Well, in my case, kill them.

—

Let me have it.

~O.M.Grey (@omgrey)

circa 1932 – Pacific Northwest. Seldom had Fiana been recognized for what she was so quickly. Typically when she met mortals, their reaction was awe tinged with a disquieting unease that they could not explain and generally suppressed. They only realized the full delicious horror if and when she chose to reveal her true self. Then it was generally too late for them to do anything besides involuntarily (and futilely) reaching up to protect their necks.
These people were different. Even though they were dressed in the worn work clothes of europeans, they were obviously still spiritually connected to their native culture and the powers of this land where their ancestors had dwelt for centuries. There was definitely one with power here, maybe even the power which had drawn her. Arrayed across the forest path in hostility, they prevented her advance. This was their place. They knew what she was and wanted her gone, destroyed even. Many had spears, wooden shafts to pierce her heart. The one with power raised an object of wood, feathers, and bone, a powerful fetish, but not the object she sought. He shook it while shouting unknown words of power. Fiana felt its repellant violence, like a tangible force driving her back. She knew she could overcome it eventually, but there were all those others leaping forward with their spears. She couldn’t face both threats simultaneously. With a twist of her wrist, her wand slipped into her hand from the sheath strapped to her forearm. She quickly parried to deflect the force of the shaman’s first spell. Then, for the first time in centuries, she fled from the wrath of mortals. It wasn’t a flight of panic, merely a strategic withdrawal at full speed. She easily out-distanced her pursuers, due not only to her superior physical abilities, but also her night vision which showed her every detail of the forest on this nearly moonless night. But those following were not as slow as she hoped. Unlike the european mobs of centuries-passed, they failed to stumble into obstacles or blunder into the underbrush. Nor did they carry torches to destroy their own limited night vision. They came on relentlessly, if with greater caution, obviously traveling a very familiar path. Even so, she was far ahead of them when she reached the river and James, who waited loyally at their small boat. He was surprised to see her coming at a run.
“What…” he began as she leapt aboard.
“Cast off, you fool!” she cried.
He bent to unloosen the anchor rope, but before he could begin, she snapped it with a word and a gesture.
“See to the sail,” she ordered and began to raise a wind, He did as she commanded. They were making good progress downstream by the time her pursuers burst from the woods. They halted to watch her retreat. She briefly considered a rude gesture in their general direction but didn’t consider it worth the effort.
The shaman seemed to have ideas of his own. He began a sort of ponderous stomping dance while shaking his power bundle and giving voice to a deep, throaty chant.
She increased her wind to speed them away, but stopped when she found it increasing beyond her summoning. That two-bit shaman was feeding her own spell! Damn that meddler. This would soon become a grandfather storm, and they were at the mouth of the seas as well as near dawn. Swept out beyond the shore before they could make landfall, they would have to ride it out nearly comatose while huddled in the tiny darkened cabin.
Her kind of magic did not travel well over water in the best conditions. Storm tossed in a tiny boat was misery. Queasy and confused, the two vampires simply did their best to endure the long day as the wild storm drove them North and the angry waves tossed them about. Even through the dense cloud cover and plywood shelter, they could feel the baleful sun sapping their strength. They continued to endure. Several times James was compelled to vomit up a bloody mess into a bucket, which only made their confinement worse.
“If you don’t stop fouling up our cabin, I’ll throw you overboard myself!” she said, smoothing her hair back and fighting the urge to heave herself, but Fiana managed to maintain her dignity for the most part. After hours of misery, the sun finally began to sink. Fiana, still far from well, felt some small strength return to her. She began working on the storm, calming it in small ways until the rains stopped and the winds relaxed to a strong breeze. She stumbled onto the deck and looked around.
James remained below, tied around a knot of misery. She began to recover her own equilibrium. She looked out over the nauseating waves and saw something. They were not completely lost! A small island was visible only a mile or two away, not impossible to reach, even in her weakened state, but she would have to concentrate solely on getting to that island. They were probably in the vicinity of Puget Sound. Some time ashore to regain her strength and maybe someone to drink, and she would be well enough to get them back to the mainland.
Looking to the sail, she could see that it was a lost cause. But no matter, the boat seemed to be heading straight for the island anyway. Very curious. She felt with her other senses, weak as they were. Yes. There was something there drawing them forward. Some new power.
My, but this is a surprising part of the world, she thought.
Magic was everywhere.
Weary as she was, she let it go sitting down to rest and await events. It would be best to have a few surprises ready for whatever had a grip on their boat.

