrongs patiently

Forgive all injuries

Pray for the living and the dead

Joining the Challenge

Writers who wish to join this year's Inklings Challenge must sign up before teams are assigned on October 1, 2024 by contacting this blog and signing up in one of the following ways:

Reply to this announcement post

Send a direct message to this blog

Leave an ask in this blog's inbox

This blog will reply to all writers who express interest once they are added to this year's participation list. A list of participants will be posted early in September and updated periodically through the month, so participants can make sure their usernames are included if they want to join the challenge, or can contact the blog to remove their username if they no longer wish to participate.

All tumblr users who are on the list on October 1st, 2024 will be assigned to one of the three Inklings Challenge teams on that date.

Posting the Stories

Completed stories can be posted to a tumblr blog anytime after the categories are assigned on October 1st. Writers are encouraged to post their stories–whether finished or incomplete–before the deadline on October 21st, but they can post their stories, or the remainders of unfinished stories, after that date.

All stories will be reblogged and archived on the main Inklings Challenge blog. To assist with organization, writers should tag their posts as follows:

Mention the main Challenge blog @inklings-challenge somewhere within the body of the post (which will hopefully alert the Challenge blog).

Tag the story #inklingschallenge, to ensure it shows up in the Challenge tag, and make it more likely that the Challenge blog will find it.

Tag the team that the author is writing for: #team lewis, #team tolkien, or #team chesterton. 

Tag the genre the story falls under: #genre: portal fantasy, #genre: space travel, #genre: secondary world, #genre: time travel, #genre: intrusive fantasy, #genre: earth travel

Tag any themes that were used within the story: #theme: admonish, #theme: instruct, #theme: counsel, #theme: comfort, #theme: patience, #theme: forgive, #theme: pray

Tag the completion status of the story: #story: complete or #story: unfinished

And that’s the Inklings Challenge! Any questions, comments or concerns that aren’t covered there can be sent to this blog, and I’ll do my best to answer them.

[bookshelf-in-progress]

From the Other Side of the End of the World

A time travel story for @inklings-challenge.

Thanks to @awesomebutunpractical, @thatscarletflycatcher, and @rogerhamleys for beta help that made it possible to finish this.

I. Josephine Forester to Rachel Forester

Agril 19, 551 T.E.

Grimsfell, North Arza

Dear Rachel,

At last! The war is over! I know my history as well as anybody, but it still took me by surprise. I sobbed with relief when news of the treaty came. We haven’t heard any shelling for three days. No more wounded have arrived. It seems like a miracle.

But the work is far from done. Grimsby Hall is still filled with wounded soldiers, and we hard-working nurses are kept busy from morning til night. It will be weeks before some of these boys are well enough to travel, and years until they are completely healed, if they ever are at all.

The suffering I’ve seen! There is little even modern medical knowledge can do to ease their pain. Their war machines are primitive—cannons, tanks, machine guns—but they've wrought destruction on the land unlike anything we could imagine in our time. If I hadn’t seen our future, I’m not sure I could believe this land could be healed, that the world could ever find peace. But I have seen it, and the hope it inspires is the greatest gift I can give to these people.

Now, more than ever, I know that I've been called here. My research will be invaluable to history, but more than that, I feel a connection to these people, this place, this time. This is where I'm meant to serve.

I have a connection to you, too, of course. Your letters always make me feel I'm right there with you. Write back soon. I want to know about everything.

Love,

Josephine

P.S. I’ve shared a couple of the stories you wrote me with some of my patients. I hope you don’t mind—they need cheering up, and there's nothing in your stories that requires knowledge of the future. They very much enjoy them.

II. Rachel Forester to Josephine Forester

Agril 32, 771 T.E

Variby University

Dear Josie,

I know it’s taken me ages to write back, but the life of a college girl is a whirlwind. I made a list of all the things I’ve done this week, so you can see that I barely had time to breathe.

Two papers, three exams, and a presentation about the life cycle of the Aribanian tree frog.

Airball playoffs and championship. (I scored twenty-eight points!)

Trip to Grimsby. Twelve of us in one car. Visited the war museum. No pictures of you. Try to pose for any cameras if you see them.

Climbed the bell tower after Ferdie dared me to. Am now the hero of the school.

It sounds terribly shallow compared to what you're going through, but if I didn’t do all these things, where would I get the charming anecdotes that fill my letters and raise your poor, war-weary spirits? Even though the war is over, it still sounds dreadful. I don’t know how you manage it. At least you'll be home soon—it's a little over a month, right?

If I ever had hopes of becoming a time traveler, your letters would burn that dream right out of me. I'm perfectly happy in the safe and cozy modern day. I'll stay here in comfort and leave the do-gooding to you.

I’m glad you could make some use out of my stories. I’ve half a mind to tell that worthless university magazine editor that they’ve proven to be truly timeless. I’ll send another one along with this letter. Let your soldiers read it to their hearts’ content.

I could tell you loads more, but I’ve got play practice in an hour. I’ve been cast as Elsie in Less Boring, and I’ve got to learn my lines. (I've been laughing my head off. Darrin Royston is a genius).

I promise I’ll write more promptly next time.

Your sister,

Rachel

III. Josephine Forester to Rachel Forester

Maj 3, 551 T.E.

Grimsfell, North Arza

Dear Rachel,

It's always good to know things are going well for you. You're right—my term is over in less than a month. I had almost forgotten. It seems impossible. There's so much I still have to do.

I don't have time to give a proper response, except to tell you that I gave your story to the most voracious reader among my patients, and he's already finished it. It's exactly the type of story that he likes best, so he's asked to write a note of appreciation to the authoress. I’ve allowed it—my letter-link isn’t all that different to the ones they have in this time period. Maybe this will make up for the magazine’s lack of appreciation for your work.

Your sister,

Josephine

IV. Darrin Royston to Rachel Forester

Maj 3, 551 T.E.

Miss Rachel Forrester,

Your sister Josephine has informed me that you are the authoress of a little tale that has brought light and joy to my sickbed. Your comic fantasy is one of the most enjoyable works of fiction I have read in recent memory. It isn’t often one finds just such a blend of the beautiful and the silly. Too often, the comic fairy tales neglect their world, while the more grounded fantasy works take themselves too seriously. Yours struck just the right note.

There's little enough cheer in the world these days, and I'm glad to find that someone still remembers its secret. I pray—if it's not too presumptuous—that you have many more such works for your sister to pass on for our amusement.

Gratefully,

Darrin Royston

V. Rachel Forester to Josephine Forrester

Maj 3, 701 T.E.

Josephine!

You let Darrin Royston read my stupid little stories?

“They’re just the kind of thing he likes to read,” she says.

Because they’re based on the kind of thing he writes! Or did write. Or will write.

How old is he?

Have we broken history?

What if, having read my stories, he doesn’t write one of his great works? How would I know if he didn’t write it? Maybe you’ve already erased a dozen masterpieces from history, and I’ll never know they were never written!

Couldn’t you have given me some kind of warning before showing my fiction to one of the great literary minds of the post-war era? I want to curl up and die at the thought of his eyes looking at my inane scribbles. I might have done it already if his letter hadn’t suggested that he, for some reason, enjoyed it.

