News: Posting Chapter 17

Chapter 17 posted. Not at *all* how I thought it was going to turn out. Sometimes I wonder who's writing what.

http://www.finding-wayside.com/2009/11/manuscript-finding-wayside-chapter-17.html

Manuscript: Finding Wayside, Chapter 17

Sasha Okhotnikov sat in the Vologda regional airport. When this area was part of the CCCP, Sasha thought, the airport was probably well maintained. Now the consistent incurrence of the snow and time had turned it into an old, run-down soviet relic which smelled to Sasha of damp carpet and cabbage.

Sasha held his passport and plane tickets with careful respect, like they would crumble in his grip if he were not delicate with them. He had never had reason to leave the country, let alone fly on a commercial airliner halfway across the globe. He trusted his fixer though, who had made all the necessary arrangements for his journey. He had a well-made passport under a false identity, and Iskraa was secured in a special luggage container with all the necessary paperwork taken care of to travel with her.

He had been reluctant at first to part with her in such a way. After all, she was not a child’s vacation bag, and should not be treated as such. But he was given assurances that she would be handled with great and personal care and would remain on the same airplanes on which he would travel. His contact even made accommodations so he might verify Iskraa’s safety between flights.

Sasha the hunter was satisfied. Besides, the prospect of the chase and the challenges it presented were worth a few temporary travel inconveniences. And if what the spirit said was true...Well, he and Iskraa would deal with that when and if the time arrived.

* * *

Noura’s mother, after three days of coddling her daughter, had at last decided that Noura was well enough to return to the life of an adult and permitted her to return to her condominium in Glasgow. Dinah, with a level of forgiveness that only pets can produce, greeted her at the door with an outpouring of feline affection. This made Noura feel all the more guilty for having spent so much time away from her recently, but she stroked her friend behind the ears, poured her some cream and figured, as an apology, it would have to do for the time being.

Noura had put on a good show of being tough and well for her mother, but in truth she was frustrated to the point of exhaustion that she knew nothing about Wayside and the newly formed force that prevented her from shifting there. The shadow form, the beast that now guarded that point in her mind, was present now whenever she even thought about Wayside in even a casual way.

Noura sat at her desk and looked at her reflection in the dark computer screen.

“What should I do, Dinah?” She said to the cat that had quickly moved to occupy her lap.

Dinah meowed.

Noura bit her lip, and instead of turning on the computer, she picked up her cellular phone.

“Hello,” said a man’s voice.

“Demon,” said Noura.

The man sighed. “Well if it isn’t Noe Naysayer. People are not going to make appointments with me if the name ‘Demon’ sticks, you know.

“Demon?”

“I mean, who’s going to go to Dr. Demon, Psychotherapist? Anyway, to what to I owe the pleasure? You haven’t rung me in weeks. I was beginning to think you’d finally lost it and gone to sea.”

“Sorry, Darren. I’ve been...distracted.”

“Sounds like a severe case of non-communicus-with-childhood-friend’s syndrome.”

“Now really, is that the sort of humor a psychiatrist is suppose to be using?”

“If the psychiatry student is talking to a friend and not a patient, then yes. It’s called sarcastic transilluminance,” said the man.

“You made that up.”

“I did, yes.”

“Um...”

“Well?”

“Look, can we have a coffee? I need to talk to someone.”

“Well,” the voice sighed dramatically. “We have been friends for a long time, so I’m afraid I’m going to have to charge you double for a coffee session. Especially since you’ve been actively and egregiously avoided my phone calls for the past month.”

“Two weeks, and it wasn’t my fault. Just meet me at The Green Bean, please.”

“Fine, but I’m counting this as a date. Honestly, the minute you say you’re in school for a psychiatric degree everyone you know develops deep-seated psychoses for you to cure.”

“Really not funny,” laughed Noura. “9’o clock.”

“Yeah, alright. Green Bean, 9’o. Tah.”

Noura pocketed the phone and stood to get her coat. She realized that despite her frustrations, Darren had once again proven his audacious knack for making her smile.

The Green Bean, a hot spot for the college cognoscenti, was a 24-hour coffee shop in Merchant City. Noura liked it because even though their coffee was mostly traditional, they gave even their most commonly ordered items fabulously awkward names. The staff they did this to entertain their patrons, but Noura supposed it was the owner’s eccentric way of making tourists feel awkward when they ordered. Anyway, none of the regulars thought twice of asking for a “Foam-headed bastard step-child with two black eyes” or a “rosy wet-nurse locked in the closet” or any of the other arcane items on their hand-written chalk menu, and the place was always full of regulars.

Despite his feigned reluctance on the phone, Darren was waiting when Noura walked in from the Glasgow night. Darren always had a casualness about him that Noura found a real comfort, and tonight he sported dark blue jeans, a gray hooded zip-up and a 5 o’clock shadow. He stood, hugged her with great familiarity, and then pulled out her chair in a very gentleman-like way as she joined him at the table.

“Hey,” he said as he returned to his chair. Noura saw there were two steaming drinks already on the table. “I took the liberty. A ‘Drooling idiot in lamb’s wool’ for me,” Darren pointed, “and a ‘mad, sexy doctoral student’ for you.”

Noura raised an eyebrow.

“What, that’s the drink!” Darren put a hand to his heart. “It’s the special, I swear it.”

Noura smiled but her eyes didn’t share the sentiment.

“Oooo,” said Darren, stirring sugar into his drink. “This might be genuinely serious, yeah?”

Noura picked up her drink and let the warmth of the mug heat her hands. “It’s about Wayside.”

Darren leaned back, his tongue pressing on the inside his cheek. “Wayside? You mean that city we thought up as kids?”

“You may not remember it, but you used to go there too.”

“Wow, we haven’t talked about that place in years. I can barely even remember what we said it looked like, let alone anything specific about it.” Darren’s rapped his forehead with his knuckles in thought. “Wasn’t the door in a coat closet or something?”

“The basement broom cupboard in your parents’ house, actually. At least that was the door you used.”

“Mmm,” Darren said wistfully. “Nope. Not an inkling of recollection. All I remember about that basement is the silverfish.”

“Nowadays, when I think about Wayside, there’s something...wrong...with the thought.”

“Wrong?”

“There’s something dark in the way of my memory of it.”

“So don’t think about it,” Darren shrugged.

Noura bristled. “That’s your prescription? ‘Don’t think about it’?”

“Look, it was a fantasy. Like when we built a spaceship out of cardboard boxes and flew to Uranus.”

Noura slumped. “Oh my god, Darren, please be serious for once.”

“Look, why are you saying all this? What do you want me to do?”

Noura took a mouthful of her coffee and swallowed her frustration along with it. “I just need you to help me remember.”

An hour later, Noura was lying on her couch in her dimly lit living room, with Darren seated nearby on the recliner. He wore the composure of a doctor now, which Noura couldn’t help but find amusing.

He spoke in a soft, even tone. “I want you to relax.”

Noura giggled, and Darren’s voice took on its natural tone. “Look, do you want me to do this or not.”

“Sorry. I am serious about this. I’m sorry. Really.” Noura breathed out, her hands laid flat on her stomach.

Darren resumed his even tone. “I want you to count backwards slowly, starting from one hundred.”

“One hundred.”

Noura shut her eyes and watched the afterimages of her vision swim away into the static of her mind.