LOOKING DOWN ON IT, she thought LandsEnd was aptly named.

Surrounded on three sides by forest, the large field of green grass dropped away on the fourth side in a sheer cliff, overlooking a sea of empty sky. In the warm breeze, the grass in the field waved like a river, flowing over the edge in a waterfall of air.

To Kendel Patterson, this felt like the wild side of Paradise. The trees were taller, the forest darker, and the grass was longer. If not for the lone, two-story white house standing in one side of the field, this would feel like the far edge of desolation. Seeing it from the trail within the forest, she noticed that the house itself looked larger than average, about 16 meters square, with a wide porch surrounding the main floor. Lowering a backpack half as large as herself, she knelt beside it and closed her eyes.

My Father, You have given me everything: Life and joy and peace, all my families, my brothers and sisters, the children I was able to teach. Was it wrong to want to know who my biological family was? To know where I came from? It’s been a long journey since I heard “Go to LandsEnd. Learn from John Collins.” Now I’m here. Please help me to do my best to learn what You want me to know.

Kendel opened her eyes and breathed in the warm fragrance of the tall cedars in the forest around her. Seeing that she was alone on the trail, she decided to change into something more suitable for a first impression. Opening the top of the backpack, she pulled out her best dress with matching shoes. She carefully unrolled the dress, shook it out, and began taking off her traveling clothes. Standing in her underwear, she was just reaching for the dress when a flicker of movement to one side drew her attention.

Slowly turning her head, her eyes locked with the golden gaze of the largest, most beautiful wolf she had ever seen. It was silver-gray and white. Sitting up only twenty meters away, it was as tall as her shoulder, and its head looked twice as broad as her own. Lowering her own gaze to the ground, Kendel turned back to the dress, picked it up and slowly pulled it on over her head.

“Hi,” she said, softly. “My name is Kendel, what’s yours?” She knew this was a purely rhetorical question since wolves don’t actually talk, but they could learn to recognize people after interacting with them for a while. She looked at the wolf and smiled. The wolf looked very relaxed, so Kendel felt somewhat better about its being there, but she wished she didn’t have that tiny prickle of fear in her mind.

With half her mind on the watching wolf, Kendel slipped on the matching shoes, set her felt boots behind her pack and began folding and packing her traveling clothes into the top of the backpack. She turned toward the wolf as she picked up the backpack.

“Well, maybe I’ll see you later,” she said. Then she started down the trail toward the white house. An audible “Yaolp” sounded from behind her as if someone had yawned loudly. When she turned and looked back at the wolf, it was not looking at her, but back up the trail where she had changed. Her felt boots were sitting on the trail, right where her pack had been.

“Oh, thank you,” she said, as she walked back toward them. “How could I have forgotten to pack those? Next thing you know, I’ll be forgetting my own head.” The wolf turned its head and looked into her eyes. Kendel felt a strange tickling shiver travel up her spine, and she again lowered her gaze to the ground. Then she set down the backpack and began packing her boots. As she picked up the pack again, she turned toward the wolf, but it was gone.

She turned around slowly, looking in every direction, but there was neither sight nor sign of the wolf anywhere. Except for the lingering trace of fear, it was almost as if it had never been there.

* * *

CENTRAL PRECINCT was a zoo of paperwork and noise as Paul Anderson made his way into the Lieutenant’s office and shut the door.

“Have a seat.”

Paul sat.

“We have a problem,” the Lieutenant said. “Not only do we have some sadistic …” He stopped, took a deep breath and started again.

“We have talked to each of the three victims and we think we know what’s happening. Each of them was at a party with other kids from the high school — different parties, a month apart. And then their memory goes blank, and the next thing they know, they are tied up in some basement where an adult man in a ski mask comes in and …” The lieutenant stopped, closed his eyes and took another deep breath.

“I should have left it to the psychiatrists to get the details,” he said. “It makes me sick to remember. Anyway, we have enough DNA and trace evidence to show that there are two or three people involved in drugging and delivering the victims into the clutches of this serial … psychopath. Our best guess is that they are also students at the high school. We can’t test them without a warrant, and we can’t get a warrant without a reasonable suspicion. So, we really need to infiltrate the school as soon as possible.”

