#team chesterton

[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.

[inklings-challenge]

Inklings Challenge 2024: Team Chesterton

It is time to officially announce the members of Team Chesterton for the 2024 Inklings Challenge

Members of Team Chesterton are challenged to write a science fiction or fantasy story within the Christian worldview that fits into one of these two genres:

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 genres are open to interpretation, and creativity is encouraged. You can use either or both of the prompts within your story, or if you’re feeling ambitious, you can write multiple stories.

Members of Team Chesterton are also asked to use at least one of the following seven Christian themes to inspire some part of their story.

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

Writers are challenged to complete and post their story to a tumblr blog by October 21, 2024, though they are encouraged to post earlier if they finish their story before that date. There is no maximum or minimum word limit. Writers who have not completed their stories before the deadline are encouraged to post whatever they have written by October 21st and post the remainder at a later date. Writers are also welcome to post the entire story after the deadline.

Posting the Stories

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

Team Members

The writers assigned to Team Chesterton are:

@afairmaiden

@agirlbelovedbygod

@allieinarden

@allisonreader

@apieters

@artist-issues

@butterflies-and-bumble-bees

@called-kept

@casa-anachar

@clarythericebot

@courage-is-when-we-face-our-fear

@dearlittlefandom-stalker

@dragonladyzarz

@drharleyquinn-medicinewoman

@ellakas

@esters-notepad

evanard

@flightsoffancyonpaperwings

@frangipani-wanderlust

@humanradiojmp

@iminlovewithpercyjackson

@katiethedane12

@kazeharuhime

@knight--error

@lover-of-the-starkindler

@maltheniel

@mels-library

@novelmonger

@novice-at-everything

@queenlucythevaliant

@ravenpuffheadcanons

@sashakielman

@secretariatess

@stealingmyplaceinthesun

@swinging-stars-from-satellites

@thalioneledhwen

@thebirdandhersong

@thefinaljediknight

@thelayofsolmonath

@ughnofreeusernames

@weird7habburger

@why-bless-your-heart

@wildlyironicbee

@zelda-was-here

Writing resources, including the Challenge overview, FAQ, writing prompts, and discussions of the genres are available at the Inklings Challenge Directory. Any writers with further questions can contact the Inklings Challenge blog for guidance.

Welcome to the Inklings Challenge, everyone! Now go forth and create!

[secretariatess]

Artificial

This is the story I am working on and conceived for the Inklings Challenge 2024. I do not know if I will even come close to completing it before the deadline, as this week is going to be very busy and attention to the story might have to be put on the back burner. I do want to complete it, though, as I've intrigued myself with the plot and I'd like to see it through.

So the themes may not come through before the end of the challenge, but the themes I aim to work with are: Instruct the ignorant, bear burdens patiently, and forgive all injuries. It's possible that the themes of admonish the sinner and comfort the sorrowful will also come up.

@inklings-challenge

Team: Chesterton Genre: Earth dystopian, intrusive fantasy Title: Artificial

Story:

* * *

          The year was confidential information.

          Information I was not high ranking enough to know.  I was even programmed to not keep track of how many times the spokesperson of the federal office got up and said that tomorrow was the start of a new year.

          I could only surveil, watching the spokesperson hyping up the people for celebrations that evening.  As the people cheered, I scanned the crowd, trying to catch any suspicious activities or criminals.  I was programmed with a database of criminals and all those with authorized permission to be in that district- to catch those who did not have such permission.

          The latter of which is rather common.  The people of New Boston would anticipate the date of the new year and move across districts to be with their family.   They were determined and denials of their requests to visit served only as encouragement.

          My third sweep of the crowd watching the town square television screen revealed two unfamiliar faces.  I reported them, and the report went to the authorities and the nearby security androids.  In only a few beats, I could see two security androids in the peripheral of my vision move to the hoppers, as our developers called them.  The security androids’ neon blue hair made them stick out among the crowd, an indication that people needed to move out of their way.  Quiet followed in their wake as the people they passed realized what was going on.  The quiet alerted the hoppers. One took off the second he saw the blue hair, pushing people out of his way in an effort to get away.  The other fell to her knees, having no chance of fleeing and instead pleading fruitlessly with security android approaching her.  But there was nothing she could say or do to persuade him.

          I was programmed with three emotions: Anger, happiness, sadness.  The purpose of which to match the energy of certain interactions such as surveilling at a politician’s funeral.

          Security androids were programmed with one: Anger.

          The rare human concept of compassion was the farthest thing from their programming.  That female hopper would have had better luck convincing a prison cell to open its door.  The security android dragged her to her feet, her cries of pain falling on deaf ears.  Not even those around her did anything in her defense. 

The male hopper barely made It ten feet away from where he initially stood.  No one was going to help him escape or make too much of an effort to step out of his way.  It would have been futile anyways.  There was another surveillance android in the direction he was headed, anticipating him, and there were plenty more security androids waiting for action.

          The security android giving chase hardly needed to pick up his pace.  He seized the male hopper from behind and pulled him back hard, slamming him to the ground. The hopper struggled as the security android lifted him to his feet and half-dragged, half-marched him away.  The gaps left by them in the crowd were closed in in seconds.

          Those hoppers would be taken to interrogation, where they would be questioned likely by other security androids.  Human authorities did not bother themselves with such minor incidents.  The hoppers would receive jail time. 

          That much I knew because I could inform citizens of the consequences.  What I was not authorized to share but had learned because of developers talking with each other was that hoppers upon release would have difficulty obtaining the proper documents to return to their district and find work.

          “It’s not worth it,” the developers chuckled as they mused over the people’s stupidity.

          And yet they would still do it.

          It wasn’t any of my business, though.  I was not there to prevent human error.  Just observe it and report it.

          In a few moments, the incident was seemingly forgotten.  the citizens began clearing out for state approved celebrations.  As they filed past me, they avoided looking at me directly.  Some were bolder and made a threatening expression, but they wouldn’t try anything.  Not with other surveillance androids, street cameras, and security androids spitting distance from me.  Other times, when they thought they could get away with it, there were those who would attack surveillance androids and leave them for scrap.  Which was the case from time to time.

          As it dwindled to the last few, something on a far wall caught my attention.  I focused on it, the towering letters blaring out their message in bright colors in contrast to the gray walls around them, demanding people’s attention.

          I was not the only one to report it.  Even as I informed the authorities of the graffiti, I could register all of the reports coming in from other surveillance androids.  Security androids rushed to cover it, though the letters were taller than them.  We were sent messages that humans were being dispatched to clean and investigate.  In the meantime, we were to watch the area for the culprit.

          So I kept my eyes on the glaring yellows, oranges, and blues that spelled out the message:

          THERE IS HOPE

[bookshelf-in-progress]

The True Story: An Epistolary Novelette

An intrusive fantasy story for @inklings-challenge

I. Christine Hendry to the proprietor of Wright and Co.

Sir or Madam:

I feel like such a fool for reaching out to you--a stranger whose business card happened to be tucked in the pages of an ancient book on my grandmother's shelf. I don't even know if your shop exists anymore; signs are against it, because I can't find so much as a phone number to contact you by. Nothing but an address and a name: Wright and Co.: Specialists in Rare, Antique, and Nonexistent Books.

That last category is the only reason I'm bothering to write at all. I'm looking for what seems to be a nonexistent book, so I may as well try writing to a shop that may or may not be real.

When I was a little girl, my grandmother read to me from a copy of Song of the Seafolk by Marjorie A. Penrose. It was an American children's fantasy from--I believe--the 1950s, all about a family getting mixed up with mermaids on a tiny Atlantic island. It had beautiful black-and-white illustrations, and language so lyrical that I still remember passages even though I haven't read it in nearly twenty years. My grandmother loved it to bits, and read it to me a dozen times after I came to live with her. I went off to college, and jobs, and travel, and I haven't much thought about that book--or, to be honest, my grandmother--since I left the house.

But now Grandma has a broken hip, and there's no one else to care for her, so I've come back. The moment I stepped back into that house, I found I wanted nothing more than to read that book. To her, if possible. I need to return the favor.

But the book is nowhere to be found. I've searched through all her bookshelves (extensive), closets (messy), and storage boxes (many and varied), to no avail. I resigned myself to the necessity of buying a new copy, but there are no new copies for sale. Or any old copies. None in any library. Not even a hint of its existence online. All my inquiries to cashiers and librarians have been met with blank stares. It seems like no one in the world has even heard of that book except my grandmother and me.

So I write to you from sheer desperation. A cry into the void. If your shop does exist, and you are a real person, is there any chance in the world that you have the book I want? Knowing now how rare the book apparently is, I shudder to think of the price you'd charge, but as long as I don't have to sell any limbs to pay for it, I find myself willing to pay almost any price. Of course, that's assuming you're a real person reading this, and you by some miracle have the book, and you haven't thrown this letter away while sneering at the lunatic who wrote it.

If all those things somehow manage to be true, please write back to me at this address, and I assume we'll be able to arrange some method of payment.

Yours, in desperation,

Christine Hendry

II. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Miss Hendry:

I am pleased to inform you that Wright and Co. does still exist, and it maintains its specialty of supplying books that can be found nowhere else. It is unsurprising that you were unable to locate a second copy of the book, because a glance through our sales records show that the book was purchased from this very shop in 1968 (which is likely why your grandmother was in possession of our business card), and comes from our specialized stock of books that exist nowhere else in the world.

These books tend to appear on our shelves at unpredictable times, and rarely in batches of more than one or two, so I feared I would be unable to grant your request. Yet I have sometimes found that these books appear in response to a need, so I searched the shelves, and to my delight, found the book tucked into a corner of our children's section.

The books from our special selection sometimes wander back to our store's shelves when they are no longer needed by their purchasers, and it appears that this is what happened in this case, because the book I found bears signs of ownership by a Mrs. Dorothy Hendry. Since I cannot charge you for your own book, I have taken the liberty of shipping the copy of Song of the Seafolk along with this letter.

I humbly beg your forgiveness for the suffering this has caused, and I sincerely hope Wright and Co. will be able to serve you in any future literary needs.

Faithfully yours,

Benjamin Wright

III. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright

Mr. Wright:

I'm glad you couldn't see how red my face got when I received your response. It's one thing to send a letter when there's a miniscule chance of a reply, but getting a reply and knowing that a real, living person read your words is a very different (mortifying) thing. I would never have written that letter the way I did if I had fully comprehended that it was going to be read by a complete stranger.

My only consolation is that my letter wasn't half as strange as your reply. What do you mean, the books appear on the shelves and wander back? How on Earth did you send me a copy of my own book??

Because you're right--it's the exact copy I remember from my childhood. The same purple clothbound cover with the mermaid and lighthouse stamped into it. The same jelly stain inside the back cover. Page 54 has a torn corner, and the mermaid on page 126 has a unibrow penciled onto her face. Even if my grandmother hadn't written her name in the cover, I'd have known it for the same book. Yet she would never have donated--or even sold--Song of the Seafolk, even after I moved away. She loved it too much.

Yet somehow you sent it to me. I'm so grateful that I won't even accuse you of sending a ring of book thieves to raid my grandmother's shelves.

I read the book to my grandmother this weekend, and it was like the years fell away, and we were back in the warm glow of my childhood bedroom, completely at ease with the world. The pain medication leaves Grandma foggy sometimes, but there were several points when she smiled, closed her eyes, and recited the book along with me word for word. I'd try to repay you in some way for facilitating that, but some things are priceless.

However you got the book, it seems to prove you're able to achieve the impossible, and because of that, I'm going to bother you with another request. Grandma loves fantasy, but her true love is mystery novels. She has a whole bookshelf devoted to them, mostly Golden Age paperbacks--country house novels, a smattering of noir. I feel like there's so little joy in her life right now, but the one thing I could provide would be a new mystery. Yet, looking at her shelves, I suspect that she's read every book of this type that exists. So I'm going to ask you to live up to that Nonexistent in your name and find me a Golden-Age-esque mystery that no one--not even Grandma--has read yet. If you can achieve that, I would be grateful for whatever you can send me.

Yours with gratitude,

Christine Hendry

IV. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Miss Hendry:

I am afraid I can answer very few of your questions as to the workings of this shop, at least when it comes to our specialized stock. Among the shelves of Wright and Co., there will on occasion appear a book which no employee has ordered--books with unfamiliar titles by unfamiliar authors, which have the appearance of age and wear, but cannot be found in any other shop, and have no history of publication by any firm. Yet there is always a reader--sometimes several, if the shop staff takes to reading it--who finds that it perfectly satisfies their tastes and fills some unmet need, as if the book was dreamt up just for them. These books seem to come into existence just when needed, and sometimes wander away when they're not.

We have several theories about the origins of these books, very few of them sensible. Perhaps they come from other worlds, where history went just a bit differently from ours. Perhaps they are books that authors dreamed up but never wrote. Perhaps they are spontaneously created in response to a reader's desires. I have learned not to question it. I merely accept the books as a gift--and bestow them as gifts to those in need.

To that end, I have honored your request for a mystery. Though I've no doubt there are many more ordinary books that could fulfill your desire (any seller of used books could tell you that this genre is far more extensive than most individual readers suspect), there is a book that appeared on our shelves last autumn that I feel will exactly fit your grandmother's tastes. The Wings of Hermes by Elizabeth Tern casts Oxford don Joseph Quill in the role of amateur sleuth, as he is pulled into the intrigue surrounding a piece of ancient Greek statuary. Quill is a very literary detective, in the vein of Gamadge or Wimsey, though his story has a touch of noir and more than a tinge of melancholy. I feel the book will be satisfying to a woman who has been a patron of our shop, and I hope it will fulfill its intended role of aiding in her recovery.

Yours faithfully,

Benjamin Wright

V. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright

Darling Benjamin,

Do you think I'm stupid? Or are you just insane? Do you expect me to swallow all that rigamarole about magic teleporting books? If it's a joke, you tell it with an alarmingly straight face, and frankly, it seems in poor taste (and poor business practice) to dump it all onto unsuspecting customers. If you don't want to explain how you got my book, fine--I'm sure it's a boring story involving mistaken donations or something--but I wish you wouldn't insult my intelligence by making up some whimsical fairy tale.

But for all that, I can't fault your taste in books. The Wings of Hermes was stupidly good. Grandma LOVED it. I stayed up until nine at night reading it with her--which is practically the middle of the night by her standards--because she was so desperate to know the culprit. It's a cut above most of the books on her shelf, and it's taken a place of pride there.

You weren't kidding about the melancholy. Grandma didn't mind--she was too wrapped up in the mystery--but I'll admit it got a bit depressing for my taste in places. The world seems dark enough right now--Grandma's hip isn't healing as well as we'd like. I'm having trouble adjusting to the move, and balancing work with Grandma's care is getting a touch overwhelming. I don't need fictional darkness on top of that.

What I need is something to lift my spirits. I've searched Grandma's shelves, and though she has plenty of comedies, there's nothing that catches my attention for more than a few pages, or elicits more than a wan smile. I don't know if there's a book in the world that could cheer me at the moment, but if any shop could supply it, I suppose yours can. Do you have anything like that? If you could, please send it my way.

At least, if you're willing to send it to a sponge. It seems you forgot to bill me for my last book, so if I have to settle the debt first, please let me know the price and I'll pay up. But please spare me the fairy tales.

Yours in respect,

Christine Hendry

VI. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Miss Hendry:

Your skepticism about the origins of our shop's unique books is understandable. Yet I told you the honest truth in response to an honest question. Any of our shop's past or present employees, and many of our long-term customers, would be able to verify the truth of my account. I do not typically disclose the story to new patrons, but your long history with Song of the Seafolk led me to believe you were already among those who would value it, and perhaps the faceless nature of letter-writing prompted more than usual candor. I apologize for your confusion, but I do not retract so much as a syllable of what I've said. I have told you only the truth as I know it. You may believe or doubt as you desire, but I would ask that you fling no further insults toward my honesty or my sanity.

In light of the struggles weighing upon you, the staff of Wright and Co. have forgiven any insulting insinuations, and are only too glad to do what we can to ease your burden. We have honored your request for a comedy, and have sent you a slightly worn copy of Mercator Must Walk the Plank by E.G. Delaford. It is worn because it has been read so many times by the members of our staff. It has often been stored behind the counter for staff to read in slow moments, and many of the quotes have become bywords with our little band. We sometimes read it aloud at the Christmas party. Yet by mutual consent, we have agreed that it is exactly the book you need (working here gives one a sense for these things--another Wright and Co. oddity), and gladly send it to you. If we have need of it after you've finished, we trust it will find its way back.

The book appears to have been written in (some version of) the early 20th-century, about a gentleman who takes to high-seas adventure despite his complete lack of sailing knowledge--a Don Quixote of the sea--and the woman he rescues from a shipwreck who tries in vain to set them on a sensible course. The humor is absurd, the characters memorable, and the story--I have forgotten myself. It's best for you to discover these things for yourself.

I have enclosed an invoice detailing the price of The Wings of Hermes. The price is modest compared to the extreme rarity of the book, and you may pay it if you wish to own the book outright. However, Wright and Co. also maintains a sort of library system for those who understand the unique nature of these one-of-a-kind books. For a nominal fee that covers the cost of shipping, patrons may keep one book at a time in their homes, and send it back to Wright and Co. when they wish to request another. If you wish to experience the widest variety of our unique selection--and keep these books in circulation for other readers--I recommend enrollment in this system.

I will not send an invoice for Mercator Must Walk the Plank, because we could not sell that book at any price. You may keep it for as long as it is of use to you, without interfering with your ability to borrow other books per our normal system. We consider this loan not a business arrangement, but an act of charity in your time of need.

Yours faithfully,

Benjamin Wright

VII. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry

Christine,

I hope you don't mind that I slipped a note inside Mercator before Ben sent it off. We've never let the book outside the shop before, so I just had to say hello, and welcome you to our little band of Mercator fans (because I know you're going to love it). Please don't worry about sending it back too quickly. I must have half the book memorized, and I can always recite the silliest bits if Heinrich gets too grouchy.

I am so glad you're going to get to read this book, but I have to say that I'm surprised Ben agreed to it, because I could tell some of the things you said your last letter made him upset. These books mean a lot to him, and he doesn't talk about them to just anyone, so I don't think he liked being called a liar.

