Deep magic second coll.., p.34
Deep Magic - Second Collection, page 34
part #2 of Deep Magic Collection Series
The one exception was the kids. They came to me sometimes, wanting longer rope or a new harness to replace the one they’d grown out of, and I always obliged. I asked them about their lives, about their favorite climbing spots, about where they’d like to see new webs put up. One day, a child with eyes like blue marbles stopped by, asking me to fit him with a harness.
“Your father is the famous biologist, isn’t he?”
He nodded.
“I’ll make you a harness, on one condition.”
“Sure.”
“Tell him to visit me.”
* * *
Bodi walked in, met my gaze for a moment, then looked at his feet.
“Don’t be sheepish, you overgrown baby.”
“I just . . . I was thinking about things, you know. All these years, and I never apologized.” He sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry, El.”
“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? I’ll tell you what—you do one thing, and then I’ll accept your apology.”
“Anything.” He glanced around my chrysalis, hanging from my own cavern’s wall, far from everyone else.
“Yes, I live like a hermit,” I said. “And yes, people have disappointed me. But I don’t live here because I hate everyone. In fact, I’m happy for you. You’ve done well for yourself. I hear you have teams of biologists working under you.”
He nodded, scratched at his arm.
“That’s great, Bodi. Now please, follow me.” I led him to the back wall, to a silk tapestry I’d woven and embroidered with an image of a spider’s web. When I pulled it away, an equalizing breeze flowed past us into the hole.
“You first,” I said.
He shot me the same frightened look he’d worn when I told him to climb into that dark hole in the wall all those years ago.
“I didn’t know we had chickens on Mars.”
He flushed and crawled inside. I slipped in behind him and sealed the tapestry. The tunnel was long, the crawling excruciating, but there was a light at the end, where we reached a cavern much like the one we’d found as children. And like that one, on this ceiling was a glowing green lattice from which dangled a forest of upside-down trees.
I watched Bodi crane his neck. The tear that rolled down his cheek glowed green in the forest’s light.
“Trees, see?”
He nodded.
“Let’s climb.”
This time, he reached the top before me. Both of us were sweating, and one of us was scared. I had to call him a eunuch twice to get him to swing from the roots to the first tree. I traversed behind him, gritting my teeth to quench the fire in my shoulder and back.
We slid down to one of the great limbs, and there we sat, just as we had as children. I asked Bodi about his life, about his family, about his regrets and hopes for the future, and I told him about my own wishes.
Except one.
When silence filled the cavern, I picked one of the ghostly white fruits and held it to his lips. He pulled back, raised his eyebrows.
“Let’s climb some more.” I prodded him up to the roots and told him to swing over to a silk platform I’d previously rigged from the ceiling.
“I’m sick, Bodi,” I said when we reached it.
“I thought so.” He looked at the dozen clay-filled buckets on the platform. “You look like you’re in pain.”
“All the time. It’s a vortex, sucking the life from me. Cancer. Terminal, but my doctor can’t say how long it’ll take. That’s part of why I wanted to see you again.”
I pulled a vial from my pocket, handed it to Bodi, and climbed from our platform to the cavity I’d excavated within the root ball of the nearest tree, right above its base. I slipped into the silk hammock that hung inside.
When I bit into the white fruit, that moment from all those years ago flooded back to me—a current from my mouth descending electric through my nerves down my arms and legs and swelling, building, growing, a fullness pouring in so fast I thought I would burst.
This time, I swallowed.
Bodi’s eyes widened.
“I want just one thing from you, Bodi, and then you and I are square. I’m going to seal this chrysalis”—I ran my hand over the hammock—“and then I want you to pack the clay around me until this space is full, backfill the tunnel, and never tell anyone what happened to me. Can you keep this secret?”
He nodded, and from the look in his welling eyes, I knew that this time, he would.
“In the vial I gave you are bacteria that oxidize hydrogen sulfide. They still need a bit more tweaking to keep up with the trees’ production, but I’ve lost the energy to go the distance. I trust you and your teams to take the final steps. When this cavern is safe for humans, and the forest is safe from them, I would like you to reopen the tunnel so others may enjoy these trees as I have.”
“I promise,” he said, his chin trembling as his eyes drifted from me to the hanging trees. “And I would like to propose a name change.”
I smiled, sealed the chrysalis, and now, as my consciousness begins to drift and the threads of my life’s tapestry pass before my eyes, I smile, for I know that in time the letters that make me will rearrange to form new life. They will become part of this tree, part of this forest, part of the web of life for which I always longed. No longer will my trees and I be alone.
Alone. Did you know the addition of one El makes all one?
ABOUT CHRISTOPH WEBER
When not writing on dead trees, Christoph Weber helps live ones, as a certified arborist and board member at the University of Nevada Arboretum. He’s now finishing Hangman, book one in a series about bees, trees, and de-extincted Neanderthals.