“I’ve been working on that for the last three weeks,” said Paul. “I’m going to have to recruit someone, maybe off the street. And I’m going to need Angela’s help.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” the Lieutenant said. “Meanwhile, the mayor has transferred budget dollars to pay for all the background work we’ve been doing. Out of that, I can allocate ten thousand to you now for miscellaneous expenses, but we will have to account for every penny of it, so keep the receipts. Good luck with your recruiting. Just make it fast.”

* * *

EPIDERMOLYSIS BULLOSA. Again.

In this case, a death sentence. Again.

Sarah Johnson leaned over the hospital bed where her three-year-old daughter, Kendra, lay. She reached out and, light as a feather, brushed the red-gold hair out of her eyes and stroked her daughter’s face, careful not to put any pressure on her skin. Epidermolysis Bullosa. She thought. A birth defect where the skin is so sensitive, that it breaks out in painful blisters at a normal touch. In severe cases, just swallowing causes blisters to occur in the esophagus. At least Kendra had not been that severe.

Kendra lay on the bed, her arms, legs and torso wrapped in soft bandages to keep her from bumping or scraping her skin against anything that might make the blistering worse. She opened her eyes, looked up at her mother and smiled.

“I love you, Momma,” she said in a fragile voice, faintly above a whisper.

“I love you, too,” said Sarah. And she smiled at her daughter. But the smile did not stop the tears that ran down her cheeks.

Dear God in Heaven, thought Sarah. Please help take care of my little Kendra. Please keep her from hurting so much. And when she dies, please take care of her for me.

Far more accustomed to a pitching ship’s deck than the saddle, the young rider was sore in ways he had never before experienced.  This barbaric northern climate was anything but comfortable, and he had been coughing and sneezing regularly now for a week, ever since he had started his ride from the port at Matha.

He had found the long sea journey north from Venifica relatively pleasant.  Most of his adulthood, short as it may have been, had been spent as a sailor and standing on the polished deck of the merchant ship Ivory had suited him well.  The salty ocean air had whipped his long brown hair and stung his dark eyes, and this had brought him comfort.  Ship’s wizards were always cherished by any captain lucky enough to have one, and even his meager talents had found him comfortable service in the merchant fleet of House Aristos.

Yet now he found himself not only ashore, but also in a miserable condition, traveling north overland alone through this frozen land of barbarians.  His horse, an old gray mare, was bony and temperamental.  She was all he could afford.  The young man’s hair was now plastered to his face and neck, near frozen in place, and yet he rode on, wrapped tightly in his thick blue cloak.  He felt oppressed by the forest of tall, dark firs and the eternally dim skies of the kingdom of Marien, which seemed always to drip. His dry and tasteless rations were almost depleted.

Morden DuVaen was truly unhappy with his mission.  While he honored his duty to House Aristos of Venerata, for weeks now he had questioned his decision to accept the role of courier to Vangarhelm.  The boy did not know what the contents of the box in his saddlebag might be, but he doubted it could possibly be worth all this suffering.

At least he had the satisfaction of knowing he would soon have a chance to rest.  Something less than two sopping days’ ride ahead lay the village of Kenningham, where he would find an inn.  He looked forward to a warm meal and soft bed with much enthusiasm, as well as the thought that he would have several days there to replenish his provisions and hire a guide to lead him through the Mathahelm mountains, the next stage of his long ride.

As Morden wiped the freezing rain from his face, he sighed and wondered aloud, “I know not why this dispatch could not wait another three months.  What could be so important in this frozen waste?”  His horse huffed moodily as if in answer.

He guided the old beast off the muddy path and into the woods.  After a few minutes, Morden found a more or less dry spot between two thick-limbed evergreens and climbed stiffly from the saddle.  The Archanian wizard tied his nag off, filled her feedbag with the last of the Gracian wheat and left her to eat.  After gathering a stack of wet deadfall for his fire, Morden slumped against a dry trunk where only a few drops of cold water filtered through the thick branches above.  He swept aside the moist brown needles before him, making clearing large enough for his fire.  Placing his damp sticks on the prepared spot, he pulled from his belt pouch a small red leather bound book.  After thumbing through and finding the appropriate page, Morden DuVaen began to chant.  Though the spells in this book were the weakest of dweomers, even powerful wizards found them valuable.  Since Morden was all but an apprentice, having only received his charter a few months ago, the book was of tremendous worth to him.  Slowly, his quiet, rhythmic chanting began to dry the pile of soaked firewood. Eventually it smoked, sparked and then finally burst into flame.