Not that I blame you! I'd have trouble believing the story, too, if I hadn't seen it myself. But I have! Hundreds of times! We'll be stocking the shelves or dusting, and all of a sudden we'll see a new book there--you usually just know there's something different about it. It'll have all the stuff that a normal book does--cover and endpages and copyright stuff and publisher names, and sometimes even those order forms to buy other books from the publisher. But they're all about companies that don't exist. Or by people we can't even find on the internet. There are too many books in too many styles for them to be the work of some prankster--especially since it's been happening for years and years and years.

And sometimes the books come back to us. I can count at least a dozen times that I've sold a book to someone, and then a year or two later I'll come across the very same copy on our shelves again. It's weird, but after you've worked here long enough, you get used to it, and you forget how strange it all is to people who don't know.

So anyway, I know you're going through a lot with your grandmother (I'm so sorry! I hope she's getting better!), and I'm sure you must be a really lovely person if you loved Song of the Seafolk so much (I hope you don't mind that I read it before Ben sent it back. Delightful book!) which is why I don't mind at all sending Mercator to you, even if you think we're all crazy. But we're not, really. And I hope we can be friends.

Lots of love,

Penelope Brams

(You can call me Penny!)

VIII. Heinrich Gross to Christine Hendry

Madam,

You have the only existing copy of Mercator Must Walk the Plank. I must ask you to use caution when handling it. It is beloved by many in the shop. Please do not consume food or drink while reading it. Do not dog-ear any more pages. Please be gentle when turning the pages that are coming loose.

This book is a gift we do not give lightly. Do not abuse our kindness.

Respectfully,

Heinrich Gross

IX. Christine Hendry to the staff of Wright and Co.

Everyone,

I'm overwhelmed. I had no idea this book--or the story behind it--meant so much to all of you. I feel like I've been sent a priceless family heirloom--and you know me from only three letters! I don't know what I've done to deserve so much trust, but I will care for this book as though it were a priceless work of art (which, from the sound of it, it basically is).

In the name of honesty, I have to say that I don't believe the story of your shop. Frankly, it all sounds like nonsense. But as I'm reading Mercator (we're on Chapter Nine!), I'm beginning to see more than a little bit of Katherina in my objections. Maybe you're all mad, maybe you're mistaken, but I'm not sure it matters much. There are worse things in life than a little nonsense. Especially when you're all so very kind.

I hope all of you (especially Ben) can forgive me for the snide remarks in my last letter. Grandma and I thank you for all the books--wherever they came from--and would be honored to consider you friends.

Yours,

Christine Hendry

P.S. How do I get enrolled in that lending program? I've sent back The Wings of Hermes.

X. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry

Christine,

Have you finished the book yet? What do you think?

When you're done with Mercator, I have so so so many books I want you to read. I'm making a list. I know you probably don't have as much time to read as we do here, but I'd hate to think of you missing out on any of my favorites.

I don't want to rush you, but I've never talked to anyone outside of Wright's who had the faintest idea what I was talking about when we referenced Mercator. I've enjoyed having it as our inside joke, but it's even better to have more people in on it.

Write back soon!

Penny

XI. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams

Penny,

Grandma and I finished Mercator Must Walk the Plank last night--and started it again this morning. I can see why you all love it so much. What a wonderfully absurd book. Exactly the type of comedy I was looking for. Your instincts were correct: it was just what we both needed to cheer us up. It's removed enough from our world both in time and plausibility to take our minds away from ordinary things, and there's nothing mean-spirited about any of the humor. So many good characters among that crew. And the plot! High comedy! It's been almost a week since I read Chapter 14, and I'm still giggling over the fishing scene.

I would be overjoyed to read anything else you might recommend. If any of them are half as good as Mercator, they're sure to become my favorites, too.

Yours,

Christine Hendry

P.S. Grandma's hip is doing much better. Still a long road to recovery, but maybe the reread will help. Laughter being the best medicine and all.

XII. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Miss Hendry:

I've enclosed the forms for enrollment in Wright and Co.'s specialized lending program. If you will fill in the required information (though we obviously already have your address) and submit the proper payment, we will be able to begin sending books. The catalogue is yours to keep. I'm afraid the selection is rather outdated, and the summaries less than ideal at conveying the merits of each book. It was assembled by my predecessor, and I'm afraid that my uncle's genius for books did not translate to marketing skill. Amid the cares of business, I have not found the time to put together a modernized version, especially as I find that bespoke recommendations from our staff are far more likely to result in successful pairings of book and reader.

You will note there is a section on the third page where you can request a book. If I can offer a recommendation, I believe that the Alfred Quicke mystery series by Glorya M. Hayers, with its blend of comedy and mystery, would perfectly fit the tastes of your household. The mysteries solved by idle-rich amateur detective Alfred Quicke are always intriguing, but the cast of comedic types--and the farcical situations that arise in the course of the investigation--keep the stories lighthearted. The best way I can describe it is as if Wodehouse wrote a mystery series. The setting is much like that of his most famous stories, though with curious details that suggest it is set in an intriguing alternate world. With seventeen books in the series, you would find enough material to keep your grandmother in mysteries for a long time--though I suggest starting with the fourth book, The Counterfeit Candlestick, as the point where the series finds its voice.

I appreciate the handsome apology in your last letter and accept it wholeheartedly. However, I admit I had hoped for more than agnosticism toward our story. Despite your assertions, the truth does matter, whether we can discover it or not. Though the strange behavior of these books is outside our usual experience, it does not mean it is impossible (you will find a similar truth expressed by most of the great fictional detectives), and I had hoped your respect for us would open you to the possibility that there is more to this world than what we can understand. Perhaps it was too much to expect under the circumstances. But I hope we have garnered enough goodwill that you will not take offense at this expression of my honest opinion. If you do, I apologize, and will attempt to keep future letters focused purely on business.

Respectfully yours,

Benjamin Wright

XIII. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright

Mr. Wright,

I respect your opinion, though naturally I don't agree. I don't doubt you're sincere in believing what you do, but I can think of a dozen more mundane explanations of how these books mysteriously appear and disappear on your shelves (most of them involving poor record-keeping and less-than-stellar search engine skills). I suggest we drop the subject in the future, as neither of us is likely to convince the other, and my lack of belief about the mystical origin of these books doesn't keep me from fully enjoying the experience of reading them.

I hope you won't think it rude that I filled out your forms twice. Grandma and I do count as separate households, and if I'm going to keep Grandma in mysteries and experience some of the other books, I'm going to need two separate streams of supply. For now, though, I think books 3 and 4 of Alfred Quicke will suit our needs nicely.

Many thanks,

Christine Hendry

XIV. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry

Christine!!!

I'm so so glad you loved Mercator! I just knew you would, but it's always a little bit horrible when someone else reads one of your favorite books, because if they hate it, it crushes a piece of your heart, and I don't have that many pieces to spare.

But when they love it! Oh! I can love a book twice as much when I know someone else who loves it! I wouldn't think it was possible I could love Mercator more, but thinking of you and your Grandma laughing over it in her sickbed makes me so--this is going to sound strange, but I'm proud of it. As if we sent out a friend to do a good work, and he succeeded in working miracles. I hope you read it as many times as you want. Trust me, it gets better every time.

But I hope you'll find time to read some other books, too! I'm glad you got your own account along with your Grandma's. Alfred Quicke is lovely (I love his books almost as much as Mercator--please let me know what you think of Bright Folly when you read it), but one cannot live on mysteries alone. There are so many genres, so many moods, so many eras of literature to explore, and Wright's has wonderful examples of so many of them, so I'm so glad we'll get to send them to you.

I know Ben sent you that horrible little catalogue. Ignore it. It makes so many of the very best books sound so dull, and half my favorites aren't even in it. I can do a much better job of telling you what books to read. I've got pages and pages written up about the best ones, but I don't want to overwhelm you right away, so I'll just tell you about a few of the very best at a time. I've included a list of some of the ones I think you'll like best.

You can read what you like, of course, but I can't help thinking you should read The Autumn Queen's Promise by Rose Rennow just as soon as you possibly can. If you loved Song of the Seafolk, I'm sure you'll love this. It's another children's fantasy (a newer one--'90s, maybe?), with the same type of atmospheric historical setting, though this time, it's the most vivid autumnal woods you've ever read about in your life, which makes it perfect for this time of year.

The story's all about this fairy queen who stumbles into this little village in colonial America and can't get home. And she hates them all at first, of course--she's this horrible arrogant thing--but she comes to care for them and it's just lovely to read about. A little slow, but no slower than Seafolk. A nice, relaxing kind of slow. I'm sure you'll love it.

Whatever you pick next, I hope you'll keep me posted with reading updates. I so love talking with you about these books. It's so nice to have a pen pal!

Lots of love,

Penny

XV. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Miss Hendry:

Your account has been opened and the requested books have been shipped. We at Wright and Co. are pleased to count you as one of our trusted patrons.

I am afraid I will find it difficult to honor your request to drop the subject of the origin of our specialized books. Perhaps it is a fault, but I have never been able to bring myself to "agree to disagree". It has always seemed to me the coward's way out of engaging with the search for truth. However, you are correct that endlessly rehashing the subject is unlikely to assist either of us in continuing that search, so I will refrain from mentioning it unless there is further evidence to discuss. If you would be so kind as to patronize our shop in person, I would be happy to offer you further proof of the phenomena that I describe, but further discussion via these letters is likely to remain futile.

Faithfully yours,

Benjamin Wright

XVI. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright

Mr. Wright:

My offer to "agree to disagree" was a courtesy to you. I'm sure you don't want to lose a customer over the issue, so I was giving you the chance to let it slide so it wouldn't interfere with our working relationship. You think that makes me a coward? How can you say I'm "refusing to engage with the search for truth" when you've admitted that you don't know what the truth is? You said yourself (I still have those first letters) that you don't know where the books come from. Just because you can find no record of them doesn't mean they just appeared out of thin air. And these supposed "returns" of books could come from donations or poor record-keeping. You say you have evidence, but from my point-of-view, you could just be a quirky small press that prints old-fashioned books and tells whimsical stories to draw in customers. With all the stress surrounding Grandma's health, there's no way on Earth that I could make a cross-state trip to see your supposed "proof" for myself.

Frankly, if it weren't for Grandma, I'd consider canceling my accounts with you. But she's been tearing through Alfred Quicke so fast and enjoying it so much that I don't dare to cut off her source of supply. And the books you've sent are wonderful--you've been so kind about Mercator, and you gave me back Song of the Seafolk, and The Autumn Queen's Promise is turning into a lovely story I wouldn't have been able to find anywhere else.

I can't wrap my head around you people. Every time I give you the chance to back away from this weird story, you double down, and frankly, it's freaking me out. Penny's so bubbly that it's easy to see how she could get caught up in it, but you write with such a serious professional voice, and you seem (in your bland professional way) personally offended at my refusal to just go along with your story of mysterious magical books. Why does this matter so much to you? Why can't the books just be wonderful, obscure stories instead of mystical teleporting tomes that respond to feelings or whatever? I can't understand you.

Maybe you'll burn this letter and cancel my accounts, but if you dare to engage, I would like to know what you have to say for yourself.

Yours,

Christine Hendry

XVII. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry

Christine,

What did you say to Ben? He's usually so nice and sensible and kind and ordinary--really a great boss--but every once in a while, he broods. And he's been brooding ever since he got your last letter. It's like he's walking around with this big old cloud over his head. He keeps wandering the shelves and then going into his office and glaring at his computer and staring at the wall.

It's got me worried. Is your Grandma okay? I guess he'd tell me if she wasn't. Or you would. I hope.

Are you dying? Maybe that would explain why you haven't written in so long.

Please don't die on me. I couldn't bear it.

Write back soon.

Penny

XVIII. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams

Dear Penny,

No one's dying. Grandma gets more mobile every day, and I'm in as good of health as you can have when you're running mostly on caffeine and a couple of hours of sleep a night. I've just been so busy between work and Grandma's care and insurance (so many stupid phone calls) and trying to figure out our finances, and trying to find senior housing for Grandma (her house has way too many stairs), that I barely have time to eat, much less write you back. I'm sorry if I worried you.

As for Ben, well, long story short, I majorly overreacted to some minor thing he said, and wrote a sleep-deprived response that I never should have sent. I really don't want to get into it with you, because you'd probably side with him, and I'd like to keep our friendship intact, at least.

I did manage to read The Autumn Queen's Promise a few pages at a time, and it was just as lovely as you promised it would be. Exquisite fall reading. I almost hate to send it back--that lovely cover alone, with its painting of that beautiful queen in that autumnal woods, added so much atmosphere to the house just by being here. It'll never replace Song of the Seafolk in my heart, but it came closer than almost any other book to recapturing what it felt like to experience it for the first time. I send it back with warm thanks for the recommendation.

I'm also sending back your beloved copy of Mercator Must Walk the Plank. I've held onto it far longer than I deserved to. You were so gracious to send it to me, and I can't take advantage of your kindness. (You can tell Heinrich that I haven't added a single scuff to the cover).

Since Ben seems to be in no mood for letters from me, can I send my book requests through you? Grandma would like Books 8 and 9 of Alfred Quicke (she can use my account for the second, because I don't have much time for reading at the moment.)

Thank you,

Christine

XIX. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Miss Hendry:

You say that you find us at Wright and Co. difficult to understand, but I find you equally baffling. In a single letter, you will thank us profusely for our friendship and the books we provide, while at the same time attacking that very thing which we hold most dear. In expressing my difficulty with the phrase "agree to disagree", I was not attacking your morals. You will note I was more than willing to honor your request to drop the subject. Yet in misconstruing my words, you have sounded the horn of war, and honor and duty--and, to be honest, personal inclination--demand that I engage.

You ask me why these books--and the phenomena surrounding their existence--matter so much to me. I can answer only by biography. Wright and Co. is a small, cluttered, dim, obscure shop--you could find a thousand used book stores like it anywhere in the world--but from a young age (the shop was owned by my uncle then) it seemed a place of unique enchantment. I would spend summer days racing among the stacks and losing myself in books. I grew more jaded and cynical as I aged--most teenagers do--but whenever I was in danger of becoming a disaffected youth, there was something about the shop that made me feel there was something more than the meaninglessness of everyday life.

Learning about the miracle of the books felt like getting the answer to a question I hadn't realized I was asking. Here was proof there was something beyond the mundane and predictable. Something too wonderful for the human mind to understand. Some wondrous power cared enough about the patrons of this shop to help them get the right story in their hands at the right time--even if that story had never been written. Other books have authors and publishers, but these books seemed like a gift from the author of imagination itself.

When I took over the shop, I became a steward of that gift. Caring for these books and matching them with readers makes the running of this shop, not just a banal business arrangement, but a calling. Stories have the power to shape our imagination, our outlook, our relationships with others--and these stories, coming as they do unwritten, unbought and unlooked for, seem to have more power than most. Caring for that power is a great responsibility, one that I take very seriously. I have seen its good effect again and again. You cannot deny you have experienced it yourself.

You are correct when you say that I do not know the exact origin of these books. But I am not intellectually lazy just because I am content with no answer. Making peace with mystery--knowing that some things are ever unknowable--is not the same as refusing to believe the truth that comes before your eyes.

You have closed yourself to even the possibility of an explanation that goes beyond the reality you can comprehend. I have spoken of evidence that proves there is no rational explanation for these books, and you call me an unreliable witness. You have seen hints of the wondrous that you dismissed out of hand. I understand that you do not have the same evidence that I have, and I have not been as gracious as I should have been in making allowance for that. But saying that my refusal to seek an exact explanation makes me intellectually lazy is inaccurate in the extreme.

I may not know how these books come into my shop, but I know from whom. I may not know the exact mechanisms of the miracle, but I firmly believe there is an author of all that has allowed my shop to be a source of minor--and yes, rather whimsical--wonders. I need not know more than that to do my duty well.

Perhaps that explanation will help you to understand my position. More likely you will think me crazier than ever. But since I have explained my inner self, perhaps I have some right to ask for an explanation in return.

Ever since your response to that first letter, when I hinted at the miracle surrounding these books, I detected not only disbelief from you, but disdain. I was troubled to see such disgust toward the concept, especially from one who has proven herself an enthusiastic fan of fantasy. Why do you seek wonders in your stories, but resist it so fiercely in your own existence? Would it be so terrible for these books to have a supernatural origin? Is there not some appeal in letting the wondrous into your life?

You need not respond to such prying questions if it makes you uncomfortable. But I ask that at least, if you do respond, that you deal gently with one who has made his inner self so vulnerable to your scrutiny.

Yours faithfully,

Benjamin Wright

XX. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright

Ben,

Wow.

When I asked for an explanation, I didn't expect that.

I don't know how I can possibly respond.

I definitely understand why it matters so much to you, but somehow, this conversation has shifted from magic to theology, and I'm even less equipped to engage in a conversation about that. Not to get into too much detail, but that's part of the reason I haven't seen my grandmother in so many years. Grandma's comfortable with that stuff. I prefer my fantasy to remain safely in stories.

If what you say is true, if there's some grand wonderful power--call it magic, call it God--that does things we can't understand, then we're completely powerless against it. Which is fine if the power is good, but if the good things are real, then the bad things can be, too. There are too many ordinary problems for me to want to live in a world where there's some grand plan I can mess up by doing the wrong thing, and greater powers are waging in a war for my soul.

Fantasy is great. I love stories of mermaids and magic and the wonders of life. But it's not reality. I learned that young, and every year I live only proves it more. I'm content to live in the ordinary world with its ordinary problems, and get my escape through literature--where none of the monsters on the page can hurt me.

I'm glad--I really, truly am--that you've been able to make yourself believe in some grander purpose behind these silly little stories we've been reading. But I can't believe in that. I've seen no proof to make me believe it. Maybe you have, but most people can barely trust their own eyes, so how can I trust yours? It's not that I think you're crazy or stupid. Your personality and experiences make you want to believe. Mine make me happy to doubt. It's nobody's fault, and neither of us can change it, and it's fine. I'll stop calling you a crackpot if you stop calling me a coward, and we'll leave it at that.

Wherever the books come from, we all agree that they're wonderful, and if you don't mind dealing with a dirty nonbeliever, I'd be honored if you'd let me continue doing business with you.