Maybe the war shattered his sanity. Maybe he has some kind of infection. You should check.

Rachel

VI. Josephine Forester to Rachel Forester

Maj 5, 551 T.E.

Grimsfell, North Arza

Rachel,

Who is Darrin Royston? You’re the one who knows about authors. To me, Darrin Royston is a dark-haired, undersized private recovering from a broken leg, who has every right to read your stories if he wants to.

You don’t have to worry about changing history. I’ve told you before—it can’t be done. History is chronological—everything that happens as a result of time travel has always happened that way. I’m here because I was always meant to be here.

It’s possible your story inspired whatever it is that Royston wrote, but it won’t erase anything.

His words were genuine. He really did enjoy your story. Take it as a compliment. It sounds like a good one.

And maybe send another story? The boy’s going stir-crazy and he’s driving me up the wall.

Yours,

Josephine

VII. Rachel Forester to Josephine Forester

Maj 6, 701 T.E.

Josephine,

Who is Darrin Royston?

Time travel is wasted on you.

He's only one of the most brilliant writers of the last century! Poems, plays, essays, novels—you name it, he's written it. He has wit, wisdom, genius. He's a little bit niche, but you've lived with me. You should at least have known his name! I just told you I'm acting in one of his plays!

There are a million things I'd love to ask him about, but he probably hasn't done any of them yet.

What does he look like? What's he like? I need details!

Yours,

Rachel

P.S. I've sent along a nice, long story. I hope it won't destroy his opinion of my literary talents.

VIII. Josephine Forester to Rachel Forester

Maj 8, 551 T.E.

Dear Rachel,

That Darrin Royston? Now that you mention it, the name sounds familiar. You have to admit this whole situation is mildly hilarious. I never expected to accidentally introduce you to a celebrity.

I'm not sure what you want to hear about him. He's dark-haired. Slender. Not over-tall. Has a melancholy streak. Rather too quiet—except when he's demanding reading material. Your story is keeping him nicely pacified. I leave my letter-link next to his bed (with all the personal letters hidden, of course—though I can't say I wasn't tempted to let him read that last one).

He's not what I would have expected the author of Less Boring to be like. (I guess I have seen that play. I remember laughing.) But he's young, and this isn't exactly a cheerful setting. Broken bodies, broken minds—blood, bones and suffering, dust and dirt and smoke. Even with the shadow of the war gone, it left plenty of darkness behind.

You're going to think this is crazy, but I've written to ask the university for an extension of my time here. The people here have become my friends and allies. There is so much work to be done. I can't leave them to deal with it alone.

It's only another six months, and after all, what's time to a time traveler? I'm going to miss you, but you have plenty to keep you busy. Before you know it, we'll be back together again.

I hope you understand. Pray for me.

Always your loving sister,

Josephine

IX. Rachel Forester to Josephine Forester

Maj 11, 701 T.E.

Josephine,

Are you crazy? Is the university crazy? The fact that you want to spend more time in that horrible time and place should be proof that time travel has messed with your mind.

I get it. Now that you're hob-nobbing with celebrities, ordinary modern life just can't compare. I should never have told you who Darrin Royston was. He can't be that interesting. He won't even write anything for another ten years. Can he really compare to your charming, adorable sister?

But seriously, Josie, what are you thinking? Time travel is cool and all, and I'm sure you're doing good things, but you belong here. In a safe, civilized century. There are plenty of people in this time period who need you—I'm at the top of the list.

You're going to miss my birthday now, you know that?

Disgruntled,

Rachel

X. Rachel Forester to Josephine Forester

Maj 15, 701 T.E.

Josephine,

Are you mad at me? I'm sorry if I got snarky. I'm upset you're not coming home, but you're a big girl and we both have our own lives and you can make your own decisions. I can respect your choice to stay.

I know that you're busy, but can you spare ten seconds to send me a line so I know I haven't destroyed our relationship forever?

Rachel

XI. Rachel Forester to Josephine Forester

Maj 20, 701 T.E.

Josie,

Are the people of that century so much more important that you can't even send a line to your little sister? I know I'm not one to talk about prompt letter-writing, but under the circumstances, this is worrying. And kind of hurtful.

Rachel

XII. Rachel Forester to Josephine Forester

Maj 20, 701 T.E.

Josie,

I'm sorry.

Please write back.

Rachel

XIII. Darrin Royston to Rachel Forester

Maj 20, 551 T.E.

Miss Rachel Forester:

I am writing with a heavy heart to inform you of the death of your sister, Nurse Josephine Forester. She went missing several days ago, and her body was found yesterday. She seems to have been killed in an accident with a stray shell near the hospital grounds. Millions of such unused artillery shells litter the countryside, and I'm afraid your sister was unfortunate enough to stumble upon one and become a casualty of war even in this time of peace.

No doubt you will receive notification through official channels, but I am aware she often contacted you via this letter-link, and I thought you might prefer to receive the news through a more personal route.

Your sister was a credit to her profession. She was a diligent, cheerful, kind, and invariably patient nurse. I am forever indebted to her for her personal kindnesses that brought light to hellish days.

Know that you and your family have my sympathy and my deepest condolences. You will remain in my prayers.

Yours,

Darrin Royston

XIV. Rachel Forester to Darrin Royston

What do you mean, dead?

She can't be dead. She won't be born for a hundred and fifty years.

Time travel's not supposed to work like that. She was supposed to do her research and come home.

It can't happen like that. I refuse to believe it. God wouldn't do that to us.

I haven't heard anything from her, but that's because you stole her letter-link. That must be it. Give it back, you thief, and think again before you go terrifying me with wild stories.

XV. Rachel Forester to Darrin Royston

Mr. Royston,

Don't read my last response. It wasn't supposed to send. Please ignore it. Give Josephine her letter-link back.

Thank you,

Rachel Forester

XVI. Darrin Royston to Rachel Forester

Maj 21, 551 T.E.

Miss Forester,

I'm afraid I read both your of your letters, and they greatly puzzle me. Is this a fragment of one of your fantastical tales? That would be the most sensible assumption, except that the unopened letters you sent to your sister seem to confirm an impossible truth. Your sister came to us from a different time, you exist far in the future, and I am writing to a woman who has not yet been born.

I apologize for reading words that I was not meant to see, but the confusion they've caused has more than punished me for my curiosity. The implications of what you suggest are dizzying.

You are not writing in Valorian, which suggests that the peace holds, and you seem to write from a far more peaceful time. No wonder your stories held such hope. I can barely imagine a world beyond this battlefield hospital.

If I am reading the story correctly, your sister left a place of safety and peace and came to serve the suffering in a time of war. It makes her actions even more heroic and her death even more of a tragedy.

I don't pretend to understand how this is possible, but you have my gratitude and my sympathy.

Yours,

Darrin Royston

XVII. Rachel Forester to Darrin Royston

Maj 22, 701 T.E.

Darrin,

Yes, my sister is from the future. Yes, she came to help out during your war. And yes, you people killed her.

She could have been an aloof researcher, gathering information about the Western War, but she decided to help because she couldn't stand by while people were suffering. And she died for it.