Website: christophweber.com
Facebook: christoph.weber
VANYA AND THE RUSALKA
By Christopher Baxter | 17,000 Words
ONCE THERE LIVED a wealthy merchant in a small town, a widower raising three sons. The eldest son grew large and strong and served well, guarding the merchant’s caravan in its travels. The second was quick and clever, deftly haggling for the best prices on his father’s goods.
But the youngest son, Vanya, was useless. He was not large or strong—in fact, he was quite small. Nor was he clever; he did poorly in his lessons and often got lost in the woods around his home. He was lazy and was often caught napping when he should have been working. Exasperated, the merchant required Vanya to accompany the caravan on every journey, hoping that eventually the boy would discover some talents.
One hard, brutal winter—the harshest Russia had seen in many years—the merchant became ill. It fell to his sons to run his business, for they required every bit of income to buy the medicines that their father so desperately needed. The eldest son drove the caravan hard, making each trip faster than the last; the second son planned their trips and haggled harder than ever.
The two soon grew impatient with their useless younger brother. His laziness and absentmindedness hindered their travel and trading. The caravan was shorthanded in their father’s absence, and the elder brothers dared not slow their work. So one day, unable to spare any other workers, they gave Vanya a pack full of food and medicines for their father and instructed him to carry it home through the forest while they continued trading.
The eldest brother shook Vanya and threatened to tear him to pieces if he failed to bring the medicine home; the second brother pointed to the foreboding woods and told Vanya that he would lead him to the darkest, most dangerous paths and let him be lost forever.
So, alone on an errand for perhaps the first time in his life, Vanya walked the dark forest roads. He should have known the way; but he couldn’t remember, so his brothers had drawn him a map. After traveling all morning, he stopped under a fir tree to take his lunch and a rest. A strange yelping soon awoke him; he pushed his way through the trees and found a fox with its leg caught in a trap.
“Good sir!” the fox called. “Would you kindly set me free? I have kits to feed and a mate who awaits my return.”
“I . . . really shouldn’t,” Vanya replied. “The hunter who placed that trap would be upset if I released his catch.”
“I think not. Look at the trap—it is old and rusted. The hunter forgot it long ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Vanya said. “I need to go.”
“Wait!” the fox yelped. “I am a magical creature. If you free me, I will grant you three favors.”
“If you are magical, then why can’t you free yourself?”
“My magic can only help others. Please, good sir.”
Vanya sighed. His eldest brother would likely have killed the fox for food and fur. His second brother would have released the fox and then tracked him to his den, to secure the entire litter. But Vanya didn’t have the patience, the strength, or the stomach for such things.
Unfortunately, neither did he have the heart to leave the fox there to die. “Keep your favors,” he said, setting down his pack. He didn’t believe for a moment that it had magical powers—such things did not exist outside of stories. “I will help you for the sake of your family, if you have told the truth about them.”
It took Vanya over an hour to work the rusted trap open. Once free, the fox limped quickly into the trees and turned to peer at Vanya, his eyes catching the red of the setting sun.
“Thank you, good sir.”
Vanya wiped the sweat from his brow. “You can thank me with the truth. I don’t believe that you are magical.”
The fox hung his head. “You are correct—I have no magic.”
“Do you have a family awaiting you?”
“I do not.” The fox slipped farther into the shadows. “I apologize for my deception.”
“I thought as much.” Vanya sighed; he shouldn’t have wasted so much time. “Take care not to step into another trap—I doubt you will be fortunate enough to have another fool wander by.”
Vanya returned to the road. It was now late; the early winter night chased his footsteps. The cold pierced right through his fur-lined coat and hat, and he was soon shivering. As darkness fell, reading his map became difficult. He began to worry—if he continued on in the dark, he would probably get lost; but if he stopped, the harsh cold would freeze him solid.
It was with great relief, then, that he spotted a warm light out in the trees. He left the road and discovered that he had company—the fox was limping alongside him.
“I may not be magical,” the fox said, “but I am a creature of my word, and I have promised you three favors. The first is advice: do not go toward that light.”
“What?” Vanya stopped and peered at the light—it was a window, glowing with the warmth of a roaring fire. “Why not?”
“Something smells wrong,” the fox replied. “That place is strange; you shouldn’t go there.”
“If I stay out here, I will freeze.”
“Build a fire.”
“I am too tired from freeing you to build a fire. What is wrong with the house?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Then I am going.” Vanya pushed through the trees. There was no path to follow, and in the darkness it was difficult to find his footing. He tripped over rocks and slipped on patches of ice, falling to the ground more than once.
Finally, he found himself close enough to the window to see the cottage around it, a cozy little dacha that smelled of warm kvas and roasted potatoes. He smiled and hurried forward, but his boot snagged on something. He looked down to find the fox with his jaws around his ankle, trying to pull him backward.
“What are you doing?” Vanya asked, trying to shake free.
The fox’s reply was muffled by the boot.
“What?”
The fox released him and whispered, “Listen.”
Vanya heard only a faint breeze and the creak of trees. After a moment, though, another sound emerged—the gurgle of moving water. The dacha faded away like smoke, revealing a wide river that glistened blue in the cold moonlight. Vanya was standing on a precipice right above the ice that lined the river’s edge.
