#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

[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.

[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.

[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

[novice-at-everything]

So this is what I have so far for my own submission to the @inklings-challenge for 2024, it's about half-finished, but I might be editing this later tomorrow with the finished product. I was a part of Team Chesterton, going with an Intrusive Fantasy. My chosen themes were Admonish, Counsel, and Forgive.

Some warnings might be added later, as I'll probably be touching on some rough topics.

All too Real

It all happened so fast.

One minute, everyone on Earth was behaving as they always had. Some very good, some very bad, and many floating somewhere in between. Few even considered the supernatural anymore, and many had, consciously or not, sunk into a dimly realized materialism. Life seemed to be ready to go on as it always had. People looked to the future and saw all manner of possibilities. Save one.

The next thing anyone knew, the world itself seemed to turn on its head. Crops withered without any warning and despite all good farming practices. Storms sprung up out of nowhere, deceiving even the bones of old grandparents. Oceans swelled with such fury that many ports had to shut down. It was as if someone had thrown a divine tantrum at being denied a favorite toy. That statement proved more accurate than anyone could’ve predicted.

The first to make themselves known were the oldest. No one’s quite sure which one it was, as the stories would break earlier or later, but soon it didn’t matter. Egypt suddenly started putting great effort into restoring their old temples and researching ancient rites. Greece did as well and had a little easier time of it. The Scandinavians had the bumpiest ride, but they got the hang of their new norm before being wiped out. Asia, for all its efforts to modernize, found their transition remarkably easy. Tribes all over the reservations in America found little disruption in their lives. In short, the world was shaken out of its supernatural snubbing when the pantheons of old caused a ruckus. It is in such a world of “real” gods and goddesses, nymphs and dryads, faeries, and all manner or demon, that our story begins.

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

Arthur barely remembered the early days of the Revelation, as many came to call it. He’d roll his eyes whenever he heard anyone on the news stations call it that. He didn’t know who first coined the phrase, but he was all but sure it at least had a partial origin in mocking his faith. Nearly every religion that had a pantheon had surged into reality seemingly all at once. The three notable absences were the three major monotheistic religions: Judaism, Christianity, and Islam.

He did remember some of it, when churches all over had swelled with new attendees, only to shrink to only a fraction of their size from before when no angels or saints showed up. His atheist friends had suddenly become much more open to him whenever he spoke about his faith, and he had tried to impress upon them not to look for angels flying in the sky. They had been confused when he said this, to which he would only answer, “If you knew the Bible as I do, then you’d know that God prefers His followers to cooperate with Him than to simply obey out of only fear or sit back and worship Him as He did all the work.” That was usually about as far as he’d get before they’d roll their eyes and walk away.

“…you hear me? Hello, Earth to Arthur.” Snapping fingers in his vision jolted him out of his musings. He blinked in confusion, registering the hand as belonging to one of his coworkers. Marcus chuckled as Arthur refocused his attention on him.

“Sorry, Marc,” Arthur said, abashed, “I was a little lost in thought.”

“Clearly,” the other man said good-naturedly, “Anyway, just thought you’d like to know that our lunch break is almost up. We’d better get back to work.”

Nodding, Arthur cleared his place and went to clock back in. A few hours later, he was clocking out and getting ready to go home. Marc was just behind him.

“Hey, Arthur! Me and some of the guys were going out to the temple district, want to come?”

The temple district, something now commonly found in almost every city across the world, was the location at which nearly every temple to any god was built. Some areas that were dominated by one culture had temples to only one pantheon. Multi-cultural places, like the U.S, had massive, sprawling temple districts that catered to almost every faith under the sun in most major cities. It was because of this multiculturalism that the U.S. was one of the nations hit hardest by the Revelation. With so many cultures intermingling, the pantheons and their acolytes would often vie for the worship of the population. Where gang warfare had once been a large worry of inner-city people, now it was holy wars that ranked among the largest source of crime.

“I don’t know, man. I’d rather not repeat what happened last time,” Arthur said, though he knew that it was mostly his fault to begin with. A fact that Marcus pointed out.

“You’re the one who interfered with the Mayans. Yeah, I wouldn’t do human sacrifice, but if that’s what their gods demand, then what does it matter?” Arthur again had to fight to keep his face neutral. It got harder and harder to do when he saw what the worship of these gods entailed. Seeing his friend’s continued hesitancy, Marcus tried to pacify Arthur’s reluctance.

“Look, we can avoid the tribal division if it helps. Me and the guys were just going to pay our dues to Hephaestus anyway. Gotta keep him happy if we want to keep our jobs, right?” he teased, playfully slugging his friend. Arthur couldn’t help but laugh.

“More like bribe him to tell you how to do your job. Need to be reminded on the difference between a Phillips head and a flathead?”

“I don’t need to be reminded how to use a hammer.”

“For the job, right? Or do I need to keep my helmet on around you from now on?”

“You ladies gonna clock out or make out?” Another voice chimed in.

“Hey, Rob. I think I got Arthur to join us at the temple district,” Marcus said with a wave and a point at his friend.

“You sure that’s a good idea, Marc? Remember what happened last time?” Rob asked, glancing skeptically at Arthur.

“I’ll behave. Marc just said that y’all were gonna bribe Hephaestus to do your jobs for you.”

Rob barked out his own harsh laugh at that. “Funny, Artie. I, for one, will be paying my respects to Aphrodite,” he said to cheers and wolf-whistles from most of the guys there. Arthur was just glad no one was paying him too much attention to see the smile fall from his face for a moment.

‘It wouldn’t do any good, anyway,’ he thought to himself.

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

Traffic around the temple district was always crowded. The gods were not bound by mortal needs of rest. As such, it took most of the guys time to park and make their way to the pre-arranged meeting place. Trevor arrived first to the Greek fountain, only to find Arthur sitting on the rim.

“One of these days, I’ll remember to ask you where you park to beat us here every time.”

“You could just ask now,” Arthur answered, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Where’s the fun in that? It must be a dramatic reveal of epic proportions,” Marc chimed in, slinging an arm around Arthur as he spread out his hands dramatically.

“You sure you’re not also a follower of Apollo, Marc? You’re certainly dramatic enough for it,” Trevor said with a smirk.

“That’s Dionysus, Trevor. I thought you knew that,” Marc shot back. “In fact, let’s all visit his temple after this. I could use a drink. Meet us there once we finish up, Artie?”

“You just want me to drive you home when you get hammered.”

“Why do you think we keep you around?” Rob wrapped a meaty arm around Arthur’s own solid shoulders.

“I might be willing to drive you drunks home, but I’m not a taxi service for your conquests, Rob.”

“Not even gonna be a problem, Art. Those Aphrodite ladies live at the temple. You won’t have to worry about driving me home.”

“Good thing it’s the weekend, eh, Rob?” Marcus jeered.

As the two men laughed and walked up the steps to the temple of Hephaestus, a brick-and-mortar thing that always smoked, Trevor noticed Arthur draw back from the group and sit once again at the fountain. His friend watched as they all entered the temple and went deeper in to pay homage to the patron of their craft.