Yours,

Christine Hendry

XXI. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry

Christine,

Where is Mercator? We got your letter, and The Autumn Queen's Promise, and your most recent Alfred Quicke, but no sign is there of Mercator Must Walk the Plank.

Oh! Oh no! What if it got lost in the mail? Could we survive such a tragedy? Silly old John Quackenbush and fiery Katherina, and grumpy little Pegs and that whole lovable crew--gone forever! If the U.S. Postal Service is responsible for their destruction, I'll...we'll...we'll make them pay! This is a murder and there must be justice!

Don't worry, I don't blame you. But the next mailman to cross my path better watch out. We'll find that book if we have to tear through every mail box and bag and truck in the country!

I'll keep you posted about the search if I can find the time to write.

Frantically,

Penny

XXII. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams

Dear Penny,

I'm so extremely sorry. When I sent you that last letter, I truly thought I had packaged and mailed Mercator Must Walk the Plank, but after receiving your reply, I discovered that the book was still on its usual shelf in my grandmother's house. I've been so sleep-deprived lately that I overlook things, but I didn't think I could possibly have overlooked something that.

Don't worry. I'll be sending it out as soon as I get another box to ship it in. And this time, I'll make 100% sure it's inside before I ship it.

Please forgive me.

Christine

XXIII. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Dear Christine,

You've asked me not to call you a coward, but your wording leaves me almost no choice. Denying yourself the good and wondrous out of fear of evil and danger is the definition of cowardice. Staying within the narrow world of rationality makes for a bleak and colorless life--and you're none the safer for your denial. Good and evil exist whether you acknowledge them or not. Closing your eyes to them only makes you vulnerable to ambush should they come upon you unaware.

Can you not open yourself to the possibility that the good can overcome the evil? That it can offer strength to face the dangers? Great stories can do that by showing us how to act in such situations, to give us examples of victory over darkness, to open our minds to possibilities that we might not accept in our ordinary lives. You've experienced such stories. Is it so strange to think they might reflect the reality we live in? Is it so strange to think there might be some greater power offering us those stories to sustain us?

To you, I'm sure it seems impossible. But you know there are those who think otherwise. I only ask you to consider the implications of the choice.

Respectfully yours,

Ben

XXIV. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright

Ben,

I don't think you can call my position a choice. You're acting like I'm picking between favorite foods or something--picking one position because I don't like the other one. But as far as I can tell, my position is the only choice. I have no reason to believe any other option exists.

It would be wonderful if I could believe the way you do. It seems to have brought you a lot of peace. But I'm not built that way and I'll just have to struggle along. Your concern is touching, but I've been doing just fine so far.

If I ever see proof, I'd have reason to reconsider, but as it is, I have enough trouble in the world I can see to worry too much about one that I can't.

Respectfully,

Christine

XXV. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry

Christine,

Still no sign of Mercator. Did you forget to send it again, or do I have to lay siege to the post office?

Penny

P.S. Have you been reading any more of the books?

XXVI. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams

Penny,

I have tried to send off that package no fewer than three times, and every time the book somehow makes its way back to my shelf. Maybe I'm just so used to seeing it there that I keep putting it back. I am so sorry for the delay.

It makes me feel guilty that I'm still profiting by reading your other books. Now that winter is upon us, Grandma and I have started reading aloud from the longest of your fantasy suggestions--The Queens of Wintermoon. You're right that it's an odd book--Russian-flavored science fantasy, with all those complicated family ties and political intrigues--but it's just what we need right now. Grandma is unfortunately dealing with a bout of pneumonia at the moment, which means I'm spending a lot of time at the hospital, but a big, thick, lush and lyrical literary book with a huge cast of vividly-drawn characters is just what we need to take us away from the sterile white walls and the scent of disinfectant.

It's great to sink into that snowy world with its royal glamour and underground orchards and mystical machines. Grandma and I spend ages talking about the four sisters and their royal husbands--all their flaws and heartaches and complicated relationships. I'm most attached to Vitalia and her political intrigue plot, while Grandma most loves the storyline of Inessa and her mysterious woodcutter husband. I have my suspicions about both their secrets, but I'm more than willing to wait the 800-or-so pages they'll need to resolve everything. It's nice to have something to take my mind off of other worries.

But I will keep worrying about Mercator. I promise somehow or another, it will make its way back to you.

Yours,

Christine

XXVII. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams

Penny,

I don't understand it. This is the fifth time I've tried to send Mercator Must Walk the Plank back to you. This time I waited until I'd had a decent night of sleep so my mind was clear. I put it in the packaging (extra padding). I took a picture of it inside the box. I took a picture of the sealed and addressed box. I took a picture of the box when I took it to the post office and left it at the counter. And then I returned home to find the book sitting on the same shelf where I'd put it this morning.

Are the darn things breeding? Did you send me extra copies? There is no other explanation for what happened.

It's got my head spinning, and until I've got it figured out, unfortunately Mercator is going to stay right where it is.

Sorry!

Christine

XXVIII. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Christine,

Penny has made me aware of your difficulties with Mercator Must Walk the Plank. It's clear to me (as I'm sure it will be to you) what has happened. If you wished for proof, you now have it. The Powers-That-Be have determined that you have more need of the book than we do.

Please don't distress yourself by (or waste postage upon) any further attempts to send the book back. We have plenty of other books to read, and if we ever have need of Mercator, I trust that the same powers will ensure it makes its way back to us.

Yours,

Ben

XXIX. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright

Ben,

It's the middle of the night and I can't sleep. I'm trying not to think of that book and I can't. It just doesn't make sense.

This can't be happening. But it is. And if this part of your story is true, then that means the other part of the story is true, which means your theories

This doesn't mean you've won. I'm sure there's some rational explanation that I've overlooked. I shouldn't even write to you because you'll just try to convince me that this is proof we live in a world of angels and fairies who bother themselves about the books we read. But it's not like there's anyone else I can talk to about this.

If you have nothing to say but, "I told you so," don't bother writing back at all. But if you've anything useful to say I'm all ears (or eyes, I guess--weird that I've never actually spoken to you. I don't even know what you look like. How old are you?)

I should sleep. But I'm going to go off and mail this letter like a moron because it's the closest I can come to a conversation.

Good night.

Christine

XXX. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Christine,

This is me not saying I told you so.

That doesn't leave me much else to say.

I'm 39.

Picture the word "man" in the dictionary. Imagine there's an illustration there. That's pretty close to what I look like.

If you want to hear my voice, you'll have to come to the shop and talk to me in person. Or I suppose we could call each other. We do live in the 21st century. But I admit I've enjoyed this 19th-century correspondence we've been keeping up.

I wish I had something more useful to say, but I doubt I can say any of it in a way you want to hear.

I hope you've been sleeping better.

Ben

XXXI. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry

Christine

CHRISTINE!!

I know you didn't order another book, but I was wandering through the shelves the other day when this book just about jumped out at me. It's like it had your name written in it. Like how your grandmother wrote in Song of the Seafolk.

Your name's not in it. I checked. But something about it still made it seem like yours. Like we were keeping it from you. Ben agreed (he's got a good sense for these things), so I started preparing the box to ship it. But I read a bit of the first chapter before I packaged the book, just to get an idea of what I was sending you. I didn't move from that spot until I'd read the whole thing. Ben just about locked me in the shop before he found me sitting in a daze in the back room.

Christine, you have to read this book. Now. It's the most beautiful...well, not fantasy. But it's not not fantasy. It's so real and yet so magical and you could maybe read it both ways. I haven't stopped thinking about it since I finished it.

But what's the book? If you've opened the package by now, I'm sure you know it's called Cardinal's Map by someone named Dorothy Cannes. It's from the eighties, it looks like, but it feels older. And newer. Does that make it timeless? I suppose all of the books in our "special" selection feel that way. Anyway, it's about this girl named Miranda, and she's this terrible grouch, and she goes to work for this old guy named Cardinal (that's where the title comes from) who needs help writing his book. And he's got the most beautiful map of all the countries in world of his fantasy book. Except the countries might be real? And just....ack, I don't have words! The book has a lot of them. Read those instead.

And then write to me because I need to know what you think about the ending!!

Lots of love,

Penny

XXXII. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams

Penny,

You were right.

Thank you.

Christine

XXXIII. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright

Ben,

It's been three hours since I finished Cardinal's Map, and I haven't moved from my chair. Everything you said about the power of story is true. It's like this book reached into my soul and rearranged the furniture. Cleared out the clutter. And it did it by sweeping me along with the characters and the story and the beautiful prose so I didn't even know what was happening until it was already done.

Everything we've been fighting about for the last few weeks was in this book. It talked about all the things you were trying to tell me, but instead of just telling me, it showed me and made me think and feel and helped me make sense of it all. And I never felt like it was preaching. I'm not even sure it was trying to preach. It's just...a story, so I let my guard down and it got under my skin. Just like Cardinal's map got to Miranda.

I don't know if you've read the book or not, but the premise is that John Cardinal is writing this extensive fantasy work and Miranda's this jaded college kid hired as a secretary to help him arrange all his notes. And she's fascinated by the fictional map and gets swept up in the book, until she realizes that Cardinal is telling the story of his life. That this character who traveled to this other fantasy world is supposed to be him. And she's got to figure out if he's using this as a metaphor, or if he's crazy, or if this other world really is a real place.

And by the end of the book, we don't know. You could read it both ways--the world in the map is either a metaphor or a real country that he’s been to. But it doesn't really matter which one is true, because the bigger truth is that Miranda knows there's something beyond the rational world that we can see. And it's not terrifying. It's wonderful. It's not this place full of monsters waiting to pounce--it's this exciting, dangerous, beautiful place to explore.

If Penny wants to know what I think of the ending, I believe that Cardinal's world is real. And I believe your story is true. I've seen evidence. That terrified me, because that means the world no longer makes sense. But the truth doesn't have to be a terrifying destruction of the reality I know; it can be an expansion of it. I don't understand why any of this happens, or how, but maybe I don't have to know how. I just need to be thankful that it did.

You said that Mercator stayed with me because I needed it more than you guys did. Maybe what I needed was evidence of the miracles you told me about. Then I wondered why Song of the Seafolk wandered away, because I very much needed it here when it was at your shop. But maybe what I needed was to write to you. The correspondence we've shared, the books you've sent me, they've strengthened me through a lot of difficult weeks. They've given me and Grandma a lot of joy, brought us back together after so many year's apart. And they've helped me straighten out a lot of questions I didn't know I was wrestling with.

There was someone's hand in all this--an author arranging all the pieces of the story in a way I'd never have been able to achieve on my own. Maybe before that'd make me feel helpless, but now, I don’t know, I guess I feel cared for. Like someone’s watching out for me.

I feel like I should thank you, and I don't know how. This is too deep for words. Thank you for writing, even when I was horrible to you. Thank you for the books. Thanks for being a part of my story.

Grandma's doing better now. If she's up for it, I think it's time for a road trip.

If you're ever going to see Mercator or Cardinal's Map again, I might have to hand them to you in person.

Love to all of you,

Christine Hendry

XXXIV. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry

Christine,

You may not believe me, but I did not read Cardinal's Map before sending it to you. I simply had the notion that it would be the ideal book for your circumstances--and I was as surprised as you were to find just how true that was. Another gift, I suppose.

I look forward to reading it, if you can ever spare it (I look upon the book as belonging to you now). I also greatly anticipate the opportunity to see and speak to you here in the shop. I hope you will not wait long to make good on your promise.

Yours faithfully,

Ben

XXXV. Christine Hendry to the staff at Wright and Co.

Everyone,

I can't say how wonderful it was to see you all in person. You all looked just like I pictured you. Your shop is too wonderful for words. I could have moved in. But alas, Grandma and I don't have the resources for a move right now.

We'll have to continue the friendship long-distance. Now that I have the shop's phone number (funny I never thought to request it before), and your personal numbers, I suppose we can call whenever we like. But if you don't mind, I'm going to keep corresponding by letter, too.

Love to you all,

Christine

[lover-of-the-starkindler]

Rubber Band Strings

Inklings Challenge 2024 Team Chesterton: Intrusive Fantasy

On the night of her greatest disappointment, Olivia receives a gift far more precious than she could have imagined

Rubber Band Strings @inklings-challenge

by Meltintalle

Olivia Lively did not have a fiddle of her own. When she was two or three, her father made her an instrument out of a cigar box and a ruler. The rubber band strings twanged horribly, but they were sweet music to Olivia who danced and pranced and imagined herself the star of every heart and every stage.

Even before the makeshift toy was placed in her hands, she was aware that she was one of the 'musical Livelys'—an extended family who could make any instrument sing in their hands. As Olivia grew, the family taught her their songs and gave her many pointers.

Her uncles would correct her grip on the miniature bow, or remind her to keep her elbow beneath the body of the fiddle.

"The music wants to dance too. Keep your wrists loose."

Her aunts talked about planning sets.

"What songs are you playing tonight Olivia? What does your audience want to hear?"

Her ma taught Olivia about using the stage.

"No more jumping on the couch, Olivia. You'll fall off and crush your fiddle, and we can't have that!"

Her pa taught her about intonation.

"Know your instrument, Livie-girl. Make sure you hit exactly the notes you want—pure and sweet, sharp and clear, or a little jingle-jangle to get the attention."

Before long Olivia was allowed to use instruments played by other family members, and soon she could coax a tune in true Lively fashion. But still the only fiddle she could call her own was the old toy.

The summer Olivia turned eleven, she saw a poster. She pressed her nose against the shop window and took in the details. "Pa! Pa! There's going to be a talent show at the school! And the prize is a brand new violin from the big store here in town!"

Her pa chuckled and patted her shoulder. "So I see, Livie-girl. And I suppose you want to enter."

"Yes, please!" said Olivia. "Can I borrow your violin?"

He pretended to think about it, then said he didn't see why not.

Olivia spent the next week in the yard, practicing how she would step on stage, introduce herself, and then play a song that would make the audience want to weep and dance and sing along, all at once.

But on the day of the talent show, everything went wrong.

Her ma had been called away to visit her sister the day before. She had said she was sorry to miss Olivia's debut but wished Olivia the best of luck. Olivia felt her heart sink. How was she to play without her ma in the audience?

And then her pa and his siblings were hired to play at a big party that evening, which meant they had to take all their own instruments. Olivia's favorite uncle was the only one who remembered that Olivia had plans. While the band was packing their truck, he offered to loan her a triangle or a harmonica, but she shook her head.

"It's not the same," she said. "Anyway. There will be other talent shows."

He nodded, but Olivia knew he felt bad too. "Do you want to come with us?"

"No, thank you." Olivia didn't think she could bear to be surrounded by music when her dreams were shattered. When the band had left, Olivia went out back and threw herself down under a tree and cried.

But Olivia was a Lively, and eventually she picked herself up. She fetched her toy fiddle and tried a few notes. The rubber bands twanged, the sound flat and dispirited. She corrected her posture, and tried again, hoping to bring the dream back. Fireflies began to sparkle in the twilight. Another few tears trickled down Olivia's nose, and she brushed at her face with her arm.

The neighbor lady stuck her head over the fence. Her name was Sylvie, and she was good friends with Olivia's mother. "Why, Olivia! Why are you crying?"

"Everyone was called away, and I'm going to miss the talent show."

"That's easy enough to remedy," said Sylvie. "I'm going myself, if you'd like to come with me. Are you going to enter?"

"With this?" Olivia held up the cigar box with its ruler. "I think everyone would just laugh."

"Oh," said Sylvie. "Really? With your family, I would have thought--"

The surprise in her neighbor's voice made Olivia want to cry again. There were plenty of instruments in the family, just not enough fiddles for everyone to play at the same time and Olivia had her heart set on a fiddle.

But Sylvie tipped her head to one side. "Wait here," she said. "I might have something..."

Olivia pulled herself up on the fence and waited while her neighbor went inside. Sylvie came back with a black pasteboard case. Inside, nestled in green velvet, was the most beautiful violin Olivia had ever seen.

There were inlays around the edge, and pale flowers on the face of the instrument.

"Oh…" said Olivia, and her eyes were wide and bright as stars. Her fingers had never wanted to touch anything more. "That's yours?"

Sylvie laughed. "It is! But let's see how it sounds for you…"

Olivia carefully put down her toy, and took up the beautiful violin. She adjusted her feet, let out a breath, and thought about the music dancing. She touched the bow to the strings and played ribbons of starlight. The graceful arpeggios turned into bright staccato and Sylvie's toes started to tap. Olivia's grin got wider and wider.

"Perfect!" said Sylvie.

They packed the instrument away again and drove into town, talking all the time. Sylvie wanted to know about Olivia's favorite songs, and Olivia wanted to know how her neighbor had a violin but never played it.

Olivia signed in at the side door to the school auditorium. She was excited and nervous, all at once, and it hit her that she was here all by herself.

Well, no. Not exactly. Her new friend was here too, smiling encouragement, and waiting to hear the beautiful violin sing again.

Olivia's turn came, and she stepped out into the spotlight on stage. She closed her eyes, and thought about all the lessons her family had taught her and the music she was going to share with her audience.

Then she smiled. And the violin began to sing.

[allisonreader]

Here's the start of my @inklings-challenge story this year. Hopefully I'll be able to finish it, but as of the moment I'm stuck and still not fully sure of what the theme will end up being. Anyways I present the rough start of my story.

V.C.C.S- Vector Climate Control System

It was a cold blustery type of day like they hadn’t had in a while. It was a forbidding omen of the changing seasons as old ripped propaganda poster flapped with each gust of wind. The faded words speaking of the Vector Climate Control System still legible.

It always surprised him just how many posters and old billboards remained, proclaiming the wonders of how the VCCS was going to change the world for the better.

He pulled up his coat collar to try and block some of the wind as he made his way home from work. He’d have to remember a heavier coat with a hood in the coming days.

The wind was going to make his face as red as his hair with the way it was whipping through the buildings around him. The wind was gusting hard enough to rip down an old flyer and try to blind him with it. He huffed as he read it.

*A Revolutionary New World Is Coming! The Vector Climate Control System will eliminate the question of "what will the weather be like today?"

Once the V.C.C.S. is employed extreme weather will be curbed. No more droughts! No more hurricanes! No more tornadoes! No more blizzards!