“Ninety-nine.”

“Picture this room in your mind. I am sitting in the chair, saying these words. Continue to count, slowly.”

“Ninety-eight.”

The image of Darren she produced was one with thick brown horn-rimmed glasses and a lab coat, but it was him nonetheless, and she accepted it as close enough.

“Ninety-seven.”

“Now, see yourself, lying on the couch in this room. You are calm and relaxed. Perfectly comfortable.”

“Ninety-six.”

She was there, in a black sequined evening gown with diamond earrings.

“Ninety-five.”

As you continue to count down, you see yourself growing younger. You are twenty, finishing school. I’m there with you; we’re going back together.

Ninety-four.

It’s afternoon, and we’re in high school. You see me on the side of the road as you’re walking home, but we’re not really hanging out anymore. I’m smoking with my mates, trying to look cool, but I cough and burn myself with the ash. You laugh at me and I smile back, embarrassed.

Ninety-three.

We’re eleven and Reilly Sullivan is threatening to take your candy frost. I march over and try to defend you, but you punch him in the nose and he runs off in tears.

Ninety-two.

We’re eight, and you’re over at my house. My dad’s told us to go somewhere so he doesn’t have to babysit us, and we decide to play in the basement.

Ninety-one.

We crawl into the broom cupboard and pretend it’s a cave, and you say you’ve found a door in the back.

Ninety.

You open the door to Wayside.

Darkness. Noura no longer felt her body. There was the beast, and there was the point -- clear and burning like a single star in a velvet sky, but there was no Noura there. She had no body she could use to pass through the point and come out in the other world. There was only the point and the beast.

She could make it out now, the creature. Not a shapeless monster, but a wolf, large and black, who cradled the point like it was her cub she protected.

There was something else there. A boy. Noura thought it might be the boy Grim, but instead she could now see that it was Darren, whose hair had been a like a mangled pile of brown straw back then. Back when they had first found Wayside. His eyes darted around the darkness, a look of utter confusion painted on his young face.

The wolf opened its eyes. It lifted its massive form onto clawed paws and snarled a warning snarl.

“Noe?” the boy called into the dark.

Noura tried to run, tried to will her consciousness into some form that could protect the young Darren from the black wolf, which she knew would lash out to defend the spark.

Suddenly it was an adult Darren there before the beast, and as he looked toward her she felt herself given form at last.

“Get to Wayside, Noe,” This Darren said in the calm meter of the doctor.

Noura nodded and turned to the point. She wrapped herself around it and through it.

An endless field of gray opened before her.

News: Posting Chapter 16

There are two things you might notice about Chapter 16: a lot happens, and it's really rough. This is partially a consequence of the way NaNoWriMo works -- quantity over quality, which I know sounds odd, but it's actually not a bad thing. Keep in mind that everyone who signed up to read this story gave their implicit acceptance of the fact that first drafts suck, and if you're expecting a polished story, you're gonna have to wait until at least draft 3. Chapter 16's length (it's almost 4k words) is also due to the fact that I've been waiting to get to this chapter for*ever*, and it feels good to have it down at last. The character you meet in Chapter 16 has been in my head since at least 2002.

I hope you enjoy. My apologies for any inconsistency.

http://www.finding-wayside.com/2009/11/manuscript-finding-wayside-chapter-16.html

Manuscript: Finding Wayside, Chapter 16

The three spent the next half hour searching through alleys and drain pipes, looking for a rat to question. At first the exercise was more frustration than progress, as the three fired back and forth with accusations of “your being too loud” and “we already checked there” and “rats don’t respond to ‘here ratty, ratty’”. They checked the Garment District, The Pages, and even the spotless alleys of the Governance to no avail. Then, just as Grim was about to call the evening a failure, he heard the scratching sounds of rubble being disturbed in a drainpipe near the Market.

“Shh.” Grim raised a hand and Ophelia and Cane froze in their tracks.

“What did you—“ Cane started, but Grim thrust out his palm emphatically.

There it was, whisker twitching, cautiously nibbling at a piece of crust that had washed into the pipe. Grim approached it with slow, cautious steps. As he drew near, it looked up, its body tensing, ready to flee. Grim held his breath.

“Well, go on and ask it,” Ophelia whispered.

“What do I ask it?” Grim said, realizing now that they hadn’t really planned this out with the utmost care.

“Ask it, um…tell it to take us to its leader,” said Cane, whose whispering voice had jumped an octave.

Grim turned his head. “What? Are you serious? And why are you talking like that?”

“They probably hear better in higher pitches. Plus, do you have a better plan?” Cane squeaked.

Grim turned to the rat, which was watching them with cautious curiosity. It nabbed a bit of the crust and held it protectively.

“Fine.” Grim sighed in defeat. “Would you, mister rat…please…take us to your leader.” Grim sneered at his friends.

The rat squeaked and clutching its bread crust scurried down the pipe.

“Ha. See?” Cane laughed, beaming a snarky smile.

“So, now what, genius? We follow it into the sewers?” said Grim.

“Well, yeah,” Cane replied.

“Are you nuts? Isn’t that where all the Forgotten are?”

Ophelia tutted. “You wanted to find Murphy, right?”

Grim snarled.

“Well come on, Cane. Let’s follow the rat. The Forgotten keep to themselves, anyway, right? I’m not waiting for the lion to find his courage.” Ophelia walked past Grim and into the drain pipe. Cane followed, glancing back at Grim as he passed.

“We don’t even have a light!” Grim said, but followed the two into the darkness of the pipe and into the sewers of Wayside.

* * *

Osborne sat at his desk, staring at Noura’s case file without seeing it. There were no leads, no way of contacting her, and only Caravan’s word that her location and safety would be confirmed. Osborne reached for his tea cup and put it to his lips, but sputtered as the tea was now cold and bitter. He looked at the cracked face of his long-dead watch on his wrist and licked his teeth.

The echo of footsteps, light and female, preceded the grand entrance of Madam Lenoire by moments. She burst into Osborne’s office like a mad chicken, her wilted boa leaving wisps of down in her wake.

“Mister Osborne! Oh my! Terrible! Terrible!” Madam Lenoire floated to Osborne’s desk and slumped into the chair opposite him. She helped herself to a glass of brandy and re-lit the tip of her Abdulla.

“What seems to be the problem, Claire. And why are you here and not at the constabulary?”

Madam Lenoir waved the comment away. “Sauvages. Useless, good-for-nothings.” She sipped her brandy, steeling herself. “Young Murphy has vanished!”

“What do you mean, vanished?” Osborne pressed his eyes, trying to piece through Madam Lenoir’s dramatic soliloquy.

“I mean,” the flustered old woman crowed, “c’est perdue, masseur Osborne! The bell tolled nine and off he went, into the evening two days past, without a backwards glance and he hasn’t been back.”

Osborne sighed. “He’s a big boy, Clair. He can take care of himself. He probably spent the evening with some…company, and decided to make a weekend of it.”

“Non. There’s mischief afoot, Commander. I know it. He’s been… well,” she leaned in, lowering her voice to a whisper. “He’s been talking to himself. Laughing at nothing. Odd things. I’m worried.”

This was news to Osborne. Murphy always seemed, if rather rambunctious at times, the picture of youthful vim.