What does it matter if you know the truth? Josephine always said that history can't be changed. I can't even wish that she hadn't gone on the trip, because apparently, the fact that she died in the past means she always died in the past. She was dead before she was born.

But how is that any different from the rest of us? Where I come from, you're long dead. To people in the future, I'm long dead. There's nothing we can do to change that, even with time travel, so what does anything matter?

If our every action is part of an unchangeable history, we're just cogs in a cosmic machine. It doesn't do any good to cry over it.

Rachel

XVIII. Darrin Royston to Rachel Forester

Maj 23, 551 T.E.

Rachel,

I can't pretend to understand how time travel occurs, and the philosophical questions you pose seem far beyond my ken. But it is clear that you are grieving, and I can try to offer what comfort I can.

I'm no philosopher, but I know that the things we do, whenever we do them, matter. From where I lay in this hospital, your sister's actions were far from meaningless. She did not control her fate, but she had free will within it. Her choices made a world of difference to the men she helped.

We have a God who is outside of time. He incorporates our choices into His divine plan. Even if He, the author, knows the end of our story, our actions are what make the story what it is. We can choose to care or be callous, to create or destroy, and those choices ripple across time, for good and for ill.

This war will have effects far into the future, but there is also goodness that transcends time. God sent your sister to help from far in the future. I pray for you from far in the past. Your sister, outside of time, is now better able than ever to pray for us both.

I can't pretend that your sister's death was good. I can't pretend that this war is good. But if there is goodness beyond the end of the war--as your letters suggest--perhaps one day you will find some good that exists beyond the bounds of grief.

Yours,

Darrin Royston

XIX. Rachel Forester to Darrin Royston

Maj 24, 701 T.E.

Darrin,

I wish I could believe in what you say, but right now, hope seems impossible. Thank you for trying.

Rachel

XX. Darrin Royston to Rachel Forester

Maj 25, 701 T.E.

Rachel,

That did get rather abstract, didn't it? I wish I could express myself in a way that makes the truth felt.

Maybe someday I'll have wisdom enough to do so.

Yours,

Darrin Royston

XXI. Rachel Forester to Josephine Forester

Maj 27, 771 T.E.

Josie,

The university sent me your personal belongings today, your letter-link among them. My last connection to the past—and, it feels like, to you—is gone. But Darrin says you're outside of time now, so maybe writing in here can reach you. I'm pretty sure that goes against science and philosophy and theology and probably lots of -ologies, but those were your kind of thing. I can never understand anything but stories.

I'm afraid I've loused things up. I freaked out and revealed time travel to Darrin Royston. It doesn't seem to have broken anything yet, but I feel terrible. You went into the past to help these people through suffering I can't even imagine. Meanwhile, I'm living in comfort and asked the poor boy to deal with my problems on top of his own. I've been selfish from beginning to end, and it's giving me a lot of guilt.

All the time travel in the world can't change that. All I can do is move forward. But I can't believe I can do that, not without you. Whatever stupid things I did, I knew I could count on you to have my back. To understand. To pull me back from the edge of the cliff or pick me up if I jumped off it. Now it's just me and I feel frozen. I'm cut off from the past and the future's a blank. How am I supposed to go on?

Pray for me, I guess. It's supposed to work across time and outside of time. It's the best we've got now. But it's nothing like getting a letter from you.

Love,

Rachel

XXII. Josephine Forester to Rachel Forester

Maj 11, 551 T.E.

Rachel,

Happy birthday!

Anyway, it'll be your birthday when you read this. I'm sorry I'm not there to celebrate with you, but maybe a good present will make up for it.

I can't send objects through time, but I sent a message to Harriet on the research team, and she's come through. This will arrive on your birthday, even if I can't come with it.

What you hold in your hands is a first edition of Darrin Royston's first collection of stories. Given recent events, it seemed only fitting. Here's proof your letters haven't stunted his career.

You're amazing, Rachel, and you've got a great future ahead of you.

Love,

Josephine

XXIII. Dedication in New Beginnings by Darrin Royston

For Rachel

May hope reach you at the proper time

Octon 12, 561 T.E.

XXIV. Rachel Forester to Harriet Zima

Maj 33, 771 T.E.

Harriet,

Thanks for the help with the birthday present. It means more to me than you can know.

Could you do me one more favor? For Josie's sake?

I have another thank you to send.

Rachel

XXV. Rachel Forester to Darrin Royston

Maj 33, 771 T.E.

Darrin,

I read your book. Actually, I reread it. I've read every one of those stories before in anthologies, in collections, as standalone stories. I had some of them practically memorized. But this was my first time reading the original collection. So it's the first time I read the dedication. And it's the first time I've known they were written for me.

I can't begin to explain what that feels like. Imagine a whole lot of tears—joy and guilt and just sheer overwhelmed—and you'll have a general idea.

The stories are fantastic, of course—they're classics! They're funny, profound, sweet, witty, thoughtful.

But the thing that means the most to me is the writing of them. I know something of what your life was like there at the end of the war—Josie sent me plenty of letters. You had so many problems of your own. You didn't need pampered little me throwing more problems on you. But you cared. You built a life after the end of the world and you sent out a light to brighten mine.

That's all we can do, isn't it? Every moment in time. Care about each other. That's what gets us through when it seems like the world has ended. It transcends time. You told me about it back then, but your book showed it to me. I can't imagine what I could have done to deserve such consideration ten years after our few letters, but I can't thank you enough.

Your future and forever friend,

Rachel Forester

XXVI. Harriet Zima to Rachel Forester

Rachel,

I'm letting one last letter through. Only because this is awesome. But I don't have the budget to justify any more favors.

Harriet

XXVII. Darrin Royston to Rachel Forester

Novrum 23, 561 T.E.

Rachel,

Your stories brought me comfort and hope at a time when I felt that I had none. The least I could do was return the favor.

These years since the war have brought grief and suffering, but also more joy and healing than I ever could have imagined. Time is a great healer--and I needed time to see the truth of that for myself, before I could begin to make others believe in it.

My little book, even now, is gaining attention. It is gratifying to know it will last. I can only pray my other words will last long enough to reach you. If ten years of experience can teach me this much, I am curious to see what I can learn with a little more time.

May we meet again on the bookshelves.

Your friend,

Darrin Royston

P.S. I've visited your sister's grave three times since the war. Knowing I will be her only visitor for more than a hundred years makes it a solemn duty, but it is also an honor to visit one who proved so good a friend. Each time, I ask her prayers for both of us. I know they are answered.

XXVIII. Rachel Forester to Josephine Forester

Maj 12, 702 T.E.

Josie,

I visited your grave today. The war-torn country you described in your letters is a lovely springtime meadow. Grimsby Hall is torn down, but there are plaques where the hospital stood, and the little graveyard stands in a peaceful grove of trees. The world has healed, and, slowly, so am I.

Your grave is marked by a clean white stone that's been kept free of moss and dirt. Darrin's family cared for it well. It only has the date of your death, but its existence proves that there are times in the past where you're alive. Outside of time where you are now, you're even more alive.