Extreme weather will be controlled and moved where it is most needed and is safely out of the way.*

There was more that he could have read, but he didn’t need to. He scrunched up the flyer to dispose of it at home, putting it in his pocket until then.

He knew all about VCCS as they had learned all about it school. They had been taught all about the seven circuits of nine towers. How each system worked both in its own little loop as well as within the entire system.

But also how it failed.

There were both political reasons as well as technical factors. As the system did not work as intended or expected. Making a bigger mess than if it had never been set in place.

The towers still remained as they were too large to demolish with any ease. Finally he made it to the warmth of his home.

"Hey there Delilah, I’m home!" he called out upon entering.

"I hear you!" Delilah called back, coming out from the kitchen a couple minutes later. Which had given him a chance to remove his coat and take the flyer from his pocket, ready to recycle.

"Oh! Jake! You’re as red as your hair!" Delilah exclaimed, putting both of her hands on his; as expected, red cheeks. "What do you have there?" she asked when she felt the wad of paper in his hands as he hugged her.

"It’s nothing important. Just one of those old VCCS flyers that tried attacking me in the wind," he said.

"Well that was rather mean of it, after everything else that happened with that."

"Hmm, at least now there will be one less flyer littering up the place about it."

"There’s that I guess," said Delilah. "Let’s get you warmed up properly."

🌤️🌩️🌨️🌧️☀️⛈️🌪️❄️💨💦🌊

Over the next few days the weather grew more intense, more wild and unpredictable, until the weather casters were starting to speculate that there was a malfunction of one of the towers a part of the VCCS.

Complaints about the suspected malfunction grew day by day as the weather continued to get increasingly worse and more wild. Wind was practically nonstop and rain, sleet, and snow cycled through without a rhyme or a reason. Other than harsh winds, you never knew what you were going to get.

The weather casters were speculating/observing that from what weather conditions and patterns there were that it appeared to only be the one tower in the system acting up and it was the one closest to us. Which was still many kilometres away from where we were.

Messages were sent to those who managed the towers to see what was happening with the tower and what was going to be done about it. No response was ever received from anyone who anyone tried to contact. No one wanted to deal with the malfunctioning tower that was supposed to be shut down.

The weather grew worse until he was unable to walk to work anymore. Not that Delilah wanted either of them to go out in this wild and unpredictable weather.

[clarythericebot]

To the Point of Invention

A/N: This is the most unfinished story ever 🫠 Like, I literally did not have time to write it down.

I do want to finish the story someday though, and I do think I owe it to the amazing writing community to show *something*. So, without further ado, here is my bit of story (literally scribbled in the back of a receipt and a napkin when I had a spare moment) under the cut:

—hunched secretary trembling in the corner. "I could sue you," I said bluntly.

....

That's it 😶‍🌫️

Let's see if I can finish it sometime. When I have the bandwidth, I'll look at the other Inklings stories this year—I'm sure they're amazing :)

Thank you @inklings-challenge for putting this writing activity together. Second year in a row that I didn't quite finish, but I always deeply appreciate the fun prompt to try.

[iminlovewithpercyjackson]

LYDIA COLLINS AND THE END OF THE WORLD

for the 2024 inklings challenge // a standalone story

After Lydia Collins watches a girl destroy a dark being that bleeds black and melts into nothingness when struck down, she is introduced to a world of magic and wonder and fantastical curiosity, all of the things she assumed were only present in storybooks. But the world is also full of more of the dark beings, the Impia, snarling, brutal, murderers hellbent on razing and destroying not only the magical world but the non-magical world as well. Lydia’s world. This battle has been raging for years, but Lydia’s new friend Nora thinks she has a way to stop them for good, and so, together, the girls venture out to try and end this war, to try and stop the darkness, to try and save the world.

@inklings-challenge

read on my website

Lydia flicked the main light switch and watched all of the lights in the shop dim, then shut off completely. Left standing alone in the shop, a weak light filtering through the glass door from the streetlights outside, she nodded to herself.

“Perfect,” she whispered, even that quiet sound filling the empty shop. “And now I have the entire evening to myself.”

She brushed past a large bouquet of lilies and double-checked that the sign she’d flipped earlier was, indeed, positioned to display the word “closed” on the outside of the door. Sure enough, the word “open” greeted her, and she did just that to the door before letting it swing shut again. The evening air greeted her, chilly as autumn had arrived at last, but not so cold that she was uncomfortable in her tank top. She locked the door, slipped her keys back into the pocket of her jeans, and turned to face the sidewalk.

No sooner had she done this than someone rushed by her at a breakneck pace. Lydia flattened herself against the wall of the flower shop so as to not be flattened by whoever had just run by. Or… whatever.

Breathing hard, her hand pressed to her chest, Lydia stared down the street at the figure. In the darkness of the late evening, she couldn't make out much of it, but it was tall and large, all black, and oddly fluid. It shifted as it ran down the sidewalks, shifting like a slippery shadow, though obviously human shaped.

Something about it sparked a blaze of terror in her heart. There was no reason for her to be worried; it was just some rude person in a rush who hadn't bothered to apologize for nearly running her over. But still, Lydia was terrified.

Cars drove by, completely unbothered by the girl who’d nearly been run over, and Lydia decided she was being stupid. There was nothing to be scared of.

Absolutely nothing.

Sucking in a deep breath, she willed her heart to slow and her pulse to even out. When it was sufficiently normal, Lydia brushed her dark hair back behind her ― it swung back in front, anyway, too short to be held by her shoulders ― and took a slow, cautious step away from the wall.

Pounding footsteps alerted her to the arrival of yet another runner, and she jumped back. This time, the figure who came hurtling by was obviously a girl, somewhere around her own age, with long hair and dressed in green. She raced by Lydia, only just missing running into her.

“Sorry!” she shouted over her shoulder, but she didn't stop. Something glinted in her hands, something small and shiny and sharp.

She ran away from Lydia, and Lydia watched.

No, the girl was running toward that shadowy… being.

She rounded a corner and vanished, pulling the strings of Lydia’s curiosity with her. The strings of curiosity wrapped around the blaze of terror, temporarily obscuring it, and Lydia gave into it.

Glancing at her phone, Lydia decided it was early enough yet that it was fine for her to be wandering around the city streets alone, so she followed the girl’s path down the sidewalk and rounded the corner after her.

The corner led to another street that dead-ended in a three-way intersection, and there was the shadowy being, the girl still running closer.

Red lights blinked lazily over the girl’s head as she raced down the empty street, those sharp objects still shining in her hands, throwing more red light around.

Lydia stepped closer.

The girl skidded to a stop only a few dozen feet from the shadowy being, and she jerked her arm back, then flung one object at it, then the other. As the projectiles sliced through the air, Lydia recognized them. Throwing stars embedded themselves into the being’s chest, and suddenly it dropped.

It wasn't dead, no, just changing. The human figure wobbled, then grew, the hands on the ground turning into something like wide, clawed paws, the legs shifting similarly. The torso expanded, and the neck shrank into the body, the head widening, too, and soon they were looking at some animalistic figure, something like a cross between a vicious dog and a fierce bear and something else, something much worse.

Beneath the being, a pool of liquid grew, dripping from the being’s chest.

Lydia knew it was blood, only it was much too dark to be that. Darker, inkier. Black, not red. But of course it was blood. What else could it be?

She watched the other girl slowly advance on the being. The girl was taller than Lydia, lithe and lean, with long brown hair in a half braided up, half loose down style. Her green clothes consisted of leggings, a knee-length green dress with slits leaving room for her legs to move, and brown leather boots. As the girl advanced on the being, she drew a sharp knife from a leather sheath on her thigh, and she drew another one from the sheath hanging from her belt.

Suddenly, she flung herself forward, aiming for the being, a living weapon herself, a knife thrown right at it.

The dark, snarling mass lunged for her, too, and Lydia held her breath, but she couldn't follow the fight that ensued. Claws glinted in the light from the stoplights, and the girl’s daggers flashed, too quick for Lydia to see where they struck.

Only moments later, the girl emerged. The shadowy being lay in pieces on the ground, melting right before their eyes into a black sludge that dissolved into the ground, hissing like acid as it seeped into the cracks of the pavement.

Lydia’s jaw dropped.

The girl just beamed at the disintegrating remains of the being she’d killed, and she turned around. Then she froze, her eyes flicking to Lydia’s wide ones.

The girl swore. Loudly. “You weren't supposed to see that.”

“What was that? Did you really just kill it? What was it?” Lydia blurted out, the strings of curiosity burning away, terror retaking its hold on her.

The girl marched forward, and she grabbed Lydia’s arm.

Lydia tried to pull away, but she was foiled by the girl’s strong grip. “Excuse me? Let go of me! Who are you? What was that? What’s going on?”

“My name’s Nora, and that's all you need to know for now,” the girl said sharply, then ordered, “Come on. We have to go.”

“Go? Go where? Where are you taking me?” Lydia protested as Nora dragged her along behind her, trying her best to wiggle her arm free to no avail.

“Not important. Come on.���

“I think it’s very important, actually,” Lydia argued. “You know, murderers always want to get you to a second location, and you're not supposed to let them. You can't take me somewhere to kill me. I mean, you just killed that… thing, so I think you could've just killed me there. Not that you should,” she added hastily. “Coincidentally, what was that thing?”

Nora said nothing.

So Lydia kept talking. Her parents always joked that if she ever got kidnapped, she’d just talk and talk, and she’d annoy her way out of the kidnapping. It wasn't working. They were still striding down city blocks, walking quicker and quicker, though thankfully not hitting a full-on run. Lydia didn't think she could keep up with the pace that Nora would have set, and it would give her even less of an opportunity to try and get away.

“If you're going to kill me, I think I should at least get an explanation for that thing. I thought it was a human earlier, when it almost ran me over, but it didn't really look like one later. When you killed it, I mean.”

Nora sighed loudly, clearly thoroughly annoyed, but she kept her tight grip on Lydia’s arm. “I'm not going to kill you, you idiot. And of course it looked human. They can shapeshift, and passing for human lets them worm into places where there’s lots of you humans because most of you are too self-obsessed to look twice at it. Or too stupid to see the difference.”

Lydia ignored the insults in favor of saying, “You humans? Like you're not one? Are you not human?” she gasped.

“Obviously, I'm human,” Nora groaned. “Are you always this annoying?”

“Yes,” Lydia said. “You should really just let me go so you don't have to deal with me. So are those things not human, then?”

“No, obviously. And you're not getting away, so stop trying. And shut up,” Nora added. “We’re here.”

Lydia glanced around. Then she stared back at Nora, thoroughly unimpressed.

The girls stood in front of a large warehouse, tall and wide and made of red brick with a rolling door of a silvery metal just in front of them. Broken glass littered the ground around, pieces of the windows that were missing panes, and several windows had been boarded over. All in all, Lydia decided it was a pretty typical abandoned warehouse.

“Here?” she said.

Nora sighed. Keeping her hold on Lydia’s arm, she marched toward the door. It didn't open automatically, like Lydia thought it might, and Nora made no move to open it or activate a way to open it or anything. She just kept walking toward it, faster and faster again, fast enough it would really, really hurt when they ran into it.

Lydia yanked on her arm, but Nora kept her tight grip, and Lydia stayed being dragged toward the closed doors.

Just before impact, she squeezed her eyes shut.

Then she opened them just a tiny crack and watched Nora vanish into the door before her eyes. The hand on her arm remained tight until she pulled Lydia through the door, too, and suddenly, the glow of the streetlights vanished, the warehouse vanished, and the girls were standing in front of a tall stone structure with iron gates closed behind them, and in front of them was a castle.

The castle was even more massive than Lydia had ever imagined castles would be, with the stone of the gatehouse winding around it to form tall walls that obscured any of the land around it, but the smell of salt and the fact that Lydia couldn't see a single thing around the castle except for the dark night sky let her guess they were on an island somewhere in the sea. Huge rectangular buildings, all of different heights and covered in tiny rectangular, glass-filled windows of hundreds of different colors, jutted up in front of them, with a couple of stone domes on some of the buildings. Walkways connected the buildings, arches under them rounding from one building to the next, with more arches above them to connect at the floor above, too. In the center of the castle was the very tallest building, but the dome atop this one wasn't a tan stone, like the rest of them, but stained glass like the windows. Panes of blues and greens and pinks and yellows swirled together in patterns, building from the top of the building until they met at the top of the dome. Trees sprouted all around the castle, too, adding more color to the tan stone structure. She turned around, and behind the closed gates, a path wound down occasionally switching to stairways, between smaller stone buildings until it dead-ended at a little group of docks that swayed on a calm, indigo sea.

“This,” Lydia said stupidly, “is not Pennsylvania.”

We’re not in Kansas anymore. The movie line flashed through her head.

“No, it isn't,” Nora said. The added “stupid” was implied.

“Where are we?” Lydia asked, turning in circles to take everything in. And rubbing her arm where Nora had been holding on. It didn't hurt, not really, but she wanted Nora to feel bad. It didn't seem to be working.

“Arcem Castle,” Nora replied. “In Italy.”

“Italy?!” Lydia squawked, whirling on Nora.

“Off the coast of Italy,” Nora amended. “Shielded from human eyes, of course.”

“But I'm human, and I can see it.”

“I brought you here. So you can see it.”

“And you're human, too,” Lydia persisted.

“Yeah, but I'm not a boring, ordinary human.”

“Well, what are you?”

Nora sighed. “Nothing you need to worry about. Come on.” She took hold of Lydia’s arm again and pulled her up the pathway toward the castle doors.

The doors swung open silently as they approached, and quiet hallways greeted them. Torches lined the walls, dimly illuminating the corridors, since the windows weren't letting in much light, even with the bright moon outside. The hallways weren't quite empty, but they were pretty close to it. However, the castle occupants who turned to stare at them, glancing up from papers or books, pausing in the middle of quietly chanting and making something glow in front of them, weren't all human. Some were ― she assumed ― and many of them were dressed like Nora, all in dark green, with the women wearing a dress over leggings and the men wearing tunics and trousers, all with leather boots and leather belts and leather sheaths or quivers of arrows, though some weren't armed at all. Others wore different clothing, far more medieval-looking, with richly dyed fabrics and long gowns.

But not everyone was human. There were several animals, too. Foxes stared with little beady eyes, and panthers yawned lazily from their perches in alcoves. Birds twittered, and a couple of badgers nudged each other as Nora strode by, Lydia nervously trailing behind.

“Anyone know where Alata is?” Nora called out, breaking the quiet and stillness of the hallways.

A chubby brown bear turned to fix Nora with a reproving look that she ignored.

A bird flittered over and alighted on the bear’s head. Twisting its little green head, it focused on Nora and chirped, “She’s in her office, and Miss Parva is with her.”

Nora swore.

The brown bear glared at Nora.

“How’d they find out already?” Nora muttered to herself as the girls continued down the hallways and up a winding staircase.

“Find out about what?” Lydia asked.

Nora ignored her, and Lydia sighed.

Several flights of stairs later, Nora paused outside of two wooden doors. “Don't say anything,” she told Lydia.

“Why?”

“Can you just not?”

“Probably not.”

Nora groaned, and, letting go of Lydia’s arm, she pushed open the doors.

Clearly, they were at the top of the castle because this room didn't have ordinary walls. Instead, that stained glass dome curved overhead, glowing just slightly with moonlight. The light bounced off of the white floor and multiplied, somehow, or something, because the whole dome was well-lit and as bright as daytime.

A couple of curving bookcases were set at the far side of the room, straight ahead, and to the girls’ left was a sitting area with some leather chairs and a little table. In the middle of the room and just a bit to the left was a desk. Behind that desk was a short, curvy woman with a sweet, tanned face and rosy cheeks. She was dressed in a long, sparkling pink gown, with her shiny black hair pulled up into an elegant bun on top of her head. Short, pointed ears poked out from either side of her face, and sparkling, translucent white wings sprouted from her back.

Lydia stared.

On the other side of the desk, sitting in a tall chair, was another woman. She was tiny, only about three feet tall, with warm brown skin and hair in two braids ― a green-blue color ― and long, pointed ears.

Lydia kept staring.

“Well, Miss Sullivan, aren't you going to introduce us?” the woman behind the desk ― the fairy ― asked.

Nora sighed, moving into the room, closer to the desk. Lydia followed her.

“This is…” Nora paused, glancing at Lydia, and Lydia realized she’d never told Nora her name. Well, Nora hadn't asked, either.

“I'm Lydia,” she said. “Collins,” she added, after a beat.

“Well, Miss Collins, I'm Alata,” the fairy told her. “Welcome to Arcem Castle, though it’s a shame you couldn't be here under more pleasant circumstances. This,” she said, nodding to the smaller woman, “is Parva. She was once a teacher here. She used to teach Miss Sullivan, actually, and now she is Miss Sullivan’s supervisor until she fully finishes her schooling. If that ever happens,” she added, giving Nora a look.

Lydia nodded silently. So this was a school of some sorts. Got it.

“I'm not sure how much Miss Sullivan has told you―” Lydia tried her best to focus on Alata and to not glare at Nora “―but magic is, in fact, real, and not only something in your storybooks. I am a fairy, and Parva here is a gnome.”

A gnome.

“We’re here to discuss what is going to happen with you.”

Lydia’s heart quickened.

Scary words, those.

“You are here because you saw Miss Sullivan kill one of the Impia. Contact between the magical and non-magical world is forbidden, so Parva and I must discuss what happens to Miss Sullivan and what happens to you,” Alata said placidly.

“Impia?” Lydia blurted out.

“Now, now, there will be time for questions later, perhaps,” Alata said.

“To the point, Miss Collins,” Parva said quietly, and her voice was so gentle and lilting and sweet that Lydia blinked stupidly. “Humans who come into contact with the magical world are offered a memory wipe. Most often, they accept it. People do not like change, and accepting the magical world requires a lot of change.”

“A memory wipe?” Lydia gaped at her.

“It would only erase your memories of the events since you encountered Nora, and we would fill in the gaps with something suitable,” Parva told her gently. “It is quick, painless, and of course, you would never know it happened, afterward.”

“Miss Sullivan can attest to that, can't you dear?”

Lydia glanced at Nora, who was fighting a heavy frown and losing. Catching Lydia’s eye, she muttered, “This has happened before. A time or two.”