“Wait a minute, guys,” Trevor called to his Marc and Rob. “What do you think Arthur does while we worship?”

“Beats me,” Marc shrugged. Rob did as well.

“Why don’t we find out?” Trevor prompted.

“Eh, why not,” Rob said, “S’not like I’m gonna get much sleep anyway tonight,” he chuckled.

“Let me see if he’s still at the fountain.” With that, Trevor peeked around the incoming devotees of Hephaestus to find Arthur walking away from the fountain, weaving through the crowd.

“He’s moving, c’mon.”

Marcus, Rob, and Trevor followed their unknowing quarry as he strolled away from the marble and pillars and slipped into an alley between a temple to Zeus and Poseidon. They followed him through alleys and behind temples, winding a path to the middle of the temple district.  Their confusion grew as the evening shadows darkened to night. The deeper they went in the middle of the temple district, the more tightly the walls of these temples seemed to close in until the three men had to walk single file, with Marcus in the lead and Rob bringing up the rear.

“Where’s he going?” Trevor whispered. Though they would usually just catch Arthur disappearing around another corner, the three men didn’t want to risk him hearing them.

“Don’t know,” Marcus shrugged. “Not sure there’s even anything here anymore. I never came to this part of town before the Revelation. Got any ideas, Rob?”

“There was a strip mall around here awhile back, but not much else that I remember. I doubt Artie’s here for shopping. What was that?” Rob sharply asked.

They all froze at the sound. A deep, wooden groan, followed by a creak and a thunk. A door had opened and closed somewhere around the next corner that Arthur had vanished around. In the silence and surrounded by the tall walls of the temple storerooms and defunct buildings, the three men began to wonder if Arthur’s secret was of a darker nature. But in that silence, they heard something else.

“Is that singing?” Trevor asked.

“Sounds like,” replied Marcus. They drew closer to the sound and peeked around the corner. This alleyway was wider than the one before it, allowing the three men to stand side by side before the tall wooden door. It was an unremarkable thing, like the front door to some sub-urban house, but lacking the windows. Above the door was a shallow carving in the shape of…

“A fish?”

“Wait, I think I remember that fish from somewhere,” Rob said slowly, “Yeah, I used to see it on the back of trucks and cars and stuff, before the Revelation. It’s been years since I’ve seen one though.”

“Do you know what it means?” Marcus asked.

“Not really, but I do remember…Bible verses under them sometimes? At least, that’s what I think they were.”

“Wait, wait, Bible verses!?! You mean…”

“Excuse me.” The three men startled as an old man hobbled past them. Leaning on his cane and breathing heavily, they watched as he opened the door and slowly shuffled in. They heard more clearly the sound of singing for that brief moment, the lyrics rang clear in their ears.

“…my heart to sing Thy…”

“So, this is Arthur’s big secret? He’s a Christian,” Marcus said, crossing his arms at the door and the fish above the door. “Why a fish? I thought the cross was their symbol?”

“Didn’t Christianity get illegalized recently?” Trevor asked.

“Not really, but I think I remember seeing a lot of burnt churches when I was little. It’s been years since the Revelation. I didn’t think Christians were still around. Let alone that we were working with one.”

“Excuse me, sirs.” Another voice piped up. One of the prettiest girls they had seen walked around them and through the door. Rob couldn’t shake the feeling that he had seen her before.

“Well…” Marcus began, “Maybe we could peek in for a bit…”

“You sure, Marc? I mean, what if someone finds out?” Trevor asked with a strange sense of caution.

“It’s not like they’ll force anything on us right? Besides, think of how Arthur will react. Oh, I can’t wait to see his face.” Marcus started for the door, and with a hesitant look to Rob, who simply shrugged his broad shoulders, Trevor and he made for the door.

It wasn’t like anything they had seen before. The lights inside the simple church glowed the same as in some of the temples they had been in, but this place and a more intimate feeling compared to the grandeur of the something like a temple of Zeus or Odin. At the far end of the room, a large cross hung on the wall. There weren’t any pews like their dim pictures of churches predicted. Instead, several groups of people huddled together with their heads bowed. One group was responsible for the singing the three men had heard before. The old man they first saw enter was sat upon a bench, his cane leaned against the wall. The young woman was nowhere to be seen. But Arthur was.

He was facing away from them, kneeling before the cross with several others. With almost providential timing, he rose from his prayers and turned to find the three men standing awkwardly at the door. He walked over to them.

"You followed me, then?" Arthur asked them, a blank expression on his face.

[dearlittlefandom-stalker]

The Yellow Rose, Part One ~

@inklings-challenge

Bonnie loves flowers. Bluebells, primroses, daffodils, violets, orchids, poppies, snowdrops, cornel dahlias; even the thistles and heather and gorse flowers she loves with all her heart. Her most favorite flower, however, is the yellow rose. This is partly because yellow is her favorite color, and partly because they remind Bonnie of her Mother, Una.

Yellow roses were her favorite flower, too.

Bonnie, the youngest of six children, knew flowers well. She grew up surrounded by them in the most beautiful garden in all Scotland. Or at least she likes to think it’s the most beautiful garden in all of Scotland, but she admits she might be biased. Still, seeing as beauty is in the eye of the beholder, who’s to say it isn’t?

Bonnie’s older brothers and sisters either absently agree or smile and pat her on the head indulgently when she says such, but she doesn’t mind. They haven’t taken up the mantle their Mother left behind in caring and tending for the garden as she has. They don’t spend hours on end in the garden, appreciating its beauty and talking to the flowers as one talks to dear friends as she does. (Bonnie knows that the flowers really do listen, and sometimes they even seem to whisper in that flower-language of theirs. Bonnie keeps this as her special secret, however. Her brothers and sisters wouldn't understand. They don't listen.)

So Bonnie doesn't heed their teasing too much. She knows that whenever one of them is lonely, or seeking comfort, or missing their Mother terribly… it is to the garden that they go. And Bonnie and her flowers will always be there to keep them company.

Jacob, her eldest brother, happens upon her one evening in the garden. He stands there, faltering at the end of the row so long Bonnie half wonders if he forgot why he came. He clears his throat roughly and Bonnie understands without him having to say a word, not that she's sure he could at the moment. She pats the ground beside her and he accepts the silent invitation with relief - which is rather silly of him, Bonnie thinks. He should know that one is always welcome to grieve with family. That's it is so much better than grieving alone. Mama and Papa taught them that.

She begins to softly sing the lullaby their Mother always sang, and soon nature’s chorus joins her. The smell of Mother’s flowers surround them and the dying rays of sunlight cast shadows over the garden and its occupants. A solemn moment, but peaceful. There is not a dry eye between the two of them, but neither mind. It's a good cry. The sorrow, heavy and suffocating as it is, doesn't pass; but dies ease by the smallest of margins when shared thus.

The flowers bob their heads wisely in the wind and Bonnie smiles at them through her tears. She closes her eyes, and leaning back against her brother, sends a prayer heavenward.