One day, we'll meet again, but until then, I've got work to do. I tried to avoid suffering in the past, leaving the painful work to you. But pain finds us no matter where we are. I can't stay focused on my own and ignore everyone else's. There are plenty of people, even in our own time, who need help. I've added some volunteer work to my rampant social schedule, trying to find out exactly where I can do the most good.

My experience with your work makes me a good candidate for the time travel program. I'll admit that I'm considering it. There's plenty of work to be done in the post-war world, and I've got connections there.

Love,

Rachel

[thegreenleavesofspring]

Last Rest

For @inklings-challenge 2024

She leaned on her steering wheel and looked up at the sign. It bathed the parking lot in bloody red and deep orange, the neon Vacancy beneath flickering uninspiringly in and out. This was the last hotel before the desert, and it had less than two stars in rating. The reviews had been an interesting blend of people disappointed that it had not lived up to its haunted reputation, and people disappointed in the poor service and strange happenings that had occurred during their stay. But no one had complained of bugs, so she would give it a shot. There would be - or had been already - a Disturbance out in the desert, and it was her job to manage it.

She cut her engine and stepped out the car. The door fell shut with a thump that seemed both louder and more muffled than usual. She glanced back at it and entered the lobby.

It was warmly lit in sickly yellow, and sparsely populated. A sullen Native teenager scrolled on her phone behind the reception desk, lounging in a desk chair that had seen better days, and a man in impressively meticulous reenactment garb circa the 1850s sat in a squashed hotel lobby armchair with a newspaper, his hat on the low table beside him. He looked up with beetling brows as the woman came in, but made no move to stand or greet her. She nodded to him politely, noting as she did so that the words and dates on his newspaper swam before her eyes.

She moved up to the desk, waiting patiently for the girl behind it to acknowledge her. It took a few seconds for flat dark eyes to meet hers; the teenager deliberately chewed her gum twice more and blew a bubble until it popped and demanded impatiently, "What do you want?"

"Do you have a vacancy?" the woman asked politely.

"Sign says so, doesn't it?" the receptionist answered scornfully.

"I wasn't sure," the woman explained, "since you seen to be having a bit of trouble with it."

The girl muttered and smacked at her computer, as though that would fix the glitchy sign out beside the road. The neon reflection on the granite-patterned laminate desktop stopped flickering and held steady, glowing orange and pink across the red-toned counter. The girl swiveled back to face the front of the desk. "Yeah, we got a vacancy, if you want it."

"I do," the woman said firmly. The girl sneered as if this was the wrong answer to a test, and swung away again to pull out from beneath the desktop a plyboard drawer with the stick-on finish peeling away. Trays of metal doorkeys sat inside, and the girl grabbed one and glided back over to drop it ringing on the laminate. "Room 113."

The woman picked up the key without a flicker of expression and paid in cash and turned to go back out the glass doors. The man in the chair was still watching; staring, even, and he still did not acknowledge her as she passed with another nod.

The desert night air was cool and tasted of lightning, the sky above velvety and unrelieved black. Anemic lights placed at intervals along the outside walkway helped after-sunset guests guess at which door was theirs. It took the woman only a few tries to get the key into the lock, but once it was, it turned smoothly and the door opened to admit her into a room that had the familiar smell and softly humming temperature control unit of a thousand other mid-grade hotels.

The woman flicked on the lights, which glowed to reassuring life, and moved at once to draw the heavy light-blocking curtains over the window. Whatever was out there that night, she did not need to see it, nor it her.

~•~•~•~

The Last Rest breakfast room reeked of grease, which was slightly odd, as eggs and bacon alike were both dry as the dust beyond the windows. The smell lingered in memory of meals past, perhaps.

The woman did not take long to break her fast. She filled her water bottles from the tap in the dining room and slid into her car, pulling away from the hotel and into the desert, her car moving along the road like some black beetle creeping across an unwound ribbon of cracked asphalt. Mirages shimmered skyward off of blacktop and sand alike, fading elusively away as she approached.

She stopped at last, on a stretch of road indistinguishable from the rest of the road around it, and got out. The Disturbance tugged at her, and she followed that pull, deeper into the desert, until the ribbon of road with its thermal illusions vanished behind her. Her car turned into a toy, and then a dark speck, and then dwindled into insignificant invisibility. She kept trudging on, the sand shifting treacherously beneath her soles, the sun an oppressive unrelenting weight on her head and shoulders.

She stopped at the rim of a valley. The vegetation here was sparse; a snake hissed away into the sand. Skeletal remains jutted skyward, bleached bone white by the sun. The wood of the wagons, exposed to the elements once more by wind-whipped shifting sands, lay broken and scattered; the metal frames for canvas covers that were long rotted away stood tall and stooped like broken monuments to sorrow. The skull of an ox grinned up at her.

She slid carefully sideways down into the valley. One of many, but this one was Disturbed. She walked fearlessly among the wagons, the ancient vehicles tilted forlornly to their sides, or decayed until only the tongues were left, bones scattered among them, chips of pottery and clay, a single glimmering fragment of glass. There was no sign of what had caused the Disturbance, and she stood in the very middle of the ring, hands on her hips as she looked around. A hawk screamed somewhere high overhead.

She had Observed. Solemnly she turned to scramble back up the hill, glancing back into the valley only briefly as she attained the top. Not a breath of air, no small animal, nothing stirred below, the scene caught frozen in an endless moment of time. She turned away and started back towards the far distant road.

The steering wheel burned her hands. She sat with the air condition running, sipping water, until it cooled down enough to touch. She drove back up the road, heat shimmering deceptively on its surface, the sun pooling her car's shadow on the grimy sand beside the pavement. Before her, stars shimmered to life in velvet blackness, and the neon lights of Last Rest rose out of the desert, orange and crimson and green.

The smell of dinner clung to the dining room, meat and vegetables and savory sauces. She sat taking small forkfuls of flavorless mashed potatoes and some sort of dry, chewy, unidentifiable meat. Her back was in the corner, a heavily tinted window to one side, her other open to the dining room and the lobby beyond. Her dinner was neither appetizing nor interesting, and so she was rather glad of the distraction when the front door opened to admit a group of people.

Men, women, and children, all of them tired and dusty and wearing reenactment clothes with the same level of detail as the lobby-man when she had checked in. Men doffed their hats and looked around wearily; women adjusted their grip on the hands of children and swaddled babies in their arms. One gentleman squared his shoulders and stepped forward, apparently the spokesman of the group. He went up to the Native girl behind the desk, who looked up with a shattering lack of interest, and clutched his hat and cleared his throat and said, "We are seeking rest. Can you give us rest? A place to rest?"

"I can offer you rooms for the night, if you can pay for them," the girl said, still supremely disinterested. Outside, the Vacancy sign flickered, washing the faces of those before and behind the desk an eerie red.

"We can pay for them," the man said in relief, and reached into a ragged pocket to pull out handfuls of bills. The woman, watching as she slowly chewed, could not quite see the denominations on the bills, and it gave her a headache to try. Behind the spokesman, a baby started crying. Somewhere out in the desert night, a dog howled, long and mournful.

The woman went to bed.

