Deep magic second coll.., p.56
Deep Magic - Second Collection, page 56
part #2 of Deep Magic Collection Series
A dozen men stepped forward. They hoisted Captain Roy onto a stretcher, marched down the dusty street. Mrs. Edden and her family shuffled as a procession behind. When they were gone, Baylian returned to Neladi’s side.
“Why didn’t you let Furst show them the letter?”
Baylian shrugged. “He’s the newest stranger to town. Best to let a seasoned professional deal with things like this.”
Neladi hid her smile.
* * *
Neladi sat amongst the fragments of her family, sifting through the wreckage bit by bit. Emmi roamed the house behind, her only property of worth safe in her grasp. Most of the house’s prized possessions had not fared as well, burned beyond recognition or beyond use. It was only as Neladi rose that she spied something still intact.
The two metal slivers poked out of the debris, like grey fingers grasping for the grey sky. Neladi fished them out and rolled them between her hands.
Always strange to see what has survived when the long night gives way to dawn, she thought again.
Neladi examined her mother’s knitting needles, figuring it unusual for them to have come through the fire unscathed, especially when the heat had warped her father’s armour out of shape. She tapped them together now, in rhythm to Emmi’s footsteps, and thought of the last time she’d heard their sound.
Clack, clack, clack.
“Careful, it’s hot,” Neladi had said, passing the cup into her mother’s wrinkled palms.
Her mother winced as she accepted the tea, but then took a long sip and sighed, then eased herself back into bed. When her head touched the pillow, her eyelids started to droop, and Neladi felt a riot in her chest.
“I lit the torches,” Neladi said, perhaps just to delay the moment a while longer.
Her mother’s body, scarcely visible beneath the covers, creaked as she rolled onto her side. “Thank you, my sweet,” she said, yawning. “I know it seems silly, but I wouldn’t want him to be upset when we meet again.”
Neladi pictured her father, standing out back with his famous watchfires. “It’s not silly,” she said. “It’s part of who we are. The Frontier runs in this family. Who else would burn torches to guard it?”
Neladi’s mother smiled, and her hand, by design or simply by chance, wandered to meet her child’s. “Is that what you think they are, my sweet?”
Neladi swallowed. “Of course. We’re the last house in town after all.”
Her mother nodded. “Yes, that we are.” She laughed. “It’s funny, I used to think of them as our own little soldiers too, but they don’t see very much, do they?”
Neladi waited for her mother to continue. The old woman closed her eyes again, and this time her daughter knew not to fight it.
“They don’t see,” she whispered, “but they can be seen. That’s all he ever wanted—your father, to know that wherever we were ... whenever we were ... we’d have a light to guide us home.”
Clack, clack, clack.
This time the footsteps were heavier.
Neladi wiped the tears away as Baylian approached. Rather than comment, he looked at her ash-stained hands, then at her face, and then offered her a grin.
“This is your fault,” Neladi said.
Baylian laughed. “Let me fix it, then,” he said, and reaching up, he drew the same marks beneath his own eyes.
Neladi snivelled. “Thanks.”
Baylian patted the remnants of the stairs. “We will rebuild?”
Neladi clutched the needles close to her chest. “Always.”
“It won’t be the same, you know?”
Neladi wiped the rest of the tears away. “I know,” she said. “It can’t be.” Her hand floated to her stomach. “Not when we have to make room for one more.”
Baylian’s eyes followed her hand. His jaw loosened when he saw where it rested. “You’re sure?” he said, lower lip trembling.
“I’m sure.”
Baylian stood frozen for a time, but then the tears formed in his eyes too, and he rushed forward to embrace her. Neladi let herself fall free into his arms. As he held her, she peered over his shoulder.
Nearby, a cloud of ash was swept up in the afternoon breeze. It drifted towards the door, passed out into the street. On the porch, three figures watched it go.
They hovered at the threshold—the three ghosts, though now Neladi finally saw their faces. Each of them was far different than she remembered, with names and stories of their own. At the same time, they raised their hands as if to wave goodbye.
“Thank you,” Neladi whispered.