Oh, God, she prays, Be with our family. Be with Jacob here beside me. Be with Dermid as he is working in the city tomorrow and be with Finlay because You know how he is to proud to ask for help. Be with Kirstie, especially with the wedding coming soon, I know she's stressed even if she loves Baird. And be with him too, since he'll soon be my brother. And be with Peggy, she's not been talking to me as much recently, and I'm worried about her. And be with Papa especially much because he has been here for us so well even though he's hurting just as much as we are. He's working so hard, and I worry about him planning to go on this trip alone. And, and tell Mama we miss her? Amen.

[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.

[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.

[afairmaiden]

The Others (Part 6*)

For the Inklings Challenge (@inklings-challenge).

*Not a typo. Takes place two weeks after part 4, but I'm late enough as it is.

Sunday, November 13

I went to bed with every intention of getting up early (or as Ellen would say, at a reasonable hour) and finally joining the family for church. I wasn’t looking forward to it. My light sensitivity was growing worse by the day, and I felt a migraine coming on at the very thought of being around so many others for any length of time, but I thought if I kept my eyes shut and pretended to pray through most of the service, I might be able to endure it for a couple of hours without drawing too much attention to myself. It would be worth it to support Julia. But I woke up to find the sun already high and the house empty once again, except for the cat. There was a note on the bedside table.

Tried to wake you. Service starts at 9 but feel free to come late. Expect the hearing to start at 10:30.

I stared at the paper for a minute, then threw it aside and fell back into bed. I lay there for some time until I started feeling hungry, then slowly got dressed and made my way down to the kitchen. I was just looking through the cabinets to find something for breakfast when I heard a knock at the window and looked up to none other than Julia peering in.

“What are you doing here?” I asked as I opened the door. “I thought you’d be at the church. Weren’t they even going to let you speak?”

She gave a rueful smile and waved her hand dismissively.

“Not much point in that. Not when they’ve already made up their minds.”

She seemed to be taking it pretty well, but I felt my heart sink with hopelessness. She was the first—the only—normal person I'd met here, and now—what would happen to her?

I'd tried to get some details out of Sarah, but she hadn't been able to tell me much.

"What are they going to do?" I'd asked.

"There's going to be a trial."

"Yeah, I got that part. But what then?"

"Everyone's going to know," she had said, her eyes wide, as though that were the very worst thing in the world.

I had surmised that meant shunning, or possibly exile. Hardly the worst possible outcomes, but it still seemed terribly unfair.

“What are you going to do?” I asked Julia.

She looked out the window, to where her horse was tied to the fence. There was a long silence.

“I have to get out of here,” she said at last, then met my gaze. “They’re going to kick me out anyway. I might as well go on my own terms.”

“But where?”

She shrugged. “Maybe I'll go to the city. It's only a quick jaunt across the river.”

I stared.

“Or maybe not. But you know, there are other places out there, other people, who aren't— And anyway, anything would be better than this.”

For a moment I thought she would ask me to go with her, but she didn’t say anything.

“Is there anything I can do?”

She smiled again, a real smile, and gave me a fierce hug before whispering, “I’ll need some supplies. I grabbed what I could, but we didn’t have much in the house. I just need enough for a week or two.”

I looked out the window again, trying to gauge how much time we had. The next minute, we were in the basement, pulling things off the shelves. I felt the briefest twinge of guilt, but reasoned that Ellen would hardly miss a few things, and even if she did, she could hardly object to helping someone in need, especially when it was her fault Julia was in this mess to begin with.

In the end, she only took some bread and cheese, a small sack of potatoes, a few onions, a jar of cooking fat, and a box of preserves. After she had gone, I cleaned up and sat down in the living room to wait for Ellen and the children to return. It was almost noon before they finally arrived, all looking far more subdued than usual and saying little as they immediately set to work making lunch.

I was just helping David set the table when Ellen said to Elizabeth, “Run down and fetch some potatoes, would you?”

I found myself holding my breath as she made her way down, hoping she wouldn't notice the missing sack, and breathed a sigh of relief as I heard her turn back toward the stairs.

A moment later—

“Oh! We're out of salt.”

Ellen’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said. The box is empty!”

“That can't be right.”

Ellen set down the pot she was holding and hurried down to see for herself. A minute later, she returned, a look of unmistakable worry on her face. I didn’t say anything and kept my eyes on the dishes. I could practically feel her staring at me.

“Was anyone here earlier?” she asked after a long silence.

“Julia stopped by briefly,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “She said she needed a few things. I didn’t think you’d mind. Just some bread and potatoes—”

“And about four pounds of salt,” she concluded flatly.

I was spared from having to answer by a well-timed knock at the door. Ellen quickly went out to see who it was, while the children immediately began whispering among themselves, and I continued to ignore them. It was a few minutes before Ellen returned.

“Well,” she said with forced cheerfulness, “that was Mr. Walther. He and his sister are taking a group down to the lighthouse tomorrow and wondered if you would care to join them.”

“Oh! Are they still going?” said Elizabeth. “I thought they might not—”

Ellen smiled. “He said they would hate to disappoint you all, and they supposed it would be a nice distraction from everything.”

Now Sarah said she'd hoped to finish her sewing tomorrow, and David said he was working on something as well, but James and Elizabeth were both excited to go and could talk of little else. No more was said about the salt that day.

Monday

Monday morning, I did wake up early, though I deliberately waited until they’d started breakfast before slipping into the kitchen and taking a seat at the table. I was nearly done with my meal when there came a knock at the door and I heard Sam’s voice call out, “Morning all! Who’s ready for a field trip?”

James and Elizabeth jumped up at once and ran to the door. Ellen followed after them. I heard her exchange a few words with Sam, and then they both returned to the kitchen. He smiled and tipped his hat to me and greeted Sarah and David before saying, “I guess you’ve heard my sister and I are taking the children out today. We’ve got a fairly sizable group, so I was wondering if you might be interested in coming along as an extra chaperone.”

I didn’t particularly want to, especially after our last meeting, but I also couldn’t think of a good excuse to get out of it, and as the only alternative seemed to be helping Ellen bring in the latest delivery of firewood, a minute later I was awkwardly exchanging greetings with Jess while throwing on my coat and putting on my shoes. Ellen offered me a lunch basket and a bag.

“You shouldn’t need this, but you can’t be too prepared,” she said, glancing up at the sky doubtfully.

I couldn’t see any cause for concern when there were only a handful of wispy clouds in sight, and more than half the group had already taken their coats off, but Sam only nodded and said, “Of course. Can’t be too careful.”

Soon enough, we were off, three adults and sixteen children between the ages of seven and fourteen. The “lighthouse”, as they called it, was about a ten minute walk past the west field, a two-story brick building with a sort of steeple, built on a high foundation by a big river, with dense woods all around. The lighthouse keeper was waiting out front to greet us. He shook Sam's hand, tipped his hat to the children, and nodded politely to me, but seemed to pay particular attention to Jess. His sister also came out with a tray of refreshments, after which there was a brief tour, beginning with the grounds around the building and leading up to the light itself.