~•~•~•~

The group was at breakfast, too. There was a baby crying again, but by and large they seemed to be enjoying the rather tasteless food rather more than the woman was. She did not look too closely at their plates, and lingered over her coffee, muddy and bitter as it was, while they departed. Only one man remained, in the corner farthest from hers, his hat on the table in front of him. She recognized him from her first night at the hotel, and he watched her when she stood to leave but did not move himself.

The dust of the parking lot was crossed and recrossed with footprints. She did not look at them too carefully, but slid into her car and drove into the desert.

Gone were the wrecked ruins of wagons, weathered by nearly two centuries of sun and scouring wind. Gone were skulls bleached white. Canvas flapped tattered and forlorn on metal wagon arches. Horses whickered and oxen lowed, heads drooping, and the people from the hotel milled about aimlessly. A large black dog lay panting in the shade of one of the wagons, ears pricked alertly as it watched the slow-moving river of activity around it.

The woman slithered down the side of the sandhill into the gathering. None of the people seemed surprised to see her or alarmed by her advent, and she walked freely among them, helping to hitch horses to wagon tongues and dig wheels out of the shifting sands, ignoring the feeling of grass brushing against her legs. A child scrambled up into the back of one wagon.

It took all day to get the little band ready to move. They took little initiative of their own but moved gladly to follow her directions. The dog lunged to its feet and, panting, rounded the wagon out of sight. The sun reached its zenith and started down again. The woman drank from her water bottles; the wagon people drank from buckets and dippers that did not drip. The horizon turned orange and scarlet, the land a dark slash beneath the massive setting sun. Shadows wavered thin across the ground.

The spokesman approached the woman, hat in his hands. "What do we do now?"

She looked out across the desert, still and shimmering with heat. A path of deep amber stretched out from the setting western sun, and she pointed to it. "Follow the light to your destination."

The man turned to look. His eyes did not reflect the sun, though it fell full on his face. But he nodded in comprehension, and turned to smile at the woman, looking her full in the eyes for the first time. A shiver whispered down her spine, but she ignored it, smiling back. "Thank you," the man said. "We will."

The woman stood watching as the wagon train rolled out, her hand over her eyes as she squinted into the sun. The party was heading due west, dark silhouettes against the sinking sun that shrank to tiny dark dots far too rapidly and quickly vanished. The eastern night reached out cold fingers to brush the back of her neck and she shivered, turning away from the dying light towards the darkness.

Her car was a black blob on the road. The dim glow of the interior lights when she opened the door seemed incongruously bright, and she closed the door hastily on whatever might lurk in the desert beyond and turned on the ignition. The road rolled out before her, an endless line of asphalt, and time slipped away beneath the rubber of her tires as she drove.

The red and orange lights of the Last Rest sign rose up before her, the sullen actinic white of the building lights casting small pools of illumination that did nothing beyond their dull boundaries. The Vacancy sign had gone dark, invisible in the desert night.

The woman passed by the hotel, glancing through the plate glass windows of the lobby as she did so. A man sat in a lobby armchair, a brown hat on the table beside him. A girl's dark head was bent over her phone behind the desk. Neither glanced around at the passing car.

The woman drove on, the hotel shrinking in her mirrors, the lights of civilization a distant white glow ahead.

[septembersung]

This is part one (of three) of my Inklings Challenge story. #team lewis

The Contract

I. Teeth

Dirty hands gripped jaws and forced them open. “Strong teeth!” bawled dozens of voices in as many languages. “Long lived! Strong! Hard workers!” Not that prospective buyers could see much of the... merchandise. Paul could hardly make out where one auction landing ended another began in the smothering crush of people. The stench did not bear thinking about. He kept one hand at the beads on his belt right (“Be sure to remove every outward adornment before entering the bay,” a stern voice scolded in memory,) and the other raised at his chest as he squeezed through the crowd. The wallet of papers hanging against his chest poked him with a sharp corner as he turned this way and that finding a path through the crowd. Was he even still heading in the right direction? The noise deafened. His temple began to throb.

“I heard it’s a death trap!” an old woman wailed as he slid past, her crippled hands pawing forlornly at the jacket of the young man beside her. He ignored her, looking over a sorry lot of dirty women in shapeless gray shifts on the low platform before him. Paul glanced up and around. The orange exit arrows were closer, and the floor had begun to noticeably slant. The legal tables were near. He had to sign in before station’s midday, or lose his spot. Despite himself, he slowed, caught by the terror in the old woman’s voice.

The smell was actually worse here, but the auctioneers at this side of the station had made an effort to look more presentable. This one had slicked back his long greasy hair and wrapped a thick bit of tubing around his collarless neck like a tie.

“What about that one?” snapped the young man, as if he had not heard the old woman, pointing at a short woman at the end of the line. Her dark, dirty hair spilled into her face; it was still long, unlike the other women’s. She was missing a sleeve; her shoulder bore a red welt.

You have a deadline, Paul reminded himself. You cannot be late.

“Strong teeth!” barked the auctioneer, striding to the unfortunate woman and yanking her jaw down. She stumbled, off balance, but her face remained impassive. But there was something in her dark eyes, a long way back.

Before he was conscious of a decision, Paul was up on the edge of the platform. The auctioneer whirled on him in fury, one huge arm raised to knock him flying. “Get off!” he snarled. Instead of veering away, steady as a goat in his balance, Paul leaned forward and took a step in. The auctioneer veered sideways to avoid falling off the platform himself. “I don’t serve your kind,” the huge man snarled, and raised his fist. But Paul’s hand on the beads slid in his pocket brought out a crimson money bag. “This one is mine,” he said in a clear voice.

The auctioneer huffed. “He spoke first.” A thumb jerked at the cold young man. But he was now eyeing her sleeveless arm with the welt and shaking his head. “No troublemakers,” he said in a bored voice, and turned away, trailed by the wailing old woman pawing uselessly at his coat.

“Thirty units!” barked the auctioneer at the men behind Paul, dragging the woman over. “A bargain! Look at the fine hair, and the bone structure! She’ll bear well!” He pulled the woman along the edge of the platform, trying to hold the attention of anyone in the crowd. But the men - a sorry, stringy lot, Paul observed from his advantage on the platform - shook their heads and turned away, muttering and pointing at other stands.

The auctioneer rounded on Paul with a scowl, pushing the woman between them. Her hands were bound tightly at the wrists, the fingers nearly bloodless. “Unbind her hands,” Paul demanded.

“Sixty units!”

“Outrageous. You just offered them thirty.”

“You’re not them,” sneered the auctioneer, showing rows of yellow and blackened teeth.

“Forty, and not a unit more.”

The auctioneer spat a vile glob on the platform. “Done.”

Paul carefully opened the money pouch and counted out four heavy coins. The auctioneer examined each one carefully before stowing them away in an unspeakable pocket.

“Home world?” Paul asked, bringing out his own knife to slit the rope since the auctioneer showed no sign of doing it. The woman snatched her hands back to herself and rubbed them furiously. The uactioneer returned him a look of disgust and moved away to the next customer.

Paul looked at the woman he had just bought. She looked at something, or nothing, past his shoulder.

“Come on,” he said.