“Alright,” Osborne stood, and reached to help Claire Lenoir to her feet. “Maybe I should check out his flat.”

It was mid-morning and there was ample foot traffic through the garment district. The ground floor of Madam Lenoir’s shop was buzzing with the sounds of swiftly sewing women, working the pedals of their machines on the floor below. Osborne and Claire ascended the stairs to the mismatched second floor with its dark wood paneling and approached Murphy’s door. It was unlocked and open wide enough that Murphy’s flickering electric light cast a pallid yellow glow into the hallway.

Osborne turned and whispered to Claire, who was crouched behind him. “Go downstairs. I’ll take a look.”

Claire gave a sharp pair of nods and with a whispered “Etre prudent,” scurried down the stairs.

With great care, Osborne attempted to open the door enough to slip in but winced as the door gave a loud creak that would have turned every head in a crowded room. He let out a long breath that he hadn’t realized he was holding. The room was empty.

Osborne walked a slow circuit around the room. Murphy’s apartment certainly seemed more ragged than usual. Cigarette ashes and discarded clothing littered the floor and the window had been left open. A stack of charcoal drawings lay on the sill.

* * *

The sewers were not quite as dark as Grim had supposed. There were grates in the streets all along Wayside that Grim had never pondered before now, but he now saw that the glow of the city cast down from them, making grid patterns that lighted the rounded cobble walls of the under-city. A stream of what Grim hoped was mostly water rushed through channels down the center path. At first, Grim thought they were crazy for following a rat down into the depths, but he could now see that their guide, though much faster than the trio, was not just scurrying back to his den, but leading them down a specific path. Often it would dart out of view, around a corner or through a pipe, but would always emerge to point them down a certain channel or pop up to show them which way to turn in a juncture.

“Clever little guy,” said Cane, smiling.

“How do you know it’s a guy?” said Ophelia, an admonishing tone in her voice.

“Because it’s clever,” Cane said, wrinkling his nose at her. He ducked as Ophelia swatted at his head.

“It’s not so gross smelling as you’d expect from a sewer,” Ophelia said, looking around at the slick cobbles.

“I expect it’s because it’s late,” Grim replied.

“Bleh. Well that’s a gross thought. Thank you,” Ophelia sneered.

Grim, who was now at the head of the group, stopped suddenly, and Cane who wasn’t paying attention ran into him with a thud and toppled over.

“Watch it!” Grim’s arms wheeled as he regained his footing. “I don’t want to bath in whatever is flowing through that channel.” He pointed ahead of him. The rat was standing on its hind quarters in a small pipe, big enough to crawl in, but certainly not to walk. It squeaked and chattered its teeth.

“It think it wants us to follow him in there,” said Cane over Grim’s shoulder.

“Terrific,” Grim supplied, walking up to the pipe. The rat scurried onward, into the dark, and Grim peered into hole. “Well, now it’s going to be dark.”

“I don’t think he’d lead us down a way we can’t follow, Grim,” said Ophelia.

“I didn’t saw we couldn’t follow. It’s just not going to be as easy now.”

“I’ll go first!” Cane volunteered cheerfully, bounding to the pipe.

“Oh no,” Grim held Cane’s shoulders and took his place. “I’ll go first. Stay between me and Ophelia.”

“See?” said Ophelia, smiling. “You had nerve all along, Lion.”

Grim shot her a look and shimmied into the pipe. It was dark, and slick, and there was barely room for his shoulders, but he was easily the biggest of the three, so he was sure they could all make it through. He crawled forward a bit. “Hey, it feels like it widens further up. I think we -- WAAAA!”

Grim’s hands slipped, and he slid forward, the narrow tunnel suddenly dipped down so he was now sliding on his stomach along the steep, slick tube. It was pitch black, and the echoing rush of the water in the pipe was cacophony as he plummeted down the diagonal slope. He grabbed for purchase, but there was nothing to hold. The metal pipe was clean and well made and any seams quickly rushed by before he could grip them. It seemed like he slid for minutes in the darkness but as he began to wonder how far below Wayside he must be the pipe abrupt opened, and he burst out into a waiting pool of water below. It was deep enough that the impact was minimal, but he gasped as he emerged from below the surface, as the water was in the pool felt as cold as ice.

The darkness remained complete. The water smelled clean at least, and other than the tiny waterfall created by the pipe emptying into the pool there was only the echo of dripping ahead, as if there was a larger space somewhere nearby.

“Hey,” Grim sputtered, coughing as some of the water splashed into his mouth. “Hey, Ophelia! Cane! I’m here!” Grim wondered if shouting was the smartest thing to do, as he had no clues as to his surroundings or what, other than rats, might be lurking this deep. Still, his friends were up there, and he was not keen on continuing down the obscured path alone.

“HEY!” he shouted, and along with the echo of his own voice, a new sound emerged from the pipe above. It started soft, and quickly rose to a shout as Grim heard first Cane, and then Ophelia explode from the pipe, screaming like banshees. Grim dove below the water as his friends came crashing down above him and Cane’s descending shoe plowed into the side of his head, scraping down his jaw. He was stunned, but the pain was quickly superseded by the chill of the water, and Grim grabbed onto Cane and pulled him up to the surface with him.

Cane coughed and hacked, having swallowed a load of the icy water himself.

“Are you ok?” Grim asked Cane, but it was Ophelia who answered.

“Fine.” She splashed next to him. “But t-this water is f-freezing. We gotta get out of h-here.”

“I think there’s a cave up ahead. This way.” Grim began to swim forward, dragging the coughing Cane towards the dripping sounds.

The pool became shallow quickly, and Grim could feel that the floor was no longer the cobbled surface of the sewer, but the un-hewn stone of raw earth.

Cane’s coughing subsided, and he recovered his voice. “I think there might be something wrong with my ankle, but it’s too cold.”

Grim put Cane’s arm around his shoulder and continued forward. The water was only up to their ankles now, and Grim realized that the cave wasn’t completely dark after all. He could begin to make out the silhouettes of his friends beside him. They were in a rough, domed chamber, and Grim could make out the pipe from which they had fallen and the perimeter of the pool. A tunnel was carved into the rock ahead of them and, though it curved away quickly, the path was dimly lit by a yellow light.

Cane had sprained his ankle, and Grim had to support him as they proceeded down the path. Their pace was slow, and their rat guide was now conspicuously absent.

“Some friend he turned out to be,” Grim grumbled. “He could have warned us about that first step.”

“And how would he have done that, exactly?” said Ophelia, who sounded grumpier now that she was cold and wet to the bone.

“You’re the teleporting gypsy,” Grim replied. “You tell me.”

“Would you t-two s-shut up,” said Cane tremulously through chattering teeth.

The path widened and brightened, until finally they spotted a flickering light ahead on the wall. An electric sulphur light, buzzing with power, was bolted to the wall. A power line ran away from it, down the path, and Grim could make out another light 50 yards or so further down.

“Well someone lives down here,” said Ophelia as she trotted ahead of Grim and his cargo to look more closely at the light. She rubbed a finger along the harness that fastened the bulb to the wall. “They’re not much dusting, but bulbs don’t last forever.”

As the continued down the corridor, the buzzing of the lights and the dripping of water was added to by another sound. Similar, thought Grim, but not the same as the scratch-scratching the rat had made as it lead them through the sewers. They turned a corner and could see now the end of the corridor, a black wall of shadows where the tunnel opened into a larger room.