Slightly cheered by the warmth of the fire, Morden pulled forth some dry flatbread to gnaw on and yanked off his riding boots.  Laying them on the other side of the fire to dry, he stretched out his legs, putting his slimy socks as close to the little fire as he could stand.

Swallowing the last dry lump of his evening meal, the young wizard closed his eyes and knew no more until morning.

…

Alisa woke early, rising well before dawn with a wicked pain shooting from her neck and around the side of her head before finally terminating behind her green eyes.  She stood slowly in hopes of avoiding further discomfort.  The lithe young wench rubbed her shoulder and furrowed her brow as she looked back at what passed for her bed, a straw stuffed mat crammed into a cubby in the back corner of the inn’s kitchen.

Sighing, she ran her fingers through her shoulder-length straw-toned hair and hurried through the door into the garden behind the Wizard’s Tower, which neither belonged to a sorcerer nor could any longer be called a tower.  Though the sprawling inn was indeed partially composed of what had been such a tower over a hundred years ago, that ancient structure had fallen and now composed only the foundation upon which the newer wooden inn now stood.  Those stones not still on the grounds had been hauled away to build parts of other village buildings such as the dry goods shop and the humble little church of Morgaine, goddess of forest and field.

She was glad that the rain had stopped, but noted that the mud remained.  She trod wearily through the slush towards the wood-encircled meadow beyond the vegetable garden.  The quarter-mile uphill walk in brisk air was invigorating.  Reaching the far side of the sloping glade, she carefully rolled a fallen log aside and pulled out her oilcloth-wrapped bundle.  She unwrapped the sword and drew this most prized possession from its leather scabbard.  Examining the blade in the dull morning light, she nodded with approval and began her exercises.  The blade sliced elegantly through the air as she danced across the meadow, performing a complex series of martial maneuvers that worked almost every muscle in her trim body.  Most of the moves made her wince as the weight of her father’s sword tugged on her sore shoulder, but she performed each with full speed and precision, trying to prevent any sign of pain from showing.

Soon, Alisa dripped with sweat in spite of the frigid morning air.  Thin strands of hair fell across her face.  Her shoes became soaked through, but she continued her training for a full hour before finally returning her weapon lovingly to its hiding place.

Checking to see that none had observed her, she returned quickly to the inn where she stoked the kitchen fire, filled the cauldron with water from the nearby tun, and gathered a cloth and a cup of scented salts from her cubby before stripping to wash.  She hurried lest the inkeep discover her.  While old Dorun had never seemed lecherous, she had no desire to be embarrassed.

Dorun had been kind enough, in his rough way.  When her father had died defending their farm from raiding Baruuk seven years ago, the old man had offered her work and housing.  It had been her only option, so she accepted, though only nine years old and emotionally devastated by her father’s death at the hands of those inhuman beasts.  The innkeep had given her only light duties at first, but as she grew, he put more and more work on her.

Let me have it!

Northern California, 1860 –  Wesh-et-wah looked down at his blood-stained hands as he swept through the forest with his eight-year-old son. It was her blood. Their blood. The tears burning in his eyes did not cool his grief nor did they stay his stride. He needed to get away. Save his son. Disappear into the mist-haunted depths of the redwood forest. He would go to the southern village, and together they’d seek out the Wailaki people, the Deiwin who had thus far been spared the white man’s wrath. They lived deep in the woods to the southeast. If he moved closer to them, perhaps he could keep his son safe.
Reaching the end of his emotional strength, Wesh-et-wah stopped, sank down into the lush ferns and wept. Tiny hands patted his shoulder. He looked up at his son with tear-filled eyes.  He was too young to know such tragedy. The blurred vision before him was his only reason to go on. But he couldn’t shake the image of his wife and daughter lying there in their own blood amongst the rest of their tribe. They had been all huddled together as if protecting each other from a force against which there was no protection.

The harmony of existence was broken. A rip had been torn in the reality of his universe and through it poured a disruptive evil.