After the tour, the children were allowed to explore a bit, on the condition that they stay in groups of three or more, the younger ones with the older ones, and they keep well away from the river.

"Be sure to keep within sight of the building, come when you're called, and shout if there's any trouble," Sam said.

They all agreed, and soon they had fanned out in all directions, some going back inside, and some playing in the garden, while a few of the older ones headed into the woods to gather sticks for a fire. Jess sat with the lighthouse keeper on a bench by the front door, while his sister stood some distance away, keeping an eye on them and the children playing in the back, while Sam and I both wandered here and there, periodically checking in with everyone. About the third time we crossed paths, we started to walk together.

"I guess you're pretty well settled in by now," he said. "Got everything you needed in town last week?"

I nodded.

"Good. Figured you would. I know Ellen always thinks of all the details."

"Does she?" I muttered.

I hadn't meant to say that out loud, let alone loud enough for him to hear. I realized my mistake as he suddenly stopped walking and looked at me.

"What's the matter? Don't you like her?"

I could feel my patience wearing thin and just barely refrained from rolling my eyes.

"Of course I like her," I said quickly. "What's not to like? It's just...don't you think...the people around here—"

He gave me an odd look.

"It is pretty different out here, isn't it?" he asked after a minute, as casually as if he were commenting on the weather.

For the briefest moment, I'd hoped he might understand, that our shared background might mean something to him, but there was no denying that he was well and truly one of them now, with all the same aggravating sympathy and condescension, and the seemingly effortless, ever-present brilliance that felt like a mockery of all I'd dedicated my life to these past few months. And he didn't even know it.

“She—she left the children alone with me!” I finally blurted out.

He blinked in confusion. Then, rather than acknowledging this as an alarming sign of supreme negligence, he only shrugged.

“So? I reckon they’re old enough to mind themselves for a few hours. They were hardly in any danger.”

“I could have been a danger!”

He actually laughed. “Oh, please. I saw the state you were in that day. I was more worried about you than them. Fact is, if it really came down to it, you couldn’t have taken one of them in a fight, let alone all four.”

He remained entirely unbothered as I reiterated my concern about the risk of disease, practically rolling his eyes when I asked about the protocols for quarantining new arrivals.

“You got a bit roughed up and caught a chill running through the woods. It was hardly cause for a civil emergency. They brought you to the Halls' because they were close, and hardier than most, and they did keep to themselves for a few days. You know, we do try to avoid unnecessary risks, but there’s only so much anyone can do, and if doing our best and trying to help someone causes a plague to break out and kill us all, well, I suppose that's just God's will.”

That hardly inspired confidence.

“But really,” he added, “from what I remember, they would barely let sick people out of their rooms, let alone city limits. You were fine.”

We walked in silence for a few more minutes, turning our attention back to the children around us. It was some time before he spoke again.

“Did you hear Julia Thompson is gone?”

“I know.”

Of course he must have known that. Ellen must have told him everything. Ten to one they'd be calling for a new trial within the week.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where she went, would you?” he persisted.

“No.”

“Did you know she has a daughter?”

“What?”

Now I was the one to stop and stare.

“Her name is Isabella,” he said. “She’s twelve. That’s what kicked off this whole thing, you know. After the incident at the quilting party, a few of the ladies went to the Thompsons’ to have a chat with Mrs. Thompson, and they found Isabella alone, sick in bed. Doctor wouldn't comment on it of course, but anyone could see it was a shameful case of neglect, hardly the work of a few days. She’s at the doctor’s house now, where she’ll be staying until her father returns. I understand they would have asked Ellen to take her, but they supposed with everything else going on, she had enough on her plate. And now—”

He shook his head. “Look, I don't know what sort of sob story Mrs. Thompson was feeding you, but they were only hoping to get through to her, to bring her to her senses, not kill her, which is what's likely to happen if you go running off into the woods in mid-November.”

For a while I didn’t say anything.

“I guess you think it’s my fault for letting her go,” I said at last. “And I guess Ellen told you I gave her food.”

His brow furrowed in confusion, and then he shook his head.

“I can’t blame you for that,” he said quietly.

I stared at him.

“She was your friend. You thought she’d been wronged, and you wanted to help. That’s not it.”

“Then what?” I snapped.

“I guess I just don't understand why you're so determined to make excuses for her.”

Because I understood her. Because we were the same. Because—

Just then, one of the older boys waved Sam over to a spot overlooking the bank of the river, where a small group had gathered to look at something. I took the opportunity to slip away in the opposite direction, toward the treeline.

I had hoped for at least a few minutes alone, but sure enough I soon heard footsteps behind me, and turned to see Jess following.

"You'll have to excuse Sam," she said apologetically. "He's been under a lot of pressure since Dad died. I guess we all have."

I gave a noncommittal nod.

"Still," she continued, "the neighbors have been a big help, and it is a comfort to know he's not in pain anymore."

Of course that was all well and good, but I couldn’t help asking, “But didn’t you ever think of trying to go back?”

“Back?” she echoed.

“I mean, they might have been able to help him, in the city, if you’d just—”

She gave a sharp, humorless laugh.

“Why do you think he was in a wheelchair to begin with?”

I stared at her in shock. She returned my gaze with a look of disbelief.

“What, you didn’t think we left just for the fun of it?”

Now that she mentioned it, I didn't recall the exact reason behind their disappearance coming up in our last conversation, but of course I had assumed they’d gone willingly.

"I suppose we might have tried, if we'd known. Dad always said we were bound to run into trouble someday, but I don't think anyone ever expected—"

She paused.

“They’ve done this before, you know. More than once. Sending people out here to— They told Zane Benson they wanted him to map out the area. They told Victoria Alley to report on the deer population after a bad storm. They didn’t even bother with pleasantries for us, just gathered us up, threw us in a van, and dumped us in the middle of a clearing some ways northwest from here, said if we hated the city so much, we could try our luck in the wilderness.”

“Why would they do that?”

She shrugged.

“Why not? They don’t exactly have a high regard for human life. That said, I don’t doubt they have some purpose behind it, besides an easy way to get rid of troublemakers.”

She looked at the sky. I looked up as well, trying not to look like I believed her. Not for the first time, I had the distinct feeling of being watched.

“It’s been a dry summer you know. We manage alright out here, but I imagine things are a bit hard when you’ve got a city with a million people in it that can’t get water.”

I felt my jaw drop. “You’re implying they’re sending people to die in the wilderness as some sort of sacrifice?”

For a minute she said nothing, and then—

"How did you end up here, anyway?"

"I got lost."

She raised her eyebrows. "Lost?"

"I was taking a walk through the preserve, stepped a little off the trail and got turned around. Then it got dark and I tried to orient myself by the moon and just...kept walking. I figured I'd have to hit the fence at some point, but..."

I shrugged.

"And this was Sunday? The twenty-third?"

I nodded.

"Oh."