“Well, I don't want to be memory wiped,” Lydia announced. Why on earth would she choose that? She was doing alright with all the change that this required, or whatever, and it wasn't as if she was going to be sticking around. She would be able to get used to this from afar, and if she ever spotted Nora chasing around shadowy beings ― or Impia or whatever they were called ― she’d know what was going on. And maybe say hi, if Nora didn't ignore her.

“Why wouldn't you take the memory wipe?” Nora asked, staring aghast at her. “Is that even allowed?”

“Miss Sullivan, we won't memory wipe someone who refuses it, of course,” Alata said, sitting serenely and placidly behind her desk, her hands folded in front of her, something that would have almost looked serious if she weren't wearing a sparkly pink ball gown with sparkly wings behind her.

“So if I'm not getting memory wiped,” Lydia said, “can someone explain all of―” She gestured around the room. “―this to me?”

“Sure!” Nora said blithely, with a smile so big that Lydia was more than certain it was fake, especially with how much she had been refusing to explain anything to Lydia earlier. She forced herself not to glare at Nora, but her eyes must have given something away because Nora smirked.

“Magic,” Nora said slowly, “is real.”

Lydia glared at her.

Parva fixed her with a stern look and chimed in, “What my student means to say is that the realm of magic that you might have read about in storybooks is, indeed, real, but likely the stories have some aspects wrong, of course. As you can see, gnomes and fairies are very real, and so are elves and dragons, though dragons are much smaller than the non-magical world believes and also rather rare. There are sea serpents―”

“Like the Loch Ness monster?!” Lydia blurted out.

Nora rolled her eyes surreptitiously.

“Yes,” Parva said patiently, “although they are much smaller than the world at large believes. There are talking animals ― you may have seen some of them in our castle ― and mages. Generally, when humans, such as yourself, come into contact with the magic side of the world, if they choose to meld into our world, they come to Arcem and study magic that allows them to help care for the world and its inhabitants, magic or not.”

Lydia nodded slowly. “Is that what Nora is?”

“Miss Sullivan is something else,” Alata said cryptically, and Lydia deciphered from her words that she wasn't to ask any more questions. She privately filed them away to ask Nora later.

“And that… being that Nora killed. What was that?” she asked.

“Yet another magical being, dear, and certainly nothing to worry about,” Alata told her, waving a hand.

But Nora’s expression was tight and drawn, so Lydia made a note to ask her about that later, as well. There was definitely something more here, something she was missing, something they weren't telling her.

“Do you wish to stay at Arcem and study magic to become a mage?” Alata asked.

Lydia blinked. That option hadn't even occurred to her. She could… No. It was only mildly tempting, and she quickly batted that little thread of temptation away. She was more than content in her ordinary human non-magical world, and this didn't change that. It only broadened the world. So she said, “No, thanks. It’s cool and all, but I’m good with just knowing about it. I’d actually like to go home, please.”

Nora stared at her, eyes boring into Lydia’s skull, but Lydia ignored her for now. She figured that she would have to run into Nora again at some point, and Nora wouldn't avoid her now. There was too much curiosity about each other, on both ends.

“Yes, you may return home. I assume we can expect you to keep our world a secret?” Alata asked.

Lydia nodded. Then asked, “Why?”

Parva smiled at her. “Can you imagine if the world found out about us? Magic? Humans are not inherently selfless, by any means. Access to a power like ours… It could be catastrophic in the wrong hands. And we are different, which humans do not like. The magic world was persecuted once, many, many years ago.”

“Got it. Yeah, don't worry, I'll keep my mouth shut,” Lydia promised.

“Parva and Miss Sullivan shall see you back,” Alata said, and from the tone of her voice, Lydia gathered that this little meeting was finished.

Lydia hadn't been lying about keeping her mouth shut or just wanting to go home, but she certainly wasn't finished with the magic world. She had questions, and she intended to get some answers.

She followed Nora and Parva out of the castle, keeping quiet as they conversed in hushed tones, and they walked back down to the gates. Nora waved her hand, and a couple of green symbols flashed across the gates quicker than Lydia could note them. Then they were walking into the gates again, and suddenly, Lydia was back outside the abandoned warehouse in Pennsylvania, United States of America, boring, ordinary human world. She smiled.

Reaching up to shake Lydia’s hand, Parva said, “Nora shall see you home. It was lovely to meet you, Lydia. I hope we shall meet again.”

“Yeah,” Lydia said. “Me too.”

Parva turned and strode away, vanishing around a corner, and the girls stood in the quiet stillness of the night for a long moment.

Then Nora sighed. “Well, come on, then, Collins.”

They walked in silence to Lydia’s house, only a few blocks away, and when they reached the door, Lydia hesitated, unwilling to let go of her questions.

“Go on,” Nora said. “You know you want to.”

Lydia grinned. “Come on inside.”

The girls headed into the Collins’ house ― empty at the moment, with Lydia’s parents off on a trip ― and made their way to the living room. Lydia plopped onto the couch, and Nora settled onto a chair nearby, slouching and wriggling into a comfortable position.

“So,” Lydia said, “what was that thing you killed?”

“It’s called an Impia,” Nora said. “Centuries ago, there was a mage at Arcem who learned all that magic had to offer her and decided she wasn't done. She turned to dark practices, and she learned to lengthen her lifetime. With more time, she kept learning beyond what we’re meant to learn, and she didn't use it to benefit others and to better the world, like we’re supposed to. Instead, she bent creatures to her will. They weren’t perfect, though, so more recently, she created the Impia. They’re beings of darkness and completely enslaved to her will. She’s trying to use them to kill off the other mages so that there won’t be anyone to stop her from taking control of the world. The magical world and the non-magical world.”

“Wow,” Lydia breathed.

“We call her Mali Regina,” Nora continued. “In an effort to thwart her, the Eversor were created. Parva created them, actually. Like Alata said, I’m not a mage. I'm an Eversor acolyte. I know some magic, but my job is to destroy the Impia before they destroy the world. When humans entered Arcem, they used to automatically begin learning magic to become a mage. Now they choose between becoming a mage or an acolyte.”

“So you’re like a magical warrior? And they’re more like… magic scholars and stuff?”

“Sure,” Nora said with a shrug. “They do some hands-on stuff, too, but yeah, they do a lot of learning and helping people. I’m not made for a classroom, so I picked the Eversor. When I first started my training as a child, there weren't as many Impia. They weren't as powerful, either, and they did far less damage. But now, I have to track down and destroy multiple of them every day. The other acolytes and Eversor graduates are similarly spread thin across the rest of the world.” 

She leaned closer to Lydia. “If you ask me ― and no one does ― Mali Regina is building toward something, and I think she’s close to reaching her goal, whatever it is. We don't have a lot of time left to stop her.”

“Can you? Stop her, I mean. Is this war winnable?” Lydia asked.

Nora scoffed, and she kicked at the carpet. “No, we’re not close. Alata just keeps insisting on us finishing our training and graduating, like that's really what's important here. The whole world is going to burn, but Alata won't let us do anything until I have my completion certificate. It’s stupid. And I think I even know how to defeat all of the Impia ― for good ― and take Mali Regina down at the same time, but Alata won't listen to me.”

Lydia stared at Nora, processing. “And you're just going along with that?”

“What else am I supposed to do?” Nora protested.

“The whole world is kind of at stake here!” Lydia exclaimed. “Just go behind her back. Isn't there someone who will listen and help?”

Nora blinked slowly. Then blinked again. It was several seconds before she responded. Then she jumped to her feet and exclaimed. “You're right!”

“Thank you. I try.”

“I’d never even thought of that. Maker, I'm a disgrace,” Nora muttered. Lydia refrained from commenting. “Parva would listen to me. I know she will.”

Lydia bit back another comment ― you didn't even tell her? Isn't she, like, your supervisor or something? And your friend? Instead, she said, completely deadpan, “The gnome.”

“I’ll explain it all to you tomorrow. She’s important, trust me,” Nora told her.

Lydia shrugged. “If you say so.”

“We have to go find her tomorrow,” Nora insisted.

Lydia shrugged. “I'm not working tomorrow. We can do that.”

Nora nodded.

“We can take my car, too,” Lydia told her, “and if you want, you can sleep in our guest room. I don't want to make you go all the way back to your place…”

Nora nodded slowly. “Yeah, alright, Collins. Don't be annoying.”

Lydia smiled sweetly.

The next morning, the girls piled into Lydia’s car, a rather beat-up old red thing, and Lydia followed Nora’s directions out of the city. The drive would be about an hour, Nora said, and they would have to head into the woods.

Lydia frowned at her. “You're honestly so lucky that my parents are out of town, and it’s the weekend, so I don't have classes, but I cannot be on this quest by Monday morning, so will this take long?”

“Collins?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up,” Nora said.

Lydia pouted.

The silence in the car ― well, relative silence, as Lydia had put a playlist on quietly ― lasted less than a minute before Lydia asked, “Okay, so what’s this big idea of yours? To defeat all of the imps or whatever. With the gnome.”

“Parva.”

“Whatever.”

Nora rolled her eyes. “I read a book about mind magic, and it made me think that the Impia might be created from mind magic instead of heart or soul magic. I did some more research, and as far as we know, no one’s ever created creatures like this from mind magic. When creatures are created from heart or soul magic, they take on a will of their own. With mind magic, though, it's like a hive mind situation. The minds are all connected, and they don't have thoughts of their own. Just basic instincts that Mali Regina, like, programmed into them?”

“You know what programming is?” Lydia interrupted.

“I literally live thirty minutes from you. I own a tv.” Nora glared at Lydia.

“Continue,” Lydia said, waving her hand as she drove.

“Anyway,” Nora drawled, “the hive mind means that they’re all connected. If we can capture one, we can connect to its mind. From there, we can draw all of the Impia, across the entire world, into the one we captured. It won't be any larger or stronger, but it would be a consolidation of them all. And then we can destroy them, and we can draw Mali Regina to us because they’re connected to her mind.”

Lydia nodded slowly. “I don't really understand most of what you just said, but okay.” Nora rolled her eyes again. “And what about the gnome?”

“Parva.”

“Whatever.”

“Parva’s speciality is mind magic,” Nora explained. “I'm not super knowledgeable about magic practices in general, but I know barely anything about mind magic. Parva, though. She’s good at it, and she knows a lot, so if we’re going to be dealing with it, we need her.”

Nora directed them down another road, then said, “We’re here. Pull over right there, and we can hike down those trails there.”

Lydia parked the car, and the girls climbed out, heading down the trail that Nora directed them onto. She poked Nora’s shoulder. “How did Parva make this trip without a car?”

“She’s a gnome, Collins. Nature magic.”

“I thought she was good at mind magic?” Lydia asked.

“Nature magic is inherent to gnomes. Mind magic is different. Keep up, Collins,” Nora said, pushing through some branches to get to another trail.

“These are where girls get murdered, you know, Nora,” Lydia told her matter-of-factly. “I can see the news articles now. Two Pennsylvania girls found dead in woods. The purpose of their journey is unclear, but one girl is dressed like something out of a bad medieval show and is armed and presumed to have fought back against their attacker. No sign of a struggle from the other.”

“I'm armed, you idiot,” Nora said. “We’re going to be fine.”

Lydia shrugged. “I'm just saying!”

Nora ignored her, walking down the trail.

Eventually, the girls reached a little creek, and Nora turned around to grin at Lydia. “You’ll hate this,” she said. “Follow me.”

She walked straight into the creek, and the moment she reached the middle of the water, she dropped straight through and vanished into the water. Lydia shrieked. The water rippled where Nora had been, and then it settled, bubbling along as if it had never been disturbed in the first place.

“I hate magic,” Lydia muttered, stamping out the flicker of terror that ignited once more.

Birds chirped overhead, twittering laughs mocking her.

“Magic is so theatrical. It’s ridiculous,” she added, glaring at the birds. Then she marched into the creek, straight into the middle, and then she dropped through with a scream.

She landed on a woven grass mat, straight on her feet and perfectly dry. Blinking, Lydia glanced around. Mud brick walls surrounded them, and moss carpet covered the floors. The home seemed to be underground, and it was dimly lit by little glowing blue lanterns. Little wooden doors led off to a couple of other rooms, and more grass mats covered the floors. A few wooden chairs sat by a table with a little vase of red marigold flowers, and there Nora and Parva sat, watching her.

“Come and sit, Lydia,” Parva said. “We have much to discuss, it seems.”

So Lydia sat, and Nora filled Parva in on everything that she had already told Lydia earlier. It took her a longer time to cover everything as she told Parva, since she touched on all of the technical magical details.

“So,” Nora said once she finished. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re correct,” Parva told her quietly. “Your theory makes sense to me, and if we can draw them all together, we can take them all out at once. It is certainly worth a try.”

“Alright!” Lydia said, clapping her hands together. “Let’s go!” She paused. “We do have to go back, right?”

“Yeah,” Nora told her, and it was a mark of how pleased she was that Parva agreed with her idea that she was even smiling slightly at Lydia. “Impia are drawn to larger populations. There’s a lot where we live.”

“Come on, girls. Time to get to work.”

After leaving Parva’s, they hiked back up the trails and piled into Lydia’s car. She drove them back into the city, and following Nora’s directions again, they ended up in an abandoned dirt parking lot.

While in the car, Nora had sketched out a quick diagram, and when they all climbed out of the car, she handed it to Lydia.

“You need to draw this as big as you can on the ground. Find a stick or something, Collins,” she ordered. “That’s a summoning circle. We’ll trap the Impia in there once I find one. Parva’s going to prepare her magic. You two wait here. I'm going hunting.”

Lydia nodded.

Nora raced away, and Parva took a seat beside the car, folded her hands, and closed her eyes to prepare her magic. Whatever that meant.

Lydia searched around and found a long stick. Nora’s diagram in hand, she started sketching out the loops and whorls that made up the circle. It didn't take too long for her to finish drawing it all out, and by the time she finished, Parva had opened her eyes again and was watching the circle construction.

“Is this done right?” Lydia asked.

Parva nodded, and, satisfied, Lydia tossed the stick away and plopped down on the ground beside the gnome.

Several minutes went by, Lydia unsure of how to break the quiet. Nora hadn't returned yet.

“Has Nora always been like this?” Lydia asked finally. “This… single minded?”

“You mean irritating,” Parva replied with a knowing smile.

Lydia grinned. “Maybe just a little bit.”

“Yes,” Parva said. “She has. Believe it or not, she was worse as a child. But she grows on you, does she not?”

“Like a fungal infestation,” Lydia muttered, but she was still smiling, and she nodded in agreement. Nora was growing on her.

And just at that moment, Nora came racing into the parking lot, a shadowy being, an Impia, hot on her heels.

“Ready?!” she shouted, and Lydia and Parva called back in the affirmative.

Nora raced through the summoning circle, and the Impia followed. The moment the Impia ran into the circle, Nora just enough ahead that she had exited the circle already, Parva slammed her hand down on the ground.

Thin stone pillars shot up from the ground all along the circle. They formed a series of prison-like stone bars that trapped the Impia inside. It battered against the pillars, but despite their narrowness, they held firm, not even shaking a small bit. Lydia guessed magic.

Nora was doubled over next to Lydia, her hands on her knees and her breath coming in short pants. Slowly, it evened out, and she pulled herself back up to her full height. Drawing her daggers, she handed one to Lydia.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Just in case. You shouldn't be unarmed.”

Lydia took it reluctantly, curling her fingers around the smooth hilt.

“Ready when you are, Parva,” Nora told her.

Parva nodded. Keeping her hands on the ground, she started chanting. A foreign language rolled smoothly off her tongue as she spoke the words, loudly and clearly. Glowing green tendrils of magic wove their way around the circle, vines of magic wrapping around the pillars.

The Impia let out a screeching cry, wailing loudly. It began to lose its shape as it consolidated, and it grew larger and larger and larger.

“I thought you said it wasn't supposed to get bigger!” Lydia shouted over the noise of the being.

“It shouldn't!” Nora shouted back.

Nervously, Lydia adjusted her hold on the dagger.

Suddenly, the Impia collapsed back into the original shape, the dog-bear-something-like being, but it shrank much smaller, to nearly the size of a shoebox.

Parva stood up, taking a deep breath, and the glowing vines of magic tightened. “Are we ready for the last part?” she asked. “The next step is to summon Mali Regina.”

Nora glanced at Lydia, chewing on her lip. “Maybe we should have gotten more people here. I mean, it’s just the three of us against Mali Regina! And you haven't even ever held a weapon until five minutes ago, so you're not going to be much use!”

“Thanks,” Lydia said dryly. “It’s going to be fine, Nora. Your plan has worked just fine. We’ve got this. You, me, and the gno― Parva. You, me, and Parva.”

“Okay,” Nora said, blinking. “Okay. Yeah, you're right. We’ve got this. Okay, Parva. Do it.”

Parva nodded. She touched her hands to the ground again, and she started chanting. The vines of magic turned darker and darker and darker. They were nearly black, and then, all of a sudden, the shoebox-sized Impia started to grow, bubbling and stretching as it formed into a very definitely human figure.

It formed into someone round, not very tall or threatening, and then the blackness of the Impia melted into the person, and they were staring at Alata.

“Alata?” Nora said, staring.

“Nora, really, what am I doing here?” the fairy asked, putting her hands on her hips. “This is ridiculous.”

“You… but that was supposed to summon Mali Regina!” Nora exclaimed.

Lydia gasped.

Parva took a step back. “You're Mali Regina.”

Alata sighed, looking back and forth between them all. Then her lips twitched, and they quirked into a smirk, grinning right at Parva.

Lydia’s eyes flew wide open. Beside her, Nora’s jaw dropped, and she stiffened very noticeably.

“How could you?” Parva asked quietly.

Nora’s fingers twitched on her dagger.

Alata ― Mali Regina ― tossed her head. “Don't be silly, Parva, dear. We were never close enough for you to look at me like that.”

“We worked together for many years,” Parva replied, voice still even and quiet. “And I considered you a mentor. A friend.”

Mali Regina shrugged. “Well, that is your own fault.”

“Why did you do this, Alata?”