* * * * *

He was sick in the middle of the walkway. The flow of baggy shirts and peeling boots barely parted around him. A short fat man’s swinging elbow collided with his ribs and he went sprawling into a huddle of youths who shrieked and pushed him away. He staggered blindly for the wall and pressed his clammy forehead against the cool metal. The stink of unwashed travelers, human merchandise, the backed up lavatory down the corridor - the room spun around him.

Time passed. The station’s horn sounded, but it wasn’t the noonday alarm. A rising wave of unease bubbled in his gut. How much time did he have left? And how long since he had last eaten? If you could call it eating, how they had survived on the transport here. He struggled to grip the cord around his neck that held his boarding pass. Where was the gate? Unbidden, those last, miserable days in the transport came back to him. His stomach heaved.

Someone pulled him upright. “No mess in the hall,” barked a gaunt face. The dull eyes didn’t even see him. “Move along or get taken to holding.”

He nodded desperately. Anything but holding. The twitching hand dropped the fold of his shirt. He blinked, rubbed his face. What hour? What gate?

His hands flinched to his neck, scrabbled at the grimy skin - he pulled open the baggy neck of his shirt - but it was no use. The cord was gone. The pouch was gone. His ticket was gone.

All around him, business went on. Tickets bought and sold, papers stamped at the long tables on the far wall, the burly guards at the door to the boarding dock scanned passes, men shouted out their wares, sobbing broke out here and there and was muffled again. The pandemonium of voices rose and fell and rose again. He stood as a stone. All his papers, the travel permissions, the identity card, and his boarding pass. Seven years they had worked for that ticket, and he had let someone steal it from him like he was a fresh boy off a ship on his first city trip.

Well, said a small voice in the back of his mind, that’s not so far off, now is it?

The voice was not his father’s, but it reminded him of his father. He came back to himself. His eyes began to make sense of the chaos of the bay. Here the passengers, there the supplies, here the unfortunate women, there the long tables under the bright exit arrows. He carefully adjusted the bag on his back - still intact - nestled under his itchy, ill-fitting shirt. Supplies he still had. But without a first-class pass, he needed a woman.

Hands folded inside the long sleeves, curling his toes around the heavy bag of coins in his boot, he began to pace between the sellers.

Not sellers, technically, of course - that would be the slave trade, and the slave trade was illegal. No, you simply paid for the passage and boarding fare of a destitute immigrant fleeing the wars or the plagues or one of the many famines, whatever it was that besieged her homeworld - and took her with you into a new life. Preferably on to the new world, in the outer system, like any good colonist. It was practically an upstanding thing to do.

The familiar fictions played on repeat in his mind. They did not comfort him.

The first lot was too old. Some of them looked contemptuously down at him from their platform as he went by, the sickly overhead lights shining on their shaved heads. Some were too young. He tried to keep his pace even, his face thoughtful, feeling the unfriendly eyes on him - but he shuddered as he turned away.

This other group did not speak Standard, and their handler, a huge, vicious man with a cord like a tie around his neck, was furiously defending his high price anyway. He did not have that kind of coin. He turned, eyes scanning fruitlessly. He was running out of options.

The crowd was beginning to thin. A warning klaxon sounded - the first of three. Business was closing for the day. The station would be emptied; there was no lodging here. Either he would find himself on the ship he was meant to be on, or back to a transport he would go, home in disgrace. Or, he supposed, with another sick swooping in his guts, he could join the truly destitute and wait for the bay to be depressurized. The guards were supposed to prevent them, but they never tried very hard. It would be years before his family found out what became of him anyway...

“We should get as many as we can,” a tall, eager boy was saying to his companions. “The new world is full of precious metals, we’ll earn it back in no time-”

“Look for the quiet ones,” another was saying, gesturing at a line of women, “the fight’s been taken out of them already-”

“-just farmland, they need all the labor they can get to relieve the famines-”

“-running out of materials for the war-”

“But you can’t leave me-”

“Proper surrogacy is alright for the rich, but where’s that leave us? Just pick the prettiest and let’s get in line-”

A far-away corner of his mind took in the snatches of conversation around him even while he considered what it would mean, to simply wait, to let the ship leave and the transport leave and watch until the lights went out and the endless vacuum was let in. What did he have left? How could he go back?

The lines at the long tables near the boarding gate grew longer. The man with the women who didn’t speak Standard, a particularly nasty example of auctioneer, jumped off the platform bellowing at a mean-looking group of boys who could hardly be older than he was. He turned away - and found the crowd had shifted. He could see the front of the room clearly now, with all the long tables with the various kinds of government officials ready to rubberstamp boarding passes, and there at the side, crammed in like an afterthought, was a bundle of small tables he hadn’t seen before. There were the white badges and bored expressions of the so-called peace officers; an irritable-looking boulder of a man wearing the scientific legion cap; and a man all in black, standing still as a pillar with his back to the wall, a rope of beads hanging from his belt.

His feet carried him forward without waiting for a plan. How could it be? and yet it was was - he could see more clearly as he came closer. He was an older man, with what hair he had left all silver, but his face was fair and strong. The table was unmarked, as the law demanded. His long black robe reached his black boots, and a white collar glinted at his throat in the harsh light. And he even had the big hood, which he could see hang down his back when he turned to speak to the.. girl next to him.

His feet slowed. Why did he have a girl?

But he was close now, and the man’s clear, calm face, a little surprised, looked into his own. The man’s arm twitched, and his lips moved, but he didn’t speak. The law forbade proselytism as well as advertisement. He could not be the first to speak.

But why did he have a girl?

The man smiled at him, and his feet again moved of their own accord. But when he stood before the table, he found he couldn’t speak.

There was a formula to this. Certain necessities to be worked out. Legal formalities that must be observed. Instead, he heard himself saying, “I need a woman.” Like a fresh boy right off the ship. Idiot.

The priest's face didn’t even flicker. “I have one, but I don’t think she speaks Standard.” His voice was crisp. Refreshing, somehow. “Which poses a certain problem, as she is not for sale.”

His hand raised to his neck, to where the cord should have been. “My boarding pass. It’s... gone.”

The priest nodded. “I understand. Do you know what I am? What agreement I offer?” Calm and collected.

He took a breath. “Yes.”

“Can you read?”

“Enough.” His father had tried.

“Write?” ”Enough.”

“And...” A first hesitation. “Are you fully initiated?”

Despite everything, he grinned. It felt lopsided and unnatural on his face. “Bishop Ananais, last year’s harvest on Gemini.”

The priest beamed. “That simplifies things.”

The woman beside him shifted suddenly and both men turned to her, startled. She laid her folded hands on the rickety tabletop. He saw her wrists were not bound, but were ringed with wide raw strips where something had dug into the skin. Though the hands were grimy, the nails were short and neat.

“Woman,” said the priest kindly, in a clear voice. She inclined her head slightly, but did not meet his eyes. “We are going to the new world,” he continued, slowly, “in the far outer system. I’m sure you know the law. Colonists without proof of intent to populate-” He paused. “To have children. Are not permitted to go. But we will not take you against your will.”

We? he thought. And then, But where will she go, if not with us? The vision of the dark, depressurized bay returned, and he shivered.

She did not answer, but sat still, her head inclined. The silence drew out and his heart sank. The priest’s impassive face grew sad. She did not understand. Was there no interpreter - ?