There was a long silence before she looked out toward the house. We'd been walking just inside the treeline and were now coming to the back garden, where a number of younger children were playing. We parted ways without another word, as she went to check on them, and I walked deeper into the woods.

I found that the further I went, the easier it was to breathe. Here, away from everything and everyone, I could almost imagine that the past few weeks had been only a weird dream. Maybe I had simply had a bad fall in the woods, and Zay and Nikki and the rest were out looking for me. Maybe—

I closed my eyes and tried to center myself, breathing in and out and sensing my surroundings, the way Gina had taught us in the very beginning. After a few minutes, I tried calling out.

Hello? Is anyone there? Can anyone here me?

There was silence, but a different kind of silence than in town. I tried again, calling up every light thought I could think of, repeating the list of ideals I had always held dear.

Peace, safety, harmony.

I felt myself growing more and more relaxed.

Tolerance, acceptance, inclusion.

The wind began to blow.

Openness, authenticity, diversity.

I imagined myself as a full Lightbringer, a sworn defender of all light and truth, a guide to the blind, a light to those in darkness, and an instructor of the foolish.

We will not allow our lights to be dimmed.

The sky grew dark.

I opened my eyes to find that night had fallen without warning, and the winds had grown violent, freezing cold and wet and blinding with icy snow. On top of the wind was another sound I couldn't identify, a sort of howling, and then—

There were voices in the distance, their direction unclear.

"Inside! Inside! Let's go!"

Suddenly there was Jess's voice yelling my name, and the next moment, her hand grabbing hold of my arm and pulling me up and out of the woods.

Even less than fifty feet away, the building was barely visible in the storm, and yet when we finally reached the door and I looked back toward the woods, I could see a number of unmistakable black figures standing among the trees.

"What was that?" I gasped one Jess had finally pulled me inside.

"Freak blizzard," she panted. "They come up without warning sometimes."

"No, I mean—in the woods—didn't you see?"

"I can't see anything," she said, groping for the door to the stairs. "Oh! We should've lit the lamps already."

She opened it just in time to hear Sam calling roll.

"Jess!"

"We're here!" she shouted back.

We found everyone gathered in a large room at the top of the stairs. The lighthouse keeper offered us towels, blankets, and hot drinks, and directed us to sit and warm ourselves by the stove, where Jess joined his sister in comforting a few of the little ones who had started crying, and I was relieved to find James and Elizabeth among the rest.

"Alright, alright, now there's no need to fuss," Sam said. "These things happen sometimes, but the good news is that we're all safe here, and once the wind dies down a bit, Mr. Andrews will let your families know you're alright."

Everyone listened, and after a minute it seemed that it had grown quieter outside. Mr. Andrews nodded, took an odd sort of instrument out of a box,—"Bagpipes," Jess whispered in response to my inquiring look—and went up a second set of stairs, and a moment later we heard what sounded like two loud horn blasts, one short and one long, ring out directly overhead, followed by two short blasts that sounded like a question. There was a long pause, and then there came a response from further away, then another, and another, and another.

"All's well," he announced when he descended at last. "And the light's certainly doing its job now, though I pray no one's out on the water in this weather."

"Well now," said Sam, "I suppose we'll all be hungry, so why don't we have our dinner now, and then we'll have a few songs."

Now Jess, Miss Andrews, and a few of the older children went downstairs and returned with everyone's lunch boxes and baskets. Mr. Andrews offered a blessing and a prayer for protection from the storm, and we all sat down to eat as though we were having a picnic. James, Sarah, and I had butter and jam sandwiches, cheese, pears, and hardboiled eggs. When everyone was finished, Mr. Andrews brought out his bagpipes again.

I endured I Walk in Danger All the Way and A Mighty Fortress is our God well enough, but about halfway through Jesus Sinners Doth Receive, my light sensitivity, which had been lying dormant for most of the day, suddenly flared up again when the entire room seemed to be ablaze with unspeakable brilliance, and I quickly had to excuse myself.

I found my way down to the kitchen, then shut myself in the walk-in pantry, the only room without any windows. I don't know how long I sat there before I heard Jess calling.

"Bree?"

"Here."

"Are you alright?"

"Headache."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

There was an indistinct whisper, and then a moment later, she opened the pantry door, holding a lantern.

"Ah. One moment." She scanned the shelves and found a small bottle, took out what looked like a bunch of leaves, and handed them to me. "Chew on these. They'll help."

With that, she shut the pantry door, added some more wood to the stove, and went back upstairs.

About half an hour later, the sounds upstairs had died down and I felt safe enough to head back up. I found the lantern waiting for me on the table, and Sam waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

"You alright?" he asked.

I nodded. I knew I should have been grateful for his concern—he was being nice—but I couldn't get past our earlier conversation. Apparently he couldn't either, because after a long pause, he sighed and leaned back against the staircase.

“Look,” he began, “I don’t know exactly what she told you, but the fact is, we’ve all heard her talk. There’s hardly a soul in town that hasn’t helped her out in one way or another, and none that wouldn’t have done more if they’d thought it would make any difference, but it was never enough for her.

“Now, my family came here with nothing. My father was badly hurt. He couldn’t get out of bed, let alone work, for months. Still, they welcomed us, taught us, gave us a place to live, food, clothes, everything. The people here—they’re more than just nice; by God’s grace, they’re good. And you may think that’s all nonsense, but they really believe it, and so do I. So you’ll excuse me if I get just a little bit heated when some whining, gossiping busybody goes around slandering some of the best people I know because they wouldn’t bow to her every whim.”

I couldn’t very well argue with that. All the same, I couldn’t help saying, “You’re not the only one who’s had a hard time, you know. She told me. She lost her parents, her brother—”

“Everyone’s lost someone,” he said shortly. “We lost our father, the children lost their mother, Miss Hall lost her fiance, and you don’t see any of us—”

We heard a small gasp and looked up to see Sarah at the head of the stairs, evidently too shocked to be concerned about being caught eavesdropping.

“Aunt Ellen was engaged?” she whispered.

“What, didn’t you know?” asked an older boy standing behind her.

“Of course they wouldn’t remember it,” a girl answered. “They were practically babies when it happened. I remember.”

“Now,” said Jess, “I’m not sure we should…”

But it seemed useless to say anything, because now all the children were listening with rapt attention.

The girl continued, “Aunt Ellen was engaged to Aunt Julia’s brother Matthew. What did you think all that fuss over the ring was about? It was her engagement ring.”

James addressed the first boy who had spoken.

“Is that why you call her Aunt too?”

“Of course. I thought you all knew that, but I guess I can see why she wouldn’t like to talk about it.”

Again, Jess looked like she wanted to step in, but Sam seemed to be almost amused by the whole thing, at least until Elizabeth asked a question.

“How did he die?”

He instantly grew sober and looked around at all the children waiting wide-eyed for his answer.

“Smoke inhalation,” he said at last. “The Stewarts’ house caught fire, and…Bethany was inside.”

In an instant, the room erupted with a sound that rivaled the storm still raging outside, with shouts of how dare she and it’s absolutely monstrous. A few of the girls started openly sobbing, and even Jess was wiping away tears.