Mali Regina shrugged again. “You magical creatures will never understand the burden of such a short lifespan. And I, I was far cleverer than most. There was much I wished to accomplish, and I simply could not do it all in the few years allotted to me. So I gave myself more. I lengthened my lifespan ― I did what should have been recognized as an extraordinary feat of magic that changed the world and the way that mages lives, but instead, I was banished from Arcem and shunned by the rest of the magical community. 

“I could not return as myself, so I created this form to suit me better. I became Alata, and I created these wings with mind magic and melded them to my body, and then, I returned to Arcem and to the mages who had once been my peers.

“But they were all so very shortsighted. They were not worthy of the gift of magic that they had bestowed upon them. The world needs to be remade, children, and to do that, the mages of the old world must be eradicated.”

“Murdered,” Nora said blankly.

“Call it whatever you wish. But that is why I created my Impia. They obeyed my every command, my every thought. Even the slightest whim of fancy, they carried out. They served me far better than the mages ever would. But then, Parva, dear, your Eversor started to slow my plans and to destroy my beautiful creations. I suppose I ought to thank you. I learned to create them quicker, and I learned to make them stronger. I am so very close to accomplishing all of my goals, numerous as they are.”

Her round, pleasant, smiling features twisted suddenly, contorting into something horrible, and she snarled, “And now― you're getting― in― my― way!”

Mali Regina lunged forward, and Parva’s stone bars shattered into pieces as Mali Regina shoved the magical tendrils into them and forced them outward.

The circle obliterated and their protection removed, Lydia backed away hurriedly. But Mali Regina wasn't focused on her, and she wasn't looking at Nora, either. Before either girl could react, Mali Regina lunged for Parva.

Her fist closed tight around the gnome’s neck, and she squeezed with more strength than a fairy should have possessed.

Parva gasped, and Mali Regina dropped her.

Before she hit the ground, her body burst into a bright explosion of green leaves and red flowers that drifted slowly to the pavement, her physical body dead and returned to its element, returned to nature.

Lydia gasped.

But Nora screamed. She charged forward, dagger flashing in her hand.

Mali Regina tossed a sparking ball of purple magic at her, but Nora batted it away with her dagger without a second thought. Nora, stronger and more determined than Mali Regina had given her credit for, leapt at the older woman, and a whirlwind of a fight ensued.

Lydia watched, eyes wide, an inferno of terror rushing through her veins as she watched Nora fight against this old and powerful mage.

But Nora didn't give up any ground. She didn't gain any, either, but she countered every blow of Mali Regina’s, and she struck out with her dagger, Mali Regina only just catching her blade and shoving her way. They moved almost too fast for Lydia to follow, but suddenly, she spotted something. An opening.

Lydia jumped forward, and she thrust Nora’s dagger into Mali Regina’s side.

Mali Regina, the nearly immortal mage, the woman who created beings of darkness to carry out her commands and destroy the world, gasped, and she coughed out a spurt of red, coppery blood that hit the pavement and splattered beside Nora’s boots.

She coughed again. “You―” she hissed, turning on Lydia, wounded enough that Lydia knew she was dying but conscious enough to choke out some dramatic and evil last words and maybe take a now defenseless Lydia down with her.

And then Nora stepped forward and slashed her head clean off of her body.

Mali Regina’s body dropped, and the shimmery wings faded away into nothing. Her head and body both distorted, and wrinkles etched their way across her round face. The long, shiny black hair that had fallen out of its neat bun now turned brittle and white, and Mali Regina, ancient witch, looked like nothing more than another ordinary old crone.

Nora stood there silently, staring at the body, and Lydia stood beside her, equally silent for once. Then Nora turned to Lydia, her mouth twitching into a smirk, something obviously snippy on her tongue.

Her eyes caught on the pile of leaves and flowers that had once been Parva, and she collapsed.

Lydia dropped to her knees next to Nora, touching her arm gently, watching the silent anguish well up in Nora’s eyes. Then Nora crumpled, falling against Lydia, and Lydia wrapped her arms around Nora immediately, letting her cry. Nora shook, her body wracked with sobs, and she cried against Lydia’s shoulder, her own arms hanging listlessly by her sides.

The girls stayed there for a long while, Nora crying against Lydia and Lydia holding Nora and taking deep breaths to calm herself so she didn't cry.

Nora’s cries began to quiet, and she stilled. She picked her head up from Lydia’s shoulder and moved toward the leaves and flowers, sniffling quietly. Then she reached out and gently touched her hand to the pile, retrieving one little red blossom.

“Marigolds,” Lydia whispered, recognizing the flower. “It means wisdom and joy.”

Nora nodded slowly. “She liked these. I always teased her for keeping a flower that reminded her of herself.”

There was another long moment of quiet. Lydia kept her mouth shut and watched Nora gently twist the flower in her hand, touching the petals with a delicate care.

Then Nora placed it back on the ground with the rest of the flowers and the leaves, and she began to whisper a quiet prayer, barely loud enough for Lydia to hear.

“Maker, receive your warrior and bring her soul home to You as her body is returned to the ground. Grant her a rest not found in this world, and let her live with You in Your light.”

Nora got to her feet, shaky but steadying once she pulled herself up, and she took a slow breath.

Lydia scrambled up with her.

“I have to go back to Arcem,” Nora said. “They need to know what’s happened.”

Lydia gave Nora a small smile. “I don't envy you that task. This is a lot to explain.”

“You could come with me. If you wanted,” Nora said. “You could stay at Arcem, and you could study magic. Once I tell them what happened, all of the mages will know your name. They’ll want you to come learn with us. There would always be a place for you in the mage school or on the Eversor path. If that stays a thing, what with the Impia gone and everything.”

Lydia bit her lip. Slowly, so as to try and avoid hurting Nora’s feelings, she told her, “Thank you, but no thanks. This was enough adventure for me for the rest of my life, probably. I have school the day after tomorrow, anyway. I’ve done twelve years of school in this world. I’ve at least got to finish up.”

Nora pulled a face. “Human school. Ugh.”

“It’s not so bad,” Lydia protested.

Nora eyed her. “You're delusional.”

Lydia stuck her tongue out, then froze, remembering what had just happened. But Nora only smiled. “You know,” Lydia said, “if you ever need to get away from all of the magic and the crazy there, you can come over for a movie night any time.”

“Yeah?”

“Probably not anything with fantasy. It doesn't really live up to real life.”

“I might take you up on that offer, Collins.”

“Any time,” Lydia said. “I mean it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nora said, waving a hand. She wiped her dagger on Mali Regina’s dress and sheathed it before pulling the other dagger out of the corpse. It made a sickening sound, and Lydia grimaced. Nora just grinned at her, cleaning off that blade too before she put it away. “If you get sentimental on me, I'm not showing up.”

“I’ll just come get you. I know where you live.”

“No, you don't. I live in the city, remember?”

“Oh.”

“Did you think I lived at Arcem? Before I explicitly told you I live here?”

“Well, yeah!” Lydia frowned.

“At school?” Nora scoffed. “Maker, that sounds horrible.”

“Alright, we’re watching Harry Potter when you come over,” Lydia told her.

“If.”

“When,” Lydia stressed. She glared at Nora.

Nora shrugged. “Fine. When. Whatever.” Her eyes fell back to the leaves and flowers now blowing away in the gentle autumn breeze. She choked back another sob, dashing her hand across her face to wipe away the remnants of the tears that stained her cheeks.

She turned. “See you around, Collins.”

“Yeah, you will,” Lydia told her.

“Alright then.”

“Bye, Nora.”

“Bye, Collins,” Nora said, and she started across the parking lot, walking slowly farther and farther away until she turned the corner and vanished from sight.

Lydia watched her until she disappeared, and then, with a smile on her face, she stuck her hands in her pockets and turned toward her own home.

[esters-notepad]

The Face in the Mug

Good pilgrims, may I join you? I hear you came from Terenburg this morning. The roads must be quite muddy with all the rain we've had, are they not? And now the rain is starting up again. God bless this well-built inn for keeping us all dry! On a rainy night, there is nothing quite like a roof over your head, a fire on the hearth, a mug of wine in your hand, and a good story. A mug for me? Why thank you, good master! Ah... I know many stories. Stories from here or from far away, stories to cheer you up or to thrill you. A ghost story? Certainly. A thrilling story about ghosts and demons. And I can personally vouch for it that every word is true.

It all started in this very inn, you see. My grandmother was a serving girl back then, and has told me all about it. The noble Sir Guy, younger son of an English duke, was on a pilgrimage to Rome together with his squire. This squire, my grandmother said, was a sullen young man by the name of Paul, almost of an age to earn his spurs, with dark hair and dark eyes. Sir Guy had struck up a conversation with some other knights staying at the inn, and he graciously invited Paul to join them, several times. The squire refused. He stayed by the fire, although it was a beautiful warm evening in early summer. He wouldn't even look at the flames, but would stare down into his mug of wine. My grandmother didn't think much of it at first. She had other work to attend to. But then, Paul called her over and asked:

"When did the redheaded young woman arrive in Bruawei?"

"What redheaded woman?" my grandmother asked. "There are no people with red hair staying at the inn, and none in the village, either."

"But then how... no, never mind. Do you see anything strange about this mug?"

My grandmother looked at Paul's wine mug curiously, but it was only a plain mug from the local pottery. The inn had over a hundred of them. She told him as much.

"Bring me a new one, anyway, would you?" Paul replied. My grandmother brought him a fresh mug, and he studied both it and the wine in it for a long time. Finally, he downed the wine in one go, like so! stood up, shook himself like a wet dog, and went to bed.

And speaking of wine... sir, you read my mind. Telling a story is thirsty work! I thank you most humbly. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Sir Guy and his squire stayed the next night at the abbey of St. Vaast in Atrecht. And there, in the cold hours after Matins, Paul was visited by a woman. If he had been in the guesthouse, where people come and go all the time, this would not have been so very remarkable. But seeing how Sir Guy was high-born, and how he and his squire were on a pilgrimage, the monks had invited them to stay in their dormitorium. No woman should ever have set foot there, and the monk who kept vigil by the door that night swore that he had not seen her, either entering or leaving. Still there she was, pleading with the squire. Sir Guy was in the cell next door. He heard her entreating Paul to save her, and heard Paul respond and call her by name: Margaret.

Thus, on the next day, while walking towards Péronne, Sir Guy asked Paul who Margaret was.

"But surely you know Margaret, Sir Guy", was the reply, "Margaret from Wells, who attends your lady mother!"

"I mean the Margaret you spoke to last night."

At this, Paul hung his head and would not look up for several minutes. So quietly as to be barely audible, he replied: "That was her."

Sir Guy was very much astonished at this, but despite his questioning and cajoling, Paul would not explain himself.

The pair did not reach Péronne that day. They had to make camp in the woods. Paul offered to keep the first watch, and Sir Guy, a veteran of several campaigns, fell asleep as soon as he'd laid his head down. The same soldier's discipline which let him sleep immediately also woke him at midnight. He found Paul on his knees, clutching a rosary. So deep was the squire in his prayers that he didn't notice Sir Guy getting up. Coming closer, the knight heard that instead of one of the usual mysteries, Paul was praying for the soul of one dead: Margaret. Sir Guy laid his hand on Paul's shoulder. Paul started violently and tore the string of the rosary.

"Why are you praying for Margaret as for a dead?" Sir Guy asked. "She was in the best of health when we left, only two weeks ago."

"Her ghost has visited me, Sir", Paul replied, shame-faced.

Sir Guy nodded. "Atrecht."

"No, Sir, earlier than that. I first saw her in Bruawei. Her face was on my wine, like a reflection. I looked around, but she wasn't there, and the serving girl said there were no redheads in Bruawei at all. Still the face remained. It was as if Margaret's soul was in that mug. I thought that it had to be an illusion, so I drank the wine. But then, as you say, Sir, Margaret's ghost came to me in Atrecht. She said she's in a place of suffering and that... that... She must have died, and now she's in purgatory. I have to help her! Somehow!"

Sir Guy kneeled down on the moss besides Paul and embraced him. "Paul, my boy, I'm so sorry. I know that Margaret was dear to your heart. Let us pray for her soul together. Tomorrow we'll try to find your rosary beads again, and then we'll go on to Péronne. Surely there we'll find a priest who can comfort you and say a Mass for Margaret."

After the prayer, Paul curled up in his cloak, and Sir Guy kept watch until dawn, praying all the while. No man or beast disturbed their camp, yet Paul found no peace. He tossed and whimpered like his soul had been joined to that of Margaret. In the morning, he was full of nervous energy. He wanted to press on for Péronne well before dawn. Sir Guy could barely persuade him to remain until the new day had grown light enough to search for the lost rosary beads. With five beads still missing, Paul left. Sir Guy had to hurry to keep up. They reached Péronne shortly before midday. Paul, still hurrying like a company of demons were on his heels, set course for the nearest church. As soon as he was inside, he fell down on his knees and began to pray, loudly and disjointedly. It was left to Sir Guy to explain to the priest who they were and what had happened. The priest promised to take care of poor Paul, and Sir Guy left to find himself a midday meal in some tavern.

That afternoon, in the little church close by the city gate, they celebrated Mass for Margaret's soul. Sir Guy found great comfort in the familiar prayers and the miracle of the Sacrament. It is doubtful if Paul found any relief. He was shivering despite the summer warmth, his eyes darted to and fro, and he no longer responded when spoken to. Sir Guy was quite worried by now. After Mass, he asked the priest if there were any hospitals in Péronne. The priest shook his head.

"No, Sir. Not for this kind of ailment. If you wish, you and your poor squire may stay with me for a few days. My housekeeper has a good hand with those who are spiritually afflicted, and I will do my best to help, as well."

Sir Guy gratefully accepted. For the rest of the day, he stayed by Paul in the little church, since the squire seemed to want to remain on sacred ground. Nones came and went. The shadows lengthened. The housekeeper came to tell them that the evening meal was ready, but Paul would not move from his place, and Sir Guy declined to eat rather than to leave Paul alone or force him along. Dusk fell. The candles were lit. Vespers were said. After Vespers, the Priest came to ask if Sir Guy and Paul would keep vigil in the church, of if they would go to bed. Paul was so far gone as to not react to anything, not even when Sir Guy lifted him up and carried him in his arms across the courtyard to the guestroom. Everybody agreed that a good night's sleep might do the young man good. They got him settled in the bed, and in a compassionate reversal of fortune, Sir Guy slept by the door.

You have already guessed it, haven't you? I can tell by the way you're nodding. You know as well as anyone that we live in the valley of tears, and that upon suffering, there often follows more suffering. Yes, the ghost came back, that very night. Sir Guy saw it as a bright cloud, shaped vaguely as a woman, glowing white, red and green like Margaret's skin, hair and kirtle. Its voice as it called out for Paul to wake up was also similar to Margaret's. Yet there was something horribly wrong about the apparition. Sir Guy could not say precisely what. Maybe it was a dissonant undertone to the voice. Maybe the ghost's limbs moved in an unhuman way. Maybe it was simply its message.

"Paul! Paul, why won't you help me?"

Paul stirred, opened his eyes, then shrank back as far away from the ghost as he could. The whites of his eyes shone with reflected ghostlight.

"Leave me alone! I'm helping... I'm doing what I can. And Sir Guy, too. We've been praying for you all the time. And Sir Guy paid for a Mass in your name. Go away! Don't touch me!"

The ghost scoffed. "Prayers! Mass! You know what I need, Paul. I told you. We need to become one. You need to take me like a husband takes his wife. Then I can be free of this place of torment."

Sir Guy hastily crossed himself against such heretical talk. He tried to pray, to call out for the protection of Jesus, Mary and all the saints, but the ghost made an imperious gesture at him to keep quiet, and suddenly he could not move his tongue. Desperately crying to God for help in his heart, he stumbled out of the door and went to rouse the priest.

When they came back, armed with holy water and a crucifix from the church, the ghost had descended upon the bed. Paul, writhing and moaning, could barely be seen under it. Sir Guy gripped the crucifix harder than he'd ever gripped his sword in ordinary battle. The priest launched into an exorcism. The ghost shrieked and departed. Paul's body remained on the bed, breathing, but otherwise as one dead. Sir Guy sat down heavily beside him.

"That wasn't Margaret. Was it?"

"That was a demon", the priest confirmed. "Possibly a succubus, but it was unlike any succubus I've ever heard of."

"Virgins can enter heaven. Right?"

"But of course! Just look at the mother of our Lord, the most holy Virgin Mary. And many others besides."

"Is it gone now? It won't come back?"

"I don't think so."

"What has it done to Paul?"

"Only time will tell. Look, Sir Guy, this has been a long day for you, and a terrible night. Would you let me care for Paul until morning? You can take my bed."

Sir Guy nodded his assent.

There isn't much left to tell, good pilgrims. When Paul awoke, he was like a young child, looking with wonder at everything, unable to speak. The priest suggested that Sir Guy take Paul back to England. Familiar surroundings might help the young man recover. Thus it was that my grandmother heard the rest of the story. Sir Guy himself told her on their way back. The knight was quite burdened by all that had happened, and my grandmother thought it was a relief for him to tell it all from the beginning. My grandmother never learned if Margaret was indeed dead, or if Paul recovered enough to tell his side of the story. Thus it is that I can tell you no more. I hope I haven't scared you out of a good night's sleep. Yes, brother, an excellent idea! Do lead us in prayer before we retire to our beds.

[leng-m]

Let the Sun Set, Let the Day End

Paolo's parents rarely ever talked about the Catindig family, but when they did, it was always with a touch of soft pity. He could detect it in the, "Of course we must be kind to them," and the "Your grandfather never forgave himself for what happened to Edgar Catindig."

There was also an undercurrent of wry humour in the ways Paolo's parents whispered of sumpa. It meant curse or oath, if one used the ratty old Tagalog-English dictionary they brought along from Caloocan five years ago, but from his parents' tone he was sure it wasn't the latter. And while it was a word one could freely ponder in the streets of the Philippines, even among crowds in front of San Roque Cathedral, it wasn't a concept that sat comfortably in his mind as his family rode down the neat, disciplined streets of North York, Ontario.

Read More

[siena-sevenwits]

Inklings Challenge - Huzzah!

I'm Team Chesterton - here's to twenty-one heady days of wild adventure and fantasy in THIS world! Re-enchantment, here we come!