“Well,” said Grim.

“Well.” Ophelia replied.

They approached the opening and peeked through.

It was like nothing they had ever seen. The cave was massive. If Grim hadn’t just traveled down himself, he would never believe something like this could exist below ground, let alone atop a city. But not just a cave. A city in itself, if one could call it such. There were piles of rubbish, packing material, bits of string, every type of refuse and effluent imaginable, all held together with what seemed like bits of road tar and chewing gum. Towers of garbage, illuminated here and there by oil drums filled with burning trash. Black plumes of smoke rose high into the cavern, and if there was a ceiling in the black miasma above, it was completely obscured by a storm cloud of smoke.

Grim could see now at second glance that there were, surrounding the fire-filled barrels, many figures. The nearest group was at least one hundred yards away, but he could make out their blackened forms -- moving piles of oily rags that rocked and quaked.

And rats. He could see them now, too. Countless numbers. A writhing myriad. This place was Grim’s vision of Hell and he stood in shocked horror before it.

“We should go back,” Cane breathed.

“Yeah,” said Ophelia.

Grim nodded his agreement.

‘Oh my, no’ said a whispered voice in the dark.

Grim’s heart leapt into his throat, and he looked around in a panic, trying to find the source.

‘You will stay for a visit. We have few guests with stories to tell, and the Leader would be oh so displeased if you were to go so soon. After all, did you not ask to be taken to him?’

Grim looked in horror as a swarm, an army of rats emerged from the shadows in all directions. Some, Grim saw, were clearly dead, their tiny bones and organs showing through their dark patchy fur. Eyes missing, ears chewed, they chittered and squeaked just the same.

Through his terror, Grim decided to dare a question. “What are you?” He said, through teeth he was having trouble unclenching.

The carpet of creatures shivered and squeaked -- an amused sound, and the voice, which came from all around but from no one creature rung in Grim’s ears.

‘We are everywhere and everything, filth-maker. We are the hidden eyes. The ears to listen to all the sounds and the noses to catch all the smells. We are the teeth to devour the bones, and the claws to burrow down deep. Our strength is our number, and together we share a voice.’

The three friends looked at each other, and Grim tried to swallow the massive dry lump that had formed in his throat but couldn’t seem to manage it.

Ophelia spoke. “Who then would such a force call Master?”

There was agitation in the swarm, and anger filled the response. ‘We call no one master, girl-thing. But there is one who calls this domain his own, and it...’ the voice paused for a moment, ‘suits us...to give him bailiwick.’

‘And soon you shall meet him.’ The circle of rats tightened around them, forcing them away from the lighted tunnel and towards the city of garbage. Their escort flowed like water along the path, through the towers of filth and pushed the three along with the impetus of their collective will.

“Look,” the limping Cane pointed towards a circle of light, where a group of the ragged figures now stood in predatory agitation.

“Those are the Forgotten,” Ophelia said, as much to herself as to the two friends in front of her. “How horrible it must be to have no stories.”

The soot-covered figures, both men and women Grim could see now, pawed and snarled at the three children and their rodent escort, but seemed to understand that the rats were in charge here, and did not attempt to break through their mass to reach the three friends.

“They look angry,” said Grim, re-hoisting Cane so he did not slip into the stream of rats. His shoulder ached from the effort.

“Anger is probably all they have left,” said Ophelia, and Grim thought he heard a sadness in her voice.

On they walked, through the city of black towers, and at each circle of light they passed stood an amassed group of Forgotten, who reached out for them with looks of confusion and anger and longing, but would not disturb the coterie of rats.

Grim at last saw what must be, he thought, the rats’ destination. It did not rise into the black cloud overhead as the towers of trash that comprised the rest of the city, but was the closest thing to an actual planned structure he had so far seen. It was poised at the end of an avenue that was cleared of all rubble, and put Grim in mind of pictures he had seen of Cathedrals, though one that no sane mind would have constructed. The best pieces of waste had been gathered here. Shards of glass sparkled in its compressed walls, and twisted columns of metal gave the impression of buttresses, which supported a central structure. This structure, which could have passed for something in Wayside in its better days, sported two large and colorful windows made from cellophane and plastic bottles and broken panes of glass. Through the windows came a light that was too consistent to be fire, and so Grim surmised, must be made by an electric light source of some kind. At ground-level in the center of the structure, doors had been constructed from nailed sheet metal. Grim wondered if all of this had somehow been done by the rats, or if the master of this place had enough sway to bring the Forgotten to task as well.

The rats pushed aside the doors and escorted the three through the entryway and into the twisted cathedral. Electric sulphur lights did indeed line the columned aisle and at the end of the hall stood a raised dais and a jagged black throne constructed of discarded pieces of broken furniture.

A gaunt figure, who had been sitting in this throne when the door was opened, now stood. He was dressed in what was once a fine uniform, gold and white, and wore a black fur hat. He stroked his scraggled gray-peppered black beard with a fur-gloved black hand and waited for the rats to lead the three children to the foot of the dias. His face was filled largely by his bulbous broken nose, and his squinting eyes were so dark that Grim could not make out the whites of them in the shadowy light.

The carpet of rats receded back into the shadows of the cathedral, and the gaunt man stood very still, examining the three in silence. When at last he did speak, it was a voice raspy and dry from disuse, like the voice a long-dead corpse might produce if forced to speak by unnatural means.

“Share,” said the gaunt man, sitting slowly down in his black chair.

The three friends all looked at each other, not knowing what to say, until Grim finally cleared his voice. “Um, excuse me, but –“

“SHARE!” The man slammed his fists down on the arms of his chair and his shout boomed through the cathedral. The rats chattered a chorus from the shadows in response.

Grim, startled, blurted an answer. “I’m John, and my friends are Thomas and Miranda, and we…”

“Lies?” The man chuckled, a slow and menacing noise. “All this way for lies?” A broken, grimy smile cracked his face. “But that one does not lie, yes? That one is no liar, noooooo.” The gaunt man pointed at Ophelia.

Ophelia straightened, raising her chin to the throned figure. “I am Ophelia Faralen of Caravan. This is Grim, and Cane.”

“Hummmm, yes. Truth now.” said the man on the throne. He rose, and approached the children. He leaned forward, and reached a hand out to Cane. “They will not like that name. Very curious. Yes.” Grim could see now that the darkness of the man’s eyes was not a trick of the shadow, but that the man had no eyes at all. He turned his back now to the children and stared blankly into the shadowy heights of the cathedral. “Boris, they once called me. The first Czar of the new world, they will call me. The ruler of men, as well.” Boris raised his arms to the heavens. “and Judge.”

He returned to his throne. “You,” he pointed at Grim. “Your arrival is well timed. Yes. A friend of yours preceded you, and both will play a part.”

Grim started. “Murphy? Murphy came here? Where is he?”

Boris raised a brow, and stroked his beard once more. “Why, little Faralen, I am surprised at you.” Boris’s voice was thick with sarcastic disapproval. “Am I to believe that the guardians of the gate have not told young Baldur of the significance of his arrival? Oh dear, dear, dear. Such a shame.”

Grim turned to Ophelia. Her eyes were cast down, and her face was flushed and red. She pressed her lips tight together.

