She didn't need to go in. She knew. What happened was obvious.

  She walked around the back and broke one of the windows to help air it out. They would need to be buried properly. Respect would have to be paid.

  She went back to her house, got the trash bag Sylia was playing with, then returned. She flapped the bag full of air, held the opening to her mouth, and went in. The bag gave her a few minutes so she could calmly walk around, even if the air was still toxic. She found them huddled next to the fireplace. The father's arm was burned to the elbow. The three children were on the floor beside the mother. She knew, but checked them anyway. They were all dead. Her eyes were starting to burn. Almost out of air, she walked outside.

  "They're all dead," Myla told the neighbors gathered by the door. "God's mercy was with them. They looked like they just fell asleep by the fireplace. We got smoked several times in the storm, too. It could easily have happened to us."

  "This is the sixth family so far."

  "Were they all by gas?" Myla asked.

  "Two burned down. We lost Hamad Estaf, he was overcome running into his parents house. What made you think of the bag?"

  She looked at it in her hand, "I don't know." She held it, curious herself. "We— we found a good deal years ago. Bought ten boxes of them and maybe a hundred toothbrushes. Isn't it silly, the things we think of as treasures now? We bought bags to throw trash out." She handed the bag to the one who asked, "I have to go sit down now."

  One of the women walked with her back to her house.

  It was a very sad day. Those that dug the holes in the near frozen ground, prepared the bodies, or made the coffins from the wood found in the homes of the dead divided the food and possessions found in the homes. Her husband made two makeshift coffins while her son spent the day digging.

  It was reasonable compensation, but it still felt like robbing the dead.

  Everyone dressed their best for the mass funeral.

  Chapter 6

  The warm days disappeared, returning to a more seasonable cold, and life returned to what pretended to be normal. Tonight was game night with her girls, in their room.

  The girls' room was the perfect size in winter. The two boys had the bigger room, the three girls got the smaller. Smaller in winter was easier to heat. The window lamp alone wasn't big enough, but add three girls— No, make that four girls and a little boy, and it was the warmest room in the house, not counting in front of the fireplace, of course.

  Checkers and chess were rather advanced games that involved kicking off the opponent's pieces, something Sylia seemed reluctant to do. Yet, they were all to find out that that peculiar rule only applied to backgammon in that child's mind. Checkers and chess simply could not be played otherwise.

  Tour moved his checker.

  Sylia moved it back.

  "Stop it!" he yelled at her, returning it.

  She undid his move again.

  Myla got up to intervene.

  Tour looked up at the mother, "Tell her to stop touching my pieces." He turned to the girl, stuck out his tongue, and moved the piece a third time.

  Myla studied it for a second, then rested her hand on his shoulder, "Are you sure that's the move you want to make, Child?"

  "I made it, didn't I!"

  Sylia touched his piece again.

  This time he smacked her hand.

  "Don't hit your sister," the mother said, then to the upset little girl, "stop touching his pieces."

  Sylia pouted, stood, and almost huffed away from the game, but sat back down instead. She jumped four pieces to end on king's row. The game was as good as over now.

  "Don't try to help him again," the mother said, "especially if he keeps being so ungrateful." She turned to the boy, "Stop being so ungrateful." She rubbed the top of his head.

  Sylia was clearly very bright and had an ample amount of patience to go along with all her odd behavior. She was odd. Her sisters were polite to her, but they made no effort to befriend her. She was odd, and odd kept her from fitting in like she should. Myla looked at the girl again.

  Odd.

  How much of the girl's behavior was 'odd' and how much of it was simply misunderstood?

  "Reaha, let Sylia play next, ok?"

  "Oh, Momma!"

  "Just do it, Child. You were her age once too."

  Reaha was playing an adult game of Chinese checkers with her two sisters. There was no advantage in beating a girl Sylia's age, and nearly infinite ridicule if any lost to her. And, most importantly of all, no pieces were ever knocked off the board. It was Sylia's kind of game, but she had never been allowed to play.

  Tour thumped the board before Sylia could officially make the last move of the game.

  "Pick up those pieces, young man," Myla said, but again, it was the little girl who picked them up. She would argue it with the boy, all night if need be, but she didn't see the point in yelling at the girl. "Go sit in your corner." She pointed for the boy.

  He pouted, but if it meant he didn't have to pick up the pieces, he reluctantly complied.

  Sylia shined at Chinese checkers.

  More important than the score, she seemed to have fun playing with the other girls. She smiled more. She danced a little just before her turn. She was less the odd little girl. To Myla, that was the most important thing. That her girls stopped seeing her as the girl that couldn't get backgammon, sat silently, or rocked with her back against a wall. It was important that her girls saw the fun-loving side of her. That they saw they could relate to her, and that she was worth relating to.

  Distant thunder woke the morning, rattling the windows. It sounded like the bombing had returned. Myla and her husband went outside. Everything was a jealous green, even a few hours before first light— "Aurora borealis? I've never seen it so green before," Myla asked.

  Her husband didn't know. "It ain't bombs. It's almost as bright as day, and I can't see any smoke, except chimneys." It was bitter cold and they were dressed in robes, so he went back inside.