I made a playlist of Songs About Storytelling for all of us who'll be inkling the next few weeks. Even if you find just one song you like on it, I hope it will add to our collective encouragement.

[inklings-challenge]

Since we're less than a month away from sign-ups for this year's Inklings Challenge, it's time to address what I call:

The Team Chesterton Problem

The Inklings Challenge divides writers into three different teams, which are each assigned a type of fantasy and a type of science fiction, and writers can choose which one they want to write. The fantasy categories are easy: Team Lewis is portal fantasy, and Team Tolkien is secondary world fantasy, which leaves intrusive fantasy for Team Chesterton. Intrusive fantasy gets by far the least stories written for it, probably because people are intimidated by fantasy with a real-world setting, but that would be okay if the science fiction category drew in people.

In three years, we have had two stories in the Team Chesterton sci-fi category. Both last year.

With Team Lewis having space travel and Team Tolkien having time travel, the first two years, Team Chesterton had a technology category. Since that covers everything from steampunk to mad scientists to robots to cloning technology to cyberpunk, you'd think there'd be a lot of story potential for any type of writer. Not one. The third year's category, Adventure, tried to make this wider story potential clearer, so people didn't think they had to be technological experts to write in this category. We got only a couple of stories.

I'm beginning to wonder if it's too broad of a category. Space travel suggests a specific genre. Time travel provides a specific inciting incident. Technology and Adventure have a kind of "everything else" vibe, which could make it difficult to come up with a specific story in a short time frame.

So I'm considering other options:

Mystery

Pro: Chesterton-related, specific genre that can be applied to a fantasy or sci-fi setting

Con: Not inherently a sci-fi genre; requires a lot of thinking to apply it to a speculative fiction setting

Dystopia

Pro: Specific genre with specific vibes. Chesterton-related

Con: Vibes are depressing and people may not be drawn to it

Utopia

Pro: Less depressing than dystopia. Could even be combined with dystopia

Con: Who's willing to admit that they think they've invented a perfect society? Outdated genre.

Travel

Pro: Fits with time and space travel. Would suggest planet-bound adventures--finding hidden lands, journey-to-the-center-of-the-earth, underwater cities, you name it--while providing a specific event to base the story around, so it's less broad than adventure.

Con: Would take a lot of explanation to get to that definition. Has a lot of the same "too-broad" problems that Adventure has

Cyberpunk or steampunk

Pro: Specific genre with specific vibes

Con: If people don't like those vibes, they're out of luck. People could think they need to know a lot about technology or history to write in this category.

Superhero

Pro: Fun genre! Specific genre trappings and tropes to easily base stories around. Can feel very Chestertonian. Nothing that would make people think they need to stick to real-world science

Con: People might be burnt out on superheroes. Might turn to fanfic instead of original fic. Not a great companion genre to time and space travel

I had been hoping to end this with a poll, but there are too many options and variables here, so instead I'll just ask for general feedback and ideas on what genre would be most appealing and the best fit for this challenge.

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Stars and Shadows: A Fairy Tale

An extremely experimental piece I've decided to submit for @inklings-challenge.

If you wait patiently, there will come a day--in a month, in a year, in a hundred-thousand hopeful days--when you will stare outside into the deep blue-black of a cold winter night and not be able to tell the snowflakes from the stars. It will call to your heart and pull you from the warmth and light of home--wrapped up in coats and boots, scarves and gloves, and one thick woolen blanket thrown over your shoulders like a cloak--in the hope of becoming, even for a moment, a part of the beauty of this moment of creation.

The cold of night will bite your face and steal your breath, but in a moment, you will find yourself racing across the white expanse, snow crunching beneath your boots, soul expanding toward the shining heavens in one upward rush of joy. As soon as home and family are safely out of view, you will slow from your sprint and find yourself content to amble, and wonder, and be, with the shy, slender moon watching patiently above.

You will carry no light, for the world will be light, with the moon and the stars and the snow wrapping all the world in bright illumination. Your breath will shine before you in delicate white clouds, your very life made visible for the fragile, lovely thing it is. In the silence you will hear the snowflakes fall, hear the hushed sound of your footfalls, feel every beat of your strong and pulsing heart.

And then, if you close your eyes and listen long enough, just at the moment when your heart is near to breaking from the beauty of it all, you will hear a cry. For a moment you might think it a phantom of thought, your own soul giving voice to all the aching loveliness that surges through you, but then, you will hear it again. Over and over, thin and wailing, the cry of a child newly born horrified to find the world so great and cold.

The sound will travel like an arrow in that crisp, cold air, and you will follow it without hesitation--over a rise, down a hill, through a twisting stand of trees and countless banks of snow, and at last to an old well, such as you've only seen in illustrations--a construction of wood and stones, covered with moss and aged with time, that you can say with certainty was not there a day before.

Standing by that well will be, not an infant, but a child. A little girl three years old, reaching desperately for the rim of the well and crying for water. Everything about her--her skin, her hair, her eyes--will be white as the snow she stands in, and she will gleam faintly with the light of the stars above, and she will wear nothing but thin, white rags, torn at the edges and singed at the ends, a ragged line of ash the only color in her form.

You will notice all these things and think it strange, and then you will forget everything because the child is crying. You will find a wooden bucket on a chain by the well, and in sheer desperation you will throw it down, though there will be nothing but ice in an open well on a night so cold.

But to your shock, you will hear a splash, and you will pull up a bucket full of liquid water that looks like light itself. You will give it to the girl--you would not dream of taking even a drop for yourself--and she will drink with cupped hands and lapping tongue, and gaze at you with silent gratitude.

When she has drained the last drop, the faint gleam of light around her form will become a white glow. She will seem a bit taller--perhaps a bit older than you first assumed--and for the first time, she will seem to feel the cold. She will shiver and wail and curl in on herself, and you will suddenly understand--or at least bless--your mad impulse to take a blanket out into the night. You will take it from your shoulders and wrap it round her form, head to foot, with only her shining white face peering out. Then you will take her in your arms, settle her on one hip, and carry her across the vast expanse of snow toward your home.

It will be a long trip--you have walked a long way--and before you have gone far, the child will grow too heavy for your strength. You will look to her and find that the blanket you have wrapped around her no longer seems so large, and clings more closely to her form--like something between a deep blue dress and cloak--so you will feel safe in setting her on the ground and letting her walk beside you, her thin white hand in yours.

You will wonder for a moment if you've fallen into a dream, for all seems so strange and perfect--the light, the snow, this silent child--but the bite of the cold and the burn of your legs will assure you that you remain in the waking world. Yet you won't think to question the child--who or what she is, or from whence she arrived--because she is so like the snow and the light and the stars of this crisp, cold night--things that do not become, but simply are. Your wonder make peace with the night's mystery.

The way back will seem longer than you remember--the trees taller, the stars brighter, the air colder. The night will seem large and you so very small, but you will not be afraid, for there is one beside you too innocent for fear. You will walk in the tracks you left on your way, stretching between footfalls that seem much more distant than you expected. Yet the moon will look larger, and you will take comfort in that. You will need the comfort before long.

For just when you are in the very midst of the trees, you will hear a sound from the shadows--dark and dangerous, like the growl of a wolf or the rumble of a distant train. And then the shadows will seem to take shape, growing arms and legs, teeth and claws, and they will gather in a great black wall that blocks the way you mean to take.

The voice that speaks will be less of a voice, and more like the clench of fear in your chest, the monster that mocks you as you lay awake at midnight with all the shame and sorrows of your wasted youth.

We will have the child.

You will know that the voice promises death for disobedience, and you will know to the depths of your soul that you would rather die than obey. You will hold the child close, and she will cling to your neck, and you will sprint with all your strength back toward the well. The shadows will surge and swirl around you, grabbing at your clothes, tearing at your face, and once--only once--drawing blood that drips a red path upon the snow.

You will sprint through the snow and twine through the trees, each step seeming a mile, each moment a lifetime. The shadows will gather--closer, darker--and the light of the child in your arms will fade with fear.

At last, you will see the well at the base of the hill, seeming to shine in a circle of light. If you can reach it, you know, you will be safe--every childhood game seeming suddenly like training for this very moment.

And yet, at the very edge of the clearing--somehow you always knew this would happen--you will lose your footing and fall face-first into the snow. You will shield the child's face from the snow by holding her close, and you will shield her body with your own. The shadows will fall upon you, tearing you to pieces. Your very body will seem to dissolve in pain.

Through their snarling, the shadows will promise relief, if you will only relent--the child's life for yours. Not so great a sacrifice, is it, for a child you've known for mere minutes? These words will tear at your mind, but it is your heart that will reply, drawing strength for defiance from you know not where. And you will. not. move.

You will feel the night fading--the stars and the snow and even the cold growing distant, like some faraway world in which you have no part. Even the pain will seem like something happening long ago and far away to some ancient hero in a dusty, tattered book. Yet you will feel the child beneath you, her beating heart still alive against yours, and that hope will keep you clinging to the tatters of breath in your body.

Then, at last, there will be light. So bright that it blazes white even through your closed eyes. The shadows will crumble like ash, retreat like the dark from a flame, and the destruction of your battered form will cease. The child you shelter will cry with joy.

A gentle touch will lift your shoulder so you lay on one side, and attempt to pull the child from your arms.

With a cry of defiance, you will hold her with what remains of your strength.

But then a voice will flow through you, lovely and feminine, like water and winter and moonlight given tongue. Peace.

Peace will come, perfect and pure, and you will release the child without fear. But without her presence, your need for strength will fade, and all your pain will come rushing in upon you, dark and hot and crushing, and you will have no strength to hold it back.

Absurdly, you will be most aware of an all-consuming thirst. Tears will pour from you--precious, wasted droplets. Then it will be you, and not the child, who cries for water. Then it will be the child who will draw water from the well and put the shining liquid to your lips.

You will drink, and the first mouthful will bring the cold climbing back upon you. But you will welcome it as re-entry into this world, and drink deep, again and again, until you find yourself freezing, but wholly alive, your wounds as if they never were. You will sit and gaze up at a woman dressed in midnight blue, as white and glowing as the child, who clings to her as she would to a mother, and you will find yourself alight with the same glow.

You have served my daughter well, that lovely inner voice will say again. Come and be at peace.

She will turn your eyes toward the heavens, and offer you a place there in the shining light, far from the troubles of this dark world. It will draw you as the snowflakes drew you from the warmth of home, so many long moments ago. Yet you will find yourself standing, and bowing your head, and with utmost humility refusing the honor. You will not leave this world, be there ever so many shadows, while there is still more beauty to behold.

The woman will smile, pleased with your answer, and the light surrounding you will fade. And you will see your home alight on a nearby hillside, waiting for your return.

You will say your farewells to the child--who embraces you with gratitude--and turn your path toward home. The child and her mother will do the same, fading as the sunset fades with the coming of night. And you will notice two stars in the sky above where you had noticed none before.

You will smile up at them and walk home--warm, alive and fearless. There will be no more shadows lurking along your path. But high above, and all around, you will know there is--and always will be--light.

[casa-anachar]

Drosophilia Tempusfugit

(Written for @inklings-challenge 2024, this story will also be attributed to "Elena Gutierrez", one of my OC's in Now School - who needs to turn this story in for her creative writing class.)

“Linda, can you get the lights on this side of the lab? I can't read my test strip.”  That would be my labmate Memo, looking up from his bench hopefully. I don't know why he thinks that having half the lights out makes it easier to do work, but because the whole lab has motion-sensing lights, I can't just tell him to do it himself.

With a wince of disgust, I walk around the fume hood with the … thing that seems to be producing fruit flies spontaneously.  We sealed the fume hood, and then we sealed the exhaust on the roof, but the flies keep appearing. And dying. Memo and I have a bet going that whoever figures out where they're coming from doesn't have to clear out the fume hood.

I hope he's as clueless as I am.

I press the bottom button on the lab door control panel. “Memo what are you even testing?

“I wondered if flies would yield any sort of acid, like ants do. These? Four test strips and they all look very Blue.”

I pretend like I didn't get a pity-B-minus in chemistry last spring and stare at him. “Yeah, yeah, the ant-acid, we've all seen it. What does that have to do with anything?”

“You're still running the gene sequencing and you're sure these are Drosophilia Melanogaster?”

“I mean, yeah, although they behave like they're super-dehydrated. With the samples I take for the microscope, the water practically vanishes into the tissue slices.”

Maybe I've said too much because he gazes at the middle distance like he's figuring something out. Time to see if I can distract him. “Tell me where Jess found this thing again?”

Memo scowls a bit. “I hear she bought it at an arts-and-crafts fair up at the Balloon Fiesta a few weeks back, but she gave it to me when the flies started showing up in her lab across the quad.”

“What is it supposed to be?”

“I think she said it's an arrow.”

I tilt my head sideways and squint at the fume hood. I guess it's shaped like an arrow, though if I smashed it with a hammer it would make a pretty good Himalayan salt lamp. “What research does her group do?”

Memo scowls some more. “They're looking for something more accurate than carbon-dating, or better for recent specimens. I think she told me they're trying out Sodium-22 instead.”

I hear the lab door handle open. I'm glad it's noisy because the alternative is getting jump-scared by somebody behind me, though the only other person who comes to this lab has begun to creep me out anyway. It's Dr. Enrique, who is Memo's PhD advisor and my boss, and lately he's been a little touchy - and I don't mean anxious. I notice that I've turned around in my seat, making my shoulders less convenient to reach.

“Oh, we got some mood lighting in here! Linda, you find any unique genes yet?”

I shake my head.

“Guillermo, do I need to keep this on the dee-ell so Jess doesn't get jealous?”

“You saying you know something that I don't, boss?” Memo covers a blush with another scowl.

“Look, if your nena from the physics department comes in with a rock that disproves Louie Pasteur, I'd gladly let her be second author.”  He's looking at Memo as he crosses the room. I rotate again to keep facing Dr. Enrique. “I'm telling you, my single grad students are never as efficient as the ones who make out on a regular basis. Oh, and don't forget Friday, you're on for crackers and marshmallows.”

— [later] —

I lean against the dining room doorway and wait for Memo to finish loading up his cafeteria tray.  I feel a bit sorry for him also being bothered by Dr. Enrique, and it's not like I can ever use all 120 swipes on this meal plan by myself.  He grabs a second plastic-wrapped cinnamon cake slice and starts toward me, and I pull my ID out to swipe twice.

We head to a high table facing the gym next door, and he doubles back to the drink fountain after we set our trays down.  At least it's nice that he knows I like root beer, but since it looks like the blue raspberry juice lever is working today, he comes back with two cups and begins guzzling his antifreeze-lookalike beverage. I try to ignore this.

“Sorry about this afternoon. Enrique's usually not like that.”

A few seconds go by before I realize I'm grateful that he hasn't looked up at me, with my half-chewed salad bite on full display. Why the hell would he defend our boss?  I quickly swallow and ask,  “Tell me, does he give you surprise shoulder massages too?"

“Only at the backyard firepit pa-” He looks up at me, with my face stuck between surprise and anger.

“Look, I know I'm just a sophomore and this is my first work-study, but I don't think it's cool that this is going on and I didn't ask for it, let alone have a chance to say no. I just wanted to learn how virus research works, and now I'm not even getting to do that because we have to deal with all these -” I pause as a large fly buzzes past me and circles my root beer - “damn-” i clap at it with my napkin in one hand “mystery-” i turn and clap a second time “flies!"

On the third clap, I finally catch the fly, and tear off the corner of the napkin where its partly squashed body is stuck. I get up and toss it in the trash, loop past the hand sanitizer dispenser, and grab a different napkin to clean my other hand.  It's a small victory.  Back at the table, Memo is staring out the window at the patio railing. I look closer to see if somebody from the parkour club is trying to scale the 9 foot jump to make it over the handrail, and sure enough, here comes a girl with a blond pixie cut who makes it to the top of the concrete, hooks a hand on the top rail, and smiles and waves at Memo, and then spots me and vanishes before I can tell her reaction.

“Jess?” I ask.

“Yup.” Memo turns back to me and asks, “Do you know her a bit?"

I shake my head. I've seen her around my dorm, though I think she's an R. A. downstairs so I don't run into her as often. “What is up with you two anyway?”

He sighs. “We went on a couple dates this past spring, like ‘drive up to the city for a museum and a nice dinner' type stuff. I realized after the second date that she's not really lighting the spark for me, she gets manic too often for that. But we're still in the same friend group, and people think we're cute together? Maybe that part's just a side effect of Enrique's parties.”

Ugh, again with the parties. My roommate last year was all about them, and the second-hand effects of her Saturday morning ritual hangovers really wore me out - I was secretly pretty happy when she transferred out at winter break.  I consider asking Memo if people ever grow out of that phase, but now he's watching the nerdy sitcom on the TV in the corner, and we'll probably do this dinner again next week.

 —

Memo is staring at the fume hood when I walk in Friday morning.  I only have an hour before my lecture, but I still have to wrap up the results on my tests from two days ago.

He speaks first.  “Can you go to 224’s closet and get the shop vac?”  He tosses me a set of keys.

“Are you admitting defeat?"

“I'm calling a truce.  The dead flies are so thick I can't see the floor of the fume hood anywhere, and our bet seems like a dangerous situation there.”

I cross the hallway, find the J224 key, and try it in the lock. It doesn't turn, so I look up and realize i've gone the wrong direction, loop around to a different hallway, past the construction zone plastic sheeting, and start counting doorways.  222, 223, 226, wait, okay, it's time to go yell at Memo to get his own damn shop-vac now.  This is the wrong weekend, and next semester's intro to endocrinology elective can't come soon enough - I swear I'm gonna figure out how to take these PMS symptoms down a notch or three.

I re-enter the lab from the other door after a couple deep breaths, and squint hoping to avoid tears.  Memo turns around as I say, with an angry tone, “Your request took me through the part of this building that makes no damn sense."

Memo slaps his forehead. “Oops, I forgot, that's the hallway that's closed right now, but we can take the back way through 223.  Can I have my keys back?"

I stick out my tongue, still glaring, and he raises his hands. “Fair enough, follow me."