Boris laughed and spun. “Yes! Yes! How delicious. No foreknowledge of his fate. But I know. Oooooh yes, Baldur. Would you like to know what the Gjalerhorn has whispered to me?” The man Boris now swept over to Grim -- a mad, whirling cadaver. He grabbed Grim by the shirt and lifted him close to the dark, empty eyes.”

“Your death,” he whispered, “Will be the beginning of everything.”

News: Posting Chapter 15

Alright, nobody panic, but I just posted Chapter 15 after a several month delay.

You might notice things are starting to feel a little fragmented. Some of that is intentional, and some of that is my greenhorn writing ability shining through. I *am* telling a few stories here, and even though Grim's story is the most crucial, they all tie together eventually, I promise.

Anyway. Chapter 15. Thank you, NaNoWriMo.

http://www.finding-wayside.com/2009/11/manuscript-finding-wayside-chapter-15.html

Manuscript: Finding Wayside, Chapter 15

Grim’s house-arrest gave him a lot of free time to stew on his situation. The Viccars, who normally granted him complete freedom to come and go as he pleased, watched him like hawks now that Commander Osborne had issued his ultimatum. The pleasant and manicured gardens of the Orphanage seemed much more like a prison common area now that he knew he could not stray from it. The only two things to distract him were Cane, who awkwardly attempted to cheer him up by telling him about all the things he was missing in the market, and the daily visits from Ophelia. The latter was not, in Grim’s opinion, a particularly welcomed occurrence, as Ophelia’s interest in his past had dramatically increased since she took up a permanent post in Wayside.

Grim had started to find it challenging to maintain the façade of his constructed past with Ophelia, who wielded her deductive instincts like a cleaver, hacking away at the inconsistencies in his stories until she found a nugget of truth.

Grim often attempted to use Ophelia’s questioning to get answers out of her as well. He wanted to know more about the mysterious Caravan, and about the Grand Lord’s proclamation of Grim’s involvement in Wayside’s fate. Unfortunately, Ophelia seemed as adroit at double-speak as the other Caravaners he had met, and Grim often ended up more confused than ever after their talks.

One such inquisition was taking place today, as Grim, Cane, and Ophelia perched in the lower boughs of one of the Viccars’ oak trees. Ophelia asked about Grim’s grandmother and how she had come to live in the South Dakota wilderness, and Grim replied with the on-the-spot inspiration that her husband, his grandfather, had been a hunter and a fur-trader.

“What sort of things did he hunt?” Ophelia asked as she hung upside down from the tree branch so her face flushed red.

“Oh, you know. The usual sort of stuff. Bears. Mountain lions,” Grim yawned. Hanging around the Viccars all day had become a powerful soporific.

“He sounds very brave,” said Cane, who was trying to reach the next level of tree branches. His misplaced footings sent bits of bark raining down on the other two.

“I guess so,” Grim replied.

“Very brave,” Ophelia repeated, with that Sherlock Holmes tone in her voice that caused Grim’s hackles to rise.

“Look, you can see my past anyway, right? Why do you always ask me about this stuff?” Grim sat up on his branch and crossed his legs.

“The past isn’t always like a book. I can’t just open to a page and read all about the life history of Grim Munroe and his misfit family. If it were like that, I’d have helped Cane find his way home a while ago. It’s more like reflections…in a pool of water.”

Grim sighed his frustration. “But you knew about my father. You picked that memory of me and him. In the bazaar.”

Cane chuffed. “Yeah, when you guys left me behind to go play secret-agents or whatever you were doing.”

“Oh shut up.” Grim muttered. Cane slipped down a few feet and bark rained down again.

“Actually,” Ophelia crawled back up to sit on the branch, “I did no such thing.”

“Ha! And a liar too! You’re a piece of work,” Grim laughed.

The flush in Ophelia’s face darkened. “We don’t lie.”

Grim smirked and crossed his arms. “Ah, then why won’t you tell me what the Grand Lord meant when he said that I would be part of Wayside’s fate?”

There was a flash in Ophelia’s eyes as she saw Grim’s trap. She hopped down from the branch and looked up at the two boys. “There’s a world of difference between lying, and not revealing the truth. Anyway, about your grandmother.”

“Hey,” Cane shouted. “Race me to the top of the tree. I want to see if we can see the clock tower from –“

“Enough!” Grim shouted. Ophelia and Cane eyed him. “This is crazy! I can’t stay here anymore. And where the hell is Murphy? It’s been, like, a week since he showed up.”

Ophelia smirked, crossing her arms. “Why? Are we not company enough for you?”

Grim clicked his tongue. “I’m going. Tonight. To Murphy’s. Cane, you’re coming this time. I don’t care if the Viccar’s find out. As long as I’m not there when they do. I’ll stay with Murphy if I have to.”

Cane looked confused. “But won’t the –“

“It’s ok. I’ll say I dragged you along.”

Cane relaxed and shrugged. “Okay.”

“I don’t suppose I’m invited,” Ophelia raised an eyebrow in a particularly commanding way.

Grim shrugged. “Do whatever you want. Tenth tolling, outside the Viccars’ gates.”

* * *

The charcoal creaked and squeaked as Murphy put the finishing marks on his drawing. It was a decent representation, he thought. He had managed the shine in the piercing little eyes, and the crumpled, mottled look of the fur -- the overall menace of the thing.

Ask the rats, the man in black had said.

Murphy Fish pulled on his cigarette. He set the drawing on a pile of its cousins and looked out on Wayside from his room in the Garment District. The maddening pitch black and the red-yellow glow of the city was such a strange dichotomy, but one he had seen so many times now, that any mystery it held was lost in the monotony of familiarity.

When he had come here, the excitement of the place, the life of it -- a great city planted in the middle of the still void of forever, had appealed so strongly to his romantic nature that he had thought nothing further of his past or any of the struggles and joys of his previous existence. He registered his story with the Council and went about his merry way. But, over the span of the years, the thrill of the city itself dwindled, and he began to search for a new thrill. Thus he discovered the Foundling Society, a group of individuals charged with returning lost children to terra and joined the team within its ranks whose responsibility it was to venture out into the darkness of the Wastes and retrieve stray children.

He put out the cigarette on the drawing, and flicked the filter out into the alleyway below.

He had been with the Finders for what seemed like a very long time. He appreciated the companionship of the other members of the group. He even liked Lee, with his sour demeanor. Osborne’s patronizing leadership was even a small comfort, and reminded him of his father, who had fought in the Tan War before Murphy was born.

The ninth tolling sounded. Murphy shut the window and walked downstairs. He spared a glance to Madam Lenoir, who was smoking wistfully in the common room. She was lost in her thoughts and did not acknowledge him. He exited the hotel, leaving the door unlocked.

Murphy lifted his collar against the cool air. In life, he had been a vagrant. By the time Murphy was old enough to enlist, the Second World War had ended and so Murphy was unable to live up to his father’s expectations of glory or his two older brothers war-time heroism. So, when he turned nineteen, He decided to start a new life in the United States of America. This was, he discovered, a popular idea with many a young man his age, so he joined up with a group of them and they stowed away on a freighter bound for New York City. He never did see America.

The streets were emptying for the evening. The shops of the garment district had begun to shutter their fronts. The occasional passing person waved at him, and he nodded back.