Amidst the chaos, Sam caught my eye.

“You didn’t hear?” he said flatly. “Bethany Stewart was missing. Three weeks ago. For nearly four hours. Seems Mrs. Thompson was having a bad morning and decided to vent her frustration by telling Bethany it was her fault her brother died. Poor girl started crying and ran off into the woods. Of course her parents were furious. If anything had happened to her, it would have been murder. Praise God nothing did happen.”

My mind flashed back to what I had seen.

“Are there—are there animals out there?”

“Mostly deer, and some smaller animals. The bears and other large animals generally don’t come too close. But Bethany also has some…challenges that make it more dangerous for her to be out alone. Anyway, that was the second thing.”

The scene might have gone on longer, but Sam finally decided to put an end to it.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough now,” he called. “Come on, let’s get ready for bed.”

It took a while longer to get everyone settled down, but eventually the boys were settled in one room and the girls in another. I slipped downstairs once more on the pretense of checking the doors while they had their prayers, then came up again when I thought the coast was clear.

“Good night,” Sam said from the door of the boys’ room.

“Good night.”

“Oh, by the way,” he added with faint smile, “the city’s a hundred miles from here, and the twenty-third was a new moon.”

[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.

[kazewrites]

Submission for @inklings-challenge 2024. Wanted to put this through another round of editing, but I'm running out of time here. Hope it looks okay and it's not too confusing. (@ w@);

Tick. Tick. Tock. Tick.

Elyse stared at her reflection in her cup. It had sat here long enough it was starting to get cool, but now and then wisps still traveled up. Ordinarily this would have incited her appetite, but the sick feeling in her stomach prevented any such thought of enjoying her cocoa.

All she could think about was Kokuen. How her awful teacher had gypped her of a proper Taming education. How she hadn’t been able to assemble the team she liked. How she was forced to use a Fire Lumikin against her will. She liked Flame, but… it was hard to acknowledge him as her own,  especially with all that happened with Moki. She couldn’t help but feel like she was still just hanging onto Flame until Moki came and got him…

She picked up the green, grooved cup and sloshed the contents around. She turned it to take a look at the snowflake pattern on the back. Lico had gotten a set of these for her last spring. It was funny now how many things from his culture now decorated the house. She knew her mom had a few similar things, so in a way it was a familiar sight. Still. It was nice to have a little reminder of him all the way out here…

Her stomach was growing sour again. If cocoa wasn’t her favorite, she might even consider pouring it down the drain. She sighed. No, she couldn’t do that…

She propped her head up and her gaze roved over the kitchen counter. To her right was the oven, its door decorated with little clay snowmen. The pots and pans still sat on the stove-top, awaiting cleanup. The range hood vent was well-worn from years of use… She let her gaze drift further to the left. The dishes were stacked neatly in the dish rack in front of  her.

She stood, fingering her cup. Maybe she’d place this on the coffee table in the living room and play some games. Her reflection in the cup caught her eye again. The sour feeling was back.

It would be easy enough to just forget this. Her Taming Journey was over now. And yet… what had she become?

She shook her head. Worrying over a cup of cold cocoa wasn’t going to fix the past. Was there anything she could have done? Would having a different teacher have fixed anything? Maybe she should have been more supportive of Moki…

She took a step towards the living room, then remembered her cup. She turned back to get it, fingering the rim. Every time she picked it up, she lost her appetite. She should be happy, drinking cocoa out of a special cup like this. And yet… the feeling didn’t seem to want to linger.

Which was why she was going to play a game. Forget all this. It was in the past. She might not ever see Kokuen again. Why bother? Why get so worked up?

And then she remembered.

She had plenty of reason to hate her teacher.

To be fair, some of it wasn’t Kokuen’s fault… Or was it? Was every time those Pyramid psychos attacked them her teacher’s fault? Was Creme right about Kokuen still being in cahoots with those yahoos?

Lightning strike. A crazed smile on a gray-red face. Light fading from the eyes of a fallen Birdkin.

She shook her head. Really. It couldn’t be her teacher’s fault they ran into so much trouble… Or was it?

‘Damaged goods.’ Kokuen had called her damaged goods…

Elyse shook her head and headed for the door, throwing on her coat. She needed a walk. Maybe that’d clear her head.

She put her good boots on and started walking downhill. On a slippery night like this, the boots with spike treads were essential. She’d be all the way down by the plaza in a hurry if she wore something with any less traction. The spikes crunched into the ice. She could feel the icy layer atop the snow splintering and fragmenting in her wake as she made her way down. She considered if she wanted to go somewhere else once she reached the bottom or if the bench would do.

She missed her cocoa… Guess it took the cold for her to start hankering for it, huh? She shoved her hands in her pockets, shrugging her shoulders as she descended the hill.

At last she made it down to the park. The cold caught up to her with a sharp bite. Really was colder once you got down to the bottom, huh? Or maybe it was because she’d stopped moving…

She headed over to sit on the bench she’d been eying from the hill, leaning forward in a crouch to spread the heat around.

Everything was frozen and covered in snow. Which wasn’t too surprising for this time of year. The lampposts cast a yellow-orange light over everything.

This spot at least was clear, save for a little frost and a few icicles hanging down from the bottom of the bench. Elyse could feel them when she moved her legs.

She leaned back, taking everything in. …Ahh, she had to start moving again. She was thinking about Kokuen… She shut her eyes tightly. She let out a breath, feeling it wisp up and away without even looking.

She opened her eyes again, letting her gaze sweep over her surroundings. Beyond the Lumikin ring and the rest of the park, the trees rose up again, standing boldly as if to show everyone whose territory the world beyond the park’s was.

She looked to her left, watching the houses that rose up on slopes beyond the plaza. She wondered if any of the Snowdrift Crew was still up… Dela was out on her Tamer’s Journey still, right? So was Sandra and Jimmy… Johnny too, right? Hmmh… And Dela had brought her brother Danny, too… She could talk to their folks, but… eh. She pulled up one knee on the bench, knocking loose a patch of fresh snow. Even if she had her TD, it was too late to text any of them… but maybe she could leave a message? …Eh. She still wanted to brood out in the cold. Maybe later.

…Pointless to get so worked up about stuff… It was just jealousy at the end of the day, right? She remembered that first day she got her Journeying License. How those two kids had lucked out with such a nice mentor… Sometimes it felt like she was being played some big joke on. Some sick joke. People died…

She pulled her knees in, letting it play all over again. Being captured by Pyramid. She winced at the memory of the gunshot. Anubis’s eyes… She’d never forget those eyes… She felt a shiver fly up her spine, but it wasn’t from the cold. Too bundled up for that. Not that she ever really got cold-cold anyway…

…But she couldn’t blame Kokuen for any of that, could she…? If Kokuen had just been nicer—! Elyse stood up, clenching her fists. She kicked over a bit of snow and started walking again. Ticked her off every time she thought about it. What was with that woman that she always had to egg Moki on? It was a wonder she’d even survived Kokuen’s training. Sometimes Elyse really did want to believe all the Pyramid attacks were her teacher’s fault, if only because she was ex-Pyramid. Or was Elyse the crazy one for sticking around and not thinking it was a problem? …To be fair, she had other agendas, especially when it came to traveling with Taffy’s team… She sighed, listening to the crunch underneath her boots again. She kept going down the path beyond the park, into the dark. Maybe she’d check if the ski lift was open at this hour. She just wanted to keep moving.