She raised her head. “I go,” she said, the Standard heavily accented. “Free.”

He felt as though he'd been clapped hard on the back. The priest jumped to his feet, bringing his hands together, joy in his face.

Swiftly the priest brought out a packet of papers. “You will sign the engagement,” he said, deftly sliding out the correct paper, and laying the government-issued red pen on top. “That will serve to get us aboard.”

A relief he hadn’t been looking for leaked like cold water down his chest. Just the engagement. And he firmly put his father’s face out of his mind.

The second klaxon sounded. They glanced up, toward the line, though of course there was nothing in particular to see.

“First the merely legal,” said the priest. “Attempted Colonists,” he read quickly, but enunciating each syllable, and slid his finger down each word of the contract as he read. “By signing this contract you are bound to go for twice seven years plus the length of the outward voyage to the new world” (this had been penciled in, in a blank left in the standard form), “in the farthest outer system, as a reproductive pair, there to plant, grow, harvest, and reseed, and to bear and raise offspring together or by mutual agreement with other parties, and to pay all due taxes to the Homeworld Authority. You will establish no governing authority counter to the Homeworld and will submit all gains and discoveries to the designated Authority at the required time. This future investment in building, harvesting, and perpetuating This Society to be payment for the voyage and board therein to the new world, to be witnessed when the Legal Representative shall see fit, and failing such, both parties shall provide return payment for the Government’s expense.”

The priest paused for breath. “Thus the legal part. And now mine - and yours.” The bottom text on the page was short and ended with three signature lines and the official government seal.

With the priest’s finger guiding him, he slowly read out: “I hereby enter freely into this engagement, to be terminated at the end of the agreed engagement period in marriage, barring impediments, as determined by the appropriate canonical authority.”

Adam, he signed in red on the first line.

The priest read it slowly to the woman, and with great care and delicacy she took the red pen and signed, Mir. Then the priest took the pen and scribbled on the witness line, Fr. Paul, OSB.

The third klaxon sounded.

* * * * *

They were at the end of the boarding line, where their kind of contract designated them to be. The guards were tired and impatient, but the official checking the paperwork had a gleam in his eye Paul didn’t like at all when they stepped up. The man drew himself up and snatched the contract out of his hands. He didn’t even read it, but folded it - incorrectly. “No blackrobes allowed!” he barked gleefully. “Proselytism is illegal, especially on new worlds.”

“I’m a contractual guarantor,” Paul said blandly, producing a laminated card from his papers wallet. “These two have signed a provisional contract. And, as you can see, they’re under 25. They require an advisor and financial executor.”

The official scowled and grudgingly unfolded the contract again. He raised his cam and recorded it, and shoved it back into Paul’s face without a word. He pushed past them, pulling off his cap as he went.

“Second lobby for room assignment,” said the last guard, and he too took off for the exit.

Ahead of them, up the gangplank, they could see the crowd dispersing in lifts that looked like cages. Paul looked over his shoulder at the young people behind him, the girl with her hands loose at her sides and a distant expression, the boy with the high forehead and clear eyes, poised as if to flee.

A high pitched alarm sounded. The loading chamber would be depressurized soon. What had Noe said, standing at the door of the ark, as the rain began to fall? Probably it was sacrilegious to compare this governmental flea boat to the ark.

“Come on,” he said.      

[supreme-leader-stoat]

This is my—unfortunately, rather incomplete at the moment—submission for @inklings-challenge 2024 for Team Tolkien. My chosen genre and themes are Secondary Fantasy World (i.e. a story that takes place in a world totally disconnected from Earth) and "instruct the ignorant," as well as a bit of "council the doubtful" and "comfort the sorrowful"

At the moment, the story is essentially just the opening scene. With that in mind, I'll be posting some notes and commentary at the end outlining the rough direction that I plan on taking the story for anyone who wants to know how things unfold in the likely event that it takes me a while to write the rest of it. And I do hope to write the rest of it; it's been a bit slow going due to writer's block and my health working against me, but this is the most invested I've felt in a writing project for months if not years, so for that I'm quite grateful to the people who set up this challenge.

Well, you came to read a story and not my rambling, so I think I'll leave it there for the moment. Without further ado, please enjoy the prologue of All Things Great and Small.

-----

Battuhya couldn’t breathe. Not because of the heavy formal robes she wore, with her clan’s signate murals embroidered along the back and sleeves. Nor because of the heavy scents of spiced meats and fragrant woods that filled the royal feast hall like low-hanging clouds gathered in a valley. She couldn’t breathe because the attention of the entire room was suddenly focused on her, and on the long, bare arm that stretched out to point at her.

“That one,” the Ketar said confidently. “I can feel her affinity for the secret arts. Truly, such power must be a blessing from the gods. I would be a great fool to let it be squandered. Yes, I think it must be her.”

Battuhya resisted the urge to spin around and try to see who behind her the Ketar was indicating. Surely, surely she couldn’t mean her.

Slowly, deliberately, Battuhya’s father stepped in front of her, half-shielding her from the view of the court. “My apologies, revered Ketar,” he said, not quite managing to keep the hard edge from his voice. “I mean you no disrespect, but I fear you are mistaken. This is my eldest daughter, and I have chosen her tutors myself. Her education is extensive, but I’m afraid that it does not extend to such obscure subjects as sorcery.”

The woman waved her hand dismissively. “I speak of potential, not of prior learning. I intend to oversee her training myself, and I will see to it that any deficiencies in her knowledge are corrected.”

She turned towards the royal seat, expectant. The king’s dining mat was separated from the rest of the feast hall by a massive curtain of blue silk, lit from behind in a way that cast a massive shadow across the fabric. For as still as it remained, that shadow might have belonged to a statue and not a living man.

The high steward, seated just in front of the royal veil, impassively swept his gaze across the room. Battuhya thought that his eyes seemed to rest on her for a moment, but he moved on so quickly that she began to wonder if she had imagined it. “You ask for much, Ketar,” he said, the sound of his voice quieting the sea of whispers from the onlooking crowd. “The daughter of a President is no small price. Perhaps you should consider your choice further.”

“Oh?” Said the woman, raising her voice theatrically as her lifelight flared in challenge, clearly visible even in the bright light of the feast hall. “Is this how His Majesty honors his promises?” As if to punctuate her question, a log in one of the nearby ornamental braziers gave off a loud ‘pop’ and a cloud of sparks, eliciting a few startled yelps from the noble ladies standing closest to it. “For services rendered, I was given leave to select an apprentice of my own choosing from among His Majesty’s subjects. Surely, he would not now forbid this old woman from passing on her legacy?”

The Ketar and the steward held each other’s gaze, and Battuhya sensed something pass between them, an understanding of some sort. It was subtle, something she doubted she’d have noticed if she hadn’t grown up in the court, and even then, she could only guess at what the exchange meant.

“His Majesty always honors his promises,” the steward said. “Those who would imply otherwise are counseled to hold their tongues, lest they lose them. Come here, girl,” he said, raising a hand in Battuhya’s direction.

Slowly, on feet that felt like they belonged to someone else, Battuhya began to walk forward.

“You do not have to do this,” her father hissed under his breath as she passed him.