There had always been tribal differences and even disagreements within his own tribe, but there had also always been respect. These newcomers, pale as death, had none. Not for the native peoples. Not for the Earth and all Her gifts. Not even for each other. The carnage in which they reveled was beyond belief.
Only yesterday, he had been hunting with his son. It was a great time to be a father: a time to pass on his life in the world. He had been teaching him the art of tracking deer. While the men were away overnight with their sons, the wives and daughters stayed behind to prepare for the festivities of Great World Renewal celebration. When the men returned with fresh meat from their hunt, they would eat and dance and sing.

There would be no singing today.

His feet would never dance again, for they danced because of her.

And now, she was gone.

The nausea in his body made ever eating again unthinkable.

All that blood. All their blood.

He and his son had returned with a fresh deer for the feast, but all was silent. No laughter came from children at play. No women talked amongst themselves as they worked. No one ran to greet them with praise for their hunting prowess.

No one moved at all.

He looked over the slaughtered remains of his tribe with disbelief. He tried to make sense of it, but there was no reason to it. They had all just lain there in strange twisted heaps.

Then he heard the laughter. It was a harsh, foul sound bursting forth from the throats of evil men, like puss from a boil. The marauders, led by a man they called “The Thug” who was hated even by other white men, sat just off-shore in their boat and laughed. The Thug and the men with him held bloody hatchets, wooden clubs, and knives. They were all covered in the blood of his family and tribe. Wesh-et-wah could not make sense of it. No rage came as the laughter went on. The white men rowed away toward the main land, and Wesh-et-wah stood over his dead wife, catatonic. He heard a child cry, and he looked up to see his chief, Captain Jim, holding his own infant son. His face was contorted in grief as he clutched the baby to his chest, kneeling beside his fallen wife.

Ten years ago the white men had started coming, and they had just kept coming. And coming. Greed brought them. Blood lust kept them. Their weapons were no match for his people. When these white men wanted something, they took it. It did not matter that they were unwelcome. They took the Wiyot women and left them used and bloodied, crying in shame. They forced the men to work, to find their yellow metal for them while they drank the fire water, which only made them more cruel.

Even through his grief and despair, he knew what must be done. He could not stay in this place of death. He could never return to Duluwat, this ruin which was once his home. His son was all he had left, and so he must keep him safe.

He got up out of the ferns and kept walking, his son following. There must be other survivors from his tribe looking for a new place to live. Perhaps they, too, would go south to another Wiyot village. Perhaps they would stay and fight the white man and seek revenge for this massacre. Then they too would die. For to fight the white man was suicide. Still, the thought of death in battle, for honor, was attractive. At least this pain would stop—this suffocating pain. He shook off the thought. He must keep his son safe.

He thought again of the Deiwin of Wishashk, a neighboring people. They had protection from the white man, a small powerful talisman. He had heard the stories by the fire at night, but he thought it just superstition. Until now. Through the generations, from grandfather to father to son, the Wishashk gave this special piece of knotty wood for protection. Supposedly, many generations ago, their people traded with some white fur traders far, far north of here in the land of the Enuiae: Alaska. These traders came from the west and traded knives and needles for the Wishashk furs. The men found a tribe called Dana’ina in the Nuti and tried to subjugate them with work and religion. They claimed the land for their own and buried a bottle with parchment and this knotty wood stuffed inside, promising they would return to rule soon after the white man left. The Dana’ina dug up the bottle and smashed it against the rocks. They burned the parchment but took the talisman, sensing the wholesome power within it. They gave it to their shaman who verified the power and knew this would protect them from the white man. After this they began a long southward migration in fear of the white man’s return, for they had heard stories of what these men had done in the north. They only wanted to live in peace, and peace was not possible with the white man. Now generations later, it has made its way down far into Wesh-et-wah’s own lands. It is said that anyone who has this wood knows when to leave before the white man can come. Some believe it even makes them invisible to the white man.

Wesh-et-wah decided he must get this sacred wood from the Deiwin to protect his son and the remainder of his people. A massacre such as this could never happen again. Never, ever happen again.

He arrived in Hakitege late in the day with his story of slaughter. It was their custom not to speak of the dead. They would say, “Indian die, Indian not speak,” but he could not keep himself quiet. He must talk of it or burst.

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