As she reached the bottom of the slope and came under the whiter lights, she was starting to have second thoughts. Maaaybe heading all the way down the mountain at this hour wasn’t a great idea… She could go back to the park? Maybe do some training..? Maybe… mm, the Mamokin tundra was far. As much as she wanted to visit Mamo in his natural habitat, it wasn’t the kind of journey to make this late at night.

She headed up back to the park anyway. She’d need her TD if she wanted to take anybody out, anyway. And… after thinking about how Kokuen forced Flame on her… She shook her head. Ugh. She ran a hand through her hair. Kokuen was the fire expert. Why did she have to bear Flame…? She’d just wanted to train Mamo. Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, had to know ice’s weaknesses… It was stupid! She didn’t want it! She kicked up more snow. Ughhh.

She kept marching up. May as well check out the stable while she was up here. It’d be nice just to see some Lumikin…

Though… they were asleep. She probably shouldn’t disturb their rest…

But in the morning, everyone’d be hustling and bustling. Would she get a chance to resolve this?

She was running out of places to go. She wasn’t heading down the mountain, it was too dark for the forest…

She came to the barn anyway. Maybe she’d just sit here for a bit. It wasn’t as bright out here, but… whatever. She needed a new brooding location.

She settled in, leaning against the trunk of a tree outside the barn. Sounded like the foxkin were still up. Made sense…

A little black nose sniffed at her from behind the fence. A pale, glowing eye peeked out from between the slats.

Aaand, there one was.

Elyse smiled, catching glimpses of its ice blue fur. She walked over to the fence, reaching a hand in to pet it.

The creature yap-laughed, play-biting her hand and wiggling. It smiled up at her.

“Hehe.” She tried again to pet it and it kept playing with her hand. Silly fox…

Eventually it darted away back to its feeder.

Elyse watched the creature for a bit, listing her head to one side. Ah, she was getting tired. Maybe she would head home now.

Besides… it wasn’t like she could get her Tamer’s Journey back now. It was over and done with. As much as she wanted to rewrite it. As much as she wanted to bring Moki back… She shoved her hands in her pockets and headed home.

—

It was her mom who had gotten her thinking about this. And it was her mom who stirred her head about it even before bed.

Forgiving Kokuen… Could she even do that? Could she just… let it all go? On the one hand, she wanted to forget it all. She wanted to forget Kokuen. Pretend the thing with Pyramid never happened. That Kokuen never treated her badly. Never pushed her head and tried to force her to recover when she was down. Didn’t keep preaching to her about how hard reality was and how she’d die being soft. Man she wanted to kick Kokuen’s head in sometimes. Not hard. Just. Just a bop. Enough to hurt. Not… not more than that. It’d feel good, she bet.

The next day, she went out to help her dad take care of the Mamokin. If she’d wanted to, she probably could have taken the teleporting ring last night to the tundra, but. It was dangerous out this way at night. Just as well she visited during the day.

The moment Mamo saw her coming, he rushed over, beating her to the punch and shoving his trunk on her face.

“Mam—”Oof. She laughed and pulled his snout off her. She rubbed his fur and leaned into him. Ahh, this was her favorite.

Mamo gave a stuttering trumpet as if laughing with her. He poked the top of her head with his trunk.

“Mmh.” Elyse buried her face in his fur. She didn’t wanna move…

He made a small, concerned noise.

Elyse gave his fur another pat. She was okay.

He blew a bit of ice at her.

Elyse laughed and threw a snowball at him. Two could play at this game!

Mamo made a happier sound and scooped up lots of snow with his trunk. He threw it at her.

“Oh no!!” Elyse ran and managed to dodge his snow spray. And this was why you didn’t challenge an ice mammoth to a snowball fight! They didn’t play fair!

Mamo scooped up another load and tried to get her with it again.

“Missed me!” Elyse said. Missed her by a mile, was he even trying to hit her?

Mamo scooped up a heftier load, waiting for Elyse to get close. He saw her trying to dart past him and covered her in snow this time.

“Dwah!” Elyse collapsed in a heap of snow. “Okay, you win.” Not like she could beat Mamo in a snowball fight of this caliber…

Mamo pawed at the snow with his trunk to dig her out, concern etching his mammoth-like face.

“I’m okay, I’m okay…” Elyse pushed herself out and sat on the heap. She rested her chin in her palms.

He blew snow at her again.

“Mmmh.” She covered herself with her hood. No more.

Mamo gave an indignant ‘bark.’

Elyse sighed. She just… mmmh… She pulled her hood up a bit to look at Mamo.

Mamo patted her head with his trunk again, then let it rest on her shoulder. He tilted his head slightly.

“Thanks for understanding, buddy…” She got up and hugged him again. She should probably get to work instead of playing around…

Mamo’s trunk bobbed curiously, but he made no more noises.

“What do you think of holding grudges?” she asked, leading him over towards the tree line where the other Mamokin were feeding.

Mamo made a curious sound in reply. Was that ’go on,’ ‘what do you mean,’ or ‘I don’t understand you’? Lumikin were pretty smart when it came to commands, but… well. Mamo was a good listener anyway, even if he couldn’t reply back like a human could.

“I mean…” She looked at him. “Remember Kokuen? Of course you do. Hang on, I’ll imitate her.” Elyse crossed her arms and looked off sullenly.

Mamo only blinked.

Elyse’s shoulders sank. She guessed he wouldn’t understand what she was doing. “Well… remember MistyKo? The…” She wiggled her hands and made a ‘wshh’ sound, trying to make an impression of a cloud of mist. …Was it working?

Mamo just blinked again.

…No. At least not with Mamo. She sighed. Maybe she’d talk to dad about it…?

—

“What do you do about grudges?”

Her dad paused his work. He hummed to himself. They both worked in silence for a while.

“That mean you have one? Look, if it’s about stealing your leftover cocoa last night—”

Elyse smiled and shook her head. “Well, actually…”

“Oh, now you’re gonna hold a grudge, huh?” He dumped out the bin of greens he was holding for the Mamokin. “Knew I shouldn’t have touched it.”

Elyse looked down, smiling still as she emptied her own bin into the growing pile of frostbitten plant matter.

“Is this about your teacher?” he guessed next, dusting off his mitts, grabbing up the empty bin and heading over to one of the sheds.