Three minutes later, we're staring at the worlds creepiest revolving door.  It's this four-foot diameter opaque tube with no lights inside.  We had stepped in, grabbed the door handles, and turned the tube until the door faced room 225, wandered through the dark room to try the closet there, you get the point.  We can't roll the vacuum through the door because there's a steel ring on the floor to hold the tube in place.  Now we lift up the vacuum, and Memo swears as the vacuum handle on his side turns out to be a latch and the bucket spills a bunch of dust on him.

“So much for a clean getaway?” I ask, finally seeing a moment in the absurdity to giggle.

“Just [cough] let me swing [cough] past my locker [cough] on the w[cough] ay back.” He swings the door around through the darkness, and more carefully this time, we hoist the vacuum out into the blessedly well-lit room 223.

I'm by myself in the lab and the vacuum cleaner is noisy, but it seems to be doing its job when i suddenly notice a couple slivers of paper in the front corner of the fume hood box amid all the dead flies.  It's also too loud to hear the door handle of the lab, so when an arm reaches over my shoulder to lift the glass door a bit higher, I jab my elbow backward as hard as I can and the hose falls out of the fume hood, but not before sucking up the papers.

In my panic I manage to turn off the vacuum cleaner in time to hear Memo, doubled over behind me.  “Ow! Crap, what —”

I take a couple more deep breaths. “Oh. I'm sorry that turned out to be a rougher lesson than I wanted it to be, but do you get it now? If Dr. Enrique had done that to me, I wouldn't be sorry. I'd probably also be fired, and/or talking to Campo."

Memo nods quietly.  Our campus police department is a mixed bag when it comes to actually following up on assault reports, but they hired a couple ladies this year who aren't shy about driving people down past the plaza to the sheriff's office in handcuffs.

I sit down and take a few more deep breaths, and then remember that I need to get those papers back out of the vacuum.  I undo the latch on the bucket, and to my luck, right on top is a triangular scrap of brittle napkin with a squashed fly on it.

“Memo?” my voice breaks a bit, “do you remember the other night when I caught a fly on my napkin?"

“Yeah, yeah, I got the point. You don't need to keep elbowing me in the gut about it."

“No, it's really not that, I think this is that fly."

“How do you know?”

"The napkin scrap is torn the exact same way. It's not a perfect triangle, and this bit is the size of my fingernail.”

"So, crazy coincidence aside, what do we have, fly Valhalla in our fume hood? Is that what the sculpture does?"

I stifle a laugh. “Okay, I don't know, but there's one more potential clue, and I need a favor from you."

“Go on?"

“There's one more piece of paper that got sucked into the bucket, and I need you to dig it out.”

Two minutes later, Memo is taking off gloves, and I'm chewing a few sticks of mint gum to keep my stomach calm.  I smooth out the crumpled paper and flick the fly guts away.  “I think it's a receipt fragment.  You keep these, right? "

“Not really, but I know Jess does.  Why do you ask? "

“I just thought if we found one that looked similar, we'd know where?...when? it came from.  I wanna say it's from Smith's, I see grocery stuff on here."

“See if there's a credit card number, they usually put the timestamp near it."

We bonk heads while staring at all the numbers, until Memo points at a date and time, two days after Christmas.

Of this year.

Almost two months in the future.

I find my voice first. “So we have flies? From the future? Time traveling flies?"

Memo finds a voice, but it sounds way more robotic and emotionless than usual. “Please tell me you can find the specific fly guts you cleared off this paper."

I point to the small fly corpse on the gray countertop and thank God somebody wiped down this bench last night. This is still too weird. But Memo grabs a test tube, some tweezers, and a cork, and gently stores the mundane dead bug that we now have wildly improbable documentation for. “So we have time flies … and they like an arrow.”

Two live bugs buzz past our faces as we sit folded on the floor with laughter. I catch a breath and offer, “Hey, what if somebody sneezed on this bug? Would it carry the virus back in time?”

Memo pulls himself to his feet and shuts the fume hood door to keep the rest of the flies inside. Still gasping, he offers, “I mean, you said you wanted to do virus research, and ‘Flu season is just around the corner’” he sings to match the jingle that our store's PA system plays every 5 minutes now that they have a fully staffed pharmacy.

I look down at my watch. “Crap, I've got two minutes before my statistics class in Cramer Hall, rain check?”

Memo smiles. “If you're back by 11, I'll still be setting everything up.”

[allisonreader]

VCCS (Vector Climate Control System)

Here is my completed @inklings-challenge story for this year. It's not really what I had in mind for this story, but it works. I have included the first part in this, though I have posted that first part previously. So for those of you who have read that bit before; once you see this; 🌨️🌧️⛈️🌪️❄️💨, then you know that we're starting into the new section.

It was a cold blustery type of day like they hadn’t had in a while. It was a forbidding omen of the changing seasons as old ripped propaganda poster flapped with each gust of wind. The faded words speaking of the Vector Climate Control System still legible.

It always surprised him just how many posters and old billboards remained, proclaiming the wonders of how the VCCS was going to change the world for the better.

He pulled up his coat collar to try and block some of the wind as he made his way home from work. He’d have to remember a heavier coat with a hood in the coming days.

The wind was going to make his face as red as his hair with the way it was whipping through the buildings around him. The wind was gusting hard enough to rip down an old flyer and try to blind him with it. He huffed as he read it.

*A Revolutionary New World Is Coming! The Vector Climate Control System will eliminate the question of "what will the weather be like today?"

Once the V.C.C.S. is employed extreme weather will be curbed. No more droughts! No more hurricanes! No more tornadoes! No more blizzards!

Extreme weather will be controlled and moved where it is most needed and is safely out of the way.*

There was more that he could have read, but he didn’t need to. He scrunched up the flyer to dispose of it at home, putting it in his pocket until then.

He knew all about VCCS as they had learned all about it school. They had been taught all about the seven circuits of nine towers. How each system worked both in its own little loop as well as within the entire system.

But also how it failed.

There were both political reasons as well as technical factors. As the system did not work as intended or expected. Making a bigger mess than if it had never been set in place.

The towers still remained as they were too large to demolish with any ease. Finally he made it to the warmth of his home.

"Hey there Delilah, I’m home!" he called out upon entering.

"I hear you!" Delilah called back, coming out from the kitchen a couple minutes later. Which had given him a chance to remove his coat and take the flyer from his pocket, ready to recycle.

"Oh! Jake! You’re as red as your hair!" Delilah exclaimed, putting both of her hands on his; as expected, red cheeks. "What do you have there?" she asked when she felt the wad of paper in his hands as he hugged her.

"It’s nothing important. Just one of those old VCCS flyers that tried attacking me in the wind," he said.

"Well that was rather mean of it, after everything else that happened with that."

"Hmm, at least now there will be one less flyer littering up the place about it."

"There’s that I guess," said Delilah. "Let’s get you warmed up properly."

🌤️🌩️🌨️🌧️☀️⛈️🌪️❄️💨

Over the next few days the weather grew more intense, more wild and unpredictable, until the weather casters were starting to speculate that there was a malfunction of one of the towers a part of the VCCS.

Complaints about the suspected malfunction grew day by day as the weather continued to get increasingly worse and more wild. Wind was practically nonstop and rain, sleet, and snow cycled through without a rhyme or a reason. Other than harsh winds, you never knew what you were going to get.

The weather casters were speculating/observing that from what weather conditions and patterns there were that it appeared to only be the one tower in the system acting up and it was the one closest to us. Which was still many kilometres away from where we were.

Messages were sent to those who managed the towers to see what was happening with the tower and what was going to be done about it. No response was ever received from anyone who anyone tried to contact. No one wanted to deal with the malfunctioning tower that was supposed to be shut down.

The weather grew worse until he was unable to walk to work anymore. Not that Delilah wanted either of them to go out in this wild and unpredictable weather.

That didn’t end up mattering. 🌨️🌧️⛈️🌪️❄️💨

As the weather continued to get worse, he knew something had to be done about it. If the officials in charge of the tower weren’t going to do anything about it, he would.

He had been praying about it as the weather grew more out of control. He knew that Delilah wouldn’t like it, but he was going to go out in the stormy weather and make his way to that tower and try and turn it off himself, before the surrounding areas were destroyed by the wind, rain and snow.

It wasn’t going to be an easy conversation to have with his wife, but he couldn’t leave without her knowing what he was going to try and do. The journey alone was going to be dangerous as he went northwards to where the tower was. Let alone what challenges and difficulties the tower itself might bring.

Thankfully the tower he needed to go to was on land, not all of them were. Some were build on platforms in the oceans in certain locations. This one was built in the arctic tundra in Nunavut, near the Bathurst Inlet . So far from his home in the prairies.

At least it was on the mainland and not one of the islands.

There were probably people who were closer who could deal with the problem, but the question was would they.

It was possible that no one wanted to even try. He was at least willing to.

He was procrastinating… he needed to go and discuss what his plan was going to be with Delilah. She needed to know.

He took a deep breath and said a little prayer before going to speak with his wife.

🌤️🌩️🌨️🌧️☀️⛈️🌪️❄️💨

The conversation went well. Delilah had been thinking about the same things as him and also praying about it. It was going to be difficult, but they were going to make the trek north, to middle of nowhere Nunavut to try and turn the tower back off.

They were going to have to pack as much as they could for this trip. Food, water, warm dry clothing, his tools, probably some of Delilah's tools too. Just in case they needed something finer than what he had in his kit.

At least he had a vehicle that he had been working on that would be able to handle this weather decently. All weather tires, with a spare set specifically for off roading.

The wind was going to be more dangerous than what the road or lack of road, conditions might be. As long as they weren’t blown away they’d be okay.

Their travel was going to take them so much longer than it would in good conditions. The average drive between home in Moose Jaw to Saskatoon was two hours, they’d be lucky if they could do it in five today. It would be better to be safe than sorry, especially as no one would likely be able to find them for a long time if anything went wrong.

It took them a couple hours until they had everything properly secured in his Jeep. They were truly going to be living on prayers for the next few days.

They stocked up on fuel before leaving Moose Jaw. Chamberlain would be their first town and check point for how they were doing for travel; next would be Davidson, Hanley, and then once they made Dundurn, Saskatoon wouldn’t be far and they’d stop for the night.

Hopefully there would be a hotel that had room for them.

After that they’d start out again and it would mostly be towns from then on.

Once they actually got on the road the first part of the journey wasn’t too bad, other than constantly fighting the wind. Which wanted to blow them all over the road.

At Chamberlain they stopped and switched drivers. Mostly to give his arms a bit of a break, as it took them twice as long to get there as normal.

They stopped in what was the Twisted Sisters ice cream shop parking lot to do so. Twisted Sisters long since closed considering it was only open over the summer anyway, and this was the beginning of October.

Once they made it to Davidson, stopping in the rest area of the giant kettle and tea cup, he switched back to driving and would continue the rest of the way to Saskatoon.

The wind continued to buffet them and sleet came down harder from the wind. He was exhausted by the time he finally made it into the largest city in Saskatchewan. They drove through town, over Circle Drive Bridge on the South Saskatchewan River, until they hit the Travelodge Hotel, overlooking the Idylwyld and Circle Drive intersection, an intersection that they’d be using to start heading further north yet.

They did manage to be able to stay at the Travelodge. Under different circumstances they probably would have made use of the pool and waterslides. There wasn’t the time or energy for that though.

They planned their next bit of trip. They knew what they were doing until they hit La Loche, where the road would end and the real wilds would begin. Getting from there to the Bathurst Inlet, where the tower was, was going to be difficult, especially if they couldn’t fly. Hopefully there would be some options once they got to La Loche.

Until then, they still had a few days of driving to go. Maybe they could come up with something on the way.

After leaving Saskatoon they drove past Martinsville to Blaine Lake, turning past the town in the direction of Least until they finally made to Shellbrook for a break. Another two hour drive that was twice as long as it should have been.

They made sure that they stocked up on fuel again. There was going to be less and less places to be able to get fuel as they went north.

They drove through Canwood and Debden, deciding to sleep on the side of the road, praying that they’d survive their sleep and that the wind wouldn’t blow them away. There were times they were short with each other. Being cooped up in the Jeep was uncomfortable and tiring.

Road trips; even the best ones could be trying at times, one like this, was all the harder yet. There was no relief from the howling weather, bathroom breaks were uncomfortable and inconvenient at best. But at least their food was doing alright at the moment and they weren’t at the risk of freezing to death currently. Though they might eventually get to that point. They’d take their blessings as they got them.

After Debden came Green Lake, then Buffalo Narrows, then Bear Creek, before finally after many days of traveling, arriving in La Loche. They still didn’t have any idea of how they were going to get further north so that they could get to the tower near Bathurst Inlet in Nunavut.

They used that as an excuse to get out of the Jeep for a bit and walk around, to see if anyone might be able to help them. Praying that they would be able to find some way to get to where they needed to go.

At some point they ended up in a small local restaurant to refuel their personal hunger and not the Jeep's. They were discussing what they needed to do when a couple overheard them and had their solution. The two of them and their one friend could help them make it to the Inlet.

Between the three of them, they had planes and could help them get to the tower. It was going to be risky to fly, but there was no other way to get that far north.

Upon discussing the plans to make their way further north, it turn out that they each ended up having a skill set that built upon each other’s. They might actually be able to do something about this tower's problems.

It took them about a day to get everything set up for the next bit of travel. Thankfully, up here, it seemed slightly less crazy for the weather, though the wind was still strong.

Their companions were a lady named Jane; pregnant with her first child, her husband Brad and their family friend Brenda.

All three knew how to fly and would be rotating turns and could step up if anything happened to the one flying. They would have to make at least a couple of stops to refuel the plane. Maybe in or near Uranium City, possibly in or near Reliance NWT and then their stop near the Bathurst Inlet.

It also gave them plenty of time to get to know their fellow travelling companions. Delilah and he learned that Jane and Brad had been married for a few years longer than they had been and that they and Brenda had lived in Northern Saskatchewan for most of their lives. Barring some travel and some schooling that they all had.

They all quickly learned that they were all Christian and had been praying about what they could or needed to do. His and Delilah's arrival had been their catalyst to actually get moving. His tools were some of the ones that they had been worried about not having, so clearly the Lord was working through all of them.

The plane ride was by far the most treacherous part of the journey so far. There were many prayers for safety uttered together as their little plane was buffeted by turbulence nearly continuously.

Jane was holding up well, even though she was carrying a little passenger of her own.

They did have to make a couple of stops to refuel the plane with few issues thankfully.

It was immediately obvious when they came upon the tower. They hit some of the harshest winds and turbulence, and then they punched through and it was dead calm, like the eye of a storm. It would have been peaceful if they didn’t know what it was like beyond the calm.

Thankfully there was a landing strip for the plane, though with the little plane being a float plane they could have risked the inlet.

The tower was a massive and hideous creation. Like some kind of terrifying mix of the CN tower and either the big metal power poles or the Eiffel Tower, creating a large metal cage around the lower third of the tower.

Whoever designed such a monstrosity should be jailed, if they weren’t already. It wasn’t going to be easy to get into the tower, even if there were doors on ground level.

They all took turns trying to pick the locks, but nothing worked. There had to be something blocking the doors from the inside or a heavier lock like a bar across the door.

That left trying a door on a higher level. Where they would have to try and climb up to. He and Delilah decided that it would have to be them. Hopefully her fine tools would be able to help them pick a lock and get into the tower.

From there they could hopefully navigate the building and let the others in at one of the lower doors.

It was going to be a long climb up, but thankfully there were ladders that could be used and they didn’t have to try and just monkey up the metal beams. The climb was still a test of their strength and endurance, even though it wasn’t as hard as it could be with the weather being so calm and nearly warm around the tower.

It must have only been around the freezing point for temperature. It still meant cold hands and cheeks, but keeping warm feeling from the exertion of the climb.

Delilah was climbing above him and they both found themselves praying about their climb. Not forgetting a prayer of thanks once they made it not only to a door, but that Delilah was able to successfully pick it with her tools and get them in to a more solid and less narrow space to walk.

Surprisingly, everything was still lit. Maybe that shouldn’t be so surprising, considering the weather, but he wasn’t sure how the tower was being powered. It would be something that they’d have to look into.

Even better was the fact that there was a map of the tower that they could follow to the ground floor to let in their companions. Going down the stairs was much quicker than their climb on the outside of the tower, though they definitely didn’t trust the elevators in the tower.

As they expected the lower level floors had their doors barred in a way that they could only be opened from inside with several different types of bar locks. The two bar tabs like you’d see in some bathroom stalls up and down at the top and bottom of the doors, only these ones were at least an inch in diameter, if not two or three. Along with a literal bar across the door that had to be raised.

Once all five (six if you counted the unborn as well) were in, they could start figuring out how to turn this town off.

After a bit of searching, they figured out that that they would have to first turn off the climate control part of the tower and then destroy the power source so that the malfunction couldn’t happen again.

One of the things that they had to do, was cut the power to the series of Tesla coils that helped with the energy to move the weather. Once that was done the power to the computer system guiding the weather could be cut, before finally removing the rest of the power source to the building, which would leave it all dark.

Thankfully, each of them had the skills to help with the shutdown of the system. The absolute last thing would be to physically destroy/cut the tower's power. Which meant cutting a lot of wires that Jane was forbidden from doing, just to be on the safe side for her and her baby.

It took them a few hours to do so but once it was done, the relief was immense. It didn’t take long for them to start seeing the results.

The calm that had been around the tower started to dissipate. They hung around for an extra day or two just to make sure that their rather physical solution was going to hold, before they started the trek back to their homes.

The plane ride was much smoother going home. As was their drive, with not having to constantly fight the wind or sleet.

Surprisingly the weather didn’t seem to hang on to the patterns that the tower had created. Perhaps it was because it was only the one tower that had been active and not all 63 of them, like before.

The one thing it did prove to them was that there needed to be a more permanent solution than how the towers had been left. It wouldn’t do for this to keep happening if other towers acted up. And it could be much worse than what the prairies and surrounding areas got.

[inklings-sprint]

Intrusive Fantasy (Low Fantasy)

?Questions?

What magic/paranormal events are hidden just out of sight of our world? How does the character come across it? Has the character always been aware of the unusual within the world, or is it something that they’ve recently stumbled upon? Is that legend actually a legend or is it the truth? Are cryptic creatures real and just using the unknown world against us to keep hidden? Miracles happen all the time, but our character has never believed in them until one happens to them.