Yes, here he was a hero. He was the rifle-wielding soldier of honor his father had wanted him to be at last.

And yet. Wayside was eternal. What glory was there in any life, when the consequences of action were stripped down, so? Here, the attention was only garnered by Foundlings, like Grim, or Emere, like Noura. They were living, breathing people, with lives beyond the city. Their actions affected things.

Murphy Fish wanted to affect things. He wanted another chance to live a real, meaningful life -- something beyond the walls of the city of the Lost.

He glanced around to be sure he wasn’t seen then turned down an alleyway behind Hanna’s Dress shop. Trash clogged part of the path, but he stepped carefully through the remnants of cloth and discarded food remains -- peels and rind. He paused, listening to the sounds of the alley – the hiss of steam, the buzz of electricity, the scurry of rats.

He knelt and peered into the dark until he caught the glint of small red eyes staring back at him.

“Erm…oy. Rat.” Murphy suddenly felt foolish, kneeling in a trash-filled alleyway, trying to get the attention of a rat. But, much to his surprise, the rat emerged from the shadow of the trash can without fear and scurried up a pipe until he was eye-level with Murphy. His dingy whiskers twitched and he tilted his head, and awaited Murphy’s request.

Murphy glanced around him, wondering if this was some kind of trick, but he had committed, and the risk was certain worth the reward.

He cleared his throat. “I want to meet with your master. I’d like to speak with Lif. Please.”

The rat paused, processing the words, and then with a chatter of his teeth he scuttled down the pipe and dove into the trash pile without a backwards glance.

Murphy blinked and stood. He scratched his head, smirking at the pile of garbage. What was he expected to do?

“Hello?” His voice bounced around the empty alleyway. He perked his ears and listened in the shadows, but the sounds of scurrying were gone.

* * *

The tenth tolling chimed. Grim and Cane, creeping on cat feet, snuck from their beds and out the dormitory window. They slunk across the green and through the foyer, out the double doors and into the front garden. When they reached the outer hedgerow, Ophelia was there, sitting cross-legged by a lamppost with her usual sense of nonchalance.

They crossed the Pages. It was a quiet night, and even the cats were keeping to their own. They passed by the Great Library and the myriad bookshops and cafes without notice, but to maintain their stealth they moved at slowed pace. By the time they reached the Garment District and Madam Lenoir’s Hotel and Laundry, it was nearly to the eleventh bell.

“Well,” said Cane as they stared up at the second story windows. “Do we knock, or what?”

“Or what,” announced Grim, as he pointed to the alleyway. He recalled the view from Murphy’s apartment window and worked his way through the alleyway until he spotted the right one.

Cane crept up behind Grim. “Throw a pebble at it, or something.”

“That’s silly,” replied Ophelia, who hopped over a bit of packaging to reach the two. “Let’s just climb that.” Ophelia pointed at the water pipe adjacent to the window, and no sooner then she had, Cane dashed to it, climbing like monkey to peer into the window.

“Careful, Cane,” Grim admonished.

“It’s dark inside,” Cane called in a lifted whisper from his perch. “You think he’s asleep?”

Grim sighed. “Well it’s only got one room, stupid. Is he in there or not?”

“Oh,” Cane replied. “No. I don’t see him.”

“Open the window then,” called Ophelia.

Grim looked at her. “We’re breaking in?”

Ophelia shrugged. “Well we came all this way. You’re not going to go in?”

Grim looked back up at Cane, who was pushing the window up, which hanging onto the pipe with one hand. “I guess.”

Cane had the window open, and Grim felt a weight on his shoulders as Ophelia gripped them. “Hang on.”

“Oh no. No no—“ A rush of wind and Grim’s perspective was wrenched as he found himself through the window and in Murphy Fish’s apartment, staring at the doorway to the hall.

Grim turned around to face Ophelia, green-faced. “Ugh. Was that necessary? We could have climbed the pipe too, you know.”

“And watch you fall on your rear? As funny as that mental image is, I don’t think so.” Ophelia grinned at Grim’s nonplussed expression.

“Heeeey,” Cane called as he poked his head into the window from outside. “That’s cheating.” He hopped onto the windowsill.

Ophelia began to scan around the room and nonplussed but curious, Grim joined her.

Grim strode to the hanging electric light and pulled the cord to illuminate the room. It was messy and there was a funny smell, but Murphy was not there.

“Maybe he just stepped out,” said Grim, pointed towards the front door. “He left the door open.”

“Or maybe someone broke in. It’s a wreck in here,” said Cane from his windowsill.

“Get in here,” Grim commanded browsing through the kitchen area.

Cane blew a raspberry at the back of Grim’s head, but stepped down into the room as he did. There was a snap as he did so, and wearing an expression of guilt, Cane lifted his foot to find a stack of drawings and a snapped stick charcoal. “Oops.”

Ophelia shooed Cane out of the way and picked up the pile. She rifled through them with a curious look on her face. She looked up at Grim with a face as white as a sheet.

“What?” Grim walked over, looking at the drawings. They were all the same, or more or less the same. A scraggly rat, long in the tooth with a sinister face and what, to Grim, looked like a perfume bottle with lines coming out of it. The words “Ask the Rats” were scratched through a cloud of smeared charcoal.

“Ooooook,” said Grim, flipping through all of the drawings himself. “What does that mean?”

“Well,” Ophelia said. “I’m not –“

“Oh come on!” Grim stomped. “Stop treating us like irresponsible children and give us some information, already. You obvious have some idea what’s going on.”

Ophelia shot him a stinging look, but he met her glare with all his pent up frustration. She glanced down.

“It’s a phial. We call it manna, in Caravan. It’s very dangerous.”

“But, why is it dangerous?” said Cane.

“It is part of Caravan’s shared memory, and so is sacred.” Ophelia paused. And who takes a drop from the Phial of Manna to his lips shall life be granted.

Grim shook his head, as the last words Ophelia spoke in what seemed like a room of full voices at once.

“What was that?” Cane said, eyes wide in disbelief.

“Mnemosyne,” replied Ophelia. “A shared memory.”

“That didn’t sound like Babel to me,” Grim replied.

“No,” said Ophelia. “It’s not in a language. It is a memory. Sharing it with you may be seen as a great wrong. I hope it was a wise thing to do.”

“Well it still doesn’t tell us why Murphy drew it, and why he’s not here.” Grim set the drawings on the window sill and looked out the window into the alleyway. “Why would he draw manna, and what’s with the rat?”

“Maybe we should follow the directions?” Cane had found his way to the couch and was lying down, staring at the light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

“What?” Grim said.

“You know,” Cane waved his hands and affected a spooky voice. “Aaaaask the raaaaats.”

“Rats don’t talk,” Grim muttered.

Ophelia giggled.

“What?” Grim said, indignantly.

“You live in a city populated by dead people, surrounded by an endless desert inhabited by monsters, your friends with a teleporting gypsy and you’re actually jaded enough to think it’s impossible that a rat might hold some hidden information?” Ophelia smirked at him and, much to Grim’s chagrin, so did Cane.

“We’re not friends, yet,” Grim muttered.

Ophelia’s smile doubled. “Come on, grump. Let’s go find a rat.”