Bullseye. She guessed nothing got past her dad. Felt silly to bring up though. She sighed. “I try not to think about it too much, but…” She looked away. “Mom keeps hinting about forgiving Kokuen, but… where do I even start?” She looked up. “She was a jerk to me from the start. It’s her fault Moki ran away. She keeps going real world this, real world that… and she’s so immature!” Elyse kicked snow. “And yet she lords it over me like I’m 12! Ticks me off…”

Her dad shook a new load of frozen pine boughs into the bin in his hands. Elyse followed suit grumpily. She sighed, hefting her bin as they headed back towards the tree line. Her dad followed after her at a slower pace.

“Forgiveness comes in parts,” he finally said. “Even if someone’s only wronged you once, sometimes, it’s like… what they said hurt you in different ways.” They bustled in silence for a bit. “S’hard to forgive someone when you’re still mad at ‘em…”

Elyse kicked another patch of snow with her boot, flinging bits of it into the air. “Got that right…”

“Alright, settle down there, tiger.” He rubbed her head with his elbow since his hands were still full.

“I know it’s not right to hold grudges…” Elyse said, slowing down. “But I can’t help but feel like I was cheated out of a proper Tamer’s Journey. I want to think not all of that was her fault, but then… then I get to thinking, what if it is? She’s done so many other things to me, somehow, it feels logical for everything wrong with my journey to have been her fault,” she said, scowling.

“Well… why don’t you tell me all about it? I know I’ve heard the gist of what happened on your journey, but not what your teacher’s done to you specifically.”

“Okay…”

Once they made it back under the cover of the trees, they set their bins down and sat on one of the snowbanks.

“Some of it’s really silly… before I was assigned to Kokuen…” Elyse went on to describe the scene. An old man instructor taking out his new students for ice cream. It got her hopes up, dumb as it sounded, only to be rewarded with Kokuen. It felt like some cosmic joke.

“Moki only made things worse,” she continued on, chin resting on her palms again. “Maybe I could have stood Kokuen if it weren’t for Moki… Not that she really did anything wrong just by not getting along with Kokuen. Yeah, she was headstrong and didn’t have the best ideas, but…” She sank. “It was just one big crud show. Everything Kokuen did just added gasoline on the fire. Moki would make a bad decision, Kokuen would come down on it hard. And she’d do it trying to convince you this was some sort of ‘tough love,’ but couldn’t she read the room?” Elyse leaned back against the snowbank. She blustered. Yeah, Moki had been an amateur, but.. ugh…

Her dad listened, digesting all she had said.

“I just think if Kokuen had been nicer, things would’ve been better.” Elyse crossed her arms. “She has this high and mighty attitude and it’s really grating. I tried to be the better person, but…” She shook her head. “At a certain point… it just got worse and worse. Especially when she forced me to take on Flame… It’s like, yes, I know I need to understand ice’s weaknesses. But… mmh.” She kept trying to force her to be someone she didn’t want to be. It was annoying! “And then there’s the whole thing with Pyramid… I really want to think that wasn’t her fault. Really. But… they just kept showing up?” She shook her head. “And… mmh.”

“Why do you want to think it was her fault?” her dad asked. “Just because you had a hard time with her in so many other ways?”

Elyse squinted. There were… other reasons, but it would get into gossip territory… “There were reasons…” she said simply. Her dad was looking at her, waiting for her to go on. She closed her eyes. “But it wouldn’t be fair to say.”

“Hmm.”

“I know I shouldn’t use it against her, but…” She looked off. “Even if it wasn’t… on purpose, still… Maybe Pyramid was following her and we were just extensions.” She looked down. “It probably would’ve been responsible for her to try and get us a substitute mentor or let Taffy train us after things went down in Desa… Or maybe irresponsible. I don’t know. Surely, if she thought they were following her… I don’t know.” She sank again.

“Hmm. How old did you say your teacher was again?”

Elyse thought. She wasn’t sure exactly. “I’m pretty sure she’s only a few years older than me.”

“Hmm.” Her dad digested this information. “You had trouble respecting her. Felt like she was close enough to your age and immature enough you shouldn’t have to kiss up, right?”

“Took the words out of my mouth.” Was that wrong?

“Sometimes we have to respect people who aren’t worthy of our respect,” her dad said, propping his elbow up on his knee. “It’s just the way of the world.”

“Kinda hate it though.” Besides. Kokuen hadn’t come down on Elyse for treating her like an equal until way later. It set a bad precedent.

Her dad sighed. “Gotta turn the other cheek sometimes…”

“Don’t like being slapped at all.”

“It’s more about… putting the mirror up to what she’s doing,” her dad explained. “I’m not telling you to take hits lying down. But… don’t fight fire with fire. If you sink to her level, then… that’s what she wants, isn’t it?”

Elyse huffed. “What do you mean? Putting the mirror up to her…?”

“Well… when she gets into a tailspin, you can gently point out what her methods are doing,” her dad said, “instead of snarking back or having an attitude about it.”

“Gentle…” That was the trouble. She shook her head. “It’s all over and done now though. I can’t take back anything I said and neither can she.” Elyse slumped forward.

“And yet you’re still hanging on to every wrong thing she did to you.”

“It’s stupid. I kind of hate it. It’s like an addiction.” Elyse covered her face. “It feels good to have something to be mad at for everything that happened. Especially when it was Kokuen’s fault!”

“Mm…”

“Does that make me an awful person?” Elyse asked. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s just because I’m bored…”

“Well. No more awful than the rest of us.” Her dad cracked a smile.

Elyse gave a half-smile back. “Thanks…” She guessed that was true…

Her dad offered her a hand. “Wanna offer it up?” he asked.

“I gotta, right?” Elyse put her hand in his.

“No… you could just keep hanging onto it and chewing on it if that’s what you’d really like.” He gave her another wrinkled smile.

Elyse considered for a moment. He was right. It would be the easy way out. But… she’d probably drive her folks crazy complaining about it and being sullen all the time. Worst case scenario, she’d become just like her rotten teacher.

… “I don’t know if I can,” she finally said.

“Shall we, then?” He closed his fingers around hers.

… “I don’t know.” Elyse slipped her hand out of his. “It feels like I’m taking the easy way out…”

“Hm…”

Elyse knew he was right. She knew this was something she needed help with. But also… it was a weird source of entertainment. Almost like a toy. But… she knew it wasn’t good for her. As much as she wished things were different. As much as she wished she’d had a nice teacher, that Moki hadn’t run away, that her Tamer’s Journey hadn’t been full of so much running, pain and strife. But she knew deep down that most of it wasn’t Kokuen’s fault. To some degree at least, Pyramid themselves being awful had more to do with it than whatever Kokuen had done wrong on her part… She knew that. She knew that, best of all from the thing with Anubis… She slumped over again.

… “S’not bad to need a little help sometimes.” He slapped his knees and brought himself back up. “Well. Ready to get back to work?” He offered her a hand.

Elyse looked at his hand. She knew she shouldn’t keep letting this control her life. She knew she didn’t want these bitter thoughts to turn her into her teacher. She had to be the bigger person. She had to be. But it was so hard. She just knew she wouldn’t get anywhere trying to pray about it. She had too many walls up. “I guess so.” Maybe she’d try tonight…

[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.