The three ghosts smiled, first at her, then at each other, and then vanished out into the street. And like the ash, Neladi let them go. Neladi let them scatter.
“We all return to ash, ash returns to wind.”
“What’s that?” Baylian said.
Neladi laughed. “Nothing, just something my father used to say.”
Out on the desert plains, the world sensed a change. Neladi felt it too, blowing through the town with promise.
A fresh wind. A full wind. A wind so whole it could keep a world breathing.
Emmi sang with Bunchy in the kitchen. In the hall, Neladi burrowed her head into Baylian’s shoulder, rubbed her stomach, and smiled.
At the Frontier, it started to rain.
ABOUT KYLE MALONE
Kyle Malone is a writer of speculative fiction based in Cork, Ireland. He previously wrote for the award-winning UCC Motley Magazine, for which he received a nomination for “Colour Writer of the Year” at the 2016 SMedia Awards. Currently, he is drafting his debut fantasy novel, Mist Rock. Other samples of his work can be found on the review website, Comicbuzz.
Website: www.yourelisteningnow.com
Facebook: facebook.com/kyle.malone.96
Twitter: @BetterOffMalone
The following stories were written by the board members of Deep Magic magazine. Earlier this year we held a contest where readers could submit the craziest prompts they could think of and the members of Deep Magic's Editorial Board were tasked with following the prompts selected by our First Reader Team and generating a story of 5,000 words or less. We hope you enjoy the following "bonus" stories.
THE WAR AND THE RIDDLE
By Charlie N. Holmberg | 1,800 Words
Prompt (Michele Hermansen): A chocolate army in a freezing rain must attack ice cream soldiers defending the pyramids at Giza during World War II.
“BUT THEN ITALY invaded the small town of Sidi Barani,” Ms. Aleser said as she whapped her meter stick against the multicolored map hanging in front of the white board, again.
It was seventh period, 1:58 PM, and Thom wanted nothing more than the sleep off the Meat Lovers’ pizza he had for lunch. He sat near the right edge of the room, toward the back. It gave him a decent vantage point for sleeping without being caught, but every time his eyes drifted closed, Ms. Aleser would get excited about something and smack that map.
Thom was a light sleeper.
“Remember,” the forty-something-year-old woman said as she paced by the Middle East, “Sidi Barani is controlled by the British. Or was. This takes us less than one hundred kilometers from the Libyan border.”
She circled the tip of the meter stick around Libya, the ticks marking inches hovering over yellow Egypt. Thom stared at it a moment before glancing down at his notes. So far, he’d written one thing:
Axis = Bad
Suppressing a sigh, Thom leaned over and rooted through his backpack, shoving aside a calculator to reach the half-eaten, king-sized chocolate bar that had wriggled its way between his latest Magic the Gathering deck and a battered copy of Lord of the Flies. That would keep him awake, at least until he got home. Pulling the candy free, he tucked it under the cover of his history textbook, broke off a square, and popped it into his mouth.
Left elbow propped on his desk, he leaned against his hand as Ms. Aleser prattled on, then took his pen to the margin of his spiral-bound notebook. He drew a triangle, then a smaller one next to it, trying to make it look 3D. A pyramid. He drew another beside it, its corners encroaching on the dark pink barricade running down the lined paper.
“—because Britain is a powerhouse.” Ms. Aleser absently fingered a pin in the shape of a lion on her purple lapel. The crack of her meter stick hitting the map echoed through the stuffy classroom. “They are, in a sense, everything Mussolini wanted his new Rome to be.”
Beneath the pyramids, Thom drew a stick figure in thick black ink. Mussolini. He didn’t look Italian. Thom added a mustache.
“They took forty thousand prisoners,” said Ms. Aleser.
Not on my watch! Stick-Mussolini said. Thom drew smaller stick figures around him, finally passing the barrier into the space meant for actual notes. He gave a few of them mustaches before breaking off another piece of chocolate and slipping it into his mouth.
He bit down on the sweetness, but a small morsel tumbled from his lips. He tried to catch it, but the spitty bit landed right in the middle of Mussolini’s army. Thom frowned. Then smiled.