Even through the dreamlike numbness of shock, she felt her heart swell. Her father loved her enough to challenge the will of the king, of a god’s reflection on Earth, if it meant sparing her this. But she loved him, too, which was why she couldn’t let him. The relationship between her clan and the crown was too tenuous, too strained these past few years. Refusing here and causing the king to lose face would bring down retribution on her family, maybe even spark a war.

She didn’t tell him any of this. To speak, to even look back, would cause her nerve to break. Instead, she moved forward, one step at a time, before falling to her knees at the base of the steps that led to the royal seat.

“Do you understand what is required of you?” the steward asked.

She wished she didn’t. Understanding made it harder. She would become ketar. The word meant either “clanless” or “heretic,” depending on how it was used. Often, both meanings went hand in hand. Everything she was, everything she had been raised to, would be stripped away. Her home, her family, even her prospects of marriage.

“I do,” she said.

“And do you accept this charge, to serve your new mistress to the fullest extent of your abilities?”

“This servant hears and obeys,” someone else said. It must have been someone else, you see. The voice that said it was far too calm to belong to someone with the storm of emotions that Battuhya felt trying to tear out of her chest.

“Then rise,” the steward commanded, and rose to his feet at the same time she did. “Hear this final proclamation in the name of your king. You are remanded to the care and teaching of this Ketar. From this day forth, you are no longer a subject of this realm.” He clapped twice to mark the end of the proclamation.

It’s funny, Battuhya thought. I never realized before now, but it’s the same sound a judge makes when they condemn someone.

A hand settled on her shoulder, and she looked up to see the satisfied face of the Ketar. The other Ketar.

“Come along,” the woman said. “I expect that we’ve caused enough commotion for one evening.” She turned and strode away, and Battuhya had no choice but to follow.

The crowd parted before the woman like a school of fish in front of a boat, leaving a clear path behind her. Some gave Battuhya looks of concern or pity. Other gave apprehensive looks, looks that said they still didn’t quite understand what had just happened, but were worried they would be swept up in it just the same. A few didn’t look at her at all, people she had once called friends or allies who were already treating her like a stranger now that she had no official standing in the court.

She didn’t know what look her father gave as she walked away. She couldn’t bring herself to look back at him.

As the heavy doors of the feast hall closed behind her with a decisive ‘thud,’ she wished she had been able to.

-----

The Ketar’s study was a small room located far from the feast hall, tucked away on the north side of the palace. Battuhya stood just inside the door, unsure of what to do or say as the Ketar rifled through an assortment of jars and wooden boxes by the light of a lamp, cursing softly under her breath. Eventually, she found what she had apparently been looking for, grabbing a small handful of dust out of one of the jars and tossing it onto the log that sat in the study’s small hearth. Then she held her hand out towards it, palm forward and fingers splayed wide, and began chanting in a strange, alien language.

Battuhya’s breath caught as the room was enveloped in a bright flash, like the sun itself had suddenly dropped down the chimney. By the time she blinked the spots out of her eyes, red-orange flames were cheerfully licking at the log, casting light across the room. Magic. Battuhya had seen magic before; it wasn’t unheard of for travelling Ketar to ply their arts on the streets or, more rarely, in court, but this… this was something else entirely. Seeing magic from a distance, in the full light of day or a crowded feast hall, was a very different thing from seeing it up close, almost alone in a dark and quiet room.

The first thing that Battuhya thought, upon getting a good view of said room in the firelight, was that it reminded her terribly of her father’s study, with the stranger details only jumping out on a closer inspection. The right-hand side of the room, from where she was standing, was lined with two bookcases that reached all the way to the ceiling, and two equally tall wooden cabinets, which was where the Ketar had found the powder to start the fire. On the left was the hearth, flanked on either side by wide bureaus covered in a collection of curios; glass bottles in shapes she had never seen before, animal bones (including, she noted with a repressed shiver, what looked like at least one human skull), and a curved piece of polished ivory with strange carvings all along it. Turning her eyes upward, she saw two stuffed birds suspended from the ceiling in a facsimile of flight, both around the size of a goose. In the middle and towards the far end of the room was a heavy wooden desk with a comfortable-looking, high-backed chair. The only things behind it were the room’s single window, and a table holding a cage so large that Battuhya thought that if she were to lay down on her side, she would be able to fit inside with room to spare. An animal of some sort sat huddled on a pile of straw and fabric against the far wall of the cage, though in the dim light of the fire and with her eyes still not fully recovered from the sudden flash, she couldn’t clearly make out where the fabric ended and its body began. The only part of it that was completely clear were its eyes, bright in the firelight and far too clever and intense for Battuhya’s liking.

----- ----- -----

So, that's what I've written so far. I was inspired to try my hand at a take on a "the protagonist is unexpectedly chosen to become a wizard's apprentice" story. The twist here being that Battuhya is not someone being freed from her previously dreary and downtrodden life, but is someone for whom learning magic is, if not a downgrade, then at the very least a sudden and unexpected exile from the society she's known her entire life.

Everything from this point onwards is spoilers for bits I haven't written yet.

If the Ketar's conduct seems a bit overblown, that's on purpose. While she does have access to a tiny bit of true magic (I'll let you guess what it does, the hints are already there in what I've written), 90% of what she does (and by extension, what Battuhya will learn) is chemistry, pharmacology, or performance art.

The 'animal' in the cage is something that Battuhya would call an "imp from the underworld," something that can (allegedly) bargain away its magical powers but can steal your soul if you aren't careful while making said bargain. As the story goes on, it rapidly becomes clear to readers—and eventually Battuhya herself—that it's essentially just a very tiny person held captive by the Ketar. Or, perhaps more accurately, she's what we would recognize as a normal person, and Battuhya and her world simply operate on a far larger scale.

Battuhya and the "imp," as might be expected, eventually overcup their mutual apprehension of one another and strike up a friendship, of sorts. Among other things, the imp teaches Battuhya thing about her mistress' powers that the latter keeps close to her chest, as well as some of the history and beliefs of the imp's people. While from the perspective of Battuhya's world they came from underground, from their perspective they climbed into the sky one day against their God's prohibitions and found themselves in a land of giants with stars in their skin, something like a cross between the Tower of Babel and Jack and the Beanstalk. That's another strange thing; the imp only believes in a single God, something that's rather alien to someone who grew up worshiping her king as the earthly reflection of one of a pantheon of gods.

Eventually, Battuhya uncovers a plot in the court that ties into why she was chosen as the Ketar's apprentice, and the two hatch a plan for escape to freedom. Among other things, their plan involves the miraculous power the imp's people received from their God for protection upon arriving in this world (I did say the Ketar has access to a bit of real power) and a lot of the more mundane tricks that Battuhya has picked up over the course of her training.

[fictionadventurer]

On the last Saturday before the Inklings Challenge starts, I made sure to go to the church with the sign that inspired this year's themes. Last year, on the day the Challenge started, I saw they had a sign with the Corporal Works of Mercy, and this year, when I saw they had a matching sign for the spiritual ones, I knew that had to be the theme if at all possible, because I'd be bothered by the missed opportunity every time I saw it. So anyway, taking this picture felt like a good way to lead up to the Challenge.