“I . . . how?”
“Dark things live in this forest,” the fox said. “Now come—build yourself a fire and decide what you want for your final favor.”
Vanya frowned, still staring at the river. “You said you’d give me three.”
“And I’ve already given you two! I warned you not to follow the light, and I stopped you from falling into the river.”
“Aren’t those the same favor?”
“I didn’t have to save you after you ignored my advice,” the fox said with a flip of his tail. “That makes two favors.”
“Fine,” Vanya grumbled. If he had been as clever as his second brother, he might have argued the point. But he wasn’t.
He turned away from the river and felt the ground squish beneath his feet. Looking down, he found that he was standing in thick mud.
“Why hasn’t this frozen?” he mumbled. Then the precipice, soaked through, collapsed. He caught a glimpse of the fox’s startled eyes before they crashed through the ice into the water.
He struggled to the surface, gasping for air. His eldest brother was a fine swimmer, but Vanya was not. He felt the strap of his pack break and thrashed to grab it before it could drift away.
A hand, colder even than the ice, closed around his throat. Vanya went under and inhaled the freezing water. He hacked and coughed, clinging to the person that was holding him. It was a woman, he realized—she dragged him downstream, the water seeming to propel her along without her having to swim. He tried to ask who she was, but he was shivering too badly to speak.
In an open expanse of river where the stars above were bright and clear, the woman slowed to a stop, floating up to sit upon the water as though it were solid. She gazed up at the sky.
Vanya wondered if she had forgotten he was there. She was beautiful, with pale eyes and dark hair down her back, wearing a thin gray dress. But her skin had a blue cast to it; her eyes were flat and empty without any light of their own. Just looking at her made him feel colder, and he was already losing feeling in his feet and hands.
She looked down at him. Then, to his surprise, she kissed him. After a few moments, he wasn’t numb anymore; by the time the kiss was done, he didn’t feel the cold at all. He wasn’t warm—just no longer cold.
Without warning, she clasped both hands tightly around his neck. He thrashed, but she was far stronger than he; his eldest brother might have been able to break her grip, but he could not. She slowly began to push him beneath the water.
“You are fortunate that you came to my river,” she whispered. “This is a better death than any human would give you.”
“Rusalka!” a voice shouted in the distance.
Vanya stared at her. A rusalka. A river spirit or the soul of a drowned girl, depending on the story you read.
“Rusalka!” the voice came again, closer this time. “My lady, may I have a word?”
Vanya gasped as the rusalka’s grip on his neck loosened. He twisted to see the fox running along the bank toward them, dripping wet and shivering.
“What do you want, fox?” the rusalka asked.
“I wish to speak on this man’s behalf,” the fox said. “Must you kill him?”
“Why shouldn’t I? He has invaded my river—this is the price.”
Vanya considered pointing out that she had lured him there, but thought better of it.
“He is still a young man!” the fox said. “He could yet do much good.”
“There is no good.” The rusalka sighed. Vanya felt himself sinking again. “There is only water and death. I should not have to remain here alone.”
“Yes, you’re right,” the fox said, coming to a stop on a rock that jutted out into the river. “You shouldn’t be here alone.”
“Fox!” Vanya attempted to shout. It came out as a gurgle.
“But . . .” the fox continued, “there is a better way to fix that problem.”
The rusalka paused, but didn’t lift Vanya from the water. “How is that?”
“Instead of killing him, you should rejoin him in life and leave this river.”
“Do not mock me, fox, or I will drown you next.”
“I am not mocking,” the fox replied. “There are waters of a different sort, which can restore life to the dead—the water of death and the water of life.”
“Those are a myth.”
“So are rusalkas.”
The rusalka was still, her eyes distant. Then she faced the fox. “You claim that you can bring some of the water of death and the water of life to me?”
“No, no.” The fox shook his head. “I cannot. This man can.”
Vanya barely managed to keep the surprise off his face as the rusalka turned her glare upon him, though he wanted to shout at the fox. The waters of death and life? Was the fox trying to make things worse?
The rusalka raised him up a few inches. “Does he speak truth, human? Can you bring the waters to me?”
Vanya’s second brother would have known what to say; he would have made it seem like he was agreeing to help her while actually promising nothing. But Vanya was not that clever.
“If you let me go, I can try.”
“No, he can retrieve the waters!” the fox insisted. “He is too modest to admit that he has been to the waters before. He can find them again.”
The rusalka frowned at him. Not trusting his too-slow tongue, Vanya simply nodded.
“If you’ll grant him his life, he can save you.”
The river rushed by, the only noise in the night. Finally, the rusalka floated across the water and set Vanya on the rock beside the fox. Vanya grasped the stone desperately, grateful to have something solid beneath him.
“That’s three favors,” the fox said, shivering. Vanya still didn’t feel the cold at all.
“Do you know where the waters of death and life are?” Vanya whispered.
“No. But once we’re away from the river, she cannot harm us,” the fox replied, so softly that Vanya could barely hear him over the water. The animal turned to the rusalka. “Thank you for your kindness.”