Mussolini climbed to the top of the highest pyramid and surveyed the British troops. “You may have my men, but not my magic!” He laughed as the troops looked on in confusion. Mussolini pulled a chocolate bar from his vest pocket and broke it into small pieces, throwing them over the side of the pyramid. They tumbled to the ground. For a moment all was quiet.
Then the chocolate pieces rose up, growing and shifting until they looked like men. But with talons and claws!
Thom drew larger stick figures, spiking out their hands and feet. They were ten feet tall, sweet, and menacing.
“Hitler responded,” Ms. Aleser droned, “and Germany pushed the troops back to Crete. Fifteen thousand allied troops had to evacuate to Egypt. But the Axis controlled the supply lines into North Africa.
“Imagine this, class.” Ms. Aleser set her meter stick down like it was a cane. Thom glanced up for only a moment to see this before drawing a British soldier in the mouth of one of his chocolate monsters. “You’re far from home, in a foreign place with little supplies. It’s hot and the terrain is hard—”
Thom frowned as his chocolate monsters melted in his mind.
“You’re a fool!” someone—Thom skimmed his history book for a name—General Wavell shouted from the British lines. “You think you can best us with chocolate, in a place like this? Ha!”
Thom scribbled his pen back and forth, creating puddles of melted soldiers.
“Mr. Roberts.”
Thom startled at the use of his last name. Straightening, he met Ms. Aleser’s tawny eyes.
She smiled at him. “During the day, Pharaoh worships it, but at night, Pharaoh disciplines it. What is it?”
“Uh.” Thom’s eyes shifted from his teacher, to the map, to the whiteboard peeking around it. He found no answer.
But Ms. Aleser merely turned back to the map. A couple of students in front of him glanced over their shoulders, but once Ms. Aleser resumed her lecture, they faced forward again. Thom stared at the back of his history teacher’s head. Glimpsed his notebook, wondering what she was referencing. He lost interest quickly.
“He pushed the Allies back to the Egyptian border, with the exception of Tobruk.” She pointed with her meter stick.
Thom’s eyes dropped back to his notes, taking in his puddles.
“Ha!” Mussolini posed atop the pyramid, letting the Ally army see his enormous biceps. “Do you think that’s the only magic I possess?” Drawing a card from his pocket, he grinned, then turned the card toward Wavell. “The Storm Spirit, 3/3 with flying!” He tossed it skyward. The card blocked out the desert sun before exploding in a blue firework of freezing rain. The storm grew, consuming the heavens.
Thom broke off a third piece of his chocolate bar and popped it into his mouth, letting it melt on his tongue. Moving to the bottom half of his page, he drew another pyramid, with Mussolini atop it, his arms raised in victory. Taloned and clawed chocolate soldiers advanced toward the British troops.
Ms. Aleser’s meter stick struck the map. “With Auchenlech in command, the reinforced British army began Operation Crusader to relieve Tobruk.”
Thom’s eyes wandered toward the falling British army. Flipping his notebook to a new page, he drew a sketch of the sphinx and put Auchen-whatever at its peak, drawing a tall, black soldier hat atop his head.
“I will prevail where Wavell failed, Mussolini,” Auchen-whatever said as the freezing rain pelted his clothes. But he didn’t care. He was manly and shredded. Grabbing the front of his shirt, he ripped it open, buttons flying into the eyes of the enemy soldiers. His six-pack made Mussolini’s eyes bleed.
From his hat, Auchen-whatever pulled—Thom looked over his picture. Chocolate . . . he liked chocolate. What was better than chocolate?
His mind wandered over the menu options in the school cafeteria.
“But the Allies regrouped,” Ms. Aleser paced to the far side of the room, “and Rommell retreated.”
Thom grinned when the answer came. Choco-taco.
He pulled a Choco-taco from his hat and pulled apart the waffle shell, letting the ice cream tumble down the sphinx and onto the drenched sand. He drew a new set of stick figures, all wearing waffle-cone hats. My ice-cream men will devour your chocolateers! Your freezing rain only makes them stronger!
“Mr. Roberts.”
Thom glanced up.