  She stayed a minute longer. The distance thunder was difficult to hear behind closed doors. It sounded like it was coming from the east, near where the sun should rise. The bright green sky pulsed, perhaps two minutes passed before the thunder reached the ground.

  If she remembered right, that would put the storm at a hundred or so miles out. Thunder shouldn't travel that far. She must have remembered it wrong.

  She walked back inside.

  Either that, or it was one hell of a storm to be heard a hundred miles away. In a few hours, they would all know for sure. Breakfast would need another hour in the lamps around the windows. She waited, ready to board it up again, but holding off until the cooking was done, if possible.

  Thunder rattled the windows and flickered the flames in the lamps, but didn't put them out. The noise pounded out any conversation, but had yet to send a single drop or flake to the ground. What was more, the sun was inching up and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Thunder pounded again.

  It seemed to come in waves with less than a second rest between booms.

  But by the time the potatoes were done, it had passed, like the full light of day had chased it away.

  Myla found herself at the well again, that time of week. She sighed as she lowered the bucket again. They had a lot of containers to fill. Her girls shivered as the cold wind picked up, not a cloud in the sky. She looked at Reaha, the oldest. The girl kept growing. Her clothes were already tight, now she was starting to change shape as well. They didn't have any new clothes to give her. No town to trade with. The younger girls had a large assortment of hand-me-downs, but there was nothing for Reaha.

  Goods like clothing never came to parts this remote. How much could camels carry anyway? They were left with the clothes they got from the dead.

  Reaha hadn't warmed to that idea yet. She had known them too.

  That seemed counter intuitive. Why would it be easier to wear a stranger's clothes than someone you knew? The only ones that fit were men's fashion anyway. For a blossoming girl to wear men's— it was an uphill battle to say the least. But they weren't going to let her walk around naked. She had to wear something.

  It simply was what had to be.

  They pushed the cart back into the village.

  She looked around as they unloaded the cart, just now seeing the village with new eyes, as it was now.

  With so little contact with the outside world, the rules seemed to have been relaxed. Full veils had been dropped last fall. Influence. . . The state had a lot, but without transportation, the state became so very far away. The local mosque was even loosening the reins as it started to realize it couldn't survive a popular local revolt.

  It was the golden rule of politics. The closer the governing was to the governed, the more responsive they become.

  All the same, she would wait until summer to remove hers in public.

  Thunder returned at dusk with an ominous green sky. It lasted several hours then trailed off. Myla stayed in the kitchen even after it had passed. A large rabbit had been zapped on the pile, and it would take all night to slow cook it. She preferred to stay up at night and catch a nap after breakfast anyway. She worried about the lamps, convincing her husband that someone should stay up as long as they were lit. She had no call to worry, but if they fell out and into a room, it would burst into flames, instantly. Everybody kept the lamps burning at night. A plate blocked most of the light, but the flame and her worry burned on.

  Lamps were perfect for baking potatoes, not stew. Stew took the stove. As she stirred it with a spoon, she could tell the meat and potatoes still had a long way to go. She wanted something to read, something to do. But there was nothing but to watch the green outside.

  She wanted to open the door and step out, but it would fill the house with bitter cold. Instead, she knelt near a window and looked up. It wasn't the same. The green had streaks of white and blue, and it flickered.

  Pretty in its own way, she just wished she knew more about what it meant.

  The streaks branched and blurred like lightning, but lasted for half a minute and looked like they rolled and stirred the green. If only she had studied more in school.

  Sylia tugged at her leg.

  "What's got you up, Child?"

  She rubbed her eyes and sat down.

  "You thirsty? Hungry maybe?"

  She shook a no.

  "The thunder is gone. You should get some sleep while you can."

  No.

  "No what?"

  Sylia put her hands on the mother's knees and shook, made a horizontal sheet out of one hand and a rock out of the other, then brought the rock slowly above the sheet.

  "Thunder by morning?"

  The little girl smiled.

  Myla smiled back. "How long then, Child?"

  Sylia shrugged.

  The mother laughed. "You don't know, huh?"

  She shrugged again, took one of Myla's hands, touched each finger, then held up nine of hers.

  "Two weeks. You sure?"

  The little girl shrugged.

  "So, you plan on keeping me company then?"

  She nodded.

  "Would you go give the pot a stir then?"

  She smiled and ran to the kitchen while Myla got out the Chinese checkers.

  Thunder returned that morning and every evening for the next Twelve days, four of which were brighter than a noon sun, just green. Not bad for a guess.

  Thunder without rain, sleet, or snow. Just thunder and thunder alone. It was very weird.

  "Myla, do you still have that green dress?" her husband asked in their bedroom.

  "I think so, but I doubt it would fit." She ran her hand through the closet, then pulled it out. "It had a metal zipper that I had to cut out." She held it up and turned to face him. "I doubt it fits, I don't have that figure any more."

  He looked at the closed door. "Try it on."

  She turned its back to him, "No zipper, it wouldn't stay on, Husband."

  He nodded as he sat on his side of the bed. "Try it on, Myla."

  She changed in front of him.

  "Beautiful," he said, pulling down the sheets on her side of the bed.