News: NaNoWriMo

I know. I know. My hiatus turned into abandonment for most of my readers. But I'm committed to making it up to you all. I've decided to do NaNoWriMo this year (www.nanowrimo.org) in an attempt to get a big chuck of Wayside finished. I'm not going to follow the 50k words in one month precept to the letter, mostly because I'm also trying to learn Japanese as well. But I'm going to write. Oh yes. There will be writing. We've got a small group of writing aficionados at work, and we're going to inspire each other. Yes, indeed.

An open letter to the person who broke into my car and stole $1.50 in change,

Alright I get it, man. Of course, I’m assuming you’re a man. I guess that’s probably sexist, but let’s just make that assumption for the sake of easy writing. I’m also going to assume you’re the same person who broke into my car last time, as the pattern of robbery was the same…shattered rear driver’s side window, you left everything but my battery jump-starter and my chump change and you didn’t take my CDs, which either means you (or possibly *I*) have bad taste in music or you’ve decided that MP3s really are the future of the industry.

I should probably thank you for being relatively gentle to my car for the second time. While the shards of glass did leave a small scratch in the plastic below the window, you didn’t touch my factory CD player or my on-board electronics, nor did you leave any peculiar odors or stains. I will say that without the battery jump-starter that you stole, I experienced my first dead battery in several months, and was without a way to jump the car. Also, just to let you know for the future, the Toyota Prius, which is a hybrid vehicle, has a pretty complex electrical system and you can’t get it out of park if it won’t hold a charge. Apparently when the mobile window repair man fixed my window, he shorted something out in the door, which means my car was stuck in the parking garage.

But, I don’t blame you. The heroin, or meth, or tithe, or whatever it is you needed that money for, was, to you, worth the 200 dollar window repair and day and a half of inconveniences it caused a perfect stranger. That $1.50 was a free deal to you. One car window is as good as the next, and my car is one of the nicer looking ones in the parking garage, I’ll admit.

I’m afraid I won’t be leaving any more change in my car for you. I know it’s sort of a petty revenge. I mean, chances are you didn’t see the change anyway, and that you simply targeted my car because of its make, sheen, or location in the garage. Maybe my custom license plate pissed you off. So, next time you break in, just realize: no jump-starter, no change. It’ll be a waste of some kinetic energy for you, and another bill for me, and that’s about it.

On a positive note, I think you might have inspired a short story.

Regards,

R.Y.

News: Hiatus

I'm in hiatus from writing Wayside while I get some other stuff out of the way. I haven't abandoned it, I promise. I just need some time for the story to stew.

Manuscript: Wayside, Chapter 14

Beep.

Noura opened her eyes. She was in a small room with a window that admitted so much light Noura thought there must been spotlights outside shining directly into the room. She was in a bed, and there was gauze wrapped neatly around her brow. She blinked and touched her forehead. The last thing she could remember was a phone ringing.

The door opened, and her mother swept into the room with the drama of a diva and gave a cry of joy at seeing her daughter with her eyes open.

“Angel!” Mrs. Naysmith ran to embrace her daughter. “They thought you might be in a coma or a vegetable or on the brink of death.”

“Oh codswallop, ma,” Noura rolled her eyes. “There’s no way a doctor would say something that ridiculous.”

“Well. Maybe he said it was a mild concussion. But western doctors are prone to understatement, you know.” She fiddled with Noura’s pillows and sheets and picked at her until Noura thought she might have to swat her away.

“How long was I out, then,” Noura asked.

“Well, we tried to call you when you missed your shift at the restaurant.” Mrs. Naysmith lifted a hand at her daughter’s sudden look of distress. “Edina picked it up. But after several tries we decided to have someone check up on you.”

“Your father found you in a heap on your floor. Dinah still had food in her bowl, so I suspect you weren’t there for too long. What happened, dear?”

Noura’s headache recalled her expulsion from Wayside and her failed attempt at returning there. She sighed. “I must have tripped on the rug and hit the coffee table or something.”

Her mother smiled. “My clumsy daughter,” she said as she stood. “Well, no work for you for a few days. I’ve given away all of your shifts.”

“Oh mother, I—“

Mrs. Naysmith tutted. “You’re father’s still in London and the doctor said when you woke he’d check on you and then let you go. I’m going to get him and then I’m taking home.”

Before Noura had time to protest her mother had vanished down the hall. The doctor, a nice young woman who didn’t look much older than Noura, examined her and deemed her fit to travel. After a few stacks of paperwork, a nurse wheeled her through the ward and the lobby and down a concrete ramp where Noura’s mother awaited in her gray Audi sedan. She insisted on walking Noura to the car, through a wave of rebuttal, in case she “wasn’t to strength yet.”

It turned out that by “home” her mother had not meant Noura’s flat on Meadow Park, but her parent’s home in Morrowbridge, a half-hour’s drive outside of the city. Noura had protested, citing her cat’s well-being and the work she needed to do on her computer, but when Asha Naysmith – devoted wife, loving mother, and demanding restaurateur -- got it in her head that things should be a certain way, it was almost entirely out of the question to do otherwise, family or not. Besides, she had retrieved Noura’s laptop and fed Dinah before visiting Noura at the hospital, so the argument was lost before it had begun.

The Naysmiths’ home in Morrowbridge was unquestionably well appointed. Robert Naysmith was a civil engineer of some regard, and his wife Asha, who had met Robert while he was helping construct a lavish hotel for Pakistani businessmen in Islamabad, ran the very popular restaurant ‘Lazeez’ in downtown Edinburgh. Robert had designed the interior of the restaurant, an homage to Eastern Renaissance design with a modern flair and color palette that Zagat had called “pleasing to both the eye and the soul”. Asha had constructed the menu from her own family’s recipes and her extensive self-taught knowledge of Middle-eastern and Urdu haute cuisine. The restaurant was very much the place to be among tourists and students of the university.

Asha Naysmith and daughter rolled up to the wrought-iron house gate, which opened automatically at their arrival. The gate always reminded Noura of the main gate of Wayside, and her stomach dropped as she watched it swing open now.

“Are you alright dear?” her mother prompted. “You look pale.”

Noura nodded and shut her eyes. “Just tired.” She felt like she’d abandoned the city. People there had come to rely on her and, at a time when they no doubt needed her more than ever, she didn’t have the strength to help. She made a silent promise that she would try again tonight, after her mother had gone to bed.

That night, her mother cooked chana dal -- a specialty that Noura equated with family gatherings and childhood. It was filling. The food, combined with being at her parents’ home with her mother, was a powerful soporific and, as her mother announced her plans for bed, Noura struggled with her promise to try to reach Wayside. Her guilt won over her weariness at last, and when her mother left Noura slipped out of the French doors and into the back yard. The motion-sensing lights popped on as she strolled into the garden -- one of her mother’s great prides. She wasn’t worried about detection, as her mothers room overlooked the front of the house and she was a deep sleeper.

The garden, with its half-acre of tilled earth and plant-life was as functional as it was beautiful. It provided her parents with fresh herbs and vegetables that the average Scot would be hard-pressed to find locally. Sweet tamarind trees lined the garden and it burst with black cardamom, coriander, fenugreek, dill, and even little saffron flowers.

Noura breathed in the tang of the plants and shut her eyes, searching for the center spot inside her mind. It was impossibly small, the spot -- a white pinhole of light that she needed to wrap mind and body around to reach the other side. The movements of her form helped, so she let her feet fall into the open step and performed the first set. She could almost see it. It was there somewhere, in the chaos. Like pulling weeds from the herb patch she attempted to pick through the static in her brain to find the doorway.