Ms. Aleser smiled, but it was a tighter expression, this time. Sunlight from the window gleamed off her golden lion brooch. “During the day Pharaoh worships it, but at night he disciplines it. What is it?”
Wait, wasn’t this the same question she’d asked before? Thom had been listening—sort of—and he didn’t remember anything about the Pharaoh’s army. His heart beat just a little faster. She can’t give you an F just for not answering a question in class.
He glanced to the girl beside him. She shrugged.
“You see,” Ms. Aleser said, holding Thom’s gaze, “this is the first time a British General had defeated a German general.” She turned back to her map, the question forgotten. Was she just testing him?
Weird.
Thom’s attention dropped back to his notebook. He drew more ice-cream soldiers, this time throwing scoops of ice cream at Mussolini’s chocolate forces. My eyes! one called out. No, not Neapolitan!
The rain grew so cold, the chocolate became brittle. When the balls of ice cream struck them, they broke. He drew a clawed soldier with a missing leg, another broken in half on the ground. Salivating, Thom helped himself to the last bits of his chocolate bar. Ms. Aleser went on about counterattacks and something called a Gazala Line. Thom scribbled his pen over the page in a massive explosion of sugary goodness, hard enough to rip through the paper.
He paused, lifting his hand to see the ink stains along the side of it. Bother. Shifting, he discretely slid his phone from his front pocket and checked the time. 2:39 PM.
School ended at 2:30. Why hadn’t the bell rung?
Thom looked up to see Ms. Aleser watching him, arms folded across her chest, meter stick forgotten. Thom again looked to the girl to his left, but she didn’t look back.
A shiver ran across his shoulders. She didn’t move at all. Her neck bent to the side, focused on a line of notes she hadn’t finished, her pen stuck mid-word. Ink bled onto the paper. The guy in front of him didn’t move, either, and the boy beside him sat stiff as a board, caught half-way through a yawn.
The whole class. Everyone was stiff and unmoving like they were painted. Like they were pieces in a Warhammer game.
A sick feeling stirred in Thom’s gut.
“Mr. Roberts.”
His eyes went back to Ms. Aleser. His breath caught in his throat. She . . . she didn’t have a nose. Where was her nose?
With numb fingers, he reached toward his textbook and closed it, so the cover faced him. World History, it read. A collage of pictures covered its front. The Great Wall of China. The Leaning Tower of Pisa. The Egyptian Sphinx, without a nose.
“During the day Pharaoh worships it, but at night he disciplines it.,” Ms. Aleser repeated. Thom’s gaze gradually lifted to meet hers. His heart hammered just beneath his neck. “What is it?”
Thom stared.
That tight smile returned. “Mr. Roberts, don’t you remember our section on Greece?” She strode forward, toward the first row of frozen students, until her focus dropped to the chocolate wrapper on his desk.
“Well.” She placed a hand on her hip, and her lion pin glimmered brightly. “If you can’t solve the riddle, I am in the mood for dessert.”
“Wh-What . . . what are you talking about?” His mind buzzed, trying to remember his Greek mythology. Sphinx . . . Sphinx . . . they had the riddle about the man, right? The man and the legs. But this wasn’t that riddle. What did the Pharaoh worship? And . . . discipline?
Sweat beaded along his hairline and in his armpits. His tongue grew heavy, still sticky with sugar. “I-I don’t know.”
Ms. Aleser’s smile brightened with sharp, white teeth. “The sun, of course.”
And she lunged.
ABOUT CHARLIE N. HOLMBERG
Born in Salt Lake City, Charlie N. Holmberg was raised a Trekkie alongside three sisters who also have boy names. She is a proud BYU alumna, plays the ukulele, owns too many pairs of glasses, and finally adopted a dog. Her fantasy Paper Magician Series, which includes The Paper Magician, The Glass Magician, and The Master Magician, has been optioned by the Walt Disney Company. Her stand-alone novel, Followed by Frost, was nominated for a 2016 RITA Award for Best Young Adult Romance. She currently lives with her family in Utah. Visit her at www.charlienholmberg.com.
Twitter: @CNHolmberg
Facebook: cnholmberg
Instagram: @cnholmberg
THE WIZARD’S HAT