  She sat. Without a zipper, one shoulder slid down to her elbow.

  He fixed it for her. "Do you remember that first day you saw it in the window. It was before we moved here, still in the city, renting that little place above that shop."

  "They kept us up at night, working and hammering and whatnot." She lay on her side, facing him.

  "It wasn't as bad as thunder." He slid closer.

  "No, it rarely rattled the windows."

  He hugged her in bed. His hand ran down her zipperless back, but returned to a gentle hug.

  She closed her eyes. She remembered the newlywed him that lived with her above the shop. He was acting the same way right now. It was nice not to be quick for once.

  She woke late to the smell of baked potato coming from the window. Myla sat up and quickly found her clothes before going to the window. She pulled out the breakfast before it— She didn't remember putting it in. A chair had been moved to the window. She didn't remember putting it there either.

  Something near the closet caught her eye. Sylia. She was sitting on the floor, perfectly still, watching everything the mother did. Myla looked at her sleeping husband, walked over to the little girl, took her hand and walked her out of the room.

  She considered trying to explain to the child what might and might not have been seen, then her thoughts went to scolding, but that seemed equally pointless.

  Myla took the girl to the kitchen and lifted her onto the counter. "You shouldn't go into other peoples rooms."

  Sylia shrugged.

  "You shouldn't, ok?"

  Myla knew what happened. The girl had seen the mother walking around the rooms, putting in the breakfasts and checking the lamps. Possibly even followed her around a couple of times. When she didn't show last night, the girl did it on her own. She probably missed everything inappropriate, if that was the case.

  She studied the little girl's face. She was cute and young, but it was still too soon to recognize any family resemblance to anyone. She ran her hand through the girl's hair. "You had anything to eat yet?"

  They shared one.

  The thunder had finished weeks ago. But it left the night sky changed. Mornings and evenings glowed green, while the middle of the night was a pale blue. Gone was even the hint of stars. Myla wondered if future generations would even know what stars were, or would they fade from life like radios and TVs.

  Chapter 7

  The next two years saw little more than potatoes and leafy things grown in the garden. Corn, wheat and rice were tried, in limited patches, but failed again. The messenger never showed, no word about the war or her son, not a drop of water touched the ditch, and they all held on by their fingertips and the wink of every saved potato-eye.

  Sylia, now around a silent six, was very helpful with the chores, as was Tour. Reaha, on the edge of fifteen, was wearing men's clothes. Metal needles prevented tailoring them to her ever-changing shape, which perhaps was for the best. Baggy clothes hid her better from the attentions of boys, not that she could ever escape such attention.

  She had had a crush on one of the boys they buried a few years back. It was his clothes she had a problem wearing, but his were the only ones that fit. She wasn't freakishly tall, but she was taller than both of her brothers and her parents.

  The girls got water and oil on their own now and were green thumbs in the garden. Their constant exposure to chores with silent Sylia slowly brought her more out of her shy shell and into a rather normal relationship with them. Having to work with her, much like play, helped put her 'oddness' into a different context. They even started to openly like her.

  Oil was easy to get during summer, but much less was needed then. The few trips they made, Sylia hauled rubble to the site in the cart. It seemed odd at first, but with each trip, it slowly turned into a walkway that ended near the natural dip, now lined with blocks. The blocks allowed it to refill, much like at the well, only shallower.

  It wasn't an endless supply of oil. It was a simple spill after all. But it and the other spills within walking distance should keep them supplied for years, perhaps a lifetime. The walkway would help everyone keep from getting as oily and dirty as they used to.

  "He's here! He came!" the messenger yelled, late that evening, bringing everyone out of their homes. He climbed atop the stone pedestal a bronze statue had once sat. "Everyone! He's here! He returned! He— he came back!"

  The crowds emptied from the homes and surrounded him.

  The messenger gathered his breath, "A few months ago, as the mosque was letting out from Friday's prayers, he came. His fist punched blocks out of the old city well as he climbed his way out. He was huge, seven feet tall, bald as a baby, no fingernails. Muscles everywhere."

  The crowd gasped. It couldn't be true.

  The messenger continued, "The Twelfth is here! We've had nothing but defeats in our war to win back the river. Now, with him leading the army, we can't lose!"

  He didn't even ask for volunteers. He simply rejected all those too young or too old, gathered a quick census of needs, surpluses, and shortages for the state, took Hihel and dozens of others, and left. There were now no boys Reaha's age left.

  Papers.

  This stack of papers was the smallest yet.

  She looked above the top fold. Chickens and eggs were not the only thing having problems. It was affecting everything. Five times the seeds were needed to plant the average field. Goats and camels were equally affected. Chickens, because they could produce hundreds of eggs and lived a dozen years, could rebound in a decade or two. Camels and goats were not so lucky.

  Cats and dogs had litters. A productive dog could produce meat at sustainable levels, and the eating and breeding of both, though socially frowned on, were now acceptable by the state, though dogs had to be washed seven times and sprinkled with dirt. Rabbits were preferred, but much harder to obtain. Food was so tight that they were even revisiting pigs, though it was still too religiously opposed.

 

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