“Noura Naysmith?” A voice from behind jarred her from concentration and the memory of her attack flashed before her eyes. She cringed, ducking behind a gooseberry bush with the panicked speed of a mouse caught in an owl’s menace.

Noura peeked out from behind the bush to find a young man, garbed in olive pants and a blue vest. His hair was mostly covered with a red kerchief and as he tilted his head sideways to catch Noura’s gaze, tiny glass beads tied to his hair clinked and flashed in the light. As he addressed her again, Noura caught a familiar tinge to the words.

“You are Noura Naysmith, are you not?” the man said, putting a hand to his heart in a gesture that Noura now recognized as Caravaneer.

“What...what are you doing here?” Noura’s heart was beginning to return to a near normal cadence and her fear was replaced with numb shock upon seeing an actual Caravan gypsy outside of the Wastes.

“We are sorry to bother you at your family home, and apologize in double for invading on the privacy of an emere in the sanctity of Zeme.” The young Caravaner gave a gentle bow. “The matter is of some urgency. I bear a message from Grand Lord Connelly.”

“Is Wayside in danger? What about Grim? I’ll come right away.” Noura removed herself from the gooseberry bush and rushed to the young man, but he stepped back, raising his hands.

“Please, Miss Naysmith,” the young Caravaner said gently. “We are not permitted to interact. The Grand Lord is breaking several trusts already by allowing this message to reach you here.”

Noura tried to calm herself. She breathed in deep. “Deliver your message then, please.”

The Caravaner issued another short bow and recited what was surely a prepared speech. “His Lordship requests, with much humility, that you remain in Zeme for the safety of both you and the people of Wayside and that you do not attempt cross the veil until the present situation is rectified. He apologizes on behalf of all of Rom for suggesting a course of action, as we are aware it is not our--”

“What?” Noura interjected.

“It is not our place to issue demands of –“

“Look, I am not going to sit on my hands while Osborne and his band of merry men ‘rectify’ the situation.” She crossed her arms in defiance. “Someone tried to kill me in my city and I’m not going to let the tadger responsible threaten anyone else. You tell your Grand Lord that if he wants to stop me from crossing the veil, he’ll have to tie me to a post and force me to drink whisky until I can’t string two words together.”

The Caravaner looked momentarily shocked at her tone, but recovered with a nod and replaced his hand on his heart. “As you say, Miss Naysmith, so shall it be. We apologize again for the intrusion.”

“Good evening,” Noura muttered.

“May you know your story,” the man backed away from Noura until he was enveloped in the shadows on the garden, then turned and disappeared into the dark.

“The nerve,” Noura said to no one in particular. To think that Caravan would be so bold as to suggest that she stay put like a good girl and let other people deal with her problems was an insult, to say the least. She had been crossing into Wayside since she was old enough to walk, and she wasn’t going to let some demand from on high prevent her from seeing it again.

Fueled by her defiance, she spread her feet into the open step, and thrust her hands down, through the earth, through the center of the planet, rooting her as surely as stone. She cast her mind through the static and found the spark of light, the pinhole that was the door to Wayside.

She paused. Something was amiss. A shadow loomed before the spark -- resolute and angry -- a silhouetted beast whose hulking form and shining eyes blocked her path.

Noura gritted her teeth. She tried to feel around the creature, but it shifted to stop her. She lashed out with her anger and frustration, but the creature accepted the blows as the cliffs accept the crash of the waves.

“Go away!” She shouted her impotence. The creature reached out a claw and she felt her mind pushed away from the spark. With a soft howl the beast faded into the static of her thoughts and with it went the door.

She opened her eyes and wilted. Wayside, it appeared, would not welcome her.

* * *

Winter had reached Vologda Oblast, but Sasha Okhotnikov would not allow the bite of cold to distract him. He ignored the frost collecting in his trimmed black beard and steadied Iskraa, his immaculate Ruger 77 Mark II, on the target before him. He had tracked the animal for hours through the old growth, but at tracking he was an expert and the snow made the solitary animal’s path as obvious as an arrow painted on the earth. Here, at last, they were -- hunter and prey, the most basic of interactions.

Iskraa, Sasha could feel, ached for the simplicity of the action and as the stag chuffed and looked up at him he could feel the tension in the trigger, the rapt attention of the bullet within the chamber. He drew an imaginary line between it and the neck of the beast.

The stag’s winter coat gleamed in the snow. Sasha smiled. This, he thought, was an emperor of the forest -- lord of his domain -- worthy prey.

Release. A crack bounced from tree to tree, carrying the testament of Sasha’s strike deep into the woods. The white stag leapt and kicked and a dark crimson flower blossomed at his throat as he fell. He struggled and whined and a sparkling cloud of ice rose up around his thrashing form. Then, with a last rattling sigh, the stag accepted his death and was still.

Sasha cradled the spent Iskraa and waited. He let the quiet return; let the wound pump out the last of the beast’s steaming lifeblood. Then, he approached the corpse and reached down to feel the warmth draining away from his prey.

“A fine shot,” a woman’s voice praised him. He was not surprised. He had long ago denied the unexpected from invading his clarity. He casually wiped the blood from his gloves with a handful of snow and stood, scanning the surrounding forest for the source of the voice.

“You do your father well. His rifle sings in your hands.” The trees and the snow belied the woman’s location. She seemed to be everywhere. Sasha would have laughed, were he a less serious man.

“Iskraa is my own. The man who held her before was a caretaker. He held her until her true master could claim her.” Sasha began to head east, but abandoned the choice several strides later and turned south. He would keep the woman talking. “And who wanders in the winter forest with night so near?”

“A messenger,” said the voice, somewhere to his right. “Or, if you prefer, a herald.”

“That’s a grand title,” Sasha replied, adjusting his path. He felt a sudden pang of hunger from Iskraa and began to reload her as he crept towards the source of the voice.

“The charge I bring is noble enough,” the voice cooed. “Though the means perhaps less so.”

A glimmer of green caught Sasha’s eye. An impossible brightness of color played within a copse of ash trees ahead. Sasha was nearly entranced by the contrast, but the feel of Iskraa in his hands centered him and returned his clarity. He approached the copse.

It was indeed a woman. She waded in a sun-lit pool, surrounded by vibrant green grass and soft reedmace that danced in an unfelt breeze. A shift of thin white cotton veiled the bathing woman, leaving little to Sasha’s imagination. She brushed her dark hair with a comb made of ivory.

“You are a spirit,” said Sasha.

“Oh yes,” replied the milk-skinned maiden. She smiled and drew the comb down to separate some tangled strands of hair. “I do hope that is not a problem. Will you come into the pool, Sashka? It is warmer than you imagine it.”

Iskraa burned in Sasha’s hands and he brought her to bear on the spirit. “I will not.”

The spirit sank into the water and emerged on the shore. She perched with delicate ease on a rock by the water’s edge and she drew a long sigh, relief obvious in her voice. “Good.” Her tone had lost its seduction. “Let us be, then, to business.”

Sasha eyes narrowed. “What business could you have with the living?”

The spirit gave a wry smile. “I have a job for you and your beloved Iskraa.”